Past Masters 25
Author: Various
Date: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00
Description: Short stories in the Life + 70 public domain, gathered from newspapers and magazines and not easily available in authors' collections or anthologies. This batch includes an early short story by W S Gilbert (yes, that W S Gilbert); sf from Farsnworth Wright and David Wright O'Brien; adventure in the Yucatan by Frank Stanton Jr; humour by Clarence M Cullen and Barry Pain; and other tales. There is a cumulative index to all the stories in the Past Masters Series uto and and including this one. 1: My Gifted Young Friend / Anonymous 2: Diamonds / William Schwenck Gilbert 3: The Snake Fiend / Farnsw

PAST MASTERS

TWENTY-FIVE

April 2021

Part 3

Produced by Terry Walker

("Pulpmeister")

Contents

1: My Gifted Young Friend / Anonymous

2: Diamonds / William Schwenck Gilbert

3: The Snake Fiend / Farnsworth Wright

4: The Barber-Shop Riddle / Robert Keene Thompson

5: Leixlip Castle / Rev. C. R. Maturin

6: Tourists Three for Tampa / Clarence L. Cullen

7: An Alibi for Altogether Al / Clarence L. Cullen

8: The Mahogany Garden / Frank Stanton Jnr

9: Rayhouse in Space / David Wright O'Brien

10: The Masque of Tragedy / Ethel Watts Mumford

11: The Intruder / Ethel Watts Mumford

12: Cocaine Smugglers' Catspaw / Aidan de Brune

13: Drug Running Extraordinary / Aidan De Brune

14: Enough Rope / Raoul Whitfield

15: The Centenarian / Barry Pain

Cumulative Index up to Past Masters 25

___________________

1: My Gifted Young Friend

Anonymous

Narracoorte Herald (SA) 13 Dec 1895

1: The Disappearance of Clifford Gray

"IF I DIE by violence or poison, or disappear for a longer period than one week, look to James B. Dean for an explanation of it."

That was the message found in Clifford Gray's desk after his mysterious disappearance.

Its discovery was the beginning of a very strange affair in which, I think, my friend Nick Carter did as clever work as can be found, even in his brilliant record.

He was brought into the case at my suggestion. It has been my privilege to chronicle many of his adventures, but this is one of the cases in which I have played an actual part.

Gray had a desk in my office. He was a most agreeable young man, and he possessed positive talent. His name most be familiar to the readers of short stories, for he has contributed, in the past few years, to some of the leading magazines.

He has written two novels, which have been published in book form, and have attained a good sale. In fact, he made a handsome income by his writing, and never drew on the paternal purse, though it was the sort of purse which most young men would like their fathers to carry.

Henry B. Gray, the father of Clifford, is a merchant in Albany. He sells stoves and all kinds of heating apparatus, I believe, and has made a pile of money in this useful occupation.

At first he wished his son to succeed him in the stove business, but Clifford had been at college. and considered himself fitted for a more intellectual pursuit. So he came to Hew York and began to write.

His father frowned upon this calling. He had very low ideas of "literary fellows," whom he thought to he always out at elbows. Perhaps that was the reason why he cut off Clifford's allowance. He may have supposed that money and literature couldn't go together.

At least, that was Clifford's explanation. I knew no more about it than he told me.

At any rate, it didn't worry Clifford in the least. I came to know him within two weeks after he first appeared in the metropolis. He confided to me, then, that he had hardly anything in the world, and that he would be glad if I would host him for the rent of the desk-room which he wished to engage in my office.

That was the last time I ever saw him short of money. He told me that he "caught on" with his first story, and that he never had a set-back afterward.

It is certain that his pocket was always well lined, and that he paid cash to everybody, from his tailor up.

When the elder Grey found out that his son was easily independent of him; he began to wish that it was not so. He wrote the most affectionate letters, and offered to supply his son with money enough to make him a first-class swell,

Clifford steadily declined these proposals, not because he had any resentment against his father, but, as he told me, because he positively did not want the money.

