PAST MASTERS

TWENTY THREE

April 2021

Produced by Terry Walker

("Pulpmeister")

Contents

1: Ike's Sin / "Waif Wander"

2: Red Hemp / Raoul Whitfield

3: The Million-Dollar Certificate / H. Bedford-Jones

4: The Trail of Death / H. Bedford-Jones

5: Pardon the French / Guy Gilpatric

6: The Robot Beasts / Otis Adelbert Kline

7: The Tenth Question / George Allan England

8: Tartas the Terrible / H. Hesketh-Prichard

9: Silenced / Bannister Merwin (novelette)

10: The Return / J.U.Giesy

11: The Judge Corroborates / J. S. Fletcher

Cumulative Index 1-23

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1: Ike's Sin: A Story of the Sea

"Waif Wander"

(Mary Helena Fortune, 1833-1910)

Northern Argus (Clare, S Aust) 23 Dec 1884

THE STEAMER had just moved away from the end of the long pier, and was noisily splashing her way across the gleaming, wavy water, and the two gentlemen she had landed were standing alone in the middle of the broad bay, as it were, and looking silently across the waves, and from point to point of the wide-stretching shores. One of these gentlemen was tall and dark, and handsome, with a great gravity and calm in the expression of his face, and the other was fair and stout, with a sharp, incisive manner, and a matter-of-fact business air.

"And this is Mordialloc," said the former in a low tone. "How often I have fancied it by day, and dreamed of it by night. It was there, was it not?" and he pointed toward the expanse of water on his left.

"Yes, Meredith, it was."

"But the exact spot?"

"Was never known. You know I was not in Victoria at the time, and the occurrence was not witnessed by any save the boatman."

"I know, yes. What became of the man? "

"I do not know; in fact, very little was learned, save what you saw recorded in the papers, and there was no one deeply enough interested."

"No, no, there was no one."

"I have been thinking, Meredith, that if the subject would not be too painful, we might, by inquiring, chance to hear even yet something about that sad event."

"The pain is in the past, Gideon. I have outlived it. I seem here on the spot, though to feel as if twenty years cannot have passed since then. To think that those same waves―" And he shuddered strongly.

"Aye, it must be twenty years."

"It is twenty years today," returned Mr. Meredith.

"What a strange coincidence."

"Yes, and I had not thought of it until we were coming down in the boat. Well, shall we move toward the township?"

"Yes," and both gentlemen lifted the light valise each had provided himself with, and walked up the long jetty silently.

There was a small and quiet place of entertainment facing the pier, the appearance of which the gentlemen preferred to that of the more  they might have chosen. As they refreshed themselves, they were exchanging with the landlord the features of the place as might be of interest to them.

"You have never been here before, gentlemen," said the landlord..

"My friend has not. I have," replied Mr. Gideon, "but I have not seen you before, I think."

"No, this is my first season in the business, but I have been in the neighbourhood many years."

Mr. Gideon glanced toward his friend as he inquired, "Do you know, or have you heard anything, of a sad accident that occurred to a young lady in this bay some twenty years ago? The young lady went out with a boatman and was drowned?"

"Yes, I have heard of the circumstance, but I was not here," replied the landlord, "but there is a man still here, and alive, who can tell you all about it if he will."

"Who is he?" eagerly asked Mr. Meredith.

"The very boatman who was rowing the girl when she was drowned."

"Good heavens! is that man here and alive! "

"He is, and is the oldest, not to say the most disagreeable, character on the shore. I have heard him allude to the story, but it has been when he was almost driven to it, for the subject is, I dare say, naturally a painful one to him."

"Why?"

"Why he was suspected at the time, I have heard, though he was acquitted of all blame at the inquiry, but he took it to heart and went away from the place. He was away for several years, and then came back and settled to the fishing and boating again."

"Where does this man live?" Meredith asked, eagerly.

"About two miles down the beach, an easy and a pleasant walk if you should wish to see him."

"He may be hired with his boat, I suppose?"

"Yes, if he is in the humour; but Ike the fisherman, as he is called, is of a peculiar temperament is often suspected of being a little astray."

"Let us go and see this man," said Mr. Meredith, as he rose and threw away his cigar, and Mr. Gideon followed his example, while the landlord directed them in what direction to go, and where they might best avoid the tide and the scrub.

With the long sweeping stretch of gleaming sand before them the two gentlemen started in search of Fisherman Ike, and talked of him as they went.

"He must be somewhat of our own age, Meredith," Mr. Gideon said, "for I remember that in the notices of his examination at the Inquest―"

"There was no inquest," Mr. Meredith interrupted.

"True; I had forgotten. It was at the inquiry then, for there was an inquiry, though the body was never found.  Well, I was going to observe that' when the boatman or fisherman who was in charge of the boat from which poor Emma Wortham met her death was examined it was stated that he was quite young and very good-looking."

"And much affected in giving his evidence ―I remember."

"Yes; to he cannot be more than forty-five or so, yet the landlord speaks of him as if he was an old man."

"It is a hard life that of a fisherman― a hard and comfortless life that must tell upon any man, be he of the strongest."

"Yes, I suppose so. I say, Meredith, that must be the place where the boat is lying above high water mark with the net hanging."

"Yes, I should say it was the place."

And it was the place where, in the shelter of the scrub and with a sandy inlet up which the tide crept, when it was in, just before the low door, an unpretentious hut was erected of driftwood and spars, and with a rough stone chimney setting its broad shoulders sullenly toward the sea, as though to defy its storms. It had seen many of them you could tell by the weather-beaten, smoke-stained timbers and the damp looking stones, on which the sea-moss still grew and flourished.

At the opening of the inlet, with his back to the hut and his feet seaward, a man eat upon a log of driftwood that was almost embedded in the white sand, a man in coarse, patched clothing, and with the bent shoulders of an old man. He was mending a net, with his eyes bent on his week and hidden by the I shaggy grey brows that hung over them. The sea was breaking monotonously on the beach, and the noise drowned the approaching footsteps, so that the gentlemen stood before him ere he heard them.

At the shadow that fell across his knees he looked suddenly up, and stared in unpleasant wonder at the visitors. When his face was lifted it showed to the light the worn, wrinkled visage of a man who seemed sixty, and in his great, faded eyes there was the wild, treacherous examination of an animal at bay.

"Are you Ike the fisherman?" Mr. Gideon asked promptly, for he was in no way affected by the man's unpleasant looks.

"If l am, what then?"

"Oh, that remains to be seen; there may be money then."

"Aye?" But that was all, as the old man's look was returned again to Mr. Meredith's calm and apparently passionless face.

"You do not care for money?" the latter gentleman said quietly.

"How do you know?"

"I can read it in your face. You would risk your life for love, or hate, or revenge, but for money would not lift your little finger― am I right?"

"You are right! Aye, you are right. For love, or hate, or revenge! Aye, you are right― I would, and have done it!"

"You that talk about money," he added, after a little silence, unbroken by either of the gentlemen, "what is it you want of Ike the fisherman?"

"Only a story, my good man; a relation of something that occurred in your experience, here in this very Bay."

"Aye?" he said with interest, "what could have happened here in this out-of-the-way place to interest a gentleman like you?"

"Something that happened long ago, something that you only knew of and saw out there," and the speaker pointed to the waters beyond him.

"Out there!"

The fisherman's face grew stony-looking as his eyes followed the pointing finger.

"Long ago out there!"

"Twenty years ago. Twenty years ago this very day and almost this very hour."

The words were solemnly uttered, and they were spoken by Mr. Meredith.

The fisherman started to his feet as they were said, dropping his net upon the ground and clenching his raised hands, as with fierce wild eyes sized on Meredith he almost shouted :

"What do you know of twenty years age? Where have I seen your devilish face?"

"Come, come, my good friend, you are for getting yourself ; you have neither right nor reason to speak in that manner to my friend."

"True!" he cried, as he sat down again and gathered up his note, "I am an old man and I forget― what story is it you want me to tell, and after all money is a very good thing― a very good thing."

"Now you are reasonable. Money is a good thing, and you can earn it by telling us all you can remember of the circumstance we are interested in; you have not forgotten about the poor girl who was accidentally drowned from your boat this day twenty years?"

"Forgotten it! Hal ha! ha! I am likely to forget it! Did you know her― her, the girl who was accidentally drowned, as you say?"

"Yes, she was especially a near and dear friend of this gentleman."

"Of this gentleman," Ike repeated, as his eager eyes devoured, as it were, every feature of Meredith's handsome face.

"Yes," said that gentleman, "she was near and dear to me, and I want you, if you will, to tell me every circumstance you know connected with the death of Emma Wortham."

"Aye, that was the name!" Ike returned, as he bowed his head over the knotted hands he had placed upon his knees. "Emma Wortham, aye, that was it."

Thinking it better not to interfere, but to let him have his own way in telling what he chose to tell, neither Meredith or Gideon spoke.

All at once he looked up and his eyes turned into the face of Meredith. As he gazed, an unholy fierce fire grew hotter and hotter in his hollow orbs, and an awful oath was hurled from his lips as he grasped Meredith by the shoulders and shook him as though he had been a reed.

"By the lord above me you are he," is what he shouted. "You are Charles Meredith, and she died with your name on her lips."

Mr. Meredith shook himself free from the grasp of the apparent madman, but as he did he grew pale to the lips. Though twenty years had passed away since a girl he had loved had lost her life in the great water stretching at his side, her name had yet power to shake him as no other name could have done.

"Are you mad?" he cried, holding the fisherman back with a strong arm. "What do you mean? how do you come to know my name?".

"I have cause to know it! It has been the curse of twenty years. I have heard it in the whispers of the rustling ti-tree and in the roar of the storms. When the waves are breaking gently on that sand as I sleep they are whispering it in my dreams, and I have wakened a thousand times to wish that I might course it and you and die, and at last you've come! Oh, you need not draw back from me, I am not mad, and my hand shall not hurt a hair of your head; it is enough to know that you are here, and that I can tell you how and for what she died."

"I came to hear what you can wish to tell, but how can I trust a man who has so little control over himself as you appear to have? My friend here thinks you are a lunatic. I can read it in his face. If you are not calm we shall not stay and listen to you, anxious as we are to hear what you can tell us."

"I am calm, calm as that sunlit sea, under which so many of the dead lie. It was on just such a day as this, that we went out also and I, in the old boat that did not bring her back again, and it was what she told me of you and the story doomed her to death, for she died for uttering your name on it. Will you come out and I will show you the very spot where she he sank, and tell you on it how it was that she died?"

He went toward a boat as he spoke, and shoved it along the sand till it floated.

"I would not go, Meredith," said Mr. Gideon seriously, "the man is dangerous."

"We are two and he is one― how can he as harm us? I must go, Gideon, for there is something to hear that has never yet been is told."

They both went into the boat and seated at themselves in the stern, while without a word the fisherman seized the oar, and rowed them in with hard, heavy strokes across the gently heaving waves. It was a sense the friends never forgot, the vast expanse of water, restless in the soft sunlight, and with the creaming foam surging over the broad blue liquid beauty of the sea. The far away outstretched points on either hand, and the low line of timbers forming the Pier, that in the distance seemed to float like a dark line on the bosom of the deep. Then the boat with the awful white face of the strange fisherman, who was rowing them to the spot where Emma Wortham died.

All at once he paused and looked from his it right-hand to his left, turned the boat with a few more strokes to the west, and then rested on his oars.

"Now we float on the very spot where she sank, there where that foam breaks I saw her face for the last time."

"How can you tell so closely?" Mr. Gideon asked.

"How can I tell? Ha, ha! how foolish are landsmen when they speak of the sea! I know every curve on its breast, every rook on its coast. If I stretch out my right hand so, and my left hand so," and he suited the I action to the words, "they are in a line with the points, and I have seen her face a thousand times floating there, but she cried no more for help, her lips were cold and wordless."

"For the love of God, if you have anything to say, say it, that we may go back and never see your face again," cried the agitated Meredith.

"Yes. I will say it, but you will not believe me, and I do not care, for I know that it is true. Must I tell you how fair was her face? No! You have not forgotten it. Well, I must say, then, that I also was young and handsome in those days, and that it was no wonder I would fancy a woman might love me. Her father's farm was but a little way over there, and we' had many a stolen hour together, though she told me she had left her lover behind her-in England, and that as soon as he was ready he was to come and take her home as his wife. How I hated his name! How I hated the very sound of it! No wonder I felt like a tiger that smelled blood when I saw your face and knew it!"

"How could you know it? " asked Meredith, who was now, at least, outwardly calm.

"Do you know it?" Ike asked with a sneer, as he tossed to Meredith an old-fashioned plain locket he drew from his pocket. "You are changed, but hatred is stronger in its memory than even love."

Meredith opened the locket, and met his own face, young and happy, but faded from the brightness it had known when new.

"It is the one I gave Emma as a parting gift," he said, as he handed it to Gideon. "Man, if you are a man, go on with your tale of sin."

"Yes, I will go on, for the end is near now. You are right, it is twenty years ago this day and hour since Emma and I were floating, as we are now, over the very waters that are heaving under us, and I had drawn in my oars, and told her of my burning love and my determination to win her, even as she held before my jealous eyes that portrait of my rival. Never shall I forget how she ridiculed my presumption, and laughed in my face at the idea of being my wife--the wife of fisherman Ike, but little she dreamed of the devils she had aroused within me. I snatched the picture from her, and dashed it to the bottom of the boat as I rose to my feet and cursed the man she loved― cursed him and his while sun should shine and tides should flow. 'And now choose,' I shouted, 'choose between death and me, for alive you will never reach the shore till you have sworn by your God that you will be my wife!'"

"I will die then, coward!" she cried; "for a thousand deaths would be better than to be your wife."

"Think," I pleaded, "you are going, and it is hard for the young and loved to die. Look at that water, it is a cold bed, and it is deep and cruel. Fancy what it would feel like to sink there and struggle vainly for breath, think well ere it is too late."

She had not believed in her danger or in my earnest purpose until then when she I looked with horror and fear into my burning eyes; but she rose to her feet and shrieked A such a cry for help, as I hear even now."

"Decide! Death or me!" I shouted once more.

"Death!" she replied, and as the words left her lips I seized and dashed her into the waves.''

Oh, Lord, I see her yet as she struggled vainly ere she sank, with the white awful face turned toward me appealingly. I could not meet those awful eyes unmoved, and I had dashed off my boots to plunge in to rescue her from her doom, when with one wild effort to clear her lips from the gurgling water, she shrieked out-

"Oh, Charles! Charles! save me, save me!" and her fate was sealed. I sat down, and as her face sank, sank beneath the clear, sweeping water, I seized my sculls and rowed away from the spot.

"Is he mad?" cried Meredith. "Gideon, can this horrible tale be true?"

"Do not doubt it. See, see; she has come to tell you herself. Look at the white face there, there, where the green water is gliding back from the crest. Don't you see it? I Hark, she is calling now, but it is not your name; it is Ike she calls, and I will save her yet."

And that was the end, for as he spoke the words the fisherman sprang into the sea and sank, never more to re-appear on the surface of the water.

With an almost misspoken horror the friends waited and watched, but in vain; the deep waters hid its double secret on the spot where Emma and her murderer died.

There are stories on the bay now among the superstitious fishers of the sea that the white face of the dead girl may often be seen in the foamy swirl of the waters where she was drowned, and that Ike's form in a phantom boat always hovers there under the moon when a storm is approaching.

Meredith took home his own locket with a sadder heart than he had known when he came, for as he gazed on the well known trinket he never doubted that the story of Ike's sin was true.

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2: Red Hemp

Raoul Whitfield

1896-1945

Black Mask, April 1930

The third case of Jo Gar,  the Phillipines Detective

VICENTE CAREJO might have been an immaculate Island Englishman, so far as his dress was concerned. From his pith helmet to his white shoes he was spotless. But the betel-nut that he chewed betrayed him. And when his lips parted a little too much there was the red that stained his teeth and gums. He had a fat face and body; his darkish eyes held no expression. He said in a thick voice:

“My girl has left me. I wish her found, so that I may beat her.”

Jo Gar smiled with his almond-shaped, blue-gray eyes half closed. The arms of the Island detective were folded; his body was relaxed.

“There are the police,” he suggested. “On the Escolta is the Missing Persons Department.”

Carejo made a grunting sound without parting his thick lips. “Manila police are fools,” he said. “You are not a fool. I have come to you. It is that pig of an American— that renegade Parker. But I do not seek trouble. It is my daughter I want.”

The Island detective nodded. “So you may beat her,” he suggested quietly.

Carejo showed his red-stained teeth in a nasty smile. He nodded his head.

“This Parker— he is a cheap gambler,” he said slowly. “He bets on the cockfights, and when he loses he does not always pay. My girl— she is too good for him.”

Jo Gar rolled a thin cigarette between his short, browned fingers. He regarded the single lizard crawling upside-down across the ceiling of his tiny office above Wong Ling’s place, on the Escolta. He said quietly:

“When did she go away—and how?”

Carejo swore through tight-pressed lips. He shrugged his shoulders.

“She was to go to Baguio this morning. She slept in the house. But she did not appear at the breakfast table. She has taken nothing with her— no clothes. A few dollars, perhaps. I have searched the city— she is not to be found. Nor is the American, Parker. I have come to you.”

The Island detective frowned. “Manila is not a big city, neither is it small,” he mused aloud. “It is Saturday evening— there will be cockfights tomorrow. You have a picture of your girl?”

Carejo reached into a pocket of his white duck suit, produced a picture. It was a clear snapshot; it showed a dark-haired, slender girl of about eighteen. She was rather pretty, in the way of the Islands, which was not a lasting way. She had large eyes and a rather thin face. “Her name is Carmen— she is a devil,” Carejo said. “A bamboo stick does not frighten her.”

Jo Gar smiled. “Love is not annoyed by beatings,” he philosophized. “I think I have seen this American, this Parker. A tall, blond fellow, with blue eyes. And you say he is a renegade?”

Carejo shrugged his broad shoulders. He narrowed his eyes on Jo Gar’s.

“He has been in Manila only a few months. He came over from Nagasaki with a few prize cocks— but the birds did not win much here. Then he was involved in some cheating affair, at the Casa Club. He is no good.”

The Island detective tapped cigarette ash to the polished floor of his office. He said in an apologetic voice:

“It may be difficult. I require a retainer—”

Carejo placed five crisp bills on the wicker table beside his fan-backed chair.

“You know where I reside,” he said. “You have Carmen’s picture. You know something of this Parker, and you can easily learn more. But I would like it not made public. How will you go about it?”

Jo Gar reached for a palm-leaf fan, waved heated air against the brown skin of his face. He smiled pleasantly “That I do not know,” he said. “But I shall walk about a bit. Perhaps I shall ask a few questions.”

Carejo grunted. “I’ve walked about and I’ve asked questions,” he muttered.

The Island detective nodded. He said cheerfully:

“Perhaps you have not walked in the right places, nor asked the correct questions.”

Vincente Carejo rose. He muttered something that Jo Gar did not catch. Then he said, more clearly:

“I want my girl back!”

Jo Gar rose and bowed a little. After Carejo had departed the Island detective seated himself in the more comfortable fan-backed chair and half closed his eyes.

“He is half Spanish, half Filipino,” he murmured. “It is a strange way he has— wanting his daughter back, so that he may beat her. Another of his type would use a knife on this Parker. But this Carejo—”

Jo Gar let his murmur trail away, closed his eyes. It was as though he were sleeping in the evening heat. But he wasn’t sleeping. He was thinking of certain questions he would ask— and certain Manila streets he would walk. A beginning was always important.

At Barres’ curio store, on the Calle Avida, he was told that the Americano Parker had been present an hour ago. It had taken Jo Gar three hours to come upon the Barres’ store; the information was welcome. In the rear, down five stone steps, was a fair-sized cellar. Parker had been drinking. He had taken three cups of saké. He had been drinking, but he had not been drunk. He had not stated his destination, but had bragged much about Diablo, the cock he was fighting tomorrow at the Casa Club.

Jo Gar smiled and talked about other things. There had been an earthquake in Mindoro, the next island south of Luzon; some of Barres relatives were very frightened. A Malay sailor had run amuck along the Luneta, several hours ago. He had knifed a wealthy Chinese by the name of Lin. There would soon be some of the nuts in from China— the ones Jo Gar liked so well.

The Island detective lingered for a half hour or so. It was not yet ten o’clock; he hailed a caleso with a sturdy-looking horse, instructed the Filipino driver to take him to the Casa Club. The driver grinned, showing fine, white teeth. Jo Gar settled back on the cushion of the two-wheeled conveyance. It was in his mind that if Parker had taken several drinks, and had bragged about his fighting-cock Diablo, the American might go to the Casa Club. The entries were often kept near the pits, for several days before the Sunday fights.

It was a thirty-minute drive. Manila was left behind— for more than ten minutes they passed between rows of native thatch-roofed huts, dimly lighted. The road was narrow and of dirt; the sweet odor of tropical growth in variety filled the heated air. And then, suddenly, the driver called shrilly to the horse— the caleso was turned to the right. A circular thatch-roofed arena loomed faintly before them in the thick gloom. It was the Casa Club.

Jo Gar descended, instructed the driver to wait. He went directly to the entrance of the cockfighting arena, walked inside. Two kerosene lamps dimly lighted the interior— there was the odor of dried blood, of earth—and of thatch. Tier after tier of wooden planks rose from the small, circular arena. Wind whistled the roof. There was no other human present.

Jo Gar murmured to himself: “It is an unpleasant place—”

The scream was terrible. It came from the silence, somewhere beyond the cockpit, but not very far distant, it was shrill, high pitched. A woman’s cry—of terror and pain. And then, wailingly, he caught two words in Spanish—

“Madre— Madre!”

There was another scream— it was choked off. Voices— native voices— rose from the thatch-roofed huts near the cockpit. Jo Gar turned, went out through the main entrance. He circled the Club, keeping close to the bamboo side poles. At the rear he distinguished figures running— they were moving towards a thick growth of palmetto, a hundred yards from the Casa Club. There were few huts near the growth.

There were no more screams. A path led into the tangle of palmetto. The Island detective came to it. Brown figures— those of half-naked Filipinos— were moving about. There was much confusion. Jo Gar said, in the native tongue:

“What has happened?”

No one seemed to know. There were many paths now, leading through the small jungle to native huts on all sides. Jo Gar took one of them; he had a small flashlight which he used. Filipinos crowded close to him, followed him. He heard one mutter to another: “It is Señor Jo Gar— he is the prison man—”

And then a sudden wailing rose, across the thick growth of palmetto. It was a sustained wailing, and Jo Gar turned, moved towards the sound. It took him several minutes to thread the confusing paths and come upon the spot where the natives were grouped around a figure that lay on the ground. He spoke roughly, went through the group. The white beam from his flashlight slanted down on the motionless figure.

One glance at the white face was enough for him. The eyes were staring—the red lips were parted. The face was twisted, contorted. Fingers were clenched; the earth around the body showed signs of human struggle. A red mark showed across the white throat, but it was not the mark of a knife.

Jo Gar bent low. He breathed to himself: “It is Carmen Carejo—she is dead.”

There was no pulse. The body was warm; it seemed almost alive. The Island detective loosened the rope that had been drawn about the girl’s throat. He was not a doctor, and even though he was sure she was dead, he tried crude methods to force air into her lungs, as he gave orders to several natives crowding about the body.

When Juan Arragon, lieutenant to Carlysle, American head of the Manila Police, arrived in the palmetto jungle, some thirty minutes later, Jo Gar was standing near the body of Carmen Carejo, hands at his sides, eyes half closed. Arragon stared down at the dead girl.

“Murder,” he breathed softly. “What was the weapon—”

Jo Gar shifted the beam of his light towards the dark shawl the girl had worn. It lay on the earth near her head. Stretched across it was a four-foot strand of rope, of hemp. In spots it was stained scarlet. Arragon said slowly:

“She was strangled— by that hemp.”

Jo Gar nodded. Arragon knelt beside the shawl, narrowed his eyes on the rope strand. He muttered to himself:

“It is stained— with her blood.”

Jo Gar lighted one of his thin cigarettes. His eyes were on the mask-like face of Carmen Carejo.

“It is certainly— red hemp,” he said steadily.

Arragon rose and looked at Jo Gar. He asked in a curious voice: “You arrived here quickly—how was that so?”

The Island detective smiled a little. He looked Arragon in the eyes. “I was nearby— when she was murdered. I heard her scream. She called twice for her mother. Then her next cry was choked off. It was more than five minutes before some native women found her in here.

There are many paths.”

Arragon looked around the circle of native faces. His eyes came to Jo Gar’s again. He said softly:

“She is Carmen Carejo— Vincente’s girl.”

The Island detective nodded. He was thinking that Vincente Carejo had found his daughter, but that his purpose was defeated. He could not beat her now. He said quietly:

“Yes— it is Carejo’s girl. He was searching for her. He had retained me only a few hours ago. And now she has been strangled to death.”

Arragon kept his eyes narrowed on Jo Gar’s. He asked, in a sharper tone:

“Why did you come here?”

The Island detective smiled with his lips. He looked towards the dark shawl and the red-stained length of Manila hemp. He evaded the question.

“He was a strong man— this strangler,” he said. “See how the hemp cut into her skin. There was just a twist knot, Juan— the killer held the rope ends until she was dead, or very nearly dead. And we were all about the jungle here, trying to reach her.”

Arragon swore hoarsely. “If you have suspicions, tell them,” he pleaded. “The murderer cannot have got far away.”

Jo Gar shook his head slowly. “It is too bad,” he stated apologetically. “But I have no suspicions.”

It was midnight when Jo Gar went up the wooden stairs to Juan Arragon’s office at the police department. He knocked, and was told to enter. Arragon was talking with Vincente Carejo; he frowned at the Island detective.

“You did not tell me about Parker, this American,” he stated. “That was not right, Jo. That was very bad. It has given the murderer of Señor Carejo’s daughter a chance to escape.”

Vincente Carejo was perspiring freely. He nodded his head jerkily, wiped the skin of his neck near the collar with a large handkerchief. He was chewing betel-nut again; there was red about the corners of his thick lips. He spoke hoarsely with anger in his voice.

“Did I not retain you, Señor Gar? Were you not working for me? And why did you not tell what I had told you? This renegade has murdered my daughter.”

His voice was broken as he finished speaking. He shook his head slowly, muttering the name of the girl.

Arragon said: “I asked you if you had suspicions— you said that you had none. It is strange to me—”

Jo Gar smiled. “Parker is an American,” he said. “The girl was strangled by hemp— that is not the way of an American in killing.” Carejo straightened in his chair. There was rage in his dark eyes. “Parker is a clever man. That is the way he would kill— my poor girl.”

Jo Gar shrugged. Juan Arragon, a puzzled expression in his eyes, spoke in a hard voice:

“He will not get too far away. We have notified the Constabulary.”

The Island detective stood near a window of the office. He shook his head.

“Parker is not beyond the city—the Constabulary will not find him,” he said. “I am sure of that.”

Carejo got heavily to his feet. He blinked at Jo Gar.

“If you are crossing me— I will make trouble for you,” he breathed. “Parker is the murderer of my girl. The police can force you to tell what you know—”

Jo Gar said slowly: “The police can force me to tell nothing, Señor Carejo. They attempted such a thing, some years ago— and failed. I am not crossing you. You have retained me to find your daughter. I have found her. But I shall go farther— I shall find her murderer. Perhaps you would like to beat him, now that you cannot beat her.”

Arragon’s body tensed at his last words. His eyes went to those of the dead girl’s father. Carejo’s face was flushed beneath the tan. He said hoarsely:

“You mock me. It is cruel. I am sorry for those words. I go now to my casa— I wish to be alone. But the American Parker— he is the strangler of—”

His voice had risen shrilly. Now it died. He moved from the office of Juan Arragon without speaking to either man. He went slowly down the wooden steps. Jo Gar closed the door of the office, took a chair.

“The American Parker did not strangle the girl, Juan,” he said quietly. “I have been very busy since leaving the vicinity of the Casa Club. I do not think that Parker, at this moment, knows Carmen is dead.”

Arragon wet his lips with the tip of his tongue. His eyes were narrowed on Jo Gar’s.

“Who did murder her, Jo?” he asked.

The Island detective shook his head. “I had thought it was Vincente,” he said steadily, and smiled at the surprise in Arragon’s eyes. “But that was wrong, and I did not think that way for much time. But I have learned some things. Carejo threatened to kill his daughter if she again saw Parker. The house-boy has told me that. She has seen Parker several times since the first threat was made. Two days ago Vincente told her that he would kill Parker and beat her— if she again saw the American. This morning, early, a note was given to the house-boy by Parker. He delivered it to the girl— she has been giving the boy money for such service. It was just before dawn— and it was still dark when the boy saw her creep from the house. She was next seen dead.”

Arragon shrugged. “It does not look good for Parker,” he said. Jo Gar smiled with his eyes half closed. He spoke tonelessly.

“I do not say that Parker could not have strangled the girl—he is strong enough. He has lived long enough around the Islands to know how such things are done with rope. But I say he did not kill her. There were prints of naked feet—and of feet on which there were shoes— in the palmetto growth. There were too many footprints to be of use. But what was Parker’s motive, Juan?”

The police lieutenant shrugged. “She searched for him all day— at evening she found him. She told him it was the end. They must not see each other. She was afraid of her father. It was a crime of passion. If Parker could not have her— no one else should have her. Perhaps he had been drinking. They were alone, on a path of the palmetto jungle. He acted quickly— got away. There are many such crimes.”

Jo Gar lighted one of his thin, brown-papered cigarettes. He nodded. “There are many such, but this was not one,” he said. “Carmen has been motherless for more than a dozen years. She hated her father, Vincente. She would not tell Parker that she would never see him again. She loved him—and she must have known that he could take care of himself.”

Arragon said: “Why do you say she hated Vincente?”

“I heard her screams,” the Island detective replied quietly. “She has had no mother for many years—yet she cries out: ‘Madre— Madre.’ She does not call for her father. Is not that strange?”

Arragon rose from his chair and moved slowly back and forth in the hot office. The circular fan creaked.

“It might be instinct— to call for her mother,” the lieutenant said.

Jo Gar shook his head. “It was hatred of her father,” he replied.

“But Señor Carejo did not strangle his daughter. He was very careful. He was too careful, Juan. He dined with three friends this evening— he was not out of their sight from seven o’clock until one of your men traced him to the Hermossa house and brought him here. That is strange for Vincente has led a lonely life. Señors Hermossa, Carno and Allisi— they had not spent an evening with him for months, until tonight.”

Juan Arragon stopped pacing back and forth. He stared down at Jo Gar. There was faint admiration in his small eyes.

“While we have been seeking Parker— you have been seeking Vincente Carejo,” he murmured. “Why were your suspicions turned that way?”

The Island detective listened to a carromatta driver shrilling at his pony in the street below. He replied quietly:

“Vincente is stupid. He came to me seeking help— he wanted me to find his girl. But what was his reason? It was so that he might beat her. She was ‘a devil,’ he told me. His anger was not directed toward this American, Parker. That was strange, for one of his breed. Carmen was pretty— not beautiful. I do not think Parker was in love with her. I gambled on my thoughts in the matter. Americans do not strangle with rope. Carejo does not often dine with three friends. It was a perfect alibi, Juan— very perfect.”

The lieutenant of Manila police said very slowly:

“Very well— we know that Vincente did not murder his daughter. We assume that Parker did not commit the crime. Who, then, is the guilty one?”

Jo Gar rose from his chair. “There is a house on the Calle Ventner where the American Parker sleeps,” he stated. “He had not arrived there a half hour ago. Will you come with me to the house?”

Arragon jerked his head downward. He smiled grimly. “Shall I take a weapon?” he asked.

The Island detective placed his pith helmet over his grayish hair.

He smiled cheerfully.

“I cannot see the harm in that,” he replied in a mild tone.

The house on Calle Ventner was a poor one. It was a rambling, two-story affair constructed along bastardized Spanish lines. There was some rusted grilled iron-work—and a patio with the screening broken in several places. Naked children slept on the small patio that fronted the place. Jo Gar and Arragon— left the carromatta at the roadside; Gar led the way in. There were voices inside— a baby cried. After the Island detective had called out a few times an aged Filipino came to the door. His eyes widened as he looked into the face of the police lieutenant.

“The Americano, Parker— he has returned?” Jo Gar asked.

The Filipino nodded. He said that the Americano had been drinking much; he had come in perhaps ten minutes ago. He had assisted him to his room, and had partially undressed him. There was a cut on the Americano’s face, and scratches, also.

He led the way up creaking stairs. The house was filled with bad odors. Jo Gar was behind the old Filipino; behind him he heard Arragon muttering:

“Finger nails make scratches— on a man’s face.”

The Island detective said nothing. They reached the doorway of a room at the rear of the house. The door was opened; the white electric glare, as the Filipino pushed the button, showed up the cheapness of the room. The house was close enough to the heart of Manila to be supplied with power.

Arragon ordered the Filipino from the room; the man went, muttering to himself. Jo Gar moved to the cot across which the body of Parker slanted. He shook the American roughly. Arragon went to a pitcher that contained water— he dumped a portion of it on Parker’s blond hair. It was warm water, but it helped. The American sat up stupidly, blinked at the two men. Arragon snapped words at him.

“Why did you murder— Carmen Carejo?”

Parker stared at Arragon. His face was scratched badly; there was a two-inch cut across his forehead. He was dressed in soiled duck; his shirt was torn in several places. He muttered thickly:

“Carmen— murdered! I don’t understand—”

Arragon was frowning down at him. He spoke sharply:

“You strangled her— in that palmetto jungle back of the Casa Club. You— come with us. You talk—”

Parker got unsteadily to his feet. His head was clearing. He said grimly:

“To hell with you! You can’t frame me for anything—”

He groaned, dropped down on the bed again. He muttered weakly: “Carmen— dead! The poor, damn fool of a kid—”

Arragon jerked Parker to his feet again. The police lieutenant was short, but he had strength. He said:

“You shall talk, Señor Parker! You shall tell us why you strangled—” Parker twisted his body to one side. He shoved hard with his right arm. There was rage in his blue eyes. He was a big man, strong. Arragon went back against a wall of the room, he reached for his gun. It was a long-muzzled weapon— a Luger. He was leveling it when Parker leaped at him. In a flash the American had battered it from Arragon’s grip, had sent the Filipino spinning across the room.

“That is not good, Parker.” Jo Gar spoke quietly. He stood near the bed, facing the American as he turned. He was smiling; his parted lips showed white teeth. In his right hand he held an Army Colt. He held it steadily. He spoke in a low, conversational tone. “That is not good, because you have nothing to fear.”

Parker stood with his hands at his sides, frowning towards Jo Gar. Arragon picked himself up from the wood flooring of the room. He cursed in his native tongue. He came towards the American again. Jo Gar spoke:

“I do not think you are guilty!” he said. “Please raise your hands—allow Lieutenant Arragon to look into your pockets.”

Parker raised his arms slowly. He said to Arragon:

“You can’t third degree me. If that poor kid has been killed— I can guess who did it.”

Arragon moved forward and slid his left hand into the right pocket of Parker’s soiled duck coat. Jo Gar asked a question.

“I would like to know your guess, Señor Parker,” he said. Parker muttered his reply in a thick tone.

“The kid’s father— he hated her enough to do it.”

Jo Gar shook his head. “It is a bad guess, Señor,” he returned. “Vincente Carejo was with three friends at the time the murder was committed.”

Parker stared at the Island detective. Arragon took his hand from another pocket, smiling with his small eyes.

“Perhaps you were with friends, at the time of the murder, Señor,” he suggested with sarcasm.

The American swayed a little as he stood by the cot.

“I don’t remember,” he said slowly. “I had a few drinks at—” He checked himself. Jo Gar smiled and spoke.

“At Barres’ place. We know of it. You drank saké— three cups of it. You were not so drunk when you left. You bragged about a bird you were planning to fight at the Casa Club tomorrow— Diablo. What else do you remember?”

Parker swore softly. “Everything was going badly, after I left Barres’ cellar,” he said. “I got a carromatta— told the driver to take me to the Casa Club. The bird was out there. I remember falling, after I left the carromatta. My head hit something hard. Then I don’t remember anything— until just now—”

He sank down on the cot. Arragon held out his left hand, opened the fingers slowly. Something lay coiled against his brown palm. He said grimly:

“You do not remember this, Señor?” Jo Gar narrowed his eyes on the coil.

Arragon said in a tone that was slightly shaken:

“I found it in a pocket, Señor—it is a piece of rope, of hemp.”

Parker kept staring blankly at the hemp coiled in the police lieutenant’s palm. He muttered thickly:

“A piece— of rope—”

Jo Gar spoke. His voice was very steady, very soft.

“Undoubtedly it matches the hemp with which Carmen Carejo was strangled,” he said. “It is an end not used in the murder.”

Juan Arragon said:

“Perhaps the rope was too long for convenience. You cut it—and being drunk with saké stuffed this piece in a pocket before you committed the crime. It was a crude murder— such as a drunken man would commit.”

Parker shook his head slowly. The rage had died from his blue eyes.

He said quietly:

“I never saw— the rope before. I didn’t kill— the girl. I wanted to break off days ago. She was only a kid— not worth getting her mixed up with her father. She’d been beaten. I sent her a note last night— telling her I was through. I didn’t kill her—”

Jo Gar said: “You sent her a note last night? You are sure?”

Parker spoke grimly. “I’m damned sure. I gave it to the house-boy, with a silver dollar, at about ten o’clock. He said he’d see that she got it.”

Juan Arragon shrugged at Jo Gar.

“I do not believe him,” he stated.

The Island detective reached for his packet of cigarettes. He gave Parker one; Arragon refused. Parker said brokenly:

“Why— I wouldn’t know how to strangle— anyone—” Arragon smiled with his lips parted. He shrugged again.

“It is very simple,” he stated. “One could do it, I think, even after three cups of saké.”

From his right hip pocket he drew forth a pair of thin steel handcuffs. They glistened in the white light of the heated room as he moved with them towards the American.

Vincente Carejo sat in the fan-backed chair of Juan Arragon’s office and glared towards the door. There had been the sound of footfalls on the wooden stairs; the door was suddenly shoved inward, opened. The American, Parker, stumbled into the light of the room. His shoulders were drooping, his chin sagged. His face was streaming with perspiration. The steel cuffs glittered on his wrists.

“Dog!” Carejo gritted the word at the American. “To kill— my girl—”

Arnold Carlysle, the American head of the Manila police, came into the room, followed by Juan Arragon. Arnold looked tired; his eyes were heavy-lidded, strained. Juan Arragon looked fresh, cool. He was smiling.

Arnold said wearily: “It’s almost dawn, We were at it more than two hours.”

Jo Gar came into the room. He seemed surprised to see Carejo.

He smiled grimly.

“We got it— the confession,” he said, “You were right, Señor Carejo.

Parker has told us the truth.”

Carejo stared at the prisoner. He rose from the chair, stood with his hands at his side. His voice was filled with rage.

“You will die for this— but it will not bring my Carmen back. I could take your throat in my fingers—”

“Steady!” Arnold Carlysle spoke in a sharp voice. “In order to complete the case against Parker we must have the statement of your house-boy, Malo. He is here?”

Carejo shrugged. “He is downstairs,” he said. “In that police room. I do not see what more you need— the man has confessed.” Arragon said: “We must have everything— so that the prisoner cannot retract his statements. It is only a matter of form.”

He went to the wooden steps and called down in his native tongue. Carejo took his eyes away from those of Parker. He smiled nastily at Jo Gar.

“And you did not think it was this man who killed my girl!” he mocked. “It was not an American’s way, you said.”

Jo Gar went over and stood near a window that faced the Escolta, the main thoroughfare of Manila. Few humans were on the street—a warm breeze was blowing in from Cavite, and the Bay.

“I did not think Señor Parker strangled your girl.” Jo Gar said slowly.

Vincente Carejo seated himself heavily in the fan-backed chair. He placed the palms of brown hands over his face. He muttered to himself. The American, Parker, stood with his head bent forward, his eyes on the polished floor.

Arragon said:

“It was as I thought. He believed we would think a strangling with hemp was a native crime. He had drinks, after buying the rope. When he pleaded with the girl to go away with him, and she refused, he was in a frenzy. It was a crude, terrible thing. And when he was suspected he tried to place the blame on Señor Carejo, not knowing that the Señor had dined with friends— and had remained with them all evening.”

Carlysle shook his head. “It was fine work of Lieutenant Arragon’s,” he said. “You should have come to the police in the beginning, Señor Carejo.”

Carejo took his hands away from his fat face and glared at Jo Gar. “I was afraid of the publicity,” he said.

“And Señor Gar”— his voice was mocking again— “has a reputation.”

There were footfalls on the steps. They grew louder— a small, dark-haired, Filipino came into the room. He had a lean face, dark eyes. There was no expression in them. They moved from one to another of the group. He raised an arm, pointed two browned fingers towards Parker.

“That is the one,” he said slowly, and in good English. “He gave me the note, this morning. I was rising early, to get breakfast and to wax the floors. The cook is in the provinces. He gave me the note and a silver dollar.”

Arragon asked: “What did you do with the note?”

The house-boy smiled with his lips. He spoke with his eyes on the floor of the office.

“I took it to my master. I awakened him. For many days I have been doing this.”

Jo Gar chuckled harshly. “But you kept the silver dollar, even though you did not take the note to the girl,” he mocked.

The house-boy nodded. There was no expression in his dark eyes as they met the Island detective’s.

“I took the silver dollar— it was not good that I should not protect the Señorita.”

Arnold Carlysle said grimly: “You have the note that Parker gave you this morning?”

The house-boy reached into a pocket, handed Carlysle a folded slip of white paper. Carlysle opened it, shoved the writing before the prisoner’s eyes.

“Your handwriting, Parker?” he demanded. Parker nodded his head slowly.

“What’s the good of— all this?” he muttered weakly. “I’ve told you— I did it.”

Carlysle said grimly: “It is a matter of record. You told us first that you gave the house-boy a note last night. You told Lieutenant Arragon it was at ten o’clock. We want to make sure you do not change your mind again.”

Parker turned his body slowly, raised his eyes. They were narrowed on the dark ones of Malo. He said thickly:

“You tricked me, Malo— you squealed on me.”

The house-boy’s eyes flickered in a swift change of expression. Then they were sullen again, almost expressionless.

“It was my duty to protect the Señorita,” he said steadily. Arnold Carlysle spoke in a low, hard voice.

“You did not give Malo a note for the girl last night. You gave him a note this morning, as he has said. It was not a note breaking with her. It was one asking her to meet you in the palmetto jungle near the Casa Club. You were afraid of trouble— you— feared Vincente Carejo. You wanted to end it all. And you had been drinking much. So you strangled her. I will read the note.”

Jo Gar’s gray-blue eyes went towards the figure of Carejo, tense in the fan-backed chair. The father of the dead girl was staring at the house-boy. The Island detective moved his eyes towards Malo, without moving his head. The house-boy was smiling with his lips— his eyes were on the note that Carlysle held in the fingers of his right hand. His body was bent forward a little.

Arnold read in a clear, steady voice. He spoke each word slowly; there was silence except for his words:

Dear Carmen— meet me near the edge of the palmetto jungle, near the Casa Club, tonight at ten. We will go away. Leave the house when you receive this note— stay out of sight so you will not be traced. I love you—Dan.

Carejo swore hoarsely in Spanish. Arnold Carlysle turned slowly towards Parker. He said in a hard voice:

“You tricked the poor girl. You were not trying to break with her. You will go to Bilibid Prison for this, there to wait until—”

The lights suddenly died in the room. Jo Gar moved swiftly and silently towards the door. Carejo sucked his breath in sharply. The house-boy muttered something indistinct. The office was in blackness. And then, from somewhere beyond the room, came the scream. It was a terrible cry— the scream of a woman. It was shrill, high-pitched.

It died abruptly. There were two strangled words—

“Madre— Madre!”

Carejo was on his feet—he was crying huskily in a choked whisper: “Lights— the lights!”

Jo Gar’s hands went up, out. He was close behind the house-boy now. A faint light from the tropical night sky filtered into the room. Gar’s hands came down—in his fingers was a length of rope. It was red in the faint light.

The rope was twisted about Malo’s neck now. It was tightening. The house-boy’s body was twisting; he was choking. Carlysle’s voice sounded slowly:

“You are the murderer, Malo— you are strangling as you strangled Carmen Carejo—”

Malo screamed hoarsely. He cried out in choked English: “No— no—”

Jo Gar twisted the hemp more tightly. The house-boy was strong, but the twist of the rope was too much for him. He went to his knees, gasping for air. A woman’s cry reached the room, faintly, choked:

“Madre— Madre!”

Arnold said slowly, calmly: “You are a murderer, Malo—confess before you die as the girl died—”

Once again Jo Gar moved his hands. The house-boy swayed on his knees. His breath was coming in long gasps, weakly. He cried hoarsely:

“Yes— yes— let me— breathe—”

Jo Gar moved his hands towards each other. The house-boy got his left hand to his throat. He tore at the hemp. Arnold snapped the button—the lights flashed on. Malo had the rope in his hands. His eyes, wide with fear, stared at it. It was stained red. The red streaked his fingers.

He flung it from him. His eyes met the staring ones of Vincente Carejo. He cried shrilly, one hand clutching at his throat, the fingers of the other pointing towards his master.

“You— made me— do it! You paid me money— helped me—”

Vincente Carejo’s face was white, twisted. His right hand went to a pocket of his duck suit. Jo Gar caught the color of a knife sheath, sewn in the slanted material. The blade flashed.

Arnold shouted a warning. But it was Juan Arragon who leaped at the bigger man, battered the blade from his grasp. The weight of his body carried Carejo back against the fan-shaped chair. He went down heavily. Arnold had his gun out. Jo Gar stood near the door. There was a little smile playing around his thin lips. The house-boy sank to the wooden floor, sobbing.

Dan Parker stood close to Arnold, staring down at the father of the dead girl. He spoke in a low, bitter tone:

“You almost framed me, Carejo. I was down on my luck— and drunk. The drinks were doped, at Barres’ place and it was easy enough for Malo, here, to get the piece of hemp that matched the one he used on the girl— in my pocket. I never knew what happened. And you forged the note, of course—destroyed the one I really gave to Malo last night.”

Carejo kept his arms over his face. His body was shaking as he lay on the floor. Jo Gar said quietly from his place near the door:

“You write an easy hand to imitate, Parker. They gave the poor girl the note they wanted her to have. She destroyed it. She—”

Carejo took his arms away from his white face. He said hoarsely: “You read—that note—”

Jo Gar shook his head slowly. “You were clever, Señor,” he said. “We talked with our prisoner. We arranged the sort of note we felt you would use as a substitute. I imagine we did well. But Malo was guilty, you see. We secured Señora Castonne, of the police, and rehearsed her to scream as I heard Carmen Carejo scream. That was good. And there was the hemp—”

Malo cried thickly: “It was red with— her blood—”

Jo Gar reached for one of his brown-papered cigarettes. He shook his head.

“It was red with betel-nut juice,” he corrected. “But that does not matter now. You used Malo, Señor Carejo, because he was faithful and could be bought. He had friends who went to Barres’ place and doped the saké Parker drank. They kept him out of sight until after the crime. Then he was taken to the house on the Calle Ventner. I do not know these friends— perhaps we will learn soon. It might go easier with you two.”

Malo said brokenly: “I will— tell all.”

Arnold Carlysle addressed Arragon. “Put cuffs on them,” he ordered. “Parker— you are free, of course. It is bad to play with half-breed girls— in the tropics.”

Jo Gar let his narrowed eyes meet those of the American, Parker.

He spoke quietly.

“It is particularly bad— when a girl’s father has married her mother for the wealth of several sugar plantations in the Islands— and then has learned that the mother has died leaving the estate to her daughter, when she becomes of age.”

Vincente Carejo stared at the Island detective as the steel cuffs snapped over his thick wrists. He said heavily:

“You learned that, too—”

Jo Gar nodded. “Americans do not strangle with hemp,” he said. “Señor Arragon was too much concerned with the crime of passion, I think. He was interested in the American, Parker. I was interested in your affairs, Señor. There was little enough time, but I have access to the Bureau of Philippine Island Records. My friend, Señor Burneu, helped me. We found your wife’s will.”

Carejo groaned. His pale face was streaked with perspiration. He stared dully at Jo Gar. The Island detective shrugged his narrow shoulders.

“You retained me to find your girl, Señor. Perhaps you thought that after she was found, even though she was found murdered, I would think you a loving father. Even though you desired to beat her. I did not reason that way.”

Arnold Carlysle looked at Jo Gar. “It was rather fine work, Señor Gar,” he said. “Carejo would have gotten the plantations, with the girl out of the way. He was using Parker to cover the crime.”

Jo Gar gestured gracefully with spread, brown hands.

“The girl hated him,” he said simply. “She called for her mother, as she died. Yet she had lived with her father for years. I based much on her last words.”

He walked across the room and picked up the length of red-stained hemp. He smiled ironically at Vincente Carejo.

“You did not give yourself quite enough rope,” he said mildly. “In Bilibid Prison they will undoubtedly remedy that fault.”

_________________

3: The Million-Dollar Certificate

H. Bedford-Jones

1887-1949

Blue Book, October 1932

CARTER was a long, lean, supple man with friendly blue eyes and, in rainy weather, a slight limp; a lion in Rhodesia had given him the limp; but he had the lion’s pelt on the floor of his apartment in the Fifties, so the honors were his. Like most hunters, Carter did not look the part. He did not look like a detective, either; and although on the books of Headquarters he was listed as a plain, ordinary detective, he was really, nothing of the sort. He drew no salary, and Headquarters never applied to him unless they had a hunting job demanding his peculiar abilities.

At eight o’clock on the evening of Wednesday, November eleventh, Carter was just leaving for the opera when his telephone rang insistently. He picked up the receiver. The caller was Drummond, the police commissioner.

“Can you come straight to my office, Carter ?”

“Yes,” said Carter. “Important?”

“Of course. Gavin.”

“I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

HE had been reading about Gavin in the evening papers— a peculiar but not sinister case.

Gavin had dropped dead that morning while playing golf at the West Franklin Club. Close to the eighth hole was the range of the Suydam Rifle Club, whose members were that morning holding an elimination meet for the national tournament. A wild bullet had struck Gavin in the heart— perhaps a deflected bullet, since the range was most carefully placed not to endanger the golf-course. Gavin’s enormous wealth, his vast publishing and banking interests, gave the story tremendous publicity value.

Carter walked into the commissioner’s office, found Drummond alone, and lighting a cigarette sank into a chair beside the desk.

“The bullet wasn’t wild?” he asked.

Drummond regarded him sardonically. “Nobody knows. Apparently it was. The ground’s been searched, with no result. There are wooded patches near by, but it’s not easy for a man with a rifle to sneak into that place and sneak out again afterward, without being seen. Those are all private grounds.”

“It could be done,” said Carter laconically. “You’ve tested the bullet?”

“Exactly. All afternoon the ballistics experts have been comparing bullets from every one of the rifles used on the range this morning. The bullet that hit Gavin came from none of those rifles.”

“Then there was not the element of chance that the papers declared,” said Carter, and frowned. His blue eyes lost their friendly gleam as his shaggy dark brows drew down; they became thin, alert, glittering.

“Search the ground again.”

“In the morning, yes,” and Drummond nodded. “But there’s more. We’d have accepted the finding, except for Gavin’s widow. She called me in a couple of hours ago, and told me a queer story. You know the Treasury recently issued five hundred banknotes of a million dollars each?”

“For its short-term financing, primarily,” assented Carter. “Quite a large number of them came to New York— weren’t Gavin’s banks interested in government loans?”

“Exactly,” said Drummond. “Negotiable securities— as readily cashed, theoretically, as a dollar bill. Anyone with a million in cash could purchase one.”

“The fool!” exclaimed Carter, realizing the truth.

DRUMMOND only shrugged. “Why not? He had the money. For several days he’s been carrying it around showing it to friends, winning bets, and so forth. A million-dollar certificate isn’t seen every day, you know, even by the class of men whom Gavin ran about with. His wife thinks he had it with him this morning when he went to the golf club. It wasn’t found on his body, or in his locker; she hasn’t found it at home. She suspects it was stolen, or lost.”

“Suspects is the right word,”— and Carter smiled thinly.

“Anyhow,” went on Drummond, “she has demanded that we get on the job. She’s inherited almost the whole of his estate; she’s an alert, vindictive, hard-eyed woman, Carter.”

“I see,” said Carter. “And the Gavin newspapers could raise hell, couldn’t they? So she has exerted enough direct pull to make you put me on the job— eh?”

“If you’ll take it. I don’t want a soul to know that we’re doing it; I don’t want a hint to get out that an accidental death finding hasn’t been accepted fully. I’ve taken over every detail of the case. I’ll give you every authority, every latitude.”

“All right,” said Carter. “Information handy?”

“Shoot!” Drummond indicated the sheaf of papers before him.

“His companions in the game?”

“His nephew Hartley Hollister; Flood, of the Dominion National; old Martin Anders, the octogenarian oil man; and Gavin’s chief partner, Sunderby.”

“All but Hollister very wealthy men. Rule them out,” said Carter, and Drummond nodded. “Hm! Any chance of the wife having swiped the certificate?”

“No. Married seven years, never a quarrel— a devoted couple. She had money of her own, plenty of it.”

“Who handled the body?”

“No one. Hollister was the first to reach him, held Gavin’s head until the others came up. No one else touched the body, finding him dead instantly.”

“Looks bad for Hollister,” said Carter. “Is he well fixed ?”

“No. He’s a minor partner in a brokerage firm, has lost heavily lately, sold out his partnership three days ago,” returned Drummond, glancing over his papers. “Unmarried. There’s nothing particularly against him— he enjoys life. Twenty-six.”

“Did Gavin carry the certificate loose in his pocket?”

“No. It was four times as large as a dollar bill, engraved on the same paper; Gavin carried it in an empty gold watch-case attached to his key-ring and chain. Ring, chain and watch-case have vanished completely.”

“Hollister could have slipped it out of Gavin’s pocket as he held him?”

“Certainly. The others were at some little distance. Gavin’s caddy was close by.”

“The certificate can be traced by number?”

“Yes. Three-eight-two.” Drummond hesitated, frowning. “But, Carter, don’t you get the point? Hollister could flourish it in the streets tonight, and we couldn’t touch him. Gavin apparently pocketed the certificate and replaced it with cash. There’s no record of the note being his property, any more than if it were a mere dollar bill.”

“Would its possession prove theft, if Hollister has it?”

“No. We don’t know that Gavin didn’t lend it to him to play with. We don’t know that Gavin didn’t lose it, give it away, or leave it lying around home.” Drummond waved his hand impatiently. “There can’t be a definite charge. Mrs. Gavin merely thinks, supposes, guesses, infers, dammit! She may yet find the thing around the house.”

“Then what the devil,” inquired Carter, “do you expect me to do about it?”

“I expect you to act on the assumption that Gavin was murdered,” said Drummond curtly. He rose and picked up his light overcoat.

“I’m going home. You can take this file and go over it at leisure. The sky’s the limit. There’ll be questioning to do—the job was done very hurriedly today, naturally.”

Carter glanced at his watch. “Thanks. I’ll just make the second act of Tristan— which, after all, is the only important act. Do you know that the love duet takes exactly twenty-nine minutes to sing?”

Drummond merely snorted something and departed.

NEXT morning Carter obtained a private interview with Mrs. Gavin, who had gone completely to pieces. She was little better than a nervous wreck, but Carter learned the surprising fact that, only half an hour since, she had found her husband’s key-ring, chain and empty watch-case, still extremely empty. The million-dollar note was not in it.

She had found it on her dresser, where Gavin must have laid it before departing to his last golf match. Mrs. Gavin was entirely incapable of considering whether any of the servants might have taken the certificate from the watch-case. The more he talked with her, the less Carter liked her; as Drummond had suggested, she was rather harsh, yet her breakdown seemed sincere.

He left abruptly, after getting a list of the servants from her.

At noon, Carter, who was now in complete charge of the case, received a telephone message. He got into his own car and went speeding out across the miles to the West Franklin Club, where two Headquarters men had been working, very quietly. Their news was startling.

The rifle that had fired the fatal shot was found, in a dense clump of brush sixty yards from the point where Gavin had fallen. It was a light rifle of ordinary make, with silencer attached. The men had said nothing to anyone about their find.