This went on for three years, during which I did not see the elder Gray, although be made several visits to the city.

One day last summer, Clifford told me that his father was coming to town on the following afternoon.

"He is to come here," said Clifford. "I'll be glad to have you meet him. He and I have some business to attend to, and then we'll all go down to Coney Island, and have a good dinner, in sight of old ocean."

Mr. Gray arrived according to programme, and introduced himself to me.

He seemed surprised that his son was not there ; and so was I, for that matter.

Clifford had told me positively that he would be there early in the forenoon; Indeed, he had borrowed my key of the outside door, because he expected to reach the office before I did, and he had lost his own key.

I could say no more to Mr. Gray than that his son was sure to come soon, and so he waited about half an hour.

It was then two o'clock. Mr. Gray began to be uneasy.

"We have business at the Nassau Bank," he said, "and we'll be late. I wish there I was something that I could do to hurry him."

I suggested sending to Clifford's hotel. He lived at one of the older hotels on what we now call the lower part of Broadway, that is, below Fourteenth street.

We despatched a messenger to the hotel, and he returned before three o'clock with the information that Clifford was not there.

It was said that he had been at the hotel on the previous evening, but as his bed had not been disturbed, it was evident that he had spent the night elsewhere.

Mr. Gray became very nervous when he heard this, and I didn't like the look of it, although I saw no season for great anxiety.

I knew that something unusual most have detained Clifford from so important an appointment with his father; but I was far from a suspicion of the real gravity of the situation.

My only endeavor was to invent excuses for the purpose of keeping Mr. Gray quiet, and that was not an easy task.

He paced the floor, then he sat down at his son's desk; and a few seconds later he was on his feet again, as if unable to sit at all.

This was repeated over and over until, at last, in one of his brief intervals of sitting, be pulled open the drawer of the desk.

I don't believe he really intended to do it. The action was merely a nervous one, without definite purpose.

Clifford used an old-fashioned mahogany desk, with a flat top and one large drawer. It contained none of those odds and ends which usually clutter a writer's working-table. Instead, there were a few business papers neatly arranged, and on the top of them lay a large sheet of paper bearing the most extraordinary message with which I have opened this narrative.

It was calculated to startle us, as everybody will admit. When Mr. Gray read it out to me in a voice I would certainly not have recognised as his, I shared, almost to the full, the horror that had seized upon him.

I could not reconcile this ghastly prophecy of violent death with what I knew of my talented young friend.

As to James B. Dean, I was in complete ignorance. I did not at that moment remember to have heard his name before.

What could be his connection with the brilliant young writer?

Clifford's life seemed as open as the day. He was the last man in the world to have a deadly secret such as this.

It was exceedingly hard to reconcile his frank and hearty manner, his perpetual light-heartedness, and the careless jollity so delightful to all his friends, with the fact that a sword hung over his head by day and night, upheld by the menacing hand of a man whose name was written on that paper.

But in New York all things are possible. The darkest and most infernal business ever conceived by the brain of the story-writer are nothing to the facts that lie around us every day.

Knowing the seething life of this great human hive so well, I had the blackest apprehension regarding the present business.

Of course I did not speak in this despondent strain to Mr. Gray.

He was in a dreadful state of excitement, and had to be restrained from doing something foolish. He wanted to rush out upon the street and report the case to the first policeman whom he met.

"Arrest this villain, Dean!" he cried. "He has murdered my son!"

Though I believed that it was so, I made light of the whole affair.

"Dean is probably some swindler," said I, "with whom your son has got tangled up in some sort of business venture. Dean has stolen everything in sight; Clifford had threatened to have him arrested; and Dean has responded with murderous vengeance."

Mr. Gray was not calmed by this presentation of the case, and perhaps it was not calculated to make him feel any better.

The main point was that Clifford had felt so much apprehension of death at the hands of James B. Dean that he had thought it worth while to assist the law in advance of the crime, by writing the murderer's name.

No argument of mine could alter this aspect of the case. It was not a time for idle delay, but for action.

So I said to Mr Gray—

"There is just one thing to do in the present case. Send for Nick Carter—"

"Great idea!" cried Gray, before I could finish my sentence. "We must have him on the case at the start, and he'll bring this man Dean to book in short order."

"I believe that he will," I replied; "but, whatever he does, you may have perfect confidence that it is the right thing."

"How  do we get hold of him quickest? Do you know where his office is?"

"His house is the place to find him," said I. "He can always be traced from there. One of his trained assistants is ready and can reach him in an incredibly short time, no matter on what secret case he may be working. It is your good luck that I happen to be one of his friends. He will come at my summons, if it is possible for him to leave the work he has in hand."

It was evident that Gray had heard of Nick Carter, for he showed a positive deference for me when he learned that I had a right to claim the great detective's friendship.

I sent for Nick instantly. A stout young man whom I employ as type-writer acted as my messenger.

He left the office about three o'clock, and it was not yet four o'clock when his rotund figure reappeared in the door, and Mr. Gray and I received the chilling announcement that Mr. Carter was away from home, and could not come to me before the following Friday.

As it was then Tuesday, Mr. Gray gave a great gasp of disappointment.

For several minutes we discussed the best thing to do. We had not reached a decision when my type-writer spoke up.

"On second thought,' he said," it will not be necessary to wait so long for Mr. Carter.

I turned in surprise, and so did Mr. Gray. We saw the fat young man in the chair before the type-writing machine,

As we looked at him, a great change began to overspread his features. In ten seconds he was Nick Carter.

I thought Mr. Gray would faint away. Of course he had never seen anything like the marvellous display of facial control which Nick had just given.

To me it was not new, but I can never get used to it. There is something perfectly magical about that alteration of the countenance which Nick can make at will.

It is all done by the ordinary muscles of the human face, and Nick often says in jest that it is no more difficult than learning to move one's ears; but for all that, when I see him do it, I am willing to believe that he could fly over the steeple of Trinity Church on a broomstick if he found it necessary to do so.

"Pardon me for this deception, Mr. Gray," said Nick, "but to be frank with you, I thought it best to observe you closely while my own identity was unknown to you.

"Remember that neither my friend here nor myself has ever seen you before. It occurred to me as possible that you might be a bogus Mr. Gray, and that your appearance might be a part of the plot by which your son is detained from his appointment."

Mr. Gray, was so amazed by Mick's disguise, and so gratified by this proof of the wonderful ability of the man upon whom he depended at this crisis, that he never thought of taking offence.

He was, in fact that, speechless with wonder.

"I now see," said Nick, "that you ate the genuine article, and that you know nothing about the cause of your son's disappearance. Let us go to work upon that mystery."

He took the paper on which the message had been written.

It was an ordinary sheet of Irish linen, letter size. Nothing else was written upon it except the words which have been laid before the reader.

"Well," exclaimed the detective, "this gives us an early start. Our first task is to search for Mr. Dean."

The task proved very easy. The city directory gave Dean's address. He is a manufacturer of type and printers' supplies, and he occupies three floors of a building near that in which my office is situated.

Dean is a very rich man. He has been prominent in politics, but is now out of that line of endeavor.

"I wonder you didn't think of Jim Dean at first," said I to Nick. "He was a well-known character five years ago. I certainly ought to have recalled the name."

"I did think of him," replied Nick, "but I wanted to find out how many more James B. Deans there were in the directory."

We went at once to Mr. Dean's place of business.

Gray and I remained outside, while Nick went in and had a talk with Dean. The detective invented a plausible story to account or his inquiring for Clifford Gray of the type manufacturer.

Dean was very polite, but nothing could be got out of him. He denied having known a man called Clifford Gray, or anybody who looked like the description given by Nick.

We were standing by the door when the detective came out. The janitor of the building was just entering.

Nick turned to him suddenly and asked— "Do you know Clifford Gray?"