“No doubt the ballistics experts will prove that the bullet came from it,” said Carter quietly. “You boys run along with it. No footprints?”

“We’ve gone over the ground with a fine-tooth comb, and there’s not a thing,” was the emphatic rejoinder. Carter nodded, and took their word for it.

WHEN they had departed, he went into the club and demanded the boy who had caddied for Gavin on Wednesday morning. The lad was at the caddy house now, and was summoned. When he arrived, Carter took him out on the terrace and settled comfortably into a chair.

“Your name’s Malone, eh?” He surveyed the freckled, sharp-eyed youngster. Those alert, half-suspicious eyes, he noted, were heavy-lidded, close together....

Malone listened to him attentively, then shook his head.

“No sir, not a thing out of the way,” he replied. “Mr. Hollister sliced into the rough and was hunting around for his ball; his caddy had lost it and was hunting away off the line. The other two gentlemen had driven, and they were walking up along the right of the course, because they didn’t go far. Mr. Garvin laid out a beauty straight down, but thought his club head was loose and waited to look it over. That put him back of everybody else. I was pretty close behind him when he keeled over— never said a word. He fell forward on his face. I let out a yell and tried to get his head up; he was sort of slumped up. When I saw blood on my hand, I was scared. Then Mr. Hollister came along.”

“So.” Carter lighted a cigarette, to keep from showing any exultation. He had found something at last! “You heard no shot?”

“No sir. Not a sound. I’m positive.”

“Had you seen anyone on the course?”

“No sir. Mr. Gavin usually came mornings so he’d have the course to himself; he’d send a phone-call ahead for me. I always caddied for him. I live over in West Franklin— my mother and me— and I could get here early.”

“Nobody else was on the course, then, from the time you left the first tee?”

“No sir. Not a soul, except Mr. Hollister’s chauffeur.”

“Eh? When was this?”

“At the sixth tee, sir. He came up after us from the clubhouse with a sack of clubs. I remember he showed them to Mr. Hollister— said they were his old clubs that had been lost for three weeks or so. He had just found them in the luggage compartment of the car. Everybody laughed about Mr. Hollister having put them there after too many drinks.”

“Then what?” queried Carter.

“That’s all, sir. Mr. Hollister said he preferred the new ones, and the chauffeur went back.”

“Did you see him go back all the way?”

“Say, was I getting paid to watch him or the ball?” demanded Malone. “He started back.”

“So! Didn’t you say when the first questions were asked, that Mr. Hollister was the only one to touch Mr. Garvin’s body?”

“No sir!” returned the boy emphatically. “Mr. Hollister said so. I guess he thought I didn’t count. He took up Mr. Gavin’s head and shoulders in his arms, spoke to him, and then laid him down again.”

“Did you see him take anything from Mr. Gavin’s pockets?”

Malone started. “No, sir! No, I didn’t. I wasn’t looking for things like that. I had seen a dead man once, and I knew Mr. Gavin was dead the minute I touched him. It— well, sir, it scared me a lot.”

Carter nodded and rose.

“I don’t blame you, Malone. That’s all, thanks.”

HE returned to the city, thoughtfully enough. There might have been no robbery after all, then—except for one point that worried him, in the boy’s story. Mrs. Gavin had found the empty watch-case herself. The certificate might have been taken by one of the servants, for Gavin had flourished it around among them all, enjoying his little jest.

For the rest of the day, and that following, he contented himself with a thorough and unhurried investigation of the Gavin domestic staff, but said nothing to anyone about his findings. Also, he spent much time over the map of the West Franklin course, after discovering that the sixth tee was close to the dense patch of rough and brush where the rifle had been discovered. And that rifle had been proved to have fired the death-shot; but all endeavor to trace it to any owner had failed signally.

On the conventional third day, Gavin was buried. Carter attended the funeral, which, as a plain-clothes man observed to him, did not begin to have the pomp and circumstance of Louie the Lip’s burial favors. Carter gathered that Saints Simon and Jude, looking down from their high stained-glass perch, must be distinctly disappointed. Mrs. Gavin was quite hidden beneath her heavy veil, which thus served its exact purpose. She was still in a state of semi-collapse, and was physically supported at the ceremony by Gavin’s nephew.

Carter regarded Hollister curiously. A young man, well-groomed, his carriage was firm and erect, his features were strong, vigorous, massive. Black hair, dark eyes, heavy brows. No nervousness, thought Carter; well poised, and a hard man to work upwind from, if he were being hunted. Watching closely, Carter saw that Hollister did not glance at the woman who clung to his arm, drooping beneath her veil; he gained the impression that this clinging was distasteful to the man. Then they passed from his range of vision.

In Carter’s pocket was an interesting report on Hollister’s activities. He inhabited an apartment in an exclusive and expensive club building, maintaining his own car and chauffeur there. He had been on friendly, even intimate, terms with his uncle for years past, and dined with the Gavins on an average of twice a week. Within the past month Hollister had lost heavily in the market, had drifted about town and indulged in a good deal of drinking.

CARTER rose from his pew at the rear of the church and departed. Outside, he sauntered along the line of cars waiting behind the hearse. Chauffeurs stood about in groups, smoking and chatting. Carter stopped beside a large car whose chauffeur reclined behind the wheel, absorbed in the pages of a magazine, and with quick interest, Carter noted that it was a publication devoted exclusively to society and fashion. As the chauffeur divined his presence and glanced up, Carter nodded pleasantly and threw back his coat to give a scant glimpse of his police badge.

“Reporter from the Herald,” he said.“You’re Mr. Hollister’s chauffeur, aren’t you? I’d like to get hold of some information, if you’d care to earn a ten- spot. Nothing to affect your job, of course. What say?”

“Yeah?” The chauffeur, named Redfern, was young, with powerful but pleasing features, and he surveyed Carter smilingly.

“It doesn’t worry my job. I’m quitting tomorrow, so shoot ahead with your questions.”

“Retiring on your income?” asked Carter whimsically.

“Not much. I’m going back to Kansas where I came from. Going into business. Well, what do you want to know?”

Carter produced and handed over the promised ten-dollar note. “I’m merely running down a few rumors,” he said. “Your boss was on pretty good terms with his uncle, wasn’t he?”

“I’ve always thought so, sure, until their row on Sunday night.”

“A quarrel ?”

Redfern shook his head. “You can’t drag me into it, partner. I only know what Sally told me. I didn’t hear or see a thing myself. She said they had a whacking row about the boss owing a lot of money at Geehan’s club.”

"Who's Sally?"

"Mrs Gavin's Maid-- her personal maid."

"Thanks for the tip," said Carter eagerly. "I'll not drag you into it. Will she talk?"

"If you show her some money, sure," Redfern, forgetful of his own pocketed bribe, showed his contempt by a grimace. “That girl is the original gold-digger! She sure chisels it out of the Gavins, too.”

“When is her night off?”

“Saturday— tonight. There’s some talk of closing the house, though.”

“Oh! Mrs. Gavin’s going away, is she ?”

“Search me,” said Redfern, closing up suddenly. He picked up his magazine.

Carter glanced at it again, nodded farewell, and sauntered away. He knew just where and when to find Sally McAfee if he wanted her....

Something else intervened, however. When he came to a corner news-stand, Carter bought a copy of Redfern’s magazine, and turned to the page Redfern had been perusing with such absorbed attention. It was devoted to an illustrated article on “What the Well-dressed Man Will Wear After Six.”

A note gave the name of a fashionable and expensive tailor on Fifth Avenue who would cheerfully furnish the requisite garments for the well-dressed man to wear after six.

As the tailor in question was only a few blocks uptown, Carter gained the Avenue and was presently speaking with the proprietor of the establishment, after properly identifying himself.

“Yes, Mr. Carter,” said the tailor, after obtaining the order cards from his assistants, “I see that Charles Redfern was in on Tuesday, and again on Friday, yesterday, for a fitting. He was measured for the usual correct evening clothes, also for several sack suits, four in all.”

“To be delivered in the city?”

“No, to be sent to him in Big Bend, Kansas.”

Carter met the eye of the tailor, who returned his whimsical smile.

“I don’t know Big Bend, Kansas,” observed Carter, “but it is possible that one should wear only the correct thing there. How was payment made?”

“By check on the Chase Provincial.”

The Chase Provincial, less than a block away, was closed to the public, but not to the police. Within twenty minutes Carter found that Redfern had a balance there of over eight thousand dollars, seven thousand of which had been deposited, in cash, on Thursday morning.

He went home thinking hard. There was nothing criminal in a chauffeur giving up his job and going back to Kansas with an outfit of the most expensive clothes for the proper social occasions. There was nothing very strange in the fact that Redfern had carried a lost bag of golf-clubs to the sixth tee on Wednesday morning. And there was nothing sinister in Redfern’s deposit of seven thousand in cash on the morning after the murder. The coincidence, however, caused Carter to investigate Pullman reservations; he found that Redfern had taken a section on the Sunday night fast train for St. Louis.

THERE remained Sally McAfee— and Hollister.

Calling up Geehan’s club, a rather brazen establishment in the late Forties patronized by the edge of society, conducted by the ex-pugilist Geehan, Carter reserved a table for that evening. He knew that Hollister had not gone there since Gavin’s murder, having been kept busy with the funeral arrangements— and if Hollister did what he expected him to do, Carter intended to be on hand. This arranged, he set off at once for the boarding-house where Sally McAfee was to be found.

LUCK, he decided, was with him this day as seldom before; so much good fortune made him a trifle wary. For Miss McAfee was at home, and descended to the parlor at once to see him— a small woman, with sharp and pinched features. Her heavy-lidded eyes were closely set, but despite their shrewd gaze her manner was pleasant. Carter introduced himself as a newspaper man, with a flash of his badge.

“I was just wondering, Miss McAfee,” he said, with his whimsical smile, “whether I could get any angle on the Gavin affair which might make a follow-up story. Without quoting you, of course. And I have a good expense account. It would be worth a ten-spot if I could pick up anything.”

“Not to me,” she said promptly. “Twenty-five, then. I’ve heard rumors— though there may be nothing to them— about a quarrel between Gavin and his nephew.”

She nodded silently, and Carter produced the money. She relaxed in her chair.

“There was a quarrel Sunday night,” she said calmly. “Quite an angry one, too. Mr. Hollister owed a lot of money to Geehan’s club, and Geehan had spoken to Mr. Gavin about the matter. I don’t recall the details, except that Mr. Gavin was very angry and said his nephew was disgracing them all.”

“And was he disgracing them, in your personal opinion?”

“He wasn’t far from it,” she said, an edge to her voice. “There was a lot of talk going on about him, how he was drinking and cutting up generally. Anyone could tell you that.”

“I understand Mrs. Gavin is leaving the city shortly?”

“Not to my knowledge. I think she’s staying here for the winter.” “Oh! I understood she was leaving immediately.”

“Must be a mistake,” came the firm response. “They have a place at Santa Barbara, but I don’t think that’ll be opened now. I’m sure I don’t know her plans.”

“Were Mr. Hollister’s rather fast doings common talk— outside the family, I mean?"

“Oh, sure! Why, everybody—well,” Miss McAfee checked herself, “I only know what’s said in the family, of course.”

Carter rose and smilingly took his departure. “I don’t think,” he said to himself, “that my twenty-five dollars has been altogether wasted! But we’ll see.”

CARTER went early to the Tourist club. He disliked to dine in a hurry, so when he had dressed, he went straight to the club and ordered dinner. He rejected the table reserved for him, and chose another at the edge of the balcony, where there were only a dozen tables in all. Thus he could overlook the dance-floor below, and the tables surrounding it.

As he was wont to say, there were various methods of hunting. One could use a gun or a camera, a horse or an automobile, or even bow and arrow on occasion. Also, one might hunt for pelts, for food, for mere savage sport of killing, or for scientific purposes. His rather whimsical observations usually fell upon deaf ears, but he went his own chosen way regardless, and did very much as he pleased. If his methods and practices frequently horrified Commissioner Drummond, the results he invariably obtained were gratifying.

He observed Geehan, the ex-pugilist, with attention. Geehan stalked about the floor, went from table to table, greeted guests, sat down for an occasional drink; his attire was faultless, and his heavy-jawed features could be very amiable or scowling and menacing. Carter concluded that the man had no diplomacy whatever, no nicety in what he did or said, but ruled his robbers’ roost with a jovial brutality that appealed to the fringes of society— those hapless fringes possessed of much money and pose, but not daring to own frank simplicity.

Carter dined at leisure and with discrimination. It was after nine when his table was cleared and he lighted a cigar, leaning back comfortably and looking down on the opening number of the floor entertainment.

“Tell Geehan I want to see him,” said a level, controlled, cultured voice. “And sharp about it, Tim! I’ll not be here any too long.”

Carter turned and saw Hollister passing by his table, to another at the opposite side of the balcony. Hollister sat down, took out a pocket flask openly, and mixed a drink. He appeared to be entirely at his ease. He would not have appeared on the floor, of course; Carter congratulated himself on his own acuity of reasoning. Gavin was buried, and Hollister had come straight here, but without any ostentation.

Presently Geehan appeared on the balcony and strode over to Hollister’s table. Hollister glanced up, smiling a little, and nodded. Geehan drew out a chair, sat down, leaned over the table, talking rapidly; the man’s heavy features were cordial, friendly. Hollister gave him a long, half-smiling look, and shrugged. He appeared to make Geehan some proposal, to which the ex-bruiser assented.

With a careless gesture, Hollister took a folded paper from his pocket and handed it to the other. Geehan unfolded it, looked at it; an expression of the most intense amazement leaped into his face. He looked up at Hollister, who watched him with quiet amusement; then he broke into irritable speech and thrust the paper back. Carter could guess that Hollister had offered to pay his debts, if Geehan could make change— and had produced the million-dollar certificate.

Hollister shrugged again, pocketed the paper, chuckled at Geehan. The latter broke into a laugh, rose, and slapped Hollister on the shoulder, quite obviously telling him that his credit was good indefinitely. Then he strode away.

AFTER, a moment Carter rose, puffed at his cigar, and sauntered over to Hollister’s table.

“Beg pardon,” he said. “You’re Mr. Hollister, I think. My name’s Carter— Anderson Carter. I’d be glad of a little chat with you.”

Hollister rose.

“Eh? Not the Anderson Carter who made that African lion film?”

Carter admitted the impeachment and shook hands, and Hollister’s eyes twinkled.

“I’m frightfully glad to meet you, Carter! I’ve seen that film several times, and it’s a marvel. Have a drink?”

“Thanks, no.” Carter dropped into a chair. “You may not be so glad to meet me when I tell you that I’m a detective. Here’s my badge to prove it.”

Hollister was shocked into immobility by sight of the badge and by Carter’s gaze. He froze a little.

“A detective! Is this some joke?”

“Unfortunately, no,” said Carter amiably.

“I didn’t know detectives were gentlemen, outside of stories,” said Hollister.

“Thank you for the compliment,” Carter smiled. “It’s necessary for me to talk with you. I want certain information, and the best way to get it from a man like you is to come straight out with everything. Such, at least, is my premise.”

“Thank you, in turn.” Hollister’s eyes searched him gravely, curiously. “And to what do I owe your interest in me?”

“To a portrait,” said Carter. “A rather handsomely engraved portrait of William Harris Crawford, who was Secretary of the Treasury over a hundred years ago.”

Hollister’s jaw hardened for an instant. “So that’s it!” he murmured.

“That’s it,” said Carter quietly. “I believe the number is three-eight-two. Right?”

Hollister nodded. “Right.” He met Carter’s gaze with challenging, defiant eyes. “You mean that— that you want to arrest me?”

Carter smiled and knocked the ash from his cigar.

“If I meant that, I’d have said it. Let me see the certificate, if you please.”

Without demur, Hollister drew the folded paper from his pocket. Carter opened it and regarded it with curiosity. Except for its bald spot, the vigorous features of the portrait looked curiously like those of Hollister, and Carter commented on the fact. Hollister nodded. “Yes, that’s why my uncle— But see here, Carter! This is no place to talk. Suppose you come home with me. That is, unless you wanted to take me— with you.”

Apprehension flashed in his eyes. Carter shook his head.

“By all means. I’d like to have a look about your place, to be quite frank. My car’s waiting, if I may drive you. Shall I keep this temporarily?”

Hollister glanced at the million-dollar certificate, and nodded as he rose. “Right,” he said. “I’ll dismiss my car.”

THEY drove in silence to the club apartments where Hollister resided, and Carter accompanied his host to a very cozy and luxurious apartment on the eighteenth floor. “Make yourself comfortable,” said Hollister. “I’ll just make sure Redfern hasn’t come back— he acts as my man generally, and my chauffeur as needed.”

He disappeared, and returned a moment later, producing a box of excellent cigars, and dropping into an armchair.

“Now fire away,” he said cheerfully. “You’re sure you’re not going to arrest me for the theft of that certificate?”

Carter smiled. “No. There’s nothing to prove theft, you know. Mrs. Gavin wanted it looked up, and I took for granted you had it.”

A bitter expression flashed into Hollister’s face. “Yes, she would— the damned cat!” he exclaimed. “I suppose the truth is that she accused me of taking it?”

Carter reflected. “To the best of my knowledge, she did not. I jumped to the conclusion that you might have taken it from your uncle’s pocket as he lay in your arms.”

HOLLISTER’S face darkened with a rush of blood. For an instant he stiffened, then relaxed.

“Oh, well, no use being angry about it, I suppose,” he said. “After all, you might have been justified in such a theory. In reality, my uncle handed me the note that morning before we reached the golf club. He commented on the general resemblance of my features to those of Crawford, and told me to flash the certificate on his banker friends— showing them my face on a million-dollar bill. I suppose that doesn’t sound very plausible, eh?”

Carter puffed at his cigar.

“It might not sound plausible to say that a common old barnyard variety of ox could horn and stamp the life out of an active and hungry male lion, but I’ve seen it done,” he returned. “Now let me go into some intimate relations, Mr. Hollister. You are not friendly with Mrs. Gavin?”

“Friendly? Yes.”

Hollister shrugged. “I don’t think much of her, but we’re friendly. Under the surface, I imagine she guesses how I feel.”

“Yes? She would resent contempt, eh? Is that her picture?”

Hollister reached over and lifted a silver-framed photograph of Mr. and Mrs. Gavin. Carter studied it; the smiling magnate stood with an arm about the shoulders of his wife, a slender, pretty woman. She was obviously much younger than he.

“Hm! I should judge,” said Carter, “that Mrs. Gavin has some good qualities? She’s certainly not a weak person.” Hollister smiled.

“Many good qualities, Mr. Carter. No, if she’d been weak, my uncle wouldn’t have fallen in love with her.”

“They were a devoted couple, I understand.”

Hollister hesitated. “Yes, I believe they were, to be honest about it,” he rejoined.

“Did you have any quarrel with your uncle on Sunday night?”

This abrupt question startled Hollister. He gave Carter a sharp look.

“An argument, yes. A quarrel, no. He objected to my throwing away money at night-clubs, as he termed it. Who told you about it?”

Carter did not reply. He glanced about the library and den in which they were sitting, and then, negligently, asked the question burning at his lips.

“Was Gavin carrying the certificate loose in his pocket when he gave it to you?”

“No,” said Hollister. “He carried it in the case of an old gold watch, crumpling it up considerably. He said that was safer. The watch-case was fastened to his key-chain.”

“This was before he left home, eh?”

“No,” said Hollister. “In the car. I picked him up with my car, you see. It was on the way out to the club.”

CARTER was thunderstruck, but gave no sign of it. Hollister did not know, of course, that Mrs. Gavin had herself found that watch-case and keychain on her own dresser, where Gavin must have put it before leaving home.

“Then Gavin had the chain and watch case when he was killed, eh?”

“I suppose so,” said Hollister.

“And why didn’t you return the million dollars to Mrs. Gavin?”

Hollister flushed slightly. “I honestly forgot, until Wednesday night. Then she had gone to pieces— was badly broken up. I didn’t see her again till the funeral today. I was kept busy with the arrangements. I wanted to flash the note on Geehan and one or two others. I was a fool, eh?”

“Yes,” agreed Carter. “And since I’m walking off with that certificate, let me identify myself to you. Anyone could flash a badge, you know.”

Hollister had never thought of this, to his chagrin. Carter made his identity plain, then rose and shook hands.

“I don’t want you to go out of town tomorrow,” he said frankly. “And I do want you to come down to Headquarters at ten Monday morning. Agreed?”

“Eh? Yes, if you put it that way,” said Hollister uneasily. “But I was going up to Westchester in the morning—”

“Don’t go,” said Carter quietly.

Hollister shrugged and assented, with a laugh.

When Carter climbed under the wheel of his car and headed for home, he whistled softly.

“Did Hollister tell the truth about the watch-case? I wonder! Or did he pay Redfern a few thousand dollars for services rendered? That bag of golf clubs might have contained a rifle as well. That reminds me— I’ve not had any report on that rifle!”

Reaching home, he got into touch with the experts at Headquarters. The expert who had the matter in hand presently was on the line.

“We’re up against trouble on that rifle, Carter,” he replied. “Evidently it had been wiped clean. The prints on it were those of the two dicks who found it. We located just one other print, a thumb-mark, but there’s not a chance of identifying it unless we had some possible clue.”

“I’ll give you that,” said Carter. “Try Spike Cecorini. He’s something of a racketeer, I believe; was brought in on suspicion in the Macdougal Street murders six months ago, but was released. You should have his prints on file. Look ’em up and call me back at once.”

He waited. There was one thing that puzzled him, and that was the fact that Hollister claimed Gavin had the key chain and watch-case on the way to the golf club— yet Mrs. Gavin had found it at home. Hollister might, perhaps, have been mistaken; or might have lied.

THE telephone summoned him. It was Headquarters again.

“O. K., Carter! ” came the exultant response. “You sure hit it right. The thumb-print checks up with that of Cecorini. Want him brought in?”

“First thing in the morning. Bring him in and hold him— and get his laundry. Look for the handkerchief that wiped the rifle. Get me? And I want two men put on to one Charles Redfern, chauffeur for Hollister. He has a reservation to leave for St. Louis tomorrow night at six, but may slip away before then. If he does, grab him.”

Assured that this order would go through, Carter hung up. Then he completed his unfinished thought about Hollister.

“Or,” he reflected, “Hollister might have replaced the chain and watch-case on the dresser after taking the certificate! Who knows?”

AT six o’clock on Sunday evening, Charles Redfern, no longer in chauffeur’s uniform but wearing a distinctly Fifth Avenue sack suit, walked toward the gates of the Pennsylvania Station, with just five minutes to make the westbound “cannonball.”

A porter, heavily laden with bags, preceded him. As Redfern presented his tickets, a group of men appeared suddenly and closed around.

“You’re not going west—just yet,” said one. “Better come along and avoid a scene.”

Redfern protested violently, then calmed down and resigned himself to the inevitable.

Fifteen minutes later he was led into an office at Headquarters where Carter and Commissioner Drummond sat awaiting him. Carter occupied the desk, a number of papers before him. Redfern started slightly with recognition, then took the chair offered him.

“So we meet again, eh?” said Carter pleasantly. “We have a few questions—”

“Am I under arrest or not?” demanded Redfern composedly. “You are not. But we’re not convinced that Mr. Gavin’s death was accidental; and you’re held as a material witness.”

Carter’s tone was less pleasant now. “Kindly repeat what Miss McAfee told you about a quarrel between Mr. Hollister and his uncle, last Sunday night.”

“I told you I didn’t want to be dragged into it!” said Redfern.

“You’re in it,” snapped Drummond. “Talk!”

Sullenly, Redfern repeated what he had previously told Carter.

“Did you ever hear Mr. Hollister utter threats against his uncle?”

“No.”

“Did you expect to wear a Fifth Avenue wardrobe in Big Bend, Redfern?”

“Why, yes,” said Redfern slowly, surprised by the question. “Why not?”

“Why?” asked Carter. “My old man has a shop there. I’m turning it into a classy haberdashery. I want to show ’em how things should be done, and so forth.”

“Yes? You’ve made a good deal of money in New York?”

“Some,” said Redfern, eying his questioner. “You made a bank deposit of seven thousand dollars in cash, on Thursday morning?”

“Yes.”

“Where’d you get it?”

“I sold out some stocks on Monday— stocks Mr. Hollister had advised me about several months ago. The brokers got the money for me in cash. I got it Wednesday afternoon, too late for the bank.”

“I see. The stocks in question? And the broker’s name?”

Redfern gave them.

Drummond leaned over, his lips at Carter’s ear. “Want to ask about those golf-clubs? and whether—”

Carter shook his head. He was still in charge of the matter.

“No,” he said under his breath. “If he shows where he got that money, he’s in the clear.” He raised his voice. “All right, Redfern. We’ll ask you to wait a few moments and then give us a deposition; after which I expect you’ll be free to hit for Big Bend and the haberdashery business. And I want to thank you for coming across so frankly. Hope the delay won’t bother you. In the next room, please. Now for the boy, Commissioner.”

Drummond nodded to one of the waiting officers, and Malone was brought into the room. He wet his lips, his eyes flickered around; then he took the chair facing Carter.

“Hello, Malone,” said Carter, smiling. “Young fellow, we owe you a lot, only you don’t know it. Remember telling me about that blood you got on your hand? Well, sir, that was the key to everything, and now we need a little more information you can give us. Just why had you any reason to think that something might happen to Mr. Gavin?”

Malone started. He had not expected this question. “Why—he had heart trouble, sir,” he answered. Fright leaped in his eyes. “He did? Then you did think something might happen to him, did you ?”

“Yes—yes sir,” stammered Malone. “He might have a heart-attack.”

Carter leaned back.

“Malone,” he said gravely, “you’ve held out on us, and you’ve been mighty close to real trouble, in consequence. Now come clean with it all, and you’ll come clear. I promise you that, understand? There’s no charge against you. All we want is information—and if we get it, you’re in the clear. Get me?”

“Yes sir,” said Malone, twisting uneasily. “Why didn’t you say a word to any¬ one about slipping the key-ring and watch-case out of Mr. Gavin’s pocket? That’s how you got the blood on your hand, of course.”

“Yes, sir.” Malone swallowed hard, staring at Carter. “Why, sir— I was— I thought maybe they would think I’d stolen it. When it happened, I just did it. Afterward, I got scared about it.”

“I see. And just why did you take it, if not to steal it ?”

“Why, it was for Mrs. Gavin, sir.”

An exclamation broke from Drummond, who leaned forward, staring. Malone met his hard gaze without flinching.

“Yes, that’s true, I swear it!” he cried earnestly. “You see, he had all his keys on that ring. If he had a heart-attack, anybody might take those keys and make trouble, or they might get lost. But if I slipped them out and took care of them, and got them back to Mrs. Gavin, it was all right. It might mean a lot to her. It did, and she was glad to get them. She sent me twenty dollars.”

“She did, eh?”

Carter nodded. “We’ll ask you a little later, not now, who she sent the money by. Go with this officer into the back of the room, Malone, and wait. You’re O. K., young fellow.”

THE two departed to the other end of the office, which was a large one, placing Malone beyond earshot of the desk. Drummond leaned forward.

“Carter, is this straight? Did Mrs. Gavin—”

“No,” said Carter. “It was Malone’s sister.”

“Eh? But—”

“Bring in the McAfee woman. Drummond, you remember that boy’s face? Now look at this woman’s face when she comes in— the same heavy-lidded, closely set eyes! All I had to do was to run down her history.”

Drummond snorted something and sat back.

Sally McAfee was led in by a policewoman; and at sight of Carter, her eyes widened. He smiled at her amusedly.

“Well, well! We’re old friends, eh? Your name, please?”

“You know it very well,” she snapped. “Sally McAfee.”

At this instant she caught sight of Malone, at the other side of the room, and her face changed.

Carter chuckled. “Oh! Sally McAfee, eh? When you were married and lost the name of Malone, six months ago, you didn’t want to use an Italian name, eh? And when you got the job with Mrs. Gavin, you took McAfee, eh?”

“Married?” she exclaimed, fright darting into her eyes. “I’m not married!”

“All right, if you insist.” Carter waved his hand. “You’ll probably change your mind when we show you the registers and so forth. And your husband will certainly recognize you. Now, why did you tell your brother, over there, all that fairy-tale about the bad heart of Mr. Gavin, and the eagerness of Mrs. Gavin to get hold of the watch-case?”

“I didn’t!” she flashed out. “I never mentioned the watch-case! It was—” She checked herself.

“It was the key-ring, eh?” said Carter. “Exactly. I suppose you were astonished when you found the watch-case empty, eh?”

Her lips pressed tightly together, she glared at him and remained silent.

“You won’t talk? Then I will,” went on Carter. “You see, we know the whole thing. We know how Mr. Gavin showed you the million-dollar certificate, at the same time he showed it to his wife and to the butler, let you hold it in your hands, look at it closely. And it set fire to you, didn’t it? A million dollars, a million that anyone could have that found it! Just set fire to you, burned you up inside! And you knew that your brother was Mr. Gavin’s favorite caddy. It was all made to order for you, wasn’t it? If you could just make sure that Gavin would fall over at the right time, when Malone would reach him first! So you quizzed the boy, and discovered about the patch of rough and the thick brush just at that spot, within rifle-shot of three holes of the course— oh, we’ve learned all about it!”

Perspiration showed on the woman’s face as she listened. Her eyes drove past Carter at the boy in the distant corner, and her lips curled.

“The damned rat! I might have known he’d spill everything!” she cried out. Then she pulled herself together and sat back in her chair. “I’ve nothing to say,” she went on, and her lips snapped shut.

“Bring in the lady’s husband,” said Carter. “And take the lady out.”

She departed without protest.

In the hall outside she passed Spike Cecorini, handcuffed between two officers— a dark, swarthily handsome fellow, his face sullen. He stared after her, but was jerked ahead before he could speak.

Carter surveyed him for a moment.

“Well, Cecorini, you haven’t talked, have you?” he said quietly. “You will now. We’ve got her. There’s the boy yonder— as honest as she’s crooked. And she’s talked.”

“You lie,” snarled the man.

“Suit yourself,” said Carter pleasantly. “But you didn’t wipe all the fingerprints from that rifle. One remained— enough to hang you. And you forgot that the greasy cartridges you put into the magazine carried your fingerprints, and—”

The man started violently. “Damn it!” he exclaimed. “There was only one cartridge; and—”

“Correct.” Carter leaned back. “Take him back, officers. Charge him with Gavin’s murder— and the woman, his wife, as an accomplice.” Commissioner Drummond leaned forward. “Good work, Carter! So it was the woman who put the key-chain and watch-case on Mrs. Gavin’s dresser, eh? But how did you know it?”

“That,”— and Carter grinned faintly, —“was like locating a lion in a thorn patch. What you might call guess-work. And here, by the way, is the million-dollar certificate.”

He laid it out on the desk, smoothed it, regarded it with a smile.

“You’ve been through a trying experience, Mr. William Harris Crawford,” he addressed the imposing gentleman who looked up at him.

“Certificate Number Three-eight-two, eh? I wonder, now, why nobody ever thought about your number? Certainly Gavin didn’t— but if he’d done so, it might have saved him trouble. In this case, thirteen is sure one unlucky number for several people! Good-by, Mr. Crawford. I’d like to meet you again, as my property, and I’d take the chance on your unlucky number!”

And smiling, he rose to go home. So far as he was concerned, the case was finished.

_____________________

4: The Trail of Death

H. Bedford-Jones

Blue Book, January 1927

WHEN THE TELEPHONE in Durant’s room tinkled, he knew instinctively it was fate calling.

He had finished breakfast, had just closed his bags; in another five minutes he would have been paying his bill and leaving the little hostelry in the Rue Vignon. And then the sharp, insistent summons! Even as he reached for the instrument, his eyes flitted out to the old narrow Paris street below— no, escape was hopeless.

“M. Durant?” It was the voice of the hotel proprietor. “There are some gentlemen here asking for you.”

The peculiar intonation made Durant divine the truth.

“Of the police?” he inquired.

“Yes, m’sieur.”

“Ask them to come up to my room, if you please.”

Durant laid the instrument on its rack. Caught, then! Not quick enough in getting away. He should have gone at once to Makoff’s house the previous night, as soon as he learned its address. He had seen by the morning papers that Woroff the dancer, chief assistant to Boris Makoff, master of crime, had been killed the previous afternoon; his slayers were arrested, caught red-handed. The papers did not say it was thanks to Durant that they were caught— only the subprefect of police knew it. And now he had run down Durant!

“Enter!” called Durant, to the sharp rap at the door.

To his surprise, he saw it was the subprefect, but alone. M. Ducasse entered, with a bow, and stood for a moment regarding his prey. He was a handsome man—thinly bearded, his face proud, aquiline, powerful, his eyes cruelly cold; in his expression was something sardonic, as though he found the world humorous and bitter.

This man battled against all the underworld of Paris, and made a fair job of it.

“Good morning, M. Durant,” he said. White teeth showed through his beard as he smiled. “You see, I have discovered your name, have found you! You did me a good turn yesterday, for which I owe you thanks, but I could not have so intelligent and able a man loose in Paris without knowing more about him.”

“So you have come to arrest me?” asked Durant. The other gestured.

“I have come to barter freedom— for information.”

Meeting those piercing, indomitable eyes, Durant made his decision swiftly. He was now dealing with a Frenchman, to whom the personal appeal meant everything. Defiance would only bring down violence.

“Be seated, M. Ducasse,” he said, and fumbled for pipe and tobacco. The subprefect took a chair, adjusted the flower in his buttonhole, and smiled.

“You aroused my curiosity yesterday, m’sieur,” he said. “An American, allied with thugs! An honest man mixed up with thieves! You even mentioned a gang of which I had never heard— an incredible thing, I assure you!”

Durant nodded, and smiled cynically.

“You want to know more about me?”

“I already know something. Since the war you have been employed in a bank here. Sometime ago you were called to America by the death of a relative; you are now wealthy. Eh?”

“Correct enough.” Durant sat on the table, puffed at his pipe, swung a leg carelessly. “Coming over on the boat, I met a lady. I had often seen her, here in Paris; now I met her. By sheer accident, I learned that she was in the grip of a blackmailer, a criminal organizer, a man who plans and carries out large and small things. I undertook to free her from his grip. As a preliminary step, I got into his good graces, joined his gang. The lady in question is Baronne Glincka, widow of a Russian— an American girl whose marriage was unlucky. The man is her former husband’s relative, one Boris Makoff.”

“The Baronne Glincka!” murmured M. Ducasse, lifting his brows.

“Who is forced to assist Boris at his work, forced to pay heavily, forced to lend her position and talent to further his schemes.”

“I know her, though I would never have dreamed this,” said the other. “But I do not know Boris Makoff, or anyone of that name.”

“He calls himself Baron Glincka—”

“Ah! That man!” The eyes of Ducasse flamed suddenly. “You mean it? Why, it seems impossible, fantastic! He is well known— wealthy, a Russian noble—”

“A criminal,” said Durant. “There is my story, m’sieur, in brief.”

Ducasse, inspecting him with frank curiosity, shook his head slowly.

“You have taken on an impossible achievement, m’sieur.”

Durant laughed at him. “So? But he does not suspect me. I have discovered where he lives. I am going to him. Yesterday three of his best men were removed. When I have stripped away his defenses, I shall secure the documents which give him his hold on the Baronne, and my work is done.”

“An impossibility.” And now Ducasse spoke gravely. “But you speak of stripping! That is a harsh word, m’sieur, as you use it. It means killing.”

“Exactly,” said Durant, and his eyes were cold. “These men are like wild beasts, to be treated as such.”

“I am interested in bringing them to justice,” said the other softly.

“I am not,” said Durant. “I am interested only in playing my own game— and winning. I can do it only in my own way. But you don’t know everything! I’ve won over to my side the dope ring here in Paris, through an American agent of theirs whom I aided. They will give me every assistance against Boris Makoff.”

Ducasse grinned at this. “The dope ring! I congratulate you on your friends, m’sieur. You fight fire with fire, eh?”

“With anything, to win!” exclaimed Durant vibrantly. He came suddenly to his feet. “I play this game, m’sieur, for the sake of a woman. What are you going to do about it? Interfere, and it’s war between us. Hands off, and you’ll be the gainer in the end. What do you choose?”

Ducasse fairly gasped, then leaned back and surveyed Durant with a flicker of admiration in his sardonic eyes.

“War! You dare threaten me— Paris— all France?”

“I dare anything,” said Durant, giving him look for look.

“You, a lone American? Why, it is laughable!”

“Then arrest me,” said Durant calmly, “and declare war— if you dare.”

Their eyes met and held.

“Sacred name of a dog!” ejaculated M. Ducasse, and came to his feet. “You mean it! Well, my friend, I think you are a madman. And I never interfere with madmen if I can help it.”

“You mean—”

M. Ducasse bowed, half-mockingly. “That you are free to pursue your own road, m’sieur, with my blessing! After all, you did me a service yesterday. Next time— we shall see.”

And the subprefect of police departed.

ONCE ALONE, Durant called Boris Makoff on the telephone.

“Boris? Durant speaking,” he said in English, which the other spoke fluently. “Thought I’d hear from you last night. According to the papers—”

“So you’re still at that hotel?” said the Russian. “Don’t be a fool. Cover up.”

“I intend to.” Durant laughed softly. “I’ll be right along to your Avenue Mozart place.”

Makoff swore. “Confound you! You know about it?”

“From Woroff.”

“Huh! Wait a minute, now— don’t come here. I’m up against it. Everything’s cracked up for the moment.” The Russian’s voice was crisp, businesslike, alert. “I had to send the Baronne to Trouville this morning. Can you join her and take charge of a deal there? This cursed run of luck must stop, or I’ll begin to think something’s wrong.”

Durant, startled as he was by this news that Helen Glincka was gone to Trouville, chuckled to himself. Boris Makoff might well curse— certainly his organization was badly smashed, a number of his cleverest men lost, his schemes knocked awry!

“Yes,” said Durant. “But what’s in it? I’m beginning to think that I won’t get much by working for you, Boris.”

An inarticulate snarl brought a grin to his lips. Others, probably, were saying the same thing.

“Meet me at the Gare St. Lazare in thirty minutes,” returned Makoff. “You can get the Trouville express. I’ll show you what’s in it.”

“Done,” said Durant, and rang off.

He did not want to leave Paris. He did not at all want to visit the twin resort towns of Trouville-Deauville on the Normandy coast. He wanted to come to grips with Boris Makoff as quickly as possible. But Helen Glincka had gone— that changed everything. He could be with her, could no doubt get further information from her about Makoff’s place in the Avenue Mozart, headquarters of the wily Russian; he might even manage a blow at Makoff or the latter’s men.

“The rascal must be short-handed if he’d send us on such an errand,” thought Durant. “He probably meant Woroff to go— well, we’ll see! Now for Lewis.”

He called up the American dope-smuggler whom he knew, and on whose influence he might rely for help.

“I’m off for Trouville on the morning express, Lewis,” he said. “Something’s up, there— I don’t know what. Have your friends any agent in that vicinity?”

“They sure have,” Lewis laughed over the wire. “If it wasn’t for Deauville in summer, where would all the money come from? Tell me where to reach you, and I’ll have a wire waiting with his name. Meantime, I’ll have them wire him full instructions to help you.”

“Good man. I don’t know where I’ll be, but wire me in care of the Trouville branch of the Crédit Lyonnais, and I’ll call for it in the morning.”

“Right. Good luck to you!”

Leaving one of his bags here, Durant took the other and set out afoot for the Gare St. Lazare, only a few blocks distant. He delayed en route to buy a few toilet articles, so that when he entered the big gray station it was close to ten o’clock. As he mounted to the train level, he came upon Makoff, at the head of the stairs.

There was nothing small about the Russian, mentally or physically. He was a burly, powerful figure, impeccably clad in morning attire from hat to spats; his dark, dangerously eager eyes fastened upon Durant, he came to the latter’s side.

“Late! You’ve ten minutes to make the train. Here’s a ticket and first-class reservation for you. Come along— talk on the platform.”

Durant nodded, took the tickets held out, accompanied Makoff through the gates, across the waiting-space beyond, and so to the train-gates. Once on the platform beside the train, the Russian took his arm and broke into soft speech.

“For the moment, my friend, things are badly disorganized here— a series of disasters, you comprehend? Well, fate evens up. Here’s your car. I’ve put a package in your seat; take care of it. You’ve heard of Kaparien?”

Durant shook his head.

“One of the Greek syndicate that controls the gambling at Deauville. He’s half Greek, half Armenian, very wealthy, and a scoundrel,” said Boris Makoff. “His yacht is at Trouville now, and he’s going north to Etretat and Ostend in a day or two. If you never heard of him, I suppose you’ve heard of Count Corvos, the Austrian?”

“Naturally,” said Durant. “He’s said to have the finest collection of uncut stones in existence.”

Makoff chuckled. “Not any more— Kaparien has it. The Austrian plunged at the Deauville tables, and the syndicate took over his little collection. It happened last week. Kaparien is taking the stones with him—he’s going to meet a certain actress at Ostend, and open a campaign against her virtuous scruples. No very hard matter, I imagine. My Deauville man only learned of all this at the last moment. I got Hélène off this morning, and will wire her; she’ll meet you. Trust her! Things will be arranged—”

The train began to move, without warning, in the almost insensible glide of French trains at starting. Durant swung to the steps.

“Propotkin— my man at Deauville—fully trusted— all details— luck to you!” came in snatches from the Russian, and then no more.

DURANT PASSED along the car until he found his own compartment—a first-class smoker in which were ensconced two American tourists. His own seat was marked by a small, rather heavy package wrapped in brown paper. He put it in the rack with his grip, not opening it, and settled down to the four-hour trip.

Nothing could so clearly denote the fix in which Boris Makoff found himself as this emergency call upon Durant and Helen Glincka. The Russian was convinced he could trust them both— holding the woman in pawn through fear, the man through grudging respect. Durant knew that his part must be to fetch the loot safely back to Makoff, and for once he found himself quite willing to play the Russian’s criminal game.

In his years of struggle, Ralph Durant had acquired a point of view which, to most men, would have been extremely perilous. For the law he cared nothing. He had seen so much of the world’s injustice and misery, so much of the men who battened upon other folk, the easy schemers who evaded the law and preyed upon less clever men, that it had imbued him with a cynical disregard for the justice of men. In the present instance, he was entirely willing to see Kaparien robbed, and to have Makoff profit at the man’s expense— even to share in the work. It would be robbing the vulture to pay the buzzard. Kaparien, one of the crew who sat back and profited by the gambling instinct of others, deserved no sympathy. He had taken over the gem-collection of Count Corvos direct from the gaming tables, and Durant had no hesitation in lifting his loot.

Besides, by doing so, he would win through to his objective. As he had told Ducasse that morning, the one great objective before him was to free Helen, Baroness Glincka, from the strangle-grip of Makoff. To this end he must bide his time, temporize until the chance came, risk no failure. To this end he must bend everything that turned up, with a ruthless disregard of ethics or anything else, even the lives of men. Already the trail behind him had been starred by the dead.

“We’ll put it through,” he resolved grimly. “We’ll put it through at all costs—and come back to Paris with the end in sight! At all costs.”

In this mood, avoiding his fellow-travelers, he reached Trouville early in the afternoon, and did not find Helen Glincka at the station to meet him.

He passed from the platform on through the station, and out to the front. There he set down his bag and gazed around. It was a brilliant scene that greeted him, in the hot summer sunlight.

The wide space before the station was crowded with vehicles— automobiles, huge busses, taxicabs, victorias, dogcarts. Opposite, the sidewalk cafés were crowded, and the gay sweaters and blazers of tourists were everywhere. To the right, against the green hills, spread out ancient Trouville, with the gray houses back from the esplanade and quay where the fishing craft swung in the deep and narrow port, and the casino out at the sea-end.

To the left was Deauville, garish, modern, aswing with life and action. Opposite the station, beyond the grimy coaling port, lay the yacht basin, where a dozen splendid money-wasters were moored against the quays.

Abruptly, Durant found a man at his elbow, heard his name.

“Pardon— this is M. Durant, perhaps?”

Turning, Durant beheld a queer figure— a short, extremely wide-shouldered man with luxuriant curled whiskers and high-boned face, and very long arms; in short, a man who only needed a beard-clipping to pose as a gorilla in clothes. He was soberly dressed in black, and might have been a shopkeeper.

“I am M. Durant,” said the American. “You are Propotkin?”

The other bowed slightly. “I have a shop in Deauville, m’sieur— jewelry and curious things. May I take you there for a chat?”

“No one else will meet me?”

Propotkin smiled. “Unfortunately no, m’sieur. Madame is engaged.”

“All right. But I have to get to the Crédit Lyonnais in Trouville at once— I’m expecting a telegram there, and the bank will be shut before long.”

“Nothing simpler, m’sieur. Here is a taxi now—”

A taxicab came up, and they entered. Propotkin gave the address, then made a sign of caution to Durant, who nodded.

They rolled across the narrow bridge and turned out along the wide Trouville esplanade, on to the seaward face of the town. There, before the square fronting the casino, the taxi halted. Durant went into the bank and inquired for a telegram sent him here. One was found and delivered to him.

In the doorway, he tore open the sealed blue paper, curious to see who the agent of the dope ring here might prove to be. He read:

Our man is Propotkin, jeweler, Deauville. Good luck.

Lewis.

Durant burst into laughter as he shredded the telegram and cast it away. Propotkin! Agent both for Boris Makoff and for the Paris dope ring!

AS THE TAXI returned to Deauville, the jeweler spoke quietly:

“M. Durant has many friends in Paris, it appears!”

Durant nodded, reading danger in the situation, but meeting it halfway with his usual calm assurance. Propotkin had received a wire from Boris Makoff— and had received another from the dope ring. What had this other said?

“What did they wire you about me?” he asked, turning and looking into the man’s alert dark eyes. “Not Boris— the others.”

Propotkin grinned. “Only that you were to be trusted and obeyed.”

“And what would Boris say,” demanded Durant slowly, “if he knew you were working for others— eh?”

The shot told. Propotkin darted him a sharp, alarmed glance, then laughed and relaxed.

“What about yourself, my friend?”

Durant only smiled. He was quite certain of his ground now, and in his smile was a queer conviction as he gazed at Propotkin— a realization. This man, this human gorilla, was agent for the dope ring in Deauville, a retailer of drugs, another bird of prey who got his claws into the victims of the baccarat tables. Durant felt that he would kill this Propotkin with great pleasure. He would be doing the world a distinct service.

In Deauville now— past the public square, on toward the casino where the “fast” set of Paris, the demi-monde of France, the gullible tourists, gathered to be plucked. Before reaching the garish building, the taxi turned off a side-street, and halted before a small shop whose window was filled with cheap jewelry and tourist curios. Propotkin alighted and paid the driver, then led the way into the shop, after unlocking it. He had no assistant, then!

Durant followed him into a back room of good size, furnished as a living-room— the man’s apartment obviously opened off the shop.

“You have lunched?” asked the Russian. “Good— then let us be comfortable. Here are cigarettes. We have an hour before Madame la Baronne calls for you! I suppose you know the game?”

“The general scheme, but no details.”

“I have arranged all details,” said Propotkin complacently, fingering his luxurious whiskers. “Kaparien, like most of his class, is eager for social distinction. Mme. la Baronne is now a guest aboard his yacht, and you are to join her there— the two of you only, to Ostend. You are an American millionaire, a friend of Baroness Glincka. She is to call for you here in an hour. So far, understood?”

Durant nodded, and lighted a cigarette. The other went on, much pleased with himself, looking more than ever like a simian as he sprawled in his chair.

“It is really quite simple— almost too simple. Two men of the crew are my men; the yacht has been lying here a fortnight, you see. There are three officers, including Kaparien himself, and four in the crew. That makes three of you against four. Two others will be aboard to act at the right moment. That makes five against four.”

“I don’t intend to appear in it,” said Durant calmly. The other grinned.

“I don’t intend you shall! Twenty minutes after you leave Trouville, Kaparien will be killed, my four men in command of the yacht, you and the Baronne presumably prisoners. You will, however, be at work. It’s your job to learn where the stones are kept and to blow the safe if you can’t get into it. Then pass the stones to one of our men. I’ll be alongside with a fast motor-boat, and all get away, to land up the river at Villerville and scatter, unless we go on to Rouen. The yacht will go on to Le Havre or back to Trouville; you and the Baronne will be promptly set free, though you’ll have to act as witnesses, and that’s all.”

“Hm! Very simple,” said Durant dryly. “Two objections, my friend. To insure your get-away, you must pull off the affair at night; you can’t do it as soon as the yacht has left port!”

Propotkin chuckled delightedly at this.

“Oh, can’t I? But the yacht is in Trouville harbor and must leave at high tide, since at low tide the place is a mud-flat. In fact, she’s been having some scraping done, to save drydock expense! Further, Kaparien always leaves harbor at night, in order to be at sea by dawn. He’ll get away around two o’clock, if he goes tomorrow night.”

Durant nodded reflectively. This hairy rascal seemed to have everything mapped out.

“The second objection is more important,” he said. “I was sent to get the stones and bring them back to Paris— not help you get them.”

Propotkin lost his grin. Seeing a quiet, steady purpose in Durant’s gaze, he sat up, gasped out protests— worked himself up to explosive pitch. Durant only shook his head in silence, and waited. The Russian cursed, threatened, pleaded, but all to no purpose.

“You’re wasting time,” said Durant at length, calmly inflexible before all the gesticulating and torrents of words. “I’m taking orders from Boris Makoff, not from you. I’m beginning to think that you want to clean out those gems for yourself and get away with them.”

“It is not so!” exclaimed Propotkin vehemently. “And you must do as I say—”

“Yes?” Durant smiled at him. “Perhaps you forget the other telegram which reached you from Paris today? I think it said you were to obey me?”

The Russian flung up his hands and collapsed like a punctured balloon.

“What do you want?” he demanded sullenly, staring at Durant.

“I’ll tell you that when the time comes.” Durant’s eye fell upon the package left in his care by Boris Makoff, and he was suddenly reticent. He reached out for the package and tore it open. Two smaller packages fell into his lap.

He opened the first, while Propotkin watched in wondering surmise. From it he took a pistol, fully loaded, and an extra clip of cartridges. This he pocketed. The second package was extremely heavy, tied with thick cord. Propotkin produced a knife and Durant cut the cord. This package, opened, again produced two packages.

One of these contained some dozens of bank-notes, new, fresh, crisp thousand-franc notes. Propotkin uttered a low gasp at sight of them, and reached forward, his eyes avid. Durant let him take them, and opened the second and heavier packet. This, wrapped in oiled silk, contained a steel die.

Durant sat motionless, giving no sign of the amazement gripping him, while his brain groped with the problem— and reached the solution. Why had Boris Makoff given no reason for intrusting him with this burden, which meant hard labor for life if it got into the wrong hands? The Russian had been afraid to speak of it at the station, obviously; had confidently left it to Durant, or perhaps had sent some message through Helen.

“So you didn’t expect this, eh?” asked Durant.

Propotkin gasped again. “Forged!” he exclaimed, dropping the sheaf of notes in his lap and staring at the die. “And that is what did it—”

“Exactly.” Durant wrapped up bank-notes and die once more, then regarded the man with calm assurance. “So you see, your little scheme did not go far enough! Now you shall take your instructions from me. Agreed?”

“But yes, m’sieur,” muttered the other.

“And you will not fail to do as I say?”

“Oh, si, si!”

Durant lit a fresh cigarette. “Bring these aboard the yacht yourself. Let us assume there is a safe in the cabin— eh?”

“There is one,” said the other. “I have everything ready for you— to blow it.”

Durant nodded. “You’ll come down to the cabin where it is. I’ll attend to the safe, to save you time in escaping. The stones I’ll keep myself—it won’t be dangerous. You’ll take everything else out of the safe, and keep it for your trouble; Kaparien will be certain to have a large sum aboard. Put this die and these forged notes in the safe, and go. You’ll be supposed to have taken the stones, and no attention will be paid me. It will be thought Kaparien was a note-forger. Since the Hungarian forgeries, the public is wild about such things; the murder and robbery will be quickly forgotten. It will be thought that the Greek syndicate here was behind the forgeries, using the notes at the baccarat tables; the newspapers will play it up, everything else will drop to second place—”

Propotkin leaped to his feet. “Admirable!” he exclaimed. “Here is true genius— it is magnificent! M’sieur, I bow humbly to such a brain!”

“Thank you,” said Durant modestly. He had, he believed, correctly fathomed the intent of Boris Makoff—indeed, the course was obvious enough. “Then take charge of these things, and don’t fail to bring them.”

Propotkin nodded. He rose, took the wrapped-up die and forged notes, and disappeared with them into another room. Durant sat in growing exultation, as the thing gradually opened out before him— the whole thing, cut and dried, as though on a screen! When the Russian returned, Durant spoke:

“Who’s in charge of things aboard the yacht? I’d better be in touch with him, in case anything goes wrong.”

The other laughed heartily. “Who? The steward, one Jean Fougères—a Frenchman. And how did I reach him? Because he needs the little white powder, you comprehend? It is not a bad thing to have two irons in the fire, eh? It is Jean who will attend to Kaparien.”

Durant nodded carelessly. “Right. I’ll get in touch with him. When does all this come off— tomorrow night, you say?”

“We’ll know definitely when Mme. la Baronne comes. She should be here any moment.”

“By the way,” said Durant, “I wish you’d give me a small bottle of the stuff, Propotkin. I don’t use it myself, but I may have need of it. A few ounces.”

“Eh?” The other stared. “A few ounces? Do you know what it is worth?”

Durant shrugged. “No, nor care. Charge it to me in your account with the syndicate.”

“Very well, m’sieur.”

The Russian disappeared again. When he returned, he was holding a small bottle, unlabeled, filled with a white powder. He extended it to Durant.

“Here you are— unadulterated, too. Is that enough? It should supply any ordinary addict for a month or two.”

“Plenty, thanks.” Durant took the vial and pocketed it carefully. Here was forged another link in the chain— that chain of trickery and intrigue which had flashed across his alert brain. He would fight fire with fire in this matter, and with fire redoubled! Playing a lone hand, with swift and certain death as the penalty for errors or squeamishness, he was efficient and merciless as rock.

“What about blowing that safe?” he asked.

“Wait until the Baronne comes,” said Propotkin, fingering his curled whiskers. “She’ll bring word from Jean—he thought he might learn the combination, which would make the work needless. If he fails, I’ll send aboard a package tomorrow, containing everything from drills to nitroglycerin. You can manage it?”

“At a pinch.”

Less than a minute later, came the tinkle of a bell— some one had come into the outer shop. Propotkin slipped out, and in the exchange of voices following, Durant heard the clear even tones of Helen Glincka. A thrill ran over him, and he came to his feet. The curtain across the door was pushed away, and she came toward him, hand extended. Wordless, he bowed over it in French fashion, then straightened up and looked into her eyes. She was murmuring some conventional greeting, but it was the eyes of her that spoke loudest to him, the sky-blue eyes full of questioning, mute alarm, entreaty!

“It’s all right, Helen,” he said quietly in English, giving her hand a quick pressure. Then, as Propotkin followed her into the room: “You have a message for us from Jean? From the steward?”

She nodded, took the chair Propotkin set out for her.

“He got the combination of the safe this morning,” she returned. “Why would it not be possible to do the work without harming Kaparien? Tonight, say, when we’re all at the casino?”

“No,” said Durant promptly. “I’ve no sympathy for such a man— let him pay! Besides, we cannot change the plan; Boris has mapped it out admirably. Eh, Propotkin?”

“Oh, a magnificent plan!” exclaimed the Russian with enthusiasm. As he looked at the man, Durant smiled; and watching his cold eyes in that smile, the baroness shivered.

“I’ve come for you,” she said simply. “The car outside will take your bag or bags to the yacht. We’ll go over to the Potinière together— the café opposite the casino, you know— and Kaparien will meet us there a bit later. I’ve been shopping. Are you ready?”

Durant nodded. “Ready,” he said, and looked at Propotkin. “Don’t forget that package, when you come aboard! Then we sail tomorrow night, Helen?”

“Yes,” she said. “A little after midnight.”

Propotkin grinned.

HELEN GLINCKA was very beautiful— not in the fashion of the painted professional beauties to whom Deauville is used, nor that of the pink-cheeked, free-striding American girls to whom it is also used, but in a delicate fashion all her own.