"Yes, sir," responded the janitor; "I happen to know him. He comes here quite often, to McKay and Brooke, the publishers, on the fifth floor."

"That's so," said I. "He told me that they bought some of his writings,"

"When did you see him last?" asked Nick of the janitor.

"Why, let me see," said the janitor. "Ah, now I remember. He was to here last night, about five o'clock."

"Just after he left my office," said I.

"How long did he remain?" asked the detective.

"I don't know," was the reply, "I didn't lee him go put. Perhaps the elevator-boy may know."

We asked the elevator-boy about it.

He remembered taking Mr. Gray up in the car the night before. He had not taken him down again.

Mr. Gray, he said, had gone to the fifth door. The elevator had been running for about an hour after that.

We went to the office of McKay and Brooks. Mr. Brooks said that he knew Mr. Gray. The firm had purchased a story of his about a year ago.

Mr. Gray had not sold them anything since then. He had not called at the office on the previous day.

In toot the offices were closed at five o'clock, to the summer. Nobody but one of the clerks was there at the hour when Clifford Gray must have called on the previous afternoon.

So there had been nothing to detain him in the offices of the publishers, even supposing that they were open at the time when he came, which seemed doubtful.

Yet Gray had not ridden down in the elevator. He had not been seen to leave the building.

There was a door leading from the hall to Dean's private office, so that Gray might have got there unobserved.

He had not returned to his hotel. No trace of him could be found, and he had left a note directly accusing James B. Dean of his death.

In view of these facts, there was a very pretty case against the wealthy type-founder and ex-politician.

Chapter 2. The Black Box.

AFTER LEARNING these facts, Nick summoned his assistant, Chick, and, in the language of be police, "put him onto" James B. Dean.

It is no small matter to have such a man as Chick on one's track. The chances were that in a day or two Chick would know more about Dean than that individual could remember about himself,

Dean being thus provided for, Nick bent his efforts to the task of following Clifford Gray's movements. Accompanied by Mr. Gray and myself, the detective went at once to Clifford's hotel.

We were permitted to go to his room.

The chambermaid who cared for the rooms on that floor was summoned. She said that she had set the room to rights that morning. There was almost nothing to do. She had seen evidences that Clifford had been there during the evening. He had smoked, and had left-a section of the floor covered with tobacco ashes, as was his custom, but he had certainly not slept there.

After she left the room, Nick went to the bed. It was neatly made up. There was not a wrinkle in the spread or the pillowcases. Nick examined it critically for a few moments.

Then he turned back the clothes.

A hoarse cry from Gray, and a groan of horror from myself, greeted the revelation which was made when the upper coverings of that bed were pulled away.

The sheet was saturated with blood. There was so much that it would have run through upon the floor but for the unusual thickness of the mattresses.

"Murdered! murdered!" cried Gray. "My son has been butchered in his bed!"

"Where is the body?" I exclaimed.

"That is another problem," said the detective, glancing about him.

A very brief search showed then it was not in the room. Yet that search was not altogether fruitless, for in a drawer of the wardrobe were discovered a surgeon's saw and knife.

"The body has been out to pieces!" I cried.

"So it would seem," responded Nick.

He pressed the electric button In the wall.

"How was it removed?"  I asked. "A trunk or box must have been taken out of this room."

"We shall soon learn about that," replied the detective. During this conversation Mr. Gray had been sitting speechless in a chair, which had fortunately stood ready to receive him when he sank back after witnessing that terrible spectacle of blood.

His grief was most pitiable. He was too old for the relief of many tears or the sustaining power of stubborn hope which, despite the awful weight of evidence, might still have upborne a younger person. Throughout the scene which followed he remained inactive; indeed, he seemed hardly conscious of what went on around him.

All persons in the hotel who could be expected to throw any light upon the mystery were summoned by Nick.

We learned without difficulty that Clifford had received no caller on the previous evening, and no trunk had been taken from that room.