A day had passed since Durant’s arrival in Trouville. He had met Kaparien, had gone aboard the yacht, had settled into the swing of the business; now once again he sat under the wide shade-trees of the Potinière, with Helen Glincka across the table and an hour of privacy ahead. They were in the back corner by the cake-shop, and could talk freely.

Here, as everywhere, women looked long at Helen Glincka, men looked once and again; her very passing created a little ripple of eager interest. To Durant, her delicate features beneath their crown of pale golden hair looked strained and anxious; strongly carven as they were, they seemed a half-broken mask.

“Boris is a remarkable man,” he observed, “to bend such a woman to his purpose!”

Her blue eyes rested upon him calmly, yet underneath the calm was desperation.

“Once he learns you’re trying to help me— you know what will happen.”

“He’ll expose you? He’ll tell the world that your husband tricked you, had been secretly married to an opera singer before he married you?”

She gestured impatiently. “I’m talking about you, not about myself.”

“I’m talking about you.” Durant smiled, and under his poised assurance her eyes lost the strained, tense expression, a little tinge of color crept into her cheeks. “I want to know where Boris keeps the proof of that first marriage.”

She shrugged. “How should I know? I see little of him, hear from him only when he needs money or assistance.”

“He calls himself Baron Glincka and lives in the Avenue Mozart. He is well known by that name.”

Her eyes widened. “You mean it? It is his family name, but he is not a baron—”

“No matter. You haven’t been inside his house?”

“No. And the other woman is to be in Paris this week— my money and influence have gone to bring her. She is to sing at the Opéra Comique.”

Durant nodded, stung by the bitterness of her voice. He could realize what humiliation this woman was suffering.

“Elsa Muscova, eh?”

“Her real name is Elsa Swinger.”

“I know. Well, we’ll attend to her in short order, Helen. Boris must be short-handed to make such use of us.”

“He is, dreadfully. He thinks he can depend on you—he imagines that you’re infatuated with me—”

Durant looked at her steadily. “It’s the truth. I’ve always loved you, since those days when you would come into the bank three times a week, and I’d look up and see you—”

She flushed, her eyes tender now.

“Folly! But, my friend, delicious folly— I never thought there was such a man in the world. There’s frankness for frankness. I didn’t suppose—”

“Poor kid! You’ve run up against the wrong kind, like most of ’em over here, and you went on the rocks. Well, I’m going to pull you off,” said Durant. “Then we’ll go to Mentone or Juan les Pins or Pau together and forget there ever was a world. And I’m going to pull you off the rocks quickly, too— there’s no time to waste! Look here, now— is Kaparien a particular friend of yours?”

“That man? A friend?” She made a distasteful motion. “How could you think so?”

Durant chuckled. “Just wanted to make sure. You buck up, now, and face what happens tonight— plenty will happen, or I miss my guess! Then we’ll go back to Paris with the stones, and open up the main attack. First I’ll deal with this Elsa Muscova, and through her with Boris.”

“But what will you do— what can you do?”

“Fight.” Durant’s gray eyes were cold and hard as stone. “Just now I’m passive, twisting things to suit my purpose, waiting. Once I hit Paris, I start in to fight, with any weapons— creating weapons if I haven’t any. Helen, this is an absolutely ruthless, pitiless game; to pull you off the rocks, I’m going to wreck anything in sight! And you’re coming off.”

“Oh!” Her eyes shone, and for an instant her breath came fast. “To be free— but no, you can’t manage it. Nobody could. You’ll only involve yourself, my friend—”

Durant laughed. “We’ll see about that! To business, now. What’s the program for today?”

“Kaparien will be here any minute— the casino’s open already. There’s a try-out this afternoon of that acrobatic dancing act from Stockholm, and I admit I’m interested. Then back to the yacht for dinner. One of Kaparien’s partners will be with us, and an English baronet and his wife— one of the impecunious-traveling kind who stay out of England. It’s a shabby business all around. Then here for the evening; they’re giving Tosca tonight. An hour at the tables afterward, I suppose, and then back to the yacht. Kaparien wants to leave port around one o’clock, with the tide.”

Durant nodded. “Good. And here’s our friend now.”

KAPARIEN came toward them, bowing and smiling here and there as he threaded his way among the tables. He was clad all in white from hat to shoes, with a glitter of diamonds; few men can wear white with any luck, and Kaparien was not one of the few. His swarthy, vulpine face, his powerful figure, his heavy-lidded geniality, were not pleasant to Durant, who found something reptilian in the man.

None the less, as it was his business to do, Durant made himself highly agreeable.

The tea-hour finished— more English and Americans were here than French— they passed across to the casino and up the stairs into the great hall. Here, about the boule or two-per-cent roulette tables in the rear was a small crowd of pikers; the main interest was centered in the stage. Kaparien, given much deference by the waiters, had a table reserved.

To Durant it was all rather a bore, but he was amused by the attitude of Kaparien, who tried to show himself a polished man of the world. To pierce this mask of culture was easy; beneath it, Durant found a typical hybrid Greek, sensuous, regarding the world as his prey, wolfish. A man who could be merciless as stone, devoid of any sympathy or regard for those in his power. At the present moment, Kaparien was doing his best to make use of the social touch given him by Baroness Glincka— he little dreamed that both the baroness and the supposed American millionaire knew all about the lady he was hoping to meet at Ostend.

Durant was glad when they adjourned to the yacht toward six o’clock. The Elektra lay in the yacht basin between the twin towns, moored against the quay. She was a luxurious craft of good size, fitted rather for coasting from port to port in leisurely enjoyment of life than for any real sea-work, and Kaparien had obviously lavished money on her.

Durant had a small cabin to himself. The three separated at once to dress for dinner, as the other guests would arrive by seven. Once in his own cabin, Durant rang for the steward; the moment for action had arrived. A moment later Jean Fougères presented himself; he was a thin, pallid little Frenchman, with enormous black mustaches.

“Come in and shut the door,” said Durant. “Can you give me five minutes?”

“Certainly, m’sieur.” Fougères entered, closed the door, waited. Durant looked at him.

“Do you know that I am in charge of the job tonight?”

“Yes, m’sieur. M. Propotkin so informed me today.”

“Oh! Did he inform you, by any chance, that he has double-crossed all of us and intends to skip, leaving us to face the music?”

The pallid face of Fougères became ashen as death, and his eyes burned.

“M’sieur!” he exclaimed. “It— it is impossible!”

“On the contrary,” said Durant coldly. He produced the vial Propotkin had given him and handed it to the steward. “There is a present for you. When that runs out, come to me in Paris and you shall have more. Is it understood?”

Fougères snatched the little bottle and examined it, caught his breath.

“M’sieur! You are generous—”

“No, I am giving orders. Do you intend to obey them?”

“With all my heart. If this is true about M. Propotkin— what shall we do?”

“Carry through all the plans as arranged. Where is the safe? I have seen none.”

“Behind the painting of Venus in the smoking salon. Lift down the picture.”

“The combination?”

“Is here, m’sieur.” Fougères passed over a folded slip of paper.

“Good. You have arranged as to signals and so forth with Propotkin, no doubt. The men below?”

“She burns oil, m’sieur. Only three men there, one of them ours. All is arranged.”

“Then carry out the plan. Give me five minutes’ notice, and I’ll open up the safe. When Propotkin comes aboard, shoot him and leave him. Come down, rifle what’s in the safe, get away in the launch. Do you know how these gems are kept? In boxes?”

“In four morocco boxes, m’sieur.”

“Very well. Make sure of Propotkin. That’s all.”

“Good luck, m’sieur!”

The steward withdrew, and the door closed. Durant smiled grimly to himself.

THE DINNER was informal and greedy, with the oily, bejeweled partner of Kaparien very much in evidence. Durant was relieved when they adjourned to the smoking salon and ordered a taxicab.

“Drop me at the Bûreau des Postes,” he said, as they filed over the gangway to the wharf. “I have a few letters to mail— I’ll walk on to the casino and join you.”

So, ten minutes later, he dropped from the taxicab, which continued its way. Instead of seeking the post office, however, Durant crossed over to the prefecture of police, entered the brick building, and from a lounging gendarme inquired the whereabouts of the prefect. By sheer luck, that gentleman was now in his office, despite the hour— Deauville does not begin the day until darkness falls. Durant was ushered in, and gave his name to the fussily important prefect.

“I have a verbal message for you, M. le Prefect,” he said, “from the subprefect of Paris, M. Ducasse.”

“Ah! I know M. Ducasse very well,” was the response. “A very good man indeed— what a pity that politics appoint the prefect of Paris! Otherwise, M. Ducasse should have had the position long since. A message to me, you say? Verbal?”

Durant shrugged. “A matter of suspicion only, to be confided to your delicacy and tact, m’sieur. As M. Ducasse observed to me, there were few other men in France upon whom he could depend, in a matter so important, requiring such precision of management.”

The pleased prefect fingered his whiskers and beamed.

“Most kind, most kind of the great M. Ducasse!” he said. “A compliment from him— ah!”

“Perhaps you are aware,” said Durant, “that a certain shopkeeper here in Deauville acts as a distributor of drugs— chiefly cocaine?”

The prefect started slightly, but he was a good actor.

“We have had our eye on one or two men for some time,” he said wisely if vaguely. “Yes indeed, while we awaited positive evidence. The man in question?”

“One Propotkin, who has a small shop.”

The prefect could not conceal his astonishment here. “What? You are sure? Why, I myself play chess twice a week with M. Propotkin—”

“Permit me to remind you that this is merely a message,” said Durant. “It is established that Propotkin retails drugs. What is far more important, however, is the suspicion that he is connected with an enterprise much more dangerous— the forgery of bank-notes.”

The prefect flung out his hands. “Ah, these Russians!” he exclaimed tragically.

“Exactly,” said Durant. “M. Ducasse requests that you will, during the coming week, have this man watched— very cautiously. He must not be alarmed or given any cause of suspicion. Perhaps M. Ducasse will come here in person to give you such information and assistance as is in his power. That is all, m’sieur, and I thank you.”

“But you, m’sieur?” questioned the prefect, now profoundly alarmed and disturbed. “You are not a Frenchman— an Englishman, perhaps?”

“Heaven forbid!” said Durant, and laughed. “I am an American, at present the guest of M. Kaparien aboard his yacht, leaving tonight. If you will wire M. Ducasse, I think he will tell you that I am well known to him and trustworthy.”

“Oh, no, no, not necessary at all,” and the prefect waved his hands. “You will not sit down and have a cigar? No? It is most kind of you, m’sieur—”

Durant was bowed out, even escorted to the front gate, and twice shook hands before he could get rid of the excited and eager prefect. Then, chuckling to himself, he headed for the casino, only a short distance away.

THE EVENING passed rapidly, furiously; Kaparien was kept busy pointing out famous actresses, courtesans, plungers, millionaires, titled folk, even a lone king more noted for his dissipation than his regal qualities. Only once came a break in the routine, before the last act of the opera being given on the wide, shallow stage before them. For the moment, Durant and Helen Glincka found themselves alone at the table. She leaned forward, her face suddenly tragic.

“Can’t you stop it?” she said under her breath, imploringly. “It’s terrible to think that this man who is entertaining us is to be killed before morning— that one word from either of us would stop it!”

Durant regarded her steadily. “He is a wolf, not a man,” he responded, his gray eyes like ice. “His fate matters nothing to me; yours is everything. Would you prefer to let him live, then, and go on indefinitely in your slavery to Boris Makoff?”

She shivered a little— whether from the words, or from the bitter chill of his gaze, were hard to say.

“No,” she said. “No. And yet— it seems—”

“It is none of your doing,” said Durant inflexibly. “Instead of feeling pity for him, think of the hundreds who have been ruined at these baccarat tables in the rear rooms— to buy his yacht! Think of the women and children who have gone down into poverty— to set those diamonds on his hand! Think of the crime, the punishment that falls hardest on the innocent families of men, indirectly due to the place in which we sit— which puts the clothes on this man’s back! Let him suffer. The more the better! The world’s full of his kind. Killing him won’t stop it, of course— but let him serve our turn, your turn! If he can serve you by dying, I’m more than satisfied.”

“That’s a man’s viewpoint,” she said. “Yet a word to him—”

Durant leaned over the table. “If you utter that word,” he said quietly, “it means that you put me into prison— or else that you put a bullet into me, as surely as though you pressed the trigger. You don’t know all that’s coming off this night, my dear. Now warn him if you like?”

Her face paled as she met his gaze, comprehended his words, realized all they portended.

“I sha’n’t warn him,” she said quietly. “Would I do such a thing, when you’re doing all this for me? Yet I’m sorry.”

Durant shrugged. A moment later Kaparien rejoined them, and the final act of Tosca was on.

LUCK WAS with Durant that night. Then and later, in an unobtrusive manner, he exerted himself to strip the place of its artificial glitter and show it, to the eyes of Helen Glincka, sordid and naked; and chance sent a newspaper man from Paris, whom he knew slightly, to point out men and things with cynic notes. Here was a man whose brother, ruined at these very tables, had shot himself on the seaward terrace; here was an actress wearing the jewels for which a statesman had bartered honor and life; and so it went. A little later he met her sea-blue eyes for an instant, and read in them a message which drew a smile to his lips.

At one o’clock, with the night getting into full swing, they departed. Kaparien had drunk nothing, though he had gambled and won heavily; he seemed bored by the noise and confusion of the place, and on the way to the quay spoke of being at sea and the beauty of it. Durant almost liked him— for a moment. Then they were out and getting aboard the yacht, whose crew was standing by, ready. No tug was needed in this little harbor.

The Baronne bade them good night, and retired. Durant did likewise. Kaparien departed to change his clothes, and told his skipper to pull out at once; he himself would take the bridge when they were outside the jetty. So the three separated. Durant went down to his own cabin, pocketed his pistol, and waited by the open port.

Voices of men, rattle of winches, slow turnings of the engines; presently the Elektra was gently sliding out, until the houses and quay were gone as by magic. For a little the broad white beach glittered in the moonlight, then it too vanished, and as Durant’s cabin was to port, the land vanished as the yacht headed out to the northward, across the broad estuary of the Seine. Behind lay Trouville, ahead and to the right was Havre with its high headland, and to the left was the Atlantic and the Channel. They were off.

The night was clear and still, with little of the usual sea running. As he stared out at the glinting water, Durant suddenly realized his own inward tumult, and anger swept him— yet there it was. He rather considered himself hard-boiled, cynical, careless of others; in reality, he could not repress his actual self, could not always fight down the rush of gentler feelings that upsurged in him. And now, all in an instant, he abruptly flung overboard all his schemes and strode out of his cabin and down the passage. He knocked at the door of Helen Glincka’s room.

“Yes?” came her voice.

“Dressed? Then be ready— I’ll bring a chap down here in a few minutes,” he told her. “Leave your door open, key on the outside. I’ll lock you in. No time to talk.”

He departed hurriedly, cursing himself for a fool, and yet curiously glad of what he was about. Here, merely for a woman’s whim, merely for a few words from Helen’s lips, he was risking life and liberty needlessly, staking everything recklessly on a desperate gamble! Here in these moonlit waters, with the green Norman hills blended into the sky behind and the lights of Trouville dim stars along the coast— he was making a fool of himself! And yet the mere resolve to do it had lifted a half-sensed burden from his heart.

He came back to his own cabin, and as he opened the door, Jean Fougères came hurriedly along the passage.

“M’sieur! M’sieur!” The steward spoke softly, swiftly. “It is time. In five minutes I take his coffee up to him— he drinks it, dies quickly. Be ready!”

The man glided away, leaving Durant stupefied. Poison! He had not suspected such a thing. The damnable cowardice of it appalled him. This was Propotkin’s work, beyond doubt.

“Thank heaven I made my decision!” thought Durant.

He turned, darted up the ladder with furious anger spurring him. To think he had been so close to condoning this work, taking a hand in it! A man’s killing, in a man’s way, was one thing, but this was quite another thing— it angered him, sickened him, goaded him on his swiftly chosen course.

Gaining the deck, he ran forward, heading for the wheel-house and tiny chart-room, then espied the figure of Kaparien standing at the rail, examining something ahead through night-glasses.

“That you, Durant?” said the Greek. “Looks like a boat adrift—”

Durant caught his arm.

“Here! Come below with me instantly,” he exclaimed, keeping his voice down. At the urgency of his tone, an exclamation broke from the other. “Can’t tell you here— quick. Your life’s in danger, man— they’re all in it! Thank the Baronne, not me— she discovered it— come along, now—”

Urging the other man along, he half dragged him toward the after companion. Kaparien poured out questions, then acquiesced, evidently realizing something desperate was up. A moment later they were on the ladder. At the foot of it, Kaparien turned.

“What is it, Durant?” he demanded excitedly. “You can’t mean—”

“Look out— behind you!” cried Durant.

As Kaparien whirled about, Durant’s fist struck him solidly, terrifically, behind the angle of the jaw. The blow had weight. Kaparien flung out his arms and pitched headlong down the corridor.

Durant dragged his senseless victim to Helen Glincka’s cabin, flung open the door, and lifting Kaparien, laid him on the bunk. He straightened up and looked at the wide-eyed girl.

“Not dead but knocked out. Don’t wake him up. Tell him I brought him here when he does wake up.”

With this he was out again, locked the door, pocketed the key, and made hastily for the deck. Five minutes had not passed since his word with the steward, but he knew Fougères would be unable to wait out the time. And he was right. As he gained the deck, he almost collided with the steward, who bore a tray.

“No need of that now!” exclaimed Durant. “Go ahead— I’ve attended to Kaparien. Pass the word and strike! I’ll be in the cabin. And look here! Don’t be too open about shooting down Propotkin. Do it quietly, you understand?”

“Right, m’sieur!” Fougères promptly tossed his tray overboard. “Go, then!”

Durant made for the smoking-salon.

As he entered the tiny, luxurious, richly appointed little cabin and switched on the lights, a pistol-shot rang out up above. At the same instant, the throbbing turn of the engines ceased abruptly. There were no further shots. He could detect no outcry, no confusion, only dead silence. Beyond a doubt, everything had gone off like clockwork, the faithful men of the crew were taken by surprise, the yacht was captured.

Durant thought of Propotkin coming aboard from that drifting boat Kaparien had sighted, and grinned to himself. He did not intend to stave off the dope-handler’s destiny.

No time to waste, now! He darted to the wall, jerked away the large painting of Venus, and laid it aside. There was revealed a large safe-knob, the safe itself being concealed by the wall-paneling. A single knob, no more— Kaparien evidently trusted greatly.

In his hand the folded paper given him by the steward, Durant worked at the knob. The combination, like the safe itself, was simple enough. In two minutes he pulled at the knob, and as the safe opened, a section of paneling opened with it. Before him was another steel door, which opened to his touch, and displayed an array of compartments and small drawers. In one compartment stood four red morocco boxes.

On these Durant seized. Spreading his handkerchief on the table, he emptied each box into it, throwing the boxes on the floor. The glittering, shimmering pile of pebbles was not large; he knotted the four corners of the handkerchief, then swiftly left the room and ran aft. He gained his own cabin, opened his bag, dropped the loot into it, then headed back for the smoking-salon. So far, so good— not a hitch anywhere. The Elektra was quietly drifting.

Back to the smoking-salon now— two men had just entered before him. They flung Durant a nod, obviously recognizing him, and plunged at the open safe.

“Where’s Fougères?” asked Durant, lighting a cigarette at the table.

“Waiting above,” replied one of them, stuffing bank-notes into his pockets. “That cursed Propotkin is just coming aboard. Lucky thing you warned us.”

Fougères had spread the word, then!

Durant smiled and watched the two men at their work. Propotkin would be dropped, would be found later with the forged notes and die in his pockets— for he would need both hands to reach the deck of the yacht— and all would be lovely, so far as the police were concerned.

With vicious abruptness, everything changed in an instant.

Through the quiet ship tore a scream—a woman’s shrill cry. Durant whirled about, jerking out his pistol— Helen’s voice? A smashing, banging crash from somewhere aft; then a sudden wild outbreak of sound came from the deck— a shot, another, a man’s yell cut off midway by a bullet, shouts.

“Something wrong,” exclaimed Durant, to the suddenly alert men. “Get up above—”

“So this is it, eh?”

The voice of Kaparien from the doorway— he had smashed his way out of the locked cabin. He stood there, pistol covering the three men, an ugly smile on his lips. “Hands up, all three of you! Quick, Durant— up!”

Durant obeyed, pointing his pistol up at the ceiling, and the other two men followed suit. Too late, Durant saw his mistake. There was iron in this Greek, and he had not counted on it sufficiently.

“Clever American, eh?” Kaparien’s narrowed, dangerous gaze struck at Durant. “I suppose she’s in on it too, since you’re a friend of hers. Well—”

Behind Kaparien showed a darting shape— a low, gorilla-like figure. The crash of a shot rang out. Kaparien staggered, whirled around, and jerked sideways, half his head blown away. In his place showed the figure of Propotkin, glaring into the room, pistol in hand.

“What’s all this, eh?” snapped the Russian. “That damned Fougères tried to round on me— the rest of you in it or not? Speak up, you American pig—”

Durant, his arms half lowered, knew there was but one way out now.

He fired point-blank, fired a second time, the deafening reports ringing in the little cabin with stunning force. What happened next was difficult to say. Both the other men flung themselves forward at Propotkin as the latter staggered back. Then, unexpectedly, the Russian’s pistol vomited flame; he recovered, uttered a roar of brute ferocity, shot repeatedly.

It was all swift— swift! Durant fired a third time. Propotkin flung out his arms, whirled about, went down across the body of Kaparien. One of the other men was down, coughing out his life. The second was gone with a leap for the deck.

Realizing himself unhurt, Durant halted only to look at Propotkin and make sure the man was dead, then he, too, started for the deck. As he came up the companionway, a medley of shouts and orders broke out forward. Durant tossed his pistol over the rail, took two steps, came upon the body of the steward. Jean Fougères lay, pistol in hand, shot through the head, beyond all further need of dope.

The quick explosions of a motor broke out upon the moonlit night, and from the side of the Elektra shot a small craft, heading away from her at high speed. Those who remained of the gang were off and away in Propotkin’s craft.

Somewhere aboard must be two officers and two faithful men. Durant moved forward, and came upon them all in the bow, lashed side by side to the rail. They greeted him with a burst of shouts, and he worked at their lashings— not too rapidly. He did not want that small boat overhauled.

“Locked in a cabin—broke out,” he exclaimed. “There was shooting below— what’s it all about, captain? Where’s M. Kaparien?”

“Murder, piracy, robbery!” said the skipper, rubbing his wrists. “And they’re off— here, come below, m’sieur! We must see where M. Kaparien is— and the lady—”

They hastened below, and in the passage encountered Helen Glincka. A cry of relief broke from her at sight of Durant, and she swayed. Durant caught her, murmured a low word in her ear, and with a nod she went to her cabin. Durant followed the captain, the other three men at his heels, to the smoking-salon.

All four of them stood surveying the red scene before them, and the captain crossed himself as he stared. He turned to Durant. “You see, M. Durant? This hairy stranger came aboard in his boat; a gang was at work and had us trussed up. M. Kaparien came upon them as they rifled the safe, and opened fire. He killed two of the rascals— another shot him from behind. Ah! A brave man, this poor m’sieur! And now— what?”

“Back to Trouville at once,” said Durant. “This is a matter for the police.”

In five minutes the Elektra was heading south again to Trouville.

IN THE COLD light of dawn, the prefect of police at Trouville stood in the smoking-salon of the Elektra. Two of his men were busy writing; on the table were ranged loot taken from the dead thief, with the die and the packet of forged notes that had been found in Propotkin’s coat pockets. Durant motioned toward Helen Glincka, who stood by the door.

“Mme. la Baronne, I presume, may retire?” he asked. “Since she was locked in her cabin and knew nothing, she might better be left out of the proceedings, m’sieur. It would be a graceful act of courtesy, such as has made the name of Frenchmen renowned.”

This is a touch which not even a police official can resist. The prefect turned to Helen with a bow.

“By all means. We have Madame’s story, we have her Paris address in case of need— that is all. Madame, if I can be of any assistance in this regretful crisis—”

“I’ll accompany her to Paris by the morning train,” said Durant. “That is, unless you have need of me—”

The Baroness departed. The prefect fingered his voluminous beard a moment, then shook his head.

“I think not— you did not break out of your cabin and release the prisoners until after it was all over. What need of evidence? The thing speaks for itself. This poor M. Kaparien was brave, but foolish. He should not have attacked these others. See! He put two bullets into Propotkin, killed another man with his third. What valor! If, M. Durant, you will take a message to Paris for me, there is no need of detaining you except to get your statement.”

“Gladly,” said Durant. “The message?”

“Tell M. Ducasse what has happened here. If he wishes to put his men to work on these forged notes, if he wants to get in others of the gang, well and good; I shall keep this phase of the matter from the newspapers until tomorrow, by which time I shall hear from him. Eh?”

“Excellent, m’sieur. Then, with your permission, I’ll pack.”

Durant went to his own cabin. He pulled out his bag, looked into it, saw the lumpy bundle of his handkerchief at the bottom. He quietly drew other things over it, then straightened up. A smile touched his lips.

“So all’s clear, here are the stones for Boris— to buy my way into his den!— and by this afternoon I’ll be on the inside of things. But I wonder— I wonder what M. Ducasse will say when I telephone this message to him!”

His smile became a grin.

_____________________

5: Pardon the French

Guy Gilpatric

1896-1950

The Saturday Evening Post 10 Sep 1932

IN THE SIXTH year of the reign of the Sacred and Imperial Hirohito the world's affairs had reached a sorry state, and certain little gentlemen in the Yokohama offices of the Hoshino Kisen Kaisha— two yellow bands on a black funnel— fell prey to a deep and bitter concern. Especially was it deep when they thought of the S.S. Miyako Maru, and bitter as gall when they brooded on her age; for the good ship Miyako—ex-Odile, ex-Ernst von Kleydorff, ex-Paxton Merchant— was on the brink of her twenty-fourth year, and she wasn't such a good ship at that.

Now, to owners of elephants a twenty-fourth anniversary is nothing to worry about, and to proprietors of wine cellars it is even a matter for congratulation; but to gentlemen with many thousands of yen tied up in a ship, it is the occasion for a huge and splitting headache. If the ship is not adequately covered by insurance, its owners are haunted by the realization that she has all but fulfilled her expectancy of life, and their dreams are crowded with symbolic pitchers en route to the well. Should the vessel be insured to a figure approximating her replacement value, Lloyd's Second No. 3 Special Survey looms upon the horizon— looms, as runs the phrase, very darkly indeed. For the Second No. 3 is the most drastic of the periodical inspections prescribed by the underwriters, and involves the complete dismantling of engines and boilers, the stripping of pipe casing, the drawing of tail shafts, the tearing up of all wood deck to expose steel plating, the removal of tank top and spar ceilings, and some hundreds of additional items, even including the drilling of holes in the hull to gauge the thickness of the plates. It is only slightly less trouble than building an entire new ship, but when you finish the job you still have nothing but an old one. And the cost of it! Ah, the cost! As they contemplated the figures, Baron Hoshino and his associates felt even lower than nature had fashioned them, which was four feet eleven on the average.

So they went into a huddle, these little Japanese gentlemen; they had in the statistician, the auditor and the books; they telephoned their bankers, the Tokyo branch of an American oil company, and a Russian lady known to be friendly with a cabinet minister having something to say in the allotment of government subsidies; but all to no avail. By five o'clock they were thoroughly despondent; at seven they were in shrill panic; at eight, the Baron's thoughts were turning to hara-kiri. But along toward eleven, over their thirty-sixth cup of tea, they suddenly realized that they had talked their way to the brink of a felicitous solution. For a moment they sat silent. Then one of them rose, locked the door and quietly resumed his place. Baron Hoshino cleared his throat and put into whispered words what was tacitly in the minds of them all. The little gentlemen listened, nodded, and forthwith set about drafting cablegrams in the company's private code. Shortly after midnight the meeting adjourned; they bowed to one another, sent for their cars and, inwardly glowing with a sense of their own shrewdness, departed to the repose which in Japan, as elsewhere, is often loosely described as the sleep of the just.

Now, Oriental acumen is proverbial among the nations, but London shipping circles are unanimous in holding that of all living mortals Mr. Virgil Hazlitt is the one least populous with flies. Myopic, misanthropic, dyspeptic and sixty-three, Mr. Hazlitt is general manager of Clifford, Castle & Co., Ltd., and the reason why the firm has never passed a dividend. When the H. K. K.'s slant-eyed representatives waited upon him with their proposition for the sale of the Miyako Maru, he listened carefully, answered neither yea nor nay, but spent the remainder of the week in discreet inquiry, exhaustive research and canny conjecture. When finally he consented to sign the option, the Japs were highly elated. When he expressed his intention of sending a man to St. Nazaire to journey from there to London aboard the Miyako and report on the state of her engines, there was a split second's sag in their elation which any but he would have overlooked. But as Mr. Hazlitt smiled, nodded, polished his glasses and wished them a very good day, his mind was occupied with proverbs having less to do with Oriental guile than with rats and sinking ships.

ii

LIKE his employer Mr. Hazlitt, Mr. Colin Glencannon, chief engineer of the S.S. Inchcliffe Castle, is widely noted for his perspicacity. In seven hundred ports around the seven seas, tall tales are told of his canniness.

On this particular evening, however, it chanced that Mr. Glencannon's discernment was somewhat dulled by the state of his temper and his considerable alcoholic content. He stamped up the gangplank from the dry dock's edge to the vessel's side, burst into the saloon and scaled his cap across it.

"Foosh!" he snarled. "'Tis the dom black luck o' the deevil, and it dogs my footsteps still!"

Half a dozen masticating jaws were arrested as one, as the company gazed at him blankly.

"Wot kind of dogs?" inquired Mr. Montgomery, peering under the table. "Lawks, 'ave yer got the deleery and tremens or something? Yer talking like an idjit with a screw loose!"

"A screw loose?" stormed Mr. Glencannon. "A screw loose? Ach, it's worse than that, Muster Mate! There's screws loose, bearings loose, key ways loose, and pinions loose— aye, the whole dom thing is loose, but that's no' the worst o' it."

"Er— ker-huff— you mean the crystal's busted too?" inquired Captain Ball, his perplexity suddenly dispelled by a gleam of sympathetic understanding. "I'll tell you what, Mr. Glencannon— why don't you try holding it upside down and joggling it a little?"

The engineer wagged his head dolefully. "'Tis no' my watch that's ruined; it's my career," he explained. "Hazlitt's just had me ower to the office, and though the sly auld glaggy didn't actually tell me i' so monny words, I was keen enough to see he's plonning to tronsfer me to the unluckiest ship that floats. I refer to the Miyako Maru, whuch I sairved in as seecond during the war, when she was called the Paxton Merchant."

"The Miyako Maru! Hell's bones! Is he buying that old pot?" exclaimed Captain Ball. "Why, I mean to say, I remember two years ago we was moored alongside her in Santiago de Cuba, and I couldn't sleep a wink o' nights from the rivets dropping out of her and splashing in the water."

"Weel, he has no' exoctly bocht her yet, but he's got an option on her," growled Mr. Glencannon. "He's sending me ower to St. Nazaire tomorrow nicht so's I can ride back in her and inspect her engines. And then— and then he'll buy her and tronsfer me aboord her like a rotten galley slave, may his bunions boil i' his Sunday shoes and his oily tongue turn to sondpaper!"

"H'm, dear me," said Captain Ball. "Well, I fancy I don't have to tell you how much we'll hate to lose you. You've been a leading spirit among us, Mr. Glencannon, and I mean to say— ker-huff— we'll miss you. But after all, if it's any consolation to you, I don't suppose you'll find her so much worse than this here old rusty scrap pile."

"Pairhops not," admitted Mr. Glencannon. "But 'tis no' only her physical deeficiencees whuch worrit me, losh no! 'tis the ootrageous bod luck whuch stalks me whene'er I'm aboord o' her, the whuch is frichtful! Throughout the war, 'twas just one calomity after another. One time, for instance, we rammed a Portygee mine layer in a fog, blew her to smuthereens and then collected a bounty fra' the Portygee Government, who thocht we'd sunk a Hun soobmarine; but the skipper and the chief mulcted me oot o' my honest share o' it. And even worse was the time when a blackleg named O'Brien, a blethering War Office civilian, robbed me o' sixteen cases o' whusky. Aye, Duggan's Dew o' Kirkintilloch, it was, than whuch the archangels drink no finer!"

"Haw, yer don't s'y!" snorted Mr. Montgomery. "Anybody who could do you out of money was a genius, but if O'Brien really got aw'y with yer whisky, he was simply a flyming wizard, that's wot 'e was!"

Mr. Glencannon wrinkled his brows. "Fra' the vurra fairst minute I set eyes on the rapscallion, when he came aboord wi' ten kegs o' bullion, I knew there was something feeshy aboot him. Weel, it soobsequently turned oot I was richt."

"Do yer mean to s'y 'e swiped some bullion too?" inquired Mr. Swales.

"Aye, he stole a whole keg o' it. He must hae been daft," nodded Mr. Glencannon reminiscently. "Still, come to look back upon it, there was sheer wartime modness i' the whole affair. Ye see, it was airly i' nineteen fufteen and we wair i' Leeverpool aboot to clear for Makalla, Arabia, wi' field guns, caissons and forty or fufty casual noncoms. The War Office held us up for three days while a gang o' their own men built a little strong room i' the hold, port side, richt against the top corner of the after engine-room bulkhead. It was a' vurra secret and hush-hush, and none o' us was pairmeeted to go near it. Then the mon O'Brien arrived wi' his bullion and seeveral tin trunks full o' secret maps and documents, and wi' a-muckle o' insoolting ceeremony he locked it a' up, just as if the rest o' us wair so monny thieves. It appeared he was an Inteelligence agent or summat such, on a mission to the sumple-minded A-rabs who had been deriving innocent amusement fra' sniping at ships going through the Suez Canal. He was to gi' them the bullion and osk them please to desist.

"Noo, just what the jockosses i' the War Office imogined the A-rabs oot i' the desert cud do wi' ten kegs o' bullion, heaven only knows—ten barrels o' oysters wud hae been just as useful. But being o' a more proctical turn o' mind mysel', I had bocht sixteen cases o' Duggan's as a speeculation, knowing full weel that I cud sell it to the officers' mess at Makalla for double or treeble what I'd paid for it. I had the cases stacked i' my room. Noo, this was a' vurra weel until we got doon into steaming hot weather; but then I was no langer able to keep my door closed. I cud tell by the wistful look o' the dom noncoms that the whusky was a sore teemptation to them whene'er they passed my room, and I didna trust them. The vurra day before we got to Port Said we ran into an oogly heavy beam sea, and some o' the warriors took to moaning for a drap for seasickness. Well, I got so worrit that I asked O'Brien wud he be guid enough to lock it i' his strong room. After a great show o' reeluctance and much talk aboot the trooble he'd get into if his superiors shud come aboord to inspect his bullion, he finally consented. That was the last I e'er saw o' my whusky— aye, and o' O'Brien, too. Sixteen cases— think o' it!"

"Lawks!" gasped Mr. Montgomery. "He simply nipped ashore in Port Said with the whisky and the bullion, is that it?"

"Aye, apparently," said the engineer. "Ye see, we didn't miss him until after we'd coaled next day. Then some Army people came rooshing aboord i' a dither o' excitement, blew open the strong room, and found one keg and the trunks o' secret documents missing. O' coorse, there wasn't a sign o' my whusky. They swore that O'Brien had sold oot to the Toorks, and I foncy they wair richt. I' any event, it was just another exomple o' my hard luck on yon dom ship, and why I loathe the thocht o' sairving i' her again."

"But now see here," said Captain Ball, "can't you give Hazlitt such a rotten report about her engines that he won't buy her?"

"I misdoot it wud discourage him." Mr. Glencannon shook his head dismally. "Ye see, he smells a bargain, and besides, he micht get somebody else to check me up. Oh, he was acting vurra strange —vurra strange— nudging me i' the ribs, wunking his eye at me every two minutes, and talking i' riddles which I cud plainly inteerpret to mean that he intends to tronsfer me. He's smart— aye, smart as paint— but he's no' smart enough to fool me! 'Keep yere eyes and ears open every second yere aboord her, my guid mon,' he says to me. 'We've a chonce to buy her dirt cheap, and I'm depending upon you to prevent any of their Oriental chicanery.' Oriental chicanery, foosh!" And Mr. Glencannon spat explosively, if not accurately, at the open porthole. "When it comes to plain oot and oot shiftiness, I'd motch auld psalm-singing Hazlitt against the whole o' Asia ony time, wi' the city o' Aberdeen thrown in!"

iii

SIR JOHN CASTLE and Mr. Hazlitt were seated in the latter's office. Mr. Hazlitt was absorbed in a study of the plans of a four-thousand-ton cargo steamer, while the baronet was gnawing bits of wood from a pencil and scowling at a dictionary.

"X," muttered Sir John, "X, X. Dash it all, Hazlitt, X is the twenty-fourth letter and this is our twenty-fourth ship, but we can't call her the Xylophonecliffe Castle or the Xylocarpouscliffe Castle or the Xiphoidiancliffe Castle, now can we? Haw, make ourselves a laughingstock, what?"

"Rather," admitted Mr. Hazlitt. "Still, we don't own her yet, and she isn't even due in the Thames till tomorrow. H'm, yes, and moreover, Sir John, I am inclined to suspect something crooked about this whole business. That's why I sent Glencannon along. Shrewd specimen, Glencannon! He was so reluctant to go that I could see he suspected the same thing I do."

"Suspected what?" inquired Sir John. "Do you mean they'll back out and refuse to sell her at the price?"

Mr. Hazlitt pursed up his lips and squinted at the inkstand. "Well, I've nothing definite," he confessed. "Nothing I can put my finger on, and yet—and yet, those Japs have got her insured to the masthead, so to speak, and they're on the bitter edge of bankruptcy. Right now she'd be worth more to them sunk than sold— yes, four or five times as much!"

Sir John chuckled incredulously. "My word, Hazlitt, you're a suspicious old ferret!" he chided. "If they don't want to sell her, why do you spose they were so anxious to have us take that option?"

"Because," said Mr. Hazlitt, with the gratified air of a man who has just received a pretty compliment— "because that option might turn out to be a very handy document for them to have. If the Miyako Maru should happen to —ah— sink in the near future, the underwriters might pardonably suspect something more than an accident. But the option would prove for the Hoshino crowd that they had practically arranged for the vessel's sale. The price it stipulates is even more than they've got her insured for— not that they believe we'll pay them any such figure, or even the amount they suggested verbally, but the price as stated in black and white would stand as evidence in a court of law. Clear them of pecuniary motives, I mean to say."

"Oh, why, by Jove, Hazlitt, do you seriously think they're planning to scuttle her?"

Mr. Hazlitt shrugged and raised his eyebrows. "Perhaps," he answered. "Not that I'd care to have my suspicions quoted. The— hem— the libel laws, you know— one must be ever so careful! That's why I haven't breathed a word of it to anyone, not even to Glencannon. But he's a canny specimen, and after I'd tipped him the wink once or twice, he understood right well what I was driving at. Oh, he knows all such swindles inside out, and those Japs will have their hands full if they try—"

The telephone rang. Still smiling, Mr. Hazlitt placed the receiver to his ear, but as he listened the smile withered and his face turned leaden gray. "Sunk?" he asked hoarsely, sagging down in his chair. "Sunk, you say?... What? What's that?... No!... Oh, the rotten murderers!... Sir John," he raised a trembling hand to his forehead—"Sir John, the Miyako Maru struck a derelict off Ushant and sank at five o'clock this morning. They all got off except Glencannon. He was asleep in his room. They forgot to call him, and he— he went down with the ship."

iv

CAPTAIN Ball tucked his napkin under his chin, heaved a gusty sigh and surveyed the vacant place with an eye that was more than a little moist.

"It's—it's hell," he said, simply and with great feeling.

"Oh, it's 'ell and a 'arf," agreed Mr. Swales, swallowing audibly. "Things don't seem the syme without 'im. Good lawks, if somebody 'ad to die, I'd ten times rather it could 'ave been one of us." For an instant his gaze flickered upon Mr. Montgomery.

The mate stirred uneasily. "Yus, it's 'ard lines, and no mistyke," he hastened to agree. "'Oo'd 'ave thought that a wise bird like Glencannon would get 'imself done in by a lot of Japs? Of course, 'im and me was never the partners of each other's buzzums; so to s'y, and many's the time and oft we damn near cyme to a parting of the w'ys; but orl the syme, I wants it on the record that I feel 'is loss most keenly."

"When he said the Miyako was a 'ard-luck ship, 'e must 'ave 'ad a premonition of 'is doom," remarked young Mr. Levy, the wireless operator.

"Why— ker-huff— I mean to say, there ain't a shadow of doubt about it!" Captain Ball agreed brusquely. "Haven't you never read about them spirit experiments conducted by the late Sir Sherlock Holmes? Oh, why, the poor chap seen his finish as plain as the nose on your face!"

"Yus," mused Mr. Swales, "of course 'e did. Well, the one consolytion about the 'ole tragedy is that 'e'll never get transferred to the bleddy Miyako now!"

"Alas, 'e's 'ad 'is final transfer!" Mr. Montgomery rolled his eyes toward the ceiling and spoke in the unctuous tones of a curate delivering the part about ashes to ashes and dust to dust. "''E's gone, but not forgotten.' 'Many bryve 'earts are hasleep in the deep, and 'is bones of coral are.'"

"Oh, shut up, do," Mr. Levy groaned disgustedly. "Wot in the 'ell d'yer think this is, anyw'y— a ruddy gyme of mottoes?"

"Shut up, the pair of you!" interposed Captain Ball. "Bickering almost at his very grave, like, heh? Faugh, you'd ought to be ashamed of yourselves, you had! Yes, and I was just on the point of saying that somehow— er— ker-huff— somehow, I seem to feel that poor Glencannon is very, very near us. I'm aware of his presence, sort of. Perhaps— yes, perhaps if we all just sat quiet for a minute we might even hear his cheery, familiar voice, kind of."

Suddenly, startlingly, they did hear it— familiar if not cheery, and raised to the very skies.

"Three sheelings saxpunce?" it shouted. "Extoortion! Why, hoorns o' the deevil, ye swundler, I'm o' a mind to tromple ye!"

There was a stunned hush. Then, as a man, the company rushed out on deck. On the roadway beside the dry dock, shaking his fist in the face of a taxi driver, stood Mr. Glencannon himself. He was swaying slightly, and smoking two cigars at once.

"Behold the prodickle son!" he greeted them, his wrath vanishing like scuds before the wind. "I've come hame at suppertime wi' oppetite enough for three— though fra' the feelthy odor whuch wafts to my nostrils, ye've no' been cooking the fatted calf, but only its leathery leever!"

They assisted him up the gangplank and eased him into his chair. The steward set a heaping plate before him. Seizing his knife, he executed a series of lightning lunges, and lo, the plate was empty.

"Losh!" he sighed, his midriff heaving slightly. "It's guid to be— whup— pairdon me— it's guid to be back! My luck has changed, gentlemen: for as ye dootless know, the Miyako Maru is at the bottom o' the sea."

"Yes, and we thought you was jolly well with her," said Mr. Montgomery. "The Japs reported that they'd forgot to tyke you off."

"Weel, 'forgot' is merely their quaint Jopanese way o' phrasing it," chuckled Mr. Glencannon. "As a motter of— whup!— fact, they wair dom weel hoping I'd get drooned. Oh, I cud tell fra' the vurra fairst minute I went aboord o' her at St. Nazaire that there was something i' the wind! Yes, and I realized, then, what yon canny Hazlitt had been trying to tell me wi' a' his wunks and nudges and cryptic convairsation. He meant— whup!— he meant that they wair plonning to scuttle her, and that I shud prevent them so's he cud buy her for a song. Weel, I cairtainly put an awfu' crimp i' his musical ospirations!"

"Scuttled! Well, well, my word!" breathed Captain Ball. "Did you ever! That is— I mean —well, I never! I read in the papers she hit a derelick."

Mr. Glencannon laughed softly to himself. "Though deevining what was i' their nosty Jopanese minds, I didna feel called upon to interfere. I thocht to mysel' that if they wanted to sink the auld tub, it was their Christian privilege, and that they'd save me the chagrin o' being tronsferred to her. So that nicht, after cozying my innards wi' a quart o' vurra soothing Martinique rum, I went peacefully to sleep thinking they'd at least hae the common courtesy to wake me up when they opened the sea cocks."

"Opened the sea cocks! Oh, so that's how they did it!" grunted Captain Ball.

"No, but it's the way I did it," said Mr. Glencannon proudly. "Why, guid losh, if it hadn't been for me, the auld swill barge wud be floating yet! Ye see, I was aroosed fra' my sloombers by being pitched oot o' my bunk, and when I scrombled erect I found mysel' stonding wi' one foot on the floor and the other on the wall. She had a list to starboard that made my vurra marrow run cauld, and she was so much down by the head that her stairn was sticking clear oot o' water. I ran oot on deck, but there was no' a soul i' sight. Then I noticed that the boats were missing and the falls wair hanging doon limp and dismal i' the fog. 'Weel, Glencannon,' thinks I to mysel', 'here's the climox o' yere rotten luck. The ill-omened tub is deestined to be yere coffin.'

"But just then the fog lifted a trifle, and i' the faint licht o' dawn I saw that we wair only a mile or so off the French coast. This put a deefferent compleexion on the seetuation. I stropped on a life belt and prepared mysel' for an easy swim. However, just at this vurra moment a frichtful hissing arose fra' the stokehold and great clouds o' steam came seething up through the skylichts and ventilators. And suddenly a cairtain sound was silenced— a sound I hadn't noticed until it stopped. I realized it had been the sound o' the circulating pump, o' whuch the scoondrels had disconnected the ootlet pipe fra' the condenser. Ye see, the rising water had put oot the fires, the steam preesure had dropped, and the pump had quit o' its ain accord."

"You mean to say they'd been deliberately trying to sink her with her own pump?" demanded Captain Ball.

"Aye, vurra much too deleeberately," said the engineer. "That was where they wair no' so canny as they foncied. As soon as the pump stopped, the ship stopped sinking; and then richt awa' there came into my mind the horrible thocht that I'd hae to sairve i' her after a'."

"Oh, but strike me pink, yer idjit," groaned Mr. Montgomery. "Didn't yer think of the salvage? Why, if yer'd just styed aboard 'er and got picked up, yer could 'ave clymed that yer turned orff the pump yerself and myde a ruddy fortune!"

Mr. Glencannon smiled knowingly and with deep compassion. "That," he said, "is where ye're wrong. Oh, I'm too shrewd a pelican to hae overlooked ony such golden opportunity, never fear! I' the feerst place, the owners are bonkroopt, and ye canna get whusky oot o' an empty bottle. I' the second place, there wair fufty Jops to swear I was a liar ony way. Haw, Muster Mate, does that answer yere carping quibble?"

Mr. Montgomery was about to retort, but Captain Ball, observing a belligerent gleam in Mr. Glencannon's eye, kicked the mate beneath the table.

"Weel," continued the engineer, "when I saw we'd stopped sinking, I went nosing aboot till I found some rockets, flares, Bengal fire and other pyrotechnics, and proceeded to touch them off i' tasteful combinations and at frequent intervals. It was a vurra deevairting posstime, and later on, when I got ashore, the inhobitants o' the little French fishing village told me that the thrifty peasants had come fra' miles aroond to wutness the grotuitous display. Before long I saw an answering rocket shoot up fra' the shore. Then I heard the mooing o' the auld hand foghorn whuch they use i' Fronce for summoning volunteer lifeboat crews, so I knew that a' was weel. I hurried below aft, where she was no' flooded yet, found a spanner and a sledge hammer, and knocked open a sea cock. Losh, I wish ye cud hae seen that water spurt! I just made the ladder i' time!" Smiling at the recollection, he busied himself with the consumption of bread and gravy, the latter supplied by gravity feed from the copious residue clinging to his walrus mustache.

"Weel"— he took up one of his cigars and fumbled for a match— "weel, when I got back on deck her foc'sle was oot o' sicht, and the whole vessel was thrubbing and treembling underfoot fra' the water rooshing i' through the vent. There wair soonds lik' explosions as bulkheads blew oot before the air pressure, and suddenly, richt beside where I was stonding, a ten-foot section o' deck bulged up lik' a blister and blew oot wi' a frichtful whoosh! I looked doon into the hole, and there, i' the narrow space betwixt the two walls o' a dooble bulkhead, who do ye suppose I saw? Who, I osk ye?"

"'Oo?" demanded Mr. Montgomery breathlessly.

"Why," said Mr. Glencannon after a dramatic pause, "I saw O'Brien, the secret-sairvice mon, or at least the mummy o' him. Aye, there he lay, a' dry and shriveled, i' his suit o' tropical whites. He was sprawled upon his trunks o' secret documents, my sixteen cases o' whusky a' tumbled on top o' him."

"Well, by gosh!" exclaimed Captain Ball. "It's extraordin'ry, extraordin'ry! To think he'd been in there seventeen years! But, I mean to say, what was this place he was in and how did he ever get there?"

"And why didn't he come out?" asked Mr. Montgomery.

Mr. Glencannon shrugged. "The bulkhead he was inside o' had been the back wall of his strong room, and 'twas in there he stored the little tin trunks, whuch must hae been really valuable. Not wishing to hae my whusky i' the strong room itsel', i' case it was inspected, he was stacking it up i' the secret place when it tumbled doon on him and kilt him. He'd rolled a keg o' bullion i' there to stond on— i' fact, his feet wair still resting on it."

"But— but why didn't you find 'is body at the time?" asked Mr. Levy.

"Because it ne'er occurred to us to look," explained Mr. Glencannon. "Ye see, after they blew open the strong room wi' cordite, we found several loose plates on the bulkhead which we blamed on the explosion. I realize the noo that one o' them must hae been his means o' entrance, but i' the roosh and bustle o' the moment, we simply riveted a' o' them up."

Captain Ball, at a loss for words, sat back and mopped his forehead.

"Weel, there I was," continued Mr. Glencannon, luxuriously blowing clouds toward the ceiling, "there was O'Brien and there was my whusky. And luckily for me, almost alangside us was the French lifeboat. The ship was wallowing vurra soggily, the noo, and I hadna a minute to waste. I dragged up the whusky cases, tied life belts aroond them, and chucked them owerboord one by one. Then I Jumped ower mysel' and swum to the boat. We had no sooner picked up the sixteenth case when the Miyako gave a frichtful, wailing sob, stuck her nose straight doon and dove oot o' sight wi' the roar and tumult o' an express train plunging into a tunnel. It was only—"

"But the bullion—the bullion!" Mr. Montgomery beat frantically upon the table, and his voice was shrill. "Wot about the keg of bullion, man? Do yer mean— do yer mean to s'y that yer didn't fetch it too?"

Mr. Glencannon looked at him pityingly. "Why, bless ye, o' coorse I didn't!" he answered. "I'm no' owerly fond o' the best o' soups, e'en mutton broth, so why shud I bother aboot a cask o' nosty stale bullion?"

____________________

6: The Robot Beasts

Otis Adelbert Kline

1881-1946

Thrilling Wonder Stories, Jan 1941

THE LARGE laboratory in the basement of Dr. George Fletcher’s home did not look its part. In fact, anyone entering the place would think himself in a museum of natural history. What appeared to be a large variety of stuffed animals, birds and reptiles, stood about the place in large numbers. But, instead of standing on pedestals, the creatures stood on the concrete floor itself, or were lined up in rows on the shelves.

Some of those on the floor were in pens, while a number which occupied the shelves were in cages. Yet all were motionless as statues as Dr. Fletcher descended the stairs and came into the room with his peculiar, dragging limp induced by paralysis. He was closely followed by Skag, the Great Dane, who was his almost constant companion.

The doctor was short and rather pot-bellied, with a fringe of graying hair. His hands trembled constantly.

He contemplated these creatures of his wearily, yet with the pride of a creator. There were tiny mice and moles of various colors and types; rats, guinea pigs, rabbits, cats, dogs. There were turtles, frogs, salamanders, lizards and snakes.

And in the very center of the collection stood the doctor’s two favorite subjects—a lifelike figure of a handsome young man, with the features of an Apollo and the physique of a Hercules, and a huge, sleek Great Dane which exactly resembled Skag.

For Dr. Fletcher they represented a lifetime of toil and study. For each and every one of these creatures was not merely a stuffed animal, bird or reptile, but a delicately and intricately constructed robot in which the scientist had attempted to induce a natural degree of the intelligence of its kind by brain transplantation.

The brains, immersed in a nutrient solution which required renewal only once in fifty years, were in crystal brain cases, from which wires, attached to electrodes, ran to various parts of the robot anatomies, acting as motor and sensory nerves.

With muscles and tendons of tough, contractile plastic, and a system of levers, gears, wires and chains of light, strong aluminum alloy; powered by supercharged, lightweight storage batteries in the body cavities, these synthetic creatures were designed not only to see, hear, feel and smell, but to move and react to peripheral stimuli like the original animals.

Doctor Fletcher did not enjoy killing these animals to perfect his experiment. He was not a cruel or ruthless man at heart, but a humanitarian and philanthropist.

Glory did not interest him or motivate his actions. He thought only of benefiting the human race, of human minds in fatally injured or diseased bodies. Once his experiments were perfected, he would change all that suffering.

And especially, he thought of the great scientific, inventive and artistic minds of the future which might be saved for the benefit of their fellows. Because of his invention they would be able to live not one, but many lifetimes.

As the doctor approached a pen in which a small black Scotty stood staring fixedly, he bent over and his trembling finger found a button concealed beneath the thick fur of the neck.

Instantly, the dog came to life, wagging its tail, leaping, barking and offering its head to be scratched. Its movements were so natural and lifelike that anyone not acquainted with the doctor’s secret—and it was a secret shared only by one other human being—would have thought it a real, live dog.

This dog was his greatest achievement. The dog brain, which had now been in the case for some seven months, had learned to control the body perfectly, and showed by its reactions that it not only retained the canine intelligence which it had originally possessed, but was actually learning new things.

Many other experiments had not been so successful. Not one of the birds could fly. And a large number of the animal and bird robots had lost all intelligent movement entirely. Quite a number, also, were still without brains. Among these were the doctor’s two latest creations, and, in his opinion, his greatest—the Great Dane, and the godlike youth.

Originally, the doctor had planned to use the brain of Skag in the Great Dane robot. But he had become so attached to the animal, and the animal to him, that he could not bring himself to order his assistant, young Doctor Frank Dornig, to perform the operation. Instead, he had purchased another dog of the same size, breed and build as Skag for the purpose.

With a sigh, he shut off the robot dog’s battery, and made his dragging way to the swivel chair in front of his work-bench. Here, his shaking, fumbling hands found tools and some bits of wire and plastic which were needed to complete the mechanical Great Dane as soon as possible.

Skag lay down behind his master’s chair. But, a moment later, he bristled ominously, then sprang to his feet with a deep growl, at the sound of the footsteps of young Dr. Dornig.

Just as Skag had shown a fondness for Dr. Fletcher, he had exhibited a fierce dislike for the younger doctor. Doctor Dornig, nevertheless, fed and cared for him, and tried his best to make the dog like him. But to no avail.

Young Dr. Dornig was as handsome as his employer was homely; as sure and strong and deft as the older doctor was weak and doddering. The godlike robot had been modeled after him by the old doctor, and closely resembled him in every detail.

The old man was very fond of his assistant, and secretly planned to leave him all of his possessions, though this was something he kept to himself. Outwardly, he was usually gruff and sometimes stern.

He looked up as the young man approached, his masklike features showing no emotion whatever.

“The new Dane has arrived, Doctor,” said Dornig.

“Good,” Fletcher approved. “We’re all ready for him. I have only a few small adjustments to make and a couple of wires to install. Won’t take me half an hour. In the meantime, you may operate on the new dog in the surgical room, and dispose of the carcass in the usual way. Here’s the brain case.”

YEARS BEFORE, Dr. Fletcher had performed these delicate brain operations himself. But, as the shaking of his hands grew worse with the encroachment of the paralysis agitans, he had been compelled to give it up, and to find some one else to take his place.

Young Doctor Dornig, fresh from his internship, had gladly accepted the position, and had sworn never to reveal the secrets of the old doctor’s laboratory until Fletcher was ready to give them to the world himself.

But the old doctor would not be ready to do that until he had achieved his supreme creation—a human thinking machine.

The synthetic body and brain case were ready, but as yet, no brain to control it had become available. It would have been possible to obtain the brains of some of the criminals who had been executed in lethal chambers with the brain unharmed. However, the doctor didn’t want to put the brain of a criminal into this godlike robot of his. He wanted it to be governed by a brain with a clean ethical code, and intelligence and erudition that would be above the average.

Such a brain could only be obtained by accident—some one fatally injured whose mental qualifications measured up to his standard, but whose brain was intact. For such a brain, he would pay, from his immense fortune, a hundred thousand dollars to the heirs of the deceased.

Hospitals within a range of a thousand miles of his laboratory, which was on the shore of Connecticut, had been notified of this offer. Such things had been done before, time without number. And yet, the doctor had received only a few offers, and these from individuals whose mental powers were not, in his opinion, suitable for the completion of his experiment.

The right type of man, brought back to life through the doctor’s scientific wizardry, could not only have the opportunity of renewing his acquaintance with relatives and friends, but might make the doctor a skilled laboratory companion and assistant, as well as a living testimony to his knowledge and skill. He had even thought of having Dr. Dornig remove and transplant his own brain in the case that was ready.

However, he knew that certain of his brain cells had been destroyed by paralysis, and that, as a robot, he would still have the same physical infirmities. So he had reserved himself only as the last desperate expedient.

Doctor Dornig started off with the brain case, then suddenly turned.

“Want me to take Skag out for a walk now?” he asked. “He hasn’t been out this morning.”

“Yes, take him out for a few minutes,” Fletcher said. “But don’t stay away long. I’m anxious to complete this job as soon as possible.”

The young doctor took down a chain leash from the wall, and walking over to where Skag stood beside his employer’s chair, snapped the hook through the collar ring. The big dog growled softly at his approach, but followed him in dignified silence after the hook had been snapped into place.

Dr. Dornig’s expression of polite deference changed swiftly to one of avaricious cunning as he reached the top of the stairs. His usually steady hands trembled slightly, as he led Skag into the operating room where another Great Dane, almost the dog’s exact double, was still confined.

Totally unaware of the old doctor’s benevolent plans for his future, Dr. Dornig had plans of his own. He had kept the old scientist’s secrets well because he had planned that they should benefit himself, and that one day they should make him master of a world empire. He was insanely jealous of the great mind that was housed in that weak, trembling body.

He was nerve-weary from the long months of confining, secret work, tired of carrying out the orders of the old man who treated him as if he were just another robot. Another robot, indeed!

Soon there would be another robot—a robot containing the great mind of Dr. Fletcher. And that robot would be compelled, by torture if necessary, to do his will, to carry out his instructions, to assist in making the vigorous, ambitious young Dr. Dornig master of the world!

He had gone over his plans a thousand times. As a robot under his domination, Dr. Fletcher would assist in the creation of robots which would, in turn, make more robots, and these more, until he should have an army of almost invincible warriors. Their brains would be supplied by vigorous young men and women kidnapped for the purpose—kidnapped at the stage when they could easily be moulded to his will, and trained to obedience and loyalty to Dornig alone.

Their brain cases could be surrounded by armor of stainless steel, that would turn machine-gun bullets. Their bodies, encased in cuirasses of similar material, would do the same. They could not be gassed or drowned. Injuries to mechanical parts could always be repaired. Nothing short of a terrific force that would blow them to bits, a weight or blow that would crack the brain case, or an acid or disintegrating material that would attack the metal envelope, could really kill them. The entire robot body could be broken to bits, but if the brain case were still intact, it could easily be installed in another mechanical body.

He envisioned a mighty army of such robots setting out to conquer the world for him—robots flying strato-battleships and dive bombers, as well as strato-cruisers, aerial torpedo boats and smaller combat craft. Robots driving armored tanks and crushing all resistance before them. And eventually, robot armies carrying his conquests to every part of the globe, making him supreme master of the world!

The old doctor was almost helpless now. But Skag must be put out of the way first. Skag, Dornig realized, was dangerous. He chuckled softly, for he was about to transform Skag, also, into a robot!

Dr. Dornig permitted Skag to sniff the other huge Dane through the slats of the crate, in order to divert his attention while he prepared the needle. Suddenly, he sank it home, a terrific dose that paralyzed the big dog almost instantaneously.

Twenty minutes later, he placed the brain of Skag in the open brain case, poured in the life-sustaining solution, and sealed it. Then, he pushed the carcass into the electric furnace which they used as a crematory and closed the switch. This done, he opened the crate in which the other Dane was confined and placed Skag’s collar around its neck.

He wanted to do this thing right. There must be no slips. He made sure there were witnesses to the fact that he had taken a Great Dane, which the neighbors could not tell from Skag, for a walk. He stopped and chatted with several of them before he cut across the thickly wooded acreage behind the little village toward the highway. Once on the highway, he removed the collar and struck the dog a vicious blow with the chain. It yelped and loped away at top speed. That dog, Dornig reflected, would not be seen in these parts again.

On his way back, he paused long enough to bury the collar and chain. Then he returned to the laboratory....

DR. FLETCHER had not been fooled by his young assistant’s attempt to be casual when he offered to take Skag for a walk. As a matter of fact, the daily task had always been so distasteful to Dornig that he had never before suggested it himself, but had waited for the old doctor either to walk the dog himself, or request him to do so.

So engrossed was Dr. Fletcher, however, with his work, that it was some time before the little warning voice that had been trying to break through his preoccupation with his difficult and intricate task, finally registered on his objective consciousness. At that moment, he heard the door above open, and knew that his assistant was leaving the house.

He limped across the room and opened one of the iron shutters which guarded the secret of his basement laboratory from the world, then peered out.

As he suspected, Dr. Dornig was leading, not Skag, but the other dog. A glance at his wrist-watch told him that his assistant had had ample time to remove the brain of his canine pet and reduce the carcass to ashes.

He shook his head sadly, then mounted the stairs to the operating room. There lay the brain of Skag—it could be no other—in the brain case he had prepared for the other dog.

Laboriously, Dr. Fletcher climbed the stairs to the third floor. Then he mounted the iron ladder which led to his observatory on the roof.

This was fitted with a large, mounted telescope for scanning the heavens, but there were also several pairs of powerful binoculars for observing the terrestrial landscape.

He selected a pair and watched every movement of his young assistant, until he saw that he was ready to return to the house. Then he returned the glasses to their place, descended to his laboratory, and once more returned to his work.

As he sat there, mechanically completing his task, and awaiting the coming of his young assistant, he pondered the latter’s cruel deception, seeking a motive.

He knew that Dornig disliked Skag, but reflected that he could easily have got rid of him months before had he desired to do so. Why, then, had he chosen this particular time and method to do away with Skag?

It was obvious that he had been scheming this very thing for many months, that he hated his employer as well as the dog. If he would serve the hated dog, thus, why not the master? Then, having turned both into robots, and knowing that the old doctor loved his canine pet, he might use his power over the latter to gain concessions from his former employer.

So disheartening was this revelation, that Dr. Fletcher began to wish himself dead and freed of such dreadful realities, forever.

His traitorous assistant, he knew, meant either to kill him outright, or turn him into a robot. Because of his vastly superior physical strength, Dornig was confident that he could do either at will.

But though he never had any proof of the treacherous intentions of his ungrateful assistant before, he had, long before he had employed the young doctor, known that, as the paralysis agitans reached an advanced stage, he must some day employ a skilled surgical assistant.

And he had been aware that such an assistant, realizing the world-shaking importance of his inventions, might turn traitor. So he had provided against such a contingency.

For a moment, Dr. Fletcher’s trembling hand touched the lever of a switch above his desk, as if for reassurance. Then he hastily resumed his task as he heard the basement door click open....

BACK IN THE laboratory, Dr. Dornig took up the encased brain of Skag, and, feigning weariness, descended the stairs.

“I can’t tell you how sorry I am, Doctor,” he said, “but Skag broke away from me. I tried to catch him, but he got away in the woods.”

The masklike face of the old doctor looked up from the work-bench. His expression told the younger man nothing at all.

“Never mind,” said Dr. Fletcher. “He’ll come back. He has lived here for so long that this place is home to him. Come, let us install the other brain. I am anxious to see how it will work.”

For the next two hours, both men were engaged in the delicate task of installing the canine brain case, and clamping the many tiny electrodes into position. Finally, they closed the cranial cavity. The old doctor pressed the battery button on the neck of the huge mechanical dog with a trembling finger, and stepped back.

As had been expected, the Great Dane robot’s movements were feeble and uncertain like those of a toddling puppy learning to work. But they progressed so well during the next half hour that Dr. Fletcher was greatly pleased.

“Take the rest of the day off, Dr. Dornig,” he told his assistant. “You’ve been working too hard.”

“How about knocking off for a while, yourself?” the young doctor asked. “You work twice as hard as I.”

“Ah, but this is my life. It’s both rest and recreation for me. Run along now, and report as usual tomorrow morning. I have some experiments to occupy me this evening.”

Dr. Dornig left rather reluctantly. Ordinarily, he was glad for a holiday from the gruelling, exacting work of the surgical room and laboratory. But today, he was a bit worried. He had planned to remain and watch the reactions of the dog. If Dr. Fletcher found out what he had done, he intended to subdue the old doctor at once and remove his brain.

But he didn’t want to do this, yet, unless his hand was forced. For if he did, he would have to finish the work on the man robot himself, or be forever deprived of the value of the old man’s brain. And he was not sure that he could finish the mechanical work correctly. Once it was completed, he knew how to install the brain case and attach the electrodes. But it must work, once installed, or he could not make the old man his slave as he had planned and fulfil his own ambitious schemes.

However, since the dog showed no signs of revealing its true identity, he decided to leave.

“Thanks a lot,” he said with simulated pleasure. “See you in the morning.”

As the young doctor went out, the older man returned to his training of the robot dog. It was learning rapidly, and, because it contained the brain of Skag and resembled him, he subconsciously thought of it as Skag.

“Good boy, Skag!” he said, as the toddling, puppylike walk was presently replaced by the firm footsteps and upright carriage of a powerful, mature dog.

The robot dog understood, or seemed to understand, and to recognize his name. He cocked his huge head to one side, then reared up, placing both forepaws on the doctor’s shoulders, exactly as Skag had always done.

The old doctor’s hand trembled more than usual as he scratched the huge robot dog behind the ear, while it evinced every symptom of pleasure.

“Skag!” he exclaimed. “Good old Skag. You remember me!”

Presently, he sat down in his chair in gloomy meditation, thrusting the dog from him.

Instantly, the robot dog came over and laid its head on his knee, exactly as the physical Skag had done a thousand times. Suddenly the robot dog gave a savage growl, as steps sounded on the stairway—the footsteps of young Dr. Dornig.

In order to silence him, Dr. Fletcher reached down and pressed the button which was supposed to shut off the battery. But it didn’t work, at first. Before he could press it again, that savage, revealing growl greeted the young doctor as he entered the room. Dornig could not help hearing it. He recognized its significance.

“So you have found out,” he said, as the old doctor finally managed to shut off the robot dog’s batteries. “I came back, expecting that you might.”

“Yes, I’ve found out some time ago, as a matter of fact,” Dr. Fletcher said. “That was mean of you, Doctor, merely because a dog growled at you. Skag had never harmed you.”

“It was not mean, but the beginning of a great and glorious plan,” said Dornig with feeling. “Why do you think I have been slaving here for you all this time? Do you think it was because of the miserable pittance you pay me? I’ve been a slave to you, subject to your every command and whim. But now, all that is changed. Now, I will be master, and you will work for me!”

“To what end?” asked Dr. Fletcher.

“I plan to build, not one or a few robots, but millions of them!” Dornig exclaimed savagely. “I’ll turn them into impregnable soldiers. An army that will seize the U. S. Government for me, that will fly airplanes, drive tanks, man ships, and eventually conquer the world! An army trained to fight and to obey only me! You will help me to build the nucleus of this army, Dr. Fletcher. After that, you may remain on research, if you like— but only as my robot slave, subject to my every command!”

“And so you decided to use force on me if necessary, and fearing that Skag might protect me, got him out of the way first?” Dr. Fletcher asked softly.

“I had hoped that force would not be necessary, that you would see eye to eye with me and become my trusted lieutenant, and the director of all my research and production. In case you resist, I am fully capable of overpowering you. In case you decline to do my bidding, either as a man or as a robot, I have ways of torturing you that will change your attitude if not your views. Certain electrical impulses, for example, sent into the brain case through one of the electrodes—”

“Enough,” said Dr. Fletcher, knowing what he meant. “Your scheme is perfectly clear to me.”

“Then you will join me willingly?”

“No!” said Dr. Fletcher staunchly. “And rather than leave my inventions to you for such a foul purpose, I’ll destroy everything—my plans, my laboratory, myself, and you with them, so that you will never be able to duplicate them!” He pointed with a shaky finger. “You see this switch? It is connected with a charge of powerful explosive beneath the floor that will blow this place, and us with it. I am going to use it— now!”

Dr. Dornig laughed derisively.

“I took the precaution to put that little apparatus out of commission this morning,” he said, grinning triumphantly. “No secrets of this place are hidden from me. And now, will you come quietly to the operating room, or must I use force?”

He took a loaded syringe from his pocket, pressed the plunger so that a drop of the paralyzing solution contained gathered on the point of the needle, then advanced threateningly.

“Go to hell!” cried the older man, and with one weak, trembling hand, seized a small hammer from his work-bench to be used as a weapon.

The young man easily wrenched the hammer from Dr. Fletcher’s shaking fingers, and sank the needle home....

DR. FLETCHER recovered consciousness, to find himself standing on the floor of his own laboratory. Dr. Dornig was seated in the old doctor’s chair before the work-bench watching him.

“Ah, Doctor,” said Dornig triumphantly. “I see you have recovered consciousness. My operation and installation were extremely successful.”

Dr. Fletcher responded, but the voice was not his own. It was the voice of the robot, modeled after that of Dr. Dornig himself.

“I could not prevent your carrying out this vicious deed,” he said raspily. “But you may rest assured that I’ll not be your puppet. And so long as I exist as a thinking robot, I’ll turn every energy to only one purpose—the defeat of your cruel and inhuman ambitions!”

Dr. Dornig lighted a cigarette, leaned back, and exhaled a cloud of smoke with apparent satisfaction.

“I don’t know about that,” he replied. “You are my prisoner, and you will shortly decide to do my bidding. Either that, or suffer the tortures of the damned until you beg for death!”

He leaned forward and pressed a newly installed buzzer button attached to the desk. The buzzing was instantly amplified a thousand fold in the brain of Dr. Fletcher—amplified to the point where it became a pulsing, vibrating agony. Dr. Fletcher knew that the young doctor must have connected the buzzer to one of the electrodes attached to his brain case.

He tried to reach the connection, then suddenly discovered that his wrists and ankles were stoutly manacled to two thick steel I-beams which Dr. Dornig had set in the concrete floor.

“So you feel it, eh?” Dornig gloated, releasing the pressure on the button. “Then you realize that you are entirely at my mercy. What is your decision now?”

“The same as before!” Dr. Fletcher snarled through clenched robot teeth.

“We’ll see,” said the young doctor, rising. “I’ll give you a few hours to think it over. In the meantime, I’ll continue some of my own experiments. I’m thinking of using mechanical dogs, like Skag, to fight in my robot armies.”

He went over to where Skag stood motionless beside the robot which housed the brain of his former master, and pressed the battery button. Instantly, the big robot dog came to life.

For some twenty minutes, Dr. Dornig put him through his paces, and gave him various familiar commands which Skag obeyed with the same aloof dignity that had characterized his behavior toward the young doctor before his transformation into a robot.

“Interesting,” commented Dornig to the old doctor. “Very. When you have helped me to construct some more man robots, and we have the brains installed, we’ll build a few more of the Great Dane type. I’ll leave you now, Doctor, to think things over. You will, for the next few hours, be accorded the luxury of pure thought, with no physical effort, whatever.”

He thrust out a finger, pressing the button which shut off the batteries that supplied energy to the robot of Dr. Fletcher. Then he carelessly pushed the button of the Great Dane robot and went jauntily to the stairway, mounting the steps two at a time.

Dr. Fletcher could not move, but he could think. And it seemed to him that his brain, stimulated by the powerful electric current that had been driven through it some time before by means of the vibrator attached to one of the electrodes which was connected with his brain case, was ten times as productive as it had ever been before.

He could not move any part of the robot body, could not even turn or blink the eyes, which had been left wide open. But he had noticed that Skag’s battery control button had failed to work when the young doctor had pressed it. And now, the huge robot dog was wandering disconsolately about the laboratory, frequently going to his old master’s work-bench.

Presently, the realization came to Dr. Fletcher that the dog somehow sensed his presence in the room. If he could only convey to his old pet his present location, they might be able to work together and defeat the plans of Dr. Dornig.

He could not shout a command, but he could think one. Now, he concentrated all the power of his great brain in an endeavor to project it to the puzzled dog.

“Skag,” he telepathed. “Skag! Come here!”

Mentally, he said this, over and over.

Presently, Skag began circling the robot figure which contained the old doctor’s brain. Closer and closer he came, until an exploring nose sniffed at one of the manacled legs. The contact of robot to robot seemed to establish complete telepathic rapport for, with a sudden, joyous bark, Skag sprang erect, his paws draping the chest and shoulders of the motionless robot figure, begging to have his head stroked.

The pressure of one big paw on the battery button was sufficient to arouse the robot of Dr. Fletcher to full motor and sensory powers. He raised a manacled hand and patted the dog, still communicating with him telepathically. He did not dare to use the voice in the robot larynx. It might spoil everything.

When the dog had received sufficient petting, he lay down at the feet of his robot master.

Then, Dr. Fletcher, with the robot hands trembling exactly as his physical hands had trembled, found that despite his manacles he could lift them high enough to open the chest and readjust the mechanical larynx until the voice bore a resemblance to his own.

But the manacles still held him to those stout I-beams, and unless he could break or remove them, he could do nothing against Dr. Dornig.

Lying on his work-bench at least ten feet beyond his reach, was his portable electrical welding machine, with its long coil of wire which made it possible to use it anywhere in the laboratory.

If he could only reach that welder, he could literally melt off his shackles. Suddenly, he thought of Skag. Once more, he brought a powerful telepathic impulse to bear on the faithful beast.

“Skag,” he commanded audibly. “Go fetch my welder.”

The dog went to the desk. But here, habit conquered, and he picked up the doctor’s old slippers, which still rested beneath the desk.

“No, Skag,” corrected Dr. Fletcher. “On the desk. The welder.”

At the word “no,” the dog dropped the slippers, but still seemed uncertain of just what was wanted. Once more, the doctor sent that powerful telepathic impulse, and repeated:

“The welder, Skag. On the desk.”

Then, to Dr. Fletcher’s delight, the dog reared up, seized the machine in his teeth, and brought it to his master. The doctor took it with a word of praise for the dog, then quickly applied it to the manacles that held him.

Soon freed of his manacles, he first ripped away the wire attached to the buzzer which had been used to torture him. Then he walked over to his chair, one robot foot dragging as in life.

Suddenly, it occurred to him to try an experiment. The trembling of the hands, and other effects of his paralysis which had followed him into this robot existence, were due to the fact that certain brain cells in control of the motor nervous system had been destroyed by the disease. But he knew that man has thousands of excess brain cells which are never used in a normal life time. If these brain cells could be utilized, and trained to perform the task of those that had been destroyed—

He removed the top of the robot head, and began swiftly to readjust the many tiny electrodes clamped to the brain case. He worked tirelessly for more than two hours, changing and experimenting before he had succeeded in correcting his trembling hands. Another half hour gave him full control of the bad leg. And still another removed the masklike expression from the once handsome face.

Now, he could think, move and act like any normal human being, but without hunger, thirst or fatigue. He was a veritable superman, not only in appearance, but in efficiency as well.

His brain was always keenest when he had something to occupy his hands. But all of the material on the work-bench had been cleared away. Yet, he must do some of his keenest thinking to defeat the ambitious schemes of Dr. Dornig. He suddenly recalled that the control button for Skag’s batteries was difficult to shut off and needed readjusting.

He unscrewed the button, then bent over his work-bench to examine it. But at this moment he heard the basement door open, and the tread of Dr. Dornig on the stairs.

The robot Skag growled softly at Dr. Dornig’s approach. The latter paused in amazement, when he saw Dr. Fletcher.

“So,” he exclaimed. “You’ve managed somehow to free yourself. Well, I’ll soon fix that.”

He sprang forward, and the old doctor stood up to meet him. As Dr. Dornig thrust out a finger to press the control button, he felt his wrist caught in a grip of iron—a grip that had ten times the strength of that of the athletic young doctor. Then he was hurled backward, so that he crashed into, and overturned a heavy table.

Instantly, the young doctor sprang to his feet, and realizing that the old doctor had recovered his dexterity, and that his own strength was futile against that of this superman he had helped to create, he picked up the table. Tearing it free from its electrical connections, he hurled it straight at the robot doctor.

It struck the robot body full in the chest, and knocked it off balance.

Dr. Fletcher felt himself crashing to the concrete floor, the heavy table on top of him.

With a cry of triumph, Dr. Dornig sprang forward once more. But at this moment, Skag went into action. A fierce roar burst from his throat, as he reared up, his fangs snapping for Dr. Dornig’s throat.

The latter laughed derisively, and reached for the control button to shut off the robot dog’s battery. To his horror, he found that the button was missing. Snarling, he concentrated all of his attention on keeping those snapping fangs from his throat.

The muscles of the huge mechanical brute were untiring and would go on functioning as long as the current remained in the battery. The muscles of the powerful young doctor were tiring rapidly under the terrific strain, and he was growing weaker from a loss of blood. His hands and arms were ripped open in a score of places.

Growling, the mechanical dog sprang in for the kill. He seized the throat in his fangs and quickly ended the existence of Dr. Dornig and his mad dream.

In the meantime, old Dr. Fletcher, who had just succeeded in freeing himself from the weight of the table and the heavy machine attached to its top, rose to his feet, horrified.

But despite his emotional reactions, he was first, last and always, a scientist. Here, he reasoned, was a healthy brain of the type he had been waiting for during these long months. An intelligent brain, alive and uninjured, and adapted to control a robot body.

If he should act at once, he could now perform the operation with deft, sure strokes, and immerse the brain in a nutrient solution until a new robot body could be constructed. He could save the life of his former assistant and make him a semi-immortal, as a robot.

Dr. Fletcher was not of a vengeful nature. But another thought suddenly interrupted him as he reached a steady, powerful hand which answered every command of his brain, for his instrument case.

The brain of the young doctor was perfect, physically, but this brain would carry with it the ruthless ambition to dominate, the sadistic cruelty which had been a part of its thought processes in life.

Some day, it might trick him, overcome him, and begin the work that would lead to the most hideous holocaust of blood and anguish the world had ever known.

Two tears coursed down the robot cheeks, revealing the agony which wrung the soul behind those mechanical features.

Turning his face away from the bloody horror which lay on the floor, he sought and found the severed connection which led to the charge of explosives in the secret chamber below.

Swiftly, he found and repaired the cut in the wire. Next, he connected the alarm clapper of his desk clock to the lever that would detonate the explosives, and set the alarm for five minutes hence. “Come on, Skag,” he said. “We’re going for a walk.”

Skag frisked about him joyously, as he had always done before his transformation at the prospect of a hike with his beloved master.

The two ascended the stairs and left the house, a godlike superman, and a powerful superdog.

Dr. Fletcher was through with his laboratory, finished with his great work which he had performed primarily for the benefit of his fellow man.

His inventions had not brought to humanity the benefits of which he had dreamed. And he realized, now, that in the wrong hands— the hands of ruthless seekers of power— they might bring infinite tragedy and sorrow.

However, they had, through the action of his former assistant, brought him a powerful, godlike body, and the prospect of living another lifetime, perhaps more, together with the one creature in the world that loved him.

As he and Skag reached the highway, a tremendous explosion rocked the countryside. Dr. Fletcher didn’t even look back. “Come on, Skag,” he said. “We’re headed for a new life— and a new freedom.”

Skag, as if he fully understood, gave vent to a joyous bark. He chased a stray cat up a tree, and then returned with his tongue lolling, to trudge contentedly in the footsteps of his master.

_____________________

7: The Tenth Question

George Allan England

1877-1936

All-Story Weekly, 18 Dec 1915

“DR. NASMYTH?” inquired the voice over the wire.

“Yes.”

“This is Mr. Varian speaking, No. 29a West Eleventh Street. I should like to see you at once.”

Nasmyth frowned. The prospect of abandoning slippers, pipe, and book, to face the slush and sleet of that February night by no means pleased him.

“You’ll come, of course?” the voice persisted— the voice of an oldish man.

“Yes.”

“Very well; thank you. Good-by.”

Nasmyth growled an imprecation under his breath as he hung up the receiver. His practice had long since passed the point where a new patient was greatly to be desired. None the less he kept his word.

Fifteen minutes later he presented himself at the door of 29a West Eleventh— a three-story brick house, closely shuttered, against which the storm-drive blustered savagely.

Varian himself let the physician in. Nasmyth’s appraising eye beheld a big-chested, thick-bearded man of sixty-five or seventy, with a God-bless-you expression and mild eyes that peered from behind thick-lensed glasses. The house, dark save for the front hall and the library, impressed him as being rather unusually well furnished: a scholar’s house, thought the doctor.

Varian led Nasmyth into the library and produced liquor. He insisted on pouring the physician a stiff drink. Nasmyth did not object. Warmth and green Chartreuse were grateful, after having breasted such a night.

When he had drunk it, Varian sat down and told him about some symptoms or other; Nasmyth never knew just what. The soporific in the Chartreuse struck him down as though he had been hit with a club.

It was morning when the doctor straggled back to consciousness. He discovered that he was lying on a padded quilt spread on a cement floor. His clothing was gone. In place of it he wore a Japanese quilted gown, with white cotton tabi or socks on his feet. Astonished, he struggled up, and beheld Varian peering at him through metal bars. The old man nodded and smiled when he saw that the doctor’s eyes were open.

“Good morning.” said he with perfect composure. “I hope you slept quite well. The little potion I administered ought to have made you, at any rate. I learned its secret in Nagasaki. Wonderfully efficient; marvelously so!”

The man’s infernal nerve— for already Nasmyth realized that he had been trapped for some purpose or other— kept the doctor from speech. That, and his dazed condition, effectually muted him. He sat there on the quilt, stupidly enough.

Varian regarded him with a cynical expression. His smile grew bitter.

“Just as dull as all the rest, I see,” he remarked acridly. “And these are the men to whom society entrusts its lives and welfare!”

That stung Nasmyth to action. Mentally vague and confused as he still was, he managed to return the old man’s look with compound interest. For a minute their eyes met, the doctor’s in rage, Varian’s eloquent of scorn.

Then Nasmyth articulated: “What is the meaning— of this farce? What—”

“No farce, but stern reality!” Varian interrupted. “If all your judgments turn out as mistaken as this, my hidden service to humanity will soon be enriched by one more heroic act, and the world will soon be rid of one more charlatan!”

ii

THIS brought Nasmyth up all standing, as the saying is. He catapulted off the quilt in spite of a dizzying headache: grabbed the bars like a gorilla, and snarled:

“Here, you! Let me out of this, or—”

“Or what?” Varian smiled calmly, “Really, I’m interested to know what you can possibly threaten.”

Nasmyth could find no answer to such amazing effrontery. He stared in silence at the old man, who sat down on a chair close to the cage and regarded him with a mildly curious air of scientific speculation. Thus for a moment, captor and captive gazed upon each other in that strange place.

Strange, indeed, it was. The prison seemed a kind of basement, divided in the middle by a row of steel rods. Light entered through two windows at the far end, behind Varian; windows glazed with ground-glass, translucent, but preventing clear vision. Near these windows stood a table with books, papers, and writing material. At the left a metal-incased door with a combination-lock, formed the only exit from the den. Above the table hung a small clock.

The cage itself was provided with nothing but the simplest of Japanese furnishings, none of which could be converted into any weapon or any tool wherewith to break jail. Beside the quilt a frail little table of lacquered cedar, with pencils and paper, and a wash-basin and pitcher of some heavily waxed, paperlike material completed the arrangements.

A single powerful incandescent hung from the ceiling near enough the cage to furnish light for it at night, yet too far to be reached through the bars. Evidently Varian had no intention of entrusting even a piece of glass in the hands of his prospective victim.

By the subdued light from the windows Nasmyth continued to stare dumbly at his captor. The physician was able to distinguish clearly the old man’s expression of impersonal interest— just the same kind of impression that Nasmyth himself had more than once assumed when confronted with a new and interesting pathological condition.

The doctor needed only very brief observation to assure himself that Varian was entirely in earnest and terribly dangerous. No doubt existed in his mind, from the first minute of clear realization, that he was confronted by a case of dementia with delusions and probably homicidal mania.

Blackmail, ransom, or anything of that kind was out of the question; and as for personal revenge, what motive could it have? Nasmyth had never seen or heard of Varian till last night.

A real madman, he felt convinced, sat before him in that chair: a madman of the most sinister type, because highly educated and of extreme intelligence. Nasmyth felt that he could have outwitted a dull, brutish crétin in one way or another. But this elderly, professor-like gentleman of scientific attainments— this man with the observant eyes and the well-modulated voice— evidently could not be circumvented by argument or stratagem.

Just what problem Nasmyth now faced he could not tell. But that it was fearfully urgent and freighted with extreme perils he was thoroughly convinced.

The doctor was terrified. Never in all his life had he felt so sickening, so instinctive a fear. Every medical man has to face death, legitimately, in his profession; and none dread it under these circumstances, if they are worthy the name of doctor. But to be made a rat of, and murdered in a basement cage by a lunatic, is quite different story.

Varian, regarding Nasmyth’s blanched face and wild eyes, said nothing for a minute. But his smile was eloquent. It meant: “Coward!”

That smile revived the doctor; it galvanized him out of his terror. In a moment he managed to pull himself together. He grew rather unusually calm.

“You seem to have the advantage,” said he. “You’ve caught me, right enough. I don’t know why. Perhaps it’s a case of mistaken identity. You may take me for somebody I’m not? Or your motive may be something else. Whatever it is, I have a right to know it!”

Varian, struck by this logic, nodded assent. The physician now for the first time remarked that the old man’s face was perceptibly asymmetrical, his skull plagiocephalic, and his expression indicative of some mental unbalance, though not markedly so. His beard and glasses helped to conceal this appearance. Yet Nasmyth knew the diagnosis was correct.

“Well?” he demanded. “What are you imprisoning me for, and what do you want with me?”

Varian’s manner denoted culture, and his words were perfectly coherent as he answered:

“I will tell you. In the first place, there has been no mistake in your identity. You are a practicing physician; that is enough for me. I chose your name at random, last night, from a physicians’ directory. Any other one would have answered my purpose as well. My choice simply happened to fall on you, by fortune. My summoning you, as if for illness, was of course a mere deception. I am perfectly sound in mind and body. I—”

“For God’s sake, then, what do you want of me?”

“You ask an explanation, and you shall have it. All the others have had one. Why not you?”

“The others?” demanded Nasmyth, horribly startled.

“The others,” Varian repeated with satisfaction. He drew out a cigar-case and offered his prisoner a smoke. Nasmyth shuddered. The old man, smiling, calmly chose and lighted a Londres.

“What others?” gulped the doctor.

“Those who have preceded you here, of course,” Varian answered slowly as he blew a feather of smoke. He crossed his legs, at ease, leaned back, and observed his victim with attention. “You must know about the mysterious disappearance of several physicians and surgeons from New York, during the past eighteen months. You must remember that they all seemed to have left suddenly for foreign parts, leaving their personal affairs and their practices unsettled, and that they all appeared to have been lost in various ways— by fire, flood, or what-not.”

“What then?” Nasmyth snarled at him, still weak and dizzy as he clung to the bars.

“Every last man of them all,” continued Varian, smiling, “at one time or another occupied this identical testing-cage of mine, now honored by your presence. Each one failed in the necessary trial. I was therefore compelled, much against my will— for really, doctor. I am the most humane and kind-hearted of men— to expedite their departure from a world certainly the better for their absence.”

“Horrible! Impossible!” gasped Nasmyth, unable to believe his ears. The man, he felt, must be suffering from some megalomania, some obsession of power or the like.

“No, neither horrible nor impossible, Varian replied. “On the contrary, perfectly just, virtuous, and true. Some years ago, in 1908 to be exact, a surgeon did me a tremendous, irreparable wrong, not through malice, but through ignorance, stupidity, and misjudgement. After long deliberation I determined to devote my life to the testing of the intelligence of medical practitioners.

“Money was no object. I have enough, more than enough. I spent a good deal in preparing this place, where my researches should be undisturbed; and much more, subsequently, in issuing reports about the unsuccessful men’s disappearance. It has been a long, hard task; but results have justified it. So far, not one physician or surgeon has passed the required test They have all been eliminated, therefore, from a society they could only have injured by having remained in it, and—”

“This cannot be!” cried Nasmyth, horrified.

“Perfectly true, I assure you, smiled Varian, obviously with a clear conscience. “If you insist I can furnish you complete data that will prove it. There was Henderson, for instance. He came here the 11th of August, 1912, insisting on hastening the test— claimed the full ten days would drive him mad— failed, and was eliminated on the 17th, at 8:45 P. M.”

Varian drew a small, red-leather note-book from his pocket, thumbed the leaves, and continued.

“Then there was Maltby, October 21 to November 7. He really did go mad. I waited some time for him to recover his reason, but when I realized this was quite futile, I had to eliminate him in that unfortunate condition. His body-ash joined that of all the rest, in my electric volatilizer. I had reports sent in from Sao Pablo, in the Azores, establishing his drowning there, just as I had Henderson reported killed by aborigines near the Essequibo Rapids, in British Guiana.

“Van Cleave’s case was interesting,” he continued, still consulting his notes. “On the fifth day of the test he broke his incandescent lamp— it hung inside the cage, then— and cut his radial arteries. I rescued him just in time.

“In a week he had convalesced sufficiently to resume the work: but after all,” and Varian regretfully shook his head, “he failed, and I was forced to do my duty. I then removed the lamp from the cell, as you notice. I couldn’t afford to take any more risks, you see.”

“You inhuman monster!” cried Nasmyth, his prudence all swept away by horror and indignation. Calm judgment would have told him that it was worse than futile to accuse a madman, but in his weakened condition of nerve and body he could not keep calm.

He shook his clenched fist through the bars at the calm, smiling face of the old man. A sudden tremor almost overcame him. He had to grip the steel to keep his feet.

“Philanthropist, you mean,” Varian asserted mildly, showing no slightest trace of anger or resentment. “My only idea is this: To try the intelligence of all the medical practitioners I can reach; and, if this proves too low to warrant their continuing in the profession, then mercifully and quickly to eliminate them from society. I have long been hoping to find a man of brains and wit enough some day to stand the test and emerge victorious.

“So far, however,” he concluded, sighing with genuine regret. “I am very, very sorry to say not one of my subjects has stood the experiment.”

Keenly he peered at Nasmyth with appraising interest. “I wonder,” he remarked musingly —“I wonder now if you are going to stand it?”

iii

NASMYTH stared at him with horrorstricken eyes.

“What—what kind of a test?” he stammered thickly.

“Draw your quilt up here near the bars,” said Varian. “Sit down on it and calm yourself, and I’ll explain.”

Nasmyth shook his head in objection, but the old man insisted.

“You really mustn’t stand any longer,” said he. “It’s tiresome to us both. Make yourself comfortable by all means. And, by the way, how about a little breakfast? Rolls, coffee, cocoa? A bit of tobacco, maybe?”

“Nothing!” the captive declined. “All I want is the conditions of your infernal test!”

Subconsciously he knew he should accede to anything, fall in with the madman’s plans, and seem to work with him; but for the present, at least, indignation and rage inhibited deception.

He suddenly felt very weak, and, yielding to Varian’s command, hauled his quilt up close to the cage and squatted there, cross-legged, his whole body shuddering in a nervous chill, his teeth chattering violently.

Varian pulled at his cigar a moment, then began:

“Of course. I don’t expect you to grasp the social significance of my reform work among physicians. From your point of view I’m a mere assassin—”

“The test!” interrupted Nasmyth. “For Heaven’s sake, man, the test!”

“Very well, the test, which alone can set you free. You understand that your only chance for life is through it. Succeed, and this door swings wide to you. Fail, and a vial of hydrocyanic acid gas extinguishes you, painlessly instantaneously, absolutely. That’s quite understood?”

“Go on!”

“You are familiar, of course, with the old game of Twenty Questions? Yes? Of course. Almost everybody is. A most useful diversion. Nothing can so clearly index the intellectual capacity of a man as an analysis of the processes he uses, his inferences and deductions, in approaching the answer.

“Agreed, then. Through a series of ten questions, on the plan of the old game. I have gauged the powers of all my subjects and shall measure yours.”

“Just how do you mean?” inquired Nasmyth, striving for sell-control.

“This: I have in mind a certain thing, the identical thing that all the others have tried to guess, and failed. I will give yon ten questions on ten consecutive days to discover that thing. Twenty questions is a child’s game. Ten will be a man’s.

“I will be honest with you, doctor. If you guess my thought I will so inform you, and will certainly set you free. If you fail you will have shown your mental unfitness to practice medicine, and I shall be under the painful necessity of administering the hydrocyanic acid gas and of volatilizing your body. You will simply vanish from society.

“In due time reports will reach New York that you have been lost in Lake Victoria Nyanza, or something of that sort. There will be some sort of investigation, of course; but it will all blow over presently, and you will be forgotten. Society will be freed of another incompetent. It is all quite simple.”

Nasmyth gazed at him with despairing eyes. “So I perceive,” he answered. “And when is this ghastly play to begin?”

“To-day, if you wish. The sooner the better. Evening will be the best time. Shall we make it nine-thirty?”

“Eight will be better.” said the captive.

“Very well; eight it is. So then. that’s settled. Everything will be arranged most comfortably. You shall eat and drink of the best, smoke my finest cigars, and have plenty of reading-matter. This push-button, here” — and he indicated one on the wall— will summon me at any time. I am sure we shall get on admirably together.”

He asked a few questions relative to Nasmyth’s wishes about material comforts, peering in through the bars, meanwhile, with a benevolent expression on his asymmetrical features. Then presently he withdrew, leaving the captive alone with thoughts such as never till then had he believed it possible to entertain.

iv

THE horror of the situation at first quite overmastered the unfortunate physician. He sat there, shuddering, on the quilt which had been used by so many miserable members of his profession; seemingly obsessed by the presence of the dead men who had preceded him in the cell, all doomed— as he himself was doomed— to annihilation at the hands of this madman.

His thoughts dwelt on different phases of the tragedy and of the oft-repeated crime. Where, he wondered, was the volatilizing furnace for the disposal of the bodies, and how did it operate? How long had it been since the last victim had been made way with?

How could it be that in a great and civilized community, human beings could be lured to death and could drop out of the world without this monstrous den of murder being discovered.

He knew now only too well that Varian had told the truth about those disappearances. Insane though the old man were, yet in the matter of his records of crimes he was lucid enough.

Strange, was it not? thought Nasmyth, that the murderer had never given any consideration to the inevitable results of letting a victim go in case of a successful guessing of the question. This contingency spelled certain arrest and confinement for Varian; but probably the insane man, with characteristic fatuity, had never even given this matter a thought.

Or, in the event of success, would he still carry out his murderous desires and, breaking all promises, execute his captive?

At thought of this strong probability black despair overcame the prisoner, and for a while he gave himself up as hopelessly lost. But gradually, as calmer reason asserted itself and his physical disturbance subsided, a reaction set in and he began to entertain more hopeful thoughts.

He got up and wandered about the cell— a space of some twelve by fifteen feet— narrowly examining it for any possible chance of escape: but against cement and steel what could bare hands hope to accomplish?

There remained, Nasmyth clearly perceived, only one possibility of salvation— the chance of wresting from Varian the secret thought he harbored. Yet to do this in only ten questions— how horribly tenuous a hope!

Tired and very weak, the prisoner threw himself at length on the quilt, buried his head in both arms, and tried to think his way through the diabolical maze enmeshing him. He reflected on the disturbance his vanishment would cause and the ill effects it would surely have on two or three of his patients urgently needing his personal attention. This added to his despair.

Came, then, a comforting conviction that the old maniac was at least sincere in his testing of the intellect, and that he might fairly be depended on. Mad though he undoubtedly was he still remained of a highly intellectual type, with every indication of honesty of purpose.

Nasmyth felt sure Varian was acting on moral grounds, with a strong psychic imperative. He would play a ruseful and intelligent yet perfectly fair game. He would not change the subject of his thought during that game; and at its end, if Nasmyth should succeed, he would undoubtedly admit it and set him free. But if he failed, the captive knew that Varian would positively kill him with as little compunction as though stamping on an insect.

Nasmyth recognized the fact that on his own wits depended not only his own life, but also the lives of many others who— in the event of his failure— must still follow him in that abominable rat-pit He perceived that he owed a profound duty to society to beat this madman, to regain his freedom, clear up the many mysteries and tragedies he now understood, and finally to have Varian incarcerated for life.

At these reflections every fiber of his being quivered with the intensity of his determination to succeed and to be free.

“God grant” — he thought with passionate eagerness as he lay there on the Japanese quilting— “that I may live to work out justice from this horrible calamity!”

His thought passed now to the test itself, the horrible mockery of a game that was to be played with him. He determined to meet the situation like a man of intelligence, determination, and grit. In no event, even though he should see that all was lost, would he play the coward or utter vain pleas for mercy. His burning ambition was to meet Varian on his own ground and beat him.

He felt positive he would not ask to have the game hurried, would not go mad with the suspense, and would not allow himself to be driven to suicide. Carefully, thoughtfully, and with patience he would apply the totality of his mind to the problem, would take the full allotted time, and would see the hideous gamble through to the bitter end.

He pondered then on the probable direction that old Varian’s thought would take and the nature of the subject he had probably chosen. That it would be obscure and difficult he did not doubt. The man’s subtlety vouched for that, as well as the fact that all his predecessors had failed— among them men of more than usual attainments, witness Maltby and Van Cleave.

The thought of Van Cleave, in particular, filled him with despair. Where he had gone down to defeat, he, the logician, chess-expert, and skilled debater, how could Nasmyth hope for success?

All the disheartening factors of the case, however, he resolutely put aside, rallied his strength, and began making active preparations for the battle royal of the intellect. Toward nine o’clock he rang for Varian, ordered some breakfast, and indulged in a cigar.

He now began to feel much more fit. Courage rose appreciably. He chatted a little with the old man, hoping to sound his thought and if possible discover in what direction his special interests lay. This, he hoped, might give him some faint clue to work on; but Varian was wary and let nothing slip which might in any way be interpreted by his adversary.

When Varian was gone Nasmyth set to work with a will, logically classifying all the categories of things animate, inanimate, and abstract. He based his work as nearly as possible on the arrangement of Roget’s famous “Thesaurus,” a work with which as a writer on medical topics he had become familiar.

Using the writing materials at hand, he drew up headings and classifications, and before night had finished a fairly complete general outline of matters and things. This done, he found his confidence greatly restored, and began to face the ordeal with more than a little assurance.

At noon, and again at six o’clock, Varian made his appearance with excellent meals. A box of cigars, a pipe, and half a pound of Perique— in a cloth bag, not a metal box, since even this metal might have served for an instrument of suicide—  added to Nasmyth’s comfort.

The captive noticed with a smile that dishes, knife, fork, and spoon were all of boxwood. He felt minded to tell Varian he had no intention whatever of putting himself out of the way, but thought better of it and held his peace.

“Will you be quite ready to-night at eight?” the old man asked him at the evening meal.

“Entirely so!” Nasmyth replied.

Varian passed a few commonplaces with him, apparently well pleased with as latest victim; then turned on the electric light and withdrew.

Promptly at eight he reappeared. He sat down close to the bars, with his features sinister, now that Nasmyth understood them— strongly illuminated by the incandescent above.

For a moment the two men gazed at each other in silence. The physician’s heart was pounding strongly, and an extreme nervousness strove to possess him; but he mastered his emotion and assumed a sang-froid he could not feel. At least he was determined that Varian should never have the satisfaction of seeing him disturbed.

“Ready?” asked the madman, smiling. “Think well of your question! Remember, there can be no discussion. My answers shall be yes or no— nothing but yes or no! Are you ready?”

“I am,” the captive replied, as he stood there by the bars.

“First question, then.”

“First question: This thing that you are thinking of, does it fall into the category of material things?”

“No!” answered Varian. “I wish you a very good night!”

He arose and departed, leaving Nasmyth much depressed. Since the object of Varian’s thought was not material, it must lie in realms more vague and uncertain, outside the material world. This confirmed the captive’s suspicion that the old man would choose a subject of great subtly, and assured him the task was to be fearfully severe.

Nasmyth spent the evening in profound thought, poring over the categories of the immaterial and the abstract— having rejected and destroyed all the others— until the light went out at ten-thirty. He then wrapped himself in the folds of his Japanese attire, admirably suited to such a confinement, and lay down on his quilts to sleep as best he might.

v

TO DETAIL each day’s analyses and thoughts would unduly prolong this narrative. If it be kept within bounds, the progress of Nasmyth’s investigation must now be handled somewhat in outline, as day by day it led Varian and his captive onward through the strange maze that tortured the unfortunate physician.

On the second day, in order to make positively certain of being on the right track Nasmyth used a question that perhaps he might have spared, but did not dare to proceed without:

“Is this thing an abstract concept?”

“Yes,” Varian replied.

The captive now felt himself headed in the right direction, with eight questions still remaining. True, he reflected, the realms of the abstract would prove far more difficult to penetrate than would those of the concrete, where some material object was to be discovered. But with eight questions to his credit, and with a strictly scientific system of eliminations, there might still be some chance of success.

Strange as it may seem, despite the desperate character of the game, and the stakes of life or death, Nasmyth could not help feeling a kind of savage pleasure in matching his wits against those of the old man in this cynical danse macabre of the intellect. Even in those despondent hours when he fell positive nothing but extinction awaited him, he lost nothing of his powerful determination to fight on and on, to the very end.

The third day, having carefully analyzed all classes of abstractions, Nasmyth propounded the following query:

“Does this idea you have in mind fall into the categories of the esthetic or the moral?”

“No,” Varian answered. Then, smiling, he added: “Let me compliment you on your progress. You still have seven questions left, and you have already advanced further than any of the others. with the possible exception of Van Cleave. Several died, either by their own hand or mine, before they had even reached the knowledge that I was thinking of an abstraction, outside the limits of the moral and the esthetic.”

“That is to say,” put in Nasmyth, hoping to win some information gratis, “within the limits of the practical?”

“Yes. But you must count that as a question,” said Varian with solemnity. “Remember, there are but six left. I pray you, do not waste them!”

Nasmyth, sickened at realization of the intellectual keenness of the madman, made no further speech, but returned to his reflections. Obviously he could win nothing from Varian without paying the full price. He must not hurry matters or lose his head, but must day by day, with relentless precision and logic, prosecute this ghastly search for the practical abstraction which alone could save him from merciless annihilation.

The knowledge that now only six chances remained to him served both as a terrible depressant and a most active stimulus. Out of many thousands of things, one specific thing now had to be discovered; a task, surely, that would have baffled even a Sir Isaac Newton.

That night was spent in a careful study of the written categories of the useful abstractions, and—after the extinction of the light— in profound menial analyses. Nasmyth eventually fell asleep, toward morning, and awoke only at ten, with deep despondency assailing him.

He fought this off, however, and by night had formulated the fifth question, thus:

“Has this practical abstraction anything to do, primarily, with existence, time, change or causation?”

“No,” smiled Varian, obviously elated at his captive’s failure; and departed.

The next day was a bad one for Nasmyth. Confinement— despite his attempts at calisthenics— loss of appetite, intense mental labor and anxiety, all had cumulated in bringing on a severe nervous headache. He recognized the fact, moreover, that his body was losing weight and his strength declining.

His mind, however, felt supernormally keen. Its grasp and scope seemed quadrupled; yet in its intense application and dwelling on the problem he felt lay perils of madness. The strain, he knew, must soon be over in one way or the other.

Were it to last another ten days— he shuddered to think of the result.

The sixth question, tediously formulated he put in this wise:

“I shall now divide the remaining categories of the abstract, namely: relation, quality, order, and number, into two halves, of two categories each. The first is relation and quality. Does your concept fall in that group?”

“No,” said Varian. “Remember, now, you have but four more questions. I warn you, be extremely careful!”

Nasmyth felt very ill that night. He had a last narrowed the thing down to one of the two categories of order and number, so that now he was within striking distance of the goal. But to attain the thing itself, ten or a dozen questions more would have been none too many, and he now had but four.

His physical condition was growing very bad. Nervous tremors assailed him, he perspired profusely at times and again bad chills, due to the long-continued and intense mental excitement of this ordeal.

At times he was assailed by a mad rage against Varian, whom he had come to hate with desperate intensity; a rage that set him shivering and quaking whenever the madman appeared on necessary errands. He was assailed by mad ideas of guessing wildly and at random, quickly using up his last four chances and thus ending the horrible farce.

He now well understood how Henderson had insisted on hastening the test, how Maltby had gone mad, and how Van Cleave had tried to commit suicide.

Resolutely, however, he controlled his every untoward impulse, and with a savage kind of determination whipped himself to obedience, to labor, and to dogged patience.

Pacing the floor of his cell, head gripped in both hands, or lying on his quilt, he fought the fight with his own soul and won. Came, thus, another day and with it the seventh question, thus:

“A process of elimination reduces your idea to one of the two categories of order and number. Does it fall in either, or in both?”

“That is not a fair question,” objected Varian. “It cannot logically be answered with yes or no. You interest me, however, so extremely by your extraordinary method, worthy of my own intellect, that I will strain a point and answer: It falls in both, but more particularly in the latter. Good night.”

Nasmyth felt courage reviving. He now was close on to trail of the elusive abstraction. The thing had to do with order and number, but more particularly with number. That is, it must be some mathematical concept.

Carefully he analyzed. By midnight he had thought his way to this conclusion: It might be either some branch of mathematics, like arithmetic, algebra, geometry or calculus: or it might be some component part one of these sciences. Infinite possibilities opened out ahead of him, in the realm of mathematics.

Despite his anguish, he could not help admiring the astuteness of Varian in entering this field, where guessing the object was a practical impossibility. And at the thought of this, once more despair seized the unhappy victim of the maniac’s delusion. There remained, now, but three questions, each of vital importance.

Nasmyth pondered long before propounding the eighth: “Have you in mind some mathematical science as an entity?”

“No! Remember, now, you have but two more chances!”

Nasmyth felt his brain reel, but by a powerful effort controlled himself and went on with his analyses. Next day he had prepared the following:

“Since it is no special branch of mathematics, it must be something common to them all. The only common factor is the mathematical sequence known as numbers. Is it any number, you are thinking of?”

Varian paused a moment before replying. Nasmyth felt himself irrevocably lost. Were it a number, what hope could he entertain of ever discovering it? From one to infinity, he might spend years in trying to guess a certain specific number. Thus it was with a feeling of enormous relief that he heard Varian reply:

“No.”

“No number, you say?” the doctor asked.

“Do you mean that as the tenth question?” And Varian’s eyes gleamed.

“Certainly not! It is merely a confirmation of your ninth answer.”

“Very well. I repeat, it is no number, no number at all, that I am thinking of. Yet your inference that it is something common to all branches of Mathematics is absolutely correct.

“You are now verging the absolute edge of the correct answer. In all my experience I have never met an intellect anything at all like yours. Not one of my experimental subjects has even approximated the answer. I congratulate you, doctor, on your marvelous keenness and insight.

“If you fail, as I confidently expect you yet will, my regret at having to eliminate you will be very sincere and deep-seated. I wish you good night, and beg you to think carefully, now; for to-morrow night I shall require you to speak the one, exact, identical word which shall free you. Otherwise— you understand— much as I regret the necessity—”

Varian, suddenly lapsing into incoherence, began gesticulating and muttering into his beard, with all the characteristics of madness. He shuffled up and down the open space outside the cage a few times, stared in at Nasmyth, laughed loudly, and all at once departed.

The unfortunate captive shuddered violently. Even though he should guess the secret, he now had begun to doubt his captor’s ability to recognize his rights, or his willingness to release him. Dealing with a man non compos mentis opened up all kinds of horrible possibilities.

A vast sense of weariness oppressed him. Without further thought, that night, he lay down on his quilts, shut out the light by burying his face in his arms, and so— quite exhausted— fell into a kind of torpid sleep.

The final day found him feverish and wan, unable to eat or to remain a minute in one place. Like the condemned man he now realized himself to be, he paced the floor of his cell. Only by a strong effort of the will could he restrain himself from dashing his head against the walls or beating his fists on the steel cage.

Ideas of suicide obsessed him. By stripping his robe into cords and twisting them he could make a rope and manage to hang himself from the bars.

This thought took a strong hold on him. for some hours, but he fought it off, and by noon had managed to calm himself sufficiently to force his mind once more to the loathed and execrated task of analysis.

Analysis now supremely vital; since on its accuracy, on the pronouncing of the one, specific word, his life inevitably depended.

All that afternoon and evening, up till seven o’clock, he labored on the problem of discovering a common factor to all mathematics, which should yet not be a number. By seven his head was aching desperately and his nerves were raw.

A trembling weakness possessed his whole body. He could hardly remain upright, but sat or lay on his bed, his mind now fixed on the one, final idea which he had reached as the only possible solution of the ghastly problem.

This idea, voiced in a single word, rang and hummed in his fevered mind, now close to madness. Voices seemed shouting it at him. Fiends chanted it: hammers, glowing hot, pounded it upon his brain: wild visions swept it across his sight.

Again he lay down, groveling, trying to escape it; and thus he lapsed at length into a kind of merciful oblivion.

A voice, calling him, roused his wandering mind to consciousness.

“Well, Nasmyth! Are you ready?”

Sitting up, he stared in horror at the strangest apparition he had ever yet beheld.

vi

THE figure that stood there before him would have shaken stronger nerves than his. It was clad in a long linen gown, such as surgeons use for operations. The entire head and face were covered by a singular apparatus, a respirator, with round, glazed eye-holes, through which Nasmyth could see the gleam of the madman’s eyes. In his right hand Varian held a thin vial.

Nasmyth understood. He straggled to his feet, recoiling from the vision.

“Do not be alarmed,” came a voice from the respirator. “Death is nothing but sleep and rest. He who has not earned the right to life should hold death as a blessing. Are you ready for the last, the deciding question?”

Unable for a moment to speak, the captive stared at his tormentor. Then he raised a trembling hand, pointing.

“You— you mean to murder me?” he gasped. “Murder me, and stand by, immune in that devilish apparatus.”

“I am not here to argue!” answered Varian sternly. “I am here to answer your last question, and either to free you or to work inexorable justice! Are you ready?”

Realizing the worse than futility of argument, Nasmyth, by a supreme effort, steadied himself to face the inevitable. Folding his arms, he faced the madman.

“Ready, yes,” he said.

“Very well!” And the old man, vial of deadly gas in hand, advanced close to the bars. “What is your tenth and last question?”

Nasmyth kept a moment’s silence, shuddering, then—unable to take his eyes from that venomous flask— began: “According to your own answers, you are thinking of a useful, mathematical abstraction, not a branch of mathematics and not a number.”

“Correct. Can you name it?”

“I can!”

“Do so—and on your own false reasoning be the responsibility of your death if you fail!”

“Is it— is— it—” Nasmyth stammered, but could not bring himself to speak the crucial word.

“Well, is it what?” cried Varian impatiently. He raised the vial, ready to hurl it to the concrete floor in case of failure.

“Is it— zero?”

The word burst from his parched and quivering throat in a supreme and anguished effort.

For a second the madman stood there motionless and dumb. Then a gasping groan issued from the mask.

“Yes!” came a hoarse whisper. “I am beaten! You— have won!”