"Now about No. 213?" asked Nick, pointing to a bolted door in the west wall.

"You mean the next room to the right?" said the night-clerk. "It was occupied yesterday by a man named Harris— Isaac B. Harris, I think was the name. I can find it on the register for you in a minute."

"He left last night?" said Nick."

"Yes."

"Quite late, I suppose."

"Yes; how do you know?"

"Never mind. He had a trunk, didn't he?"

"A black thing that looked more like a box than a trunk."

"So I supposed."

The detective turned to me.

"I saw at once," he said, "that that door had been opened."

"By the murderer!" I exclaimed. "But it is fastened now."

I laid my hind upon the knob.

"But not by that bolt," said Nick. "Wait."

He drew nippers from his pocket and turned the key, which was on the other side. Then he opened the door.

The iron into which the bolt ran came away and offered no resistance.

We all went into the room. It was in perfect order.

Nick glanced around. Suddenly he sprang toward one corner of the room.

My eyes followed him, and I saw sticking out from under the edge of the carpet what seemed to be about the third of an envelope.

I hurried forward, and would have pulled out the envelope, for Nick made no motion to do so. But as I extended my hand, he gripped me by the wrist.

"Don't touch it," he said. "Wait."

He began with the utmost care to take up the carpet in that corner of the room. When he had done so, and the whole of the envelope was exposed, he drew his lantern and threw the light directly on the spot.

It had previously been dimly illumined, for the hour was late in the afternoon.

The bright electric flash of the lantern, however, struck upon the floor, and traced its brilliant circle there. I remember being able to see the particles of dust which had collected under the carpet.

Nick picked up the envelope.

"Pretty work, pretty work," he murmured.

Then he opened the envelope. Drawing me aside, he showed me the contents.

It was the briefest of notes, addressed to Isaac B. Harris. It ran thus:

Will call this evening and settle that business once and for all. D.

It bore the date of the previous day.

"Harris must have been Dean's tool," I whispered, "his agent in this horrible murder. But what could have been the motive?"

"We shall see," responded the detective, calmly, as he pocketed the letter. "Now we will try to follow Mr. Isaac B. Harris."

We secured a description of Harris without difficulty.

He was a queer old character, with a shock of gray hair and a beard like that of Santa Claus. In person he was tall and strong, and not much bent with years.

The porter who had carried the trunk from the room to the sidewalk was able to give us the name of the hackman who had received it. That man we found, by good fortune, upon his box in the street before the hotel.

"I drove the old duffer to the Grand Central," he said. "He was going to take the midnight train for Boston."

We followed on this trail.

The ticket-sellers could not remember any such person as Isaac B. Harris, but the baggage-master remembered his trunk. It was still in the baggage room.

Nick's authority enabled as to secure it. We had it conveyed back to the hotel, and carried to Clifford's room. There, after we had vainly attempted to induce Mr. Gray to leave us, the black box was forced open.

It contained, as we had suspected, the mangled remains of a human being. They were not, however, complete. That we also knew in advance, for the box was not large enough.

The legs and arms and a portion of the trunk were there, but the other part of this desecrated corpse were missing.

I shuddered at the spectacle. Then collecting my faculties, I said, "It is nearly all here. The head and the remainder of the body might have been carried in a large satchel, such as we know Harris to have had."

Nick nodded. Mr. Gray had again sunk into a sort of stupor. ·

"We must do something for him right away," Nick whispered, pointing to the wretched old man. "Let us get him to bed."

We succeeded, but not without great difficulty.

At last we were able to leave him in charge of a doctor, in one of the rooms of the hotel.

As we were about to leave the building, a message came from Chick. It ran thus:

D. has tried to skip. I have him. Shall bring him to the hotel.

Not many minutes passed before Chick arrived with Dean. The ex-politician was a foxy-looking man, with a shifting eye and a restless manner. He would say nothing in explanation of his conduct.

Chick toll us the story of the arrest.

It appeared that Dean had left his office immediately after his interview with Nick.

Chick was not then on the trail, but when he took it up, he found Dean in disguise. The Central Office man who had filled the gap said that Dean had accomplished the change in a door-way. He went to the ticket-office of the Pennsylvania Railroad and bought a ticket for Chicago.

Chick followed him upon the ferry boat. There Dean was approached by a man whom he seemed greatly surprised to meet. He had not at first recognised the man, who was evidently in disguise.

The man had spoken some words to Dean, and had then left his side. The interview had been conducted in the most cautions manner.

Instead of leaving the ferry-boat when she reached her slip, Dean had recrossed the river. Chick, in a new disguise, had followed him.

Patsy, whom Chick had taken with him to provide against just such emergencies, had followed the man who had accosted Dean.

It was evident to Chick that what that man had said to Dean had changed the latter's plan.

When they had reached the city, Dean for the first time showed suspicion that he was being followed. He made several attempts to give the slip to his pursuer, and showed so much ingenuity in that business that Chick thought it better to arrest him. This was the substance of Chick's report.

Chapter 3: Isaac B. Harris.

NICK THEN questioned Dean again, but he refused to say anything.

"I shall hold you, then," said Nick, "for the murder of Clifford Gray."

"What?" exclaimed Dean, leaping out of his chair.

Nick repeated his words.

"Murdered!" cried Dean. "How do you know that?"

Nick told him. It was the first time that the discoveries at the hotel had been laid before Dean. He made a great pretence of surprise, and loudly protested his innocence. In the midst of all this, Nick summoned the night-clerk of the hotel, who identified Dean as the man who had called upon Harris on the previous evening.

"He was disguised," said the clerk, "but I know him."

Dean seemed to be nearly prostrated by this mishap. At first I thought that he was on the point of making a full confession, but he evidently thought better of it, and closed his mouth.

At last, however, he expressed a desire to see his wife.

Nick had her summoned.

She came, and I am sure we were all deeply impressed by her matronly beauty and the dignity of her demeanour.

It was evident that she loved her husband with all her soul, and would take his part against the world.

They talked in our presence, and, for my. part, though I watched them closely, I saw nothing suspicious.

But my eyes are not Nick Carter's. When the lady left the room, after bidding her husband an affectionate goodbye. Nick followed, and he beckoned to me. In the hall I saw him change his disguise.

"I thought I'd put you on to the latest development" he said. "It escaped your notice."

"Yes, it certainly had."

"He gave her a written message," said Nick.

"Written!" I exclaimed. "How did he write it?"

"On his knee, under that table. He got hold of a bit of paper and the stump of a pencil. He passed it to her when she said good-by to him. Now let's see what she does with it."

We had little difficulty in following her unperceived. She rode up town in a Broadway cable car, and stopped at the office of the Herald where she left Mr. Dean's message in the form of a "personal."

Nick secured a copy of it, and this was its wording:

"I.B.H. Your terms are accepted. Communicate with my wife."

"That puts Harris into our power," said I, when Nick had told me what was in the personal. "We shall have, in my opinion, a brace of the greatest rogues in Christendom."

"It only remains to watch the woman," responded Nick.

Early next morning we were on watch before Dean's house.

About ten o'clock in the forenoon, Mrs. Dean came out and walked hurriedly toward Broadway.

In my opinion she was going to see her husband, who had been detained in the hotel instead of being taken to police headquarters.

Within a short distance of her house she met a blind beggar who was being led by a dog, in the traditional manner. Either because of the lady's agitation or the stupidity of the dog, or some more occult matter, that four-footed guide ran on one side of Mrs. Dean, and left his master on the other.

Naturally the lady was entangled in the chain.

She stopped, and the blind beggar, with the utmost skill and celerity, slipped a scrap of paper into her hand.

She was evidently not in the plot, and this method of communication was wholly unexpected by her, for she started violently. Then, at a word from the beggar, she recovered her composure, and stealthily thrust the paper into her pocket.