Nasmyth’s consciousness lapsed a second. Before his eyes a kind of shimmering mist seemed to flow and swim. A humming roar, as of a distant surf upon a rocky coast, filled his ears. He swayed forward, felt that contact of cold metal, and found that he was clutching the bars of his cage.

Reeking with sweat, shivering and utterly unnerved, he clung there a moment, while steadfastly upon him the malevolent gaze of the masked Varian seemed burning through his soul.

“You have won!” he heard the madman’s voice again. “For the first time my intelligence has had to bow before another man’s. The impossible has happened. In ten questions— it is incredible— monstrous—”

“Let me go!” panted the captive, utterly unstrung. “I have stood the test! Let me go free!”

Varian nodded, muttered to himself and approached the door of the cage. Mute and weak, Nasmyth watched him turning the combination. The prisoner’s eyes fastened themselves on that operation with a terrible intensity. Nothing mattered now but that. While the mood should last, would Varian really let him escape? Would he hold firm to that diabolical flask of death; would he open the door, let the captive pass from the cage and through the basement door?

Beyond that, Nasmyth had no thought. Once he could gain the exit he felt that he could fight his way to liberty in spite of all that Varian might do. His weakness mattered nothing, now. New, latent strength welled up in him.

His costume made no difference. Given the chance, he would rush into the public street in that strange garb, shouting for help, for the police, for the arrest of Varian, the maniac and murderer!

All at once he heard a sharp, decisive click. Varian stepped back from the door, which now was swinging wide. Unable to believe his eyes, still fearing some treachery, some ruse, the wretched captive tremblingly advanced, his every sense keenly alert lest in the very moment of liberation his insane captor strike him down.

Now he was at the door, now through it, while Varian stood back, vial in hand, still peering at him through those round death’s-head goggles in the respirator. Nerving himself to a supreme self-control, forcing himself to walk instead of yielding to the mad impulse to run in stark panic toward the half open basement door, Nasmyth passed in front of the madman.

In silence Varian watched him go. Nasmyth made a yard toward the door, two yards, three. Already half the distance was traversed. Already he sensed liberty, and hope, and life—

Came a shrill cry, a rush behind him, a snarling scream of rage.

“If you go free, I am lost!” screamed Varian. “You will tell the police— you must not— no— you shall not!”

Whirling, his flesh a-crawl with horror, Nasmyth saw the maniac’s arm toss up, as with a beast-like howl of rage he hurled the vial of liquid gas, the deadliest poison known to science.

A quivering faintness flashed upon him at that sight. Instinctively he flung up both arms. His loose Japanese sleeves, outspread like a bat’s wings, intercepted the spinning tube of death.

He heard its impact against the padded softness of his right sleeve. Something fell upon his right foot, upon the white cotton tabi, or sock, that shod it. Then, with a tiny clattering, the frail glass capsule of annihilation skittered across the rough concrete and came to rest.

Howling, Varian precipitated himself toward it. One stride more, and his boot would have crushed it to powder.

But ere that stride fell, Nasmyth was upon him. Leaping, he smote the madman on the masked jaw with all the power of his being. Varian fell sprawling, with wild blasphemies. Upon him, as he scrabbled toward the flask, Nasmyth hurled himself.

A horrible struggle began. Weakened by confinement and the desperate nerve-strain of the past days, Nasmyth still for a moment was able to hold his adversary.

Over and over they rolled on the floor, grunting, striking, gouging, tearing. At every moment danger was acute that they might fall upon the vial and crush it. All Varian’s surprising energy was now concentrated on just that ambition— to smash the vial; all Nasmyth’s, to hold him back from it.

Off ripped the long kimono, in grotesque shreds and tatters. Off tore the respirator, stripped away by the physician’s clutching desperation.

“You— die with me— if I die!” he panted, straining for a vital grip on the madman. He felt the old man’s wiry hands grappling his throat. Furiously he flung his head from side to side, avoiding that clutch. Tearing like a wild beast, he for a second held him off. Then, once, twice, full in the face he struck the maniac.

Varian’s grip loosened a second. With a heart-bursting effort, Nasmyth wrenched himself free.

Rip!

Long shreds and tatters of silk remained in the old man’s clutch as the physician struggled up, away. Again he struck; and now, free for an instant he staggered to the vial, caught it up and ran for the door.

With incredible agility and strength the old man flung after him, howling like all the fiends of the pit. Just at the door Varian caught him.

Whirling, Nasmyth let drive a blind right-hander to the eyes. The crash of that blow, going home, was music to his soul.

In a haze of wild confusion he sensed that Varian was staggering backwards. Fate hung on fractions of a second. Up he slung his left, holding the vial, and with all his last remaining strength hurled it smashing against the wall below the clock.

Even as the old man, rallying, clutched at him once more, he burst through the door and slammed it after him. With a clang of metal a catch fell into place.

Muffled, a hideous scream echoed within— a scream choked off short in the middle— a scream that ended in a silence terribly eloquent.

Nasmyth stood there, pale as milk, bloodless to the lips, with staring eyes, his quivering body racked in spasmodic tremors. He turned, then, toward some stairs dimly seen ahead of him.

Three or four steps he made toward those stairs, along a kind of passageway. All at once he burst into a jangling laugh that rose, rose, rose in horrible, mad mirth. The laugh died suddenly.

“Free! Free!” gasped the doctor in a choking whisper.

He pressed both hands to his burning head, took one more step, and— all his vital forces drained to the utter-most dregs— plunged forward and fell, face downward, in a swoon.

____________________

8: Tartas the Terrible

H. Hesketh-Prichard

1876-1922

Top Notch, 1 May 1915

DINNER had just commenced for the Baron de Tartas. He sat alone in front of a heavy table ; a single attendant stood behind his chair. From time to time he lifted his dark, bearded face and laughed as a man does who enjoys a cynical recollection, but there was no mirth in the laughter nor any glint of humor in the hard, black eyes.

"Pierre!" he called.

"Yes, monsieur le baron," was the reply.

"I grow lonely. I must have company."

"Yes, monsieur le baron," came the same reply.

"Is the Comte Andre de Lavelle at home?" asked the baron.

"Yes, monsieur le baron," repeated the man, with a grin.

"Then I shall be glad of his company."

Pierre crossed the room and touched, or seemed to touch, a spring in the wall, for a panel backed with iron, on which was painted a scene of the chase, slipped back, disclosing an aperture behind it. Across the mouth of this aperture, which evidently belonged to a secret chamber, thick iron bars showed in the lamplight.

"Light monsieur le comte's lantern," ordered De Tartas.

Pierre picked up a taper, and in another moment he had kindled a light which threw the whole interior into relief. An iron cage had been introduced into the secret chamber, and from between its bars a human face peered forth through a thatch of hair and beard uncut for months.

The Baron de Tartas rose in his place and bowed low. "Permit me to greet you, my dear comte," said he.

"You devil!" was the count's response.

"Tut, tut, this is very foolish! But I will pass it over since you are so young. Let me see, how old are you?"

The man in the cage made no reply.

"Let me see: You were twenty-three when—"

"When you betrayed and trapped me!" put in the prisoner.

"And you have enjoyed my hospitality for just eleven months. You are, therefore, twenty-four years old. By the way, Pierre, when did monsieur le comte dine last?"

"On Tuesday, monsieur le baron," said Pierre.

"And this is Thursday!" exclaimed the baron. "Tut, tut, he must be hungry ! Take him a cup of this excellent soup, Pierre."

Pierre did as he was bidden, and passed a cup of soup through the bars.

The wretched prisoner seized it and swallowed the liquid.

"You love life," sneered the baron, watching him.

"While I live I hope!" said the count.

"For what, my good fool?" was the next question.

"That some day— some day you may lie at my mercy !"

The baron laughed long and loudly. "You are of a sanguine disposition," he remarked ; then, turning to Pierre: "Go! I desire a tete-a-tete with monsieur."

As soon as they were alone, the baron helped himself to a huge grilled bone. When he had cut off the greater part of the meat, he caught up the bone and hurled it at the man in the cage.

"There'" he cried. "Feast, and be merry."

The bone struck the bars and fell to the ground. The Baron de Tartas, with his eyes fixed on the prisoner, continued his dinner. Dish after dish he ate and pushed away. Then at last he poured out a great bumper of wine and drained it.

"And now," said he, as he set it down, "I have news for you, my dear comte. I saw mademoiselle to-day. She is more beautiful than ever."

The prisoner in the cage, who had been sitting facing his tormentor, turned his back deliberately. De Tartas smiled.

"It may interest you to know that I asked her whether she had changed her mind, and would become my wife."

The man in the cage sprang up. "And she refused! I know it. She refused with contempt and scorn !"

"Not at all, my dear Andre; you are wrong. She accepted — on one condition."

"What was that condition?" asked the prisoner.

"A condition which she thought impossible, but which we know is by no means so," replied his tormentor smoothly. "She imagines that you are not dead, and declares she will never accept me until she hears you renounce her with your own lips."

"I will die first!" cried the count.

"No doubt, my young friend; but, unfortunately for you, it is not a question of dying but of living— ten, twenty— perhaps thirty— years like a blackbird in that comfortable cage. You fool ! On the day when first I saw you cast your eyes on Adrienne, I had this chamber prepared. On the day she consented to marry you the cage was placed in it. Twenty days later my men waylaid you as you rode, singing, through the woods. As to Adrienne, she does not know what has become of you any more than the rest of the world, always excepting the good Pierre and myself. But one day she shall know— one day!"

The baron laughed suddenly and harshly. "Ah, if she saw you now what would she think of you? Would she love you still? You have changed from the debonair creature she remembers! The curling, dark hair, the clear, bronzed cheeks, where are they? But I forget! You have not seen yourself !"

De Tartas seized a mirror, and, crossing the floor, held it up to the cage. In it Andre saw reflected a thing hardly human, a wolfish face snarling from a mass of tangled hair. He recoiled.

"You give me an idea. She shall see you!" cried De Tartas. "She shall see you! Will she rush into your arms, I wonder, as she did under the chestnut trees?"

ii

THE Baron de Tartas could climb, on the clearest day, to the highest tower of his castle, and north, south, east, and west, as far as he could see, stretched his own land ; and over its cowering inhabitants he held the right of the high justice, the middle, and the low. Far from the capital, and shut in by his mountains and forests, he lived practically the life of a robber chieftain, a last survivor of those the fear of whom once lay heavy upon the countryside. He was indeed a terrible man, and at sight of His cold eyes and pointed beard the children slunk into the thickets, and their parents trembled in the sunlight.

De Tartas was forty-three years old when first he saw Adrienne de Carteret, and from that hour he set himself to win her. Apart from her great beauty, she was well worth the winning, for she possessed broad lands in her own right. Her father was dead, and she lived with her mother in the Chateau of Noirmont.

At first De Tartas, who could be very pleasant when he so desired, had seemed to make some headway in her good graces, but at the coming of the young Comte de Lavelle all was changed.

The handsome youth, who possessed nothing but a few hundred barren acres in one of the farther of the Pyrenean valleys, came and saw and conquered, and was conquered in his turn. De Tartas found himself slighted, as he conceived, and forgotten, as he most truly was. And then, one day young De Lavelle had gone hunting in the dark mountain woods, and from that hunt he never returned. For De Tartas' men had waylaid and captured him after a desperate fight, and he was thrust, bleeding and wounded, into the cage which had been prepared for him.

A story was circulated afterward by the retainers of the baron that Lavelle had been slain by a bear; but, of course, his body was not recovered, and Adrienne continued to hope against hope that one day he would return to her.

After a decent interval, De Tartas renewed his suit, but Adrienne would not listen to him, exclaiming that if Andre were dead, she would' die unmarried. And when De Tartas hinted that the young man had loved and ridden away, she swore she would never believe that

Andre was fickle until she heard him renounce her with his own lips.

Such was the position of affairs on the summer evening when the baron held the mirror to his prisoner's eyes.

iii

THE Baron de Tartas rode out from his castle gate and struck across the hills for Noirmont. He had made up his mind to try a new move in his game, and he passed slowly and thoughtfully through winding valleys, along forested hillsides, and stony ravines, till the sun was high, and he found himself overlooking a green hollow beyond which rose the heights of Noirmont — the dark mountain that gave its name to Adrienne's home. This was a huge castellated building that stood out boldly upon one of the lower spurs of the mountain.

As De Tartas urged his horse up the steep roadway to the gate, he argued with himself that fate, who favors the brave, should, by all the rules of chance, be with him in the daring bid for success that he was about to make. He believed that he had fathomed Adrienne's character, gauged her strength and her weakness ; and on this knowledge he relied.

She came through the shadows of the vaulted hall to meet him, and he trembled as he bent over her hand and kissed it, for his hopes were risen high, and he was shaken by the thought that this beautiful girl soon might be his wife.

She shuddered, and withdrew her hand, but looked straight at him with eyes as deeply blue as the summer sky. From the folds of lace crossed upon her bosom, her round neck rose proudly, its ivory accentuated by the splendor of her dark hair.

"Am I, then, so hateful to you?" he asked, stepping back a pace as if to make her look at him.

And, in fact, he was a personable man, for though no taller than herself, he had the torso and shoulders of a Hercules, his lean, large-featured face was far from uncomely, and once he had fancied that she had looked with kindness on him.

She shook her head slightly, as if his question needed no answer. "My mother is sleeping; she is wearied and ill," she said.

"It is you, mademoiselle, with whom I must speak," he replied. "Is it not time you ceased to mourn for Monsieur de Lavelle?"

"I must always mourn for him," said Adrienne.

"I can bear that, but give yourself to me!" pleaded the baron. "The years must teach you comfort; the law of the world is the law of change."

"I have told you that I do not believe that he is dead, and that I will never give him up until his own lips disclaim my promise."

"In that case, I have news for you," said De Tartas.

The blood slowly left her face. "He is alive?" she asked.

"Yes," replied the baron.

"I have always felt it." For a moment she stood, too moved to speak; then the words came: "Who told you? How did you find out? Where is he?"

De Tartas smiled as he watched her with his cold eyes. "You are asking a great many questions, mademoiselle. In my turn, I will ask you one only. It is this: Why should I tell you?"

She turned a gaze of horror upon him. He wilted a little under its reproach.

"Mademoiselle," he continued, "every man must fight for his own hand, since there is never another to fight for him. And you know that, though Monsieur de Lavelle is so fortunate as to possess your love to-day, I still have hopes."

"Which can never be fulfilled," said the girl coldly.

"Exactly— which you say can never be fulfilled. But what if I were to find a way to change your resolves, perhaps even your affections?"

"It is not possible," she told him.

"Will you permit me to make the attempt?" asked De Tartas.

"To what end? No, monsieur le baron, I will not permit you to make the attempt, seeing it would be useless."

"You forget that if you refuse to accept my terms you will hear no more of Monsieur de Lavelle," suggested her suitor.

She looked at him with loathing and contempt. "What are your terms?" she asked.

"Come to my chateau and I will answer your questions, and tell you all I know of the whereabouts of the Comte de Lavelle," promised the baron.

"My mother is not well enough to make the journey," parried Adrienne.

"There is no need for her to do so. You must come alone; you can return before dawn."

"You ask me to come at night, and in secret!" exclaimed the girl in astonishment. "You know it is impossible; I will not!"

"Pierre shall meet you in the valley and bring you back again," said De Tartas.

Then, as she stared at him, the baron bowed low before her. "I go, mademoiselle," said he, "but I will return tomorrow. If you do not then agree to my condition, you will never hear of your lover again!"

iv

ADRIENNE met De Tartas on the terrace, when he came again. "Do you mean to trust me?" he asked.

"How can I be certain that it is not all a lie, this news you promised me of Monsieur de Lavelle?" she said uncertainly.

"By this." De Tartas put his hand to his breast and drew out a miniature.

Adrienne could not suppress a cry; it was a likeness of herself which she had given to De Lavelle after their betrothal.

"He is dead! He never would have parted with this while he lived !"

"I swear to you that he lives, mademoiselle, and I will add this— it may be that he is in danger. He may, perhaps, be saved if "

"I will come to-night!" she interrupted hastily.

"That is well," approved the baron. "The moon rises in good time. It will show you the path along the valley, and Pierre shall be waiting for you by the Dent-du-Chat. Au revoir, mademoiselle."

The Baron de Tartas strode into his gloomy hall. He had been watching for the last two hours from his battlements, and had just seen, under the Dent-du-Chat, the flicker of the little beacon which he had ordered Pierre to light as a signal that Adrienne was on her way.

In the hall a sumptuous feast was laid out upon the table. A roast lamb stood at one end faced by a young swan of which the baron kept many pinioned upon his waters. Dishes of fruit and beakers of wine glinted and shone in the flaring lights. De Tartas glanced at the preparations and nodded his head in satisfaction ; then he stepped across and touched the spring which rolled back the secret panel, and disclosed the cage upon the straw-strewn floor of which crouched De Lavelle.

"Ah, my dear comte!" said he. "You will perceive that my table is laid for two."

The prisoner did not move. De Tartas laughed. "I doubt if even your quick intelligence could guess the name of the visitor I am about to have the honor of entertaining."

Still the prisoner did not move. Many a time had De Tartas tortured him with the sight of food.

"It is just eleven o'clock," continued the baron. "Eleven at night, for I suppose it is necessary to add that— since except when in my great mercy I push back the panel, you pass your time like a mole in the darkness."

Still the prisoner lay inert upon the straw.

"Ah !" said the baron. "I see that I must tell you exactly what has occurred. Yesterday I did myself the honor of visiting Mademoiselle Adrienne and of telling her that I had news of you."

"You told her that!" said the prisoner in a hollow voice.

"Yes, indeed I" said the baron. "And I added that if she would come here to-night I would communicate this news.

"Adrienne here to-night!" cried the prisoner.

The baron laughed. "Does not her coming rejoice you? Will she not be overjoyed to meet you once again? Can you doubt it, since you have seen yourself as you now are? She, who is so proud, so fastidious. But enough of that ; when you see her, you will tell her that you no longer love her, and that you give her back her promise. If you do this, you shall be set free before morning."

"And if I refuse?" demanded the prisoner.

"Why, then we shall enjoy ourselves together for many years to come— you and I. Be wise, my dear comte; the sunshine and the winds are so very pleasant. Not that the choice will be a very difficult one, for she will spurn you and loathe you. But there are one or two details concerning the reasons which have caused me to put you in this cage that I shall expect you to corroborate. First, then, I captured you not because Mademoiselle Adrienne loved you and I loved Mademoiselle Adrienne— oh, no! But because, although you were betrothed to her, you were paying your addresses to Diane l'Oiseau, the daughter of one of my foresters. I, hearing of this, and being naturally and righteously enraged at your perfidy, seized you and punished you. Do you understand ?"

"You wish me to acknowledge and bear witness to the truth of these lies before Mademoiselle de Carteret? You forget that she will question this Diane," said the count scornfully.

"She will say anything that I tell her," the baron assured him. "Understand that. You have your choice. It is not a hard one. On the one side freedom, on the other such a life as few have endured since the beginning of the world. Ah, that must be Pierre. They have come!"

The baron's quick ear had caught the sound of horses in the courtyard. He pressed the spring, and the panel shot forward, hiding the cage.

Soon after, Pierre threw open the door. "It is mademoiselle," said he.

"Good! Go! Wait with the horses in the courtyard. See that they are fed."

Meantime, Adrienne had advanced into the room. Pale though she was, she made a beautiful picture, with her blue eyes and her raven hair against the dark and rugged background of the somber hall of De Tartas, who kissed her hand with an exaggeration of respect.

"You will eat after your ride?" said he. "See, I have drawn upon all the resources of my poor estate."

"I am grateful," replied Adrienne, "but I am not hungry. I have come here for a purpose. I desire to fulfill that purpose and then depart."

"Tut, tut !" cried the baron. "I shall take it ill if you thus refuse my hospitality on this, your first visit to my poor chateau. Come, sit down and taste some of this swan that has fattened in a lake surrounded by chestnut trees, and on the shores of which are beds of wild celery."

Adrienne sighed, and the two took their seats at the table.

v

THE baron had arranged the lights so that they fell full upon his visitor's lovely face, from which, even as he ate and drank, he hardly removed his eyes. Again and again Adrienne tried to lead the conversation in the direction that she desired, but the baron baffled her with his laughter and his boasting of his woods and his deer, and of the bears and wolves he had slain— for the man was a great hunter, and, after his infatuation for Adrienne, the chase was the passion of his life.

At length, however, the meal was over, and Adrienne broke out: "Have you lured me here with a lie, that you evade all my questions?"

"Your pardon, mademoiselle," he answered courteously. "I am sorry if I have offended you. I will make immediate reparation. You desire to know many things concerning Monsieur de Lavelle. You shall know them all. First, then, I have the honor to inform you that Monsieur de Lavelle is here, and has been here during the last eleven months."

"What!" cried Adrienne. "This is incredible! Why have you kept him hidden?"

"For a very good reason, mademoiselle. I must ask you to listen to the facts of the case. They are simple. You will hear me?"

Adrienne inclined her head.

"You must know, then, that from the day I saw you I loved you. No, no, mademoiselle, do not interrupt me"— for Adrienne had made a movement of anger— "it is all part of what I have to tell you. I say that I loved you, and until the coming of this De Lavelle, it may be that you looked not unkindly upon me. But before long I realized that for you there was but one man in the world, and, mademoiselle, such was my love for you that I was willing it should be so, provided I could assure myself that that man was indeed worthy of the great good fortune which had befallen him.

"Once I was assured of this, I decided that I would wish you happiness for the last time, and retire here to my hunting and solitude and my memories of you. But I am the lord of no small domain, and whatever may occur within my marches comes to my ears sooner or later— generally sooner, dear mademoiselle.

"And now my men told me that you were not the only woman for Andre de Lavelle. There lives over yonder"— the baron waved his hand to the east— "a certain forester, Jean l'Oiseau. He has a daughter, Diane is her name, of whose beauty even you in your Chateau of Noirmont may have heard. Well, they told me that your betrothed, when he left you, rode straight to the hut in the forest and spent the evenings of the days he passed with you wandering through the woods, his arm around her, and his black locks mingled with her golden ones."

"Do you expect me to believe that?" asked Adrienne scornfully.

"You will believe it before you leave this hall," the baron assured her. "But let me continue: When I learned of De Lavelle's treachery, rage overpowered me, and at first it was in my mind to ride to you. I should have done so had I not realized, and rightly, it seems, that you would laugh me to scorn. So I thought of another way in which I might save you. Near the hut of Jean, the forester, I placed an ambush, and presently the fox was in the trap. His lips were upon Diane's when they captured him, and dragged him before me. He flung himself upon the ground and begged me to keep silence. Yes, he offered to renounce you if I would let him go, but my wrath was to be measured only by my love, and, swayed by it, I cast him into prison."

"And then— then?" asked the girl breathlessly.

"I treated him as he deserved. Did I do right?" said De Tartas.

"You left me without word of him all these months!" she cried.

"For your own sake. I knew how painful it would be to you to realize that you had been betrothed to a creature so unworthy— a traitor."

"I thank you, but I condemn no man unheard," said mademoiselle proudly. "You say that Andre is imprisoned here; I must see him and permit him to defend himself."

"I was about to suggest that you should do so," returned the baron smoothly.

She had been far from expecting this easy acquiescence.

"In that case, the sooner the better. Shall I accompany you?" she added, for the baron had risen.

"There is no need. I keep him close to me, and watch over him very carefully." With these words, De Tartas left the table and walked slowly across the hall.

When he arrived opposite the secret spring, he turned and faced Adrienne, who was following his movements with a gaze of mingled agony and expectation. Then, as he touched it, the panel drew back into its socket. De Tartas lifted a lamp.

"There!" cried he. "There is the traitor who insulted you !"

The figure in the cage rose to its knees, blinking, for the sudden change from utter darkness to light rendered him blind for a moment. The next he seized the bars of the cage, shaking and tearing at them like some, imprisoned animal.

Adrienne stood still. The horror of the moment completely deprived her of the power of speech. At last words came: "Who is this? Who is this?"

"You do not recognize Comte Andre de Lavelle?" mocked De Tartas.

"Oh, it cannot be! It is impossible! Andre! Andre! It is not you— it cannot be you !" she cried.

"Adrienne, it is indeed I!" came Andre's voice.

Adrienne turned on De Tartas. "You have done this, this! There is no word I know that would describe you !"

"All for your sake, mademoiselle," said the baron. "You forget that; and you have not questioned him. Ask him of the kisses he gave to Diane l'Oiseau, and of how he confessed to me that he cared not for you, but for your possessions."

"Andre," cried Adrienne, "tell me this is not true. I know you too well; it is a lie, a wild invention. Tell me, and I will believe you. Oh, my Andre, my poor Andre, tell me!"

"Your Andre!" repeated the man in the cage. "Do you mean that? He said you would turn from me with hatred and disgust, that you would loathe the sight of me, who have no longer the appearance of a human being."

"Bah!" cried the baron. "You see how he shirks an answer. If you do not answer at once I will press this spring."

"Then I will answer, most noble Ambrose, Baron de Tartas, and high seigneur of Jaurac," replied the prisoner contemptuously. "You have said that I walked in the woods with Diane l'Oiseau, and that I renounced the Lady Adrienne in my fear of what you might do to me in your righteous indignation. I will answer, oh, yes, I will answer that charge. Diane I never heard of till an hour ago, when you told me that if I acknowledged my love for her I should be free before dawn. As to the renunciation which you commanded me to make, I have this to say: I love the Lady Adrienne and her only, and her I will continue to love until death!"

The baron sprang forward. "Do you understand what you say?" he cried. Then, seeing in Adrienne's eyes how utterly his plan had miscarried, he broke into uncontrollable rage. "Do you realize that the words you have spoken condemn you to spend the rest of your life where you are?"

"I shall at least have the sweet memory of your chagrin to keep me company," said the prisoner.

"Have no fear, Andre, I will raise the countryside. I will rescue you!" cried Adrienne.

The baron smiled. "The castle can stand a two years' siege," said he, "even if you can prevail upon people to come and besiege it, which I think you will find it hard to do. Besides, I will deny that Monsieur de Lavelle is here."

"And I will tell every one that I saw him myself," said the girl.

"Do not forget to add the fact that the hour at which you saw him was in the middle of the night, and that you came alone of your own free will to the Chateau de Tartas !" the baron reminded her.

A haughty smile crossed Adrienne's features. "Can you imagine that I will shrink from telling the whole truth?" said she.

"Adrienne! Adrienne! You give me courage to die, not once, but many times," cried Andre.

"You will need it," said the baron grimly. "And now, mademoiselle, my last word: Wed me, and this man shall have his liberty. Refuse, and return home, and when you lie upon your bed, think that he and I are together, and that some of the old implements of torture, which my ancestors used so wisely, are still to be found in my castle. Those thoughts will give you pleasant dreams. And now I will leave you to talk it over and to make your choice. You shall have ten minutes together. I will wait in the next room."

vi

THE moment they were alone, Adrienne rushed forward and caught the hand which Andre had thrust through the bars, and covered it with kisses.

"There is no one like you in the world, Adrienne!" he told her.

"Can I not free you?" she asked.

"No, he carries the key upon his person." "

"It may be possible to break the padlock," suggested Adrienne frantically.

"To do so would need the strength of six men, and is far beyond yours. Adrienne, how did you find the courage to come here? Do you realize the risks you have run for my sake?"

"I am running no risks," she said calmly.

"What do you mean?"

"I have a vial of poison. I brought it in case — in case he should refuse to let me go."

"Poison!" whispered Andre. "You have a vial of poison? Where?"

"In my bosom."

"Then I pray you to put some of it in a cup of wine and give it to me. Once I am dead, his threats will have no power for you."

But Adrienne's eyes were blazing with a light that Andre de Lavelle had never seen there before. She crossed swiftly to the table, and lifted the great flagon of Tarragona wine that stood upon it. From this she poured out a cup, and then, shielding the flagon with her body from any gaze which might be turned upon it from the direction of the door, she emptied into it the vial of poison. Next, with a firm step, she went to the door and called out the name of the baron.

It was a full minute before he came, for he had gone to give some orders to Pierre. As he entered the hall, Adrienne spoke. "I have decided," said she.

"And your decision?" asked her host.

"That I will marry you when and where you wish," and, lifting the cup of Tarragona wine, she drank it to its dregs. "And so I pledge you, my lord and master!"

The baron stared for a moment ; then, springing forward, he filled a cup from the great flagon, and, turning to his prisoner, who was clinging to the bars and pressing his bearded face against them, he shouted: "She comes readily to my arms; does she not, my most dear comte? I drink, I drink deep to the loveliest of wives!"

De Tartas placed the cup, empty, upon the table; then, seized with a new thought, he filled it again. "And you, too, shall drink— you, too!" he cried, and he handed it through the bars of the cage.

Andre de Lavelle took it and held it up as if about to drink.

For a moment, Adrienne's heart stood still, for she had no idea how long the poison would need for its work, and she knew that, did the baron suspect anything, all hope would be over. But De Lavelle was equal to the occasion. With a wild gesture, he dashed the cup to the floor of his cage.

"I do not drink from the cup that has been touched by the lips of a traitor!"

The baron laughed. "As you wish. Those lips have other work to do," he said, and advanced toward Adrienne.

She shrank back from him, and then, as he still came on, she saw that his steps were not steady and that his eyes were filled with a strange wildness. He caught her in his arms. She struggled, fighting him off. Suddenly, without warning, his jaws snapped together, and he fell forward upon his face.

"He carries the key in his belt," said the prisoner.

In a moment more, Adrienne had opened the cage, and, blessing her name, Andre de Lavelle crept across the threshold. It was the first time for eleven months, so he could not stand upright, but shambled round the hall with uncouth and hesitating paces.

He came to the body of the baron. "He is not dead!" he cried. "See! He moves!" De Tartas' eyes were open and his hands groped feebly. De Lavelle bent over him. "He is recovering! The poison was much diluted in the great flagon," he cried again. "Ah! Heaven is not unjust, after all!"

He plucked the pistol from the baron's belt and put it in the breast of his own shirt; afterward, with a strength born of fury which none could have believed him to possess, he dragged De Tartas to the cage and thrust him into it, locking the door upon him. Then he touched the secret spring, and the panel shot back.

"However loudly he shouts, he will not be heard. The triple iron deadens all sound."

"Quick, Andre, let us leave this dreadful place!" cried Adrienne.

"Where are the horses?" he asked.

"Pierre is waiting with them in the courtyard."

Swiftly they passed down the stair, and stood in the shadow of the arch. In the courtyard they could see two horses tied to rings in the wall, but Pierre was not visible. They ran across, untied the bridles, and mounted.

"Away, Adrienne, my darling. Ride on!" said Andre. "I follow!"

Without a word, Adrienne turned her horse down the steep incline from the castle gate, and soon they were flying along the track between the chestnut trees!

Andre de Lavelle watched until a bend in the road hid her from his sight. Then he lifted up his voice and shouted: "Pierre!"

"Coming, Monsieur le Baron, coming!" called out a voice, and a man, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, ran out from a firelit doorway in which he had been snoring.

De Lavelle, wrapped in the baron's cloak, sat in the saddle with the pistol aimed carefully over the crook of his arm. At the shot Pierre fell. Then Lavelle gave rein to his horse, and galloped after Adrienne.

By dawn two of the three human beings alive who knew the secret of the cage were nearing Noirmont. The third was beating the bars with bleeding hands and screaming: "Pierre! Pierre! Pierre!"

But Pierre came not, and the thick walls held their secret for many a year.

__________________________

9: Silenced

Bannister Merwin

1873-1922

The Cavalier, April 1909

Chapter 1: The Visit

DOWN in his basement laboratory, John Archer was  bending over a bubbling glass retort. A pearly steam rose slowly to the neck of the vessel, and escaped, through a connecting tube, which opened under the hood of a ventilating chimney. To breathe that steam would be death. Every few seconds Archer cast an anxious eye to make certain that every wisp of it was caught by the draft and carried up to the air above the roofs, there to be made harmless by dispersion.

In the body of the retort the bubbling, milky liquid grew thicker and thicker. At the right instant Archer would cut off the flame; the boiling would cease; and after a few hours a few grams of tiny yellow crystals would remain as the product of his process. Once before he had made the experiment, though on a smaller scale, and even now there lay in a drawer of his desk, in the consultation-room up-stairs, a little vial labeled :

EXINA—DEADLY POISON

“Exina”— he had called it that because its base was still X, an unknown substance. One of his former medical college friends, Armisted, had sent to him from the tangled forests of the Amazon a packet of the leaves of a plant which was unknown to botanists. The Indians, it seemed, made a singularly fatal decoction from the leaves, and Armisted, knowing John Archer’s interest in any poison that acted directly on the heart, took the trouble to seal up a considerable quantity and send it to the nearest port by the same bearers who went to replenish his own supplies.

Archer prepared to shut off the flame.

A ray of sunlight, filtering through the grated window, struck upon the retort, and the thick liquid at the bottom gleamed with baleful opalescence. Archer looked at it intently. The pearly steam, itself so deadly, had become tinged with red. That was the moment at which he stopped the distillation.

What here remained was enough to slay an army. Its swift potency was more terrible than the weapons of war.

A needle-point, dipped in a strong solution of the crystals and applied gently to the tongue of a cavy, had resulted in the almost instant death of the little animal. He had himself touched his own arm with a glass rod dipped into a much weaker solution, and his heart-beat had weakened so rapidly that only by using the most powerful stimulants had he brought himself back to normal condition.

He pondered over the notes he would make on the distillation just completed. The pearly steam— he regretted that he had not condensed it and tested it more elaborately than in his first experiment; another time he would study that phase of the process. Also he was ready now to make a solution of Exina so attenuated that it could be given safely, in small doses, to human beings; for he had hopes of it, as a useful agent, to regulate the heart-beat in cases where the heart acted too strongly— an agent much more dependable than any depressant known.

So far as Dr. John Archer was concerned, Exina was to be not a poison but a remedy; not a bane, but a blessing. Elis young face relaxed as his imagination likened himself to the mysterious alchemists of the Middle Ages, brewing their weird decoctions at the command of princely masters more unscrupulous than themselves. His master was no prince, but the ideal of well humanity. I.ike the alchemists, he labored secretly, in a laboratory that was almost subterranean, and he worked with a substance as little known to him as the common elements had been unknown to them.

The laboratory had no door. Its two windows were high above the floor-level, and they opened upon the shallow city yard. The room was entered by a circular iron stairway that communicated with the consultation-room above. No one but himself was permitted to use that stairway. He even cleaned the laboratory himself.

On the inner wall of the retort the crystals were already beginning to form. Some hours must pass before the crystallization would be complete, but the process was now on, and all that could be done in the interim was to watch.

A buzzing of the house telephone on its stand near-by arrested Archer’s meditations. He took up the receiver, and heard the voice of Tousey, his man.

“Excuse me, Dr. Archer, but there is a lady to see you.”

“Ask her to come back during my office-hours.” Archer did not relish interruption.

“She says that her call is urgent but not professional. It is Miss Crane— Miss Enid Crane.”

Enid! That was another matter.

“Show her into my office, Tousey. Tell her that I will be there in a moment.”

He hastened to the porcelain sink, against the farther wall, and washed and dried his hands. Then he removed the white duck surgeon’s apron which he always wore during his experiments, and hung it on its hook. His brown eyes had been alight from the first mention of his visitor’s name, and there was a new elasticity in his movements.

With a final glance at the cooling retort, he rapidly mounted the spiral stairs. At the top was a narrow landing. There was no light there, but he did not stop to switch on the electric light, for every inch of that space was familiar to his touch. Finding the spring-catch, he pushed it back. The wall-panel turned on its pivot, and he stepped into his office to meet the startled eyes of Enid Crane.

“Good gracious, John!” she exclaimed, rising from her chair. “Do you always make such a Mephistophelian entrance? ”

“Seldom.” He smiled. “But I was so eager to see you—”

“That you walked through the wall?”

“It is really a door,” he protested. He closed the panel and pointed to the tiny keyhole. “This is not so medieval that one presses a secret spring.”

“Yes, I see.” She loosened the fur about her. neck and laid her muff on the desk beside her. “But why not have a door that looks like a door?”

“Well, I rather fancied it this way. It is more unobtrusive.”

“Decidedly. But what do you hide in there? I’m terribly curious.”

“Well, I do a great deal of experimenting, Enid, and—”

“On your patients?” She laughed merrily.

“Not if I can help it. Many of my experiments require apparatus that must not be disturbed. So I had one end of the basement bricked in for a laboratory, and the only entrance is a stairway reached by this panel.”

“And are you the only person who ever enters?”

“The only person.” He bowed, and waved her to her chair.

“How interesting! Oh John, won’t you let me just peek?”

He hesitated. There had been a certain mysterious satisfaction to him in making this laboratory the shrine of his absolute seclusion. But he wished to deny nothing to Enid Crane. In his heart he made no secret of his feeling toward her.

She was an imperiously beautiful figure as she stood there beside his desk. Her features had the classic virtue of being defined sharply, but without hardness. Her heavy black hair was drawn down in ripples under her fur hat, and in this, frame the luster of her eyes and the redness of her full lips were rare perfections.

“Come on, then, Enid,” he said after a moment. “You shall sec. But I’m afraid you will be disappointed. There’s nothing gloomy or romantic down there.”

As he spoke he took a small flat key from his pocket and opened the panel.

“Once the lock is turned back,” he explained, “the panel will turn either way on its pivot. Pardon me for going first.”

He stepped into the narrow entry and turned on the electric light, then led the way down the winding stairs.

Enid Crane stared in amazement at the rows of jars and bottles on the shelves and at the complex apparatus.

“Who ever would have dreamed of your having such a place as this!” she exclaimed. She went over to the glass retort and stooped to examine its contents.

“What is this?” she asked.

“Don’t touch it!” Archer spoke sharply. As she drew back in surprise, he explained:

“It’s a poison.”

Her lips paled. “Poison?” she whispered, with a shudder. “What are you doing with poison? ”

“Trying to get from it a useful remedy.”

He did not note the relief in her voice as she said: “Is it so fatal that I must not even look at it?”

“No, but if you should slip and fall against it, or—”

But she had lifted her chin and turned back to the foot of the stairs.

“It is all very interesting,” she said coolly. “Thank you for showing me.” And drawing her skirt close about her, she climbed to the floor above.

Archer, as he followed, wondered at her sudden change of mood. Enid was a constant marvel to him. He had known her since they were boy and girl together. His father and hers had been close friends, and she and her brother Arthur had been his constant playmates.

But since she had become a young woman, he ceased to understand her. Her merry air of comradeship had given place to banter. She was charming but changeable, seemingly frank, but really inscrutable. Slowly he discovered that, where formerly he had thought of her as a friend and comrade, now he thought of her very differently. He was eager to see her; once he would have been merely pleased. She was in his mind as something lovely that must be possessed. Since he was not blind to his own emotions, he came in time to realize that he loved her.

But how to woo her? That he did not know. Many times he wished that he had no basis of old acquaintance with her, but might meet her now for the first time, and from the start try definitely to win her. That would be easier than the difficult course of altering an old relationship which she, no doubt, supposed would never change, no matter how much they themselves might change.

Meantime, in the absence of Arthur, she had a habit— terrible to him— of making him her Confidant regarding the men she met. Calmly she would discuss with him the advisability of marrying this or that “possibility.” He did not like to hear her speak of men as “possibilities,” and when she pressed him for advice, he would shrink back upon himself and ask, as coldly as he could: “Do you care for hint?”

“I like him pretty well,” was the usual answer.

And when he would say abruptly, “If you love him, marry him,” she would answer:

“A girl has to marry. Why do you blame me for thinking about it?”

Then she would become cynical. And her cynicism cut him deeply.

Chapter 2: The Letter

THEY were again in the consulting-room. Archer swung the panel to, leaving it slightly ajar, and turned, just as Enid sank into a chair.

“I’m glad to be out of that poison-shop,” she said. “It affected me in an uncanny way.”

He smiled. “One gets used to working with potent substances.”

“But is it safe, John? Isn’t there danger of making a mistake? If those poisons of yours are so awful that you can’t even touch them—”

“It’s part of my job. Enid. And it’s quite safe if one is used to laboratory work.” He opened a drawer of his desk and took out the little vial of Exina crystals. “This would kill a regiment. But it won’t be given to a regiment, or to any one. So you see—”

“Oh, well,” she said, “if you wish to play with poisons, no one can stop you. I came to talk about Arthur— and Uncle Abraham.”

‘‘Yes?” He put the vial back in his desk. “What is new? ”

“Simply that uncle is worse than ever. You and I have talked it over before, John, but I think we’d better get it all straight again, before I come to the favor I wish to ask.”

“Go ahead, Enid,” he said. “You can count on me.”

“It’s five years, now, since father died,” she began, “and since Arthur and I went to live with Uncle Abraham. It is two years since Arthur went to Paris. It is one year since uncle cut Arthur’s allowance in half.”

“Yes.”

“Now, uncle announces that he is going to cut Arthur off altogether.”

“What?”

“No more allowance for our rising young painter.”

“Is he leaving Arthur out of his will?”

“That I don’t know. He may be planning. But I am quite sure that he has not made a new will recently.”

Archer considered. “What has Arthur done this time? ” he finally asked.

Enid laughed. “He is studying art, and in Paris. I’m afraid he has not been altogether staid. But extravagance is worse in uncle’s eyes than any sin.”

Archer pictured to himself Abraham Walsh, with all his crabbedness and greed— a selfish old man, intent only upon dollars— and this beautiful niece of his; for in his way the old man loved her— loved her in spite of her cold contempt for him. Like a devil-fish with a thousand tentacles the rich money-lender sat in his invalid chair and reached out for more money. Business men hated to borrow from him, yet many of them were forced to go to him. Always he preached his narrow philosophy at them and counseled them to a thrift which his own exactions would not permit.

“How I hate him!” exclaimed Enid suddenly.

Archer was astonished by the intensity with which she spoke. He realized, too. that the hot anger in her eyes made her look like an avenging Judith.

“How I hate him!” she repeated.

“You don’t know how I shudder when he speaks to me. Sometimes I— well, I should be glad if he were dead.”

“Enid!”

“I shouldn’t say it. of course.” She laughed bitterly. “But, John, you haven’t the faintest idea of his hypocrisy and meanness.”

“Possibly. But—”

“I will tell you something you don’t know.” She paused for a moment. “He ruined my father. He induced him to undertake foolish enterprises, lent him the money to carry them on, and when the time came to settle, screwed the last dollar out of him. He did that because he hated my father; and simply because he had graces and virtues which could not be bought.”

“You astound me,” said Archer. “How long have you known this?”

“Ever since it happened.”

“Yet you have lived in his house?”

“Why not?” she blazed. “He knows that I hate him. I think he rather enjoys it. As for the money, it is rightfully Arthur’s and mine. Uncle knows it. I remind him of it whenever I demand a check.”

“And he gives you the money?”

“He does. But Arthur— when I make demands for Arthur, he turns stone-deaf.”

Archer arose and paced back and forth across the room. He did not like this mood in Enid. Stopping before her, he looked at her gravely.

“Now, listen to me.” he said. “You must not remain in your uncle’s house. It is abnormal, this hatred— and it is due to your being there near him. Get away from him. This constant sight of him and the sound of his voice— it is unwise, Enid, for you to stay. The effect—”

“Good old John!” she exclaimed; and he winced a little at the words. “I am so much stronger than you think. Do not imagine that I fear Uncle Abraham?”

“No.” he replied quietly. “But if I were you, believe me, I should fear myself, Enid.”

“Why so?” Her voice was softer.

“Because an atmosphere of hatred, however much it is justified, is never good for one. You should be happy.”

“I am not unhappy,” she answered slowly. “I am merely waiting.”

“Waiting?”

“Yes, waiting. But forgive me. I shouldn’t have bored you with this outburst against uncle. It was only that it relieved me— just as you men are sometimes relieved by swearing.”

“That is just it,” he began eagerly. “You ought not to need such relief.”

“All right, John,” she laughed. “Really, I am quite normal. Now, let me ask my favor.”

With a little sigh he again sat down by the desk.

“I want you to write to Uncle Abraham,” she said, “and urge him to do the right thing by Arthur.”

“Me?”

“You know that Arthur really is making a name for himself. If you point that out it may have its effect.”

“But your uncle won’t hear anything from me. He hardly knows me.”

“He knows a great deal about you. I have seen to that.” She laughed softly. “He knows that, like Arthur, you have chosen one of the professions in which money is not the prime object, and he knows that you have already made a name for yourself. He can’t help having some respect for you. He always respects success.”

“But what would he think—”

She leaned forward imploringly.

“Leave that to me, John, please. I’ve set my heart on your writing to him.”

“If that is the case ”— he brightened— “of course I will write. But it does seem an ineffectual thing to do.”

“You don’t understand. Uncle classes you as he would class Arthur, if Arthur were already successful in the sense of making money. Your letter may not move him, but if it will not, then nothing will.”

He took a sheet of note-paper from a drawer and lifted his fountain pen.

“You must tell me what to say.”

Enid shook her head. “I don’t need to tell you. Be your own straightforward self, and don’t gloss over Arthur’s faults.”

“I doubt if they are bad ones,” he remarked, pen-poised.

“They aren’t— very. He’s a bit harum-scarum, but he will paint the better for it, won’t he? Don’t men believe that they must be careless, or immoral, or whatever you choose to call it, before they can paint or write or compose?”

“You don’t believe it, at least?” he replied.

Then, as she did not answer, he devoted himself to the letter. For some minutes he wrote, his head bent over the paper. When at last he reached for the blotting-pad, and looked up, Enid was standing by the panel door.

“Oh!” he said. “I left it ajar, didn’t I?”

“Yes,” she answered. “Shall I close it?”

He nodded. The spring clicked as she pushed the panel to.

“You would add to the mystery,” she commented, “if you fastened a bookcase to this side of the panel. Is the letter done?”

He held it out to her, and she took it and read it through.

“That is just like you, John,” she said when she had finished. “It sounds as though you were saying it. Don’t forget the return envelope.”

“Return envelope? ”

“Why, yes; didn’t you know? Uncle never gives any attention to a letter unless a stamped and addressed envelope is enclosed. Even the great bankers have to observe this whim. It saves him the cost of stamps, and part of the cost of stationery,” she concluded, with a laugh that grated on his ears.

He addressed an envelope to himself and put a stamp on it.

“It is all of a kind,” she went on, “with his saving bits of string and keeping them in his pocket. He makes me pick them up for him.”

She had laid the letter before him, and now he folded it and placed it, with the return envelope, in a larger envelope, which he addressed to Abraham Walsh. But before he sealed it she took it from him again, and reread the letter it contained.

“If this does not influence him,” she said, “there is nothing more to do.” She sealed the letter herself, while he watched the red tip of her little tongue travel along the gummed flap. “It isn’t just the matter of Arthur’s allowance,” she said irrelevantly. “I can manage that part readily.”

“How so? ” he asked in some surprise.

“Uncle gives me whatever I ask. I send what I choose to Arthur.”

“But doesn’t your uncle suspect? ”

“He may. I never tell him what I want money for. The queer part of it is that I really don’t believe he minds my sending Arthur money. He enjoys forcing me into subterfuges.”

“Contemptible of him,” muttered Archer.

“Yes— but—” She shrugged her shoulders. “What has most troubled me is the suspicion that he does intend to alter his will, and to alter it in such a way that, whatever he leaves to me, I shall not be permitted to give anything to Arthur.”

“That would be hard to manage.”

“You don’t know his ingenuity, John. He would find a way, if he had to trustee my inheritance and arrange a full accounting of every cent I spent. But if we can beat him on this matter of the allowance—”

Archer looked at her intently. “Don’t you think,” he said, “that your view of the situation is just a bit overwrought— just a bit strained? The atmosphere you are living in—”

She raised a deprecatory hand. “We have been over that ground. I am not a bit overwrought, John. It is as natural for me to hate my uncle as it is for me to like other people; and I see no reason to hide my true feeling about him. Thank you for writing the letter. Come over and see me soon, won’t you? Uncle retires at eight, and you will not be afflicted by his presence— unless he happens to learn that you are coming. In that case he would be quite capable of monopolizing you.”

She held out her hand.

“Let me get on my things, and I will walk along with you,” he said eagerly.

“And the experiments that I interrupted?”

“Can wait. I don’t see you often, Enid.”

She turned on him a dazzling smile. “Whose fault is that?” she asked.

“My own, I am beginning to think,” he muttered, going to the closet for his

As they were leaving the house he laid the letter on the table in the hall. It would be taken out with the other mail a little later.

The afternoon was crisp and cold, and for once the city streets were clean, for there had been a snowfall the night before, and the northwest wind had protected it from the smirch of failing soot.

“Let’s take a turn in the park,” he suggested, and at her assent they walked to the Fifty-Ninth Street entrance. Her spirits rose rapidly. The keen air seemed to purge her brain of all bitterness, and she laughed and talked with a happy spontaneity that Archer was delighted to see. When at last he left her, at the entrance of her uncle’s house, and turned down Fifth Avenue, he said to himself: “I must go to see her often. Above all. I must find ways to get her out of that atmosphere before it blights her.” And his heart sang a glad song because she had been so gracious to him.

Tousey opened the door for him.

“What time is it?” asked Archer.

“Half past four, sir,” replied the man.

“That gives me a half-hour,” said Archer. “Don’t let me be disturbed before five— my regular consultation-hour, you understand? I shall be in my laboratory.”

When Tousey had helped him off with his coat he went through the long hall to his consultation-room. The presence of Enid still seemed to haunt the air, and he smiled as he unlocked the panel and went down the spiral stairway.

In the laboratory the memory of her horror of the poison recurred to him. He was himself affected by it; so much that, when he bent over the retort to examine the rapidly forming crystals, they seemed to flash a Satanic light at him.

Subtly malevolent were the suggestions that came to him. The lovely girl whom he had left so short a time before grew suddenly to be a terrible, avenging figure. He saw her as the embodiment of a cold, relentless hatred. He shuddered; then, realizing the morbidity of his fancies, he shook himself free from them and bent to his work.

The crystals still gleamed at him wickedly; but, after all, they were merely Exina crystals, which he was to place in solution, and then in a weaker solution, and then in a weaker, and so on, until he could employ it as a useful remedy.

Chapter 3:  Plain Speaking.

ABRAHAM WALSH rolled his wheeled chair swiftly into the library. It was ten in the morning, the hour at which he invariably made his appearance, and Jepson, his young-looking secretary, was, as usual, awaiting his master’s orders.

Jepson might well have suffered under the tyranny of his work, had he not long ago succeeded in subordinating all his thoughts and feelings to the bare necessity of keeping his job. Thus, singularly, he retained the appearance of youthful freshness by maintaining a consistent policy of self-effacement. He had permitted his magnetism, if he had ever had any, utterly to evaporate from the surface of his personality, and at fifty he was a useful machine that might have been mistaken for a plaything.

“Well, well,” rasped Walsh, “you have been busy this morning, I trust— eh, Jepson?”

“Yes, Mr. Walsh.”

Jepson, at the first appearance of the chair, had taken his seat before a typewriter. He made no move to help his master, for physical help was something of which Abraham Walsh desired as little as possible. To spring to the invalid’s aid was to emphasize his limitations. The paralysis of his lower limbs made it necessary to lift him to and from his bed and to assist him into his clothes; but once established in his chair, his long, sinewy arms governed his movements with strength and precision.

The smile on Walsh’s face this morning was a cunning, crafty smile. Jepson noted it indifferently. To him it meant merely that flies were close to the web.

“Now, then, let us see,” said Walsh, with his note of false cheerfulness. “Let— us— see.” He turned his chair and wheeled rapidly to the low table on which the morning mail had been spread out for his attention.

“Let— us— see.” He took up the paper-knife. No one was permitted to open his letters for him.

Rapidly he slit the many envelopes in one of the piles. These letters were all adjudged to be “business” by Jepson, part of whose task was to separate the envelopes the first thing in the morning. Woe to him if, through his inability to divine the contents of an envelope, he placed a personal letter in the business pile!

Walsh took a letter from its envelope and unfolded it, first laying the stamped and addressed return envelope in his lap.

“Here is something from our dear friends, Bellingham & Company,” he exclaimed. “Hum! They want a hundred thousand. Go to the file, Jepson, and get the records of my dealings with them.”

He read the letter again while the records were being sought. His eyebrows were corrugated over his narrow, light-blue eyes, and the corners of his wide mouth were now lifted, now depressed.

“Here they are, Mr. Walsh,” said Jepson, handing to the seated man a sheaf of papers.

Walsh ran his eyes over them rapidly. “Hum!” he commented. “Very good, very good. I guess we shall have to let them have the hundred thousand; but for three months, Jepson, mind you, not for six, unless they are prepared to make a special arrangement about the interest. Write them to that effect, Jepson.” He ran the tip of his tongue over his thin lips, with an appearance of great satisfaction.

While Jepson rattled out the letter on the typewriter the old money-lender continued to go through his correspondence. Two hours passed before the business letters were disposed of.

“Now,” said Walsh, with a relish, “let us see what the beggars have to say this morning.” It was his custom to assume that all personal letters must be appeals for charity.

He took up a letter. “Ah! ” he exclaimed, “here is a young man who asks for a loan of three thousand dollars to enable him to buy a partnership in a grocery business. He is modest— eh, Jepson? ”

“Yes, Mr. Walsh.”

“I suppose ”— Walsh gazed ruminatingly at the dingy old engravings on the opposite wall; one, a Landseerian stag on an impossible pinnacle of rock; the other, a much-bedraped female, whose pose was supposed to typify Hope— “I suppose it is generally believed that I could be the making of any young man whom I should choose to back.”

Jepson glanced up furtively. His master’s face wore an abstracted look of mild benevolence. Was there a genuine softness in the hard eyes?

“Everybody knows that you could,” Jepson hazarded.

“I could lift a young chap out of a clerkship and make him a power in finance,” continued -Walsh.

“Indeed you could, Mr. Walsh.” Jepson tried to speak naturally; but a slight trembling of his voice betrayed the fact that he, for once, was creeping out of his self-effacement.

“Well,” said Walsh harshly, “I’m not a going to do it. Let ’em do as I have done. Let ’em save, Jepson; let ’em save.”

“Yes, Mr. Walsh." The secretary was back in the dust of humility.

“I suppose that you have saved something— eh, Jepson?” continued Walsh.

“A little— a very little.”

“But something? ”

“Yes, sir— something.”

“Then, if hard times come, you can get along on a little less than your present salary— eh?”

Jepson did not answer, and a malicious smile played about the old man’s mouth. “Let us hope that hard times do not come,” he said. “Let us pray that they do not come.”

“Yes, sir,” replied Jepson. He was past being wounded.

“What is this?” exclaimed Walsh, picking up another envelope and glancing at the return address in the upper left-hand corner. “What does John Archer, M.D., want of me?”

There was a show of interest in his face as he took out the letter ; but his eyes narrowed as he read, and in an altered voice he said peremptorily :

“Do and get Miss Crane, Jepson. I wish to see her at once.”

Jepson hurried to the door, pausing only to say: “Shall I return with her, Mr  Walsh— or do you wish—”

“I wish you to be here unless I send you out,” replied Walsh.

In a few minutes Enid entered the room. Jepson slipped through the door behind her and went unobtrusively to his typewriter.

“Good morning, dear niece,” said Walsh, rubbing his bony hands together and bestowing upon her a look of unstinted admiration.

“Good morning,” she replied coldly.

He gave a cackling laugh. “Affectionate— as usual.”

“I am as I always am. What do you want of me?"

“What do I want of you? Can it be possible, Enid, that you don’t want something of me?”

“Oh,” she replied 'indifferently, “I never hesitate to tell you my wants, do I?”

“You certainly do not,” he answered.

She was dressed to go out.

“You were not expecting me to send for you this morning? You were going out— eh?”

She looked at him contemptuously. “Yes,” she said, “I expected some word from you, but I thought that I would go out later. You have received John Archer’s letter, I presume?”

“So, ho! Then you admit that you knew of it?”

“Why not? Really. Uncle Abraham, your efforts to make me lie to you are childish.”

He laughed noiselessly. “You went to see Dr. Archer yesterday,” he announced.

“I did.”

“Is it customary,” he asked, “for young women nowadays to pay calls on the men they are in love with?”

The angry, hurt reply which he may have hoped to extort from her was not made. Only by a level glance at Jepson, who was bent over a letter, did she give any sign that her uncle’s jibe had annoyed her. She would have treated it as beneath notice if she had not known that he would not permit the subject to drop.