"Follow her," whispered Nick. "I will arrest the beggar as soon as you are out of sight."

I followed.

As I had supposed, Mrs. Dean went straight to the hotel. She was admitted to the room in which Dean was held under guard of Chick. Not more than five minutes later Nick arrived, leading the beggar.

The detective beckoned to me, and I entered the room with him and his prisoner.

If Dean had recognised the beggar he must have given some sign, for we came upon him so suddenly that he had no time to prepare.

Seeing that he did not, my heart sank within me, for I felt that this beggar could not be Harris, as I had hoped.

The real butcher of my friend had, then, eluded us.

"Mr. Dean." said Nick, "here is the messenger chosen by your friend Harris. Do you recognise him?"

"No," said Dean, and it was evident that he spoke the truth.

"Well, well. I'm surprised," said Nick. "However, we'll do the best we can. Mrs. Dean, will you please give me the paper which this beggar passed to you?"

The woman was almost in hysterics from the moment when the beggar was brought.

But her fidelity to her husband did not desert her. She made a clever attempt to destroy the paper.

Chick, however, got it easily, and I noticed how gently he took hold of the woman's wrist. He treated her with the utmost respect In fact, we all liked her from the moment of her appearance. We realised that what she did was done for love, and that we must not think of her as really connected with the crime. This was the message delivered by the blind beggar— who, of course, had two good eyes in his head—

"The Julian affair to be dropped. The matter of C.G. explained. All papers to be returned. $250,000."

That was all.

"Ah, Mr. Dean." said Nick, "so they're troubling you about that Julian case again?"

"The Julian case," he continued, turning to Mrs. Dean, "is an affair which gave your husband a bad name about eight years ago.

"He was supposed to have murdered a political opponent named Julian, but I am happy to be able to inform you that he had nothing to do with it."

Dean sprang to his feet.

"Do you know that, Mr. Carter?" he cried, and, bending forward eagerly. he seemed to be reading Nick's face. "Then I'll tell you all."

"It isn't necessary," said Nick. "I already know. This man Harris got hold of papers which seemed to implicate you even more strongly in the Julian affair.

"He tried to blackmail you. For a long time you fought him off. Then he put up a still more devilish game. He removed Clifford Gray, and he did it in such a way as to make you seem to be the murderer. Thus he had a double hold on you.

"In order to connect you still more with the affair— more than Gray's message would have done, I mean— he left that note which you sent him, under the corner of that carpet in his room.

"But that was almost a fatal step for him. My examination showed— by the dust on the floor— that the letter had been pushed clear under the carpet and then pulled out again so that it would show.

"That proved malice against you, and directed my thought, Of course your note merely meant that you would keep the appointment he had made for you in that room, and come to some kind of terms.

"He knew, however, that you would not pay enough, and so he had the other game ready for you."

"But look here, Nick," said I. "How about Clifford's message? How could Harris accomplish that? Was it forgery?"

"It was genuine," said Nick.

"Well, I give it up. Was Clifford shrewdly led to fear Dean?"

"When you've talked with Harris you'll understand all that."

"But you haven't caught Harris."

"Yes I have. Here he is." He walked up to the blind beggar, who had stood there dumb and helpless, because securely handcuffed. Nick removed a disguise from the man's face, washing away paint and powder, and there stood Clifford Gray!

I could not be more surprised than I was then.

"Yes," said Nick, "here is Harris and Gray, all in one."

"And the corpse?" I gasped.

"A dead body purchased for the occasion. It was a clever blackmailing plot, surely. Clifford is a gifted young man, but not as you thought him. He hasn't made a living by literature, but by systematic blackmail.

"I have located his bank account, and it certainly was never piled up by the sale of stories. He's bought a few from poor authors and tacked his name to them, but I don't believe he ever wrote one."

WELL, it was all true. We extorted a confession from my gifted young friend who, I may add, is now wearing stripes. How he had hired the next room to his own, and had appeared as Isaac B. Harris, the reader will readily understand. One point, however, was at first obscure to me, and that was why such a man had refused to take his father's money.