“John is my oldest friend,” she said calmly. “He is nothing more.”

Walsh looked at her piercingly, but her eyes did not waver.

“Have it that way if you choose, my dear,” he said at last. “Now, what advantage did you expect to gain by getting him to write this letter?” He waved the unfolded paper as he spoke.

“John is a successful professional man,” she said. “Before you finally decide whether or not to cut off Arthur’s allowance, I wish you to know what another professional man thinks of my brother’s promise.”

“But I have finally decided. You knew that very well, Enid.”

“Then reconsider.” She turned to him with flashing eyes. “Reconsider. You will be sorry if you do not.”

“I never reconsider,” he replied dryly. “Come, we won’t argue it. Give me a blue pencil, Jepson.”

“But, uncle—”

“No more— no more,” he snarled.

“You shall hear me! ” she exclaimed.

“Shall? Shall?”

“Yes— shall! When you stole my father’s money—”

“Stop! ”

“When you stole my father’s money, as you have stolen the money of so many others, your conscience may not have troubled you. It is going to trouble you now. I won’t tell you what a loathsome creature you are, for you would not be capable of understanding what I mean. But I will tell you—”

She stopped short, for he had seized the wheels of his chair, and with startling swiftness sent it spinning toward her.

Within a foot of her he halted it abruptly. She had not flinched at his sudden change, and now she stared down at him with scornful eyes.

Chapter 4:  The Release

“YOUR hate is very interesting, dear niece,” he said. “I don’t hate you, but I don’t mind your hating me. I am like the Indian snake-charmer who loves his cobra.” He grinned up at her.

“This matter of Arthur’s allowance is settled,” he continued. “You seem to love that worthless brother of yours. Even his immorality—”

“Who are you to talk of morality?” she demanded.

“I— am— seventy— million— dollars,” he replied.

“And you are no more.”

“This afternoon I shall make a new will.” He raised his upper lip for an instant above his one yellow tooth. “Arthur is to be left out of it. He gets nothing more from me— nor from you, my dear niece; I shall arrange for that.”

“Why don’t you leave me out of your will?” she asked.

“I choose to inflict my money on you. Spend it on yourself as you like — or spend it on your old friend, this Dr. Archer— but you shall never spend a cent of it on Arthur.”

She was breathing faster, but she did not take her eyes from his.

“And now for this Dr. Archer,” he went on. “I will tend to his case.” He wheeled himself rapidly back to the table. “I will ’tend to his case. Jepson, the blue pencil. There— there— one word on the back of his own letter. See? Just one word. Now, then— now, then.”

He folded the letter and placed it in the return envelope.

“There will be no more impertinence from this young upstart. Mail this quickly, Jepson.”

His malice and rage were terrible to watch.

“I am seventy million dollars,” he repeated.

Then, with his eyes on Enid, he ran his tongue along the gummed lapel of the return envelope and sealed it.

“Mail this quickly, Jepson.”

He held out the letter, and Jepson took it from his hand.

“Mail this—”

He clutched convulsively at the arms of his chair. His face turned gray. Some hideous change was taking place in him.

“Enid! ”

The word was merely a gasp. With a shuddering sigh, his head fell forward between his shoulders. He would have tumbled from the chair if Jepson had not sprang forward and held him upright.

“Quick, Miss Crane!” cried Jepson. “Lower the back of the chair.”

Hastily she pulled the lever, and the chair-back slanted to an angle. Jepson took his hands from the shoulders and bent forward to examine the livid face.

“He has fainted?” asked Enid.

Jepson straightened up. “Miss Crane,” he said, “I think he is dead.”

“Dead?” She was surprised at his calmness.

“I think so.”

“Run across the street for Dr. Waring,” she commanded. “Quick!”

“And you? ”

“I will stay. I am not afraid. Go! ”

Jepson darted from the room.

Left alone, Enid looked at the thing in the chair. How swiftly it had lost its identity! It was not her uncle, she felt certain of that. The gazing eyes stared fixedly at the ceiling: the long arms swung limply from the side of the chair and almost touched the floor: the chest seemed queerly shrunken.

Perhaps he was not dead at all. There was a glass half full of water on the table. Dipping her fingers in the water, she sprinkled it over the brow, into the coarse gray hair.

“Wake up ! ” she whispered. “Wake up! ”

But the eyes did not turn to her. Unwinkingly they stared at the ceiling above. What were they looking at? She raised her own eyes to see, following the line of those other eyes. In an interstice of the rococo plaster ornament, from which the chandelier depended, a black spider was spinning its web— spinning— spinning— weaving its gossamer back and forth, while those awful eyes below stared up at it.

The door opened, and Dr. Waring hurried in, Jepson close behind him.

“Lucky chance,” he panted, breathless with his haste. “I was just leaving the house when— where is he? Ah!”

He stepped softly to the chair and looked into the gray face. He put his ear to the breast, and, after listening for a few moments, took a stethoscope from his pocket and, opening the waistcoat, knelt and applied the bell to the left side. Soon he arose and put the instrument away. He looked at Enid gravely.

“Mr. Walsh is dead,” he whispered. “It was the heart. I have warned him often. Tell me, had anything occurred to excite him?”

“He was excited,” said Enid, glancing at Jepson.

Her calmness did not seem strange to Dr. Waring. He had known Abraham Walsh for many years, and the wonder to him would have been that any one could grieve at his death. She might suffer from shock later, but the situation had not yet penetrated deeper than her

“There will be no difficulty about the certificate,” said the doctor, stroking his white beard thoughtfully. “The exact moment of death is difficult to determine in cases like this, and I got here so quickly that it seems safe to assume that he was still living when I arrived. Besides—” He broke off. “There will be no need for you to remain in this room, Miss Crane. I will take charge of everything. If Mr. Jepson will communicate with Mr. Walsh’s business representatives— and if you will permit me to prepare a statement for the press—”

“Do whatever you think necessary,” said Enid. “He had no relatives except myself and my brother, who is in Paris. Do whatever you think best. Jepson, will you please telephone to Dr. John Archer and ask him to come?”

With a last look at what had been her uncle, she left the room and went upstairs to her own den.

It was all so unreal, this sudden release. She did not hesitate to think of it as a release. This moment was what she had longed for— what she had hoped for; and yet, now that it had come, she felt no elation, no assuagement of her bitterness, but only a dull sense of empty possession.

Abraham Walsh, the famous moneylender and her uncle, was dead. By his will— he had made her read it only a few short months ago, in order to enjoy any hint of embarrassment that she might give— she and Arthur were the heirs of forty millions. The remainder was to go to charity. Twenty millions apiece! And he had died before he could cut off Arthur’s share!

She could almost predict what the morning papers would say about the dead man. They would dwell upon his frugality, upon the rigorous maxims with which he had always, defined his conduct, upon the useful place he had filled as a conservative balance in the financial world. They would gloss over his unscrupulousness, his petty avarice, his lack of human feeling.

What a pity that they had not heard those words that were almost his last—

“I am seventy million dollars! ” Were they not almost equal to the grand Louis’s, “I am the state ”

“I must not hate him now,” she found herself saying. “I must not hate him now.” And then she asked herself, “Why not? ”

Was Abraham Walsh to be despised any the less because he was dead? Now that the gray conqueror had seized upon him, were his legal thefts repaid? What of the miserable wrecks he had caused? Were they to rise again miraculously to the surface of affairs just because he was dead? Her own father— were those last bitter years of his to be relieved in happiness because Abraham Walsh had been taken beyond?

No, she could give no love to her uncle, even in death. The last five years had burned too deeply for that.

Her maid knocked timidly at the door.

“Come in, Elsie,” said Enid quite calmly. She even smiled faintly as she saw how sobered the girl was by the going of one whom she, too, had little cause to like.

“Can I do anything, Miss Enid?”

“Nothing. Oh, yes; see if you can find Mr. Jepson.”

When Elsie had gone on the errand. Enid seated herself at her desk and wrote several telegrams. The first, a cable to Arthur, read simply: “Uncle dead. Come.”

Jepson soon appeared. His youthful face was red with excitement, and he was beginning to radiate a manner that indicated something like individuality.

“Whatever I can do, Miss Crane—” he began.

“If you will see that these messages are sent,” she broke in.

He took the papers; and, as she noted the signs of his disappointment over the triviality of the commission, she felt a touch of real pity for him. Like herself, he had been given a sudden release— this little old-young man. The doors of his cage had been opened; but what strength had he for flight?

“You know, of course, Mr. Jepson,” she said kindly, “that you are down in the will for an annuity?”

She was astonished at the unpleasant gleam in his eyes as he replied:

“He twitted me on the subject often enough. Miss Crane.”

“Try to forget that. Mr. Jepson,” she said.

But he looked straight in her eyes and answered:

“I hated him, too.”

This was a partnership of sympathy which she had not foreseen. Her feelings were so well known to him, however, that she recognized the difficulty of setting him in his place. Also, she was tired— too tired for struggle.

“He has been a habit with me,” Jepson continued, “for twenty years, and for twenty years I have hated him. But all that time I have not let him see it. I have let myself be a worm under his foot. You don’t know how strong such a habit has become, Miss Crane. Even now, when I went out to see about— necessary arrangements, I took without realizing it the letters which he signed this morning, and put them in the box at the corner— just as I have always done.”

“And the letter to Dr. Archer— you didn’t mail that?”

“That, with the others.” He nodded. “I’m sorry, if—”

“I suppose it doesn’t matter,” she said; “though I wish it had not been sent.”

Jepson remained standing before her. With every passing moment, his personality was expanding.

“I should like to thank you,” he said, “for persuading him to put me in the will.”

“You knew I did that?”

“Why, yes, I— he told me that I owed it to you.”

“It seemed ungenerous for him not to do something for you,” she remarked indifferently. “Did you telephone to Dr. Archer?”

“Yes, Miss Crane.”

“He said he would come? ”

“He said that he would be here within a half-hour.”

“Very well.” She nodded her dismissal; and Jepson, with a bow that was far from humble, left the room.

“What an awful death it was!” she whispered to herself.

Chapter 5: The Last Written Word

ARCHER was walking home after his call on Enid. He had found her in no need of consolation. There was not, in her manner, any trace of guilty shock, due to her remembrance of the hard things she had said about the dead man. But she had been uneasy, restless— expressing at one moment the wish that the funeral ceremonies might soon be over with, and at the next avoiding impatiently all recognition of her own responsibility.

“I cannot think of him as my mother’s brother,” she had said.

He was troubled by her mood, but as he thought over the situation, he was relieved by the conviction that the bitterness of years could not be expected to disappear in a few hours. The blighting influence of Abraham Walsh was still over her, but in time it was sure to vanish, and her true self would come to the fore.

She had told him enough about the circumstances to make him feel innocently involved in the old man’s death. Was it not his letter that had aroused the fatal temper fit? If he had not written it, Abraham Walsh might at this instant have been busy among his papers.

Yet, since he had not known of the heart-weakness, he was in no sense blameworthy for being- the exciting agent of the collapse. It gratified him, too, to know that Enid had never been warned of this danger that hung over her uncle. He could never now entertain the disloyal thought that she had deliberately, in her cold hatred, tried to induce his fit of anger.

Special newsboys were already crying the extras on the street. It had not taken long for the story of Walsh’s death to be inked on white paper. Stocks might go down for a time. There would be a hubbub of popular discussion. Moralizing editorials were, doubtless, already being written.

“Oh, well,” muttered Archer. “He will soon be forgotten, except as a model of thrift for the young.”

He had been summoned from his laboratory to go to Enid. Some of the Exina crystals— product of the experiment of the preceding afternoon— had been weighed, and now they were dissolving in a liter of alcohol. The strength of the solution would be tested, then to part of it he would add an equal part of alcohol, and so on until he had a solution of such a strength that a minimum dose would neutralize the effect of a minimum dose of a powerful heart-stimulant.

He gave his overcoat and hat to Tousey as he entered the house. He was about to go to his office, but the man stopped him.

“Excuse me, Dr. Archer, but may I have a word with you? ”

Archer looked at him and nodded. “Come to my office,” he said, leading the way. Seating himself at his desk, he glanced at his appointment-book. He was free for another hour.

“It’s about the place, sir,” Tousey began.

“About the place? Well, what about it? Aren’t you satisfied?”

“That’s an odd way of putting it,” remarked Archer.

“Well, sir, the work ain’t hard and the quarters are comfortable—”

“But what? ”

The man hesitated, and Archer looked at him closely. Tousey was not a figure of particular distinction, even among servants. He was tall and sandy-haired, and his brown eyes had a startled expression.

“Out with it,” said Archer.

“Well, sir”— by all tokens the man was painfully embarrassed— “perhaps I had better give no reasons, sir, but just go.”

“Go? Leave my service do you mean?”

“But you’ve been here less than a week.”

“I know, sir.”

Archer studied him quizzically. “You were to stay at least a month, Tousey. You don’t wish to leave me without a door-man, do you?”

“I thought the up-stairs maid might look after the door till you got someone,

“Now, look here,” said Archer, “you might as well tell me frankly what it’s all about.”

“It’s— it’s that.” Tousey pointed to the panel-door in the office wall.

“That? ”

“Yes, sir.”

“What do you mean?”

“That place in there.” The man’s lower jaw trembled nervously.

“My laboratory?”

Tousey nodded.

“What has my laboratory to do with it?"

“You may call it a laboratory, sir, but— but I know.”

“Know?”

“Yes, sir. Most of the money you have given me passed all right, sir— but that ten-dollar bill you sent me to the butcher’s with this morning, they wouldn’t have it.”

“What was the matter with it?”

“They were on, sir.”

Archer was still puzzled. “Let me see it,” he said.

Tousey produced the bill from his waistcoat-pocket and laid it on the desk. At first glance it appeared to be a normal ten-dollar bill, but closer scrutiny proved that the scrollwork on the back was uncertain.

“Why, this is a counterfeit! ” exclaimed Archer.

“See here, Tousey.” he said impatiently, “I wish you would quit beating about the bush and tell me just what you mean. What is the connection between this bill and my laboratory? ”

“I don’t wish to pass your money for you, sir.”

“What?”

“I’m afraid of getting into trouble, sir.”

Archer stared in amazement. “Do you think I am a counterfeiter?” he demanded at last.

The man was silent.

The humor of the situation struck Archer so forcibly that he burst into a hearty laugh.

“Why, Tousey, man, what a notion. If I gave you a counterfeit bill, I didn’t know it. Here! ” He tore the counterfeit in two and took another bill from his pocketbook. “Take this one.” He examined it. “I will wager that nothing is wrong with it.”

Tousey neither moved nor spoke. He simply stared at his master with frightened eyes.

“You don’t believe me,” said Archer sharply. “Well, come and look at my laboratory yourself. I don’t want such a notion in your head. Come!” He arose and stepped over to the panel.

“If you please, sir,” said Tousey, backing toward the door that led to the hall, “I’d rather not see. I— I wouldn’t know the difference, sir.”

“Then, get out! ” Archer’s patience was exhausted. “Go as soon as you like—the sooner the better. “Here—” as Tousey was slipping into the hall— “here’s your wages for the time you’ve been here.”

“I don’t want the money, sir,” came the trembling voice of the retreating Tousey.

A roller strode angrily toward the door, then halted, with a short laugh. The incident was most annoying. Tousey might spread rumors which would prove unpleasant. But after all, why should he worry about the gossip of servants? The man was evidently too stupid or too frightened to understand, but no one who mattered would entertain such a suspicion of him.

Therefore, he tried to forget Tousey, and having gone down-stairs and told Minna to look after the door, he telephoned to the employment agency to send another man.

As he hung up the receiver, he heard the area-door open. Tousey was leaving promptly.

Perhaps it would have been better to explain the situation to the manager of the employment agency. Other servants might hesitate to come, if Tousey passed his story on to them. But Archer did not care to explain such an absurdity, and he returned to his desk.

Enid was again in full possession of his thoughts. He wondered whether he should have insisted upon doing more for her at this trying time. The right of old friendship for her and for the absent Arthur would justify his taking charge of some of the arrangements.

She had first of all sent for him. When he went to her she seemed to have no special demand to make, no story to tell, except that it was the effort in which she had involved him, the final effort to secure fair play for Arthur, that had brought the old man to his death.

Had she sent for him merely to tell him that? Had she desired reassurances which he had not been subtle enough to offer? He puzzled in vain to answer the question.

In spite of old friendship, however, he could not bring himself to press his services upon Enid. His own love for her was so deep, so intense, so more than merely friendly, that he could not force it to the restraint that would be necessary, if, in the next few days, she should break down and cling to him in the old boy and girl way.

And he did not doubt that she would break. The strain of five years in the house of Abraham Walsh must bring its result.

The day was certain to come when she would realize how far she had gone when she wished her uncle’s death. She would regret those words which she had spoken in this very room. She would regret the hatred of the long, hard years. Then she would break.

The postman’s whistle rose on the crisp air of the late afternoon. Archer glanced at his watch. It was nearly five o’clock. In a few minutes he would have to devote himself to a patient. Then there was a knock at the door, and Minna entered with a letter.

“Thank you, Minna,” he said. “Tousey went in a hurry, didn’t he?”

“Yes, Dr. Archer.”

“Did he tell you and cook his reasons? ”

“No. Dr. Archer. He seemed to be frightened about something. He has acted queer ever since he went to the butcher’s this morning.”

“Oh, yes. Well, Mr. Bentley will call at five. Take his hat and coat, as Tousey would have done, and show him into the reception-room. Then come and tell me.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And, Minna, a new man will he here to-morrow. Now you may go.”

Dusk was settling down over the city. It was already too dark indoors to. read, and Archer switched on his green-shaded desk-lamp. He glanced at the letter in his hand. An exclamation escaped him, for the envelope was addressed in his own writing.

Only once of late had he addressed an envelope to himself— to enclose in his letter to Abraham Walsh. This must be the answer to his appeal. He recalled Enid’s brief description of her uncle’s last moments.

“He was made angry by my plea for Arthur,” she had said. “He was disposed to be malicious toward you for writing at my request, and he took your letter and scrawled a word on it, and himself sealed it up. It was the last thing he did.”

She had not told him that after the old man’s death Jepson had mailed the letter.

Here in his hand, then, was Abraham Walsh’s last written word. He hesitated to open it, so uncannily did it come as a message from, the dead. And it was an angry, vindictive word, he knew— a word written malignantly.

He turned the envelope over. The flap barely adhered. Plainly the old man had sealed it in haste, eager to send it to the man he wished to wound.

Archer drew a long breath. An open fire was burning in the grate. He had an impulse to throw the unopened letter into life blaze.

Afterward he was to wish that he had done so.

But, no, it was his to open, his to read, arid the fact that it meant an unpleasant moment was not sufficient reason to evade the sight of the dead man’s last denunciation. He pulled at the flap; it loosened easily.

Drawing out the folded sheet, he opened it up. There was his own appeal, in his hasty, slanting hand.

He turned it over. On the blank side was the single word he had not wished to see— simply the one word:

“Fool! ”

Chapter 6: The Clue

“YES,” he muttered, “I was a fool. I might have known that Enid was wrong. She was excited, and she thought that I could help. But I should have known.”

Simply the word, ‘‘Fool!” It was not so harsh as he had expected. Old Walsh had written the word scornfully, angrily; but it did not cut him deeply. He had been a fool, that he admitted; but who would not be a fool if Enid Crane wished him to be?

He picked up the empty envelope and gazed at it meditatively. The old money-lender’s last act; to call a man a fool; to seal the letter with his own lips in order that no jot or tittle of the enjoyment of his rage might be abated. The newspapermen would like to see that letter, that envelope. What a story it would be for them! How they would dramatize the last scene in Walsh’s library!

Archer arose and stepped over to the blazing grate. With a last look at the blue-penciled scrawl, he tossed the letter into the flames, and watched it flare up, then curl into a crackling cinder.

“So much for Abraham Walsh’s last will and testament! ” he exclaimed.

He was about to drop the envelope into the fire. Holding it extended in his hand, he glanced at it. The flap had been bent back. The firelight was reflected from the gummed edge in a curious sparkling sheen. Archer did not understand that reflection; it was unlike any light he had ever seen thrown from a gummed surface, and the phenomenon arrested his attention. His interest in the unusual held him from permitting the envelope to fall into the flames.

Instead, he ran his forefinger lightly over the gum. It felt like coarse sandpaper— too coarse to be due merely to the cracks in the adhesive mixture.

He carried the envelope over to his desk and, sitting close to the lamp, scrutinized it more closely. The gum appeared to have been sprinkled with fine fragments of glass. He reached into his pocket and found a magnifying-glass, and studied the gum through the lenses. His brow was knitted close over his eyes.

Under magnification, the shining coating of the gum looked, not like clear glass, but like fragments of a milky quartz.

A suffocating fear was rising in his heart. These shining points were— very like— but he must be mistaken. It was impossible! Such a thing should not, even be imagined! These fragments looked like Exina crystals, but they could not be!

He would make a comparison. Opening a little drawer in the upper part of his desk, he put his hand in to get the vial of Exina. His heart pounded horribly. The vial was not there. Vainly he searched; he even pulled the drawer completely out, but it was empty. And yet he remembered distinctly having put the vial back after showing it to Enid— Ah! Why did her name come into his mind?

Through every drawer of the desk he searched. The vial was in none of them. With the cold sweat standing out on his forehead, he hunted through his pockets. Perhaps his memory of putting it back in the drawer was false. He turned his wastepaper-basket upside down. He got down on his hands and knees and peered about the floor. The little vial of Exina crystals was not to be found.

At last he stood erect, staring with unseeing eyes at the wall.

“Great God! ” he whispered.

But, even now, his suspicion was only a suspicion. Perhaps he had left the vial in the laboratory. The hope aroused in him by this possibility sent him to the panel-door, and he unlocked it and hurried down the spiral stairs, trying all the time to remember whether he had found it necessary to use the vial during the day. It was not in the laboratory. The solution he had made was there; everything was in order, everything was accounted for.

After a hurried and frantic examination of the room, he went back, up the stairs, remembering, while on the way, that he had left the envelope lying on his desk.

That had been careless of him. Some one might come in and find it. But of course no one would understand. Nevertheless, he was relieved to see that it still lay where he had placed it, and he snatched it up and thrust it into a drawer.

There was a knock. Minna entered.

“Mr. Bentley has come, doctor.”

“Bentley— Bentley— who?”

“Mr. Bentley. You were expecting him, doctor.” Minna’s blue eyes were wide with astonishment.

“Was I?” said Archer vaguely. “Oh, yes. I can’t see him now.”

“He had an appointment,” ventured Minna.

“Tell him an emergency has arisen. Tell him that it’s a matter of life and death. Ask him to come to-morrow, at the same hour, if he can. It’s life and death, Minna. Be sure to tell him.”

The door closed, but Archer scarcely heard it, for his thoughts were again on the envelope and the missing vial. His hope clung suddenly to one fact; he was, as yet, by no means sure that any connection existed between the one and the other. There must be a test.

Taking the envelope from the drawer in which he had placed it, he opened a door which led into a little wash-room where a number of cavies were running about in their cages. He had bought a dozen for his experiments with Exina. One had already been sacrificed. He did not like to kill living things, but there had been no other way to prove the potency of Exina, and he knew that the death it brought was painless.

The little animals set up a great squealing when he entered. They had already grown to associate his coming with the prospect of something to eat. Archer glanced at them.

“One— two— three— four— five— six— seven— eight— nine—ten,” he counted absently, and started when he realized that one was missing. There should be eleven; actually there were only ten. This was quite contrary to the commonly observed phenomenon of the cavy. But he did not stop to investigate.

He opened the small blade of his pocket-knife. Carefully he scraped a minute quantity of the tiny crystals from the envelope, and held the knife steady so that none of the substance would fall to the floor. Then he reached into the top of the nearest cage and lifted out a cavy. The furry thing huddled itself into his palm and betrayed its annoyance by clicking its teeth together. He could feel its heart beat. It was not accustomed to being handled.

Archer forced the animal’s mouth open. With steady fingers he laid the knife-blade on the little red tongue. In an instant the heart-beat stopped. The muscles by which the tiny claws gripped his palm suddenly relaxed. The cavy was dead.

Quietly Archer laid the lifeless animal on the table, and stood there rigid, his lips a tight line. His hopeful doubts had been terribly resolved; for he knew that the crystals which had killed the cavy had killed Abraham Walsh. There was absolutely no question about it; the moment the old man’s tongue touched the gummed flap of the envelope, he was doomed to a swift, sure death.

The horrible crime had been ingeniously planned. The only evidence that could establish the crime at all was the envelope, and it was but by the merest chance that he had noticed the poisoned gum. One chance in a thousand that any one would ever discover the evidence— no, one chance in a million— and that chance had fallen upon him, the one man who was in a position to recognize the potent Exina.

Mechanically he washed the knife-blade at the water-tap, and, wiping it on a soiled towel, snapped it shut. The fatal envelope stared at him from the floor. What should he do with it? To destroy it would be to destroy the evidence of the manner of Walsh’s death. But even with the worst suspicions hovering in the background of his mind, he could not now bring himself to do that. He would keep it. So he went back to the consulting-room and sealed it up in a larger envelope and hid it away in his safe.

Sinking down in his desk-chair, he buried his head in his hands. His eyes were dry, but his heart was weeping.

Enid had persuaded him to write that letter. Enid had handled the vial of poison. Enid had declared her hatred for her uncle and her wish that he might die.

Could the cunning malevolence of Abraham Walsh have hounded her to so desperate a thing? It was unbelievable. He must not let the suspicion enter his thoughts. The poison might have been put on the envelope by accident.

As for the missing vial, he had no real reason to think that she had taken it. A more careful search might still discover it in some nook or corner.

Or Tousey might have stolen it; he had not thought of that. Should he hunt for Tousey, and demand the missing poison? If Tousey had not taken it, such a demand would offer a hint in a quarter where it might prove dangerous. For Tousey, with his stupid suspicions that his former master was a counterfeiter, would spread a more threatening rumor, if he coupled the idea of poison with the idea of bad money.

There might even be an investigation. Some sharp detective might discover how old Walsh had died. And then— and then— would not the suspicion rest on Archer himself? Better so than that Enid should be held guilty.

But before anything else he must find out whether she had taken the vial. He could not rest; he could not drive his doubts of her away until he knew.

He went to the telephone and gave her number.

When she had been summoned by a servant, and he heard her voice over the wire, he could hardly speak. With an effort he managed to say:

“Enid, this is John. Do you remember that little vial of poison I had in my desk yesterday?”

“Yes.” The answer was unhesitating.

“It— it is missing,” he faltered.

“I know it,” she replied calmly. “I took it.”

“What?”

“When you had put it back in the drawer you turned away for a moment, and I got it and hid it in my muff.”

“Why— why did you?” The words were almost strangled in his throat.

“That is something I won’t tell you— at least, not now,” she replied.

This answer seemed to be given reluctantly. Archer hesitated, striving by an effort of will to quiet his pounding heart.

“What have you done with the rest of it?” he asked.

“With the rest of it?” She seemed to be surprised.

“What have you done with it?”

“It is destroyed. I put it in the fire this morning.”

He could not trust himself to speak again. He hung up the receiver, and, stumbling to the couch that stood against the wall near by, threw himself upon it heavily.

Chapter 7: Vanishing Shadows

THE funeral of Abraham Walsh was over. A famous clergyman had said what he could find to say of good about the dead man, basing his eulogy upon the homely traits of patience, thrift, and frugality, and eking out the gray sum of virtues with the color of general moralization.

The financial district had settled down to the adoption of such rearrangements as were made necessary by the disappearance of a source of large loans. The public was giving its attention to the question of the disposition of the fortune.

Then the terms, of the will were announced. Thirty millions was a huge sum to go to charity; and there was a chorus of acclaim, tempered by the half- smothered suggestion of tainted wealth, and much speculation as to the manner in which the fund would be administered.

During this period John Archer went about his duties as usual; but he felt as if there were an iron band around his heart. He had not been to see Enid, though she was always in his thoughts; he had not dared to see her; he could not trust himself to talk with her. She would be busy, he knew. There was much to be done to rearrange her manner of life; and other friends were with her; he would not be missed.

His dreadful suspicion of her seemed to be justified by every circumstance. But there were times when his soul protested against any belief in her guilt— when he said to himself:

“All the evidence in the world will not make me believe ill of her. Even should she herself say that she did the thing, I will not accept her word.”

Then the glow of these intense moments of faith would fade, and dark doubts would creep into his brain. Faith, he would realize, had returned only because he loved Enid; and faith could not deny the facts.

Yes, he loved her still— loved her more than before— loved her in spite of everything. Almost he stood ready to go to her and declare his love, and insist upon sharing the burden of her secret. But that, his reason told him, would sooner or later bring added unhappiness to them both. There were the years to face.

He felt no blame for her. How terribly she had been tried none knew better than he. After all, a man who lived as Walsh had lived was better dead. Hardly responsible, she was the instrument of Fate—and the victim of Fate, as well. Loving her, he could only pity.

Two days after the funeral he received a note from her— a few lines asking him to call— no clue to her feelings. He had to go, of course. He found, to his surprise, that he wanted to go— was relieved by the knowledge that she wanted him. To continue under the secret strain of the past few days was impossible; much better to face the issue if she cared to raise it; or at least to learn into her state of mind.

Perhaps she would justify herself in some way of which he could not dream. There was still the possibility that the use to which the poison had been put had been due to a dreadful mistake.

When he got to the house— within half an hour after receiving her note— he was shown into the reception-room. Jepson passed the doorway and, glancing in, halted and entered.

“Ah, Dr. Archer,” he exclaimed, stepping quickly across the room and extending his hand. “How do you do?”

“How do you do?” replied Archer. He was astounded at the man’s assurance. Surely this was not the humble Jepson who had slaved for old Walsh— this sleek, important creature. But he took the extended hand.

“There has been a great deal to do,” said Jepson, “but gradually affairs are being straightened out. This has been a great release for me— a great release.”

“You mean the death of Mr. Walsh? ” inquired Archer coolly.

“Why, yes. I clung to him for a great many years against my will. But he needed me, and I hadn’t the heart to leave him.”

“Indeed,” Such talk coming from Jepson was incomprehensible.

“Aside from his physical infirmities he was helpless in many ways. It is pleasant now to think that he was not without gratitude. You have heard that he remembered me very well.”

“An annuity, was it not?”

“Yes; and of fair amount.” Jepson stroked his chin. “A lump sum would have been preferable. I could have made use of it.”

Had the annuity gone to Jepson’s head before it reached his pocket? Archer began to think so.

“And what are you going to do now?” he asked.

Jepson threw out his chest slightly. “I shall open an office down-town— a brokerage business. You see, Dr. Archer, during the years I have been with Mr. Walsh I have set aside a little sum. I may even go as far as to admit that, knowing the quarters in which Mr. Walsh was lending money, I was able from time to time to invest my savings very profitably— on margin, of course.”

“That is an admission I should hesitate to make if I were you, Jepson,” said Archer dryly.

“Yes, yes. Quite so.” Jepson blinked.

“Mr. Walsh did a great deal for you,” continued Archer, thinking it time that the little man should be put in his place.

An ugly gleam appeared in Jepson’s eyes. “He did no more than he should.” His mouth twisted unpleasantly. “I hated the man,” he added.

“Hated your benefactor?” Archer was becoming interested.

“Loathed him; detested him. I did not let myself care at the time, but—” He stopped abruptly.

A throng of startling surmises thronged through Archer’s brain. Enid was not the only person who had hated Abraham Walsh. Nor was she the only person who had handled the poisoned envelope. What if Jepson, maddened by years of abuse, had brought about the old man’s death?

There was the question of the vial of poison. Enid admitted having taken it. But since she had brought it into this house, it was quite possible that Jepson had come upon it, and had helped himself to enough for his purpose.

The label on the vial had told the nature of its contents. The label had also borne the printed description, “John Archer, M.D.” Had Jepson, having in his possession some of the poison, been, cunning enough to see that by smearing it on the gum of the envelope he could avert all suspicion from himself? Once the letter was mailed, after old Walsh had sealed it, the evidence, if ever discovered, would point toward Archer himself.

“Jepson,” he said suddenly, “why did you mail that letter to me after Mr. Walsh’s death?”

The answer came quickly and smoothly: “The force of habit, doctor. I always took the letters with me when I left the house, and, absent-mindedly, I did so then.”

He was almost too ready with the explanation. It seemed to Archer as though the question had been expected, and the reply held in readiness. But the opportunity for further questioning was interrupted by the appearance of Enid. She came through the doorway with a sad little smile on her face; but it changed to a frown when she saw Jepson.

“Ah, here is Miss Crane,” said Jepson. Good-by, doctor.” He glided quickly out of view.

“Oh,” exclaimed Enid, sinking into a chair. “I wish that man would stay away.”

“Why?” Archer could not hold back the question.

“I— I can’t tell you. He is insupportable.” She made an evident effort to speak more lightly. “He is expanding so since uncle’s death.”

“He is expanding too rapidly,” replied Archer. “He may burst.”

But he thought that he detected in Enid’s references to Jepson an undernote of fear. Had Jepson found some way of inducing her to let him have the poison? In that case she might have been an innocent but conscious accomplice in the crime— innocent of specific acquaintance with his plan, but conscious that he had a plan to do something evil— and probably for his own release and hers. That would account for her fear, and it would tend to minimize her guilt if one took all circumstances into consideration.

He looked again at Enid. She was dressed in black.— Her face showed signs not of grief, but of suffering. She was paler than her wont, and her hands moved nervously in her lap. She was so obviously worn out that all the questionings of his mind gave place to a quick concern for her.

“You are tired,” he said,

“Tired?” she answered with an hysterical catch in her voice. “I am so tired that I should like to sleep for a year. But I can’t sleep.”

He produced his fountain pen and a prescription- pad. “Here,” he said,  writing. “Send out and have this prescription filled. It is a mild sedative, and I think you’d better take it.”

She took the paper, and nervously folded and unfolded it while she talked.

“The days have turned into years,” she said, “each harder to live through than the last.”

“Not quite that bad.” He smiled with a stimulation of cheerfulness. “The week has naturally been trying. When you have rested—”

“Oh, rest will not help me,” she exclaimed. “Can’t you see, John, that I am tortured? He is leering at me from his grave!”

“Don’t speak like that.” His voice was sharp.

“But the enormity of the thing I have done!”

“The thing you have done?” He could not look into her eyes.

“Yes— living in hate for five years; permitting the gall of hate to season my life; saying that I wished him dead.”

She broke into tears.

“Come,” he said gently, “this won’t do. You must get control of yourself. What’s done is done, and no one knows but me.”

“Oh, if it were only you,” she sobbed. “But Jepson knows— Jepson knows.”

“Knows what? ” He barely breathed the question.

“That I hated him."

“Nobody can blame you for having hated him, Enid. Try to forget all about that.”

“I can’t, I can’t,” she cried. “John, you don’t know what it is to hate. To be constantly near some one whose eyes, whose voice makes every nerve in your body quiver. To hold yourself calm and cold. There is no way for you to understand what it means. There, in your office, when I said that I wished him dead, I— ” She broke off, and dried her eyes. “But this is an abominable way to treat you. I didn’t send for you to make you miserable with my woes.”

He was puzzled; but above all he was desirous that she should get a firm grip on herself. In her presence his suspicions of her were fading to shadows— even in spite of the damaging things she was saying.

“The worst of all is the money,” she went on. “I don’t feel that I can touch it— it was so much a part of him. I wish he had given it all to charity.”

Here was the opportunity to suggest a course that might bring her relief. “You can do what he failed to do, Enid.”

“What?”

“How much was your father’s fortune— before he got into the hands of— ” Her shudder warned him not to mention her uncle’s name.

“About a million.”

“Assume that half of that would have come to you, Enid. Out of the twenty millions that he left to you, keep five hundred thousand. Give the rest away if it will make you feel happier.” Her eyes were shining. “It is a big price,” he added.

“No price is too big,” she exclaimed. “I will do it. After all, it was the money. If he had not left it to me I would not feel so badly. John, what would be a good cause to give it to?”

She was leaning forward in her excitement.

“Slowly, Enid,” he smiled. “There’s plenty of time to think about that; and there are plenty of needs. Take time to think it over.”

“But I can’t wait. I want this burden to fall from my shoulders now.”

“It will do that with your decision.”

“But give me some suggestion.”

He considered. “There ought to be homes for convalescents,” he said after a moment. “Patients are . turned out of hospitals when they are fit to go nowhere. There should be more places where they can stay while they recuperate.”

Already her mind was busy with the idea. He had not intended to suggest seriously that she should give away the money ; but if the decision to do so really freed her from the weight that bore down on her conscience, perhaps it was just as well. She had no need of twenty million dollars. She was not the kind of girl who could possibly spend the income of such a sum.

But was her despairing self-accusation altogether due to the fact that she had hated her uncle? If ever there had been excuse for hatred, it had been hers. However, he did not wish to press this question now.

“Don’t give it all away this minute, Enid,” he said; and her face was so much less unhappy that he smiled broadly.

“Perhaps part of it should go to other things.” she commented.

“Perhaps.”

“Universities, it may be, or—”

“Anything but libraries.”

She looked at him reproachfully.

“There,” she said, “we will drop this for the present. But later I shall want your advice.” She was rapidly becoming-like herself. “What I really asked you to come for was to tell you that Arthur arrives to-morrow.”

“So soon?” Archer was surprised.

“We cabled him about noon last Saturday. He reached the coast in time to catch a fast boat late that night. Tomorrow is Friday.”

“True. I had not realized—”

“Isn’t it strange,” she broke in, “that days can drag until every minute is an eternity; and yet afterward it seems as though no time had passed at all?”

He nodded gravely. She could not know that the description fitted his own recent experience.

“I wish you would go to meet Arthur,” she continued. “I— I don’t want to be the first to see him.”

“I will go gladly,” said Archer.

“Tell him— tell him whatever you please.”

“I will explain all that I can.”

She arose. “There are dress-makers waiting. I shall have to hurry you away, John.”

He glanced at her black gown.

“I feel like a hypocrite to wear it,” she said, “but there seems to be no way not to. Good-by.”

He took her hand, and kept it long in his, while he looked searchingly into her eyes. There was no guilt in them; and yet she did not long sustain his gaze. Her lids drooped, and her mouth trembled.

“You poor girl! ” he whispered.

On an overwhelming impulse he drew her into his arms. She buried her face in his shoulder, and burst into tears, crying her heart out. Then suddenly she tore herself away, and hurried from the room.

Archer was swayed by many emotions as he went to the street and walked homeward; but chief among them was the happy sorrow of that clinging moment. She had accepted him unreservedly as the shelter from her difficulties. He felt more and more sure in-his heart that, however she might have been unconsciously implicated in the tragedy, she was not guilty of her uncle’s death.

He had not questioned her again about the vial of poison. He felt that he did not need to. Whatever her reason for taking it, she had not meant it for her uncle.

A sudden surmise sent an icy shudder through him. Had her unhappiness been so great that she had been tempted to use the poison herself? Had she been at the extreme of misery when she stood in his consultation-room that afternoon? If it were so, he was thankful for the murder that had saved a life far more precious to him than that of Abraham Walsh.

But the mystery of the crime was still unexplained. Sure of Enid’s innocence, he need not now hesitate to search for the criminal. If circumstances warranted, he might even lay the facts before the authorities.

It would be difficult, however, to prove anything. Exina left no traces in the body. So infinitesimal was the amount that would cause death, that there was no likelihood of being able to find it. And to satisfy a jury that Abraham Walsh had been murdered would be almost impossible.

Jepson might have done the deed. In fact, Jepson seemed to. be the only person, besides Enid, who could have done it. Jepson would bear watching.

Chapter 8:  Arthur

THE bows of the big Kaiser were encased in ice— the frozen spray of the heavy Atlantic seas through which for five days she had been plunging. As she moved majestically up the North River and turned in toward her dock, she looked like a sturdy messenger of storms. Thus, at least, it seemed to John Archer, as he strained his eyes in the endeavor to separate one familiar figure from the row that lined the rails of the approaching ship.

The expectant group of watchers on the dock began to show excitement.

“There she is!” exclaimed a girl near Archer, turning to her escort. “See! She is waving! I’m sure it is she!”

And she swung her boa in the air.

An elderly man, standing close to an opening not far away, had formed his hands into a trumpet, and was bellowing through them: “Harry! Harry! Harry! ” oblivious of the fact that his voice could not carry over the babel of sound.

Dock-hands were making ready to shove out the gangways. At the other side of the vast dock the roped-in enclosure of the customs was occupied by uniformed officials indifferently awaiting the rush that was to come.

The Kaiser was slowly moving into the slip. The rows of people at her rails were borne past the window at which Archer stood. But, look as he might, he could not distinguish Arthur.

That besabled woman up there on the promenade-deck, a little court of men around her, he recognized as a famous prima donna, coming for a three-weeks’ engagement— and this excited man beside him, trying to attract her attention, was the impresario who had engaged her.

He saw other faces that he recognized; but Arthur was not in sight.

The ship was moored; the passengers began to stream down to the dock, to be caught by waiting friends and relatives, and welcomed with laughter and with tears of joy.

Archer waited. It depressed him strangely to find that Arthur lagged. Had he missed the boat, after all? No, that could not be, for his presence on board had been made known by wireless. Perhaps he was ill.

Then, among the last to come down the gangway, appeared a tall, spare figure. He was pale, even haggard, and his pointed brown beard for the moment proved so effective a disguise that Archer hardly knew him. But it was Arthur: a different Arthur in appearance, yet unmistakably he; staring straight before him, seeing no one.

When Archer laid a hand on his shoulder, he started, and turned with a look that was almost frightened.

“John!” he gasped.

His free hand sought his friend’s, and held it in a nervous clasp. His breathing seemed to be perturbed.

Archer drew him aside. “Well, old chap,” he said, “I’m mighty glad to see you.”

Arthur’s eyes filled with tears; and Archer’s heart warmed to see how strongly his friend was affected by the meeting.

“Is Enid here?” asked Arthur.

“No. She asked me to come. She is waiting for you at the house.”

Arthur showed unmistakable relief.

“It has been a terrible trip— terrible!” he exclaimed. “I thought it would never end.”

“Rough? ”

“Oh, not that.” He sighed, but gave no explanation.

“Well,” said Archer, “a good night’s rest will fix you up.”

“The reporters tried to talk with me down the bay,” continued Arthur, “but I wouldn’t have it. Why can’t the newspapers let a man alone? They pointed their cameras at me.”

“That is the penalty of your double fame, Arthur— as a rising artist, and as the heir to a fortune. You have heard, of course. The will—”

“Yes, I know,” lie replied grimly. “Let’s have it over with the customs. I brought nothing but this bag.” He strode away to the enclosure, and Archer, following him, tried vainly to understand his old friend’s nervousness.

The formality of the examination was quickly over, and Arthur, more like himself, took Archer’s arm, and started toward the end of the dock.

“You must forgive my nervousness, John,” he said. “I have been passing through an awful ordeal.”

Archer was silent. He did not understand.

“You are the one person I most wished to see; and yet I did not seem to think that any one would meet me. I stayed in my cabin all the way over.”

“Not a wise thing to do, was it? I should judge that you needed the air.”

“There were people aboard I knew. I couldn’t bear the idea of having to meet them— to listen to their curious chatter. I wanted to be by myself. I wanted to think.”

“Has it done you any good to think? ”

“No. There are some problems in life that can’t be settled by thinking. But never mind that now. Let us get a carriage.”

They had now left the dock. He hailed a carriage, and gave the address— once, Abraham Walsh’s; now his own, and Enid’s.

During the ride across the ferry they remained in the carriage. Then, and afterward, as they rattled through Christopher Street and West Eighth Street to the asphalt of Fifth Avenue, they talked but little; though Archer, not altogether liking his friend’s nervous silence, endeavored to draw him out about his work.

“You’ve been doing great things these two years,” he ventured. “From all accounts your future looks big.”

“They say so,” Arthur sighed.

“Your uncle ’’—Arthur started at the word, but Archer continued— “your uncle got the notion that you were living the wrong kind of life over there. Enid couldn’t make him understand.”

“He had a detective watching me,” said Arthur shortly. “I surprised him at it one day. There wasn’t much of anything to say against me; but the fellow made the most of it.”

“Your uncle went as far as that?”

“He went as far as that.”

“What a terrible creature he was!” mused Archer.

“Don’t speak of him! ” exclaimed Arthur. “His arm is so long that it reaches even from his grave.”

How like the words were to those of Enid! Old Walsh’s personality still hovered about his heirs. Was that because, as Enid had said, his money was so much a part of him?

They came to a stop before the house. Arthur glanced at the ugly facade, and for a moment he shrank back; then, drawing a deep breath, opened the door and stepped to the sidewalk. He handed a bill up to the driver, and took his bag.

“I ain’t got the change,” said the driver.

“Never mind that.” Arthur turned to Archer. “I want you to come in with me.”

“Now?”

“Yes. I— there are certain things to be said.”

It was, nevertheless, with some sense of intrusion that Archer went up the wide stone steps.

A servant opened the door; but Enid was close behind him. She did not see Archer at all, but threw herself sobbing into her brother’s arms.

“There, dear, there!” whispered Arthur, kissing her forehead lightly, and gently pushing her away from him. She became aware of Archer’s presence, and smiled at him wistfully.

“Now where can we go to talk?” asked Arthur nervously.

Enid looked at him in astonishment.

“Not now! ” she exclaimed.

“Yes, now,” he answered grimly. “I must have it over.”

She stole a glance at Archer. “My sitting-room will do as well as any place,” she suggested.

The words were hardly out of her mouth before he started toward the stairs.

“What ails him?” she whispered to Archer.

“I don’t know.” Archer gestured toward the stairs. “But whatever he wishes to say, I can see that it will be better for him to say it.”

“John, I want you to come, too,”

Arthur called from the landing; and, at Enid’s nod, he followed. She turned to him again at the top of the stairs, her eyes apprehensive, and seemed about to whisper to him : but after a moment of hesitation she went on in silence.

Arthur had opened the door, and was waiting for them to enter.

Enid’s sitting-room was sunny. It looked out over Central Park, and it was furnished as she had wished in a style much more attractive than the gloomy, mid-Victorian ugliness of the lower floor. But to Archer it seemed a place of strange forebodings. He looked about for some explanation of his feeling ; noted the empty grate, the mahogany desk, the framed prints and photographs ; and suddenly he realized that it was the nervous, pacing figure of Arthur that had made his spirits sink.

Enid had seated herself, and Archer followed her example; but the brother did not stop his restless walk, except to close the hall-door, and to peer into the dressing-room which opened off at one side. He seemed to be gathering resolution; nerving himself to something.

At last he halted before them, his hands on his hips. “The last week has been torture for me,” he said. “I feel like one of the damned.”

“Arthur!” Enid gasped.

“Yes, like one of the damned,” he repeated harshly. “What do you know about it?— Or you?” He turned to Archer.

“Steady, old man! ” said Archer.

“Steady? How can I be steady? If you had gone through what I have gone through. If you, with your upbringing, which was like mine, found yourself hating a man until you felt like throttling him with your own hands, and then— and then—” He averted his face.

“Stricken down in an instant! When the cablegram came to my door I had just exclaimed: ‘I wish he were dead.’ ”

Archer got to his feet, and passed his arm over Arthur’s shoulder. “This won’t do,” he said.

But Arthur drew away. “How do I know,” he demanded, “what effect that wish of mine may have had? They say there is power in thought. Then what may be the power of feeling?”

“This is sheer nonsense,” exclaimed Archer.

“But I have felt that, too,” said Enid shudderingly. “It is an awful thing to hate.”

Archer looked from one to the other. Had conscience made them mad?

“This money of his; I will not touch it,” Arthur went on. “It shall not burn my fingers.”

“Except what he took from father,” Enid faltered.

“No, not even that. It has passed through his hands.”

Chapter 9:  The Dismissal

ARCHER saw that he must interfere. “This is overwrought talk,” he said. “You have no real cause to blame yourselves, unless—unless there are reasons which I don’t know—and I don’t believe that there are such reasons.”

“That is just it,” said Arthur. “There are reason's which you and Enid do not know.”

“What are they?” whispered Enid.

“My own reasons.”

“Arthur,” she cried, “you are not like yourself.”

“How can I be?” He strode over to the window, and, throwing himself into a chair, stared moodily out over the park.

As for Archer, he was deeply troubled by this strange home— coming. The blithe, affectionate Arthur of old was gone; and in his stead was a strange, morose man who started at shadows.

“What are we to do?” whispered Enid, bending toward Archer.

“Give him time. He is oversensitive, and he is tired. Be as matter- of- fact and cheerful with him as you can. Above all, find something for him to do— and quickly.” He was prescribing for her as well as for the brother, though she did not know it. To make her devote herself to her brother was to draw her away from her own self-questionings.

“I can find something readily,” she answered.

“Are you whispering about me?” asked Arthur, without turning his head.

“Yes,” said Enid.

“Then say it.” He swung around in his chair.

“It’s Jepson,” she began. “I want you to send him away.”

“Jepson? Oh, yes; what has he been doing. Everybody seems to be in trouble of one kind or another— except John, there. And Heaven knows we’re dragging him into it fast enough.”

“That remark is not worthy of old friendship,” put in Archer.

“I know— forgive me. But what about Jepson?”

“He has annoyed me.” Enid studied the rug at her feet.

“How?”

She looked painfully embarrassed.

“How?” repeated Arthur.

“John will excuse us,” she said, rising. “No, sit still John.” She went over to her brother and touched his sleeve. “Come outside with me a moment,” she said.

“Isn’t John to hear?” he asked as he followed her to the hall.

She shook her head. Archer could not see her face. Her move brought back to him his vague forebodings of a doubtful relationship. What did she know about Jepson? How had the man offended her? Did she fear him?

Archer’s eyes fell on the empty grate. The pan beneath it— for it was an old-fashioned grate— had that appearance of dust which distinguishes whatever has held ashes. The rays of the afternoon sun straggled through the curtains, and fell softly on the fireplace. But in that mellow glow there was one bright point —between the ash-pan and the side wall of the chimney.

Archer bent down to see what could give such a reflection. He exclaimed aloud when he saw that it was a tiny vial. Another instant, and he had drawn it from its place.

It lay in the palm of his hand. The label was charred, but the letters, “EXI—” were legible. The glass had been browned by the heat, but it had not broken. Fortunately, it was thick. Fortunately, also, the stopple was of glass.

Within the vial lay the fatal crystals. Apparently they had not been disturbed. Just what portion had been taken out could not be determined without a test. He had, among his notes at home, the record of the exact weight of the original contents of the vial. Another weighing would tell him how much of it had been used to end the life of Abraham Walsh.

He quickly wrapped the vial in his handkerchief, and tucked it into his pocket, thankful that he had been the one to find it. Enid could not have been apprehensive when she tried to destroy it, or it would never have been permitted to slip through the coals, and roll out of the side of the grate. She must have tossed it into the flames, and left it.

Archer blessed the carelessness of the servant who had failed to see it when the ashes were removed.

By her own account Enid had supposedly destroyed the poison during the morning after her uncle’s .death. For a day and two nights before that it had been in the house. Where? Had she left it lying where Jepson, or any one else might see it? He would ask her.

She came into the room while he was considering the best way of discussing the subject with her, and wondering when he might broach it.

“Arthur has gone down to the library to attend to Jepson,” she said. “Do you mind waiting here for a few minutes? It is very improper, I suppose, but the chaperon will soon return.”

“After attending to Jepson?”

“Yes.” She sighed wearily. “There has been no excuse for his staying so long. But he has taken many duties on himself. I don’t know exactly what to do about it. I think that he has been prying into uncle’s private papers.”

“Tell me, Enid,” he said with sudden earnestness, “why won’t you explain what Jepson did to annoy you? ”

“Foolish embarrassment. I’m afraid. But I will tell you, John.”

“Not if you don’t wish to.”

“He has been trying to make me marry him.”

“Jepson?

She nodded.

“But why—?”

“It seems that he has long cherished a hope. The awkward part of it is that I tried to be friendly to him before uncle died. He appeared to be so cowed, so abject.”

“You used to talk with him about your uncle? ”

She gave an hysterical little laugh. “Absurd, wasn’t it? But there seemed to be no one to whom I could turn. I asked him last week if, from his long service with uncle, he could give me any advice as to a way of influencing a better treatment of Arthur. It was he who suggested that I ask you to write to uncle about it.”

“What! ”

“Why, yes.”

“Are you sure, Enid? This is important.”

“How serious you are! Why should it be important? ”

“Never mind that now, Enid. But tell me, are you absolutely certain that Jepson advised you to ask me to write that letter?”

“Absolutely certain. I suppose I might have told you, but I felt rather silly about it. He seemed such a weak reed to lean on. It was only because he knew uncle’s ways even better than I did.”

Archer was stunned. He no longer had the least doubt that Jepson was the murderer. The motive was fairly plain. In all probability he had acted partly from hatred, and partly from a desire to improve his own position. By working upon Enid’s self-blame for her expressed hatred of her uncle, and by trying to associate himself sympathetically with her, he had aimed to draw her into marriage. A great stake the little slave had played for.

“And he dared to want to marry you?” Archer muttered.

“I don’t like to think about it,” she sighed. “He is an abominable little person.”

He watched her admiringly. Her old grace had come back to her within the day.

“If only Arthur will be like himself.” she said after. a moment, “1 could almost be happy again. I feel better now about— about uncle. Not having to take his money—”

“Enid, he wanted you to have it.”

“I know it, John; but I don’t want it.”

“He was a terrible old man,” Archer remarked. “He made everybody hate him. I know I should have hated him if l had had to be with him.”

“Would you?” she asked eagerly.

“I surely would,” he replied truthfully. “His treatment of you and Arthur would have been enough.”

“I think I am beginning to see things normally again,” she murmured softly.

“Of course you are, Enid.” And under his breath he added: “Heaven bless you!”

Into this quiet mood of theirs Arthur suddenly burst.

“You’ll see no more of Jepson, Enid,” he announced.

“What did you do to him?” she asked.

“Packed him off. He's an infernally impudent ass. I have said what I wanted to say to you and John. There’s no more to be said— now. I’m going to see if I feel enough easier to sleep. You’ll excuse me.”

And he bolted from the room.

The tears sprang into Enid’s eyes. “I don’t understand it,” she whispered. “After two years away!”

“Give him time, Enid,” said Archer. “I don’t believe he has slept since he left France. He will be the same old Arthur in a few days.”

But as Archer left the house he doubted his own reassurances. For Arthur was plainly keeping something back.

Chapter 10:  The Vial

IT was the morning of the next day.

John Archer had sat late into the night, trying to arrive at a definite conclusion concerning the mystery of the envelope. Enid was now entirely excluded from his suspicions. The evidence all pointed toward Jepson—who had first suggested that the letter be written; who had possibly had access to the vial of Exina; and who had suddenly emerged from his chrysalis only to fly at once into the flame of an impossible ambition.

But Jepson’s guilt would not explain the perturbed state of Arthur’s mind. Something was unquestionably wrong with Arthur. His remorse for the hatred he had felt toward his uncle— even when his sensitive temperament was taken into consideration— did not account for the change in him. Was he, in some secret way, leagued with Jepson? If that were so, in his nervous condition he would hardly have been so ready to drive Jepson from the house. He would have been more likely to dread the results of a break with his confederate— would have tried to soothe Enid and find an excuse for Jepson’s folly.

To take the case to the police became a recurring suggestion. Such a step appeared to be his duty. And yet, when he thought of the scandal that would follow— how Enid and Arthur might be made to lay bare before the public the story of their relations with their uncle; how Jepson might vulgarly vaunt himself and proclaim himself a martyr; how suspicion might fall upon himself— when he thought of these things he felt that, even upon civic duty, restrictions must sometimes necessarily be placed.

His own position, indeed, would be very hard to explain. Besides the murderer, only he himself knew that murder had been done. The proof of murder rested solely on the poisoned envelope, now in his safe. The poison that had been used was unknown to pharmacology, and the only existent quantity of it was in his own possession.

If he admitted that the vial had been for a time in the house of Abraham Walsh, he would have to convince a jury that Jepson had seen it, and that he and not Fund had employed it.

No, he could not go to the police without directing suspicion to himself and to Enid. In his own defense, his frankness in proving a murder where none had been suspected, might readily free him; but how could he establish the innocence of Enid, which, for him, depended upon his knowledge of her character— upon subtle shades of meaning in her speech such as could not be described to others?

Then, too, in his own case, there might be complications. A careless statement, a moment of confusion, and he would find himself hopelessly entangled. Some unforeseen suspicion might be directed 'against him.

He remembered the man, Tousey, who had taken him to be a counterfeiter. Suppose that Tousey, in his stupidity, were to come forward and assert that he had seen his former master dabbing something on an envelope. Doubtless he had used his paste-brush in Tousey’s presence. What terrible significance might be given to some trifling incident like that!

The more he thought about it, the more he became convinced that his best course was to remain passive—to await developments. But there was one thing he could do: He could determine how much of the poison had been put on the envelope flap. That was a mere matter of placing the contents of the vial on his scales and subtracting the weight from the original weight, as entered in his note-book. Useless work, it might be called; but it was something to do in the interest of exactness.

And so, that morning, he took the vial, still wrapped in the handkerchief, from his safe—where he had placed it when he brought it home— and carried it down the spiral stairs to the laboratory. He lifted the protecting bell of glass from the delicate scales. When he tried to draw the stopple from the vial, however, he found that the effect of the heat in Enid’s grate had been to fix it in too tightly for removal. Accordingly he broke the vial, carefully holding it inverted and chipping a hole in the bottom.

Gently he poured the tiny crystals into one pan of the scales. Then he laid the weights in the other pan until the two pans balanced. The crystals weighed exactly eight decigrams and seven milligrams.

To be accurate, he reexamined the vial. No crystals remained in it. He then refitted, to the bottom of the vial, the pieces which he had chipped from it, and found that the edges united perfectly. No fragment of the glass could have dropped in among the crystals to add to their weight.

The next step was to examine his notes. There was the book, lying on the table. He turned the pages till he found the record of his first experiment with Exina. Yes, the weight of the contents of the vial was entered, but—

He looked again. Indubitably the figures read, “eight decigrams, seven milligrams."

He turned in bewilderment to the scales. The little heap of crystals was still balanced by the weights in the other pan. Again and again he added up the total of the tiny weights, and always with the one result— eight decigrams and seven milligrams.

It was inexplicable. By the evidence of the scales and the evidence of the note-book, the vial, when he brought it back, contained exactly the same quantity of Exina that he had placed in it two weeks ago! N one of the poison had been removed from the vial while it was in Enid’s possession!

Could these crystals have the property of gaining weight? That seemed impossible. Had the murderer, after faking out as much of the poison as he required, have made up the quantity in the vial by putting in crystals of another kind? He could not have made a compensation so exact, without the most delicate apparatus and the most careful experimentation. Then had he himself set down the wrong weight in his note-book? Had he written, “eight decigrams seven milligrams,” when he should have written, “eight decigrams seven centigrams?” Of course, such an error was possible, but, knowing his own careful habits he could not believe that he had made such a mistake.

He was confused, bewildered. Certainly the gummed flap of that return envelope had been covered with Exina crystals. Why, as he came to think of it, the envelope must have carried nearly as much as half the contents of the vial! And yet, all the Exina in the world was here in this room!

Had he made a fearful blunder? Had he been deceived by a similarity? Were the crystals on the envelope harmless fragments of the adhesive gum? No, for there was the cavy that had died when scrapings from the envelope were dropped upon its tongue. The poison on the envelope was certainly Exina. It looked like it, and it acted like it. No other poison operated in the same way. Archer sat down on his stool. He was completely baffled.

While he was puzzling, going over and over in his mind the contradictory facts, the telephone buzzed, and the voice of Martin, his new man, informed him that Mr. Arthur Crane was waiting to see him. Carefully transferring the Exina crystals from the pan of the scales to a fresh vial and labeling it. Archer cleaned the scales thoroughly and went up-stairs. He found Arthur in the reception-room and took him back to the consultation- room.

The night, apparently, had brought little benefit to Arthur. His long, straight nose looked pinched and sharp, and his eyes were unsteady. His normal, erect carriage, moreover, had given way to an uncertain stoop, as though the high shoulders were carrying a burden too heavy for them. He glanced absently about the room. It had been altered but little during the two years of his absence, yet the familiar place seemed to arouse no friendly memories in him. He threw a glance at Archer, then turned abruptly to the window and drummed upon the pane with his fingers, and at last left the window and threw himself into a chair and stared into the open fire.

“John,” he began, without taking his eves from the blaze.

“Well?”

Silence for a moment, and then:

“John, what killed uncle?”

The question was blurted out hurriedly. Archer, though expecting the unexpected. was so taken by surprise that he did not immediately reply. How much did Arthur know? Did he know anything at all of the matter; or was he, on the basis of some morbid fancy, hazarding a guess?

“Why don’t you answer me, John?” Arthur’s voice was low and intense. “What killed uncle?”

“Poison,” said Archer.

“God!”

It was the anguished cry of a broken man. He had covered his face with his long hands: his shoulders shook silently.

Archer waited. The moments were full of portent, but he must not be the first to speak. So Arthur continued his struggle for self-mastery while the mantel-clock ticked off five crawling minutes.

The fire crackled cheerfully. From the street without came the voice of an old-clothes man, and the servants could be heard below, moving about their duties. The winter sun came slanting in at the window, and lay in a long red stain across the rug. Arthur still sat in agonized silence.

There was a gentle tap at the door, and Martin opened it a few inches and thrust in his head to make an announcement. Archer frowned slightly and gestured him away. The door was quietly closed again. But Archer did not move.

Time crept on. Some tradesman rang the area-bell, and the steps of the cook could be heard going through the passage beneath. A coal in the grate rattled to the hearth.

At last Arthur raised his head. His eyes were gentler, steadier; his hands rested on the arms of his chair.

“I wish you would tell me everything you know about it,” he said.

“I really know very little.” Archer tried to speak calmly. “The day before your uncle died, I wrote him a letter, and enclosed the return envelope upon which he always insisted. It was a letter about you, Arthur— urging him to reconsider his decision to cut you off. When he read the letter he became very much excited, I am told. He scribbled an abusive word on the back of it, thrust it into the return envelope, and sealed it with his own lips. Another instant, and he was dead. Jepson mailed the letter to me. When I received it I noticed something odd about the gum on the flap, and a little investigation showed me that there was enough poison adhering to the gum to kill a hundred men. It could not have got there, by accident.”

“No,” said Arthur with surprising calmness, “it was not an accident.”

“The poison is of a kind that leaves no traces,” continued Archer. “It simply stops the action of the heart. I am acquainted with the poison, because I have lately extracted it from the leaves of a plant, hitherto unknown, which a friend of mine sent me from South America. So far as I was aware, no one had any of the poison besides myself ; but I have been forced to the conclusion that I was mistaken.”

“How did you happen to write to

“I did so at Enid’s request. She had your interest very much at heart.”

“Enid asked you to?”

“Jepson had suggested that she ask me. Suspicion points very strongly to Jepson.”

“No, it was not Jepson,” said Arthur. “At least,” he sighed, “I don’t see how it could have been.”

Archer knit his brows. “When you came this morning I had nearly decided that it was futile to try to uncover the mystery. You and I and the murderer are the only ones who know that a murder has been committed. So long as we keep silence, no one else can know. If it were possible to find the murderer and prove his guilt, then the facts should be given to the police, regardless of the unpleasantness that might arise for us all; but as it is—”

“Now, I am going to talk,” Arthur broke in suddenly. “I am going to tell you a horrible story. It will explain much— why the crime was committed; why I have been so unlike myself.”

He swallowed hard and leaned forward in his chair.

“As you wish,” said Archer.

“I do wish to—and I must tell it. Listen.”

Chapter 11: A Confession

“WHEN I went to Paris, two years ago, Enid and I both agreed that uncle was a person to be hated and loathed. He had ruined father. True, he had taken us into his house to live with him, but we felt that he owed us much more than he could ever repay. What he did for us, for that matter, was done in such 'a manner that I have often thought he found pleasure in making us hate him.

“Life among the artists in Paris is free and unstrained, if we judge it from our standards. It isn’t any great wonder that, after three years of repressed existence under uncle’s roof, I threw myself into the spirit of my new environment a little more unreservedly than I should have done. It was more a frolic than anything else. But I worked, too.”

“I fancy there’s no question about your working,” Archer put in.

“Well, during the last few months, as I read between the lines of Enid’s letters, I could see that uncle was preying upon her character. There was a note of hardness that I did not like. I realized that she was living under a strain, and you can imagine that I didn’t love uncle any better when I thought of her. It fretted me to realize that I was living the life and doing the work that pleased me, while she was virtually chained to uncle’s invalid— chair. So I worked harder than ever, determined to wait only until spring before coming back to America. Then I would send Enid abroad for a time, while I fought it out with uncle. And I hated him harder and harder.”

He paused, and, picking up the poker, thrust aimlessly at the fire.

“And then,” he went on after a few moments, “one day I fell in with an American who was down on his luck. Somebody introduced us; I don’t remember who. Salton was the name of the American. He seemed to be a pleasant, happy-go-lucky sort of fellow. By his own story, he had been sent over as a buyer for a firm of New York picture-dealers, and his house had failed a few days after his arrival and left him stranded. He was dickering by cable, he said, with another firm, and would have a new connection within a few days.

“I rather took to Salton. Perhaps it was because he talked of buying some of my pictures; but, aside from that, he was engagingly good company. Now I would give half my life if I had never met him.”

Arthur arose and wandered restlessly to the window. He stood there, looking out, his back to his friend, and continued the story:

“One evening, less than six weeks ago. Salton and I were sitting together in a cafe. A letter had come from Enid that day. and I was feeling particularly blue about it. Salton rallied me for being in the dumps, and I told him something of my situation. It was foolish of me, but I felt pretty well acquainted with him by that time. The worst is that I told him how I hated uncle.” Arthur’s words came with trembling swiftness. “I said that I wished uncle were dead. We had drunk a good deal of wine, you see. I said ”— he turned suddenly from the window and faced his friend— “John, don’t you begin to understand?”

“Go on,” said Archer in a low voice.

“I said that I would give up half the money he was going to leave me if only he were dead within a, month.”

Archer gazed at him in open amazement.

“I didn’t mean it,” cried Arthur.

“Of course you didn’t. You couldn’t have meant it.”

“I was thinking of Enid more than of myself. And the wine had made my tongue rattle. And I was criminally foolish. You do believe that I didn’t mean it, don’t you, John?”

“Yes,” said Archer.

“Salton began to talk about premonitions. He told a lot of stories about people who could read the future, and all that rubbish, and I laughed at them. But he got quite serious about it. He said that every once in a while he had glimpses of things that were going to happen— that, if I would only stop laughing, he would tell me something that would interest me.”

“Well?” said Archer, for the narrative had halted. “I pretended to be serious, and Salton then said impressively that my wish about my uncle was likely to come true —that my uncle would be dead within a month.

“I laughed at him harder than ever. ‘That old man will never die,’ I said; but I had the decency to add that if a wish of mine could really end his life, I would withdraw what I had said about him.

“ ‘Your wish has nothing to do with it,’ Salton said. ‘Such events are determined by principles larger than one man's wish.’

“So I scouted at him till he seemed to grow angry. At last he set back in his chair and offered to wager me a thousand dollars that uncle— that uncle would be dead within two months.”

“You took him up?”

“I accepted,” groaned Arthur. “I was excited, and I accepted.”

“Foolish, but by no means fatal. You cannot be blamed very seriously.”

“But— but he got me to put it down on paper.”

“Do you mean that?” Archer sprang to his feet.

Arthur nodded wretchedly.

“He made it seem the natural thing to do. The folly of it never occurred to me. I was thinking about winning the bet, not about the nature of the bet.”

“And you wrote the wager down?”

“If it had only been written in the form of a wager! But Salton called for ink and paper, and scribbled this sentence:

I hereby agree to pay to Arthur Crane the sum of one thousand dollars, in the event that his uncle is not dead within sixty days from this date.

“He signed the paper and pushed it over across the table to me. It was so much like an act of confidence that I wrote on another sheet:

I hereby agree to pay to William Salton the sum of one thousand dollars in the event that my uncle dies within thirty days from this date.

“And you signed that!”

“Signed it and gave it to him. He folded it and put it in his pocket.”

Archer’s mouth shut grimly. He did not look at his friend.

“I did not realize the enormity of what I had done,” continued Arthur, “until the next day. I awoke with a headache, and my memories of the evening were confused, until, while I was dressing, I put my hand in my pocket and found Salton’s written promise.”

“Have you got it with you? ”

Arthur produced a pocketbook, and extracted from it a folded slip. Taking it from him, Archer read it slowly. It was worded as Arthur had said:

I hereby agree to pay to Arthur Crane the sum of one thousand dollars, in the event that his uncle is not dead within sixty days from this date.

William Salton.

“I tried to find Salton, to get the promise back,” Arthur went on, averting his eyes from the paper, “but he had disappeared. At first, I was very uneasy. If an accident should happen to Salton, and my promise should be found on him, it would look very bad. To explain the wager convincingly, and the circumstances that had led up to it, would, I knew, be almost an impossible thing to do.

“Salton had said that he might be called away suddenly, and, after a time, I thought very little of his disappearance. In fact, in a few days I almost forgot the wager. It had simply been a piece of vinous folly between two friends. The month would elapse, and uncle would still be living. But I resolved that when the time came for Salton to pay the wager, I would not accept it.

“Then Enid’s cablegram came. It struck like a bolt of lightning. Everything was plain. John, I had not had a suspicion until that moment. I had not dreamed of such a thing. I had only foolishly tried to prove to a friend that he was not the prophet he thought he

“An hour after Enid’s cablegram, another one came. It said:

I win. Salton.

“That was all. But I knew what it meant. He had won, not a thousand dollars, but my soul. Thereafter I was to belong to him— utterly.”

He stopped and waited for Archer to speak. Again the clock ticked off the minutes; again the street-cries and the subdued noises of the house came faintly in to them.

At last Archer spoke. “You have made a terrible mistake, Arthur,” he said. “But I cannot hold it against you. and the world would not hold it against you if it knew all the circumstances. You have been punished; and you will continue to be punished, for you will have this secret to carry through life. But -forgive yourself all you can, Arthur. You were led into a trap. You meant no wrong.”

He held out his hand, and Arthur seized it and clung to it with a grip that hurt.

“We must deal with this man, Salton,” continued Archer. “He is the only guilty one. You will hear from him soon.”

“I have heard from him—this morning.”

“What! Already?”

Arthur held out a letter, and Archer read:

Dear Crane:

I want to see you. You can guess why. At ten o’clock to-morrow night be at the corner of Lexington Avenue and Twenty-Fifth Street. A man will approach you and say, “Salton." Show him this letter, and he will bring you to me. Fail me at your own risk.

William Salton.

“The letter was written yesterday,” said Arthur. “He means to-night.”

Chapter 12: The Evidence Destroyed

“YOU are going, of course,” said Archer, handing the letter back to Arthur.

“I must. He knows I dare not refuse.”

“I shall be there, too.”

“I wish you could,” sighed Arthur.

“I can. Be at the corner at ten o’clock, as he directs. I shall not go with you, but will follow, and see where the guide takes you.”

“Salton didn’t even trouble to-tell me to come alone.” Arthur folded the letter slowly. “But the precautions which he indicates show that I will have to. Had I better go— armed? ”

“Certainly not,” said Archer shortly. “When you find yourself with him, delay the conversation as much as you can. Be ready for my appearance. Above all, don’t give him back this letter; it is one of the few pieces of evidence pointing to your own innocence.”

“How is that? ”

“If Salton had legitimately won a wager from you, would he write such a letter? If you had hired him to commit a crime for you, would he, holding the evidence of the bargain, have. to write such a letter to you? No; you would then be keeping in touch with him, not he with you.”

“Your distinctions are true, but aren’t they rather too subtle?”

“I think not. Keep the letter, in any event.”

“What on earth shall I do with myself till ten o’clock?” exclaimed Arthur.

Archer glanced at the clock. “Better lunch with me here. Afterward I have a clinic and a few calls that will fill out the rest of my afternoon. If I were you I wouldn’t go home. Enid might guess something.”

“You don’t think she ought to know?” suggested Arthur apprehensively.

“By no means. Some day, years from now, perhaps, but—”

Arthur showed his relief.

“If I were you,” continued Archer, “I would go to a matinee this afternoon. Then come here to dinner.”

“I feel infinitely better for having talked things out,” said Arthur. “But it seems as though I should never shake off the feeling of guilt.”

“That is something time will do for you. The only thing I can say is: Never forget that you are paying for a folly, and not for a crime. And don’t grudge the payment, Arthur.”

Strongly as he had sought to reassure his friend, Archer was far from feeling reassured himself. To Arthur any recognition of the fact that he had not meant to be at fault was a relief, for until now he had had no confidant except his own conscience. But the situation was, in truth, about as bad as it could be. With all his heart, Archer wished that Jepson might have proved to be die guilty man, rather than this unknown Salton, who held in his possession that damaging promise to pay.

Though he had spoken confidently of settling with Salton,, Archer realized that the settlement could not easily be arranged. A villain, ingenious enough to plan and carry out such a crime, could not be blind to his advantage. He would demand millions, of course. The only hope was to get Arthur’s written promise away from him.

Or there might be some unexpected weak spot in Salton’s armor. That was to be determined.

What a fool Arthur had been! But, thank Heaven, he was no worse than a fool! How terribly he was paying for his folly! The scars of his suffering would remain with him forever. Well, that was something that could not be helped. Arthur would have to readjust his life as best he could. He must mask the tragedy in his heart, and show as brave a face as possible to the world.

There was, at least, much for him to accomplish with his brush.

“He will paint great pictures,” mused Archer.

And Enid must now know. She, too, had passed through the fire, but it had not burned her. For her the curse of her uncle’s malignity had ended almost with his life.

Throughout luncheon Archer held the conversation down to lighter topics. It gratified him to see that every now and then Arthur forgot himself and responded in the old way, chatting of his painting and of the days when he, Enid, and Archer were playmates. Afterward, when Archer started him off to the theater, he walked down the street with a step that was almost elastic.

Dinner was even more cheerful. Arthur talked quite normally about the play he had seen. But after the coffee had been brought on he looked up suddenly and said, with a painful smile:

“I feel like one of your patients, waiting for an operation.”

“Forget it,” said Archer shortly.

“Don’t worry about me. I can stand it now.”

Archer studied the drawn face. If Arthur wished to talk, perhaps it would be better to permit him. “Well,” he said, “go ahead, if you want to.”

“What shall we do when we meet Salton? ” Arthur began eagerly.

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know? Haven’t you a plan? ”

“None, except to await developments.”

Arthur sighed.

We may have to pay more than one visit to him,” continued Archer. “I fancy that he is a clever scoundrel. But remember, Arthur, your part in this evening’s performance is to be at the appointed corner at ten o’clock, and let the lieutenant lead you to Salton. Once there, make all the delay possible.”

“Do you suppose that this lieutenant, as you call him, knows the story? ”

“I doubt it. Salton’s secret promises to be so valuable to him that he will hesitate to share it. Moreover, he would have to admit that he had committed murder; and, while a thug might make such an admission to one of his pals, I doubt if Salton is a thug.”

“Two hours and a half till ten,” muttered Arthur, after looking at his watch.

“Yes. Now, I want you to go to another play and use up that time.”

Arthur’s face fell. Aren’t you coming, John?”

“I don’t believe it will be wise for me to be seen with you this evening. The house may be watched.”

“But where will you be?”

“I will go to see Enid.”

“To tell her? I thought you said—”

“No, not to tell her. To reassure her. She will be wondering about you.”

“I should have phoned her. What a thoughtless thing for me to do. But, at least, there is no Jepson there to bother her.”

“Jepson! I had forgotten him. He seems to have disappeared from all our calculations.”

“Yes.” Arthur was once more under his burden. “I wish I could get rid of Salton as easily— of Salton, and of my own memories.”

“We shall hear from Jepson again,” said Archer noncommittally. “He belongs in this affair, though just how, I do not know.”

A few minutes later Arthur set out for the theater. Archer prepared to call on Enid. With his mind on the later meeting, he went into his consultation room to get a stout cane, and while he was there his eye fell on the panel-door. The mystery of the Exina returned to his mind. Had some other person in the world a quantity of the fatal crystals? Was it a mere coincidence that the poison had been applied to the envelope contained in his letter to Abraham Walsh? If so, how had the envelope been prepared at all, unless Jepson—

But he felt that it was futile to try to answer the question, since that same evening he expected to see the man who had committed the crime. He did, however, ask himself what was the reason for preserving the envelope. The crime would never get to the courts. The envelope would never be used as evidence— that was certain. With the further light he had gained on the case, his object in keeping it had disappeared. Indeed, its presence in his safe was a constant menace to innocent, persons.

He opened the safe, therefore, and brought it out of its pigeon-hole. Quickly he tore open one end of the larger envelope, and looked within. Yes, it was there. He heard the faint rattling of some of the crystals which had become detached from the gum and were falling to the bottom. Better not handle it at all. Better destroy it. If one of the detached fragments, so tiny as not to be noticed, should cling to his finger or drop to the floor it might reach a scratch on a patient’s hand, or he might unwittingly carry it to his own lips. That would mean death.

The decision was made suddenly. Since he could not prove Salton’s guilt, he would not expose Arthur to the danger of a circumstantial charge. He tossed the large envelope, with its contents, into the fire.

And now no evidence remained of the murder of Abraham Walsh. It was just as well.

Chapter 13: The Man at the Table

TWENTY minutes later Archer was waiting for Enid. She came presently to the reception-room, a startled look on her face.

“Where is Arthur?” she asked, without greeting him.

“Arthur is safe, and well.”

“He went out this morning, and has not returned,” she said, explaining her anxiety.

“We have been together much of the day. In his nervous state I thought it wise that he should keep away from this house. After dinner I packed him off to the theater.”

“Quite the right thing to do,” she said, smiling with relief. “But I was -becoming a little alarmed. He seems so queer. You don’t think anything serious is wrong with him, do you, John?”

“I think what we both know— that he is extremely sensitive. Mr. Walsh’s death was a shock to him— as it was to you.” He paused significantly. “He will gradually come out from under the spell of his own feelings.”

“As I am coming out,” exclaimed Enid. “If I were sure that you would understand my meaning I should say that I am thankful things are as they are.”

“I understand.”

But how little she really knew! At that moment she seemed so strong that he was almost tempted to tell her the whole truth.

“It has been a terrible time,” she went on; “but I cannot be sorry, for it has brought its lessons.”

He nodded.

“I shall never let myself hate anyone again,” she said.

“Enid,” he whispered, “I want you to tell me something. Why did you take that vial of poison from my desk?”

The color sprang into her cheeks.

“For Heaven’s sake, Enid, you were not so depressed that you—”

“Mercy, no! How could you dream such a thing? No, John, it was just a foolish notion that I had. It troubled me that you should have such dangerous stuff around. And you were so contemptuous of my fear of it. No, I realize that you didn’t mean to be. But I thought—oh, it was absurd, of course— I thought that I— well— that I would make you feel as I had felt— make you see how careless it was to leave it lying there in that drawer.”

“Did you care as much as that, Enid?”

“So I took it,” she continued, ignoring his question. “When I got it home I looked at it for a long time. The little crystals seemed to be alive. They fascinated me. But, after a time, my fascination turned to horror. I thought of all the evil those crystals might do. So I thrust the vial into my jewel safe, and locked the door. All night I dreamed about it. The first thing when I awoke in the morning— it was the day uncle died— I got the vial and threw it into the fire in my sitting-room.”

“It was not left lying around between the time you brought it home and the time you put it into the safe?”

“No. Why do you ask?”

“I was interested to know whether you had been careless, too. But why did you feel anxious about my having it?

She did not answer.

“Why did you care, Enid?”

Her face averted. “I did not like to see you run risks,” she said.

“But you ran a greater risk than I, Enid. You handled that vial without knowing how dangerous it was.”

She smiled shyly. “I admit that I was foolish about it.”

“But are you sure, Enid, that the stopper did not come out— that none of the crystals were spilled?”

“I am sure. The stopper was in very tight. I tried it.”

He shuddered to think of her handling the vial.

“I should have returned the vial to you,” she added, “but I felt that I had been silly to take it, and I hated to explain. When you asked about it before, I didn’t feel like talking of it. But I had to tell you, of course.”

Her answers' confirmed one important fact. The weight of the original contents of the vial had not been entered incorrectly in his note-book. The vial had not been opened while it was out of his possession.

Her mood was so sympathetic this evening that it was hard for him to repress the words of love he yearned to speak. The old bitterness had altogether disappeared, and with it the little air of critical aloofness that had made her seem so unapproachable. But he held himself in check. Not while Arthur was on his way to meet a great danger, not while his mind was charged with a mystery of murder, would he declare himself to her.

In the last few days she had unconsciously made him feel her dependence on him. The fact sweetened the memories of his own doubts and suspicions. Soon a happier time would come, when lie would tell her of his love for her.

He left her at half past nine and walked rapidly down the avenue, filling his lungs with the sharp, clear air, and glancing with alert, interested eyes at the people he passed. All of them, no doubt, had their griefs, their regrets, their personal tragedies; for all of them were human beings, and trouble is not to be separated from human life. He, a surgeon, had reason to know.

As he mused on thre ugly scars of old wounds which he had found in so many human souls, Arthur’s case did not seem to him strikingly exceptional. His wound was fresh, but it would heal, and the scar would remain to warn him against exposing himself another time to a danger that threatened his eternal happiness.

At Twenty-Third Street he turned east, loitering along, for his watch told him that it still lacked eight minutes of ten. When at last he came to Lexington Avenue and turned north, one minute remained.

A number of persons were on the street, and Archer felt fairly safe from being suspected by Salton’s scout. Nevertheless, he was careful to betray no especial interest in his surroundings.

Crossing Twenty-Fourth Street, he saw at the next comer a man leaning against the lamp-post. The guide, no doubt. Coming from the north was a tall, spare, striding figure that could be no one but Arthur. The meeting could not have been better timed.

Archer saw Arthur stop short as he reached the Twenty-Fifth Street crossing and turn toward the waiting man. Evidently the watchword was being given. Then something white appeared in Arthur’s hand. He was showing the letter.

Archer had slowed down his own gait. When he saw Arthur and the stranger cross from the west side of the avenue he went forward more rapidly, arriving at the corner in time to see them walking east, in Twenty-Fifth Street. He followed at a distance of about one hundred feet, not daring to go nearer, and yet fearing to keep a greater distance, lest he lose them.

On to Third Avenue the guide led Arthur, and across the cobbles, under the structure of the Elevated railroad. In the glare of an arc-lamp, they stood out for a moment more distinctly, and Archer noted that the guide wore a little cap that rested lightly on a shock of the reddest of red hair.

The hair caught the attention of another person, a man who was lounging northward along the east side of Third Avenue. This man approached the crossing just as Arthur and his guide went by, and he stopped short, waited a moment, then turned into Twenty-Fifth Street after them.

About midway of the block the two leaders of this odd procession halted. Arthur bent down for a moment over his shorter companion, in the attitude of one listening. Then, suddenly, he continued down the street alone.

The situation was not difficult to comprehend. The guide, considering it unwise to accompany Arthur all the way to the door of the house in which Salton was waiting, had given him the number, and himself was waiting to check the advance of possible pursuers. Archer noticed that the man who had turned into the street at Third Avenue also stopped short.

The actions of the guide and the man who was immediately following him were not so important to Archer as the sure location of the door which Arthur was to enter. Accordingly he started diagonally across the street, peering after Arthur, who had now got almost to Second Avenue.

Doubtless the watcher would have headed Archer off, if he had noticed him. His attention was attracted, however, by the man who was closer to him, and he started slowly back toward Third Avenue, so that he might meet the stranger face to face. Meantime, Archer saw Arthur turn and climb the steps of a house. He fixed the steps in his mind, by counting their position in the row of houses which began back of the stores which faced on Second Avenue.

At that moment he caught the sound of a short, sharp scuffle, and turned in time to see Arthur’s guide struggling in the grasp of the stranger. Archer promptly crossed the street. As he came near the pair, the stranger clicked a pair of handcuffs over the little man’s wrists.

“What’s wrong?” asked Archer.

“He’s wanted. An old charge.” The stranger spoke with that gruffness which seems to be peculiar to the police. He glanced at Archer with such keenness, moreover, that it seemed wise not to show too great an interest in the arrest.

Men were running up from different directions. In the center of a growing crowd, the detective began to lead his prisoner back toward Third Avenue. Archer hurried away in the other direction.

Without difficulty he found the house into which Arthur had disappeared. It was an old dwelling, of dark, red brick. The sandstone steps had been worn by the feet of several generations, and its iron hand-rails, with their rusty ornaments, were bent and twisted. Lights gleamed in many of the windows; for, where one family had lived in moderate comfort, there were now half a dozen families crowded into tenements of one and two rooms.

Archer opened the front door. As he did so, a man darted out, carrying a tin pail on his arm— an Italian, bound to the nearest saloon for beer.

There was a dim light in the hall. It illuminated faintly the lower part of the rickety old stairs that led into the upper darkness, and it was not bright enough to outshine the bright lines under the doors that led into the various rooms on this first floor. Somewhere in the house Arthur was talking with Salton.

Stepping lightly through the hall, Archer listened at the different doors. Through one came the rapid talk of Italians. At another, no sound was to be heard, though he waited a full minute. The last door gave out to him the voice of a woman scolding.

Satisfied that he would have to go higher, Archer mounted the stairs. From none of the rooms on the second floor came the sound of a familiar voice, and he continued up to the third floor, feeling his way carefully. Here two of the rooms were dark. But through the keyhole of the third door, which shut off the room in the rear, shone a light.

Archer tiptoed close, and listened. A man was speaking in a low voice. The words were not distinguishable. For some time the monotone continued; then it stopped abruptly, and Archer heard Arthur say:

“It was a foolish wager, but I will gladly pay it.”

The monotone began its answer.

Archer tried the door. It was locked. He made no attempt to be quiet, but turned the knob quickly, as though he had the right to enter, and when he found that he could not get in, he rapped lightly but sharply. An intuition had come to Archer that if he tried the door and then rapped without hesitation, Salton would think that it was his scout come with a warning.

The monotone had ceased when the knob rattled. Now the same voice was raised to say:

“Open the door, Crane. It’s Mike.”

That voice, speaking thus distinctly, was not strange to Archer. While steps were coming across the room and the latch had been slipped back, he tried to 'remember where he might have heard it. Then the door opened, and, looking past Arthur, he saw a man seated behind a deal-table at the other side of the room.

The man was Tousey.

Chapter 14: The Criminal

DURING the time it took Arthur to step across the threshold and into the room, he was able to see clearly that the identity of Salton with his former servant was something that he might long ago have guessed. There was no doubt that the man at the table was Salton as well as Tousey. And he was not a humble Tousey, nor a frightened Tousey, but an alert, commanding Tousey, with a hard mouth and a relentless eye.

At sight of Archer he laid a revolver on the table before him— one of those wicked, automatic weapons that can be emptied in a few seconds. Evidently it had been lying in his lap, and was now made conspicuous as a symbol of his true mastery of the situation.

He did not speak until the door had been closed and the two friends were advancing toward him. Then he said in an incisive voice:

“Stay where you are.”

The words were accompanied by a scarcely perceptible movement of his fingers, which seemed to caress the revolver.

Archer and Arthur halted. There were no chairs besides the one in which Tousey— or Salton— was sitting, so they were obliged to stand there like prisoners before a magistrate. The paradox of this simile struck Archer humorously, and he found himself smiling.

“How did you get here, Dr. Archer?” asked the man at the table.

“I followed Mr. Crane. What do you call yourself now, Tousey? Or is it Salton?”

“Make it Salton. That name has served me longer than Tousey— which, as you may have realized, is a name in the servant class.” He grinned evilly and looked from Archer to his friend and back again. “You are not supposed to be here, doctor,” he continued. “I regard your presence as a violation of my tacit understanding with Crane.”

“Indeed? Well, since I am acquainted with the matter at hand, and since I am in a way involved, perhaps there is some advantage in my being here.”

Salton meditated. “When you came, I was speaking to Crane about a little wager we made a few weeks ago. You have heard the story? ’’

Archer nodded.

“Crane was offering to pay the wager at once— which is quite gratifying. I am rather short of funds. This apartment—” he waved his hand to call attention to the bare room. “Is evidently an office, since there, is no bed.”

“Yes, yes. But to come to the point.”

He studied the two men before him as if to make certain how far he should go with them. “That wager is a paltry sum. I really need much more. If my friend Crane will consent to make me a loan— quite a large loan—”

“I will come to the point,” exclaimed Archer.

“Let Crane talk. It is his affair.”

“Mine too,” insisted Archer. “You are my servant—”

“Was.”

“Well, then, was. Certain things you did while in my employ were done by using means which were available only in my house. What is the use of beating about the bush? Salton, you killed Abraham Walsh.”

“Yes,” said Salton coolly,  “I killed him— by arrangement with his nephew and your friend.”

Arthur uttered a hoarse cry and took a step toward his smiling enemy, but Archer caught his sleeve.

“Steady, Arthur! ” he said, in an undertone; and then: “It was very cleverly planned, Salton. Would you mind

satisfying my curiosity a little?”

‘‘Ask your questions. If I choose to answer them, I will.” He leaned back in his chair.

“How did you come to take a position with me? ”

“Ask me something harder,” said Salton with a grin. “When I got back from Paris I figured you out as a convenient approach to Walsh. Our friend, here, had told me about you. I called when I knew you were out, and cultivated the acquaintance of your door-man. An alluring offer which I presented to him tempted him to go West, and meantime I went to the agency where you get your help and had myself listed for the kind of a job you might have to offer. The rest was easy. Think out the details for yourself.”

“But your credentials?”

“They were easy to write. My winning ways helped them to pass muster.”

“Where did you get the idea of poisoning an envelope? ”

“Thought it out on the ship coming over. Crane had given me a pretty good line on his uncle’s peculiarities. I nosed out that little sheep of a secretary— Jepson— and suggested that if Dr. Archer would write to old Walsh about our friend here, it might do some good. Jepson was easy. He took me for a Scottish earl, traveling incog, and he laid his heart bare—just as Crane did.”

Archer frowned. The little secretary must have talked about Enid.

“He boasted to me,” continued Salton, “that Miss Crane often asked his advice about her brother. It was easy to see that he would give her my suggestion as his own.”

The calmness with which Salton was making his enormous confession chilled Archer with a horror greater than any show of fear or remorse could have aroused. But he suppressed his growing desire to leap to the table and strangle

“And how did you get hold of the Exina?” he asked. '

“Exina?”

“The poison.”

“Oh, that’s the name of it, is it? I watched you pretty closely, doctor. It wasn’t hard to fit a key to your laboratory door. The day Miss Crane called, I knew pretty well what it meant, for Jepson had kept me informed. I heard most of her talk with you. The door is not very thick.” He paused, and smiled reminiscently.

“When you went out with her you left the letter in the hall to be mailed. I opened it, and took the return envelope down to your laboratory. There was some stuff in a glass retort— some stuff that looked dangerous— and from what you and Miss Crane had been saying I knew it must be poison. To make sure, I dipped a stick in it and went up-stairs and shoved the stick into the mouth of one of your guinea-pigs. It worked.

“Then I twisted a paper spill and went back to the laboratory. The stuff in the retort was pretty thick— like syrup. It was crystallizing at the top. I dipped the spill into it, and smeared the gum on the envelope. Then I went up to your office, and burned the spill, and held the envelope near the fire till it was dry. I put it back with the letter and resealed the whole thing, and took it out to the corner and mailed it. See how simple it was?”

Archer was silent. He still kept a restraining hand on Arthur’s arm, for the recital was having an enraging effect on the painter. He was breathing hard and his eyes showed the strain that he was under.

“As soon as the newsboys began to call their extras on the street the next afternoon, I went out and bought a paper. I had succeeded. All that remained was to make my getaway. So I came in and flashed that phoney bill on you.” He laughed. “You thought I was a pretty stupid sort of an ass.”

“I still think so,” said Archer.

“Don’t count on that.” A look of annoyance passed over Salton’s face. Apparently he was proud of his own cleverness.

“It was only by the merest chance that Mr. Walsh sealed that envelope himself. Jepson might have got the poison.”

“I took that chance,” admitted Salton. “But I figured that the letter would make the old man so angry that he would tend to it himself. It seems to have worked out that way.”

There was silence. The man who had told this terrible story was evidently enjoying the effect he had created on his listeners. His lean, hard face wore a look of self-satisfaction. There was not a trace of remorse.

Arthur’s condition was pitiable. His legs gave under him, and his hands worked convulsively.

“I have given you the details,” Salton began after a few moments, “partly to satisfy your curiosity, but more especially to let you and your friend see how fully my claims upon his consideration have been established. I won’t mince matters. I want a lot of money.”

“On what ground?” asked Archer.

Salton tapped his left hand against his breast-pocket.

“On the ground of a little piece of paper—signed by our friend, and indicating an arrangement for the putting-away of Abraham Walsh.”

“And how can you use that paper without incriminating yourself?” demanded Archer.

Salton smiled. “A few hints— an anonymous letter or two— and our friend will have to face an ordeal of questions. Does he look to you as though he could pass through such a crisis without giving himself away?”

“And you, too.”

“Oh, I know how to get out of sight. I might even put the paper in the hands of the police. They would never find me.” He spoke with easy contempt.

“You set an ingenious trap for Mr. Crane,” said Archer. “Innocently he fell into it. But he has done no wrong.”

“It will be hard to prove that he has done no- wrong. In fact, it will be impossible.”

“Not exactly impossible.”

“Perhaps not. But even if he should escape, think of the anguish, think of the scandal. Really, it will be much simpler for him to buy that piece of paper from me.”

“What price do you set?” exclaimed Arthur hoarsely. “How much Salton? How much? ”

“Not so fast, not so fast. We must come to an equitable arrangement.”

“Equitable!” muttered Archer.

“Yes. Why not? Crane did desire his uncle’s death. I was willing to bring it to pass. Do you think I ran no risk? Surely, any fair man would admit that I am justly entitled to something.”

Archer gave an exclamation of disgust.

“Don’t be supercilious, doctor,” sneered Salton. “I’ll warrant you’ve been responsible for more than one death yourself— and have not refused your fees.”

“You cursed devil!” cried Arthur.

“Hush!” whispered Archer. “Now, Salton, do you really carry that damaging bit of paper around with you?”

“I do.”

“Aren’t you afraid it may be taken away from you?”

“I can look out for myself.”

“But there are two of us here, Salton.”

“Against me, and— this.” He pointed to the revolver. “Come! Let us talk business. What do you say, Crane?”

“One moment,” Archer interrupted. “Let me say something first.” He gazed  sternly at Salton. “You have committed a vile murder. You are trying to involve in it an innocent man. You have been very clever, very ingenious. But you have overlooked one fact.”

“Well?'”

“Neither you nor any one else can ever prove that Abraham Walsh did not die a natural death. You may turn over to the authorities Arthur’s written promise to pay. You may give it to the newspapers. The public will blame him for his folly, but they can never accuse him of a crime of which there is not the least evidence. They will say that he did a reckless thing; and they will conclude that Providence has punished him.”

“An examination of the body—” began Salton readily.

“Will establish nothing at all. Your own cleverness has defeated you, Salton. You were too ingenious, too subtle, too careful to protect yourself. The poisoned envelope was returned to me. It has been destroyed. There is no other external evidence.”

“But the body, doctor—”

“The poison which you took from my laboratory leaves absolutely no trace. All the scientists in the world could not determine that Abraham Walsh died from other than natural causes.”

Salton tapped the table nervously with his fingers.

“You should have used arsenic, Salton. Or you might have shot the old man through one of the windows of the house. At least, you should have made the crime obvious. As it is, your case against Mr. Crane has nothing to stand on— and the only satisfaction that remains for you is that not even against you, the murderer, can the crime be proved.”

Chapter 15: Retribution

SALTON looked at Archer for a long time. He was thinking, calculating.

“You talk as though what you say was the goods,” he admitted at last.

“It is the goods.”

“But what about Arthur Crane’s conscience?” he exclaimed triumphantly. “Don’t you see that he will confess if they ever press him? There’s nothing like conscience to make a man blab. No, he’s not safe unless I back him up.”

“His conscience can rest easy.”

“But it won’t, I tell you. Crane, I’ve got you cold. You might escape the chair, but you would be wrecked for life, and you know it. You aren’t going to slip out of this. The money is coming to me— not a thousand, but millions.”

Arthur threw off the detaining hand of Archer.

“Give me the paper!” he cried.

“Not so loud,” admonished Salton.

“Give me the paper!” Arthur extended his hand.

“When I get ready,” smiled Salton. Like a flash, Arthur sprang at the table. The distance was not more than two paces, and he cleared it in one bound.

Salton jumped to his feet. He raised the revolver, as if to fire, but, changing his mind, shifted the barrel to his hand and, leaning forward, brought the butt down on Arthur’s skull.

Without a sound, Arthur went to the floor, his right hand slapping the table as he fell.

All this had happened in an instant. Archer had not foreseen it— had not had time to rush to the assistance of his friend. Perhaps it was just as well that he had not, for, in that event, Salton would probably have shot them both, instead of striking the one. Regardless of Salton, who was stepping out from behind the table, Archer quickly knelt beside the unconscious figure. So far as he could tell from a hasty glance, Arthur was not breathing.

“You’ve done it this time, Salton," he said with a trembling voice, looking up at the man who stood above him.

The transformation in Salton was startling. His face was livid. His one last chance of a fortune in blackmail seemed to have been lost because he had struck too hard.

“No!” he shouted. “No! It can’t be. Why, I—”

Archer nodded sadly.

“Then,” exclaimed Salton, his face contorted with a sudden, baffled rage, “I’ll make an end of you, Too.” He pointed the revolver down at Archer.

“Why add to your crimes?” asked Archer.

As he spoke, his hand, which he had left on Arthur’s breast, felt the movement of a long, sighing breath. Arthur was alive. But Archer kept the joy of that discovery out of his face.

A knock sounded at the door. Salton started.

“Who’s there?” he called.

“Open the door!”

The command was authoritative, but Salton stood staring at the body on the floor. His revolver arm had dropped to his side. Now he raised it again and pointed at Archer.

Some one was throwing himself against the door repeatedly. It was giving on its hinges.

“You seem to be wanted, Salton,” said Archer, still staring into the muzzle of the weapon.

Salton stepped back. H is face showed fear. He turned toward the window, seeking a way to escape; but even as he looked, a man in police uniform appeared on the platform of the fire-escape outside.

Crash ! The door was yielding.

Crash! The upper hinge had given way. Irresolutely, Salton looked from window to door, then pointed his revolver again at Archer. His eyes showed his angry purpose. If he had been trapped, he would pay the man who had trapped him. His finger contracted on the trigger.

But there came a report from the window, followed at once by the tinkle of broken glass. The officer on the fire- escape had shot through the pane.

Salton staggered back to the wall. For a moment he leaned against it, then slowly slid down. There was blood on his body. He lay quite still.

In the pause that followed the shot, one thought took possession of Archer’s mind. The paper! The police must not find it. They would soon be in the room. The officer on the fire-escape was already raising the window.

Archer got up from his knees and hurried over to Salton’s body. The bullet- hole was in the left breast, close above the heart. The man was already dead.

Reaching swiftly into the breast-pocket, he drew out a paper. There was a hole through it, and it was stained with blood. Fie thrust it into his own pocket and arose, just as the policeman rushed toward him from the window and three others came tumbling through the door-

“The man is dead,” said Archer.

The leader of the men who had broken in the door pushed the others back.

“You are Dr. Archer.” he said. “I remember you when you were with the Bellevue ambulance.”

Archer nodded.

“What are you doing here?”

Archer pointed to the body of Salton.

“This man was in my employ, as a servant,” he said. “Last week he left me, and later I missed something from my laboratory. My friend and I came to see him. He stunned my friend with the butt of his revolver. At first I thought that he had killed him. He would have shot me, if—”

“That was a lucky shot of yours, Carney,” said the leader, turning to the man who had come in through the window. “You had a close shave, Dr. Archer,” he added. “This man”— he touched the huddled, bleeding body with his fist— “was Billy McPherson. He was booked for the chair for killing a fellow in Frisco, after the earthquake. One of our plain-clothes men caught Red Mike not far from here a little while ago, and, to save himself, he peached on McPherson. That’s what brought us. You’ll appear at the inquest?”

“Of course,” said Archer.

“Then I guess you needn’t stay now. How about your friend?”

“I don’t believe he’ll be able to be at the inquest. But he won’t he needed, will he?"

“I guess the coroner won’t want him. You can tell all that needs to be told, doctor, and Carney saw the finish.”

“Then, if one of you will help me get my friend down to a cab—”

“Sure. Here, Billings. Help Dr. Archer.”

Arthur had opened his eyes. As Archer and his helper bent down to raise him, he asked feebly:

“What happened? ”

“You got a crack on the head, old boy. It's all right. Don’t try to think.”

They got him down the stairs, past the gaping crowd of tenement-dwellers, into a cab, and drove to Archer’s house. There Arthur was put to bed. No serious hurt had been done.

It was late, but Enid had to be considered. She would be waiting and wondering. Archer was about to telephone, but he realized that such a message would not fully reassure her; so, in spite of the hour, he hurried through the streets to the house. Waiting at the door for an answer to his ring, he pondered on the undiscovered crime that had taken place within its dingy walls. Old Walsh had gone whither he could not take his millions; and those to whom he had left them did not want them.

The guilty man had received his punishment. The innocent who had been so close to guilt had suffered enough. In the furnace of experience, Arthur had burned away the dross that was in him. He would come out of it more a man.

Enid had not retired. Surprised to see him so late, she stood in the hall and waited for him to, speak, while the servant who had hastily clothed himself to answer the bell disappeared through a door at the back.

“Arthur and I,” he began quietly, “have had a little adventure.”

“Is he hurt? Tell me.” She laid her hand on his arm.

“Nothing at all serious. He was struck on the head, but he will be all right in the morning. I took him to my house, where I can look out for him.”

“What happened, John?”

“A little trouble with a former servant of mine— that fellow, Tousey. You may remember him. I will tell you about it to-morrow.”

“Won’t you come in?” She started to lead the way to the reception-room.

“No, dear,” he said.

He had spoken the word. She stood still. He could see the red flush spread over her half-averted cheek.

“Enid!” he whispered.

And when she did not look or answer, he went over to her and drew her into his arms.

“But why,” he asked, when for the hundredth time they had told each other how long they had cared— “why do you suppose that little Jepson mailed that letter to me, after—”

“You dear, stupid John,” she whispered. “Don’t you understand? Even he saw that you— how you felt about me— and he thought that that word of uncle’s might keep you away.”

“I was a fool,” he said, as she nestled her face on his shoulder. “But we all make mistakes, don’t we, sweet? Thank Heaven, we do not always have to pay for them too dearly! ”

_______________________

10: The Return

J.U.Giesy

1877-1947

Adventure   Oct 1916

WELLS was next thing to a tramp.

You knew it just as soon as you saw him. You wouldn’t doubt it unless you looked into his face, rather than at his shabby clothing. Then, if you were quite observant, you might perceive that his eyes didn’t quite match up to the ne’er-do-well type of man. There was a sort of vague trouble in those gray eyes, which spoke of a mind that refused to wholly approve of Danny’s present course.

It was a course which had brought him by various stages to a place where he had a single quarter in his pocket, a couple of drinks of cheap whisky in his stomach, and no very definite knowledge as to where he was going or what for or why.

But Wells was not intoxicated, either by whisky or emotion this evening. In fact he was depressed. It had been a long time since he had been intoxicated, really. That was in the early days of his downward course, when he had money enough to pay for the oblivion brought by a rapid sequence of far better brands of alcoholics than he had tasted for a good many days.

In fact he had just left the saloon where he had spent the last two hours on the strength of a single paid-for drink, because the remaining quarter represented a night’s lodging in certain localities of which he knew, with enough for a scanty breakfast in the morning, held out.

He half regretted his exit from the noisy shelter of the barroom now. It was coming on to rain— a fine, drizzling rain, more chilling even than a heavier downpour would have seemed. He stepped under an awning and turned up the collar of a much-wrinkled coat.

“Move along now, you bum.”

Danny recognized the voice of authority, even before he glimpsed the blue and brass of the bulky figure from which it came. He made no reply. He stepped out from the awning and went slowly along close to the shop-fronts as more protected than the farther width of the pavement, while the officer continued in the opposite direction, swinging his club.

In front of Danny a shop door opened.

The lighted interior went dark. A woman’s figure stepped forth and locked the door, then turned toward Wells.

And at that instant from beyond her, a man’s figure came into view, shambling along the rain-darkened sidewalk in none too certain a way.

Danny noted that the man eyed the girl— for the woman seemed little more— as she turned from locking up the shop. He could see it all plainly in the glare of the lights. And then, as she would have passed on her way, the fellow stepped up and faced her with what he no doubt meant to prove an ingratiating smile.

She gave him a glance and turned her head with a quickening of her steps. The masher fell in at her side. Danny saw her gaze dart here and there as if seeking a means of escape or relief.

A hot and indignant little thrill ran through him. He had seen now certainly that she was merely a girl— young, clean looking— the right sort of woman, even as the one who annoyed her was the wrong sort of man. The gray eyes under Wells’ stained soft, hat sparked. He stepped forward quickly and intercepted the two. He touched the brim of his hat with the fingers of one hand.

“Lady— is this individual annoyin’ you?” he asked.

“Aw! You go to—”

Smack! Danny struck quickly. The blow was wholly unguarded and very nicely aimed. The intruder lay down in the rain on the concrete pavement. His hat fell off. The rain still coming down beat resuscitatingly into his face. He blinked and sat up, then began scrambling to his feet.

“Go on now, lady,” said Danny Wells. A hand fell on his arm as he doubled up his fist again and stood waiting.

“Here, youse! Didn’t I tell you to move on? What’ye tryin’ to do? I’ll run you in fer disturbin’ th’ peace.” The officer had started back on his beat.

“He did it for me.” Danny became aware that the girl had a soft contralto. “This—this man, accosted me, officer. The gentleman came to my help.”

“Ah, ha, Miss Baynes, an’ is it yerself that says so?”

The bluecoat turned toward the girl whom up till now he had apparently considered as having no real part in the affair. Then he spoke to the man Wells had knocked down, who was now retrieving his hat.

“Beat it, before I hand ye one over th’ bean myself, ye fresh guy,” he admonished, touched his helmet and sauntered on down the street.

DANNY found himself standing on the pavement with Miss Baynes. Suddenly he felt acutely embarrassed.

“Well—” he began in a stammer; it was in his mind to make his escape.

“Thank you.” Again the contralto voice sounded in his ears.

Danny flushed. It was a long time since any voice, let alone a woman’s, had thanked him for anything. He swallowed some of his embarrassment and forced himself to answer:

“I’m glad I was handy. That sort of fellow makes me tired. Can I do anything more for you, miss?”

“No. Not but you’ve done a very great deal. I was on my way home— just going to the corner to get my car.”

Danny forgot all about his rain-sodden coat and his stained hat. The girl was really very pretty, brown-haired, blue-eyed, pink of lip and cheek.

“I’ll— walk up there with you, if you like,” he proffered, and paused, surprised at himself.

“Thank you,” said Miss Baynes again.

She glanced up into Danny’s thin face and moved tentatively forward. Danny fell in at her side. On the way to the corner he learned that she owned the small book-shop and news-stand, the door of which he had seen her lock. She was a business woman. In return for the information, he rather shamefacedly confessed that he was “doing nothing— just now.”

He neglected to state that he had done nothing worth while for a considerable time.

The girl frowned, scanning his lean length.

“If you’d care to drop into the shop tomorrow,” she said slowly. “You’re out of work?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Danny nodded.

Then the car came along and he put her aboard, giving the conductor a nickel out of his quarter for her fare in rather a quixotic fashion. The act was a sort of flash from those days when he had once done things like that. He rather regretted it, when he stood alone once more under the thin rain. He shrugged and turned away.

Never mind where Danny spent that night. There are stray comers in a city, where the homeless may crouch if not rest. He had a cup of coffee and three “sinkers” for breakfast, and a dime still left, when it was time to drop into the shop.

But he was of two minds about that. He wanted to and he didn’t. It seemed to Danny almost like trading on fortuitous circumstance to do it, and yet he rather wanted to see the girl.

For two years he had been a rolling stone, and it had seemed long since any one had treated him like the gentleman he had once been at heart. Most people had judged him by his clothes. As a result the judgment had been bad. No place or position had held Danny long during the last twenty-four months. His wardrobe showed the effects.

In the end, however, he went. He came into the little place where the girl had her business, in a half-hesitant sort of way. He let the door swing shut behind him and glanced about in unobtrusive fashion, because there was a man ahead of him, looking over the magazines and papers spread out on a counter-shelf.

It wasn’t much of a place, Danny decided. Someway it didn’t impress him just as it ought. It lacked something, or everything which ought to go with such an enterprise he felt. And yet he didn’t quite know what it did lack, either. It was neat as a pin. Books, magazines, papers, were stacked primly in their places. Everything was orderly, as orderly as a— a graveyard. The comparison occurred to his mind and he nodded. That was it exactly. Everything was too orderly. It made the place seem dead.

The man before him spoke in a rather petulant fashion. He asked for a certain sporting weekly, known as well by its color as its name.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t carry— that,” said Miss Baynes.

It struck Danny that her voice sounded listless, tired this morning, as she spoke.

The potential customer grunted and turned toward the door. And something popped all at once in Danny’s brain. He had heard the man’s request. He had heard the girl’s answer and its manner and tone. In a flash came comprehension.

“Just a minute,” he interrupted the other man’s departure. “If you want that regular, we’ll arrange to have it for you. We’d be glad to do it, if you like.”

The disappointed one paused. He barely glanced at Danny, for which Wells was glad. He knew he didn’t look like the proprietor of a shop.

“Why—ye-e-s,” the assent came slowly. “I’ll be going by at noon. If you could—”

“Sure!” Danny put a world of heartiness into his tone. “We’ll have it ready for you all right—and every week after this.”

“Thanks. I’ll stop.”

The man went out and left Wells facing Miss Baynes. Neither seemed to know just exactly what to say. Danny was conscious that he had taken a remarkable liberty, and to judge by her expression, Miss Baynes was aware of it also, yet hardly capable of meeting the situation. Wells, from his greater experience, rallied first.

“That was awfully cheeky, I know,” he said, flushing a trifle under the regard of the blue eyes; “but I wanted to save you a sale and a customer if I could.”

“I suppose you did,” Miss Baynes returned, accepting his explanation, “but I don’t carry that paper, and I don’t want to. It isn’t a nice publication at all. I— I don’t like it— or people who read such things as that.” The color flooded swiftly into her cheeks.

“Good Lord!” gasped Danny and paused. “What’s that got to do with it?” he went on. “It ain’t what you like, you’ve got to keep in a shop, Miss Baynes, but what other people want. A fellow has to study his trade, find out what they want and then give it to them, without thinkin’ whether he likes the same things himself or not. That’s business, Miss Baynes. Did you see how he fell for my suggestion? You got to make folks feel your interest. That gets theirs. Why, the only way to sell anything and make good is to have what the trade which passes your doors wants. Now that man will be back here at noon. Where can I get him the copy I told him we’d have?”

“Oh, you can get it at the News Company’s office of course,” said the girl, and sighed. “But— I don’t believe it’s any use. I guess they know I’m not making good, too, or something. This morning they only sent me half of my regular order on everything which came out today.”

Something surprisingly like moisture came momentarily across the blue eyes.

“I think it’s mean. They charge me just as much for delivery as on the full order, because I asked the man, and then only send me half. And anyway— they are the only people in business, I guess, who charge for delivering the goods they sell!” A spiteful little ring of trampled spirit crept into her tone at the last.

Danny Wells looked straight into the clouded visage and smiled. Something took hold of Danny. Last night he had thought this girl one well to do. Now he found her a fellow creature in distress, fast drifting toward the rocks of business misfortune, to judge by her words and tone. It was a bond of sympathy— something in common. A new expression came into his face, his eyes. It was something like resolve.

“Say,” he burst out; “tell me where their place is. I’ll go get that old guy’s paper for him and ask them straight out about your order. A man can talk to them better’n you, I guess.”

“Oh, will you?” Relief rang in the words. “I— I was hating to, myself, because, you see, I know I’m not doing very well. And— please don’t think me selfish. I asked you here this morning. I thought we could talk about you and find some way to help you get a job or something. And now— I’ve just talked about myself.”

“Never mind that,” Danny told her. “How do I go where I can get that old boy his pink ’un? Put me wise.”

She gave the necessary directions and saw him depart. In half an hour he was back. He had three of the particular issue under his arm as he entered.

“I found out all about your orders,” he announced as he spread the pink sheets out on the shelf in plain sight.

“Yes?” Miss Baynes paused.

“Yes. The manager down there and a fellow he called the ‘promotion man’— guy that runs around giving dealers tips and taking orders and things like that— uncorked a lot of lingo I finally managed to understand. It seems when a stand has an extra large lot of numbers left unsold— numbers they have to send back— what they call ‘returns’ as I made it out, why, they just sort of automatically cut that stand’s order down. That’s a rule of their house all over the country. As for the delivery charge, why, the manager said everybody charged for delivery, only people didn’t get next to it mostly, because most of ’em do it by adding the charge into the price of the goods. I don’t know but he’s right.”

“Oh,” said Miss Baynes in a tone of relieved comprehension. “I was afraid something was wrong. I didn’t know they just did it, like that.”

“Well— they do.” Danny turned to face her. “You been sending a lot of these ‘returns’ back?”

“Ye-e-e-s,” Miss Baynes confessed.

“Your business ain’t good?”

“No-o—not very.”

“And yet,” Danny pressed out of a keen sympathy of understanding, “I reckon this little place means a whole lot to you?”

For a moment the girl’s lips quivered.

“It means everything in the world— just about,” she said slowly, at last.

“And what did you know about this game before you started?”

“Nothing.” The word exploded suddenly. “But— I thought anybody could sell magazines and books.”

Danny perched on the counter shelf, where he had laid down the pink edition.

“Sit down,” he said, waving his hand to a chair he judged Miss Baynes sometimes occupied, because there was a piece of fancy-work half finished, lying on its seat. “Say, suppose you tell me all about it, if you will.”

The girl sat down. She eyed Danny for a space of seconds, and then all at once, almost as if glad to do it, she began.

It was just a plain little story, of a father who had run this small shop and died— of an only child, herself, and a semi-invalided mother, and a little house. She had taken over the shop and was trying to run it, to make a living, but she had been the housekeeper before her father’s death. She knew little of business and had been forced to learn each step as she went along, and, well, it looked as if she were going to fail.

Danny heard her through with a sober mien. Some way the story took hold of him immensely for all its commonplace. There were as many tragedies in real life, every-day business, he thought as she spoke, as in the pages of the books and magazines she was failing to sell. There was tragedy and humor and pathos. Here was this girl battling for her mother and herself, and here was— he. His life had been a sort of tragedy, too, if you looked at it in a certain way. Well, he wasn’t talking about that. But the girl needed help. Why shouldn’t he help her? He had nothing else to do, and in his younger life, he had been accredited with having a rather facile and original brain. Why shouldn’t he put it to work on waking up this sleepy, neat, almost prim little shop and gaining trade— success— a living for this girl whose face had taken on so wistful an appeal as she talked? If she’d only listen to advice, accept help—

He stood up.

“What you need is business education,” he announced. “You’ve overlooked a lot of bets. One of them I’ve mentioned already. You must study your trade, learn its likes and then have what they want. I— well, once I held a position— and made good in it too— where a lot depended on my knowing what the public wanted. If you’re willing to let me help you out a bit, I believe I can straighten all this out.”

He waved a hand about the place in an embracive way.

“Why,” he grinned, “we’ve made a right start already. We’ve got that chap’s pink ’un for him when he comes along at noon.”

He paused. A peculiar expression had come into the girl’s face. She was sitting wide-eyed, like one seeing something within, rather than any object without. A slow, uncertain smile crept across her lips.

“Where are you stopping, Mr. Wells?” she inquired.

“Anywhere I get a chance,” Danny grinned. “Any old place I can hang my hat is home, sweet home, to me.”

“You haven’t much money, have you?”

She flushed as she asked the personal question.

“Ten cents,” Danny declared.

“Then—” all at once she began speaking very quickly— “this all seems so strange but— there’s a back room here and a cot— where father used to lie down when he wasn’t well. You could sleep there and—I couldn’t pay you much at first, but you could live on it, I guess, till you got something else to do; and— I would so much like to try and make the shop pay.”

A roof, a bed, food assured at least. Danny felt a grip come into his throat, and— he would be helping the girl. His eyes felt someway suddenly moist, but his grin belied his other feelings.

“Sure!” he made hearty acceptance. “I’m on the job already. Now the first thing is to get started right.”

Miss Baynes nodded. Her face brightened with fresh hope. They were both young, easily buoyed as yet, man and girl. She got up.

“All right. It seems almost as though Fate had brought us together, doesn’t it, Mr. Wells? What do we do?”

“The first thing is for me to put you next to the rudiments of the selling game, and then help you to put them into practise,” said Dan. “Now— why don’t you put something into your show-window besides junk?”

“Junk?” The girl’s voice was uncertain.

“Sure— pencils, pen-holders, rubber-erasers, scratch-pads, ink? Everybody knows a place like this carries them. We’ll get ’em out and load up with a genuine display of the latest fiction, instead. That will make ’em take notice a bit.”

Miss Baynes looked doubtful and he went on.

“Display is the key-note of the selling game, Miss Baynes. The fellow who said it paid to advertise knew a whole lot, all right. Advertising is the life of business, and it don’t make any difference whether you do it in a show-window or on a street corner or in a daily paper. You’ve got to make a loud noise nowadays to let folks know you’re alive. If you want to sell a thing— show it to the crowd. Display it. Let ’em see it’s there.”

Once more he waved a hand about the shop.

“Now—you’ve got all your books and magazines piled up as systematically and precisely as though this was a storage stock-room, which it is— not. See?”

Miss Baynes nodded quickly.

“Yes— they look so much neater that way.”

Danny paused and regarded her smiling. His grin came back across his lean features.

“That’s the woman of it, but it ain’t business,” he rejoined.

“Business is selling something somebody wants, to that somebody when he wants it — plus making him want it. Advertising makes him want it. That’s the whole thing, except that, as I’ve said, you must get wise to what people will want as nearly as you can. You’ve got to study the individual trade, get next to it, and— supply it. That man this morning is an example. He’ll be back and we’ve got what he wants. Maybe he’ll want something else when he comes. That brings me back to the magazines, I guess. Display ’em in the window— outside your door— get a little counter outside and put some of ’em out there on display. People will see ’em and remember they meant to get one, and had forgot all about it till they saw yours.”

“They might walk off with them, don’t you think?” said Miss Baynes.

“Not while I stick around here they won’t.” Danny’s grin altered a bit.

“We-ll,” his companion assented, “all right. We can try it at least.”

THEY set to work cleaning out the mass of sundries from the window.

That done Wells got into the window and built pyramids and castles and fortifications of the latest issue of a popular magazine which had issued that day, buttressing the general scheme of his decoration with stacks of fifty-cent books.

The morning’s delivery of magazines had just been unwrapped when he had arrived, and among the wrappings on his trips to and from the window, he discovered a number of single sheet facsimiles of the magazine cover, many of them of an enlarged size. He held one up and eyed it with appreciation.

“What’s this?” he inquired.

“A poster,” said Miss Baynes. “They send them out now with a lot of the magazines, each issue. Throw it away.”

“What for?” Danny turned his regard from the picture to her. “Say— I rather guess not. A poster is a poster. They stick ’em on bill-boards to advertise things to sell, or— shows. Why not use ’em to sell magazines? Oh, fine! Say, you got any little metal clips around this joint?”

Miss Baynes nodded. She produced what he required. Danny took them.

“And some string. All right! Never mind.”

He pulled a piece from a ball of wrapping cord, went back to the window and fastened it across the sash, near the upper half. Then he came back, took up all the posters he could find, returned and hung them from the clips, pendent from the string.

“We’ll use our posters after this,” he announced. “Let the other fellows throw ’em away. We won’t. They’re the bill-boards of the magazine trade all right. I see why they put ’em out. We’ll make ’em pull trade. Wait till I get my sidewalk display boxes fixed and we’ll trim them all up with the posters from week to week. Why— the publishers are tryin’ to help you folks sell the books by making these poster-sheets attractive. Throw ’em away— well I guess not! We’ll hang ’em up.”

He paused and wiped his face with a kerchief none too clean and grinned.

“Now I’m going out and get a sandwich. It’s almost noon. When that guy comes back, sell him his pink sheet and tell him again you’ll have it for him every week. Make him feel your interest and want his trade. That’s part of the selling game too. I see there’s a table counter in that back room. This afternoon we’ll get it out in the middle of the floor here and build a display of popular books, right down where everybody who comes in can see ’em at a glance.”

He put on his coat, picked up his hat and went out.

He came back. The only pink thing about the shop was the girl’s face.

“Did he come back?” Danny questioned as he took off his hat.

Miss Baynes nodded. “Yes and— I sold the others too. And that first man bought three other magazines to take home to his wife— he said.”

“Sure he did,” Danny assented. “Your getting his paper for him pleased him. He wanted to reciprocate. That’s human nature— man nature at least. Now you’ve got him started, he’ll keep on. Get their interest, make ’em feel yours. That builds trade. How’d he come to buy ’em?”

“Why, I— I asked him if he’d read a story I’m a good deal interested in myself,” Miss Baynes confessed. “And that led up to a discussion of that and other stories and books and papers.”

Danny grinned and nodded.

“Good girl. Any time you know some mag’s got a fine yam, or one by a popular author, or one you get stuck on yourself, why— tell it. Slam it up against everybody who comes in to buy any old publication. That way you get behind your stock and push. A dealer can boost any certain publication like that to beat the band, and double his sales and his profits at the same time. You’re catching on. Ask ’em if they’ve read this and that, by thus and so. Do that and fix up your stand so that no matter what a man’s thinking about when he comes along, he can’t fail to see what you’ve got before he gets away. That’s display again. I’ll tend to that.”

So it began. Danny kept his word. He made a lot of changes. He built the sidewalk counter and displayed the latest issues upon it and a metal frame he had built across the entire front of the shop. He put other rods across the interior and displayed other magazines and posters, and art supplements and pages on those. He kept his window changed every few days.

And Danny changed too, with the shop. After a few days, Miss Baynes made a tentative offer, in rather embarrassed fashion, of a suit her father had worn. Danny accepted it frankly in the spirit it was given.

With clean clothing, something long latent in the man seemed to reassert itself all at once. Out of his first week’s wages he bought clean collars and a new tie and hat. A new expression crept into his eyes, a new timbre into his voice, a new quality into his bearing. He was doing something, at last. He had now a definite object. And though he did not at first really know it, he was rebuilding a failing business no more than he was rebuilding the failing character of himself. Only, he knew he felt better than he had for years, happier, more contented, more the man.

And business did improve under his supervision to a considerable extent. Then one day as Miss Baynes came in he was primed with news.

“I had a long talk with that ‘promotion man’ of the General News Company, this morning,” he began.

“Yes?” Miss Baynes unpinned her hat. “What about?”

“ ‘Returns’ mostly and things like that. We’ve been making them too soon.”

“Too soon?” Miss Baynes fixed her blue eyes more widely upon him. “Why— how could we do that?”

“What gets my goat,” said Danny grinning, “is why I didn’t get hep to the thing myself. I must have been asleep. Didn’t you ever have any one stop and ask for a number you’d just sent back?”

“Ye-es,” said Miss Baynes slowly. She smiled. “Why, we— we could-”

“Sure we could,” Dan agreed. “We got a month’s limit on most of the weeklies, and from sixty to ninety days on the monthlies. Why don’t we use it? Keep a few a while. Then if somebody comes along and wants one, we’ll have it, and maybe a new customer who might not come back if he had to go somewhere else for his stuff. D’ye get that? That fellow told me of a man who does it right along. It’s got so well known around the city that they’ve got a saying about it: ‘If Chepp don’t have it, it ain’t in town.’ ”

Miss Baynes sat down.

“I’ve lost a lot of sales like that,” she confessed.

Wells nodded his head.

“We won’t let our stock run out after this. That fellow gave me a lot of tips. No matter how many we order, if we sell out we get some more. They keep a few to meet that sort of a situation, he says. In a place like this where we can get to ’em almost at once, we can get more and probably sell all of ’em or most. We’ll watch our trade of course and get a definite idea of how many we can sell of any publication, and make that the basis of our order, and then if we sell out, get more, but we won’t ever get clear out of stock.”

Miss Baynes nodded assent.

“It seems awfully simple when it’s explained like that, but— you know there are magazines which don’t allow any return credits— some of them the best sellers too. Your plan wouldn’t work very well with them. What can we do about those?”

“Sell ’em,” said Danny with conviction. “That chap told me a whole ear full this morning. I just went after information for fair. He touched on that very point too. We buy a few at first, feel our trade, get our order number estimated. That’s the answer. If we sell out, we get two or three more. We work it the same way on publications which only give half credits—these women’s papers and things like that.”

“You think of everything, don’t you?” The blue eyes regarded him in something like admiration.

Danny grinned.

“Well, we were both thinking this morning, and what I didn’t ask, that guy handed out. We went over it pretty well. Now I got one kick to make about you yourself. Outside that we’re doing real well. You got to display yourself a little bit more.”

“Display myself!” Miss Baynes appeared actually startled. “Why— what do you mean?”

“Just that,” said Wells. “Don’t be mad, but— you’re an awfully pretty girl you know. You’re too much inclined to be just coolly formal with your trade. You’re boss here of course, but I’m giving it to you straight. You want to be more cordial— friendly. Get to know your customers so you can call ’em by name. That fellow told me today of a man with a stand in a poor location, who does that right along. It’s his main business asset, and it’s a good one all right. You go into his place and the first thing you know, you’ve told him your name. The next time he knows you. Try it. Talk to folks. Give ’em a smile. Get to know your man— what he likes and dislikes. Get him to feel that you value the patronage he gives.”

“But a girl can’t be friendly with— just everybody like that,” protested Miss Baynes.

“A girl?” said Dan. “Miss Baynes get that girl stuff out of your mind. You ain’t a girl. You’re a business woman, and business ain’t social convention. It’s selling something and making a profit. You don’t need a formal introduction to pull a smile and a pleasant word to a man while he buys something you have to sell. And he’ll be a lot more apt to come back again, if you sell it to him like that. Try it and see if I ain’t right.”

Miss Baynes sighed.

“You’ve been right about everything else,” she admitted. “I’ll—I’ll try.”

Danny nodded approval and grinned.

“If you’re out of practise on smiling at folks,” he suggested, “why, you can work up the habit on me.”

He got a rather spontaneous example which flashed across his companion’s lips at his words.

“Fine!” he accepted quickly. “Give one of those with each purchase and sales ought to pick up.”

IN A way he was a prophet. Six months went by. Trade did improve— “returns” were less, sales larger, profits more. On several occasions the “promotion man” of the General News, dropping in, complimented Danny and Miss Baynes on their improved showing. Wells developed until he appeared quite the small business man himself. There was a confidence about him, a clearer skin, a keener eye, a firmer, more elastic quality to his step.

He still slept in the little room at the back of the shop, but he had lived for six months on good, wholesome food, drunk practically no alcoholics, read a lot of good literature and worked toward a high and almost altruistic motive, aside from making his own meager wage and living thereon the while.

Danny Wells had a new view-point of life and a good many of its details at the end of six months, up to and on the day and evening, when Miss Baynes left him in charge of the shop, saying merely that she was invited to attend a theater that night.

Danny was glad she had the chance to enjoy an evening out. He did a good business until he closed at nine. Then he went back and read for an hour and retired.

He awoke some time after with the sound of shouting in his ears, a smell of smoke in his nostrils and a vague realization that something was very much wrong.

Scrambling out of his bed, he dressed in a hurry, found his way into the shop and gazed into a street filled with fire-fighting apparatus, and beyond that, the usual gawping crowd. He turned back, gained the rear door and stepped into the alley, strangely lighted now by a dull red glare.

He glanced up. The three-story building next to the one-story front which housed the shop was spouting flame and smoke. That explained the situation fully to Dan. He went on up the alley and around to the front.

Fire lines blocked his further progress. He halted and watched the conflagration. The fire was on the side of the building next the shop. He thought briefly of going back and collecting his few remaining belongings, but gave it up. The fire had made great progress and it looked very much as if the wall of the larger building might momentarily fall. He stood and waited for the crash, leaning against the rope, his eyes turned up to the licking sheets of fire.

A hoarse bellow roused him. He turned toward the sound. And his glance fell on a figure inside the ropes and running toward the front of the little shop where he had labored for six months. It was a woman’s figure. It was familiar. Danny’s heart leaped into his throat. It was Madge Baynes, returned from the theater to find her place of business threatened, seeking to get into it despite the ropes and the police, one of whom had bawled to her an order to come back. Even while realization of so much came, she had covered the short distance and was fumbling with the shop-door lock. Then it was open. She had darted inside.

A policeman swore. Danny came to life. There was that wall. It would fall any minute now. It was an old thing. He had noted it often in the last six months. If it fell before Madge came out—if it fell she had gone to her death, unless—

In a swift duck he was under the rope and running. Behind him he heard another hoarse shout of command. But he gave it no heed. The girl was inside, under the menace of the fire-eaten wall, her life a thing of seconds perhaps. He flung himself ahead in a mad rush to reach her and drag her forth to safety, gained the door she had unlocked and flung himself through.

“Madge!” his voice rose in a short gasping shout.

He had thought of her as Madge for months, though he had never addressed her save as Miss Baynes. He was unconscious of the use of her given name now. It was a purely involuntary, subconscious outburst of feeling, anxiety spurred.

“Dan!” her voice came in the darkness.

A match sputtered briefly. Shading it, the girl moved toward a little safe back at the end of the store.

As Wells sprang forward, she knelt and began twirling the combination.

“Strike another match, won’t you, Dan?” she panted. Oddly enough, she too used the man’s first name.

“No time!” Wells snapped even as he complied. “You’ve got to get out. We’ll be crushed by that wall next door any minute. Come on—Madge!”

“In a minute,” she said. “I’ve got to get in here first. There’s money, Dan— and papers—my insurance policy on the shop. Hold the match closer, I can’t— there!”

The door of the safe swung open. She darted in her hands and pulled out a drawer, seized its contents and thrust it into the throat of her dress, picked up a small metal box of money, rose and swung shut the door of the safe.

“I—looked for you, first,” she began, “but you—”

“Come!” Wells seized her by an arm. “Madge!”

Cra-a-a-a-sh!

A thunderous roar beat in on Danny’s ears, far away as it seemed, but growing louder with an incredible swiftness which blotted out all conception of time. Above his head, and the head of the girl who suddenly clung to him in the pitchy darkness it came down like the bolt of an unseen doom.

The little structure where they stood seemed to quiver in an insensate dread of the falling blow, and then to rock and sway beneath it as it fell. Caught in a maelstrom of released force, it shook and shattered, its frail roof bursting beneath the cascade of brick and mortar and flaming wood which poured down as the burned-out wall toppled and plunged below.

Danny acted from no set purpose, but wholly by instinct, rather. He swept Madge from her feet and forced her, voiceless in her sudden terror, back and down against the safe, and crouched there above her, shielding her body with his own.

Suddenly he knew he was buffeted by blows, struck and bruised by falling bricks and timbers. His breath choked back into his throat in a strangle of hot dust and smoke. He began to cough and kept on coughing beyond his volition, for what seemed a long, long time, and was in reality but a matter of seconds.

Then he caught a great inhalation, cooler, fresher, into his lungs. There was a vent somewhere for the gases, and the admission of the outer air of night.

“Madge,” he called softly and gained no answer.

A tongue of flame licked out in the dusk behind him from a fallen and still burning brand. It showed him that he knelt in a tiny space, provided by the wall of the partition between the shop and the room where he had slept, and against which the safe had stood. That frail barrier had kept them both from death—or had it?

“Madge,” he called again.

Still no answer. Danny moved in a painful way to let the light of the burning timber fall on her face. It showed pallid and streaked by something which trickled down across its whiteness as he watched. He understood sickly. She had been struck. His body had not fended her wholly. She was unconscious. Despite the pain of his bruises, he gritted his teeth in a savage resistance of this newer trick of fate and gazed around and up.

Tangled timbers met his view, and beyond them—stars. There was a possible way out then, through the shattered roof above their heads. He did not wait. He stooped and with sore flesh crying protest, lifted the form of the girl, and after unbelievable effort as it seemed managed to clamber on top of the safe.

He could reach to some of the timbers from there. Could he carry Madge up and through their tangled maze? He essayed the task. There was another one-story building next door. If he could gain that, they would escape.

Afterward he had no very clear recollection of his acts. He knew that he struggled, and climbed, and tugged, and lifted at the inanimate body of the girl, now dragging her by the arms, now shoving her limply, with his arms gripped about her hips and thighs, but gaining, always gaining, while he dripped sweat from his efforts and the little space below him which had offered the first refuge, became a pool of flame, from where tongues of lapping heat reached up to drag him back.

Then he stood on a shattered wall with the girl on his arms, across his breast, hanging a limp weight. And he stepped over upon a debris-littered roof which was still intact.

He knew he staggered to the street-front of that roof. There was a shout. Then, while he stood dizzy and swaying, with the cool air playing about him and his burden, a ladder shot up, a helmet appeared. Its wearer seized Madge, and his arms felt suddenly as light as his head, which insisted on spinning around like a top. He fought back the sick qualms which tried to engulf him and followed the fireman and Madge down to the street.

He stood there in the center of a crowd and shivered, as the night air dried his sweat-soaked body. A clanging gong hammered in his ears and split the crowd. A police machine backed up to the curb and a man asked him for Madge’s address. He gave it and got into the ambulance with her and rode away, and became conscious of the weight of the little metal cash-box in a pocket of his coat, yet did not remember putting it there.

Then his mind cleared. He went with the ambulance men when they carried Madge in to a little cottage, and explained it all to a white-faced woman with anxious blue eyes a good deal like those Madge had so often turned on him. He even telephoned for a doctor at her request, and after that he waited through the night while the doctor worked and spoke vaguely about a possible fracture of the skull from the brick which had struck the girl on the head.

He sat stiffly in the little parlor most of the time, speaking now and then a word of encouragement to the white-faced little mother. She made him think of his own mother, somehow. She made his throat ache a bit too, because she was very quiet and firm of lip, and brave.

Then he dozed a bit after a time, and waked as the doctor was leaving with a promise to call again, later, and went out with him to his machine. He asked him frankly for his opinion. The man shook his head. Danny understood, and suddenly dashed a hand across his eyes, and gazed into a morning of brilliant sunshine, which seemed strangely hazed.

WEEKS passed wherein Madge Baynes lay in the borderland of death. And many things happened during those weeks. The insurance on her stock in trade was paid. The little shop was rebuilt. Danny stayed now at the Baynes’ home at night. He had become a sort of son to the little white-faced mother, on whom she leaned for comfort, courage and strength.

Then Danny reopened the shop in the rebuilt structure, with a new plate-glass window he had induced the owner to install in place of the former divided glass. And he started out to surpass himself in winning for the two women, who now held a place in his life.

His first notion concerning “returns” took a new angle in his mind. He began to make a feature of carrying back numbers as well. He discovered he could gain them very cheaply from a great many sources. He sorted them and sold them singly or in bunches at a reduced price, which brought him a good profit none the less. He had more than one talk with the “promotion man” of the General News, with whom he had now made friends.

And Madge was to live. Once more she was herself. Every night Danny reported the day’s business to her now, while she sat propped in a chair and listened— a pale, drawn-faced Madge— gaining a little each day. She heard him and thanked him each evening for his work of the day, even as on the first time she knew him, or her mother or anything at all, she had faltered forth a broken appreciation of his great service in saving her from death. Sometimes, too, after his report was ended, she chatted with him for an hour. At such times strange thoughts and fancies filled the mind of Danny Wells.

Then opportunity knocked at his door. The “promotion man” came to see him with a proposition. He was going away— to a better position. He had watched Danny’s work. He could get him into his place when he gave it up. Danny could be “promotion man” for the General News at a good salary if he liked.

“Anybody who could make a ‘come back’ in a joint like this was, is the sort of man we need,” he said.

Danny told him he would see. That night he told Madge all about it, after he had finished the day’s report.

She heard him in silence to the end.

“Danny!” she cried then; “that’s splendid, and of course you must take it, and I’m glad— really— only—”

She caught her breath and paused.

“Only what?” said Dan.

“Oh, it’s awfully selfish, Danny dear,” Madge faltered, flushing a trifle and looking down; “but— I was just thinking about the shop.”

Danny grinned. He cleared his throat and shuffled his feet. He had expected she would feel that way about it, and he had planned for this very moment, all day. He had even rehearsed just what he was going to say and how he was going to say it; and now he found himself acutely embarrassed, with a slow red creeping into his cheeks to match that in the face of the girl, making them tingle. And his collar felt suddenly tight.

“Selfish nothing!” he burst out at last in a sort of desperation. “I’d be a fine fellow, I guess, to leave you all up in the air with the shop. But you see I’ve got that all thought out. I— I— well maybe I’d better tell you something about myself.”

Madge’s blue eyes questioned him mutely, and he stumbled doggedly on:

“I was a man in a good position once, but I— got in with a pretty swift set. I lost my job and got into debt, and the people I thought were my friends when I was making good turned me down. So after a while I just said I didn’t care for anything at all, and I went clear to the bowwows like I was when you saw me first. But that’s the worst of it Madge. I never did anything to anybody, worse than I did to myself. And the other night, when I held you there in my arms after we’d got out of the wreck of the shop, why, I knew— that— there was something in the world I cared for after all— something I cared more for than I did for all the world; and afterward, when the doc said you might die, why, I said to somebody—or something— maybe to God— that if only you could get well, and I could come back—climb up out of the gutter far enough to— well far enough so that you might— might not be afraid or ashamed to— Oh, Madge girl, can’t you understand?”

“Danny,” she whispered softly. “Oh, Danny— Danny dear.” There was a great light in her face.

Danny nodded.

“That’s it. I want to have you always where I can hear you say it— just like that. I, well the promotion man says I made the shop come back, and now I want to make my own come back next, and then I want— just you, Madge—you.”

She laughed, a sound between joy and tears.

She put out a thin white hand, which lost itself in Wells’.

Danny rattled on:

“And I’ll take this job, and we’ll sell the shop— we can now it’s making money— and I’ll take care of you and the little mother.”

He drew the hand toward him, transferred it to his other palm, and slipped an arm which trembled the least bit in the world about her waist.

She yielded to him. She lifted her face to the eager appeal of his.

“Danny,” she called him, with the world-old call of her kind; “Danny, my Danny, dear.”

He held her— just held her— his one thing for which he really cared.

“Happy dear?” she whispered after the course of uncounted minutes.

Wells laughed.

“Happy?” he repeated. “Happy? Say— trot out the fatted calf. The Prodigal has returned.”

___________________

11: The Judge Corroborates

J. S. Fletcher

1863-1935

The Red Magazine 22 Aug 1919

EVER SINCE Dickinson had arrested Gamble on a charge of burglary, he, Dickinson, had carried about with him an uneasy conviction that there was something wrong. The arrest had been made very quietly, and without any fuss, as Gamble emerged from the saloon bar of the Pride of London tavern, in Maida Vale, one evening, alone. All that the passers-by had noticed— if they noticed anything at all— was that two well-dressed men went up to and exchanged a few words with a third well-dressed man, who presently turned and walked off with them, as if they were all friends. But Dickinson remembered what Gamble had said— hence his uneasiness.

'You're making a bloomer, my boy!' said Gamble. 'And no error! But— you'll find that out soon enough. In the meantime—'

In the meantime, of course, there was nothing for it but to accompany the two detectives to the nearest police-station, and be charged. he charge was that on the night of November 21 last, he, John Gamble, did feloniously break and enter the dwelling house of Martin Philip Tyrrell, in Avenue Road, St John's Wood, and did steal from thence certain specified property. And once more Gamble had shaken his head— and laughed.

'Not me, sonny,' he answered. 'On the wrong 'bus this time! Come off it!'

The detective who had accompanied Dickinson felt curious, and looked at Gamble, who had a reputation, with something more than interest.

'What's your game?' he asked, in a quite friendly manner. 'Alibi?'

'Something of that sort, old sport!' replied Gamble. 'You won't get no conviction against yours truly this journey.'

Then he turned and glanced at Dickinson, with a sneer. 'Think yourself blooming clever?' he remarked. 'Well— you ain't!'

Whatever other people might think, Dickinson knew himself to be clever— he knew, too, that he had exercised a vast amount of pains and ability in his conduct of this particular case. It had been put in his hands from the first, and he had followed it up with the patience and intelligence which had earned him high rank in the Criminal Investigation Department.

On the face of it, this was a very ordinary case. Mr Tyrrell's house, a detached one standing in its own garden, had been burglariously entered on a certain dark night, and silver and jewellery stolen. The burglar had done his work quietly and well, and had got clean away without rousing any of the household. But he had left a trace— two traces— of his personality. On Mr Tyrrell's sideboard stood a decanter of whisky, and glasses, and a jug of water— the burglar had not been able to withstand the temptation to take a drink. He had helped himself— and on the sides of the glass from which he had drunk, and on the jug from which he had poured out water, he had left distinct impressions of thumbs and fingers. And Dickinson, who had an extensive and peculiar acquaintance with the higher class cracksmen of the metropolis, and who spent hours in going through finger-print records, no sooner saw those marks than he said to himself— Jack Gamble!

Jack Gamble also had a reputation. He was a smart chap, who picked up a good living by his wits. When he was not burgling or thieving, he was engaged in other shady transactions, chiefly connected with horses— sometimes he kept inside the law, and now and then he strayed over the edge. One way or another, he had often been in trouble, and at the time of his arrest outside the Pride of London he had not long been restored to liberty after a term of imprisonment.

Dickinson had been keeping a patient eye upon him, and when he saw these finger-prints he felt no doubt whatever that Gamble was going to fall into his hands again. He went off and compared the prints carefully with those in the official keeping, and that done he did a little quiet and secret work in finding out what Gamble's movements had been on the night of the burglary.

When he discovered that Gamble had been out most of that night, leaving his lodging at ten o'clock, and not returning until six next morning, he proceeded to act— for Dickinson was one of the most convinced of believers in the finger-print theory and system, and he was able, by enthusiasm, to infect others with his faith.

Nevertheless, now that he had got him safely under lock and key, Dickinson was upset by Gamble's cheerfulness. He kept seeing Gamble. He saw him when Gamble was before the Magistrate— who, though apparently not quite such a firm believer in the finger-print theory as he might have been, was sufficiently convinced by the evidence to send Gamble for trial. And Gamble, awaiting removal to a detention prison until the next sitting at the Central Criminal Court, nodded affably to Dickinson, who had gone down to the cells at the police-court to take a look at him.

'Think you're steaming ahead all right, old cock, don't yer?' remarked Gamble. 'So don't I! You're going to get thrown clean off the line, presently— see! And, I say!— when will the little affair come off? What— next week? You don't happen to know who the old bloke on the bench'll be, do yer, Mr Dickinson?'

Dickinson believed in being on good and even friendly terms with the criminals who came under his notice; he adopted a sort of indulgent schoolmaster attitude to them.

'Your case'll most likely come before Mr Justice Stapleton,' he answered good-humouredly, 'and you'll have to make that alibi you've been hinting at a pretty good one to convince him, my lad! What're you laughing at?'

For Gamble had begun to chuckle, as if some highly humorous notion had suddenly occurred to him. Before he could explain, certain peremptory officials motioned him and certain other committed and remanded gentlemen to step towards the open door of Black Maria, drawn up in the yard outside. Gamble went off, still chuckling.

'See you later then, Mr Dickinson,' he said as he went. 'Meet you at the C.C.C.  next week. And you won't have half a surprise, either!'

That made Dickinson all the more uneasy— and suspicious. Gamble had adopted a queer, half-contemptuous, defiant attitude before the magistrate. He had not even taken the trouble to employ a certain smart man of law who had defended him more than once— and had once actually restored him to such friends and relations as he happened to possess. He had listened to the finger-print evidence and the proof of his being absent from his lodgings with sneering eyes and lips. Asked what he had got to say, he replied that he'd say what he had to say at the proper time and place— 'and not half, neither, as they'd find out.'

Altogether, he had shown such certainty that Dickinson was beginning to feel afraid, and perhaps a little doubtful. But he fell back on the hard theory— no two finger-prints are alike— and he was dead certain that the marks left on Mr Tyrrell's glass and jug were those of Jack Gamble's fingers.

ii

IT WAS nothing but expert and circumstantial evidence against Gamble when his case came on at the Central Criminal Court before Mr Justice Stapleton and a common jury. Indeed, what was really being tried, in the opinion of at least one spectator, was not Gamble, but the finger-print theory.

The finger-prints in question were passing for an hour or two between the bench and the jury-box, the jury-box and the barristers' table; for another hour or two, experts were giving opinions, pointing out technicalities, expatiating learnedly on the theories and practice of such authorities as Bertillon, Herschel, Galton, and Henry. And Gamble sat in the dock— having been courteously accommodated with a seat in view of the probable length of the case— and listened with a half-scornful, half-bored expression. Once more he had pleaded his innocence; once more declined to be represented by anybody but himself. But he had asked, with some eagerness, if he could give evidence on his own behalf, and call a witness, and on hearing that he could— a fact of which he was already well aware— had smiled and winked derisively at Detective-Sergeant Dickinson.

It all came to an end at last— the case for the prosecution. Every one of the experts had sworn that the marks of thumbs and fingers on Mr Tyrrell's property were, in their belief, as experts, correspondent to those stamped by the prisoner in more than one official record. Evidence had been brought forward to show that Gamble was away from his lodgings during the hours at some period of which the burglary had undoubtedly been committed. It was, perhaps, not a very strong case; the stolen property had not been traced, nor had a single article of it been found in the prisoner's possession, nor was there any evidence to show that he had disposed of valuable goods about that time.

But— though nothing of the sort was mentioned in court, in accordance with the strict principles of British justice, which takes every case on its own merits— it was generally known, even by the judge and jurymen, who are supposed to know nothing, that Gamble was an expert in these sort of things as the finger-print experts were clever in theirs, and most persons present expected to hear him found guilty, and sent to penal servitude again.

Except Dickinson.

Dickinson, after giving his own evidence, had taken a seat in a corner, from whence he watched the man in the dock suspiciously and moodily. Dickinson did not like the look of Gamble; Gamble was altogether too indifferent, too bored, too superior to his situation. He made Dickinson think of a card-player who holds all the aces— and has another card ready up his sleeve. And when Gamble was called upon for his defence, and made his way from dock to witness-box, smiling, Dickinson felt a bit sick; he wanted to convict Gamble, and he began to have an idea that Gamble was going to put a stop to that game.

Yet— how?

Gamble took the oath as piously as if he had done little else but practise religious observance all his life. Possibly he felt unusually serious at that moment. At any rate, it was with an air of great decorum that he turned to the judge, who was watching him curiously.

'As I ain't represented by counsel, my lord,' said Gamble, 'perhaps your lordship'll let me tell my tale in my own way? Sworn evidence, my lord.'

'Certainly, tell your own story after your own fashion,' answered his lordship . 'You are probably quite well aware that you can be examined by the prosecution on whatever you say?'

"Quite aware o' that , my lord,' replied Gamble, cheerfully; and smiled at the barristers in front of him. 'Any of these here gentlemen is quite welcome— or your lordship, either— to ask me any questions as seems to occur to 'em— or to you, either, my lord.' He paused and transferred his smile to the twelve open-mouthed men in the jury-box.

'Well, my lord, and gentlemen of the jury, what I have to say to this here charge is— an alibi! I'm going to prove an alibi, and when I've finished proving it, I expect to be discharged, and no other. Finger-prints or no finger-prints, I wasn't within six miles of St John's Wood at any time of the night on which this here burglary was carried out. Why? 'Cause I was somewhere else.'

Gamble, from long experience of criminal courts, either as principal actor or interested spectator, was well aware of the importance in oratory of a dramatic pause, and he made one now, leaning over the edge of the witness-box, and glancing around him with a calm and triumphant smile. And suddenly he drew himself up, and began to check off his points on the tips of his stubby fingers.

'To start with, gentlemen,' he continued, 'the charge against me is that I broke into this house in Avenue Road, St John's Wood, on the night of November 21 last, according to the evidence, between ten o'clock— that 'ud be the evening of November 20— and six next morning. Gentlemen, from ten o'clock in the evening of November 20 until five-thirty next morning, I was in Wimbledon.'

Gamble spoke the last word in a thrilling whisper, and the judge started and glanced sharply at him.

'You were— where did you say?' he asked, bending towards the prisoner.

'Wimbledon, my lord!' answered Gamble, loudly and promptly. 'Wimbledon. Where your lordship resides.'

The judge started again and frowned. It was quite true that he did live at Wimbledon, in a pretty old house on the common, and his frown meant that he was not quite sure that he was pleased to hear that Mr John Gamble had been in that select neighbourhood.

'Continue your evidence,' he said, a little sharply. 'You were saying—'

'That I was at Wimbledon that night, my lord,' replied Gamble, with a smile which sought out Dickinson in his corner. 'At Wimbledon— part of the time, anyway— and t'other part of the time on Wimbledon Common. And, gentlemen,' he went on, with a dramatic turn in the direction of the jury-box, 'why was I at Wimbledon? Gentlemen, I'm here to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth so— out with it. I went to Wimbledon for an unlawful purpose— which never came off.'

Gamble let this soak into the atmosphere with another dramatic pause— made suddenly. He set out again just as suddenly— with an outstretched finger pointed at the foreman of the jury, a fat man whose eyes goggled.

'Mind you,' he said. 'I'm a-going to tell the truth against myself— to clear myself of this 'ere particular charge. Now, it's quite true— I ain't going to deny it, for it 'ud be of no use to— I've been in trouble before on little matters of this sort. I got over the results of one of 'em— the last— on'y last October. And says I to myself, "I'll chuck that game— tain't no good, when all's taken into account." But about November 17 or 18— I can't be sure to a day— a friend of mine who knew my abilities in this 'ere line, meets me one day in Long Acre, where I was looking after a bit of horse-flesh, and says he to me, confidential, "Jack, my boy," he says, "if so be as you wants a nice soft job in your line what you could work on your own without a partner," he says, "blimey if I can't put you up to the very thing!" he says. "What is it?" says I. "I ain't particular for any job; but, of course, if it's something very soft— " "You could do it standing on yer blooming head," he says. "It's this 'ere. You know I live down at Wimbledon?" "Certainly I do," says I, "Well," says he, "there's an old bloke has a very nice house on Wimbledon Common what you may be acquainted with— professional," he says. "Which I mean Mr Justice Stapleton." '

Mr Justice Stapleton, who had been obviously fidgeting for some minutes, turned a very red face on Gamble.

'I hope you're not trifling with the Court, prisoner?' he remarked acidly. 'In the circumstances you must have every indulgence, but—'

'It's all gospel truth, my lord,' answered Gamble reassuringly. 'Your lordship'll see it in a minute— can't give my evidence no other way, my lord. Well,' he continued triumphantly, and the judge leaned back with an air of patient resignation— 'well, gentlemen, that's what this here friend of mine— which I shan't give his name and address, nor call him— unless strictly necessary— said. "Mr Justice Stapleton," he says. "The old bird," he says, "is one o' them folks as doesn't draw their front blinds down o' nights, and many's the time," he says, "as I've passed the window of his dining-room, and looked in when all the lights was a-blazing, and his lordship getting his grub. And," says he, "he's a sideboard that's just creaking under gold and silver cups and plates, and that sort o' thing. I understand," he says, "as how his lordship was a bit of an athlete when he was a young 'un, and won a lot 'o pots, and then he's won more in steeplechasing. Anyway," he says, "there's enough stuff on that sideboard, Jack, to make it worth your while to pay the old chap a quiet visit— see?"

'Well, gentlemen, of course nature is nature, and when I hears this, I thinks to myself— well, it 'ud be no harm to go down to Wimbledon Common and reconnoitre, as they term it. And so, about nine o'clock in the evening of November 20 last— you'll be particular about that date, gentlemen!— I went down to Wimbledon, and I met this 'ere friend o' mine, and we took a quiet walk along by the house he spoke of— your lordship's.'

Gamble turned suddenly on the judge, and the eyes of every man in Court turned there, too. It was very evident that Mr Justice Stapleton was not so much annoyed as puzzled. He was looking at the prisoner with a queer, inquisitive, searching expression, and for an instant seemed about to speak— instead, he signed to him to proceed. And Gamble smiled and proceeded.

'Well, gentlemen, it was just as this 'ere friend o' mine— a truthful gentlemen, he is!— had said,' he continued. 'His lordship's house stands back a bit— not much— from the road at the side of the common. His dining-room windows front the road. And, as my friend had said, the blinds wasn't drawn— and we could see right in. Now I'll invite his lordship's particular attention to what me and my friend saw. There was a full blaze of electric-light in the room; there was also an uncommonly fine fire in a big hearth. The sideboard at the back— black oak— was crammed with gold and silver plate— salvers, cups, vases, such like; it fairly shone and sparkled in the light. And in that room there were three people— a-sitting in easy-chairs in front o' the fire. Perhaps his lordship'll now take notice of how I describe 'em. One of 'em was his lordship himself, in his evening finery— no need to describe him. Another was a lady— his lordship's lady, I took her to be— she was knitting— made me think of my old mother, gentlemen, she looked that peaceful. And the third—'

Mr Justice Stapleton leaned slightly towards the witness box, and appeared to listen eagerly for the next words.

Gamble gave him a sharp glance out of his eye-corners as he proceeded.

'The third,' he said, 'was a tall, very fine-looking old gentleman, foreigner by the look of him, with a pointed white beard and waxed moustaches, and sat between the other two at the hearthrug, smoking a big cigar. He was in evening clothes, too, and he'd a red riband round his neck, with a sort of star or medal hanging from it. A very peaceful, nice group they was— with their cigars and their glasses.'

Mr Justice Stapleton, with an odd look at the members of the Bar, suddenly sat upright again, and plunging his hand through his robes into some inner pocket, pulled out what was evidently a pocket or memorandum book, which he laid on the desk before him. And Gamble paused— but a nod of the judicial wig motioned him to go on.

'Well, gentlemen,' he said, eyeing the fat foreman with approval, 'me and my friend we saw all this, and then we went on, quietly, and we had a drink or two, and then we went home to his house and took a bit o' supper. And when that was over: "What d'yer think o' this job, Jack?" says he. "Softish 'un, ain't it?" he says. "Leastways to a gentleman o' your ability," says he. "Might be," says I; "but I'd like to take a look round the premises when things is quiet," I says. "Just to see how things is, yer know," I says. "Well, there ain't neither dog nor cat in that house," says he. "His lordship can't abide 'em." "Cats," says I, "don't count— I've done many a bit o' business with a couple o' cats lookin' on, interested like. But dogs is different. You're sure there ain't no dogs?" "Not a dog," says he. "I knows! Horses is his lordship's 'obby-dogs he will not have!" "All right," says I. "Then we'll just sit here a bit— say till it's past midnight, and then— well, I'll just prospect a bit. Not," I says, "as I shall operate tonight, but I'll just take a little look at doors and windows." So, of course, we had a drop of something comforting on that, and we talked about one thing and another, and at half-past twelve I went back, through them bushes which is so convenient, to take a look round his lordship's house in the dark.'

Mr justice Stapleton had opened his little book by that time, consulted some entry in it, and shut it up again. He was now leaning his chin on his hand, watching Gamble with a mingling of keenness and amusement, and he so continued to watch him while the accused went cheerfully on his way. And Gamble resumed his candid narrative with something that was very like a wink at the jury.

'Now, gentlemen,' he said, leaning still farther over the edge of the witness-box, as if to take the whole Court into his confidence more fully, 'you see that I'm being open and truthful with you, from the mere fact that I'm giving myself away! For, of course, the instant I entered his lordship's garden, I was where I oughtn't to ha' been— with intent to commit a felony. Only— I didn't intend to commit it just then— maybe not for a night or two— I only just wanted to look round. And I did look round— careful. I took a look at doors and windows— back, front, and side. I satisfied myself there wasn't no blooming dog. And, eventual, I took a carefuller look at the window of the dining-room, where all that plate was spread out on the sideboard. And while I was engaged at that, and quiet as a mouse, there was a light suddenly shone in on that room, and in walks his lordship there, a-carrying a bedroom candle. And to prove to you— and to him— that I saw him, he was wearing pink and white-striped pyjamas, and he'd a white woollen shawl tied round his throat. I ask you, gentlemen, and I asks his lordship— how could I ha' seen them little details if I hadn't been there?'

Here followed another dramatic pause, during which Gamble took a calmly disdainful look at Dickinson.

Amidst a dead silence, he went on:

'And more than that, gentlemen! A second later, in comes the other old gentleman,' he said. 'Him with the pointed white beard and waxed moustache. He was in a dressing-gown— a bright red 'un, with a black cord round the middle. And he'd a candle, too, and I saw at once that both of 'em had been roused by something that I couldn't account for— for I'd certainly made no noise as I knew of, and was only looking through the window. They both talked a bit— then his lordship went out into the hall, and a second later looked in again with a big overcoat on, and a bull's eye lantern in his hand; and at that, gentlemen, I made myself scarce, and hopped it out of the garden and in amongst the trees at the other side of the road. I hadn't been there two minutes when a policeman comes along, and I heard his lordship call him from the front door— whereupon I went off across the common, and back to my friend's house. And there I stopped until the workmen's trains started running—  and then I took one home to London. And— there you are! And now I asks all present— how could I ha' been in Avenue Road any time that night, when I was down at Wimbledon, miles and miles away? And I asks morer— I asks his lordship there, as a gentleman, to corroborate what I've said— for he can!'

The attention of the Court shifted itself from the prisoner to the judge. Every eye was turned on Mr Justice Stapleton as he slowly drew himself up and looked over his spectacles at Gamble, and from him to the prosecuting solicitor.

'This is certainly a very remarkable statement on the part of the prisoner,' he began. 'He puts me in a very curious situation. I am really being asked to be witness as well as judge. If this case had been tried by one of my brother judges, the prisoner would, I suppose, have raised the same defence, and called me as a witness on his behalf. Really I am somewhat at a loss— but I may as well tell you that I believe what the prisoner has just told us to be perfectly true. It is quite true that I have a prejudice— a life-long one, and possibly a very foolish one— against drawing blinds and curtains over my windows. It is also true that I have a quantity of gold and silver plate on my sideboard, and that it can be seen, I daresay, from the road outside at night, when there is a strong light in that room. I don't attach much importance— in the present matter— to these details; the prisoner might easily have gained as much knowledge at any time. But'— here his lordship picked up his little book— 'it is impossible to deny that certain events took place at my house on the night of November 20-21 exactly as the prisoner has set them out. On that night I had an old friend of mine, Monsieur Paul Lavonier, a famous French scientist, to dine and sleep there. In appearance he is precisely as the prisoner describes him— he was certainly wearing the collar and star of a much-prized decoration. It is quite true that at, or about, one o'clock in the morning I fancied I heard a sound in my garden, and that I went down to the dining-room; it is quite true that my attire was as the prisoner says. It is true , also, that M. Lavonier came down, also, in such a garment as the prisoner spoke of. It is also true that I put on an overcoat , lighted a lantern which I keep in my hall, opened the front door, and hailed a passing constable, who afterwards looked round the grounds, and found nothing suspicious. And, frankly,' continued the judge , glancing with a shrewd and humorous smile, 'I do not see how this man who undoubtedly witnessed these things at my house on Wimbledon Common on the night in question, could possibly have committed a burglary in the north of London at the same time. It might be suggested that he left Wimbledon at once on being baffled at my house, at or about one o'clock, and proceeded straight to Avenue Road. But you will remember, gentlemen of the jury, that, according to Mr Tyrrell's evidence, Mr Tyrrell himself was up until two o'clock that morning, that he only went to bed for two hours, as he had to catch a train at King's Cross, and that burglary at his house certainly took place between two and four. Now there are no trains from Wimbledon to town at that time of night and it is extremely improbable that the prisoner could get from one point— my house, where he certainly was about a quarter or half-past one— to another, many miles away, before four. I am, of course, informally corroborating the prisoner's evidence— I really don't see that I can avoid doing so in this particular and extraordinary situation. The case against the prisoner rests entirely on these finger-prints— I shall make some remarks on that matter presently.'

He glanced at the prosecuting counsel.

'Do you wish to ask this man anything?' he inquired.

'If your lordship pleases,' answered the barrister addressed, who was plainly taken aback. He turned to Gamble.

'Why didn't you tell all this before the magistrate?' he demanded.

'Because I preferred to tell it here,' retorted Gamble.

'Did you know that his lordship was going to try this case?'

'Not till Dickinson told me— after I'd been committed,' said Gamble, pointing at the detective.

'Were you intending to call his lordship as a witness then?' asked the counsel.

'What do you think?' sneered Gamble. 'Course I was!'

'Why haven't you called that friend of yours at Wimbledon?'

'What?' exclaimed Gamble. 'To give him away for putting me on to the job? Not likely; he's a highly respectable man, he is, as keeps a shop down there.'

'You need not have let us know that he put you on to the job— this respectable shopkeeper!' retorted the counsel. 'You could have called him to prove that you spent most of that night with him at Wimbledon, without saying why. What proof have you, besides what you've said, that you ever were at Wimbledon?'

Gamble smiled, and suddenly thrust his fingers into his waistcoat pocket. There was evidently a hole in its lining, and, after some fumbling and fishing, he extracted something which he held up, and then passed in the direction of the bench.

'That!' he said. 'Ticket from Wimbledon to Waterloo. They didn't take it, and I didn't give it up. Look at the date!'

There was some consultation between the Bench and the Bar, and then his lordship, taking off his spectacles, turned leisurely to the jury and began to talk about the fingerprint system. And Dickinson frowned and nudged a fellow detective, who sat by him. For he knew that Mr Justice Stapleton was a good deal of a sceptic about that system, and had more than once made caustic remarks about it and its exponents, and he expected what precisely came to pass within the next twenty minutes. For the jury returned a verdict of 'Not Guilty,' and Gamble walked out of the dock a free man once more. And, once free, Gamble sought out Dickinson in the precincts of the Court, and openly sneered at him.

'What did I tell yer, Mr Clever?' he said, making a face at the detective. 'Didn't I say you were making a bloomer this time? Yah!'

'It's you that's the clever man, my lad!' answered Dickinson. 'You've done me— and everybody— somehow! I wouldn't mind giving you a fiver to be let into the secret.'

But Gamble only made another face, and took himself off for a much-needed drink.

iii

DICKINSON was as certain that Gamble had bamboozled the Court as he was certain that Gamble was the culprit in the Avenue Road affair. But as to how Gamble had managed it, he was utterly at a loss to conceive. He kept an eye on him for some time, and whenever they met, Gamble winked at him derisively. The derision signified not so much a reference to what had just occurred as to the fact that Gamble was going on the straight, and giving Dickinson no chance to get at him.

Dickinson, narrowly as he watched and listened, could hear nothing, until, suddenly, he missed his man. Gamble was no longer seen in his usual haunts— he made a complete disappearance.

And it was not until he had been gone for some time, and Dickinson had failed to gain news of him, that he heard something from one of those strange individuals who hover between criminals and criminal-catchers, and who, being neither, have none of the honour which exists even amongst thieves. This man, being in conversation with Dickinson, suddenly turned to the subject which still rankled in the detective's mind.

'You ain't seen nothing  of Jack Gamble of late, I reckon?' he observed. 'And you won' t— no more. Made a clean wipe of the slate , Jack has, gone to Australia, he has, with a mate— horse-dealing— for good . On the straight, you understand?'

'That's it, is it?' remarked Dickinson .

'That's it, sir,' asserted the other, and laughed as at some pleasant thought.

'He done you a fair treat over that Avenue Road affair, didn't he, now? Of course , there was them as knew how it was done, me amongst 'em. And now that old Jack's t'other side of th e world, I don't mind telling you, between you and me, private. It was like this here. When Jack came home after that last stretch, him and another mate of his looked round for some likely cribs to crack. One of 'em was that house in Avenue Road, and another was the judge's place near Wimbledon Common. They settled to do 'em the same night. Jack did the Avenue Road business, right enough, t'other man went to Wimbledon, and his job didn't come off. It was him— t'other man— as had all the adventures that Jack told in Court! He primed Jack with all the points next day, down to every detail, giving him that ticket, and it was agreed between 'em that if either of 'em got took in connection with the Avenue Road affair, which it was to make use of the Wimbledon knowledge to get up an alibi. It happened to be Jack , and him having a particular good memory, he just reeled off all that had happened to the other chap as if it had been to himself, see? Nice, simple thing— what, Mr Dickinson?'

Mr Dickinson replied briefly that he had always known Jack Gamble to be a clever man, and retired— to visit Mr Justice Stapleton, and add to that learned gentleman' s stock of knowledge.

________________________________

Cumulative Index to Past Masters 23

April 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: 3

Past Masters Three: 4

etc.

Cleve F. Adams

Flowers For Violet 4

Forty Pains 4

Punk 22

Shrinking Violet 22

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

The Banshee 21

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 Devil’s Fire 21

The Four Red Circles  4

Gallegher of Beaver  4

Harbor Hazard 21

The Luck of a Cowboy  4

The Million-Dollar Certificate  23

The Trail of Death 23

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

Miles J. Breuer

The Amazing Power  21

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

The Tenth Question 23

Glyn Evans

"The Man Who Was—"  5

Gwyn Evans

The Croucher 18

Francis Flagg

The Dancer in the Crystal 21

The Machine Man of Ardathia 21

The Mentanicals 21

The Seed of the Toc-Toc Birds 21

The Superman of Dr Jukes 21

J S Fletcher

Comedy of the Grand Canal  8

The Cracksman's Catspaw  7

The Honour of Two  16

The Yellow Dog  P

The Judge Corroborates 23

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

J. U. Giesy

The Gravity Experiment 21

Not on the Bill  21

The Return  23

Guy Gilpatric

Gabriel's Trumpet 18

The Glasgow Smasher 21

The Lost Limerick  20

Mary, Queen of Scots  18

Pardon the French 23

Scotch and Water 20

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

H. Hesketh-Prichard

Tartas the Terrible  23

Robert J Horton:

The Ninety-Ninth Proposal 4

Eric Howard

The Miracle Man  22

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

W. W. Jacobs

A Will and a Way 21

Edgar Jepson and Robert Eustace:

Mr. Belton's Immunity 7

The Tea-Leaf P

Lord Kilmarnock

A Man's Hand  14

Albert Kinross

He Stoops To Conquer  21

Otis Adelbert Kline:

The Corpse on the Third Slab 20

The Phantom Wolf-Hound 4

The Robot Beasts 23

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

Bannister Merwin

Silenced  23

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

In Deep Purple 22

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

Frederick C Painton

The Dead Speak Once 22

Murder Suspect 22

Stool Pigeon 22

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

William J Rollins Jr

Chicago Confetti  21

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

The October Blight 22

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

Chicken King 22

The Hands of Killian 12

The Hank of Yarn 20

The Murdered Wife 11

The Red Road to Shamballah 22

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 / C Ranger Gull

The Flirt 10

"General Utility" 22

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

A Knight-Errant 21

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

Ike's Sin 23

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

Albert Richard Wetjen

Cannibal Isle 22

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

Red Hemp 23

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

Table of Contents

1: Ike's Sin / "Waif Wander"

2: Red Hemp / Raoul Whitfield

3: The Million-Dollar Certificate / H. Bedford-Jones

4: The Trail of Death / H. Bedford-Jones

5: Pardon the French / Guy Gilpatric

6: The Robot Beasts / Otis Adelbert Kline

7: The Tenth Question / George Allan England

8: Tartas the Terrible / H. Hesketh-Prichard

9: Silenced / Bannister Merwin (novelette)

10: The Return / J.U.Giesy

11: The Judge Corroborates / J. S. Fletcher

Cumulative Index 1-23