"It was a shrewd game," said Nick Carter, "and it came near succeeding. Only a genius would have seen that that was the surest way to loosen the paternal purse-strings."

As for Dean, I have since learned that he has been a much maligned man. Not all politicians are crooked, though most of them get the name of it. Dean is a good enough fellow at heart, and I was really glad, at the end of it all, that Nick had extricated him from his terrible position so easily.

________________

2: Diamonds

William Schwenck Gilbert

1836-1911

Routledge’s Christmas Annual 1867

I AM SORRY to have to begin a tale, which is really not intended to be objectionably squalid, in a public house. It is an unpromising opening, and one that is calculated to alienate the good opinion of a large section of readers, but I am not sure but that, after all, it has some artistic merit. It may be taken to stand to the coming chapters, in the relation that the opening scene in a pantomime does to the impossible glories that are to follow: it serves as a foil to them, and their effect is heightened by contrast with the dismal horrors which have preceded them. Please be good enough to suppose, for the moment, that the "Jolly Super" theatrical house of call is The Abode of the Demon Alcohol, and that the pretty but supercilious barmaid is a carnal embodiment of his familiar, the malignant Djin; raise the curtain to the air of "The Roast Beef of Old England," encourage the fiction that the conversation is spoken through the levelling medium of a pantomime mask, and all will be well. I promise you that there are bright fairies, pretty shepherdesses, princes with black hair, and big-headed monarchs, waiting at the wing for their cue to come on; and you must not quarrel with me if I avail myself of my privilege to delay their appearance until the progress of the plot demands it.

The "Jolly Super" is a dingy public-house in the immediate neighbourhood of the Theatre Royal Parnassus, and derives its main support from the custom of the "Parnassus" company, and that of their friends and admirers. Its name would suggest that the establishment appeals exclusively to the sympathies of the humbler members of the theatrical profession, but this is not, in point of fact, the case; indeed, a standing rule of the house, tacitly acquiesced in by all concerned, makes it a breach of etiquette for any member of a dramatic company to enter the private bar, unless his theatrical status entitle him to avail himself of the green-room of his theatre — a privilege accorded at the Parnassus to those members only whose salary amounted to a minimum of thirty shillings a week. Besides the Parnassus company, the "Jolly Super" is much affected by members of a neighbouring Literary Club, known to themselves and to the publishing world as the "Aged Pilgrims." The "Aged Pilgrims" are (as their name implies) a collection of young and middle-aged dramatic authors, novelists, reviewers, magazine writers, actors, "entertainers," and literary barristers. As a rule, the "Aged Pilgrims" are appreciated by the publishing world alone, and utterly unknown to the rest of society. They are, for the most part, clever fellows, but their cleverness is expended, mainly, upon anonymous magazine articles and daily newspaper work; so, if it should happen that any members of the "Aged Pilgrims" whom I may have occasion to introduce to you in the course of this story are not already known to you by name, you must not entertain a poor opinion of them on that account. You read all the novels that Mr. Mudie sends you, you know the peculiarities of their several authors, and you therefore suppose that you are acquainted with the name of every literary man, of any talent, in England. But you never were more mistaken in the whole course of your existence. Who, do you suppose, writes the leading articles and reviews in the morning and weekly papers and in the monthly magazines? Men, my good friends, of whom, twenty chances to one, you have never heard, unless you are behind the scenes in these matters. Men with clear logical brains, and great literary ability; keen satirists, pleasant humourists, but men whose names, with, perhaps, half-a-dozen exceptions, are totally unknown to you. They are men who have devoted themselves to anonymous literature; and to the world at large they are as distinct from their writings as the Punch-and-Judy man is from the puppets he works. You get your Times every morning with your hot rolls; you read the leaders from beginning to end, but you would as soon think of setting yourself the task of finding out the names of the men who wrote them as of seeking an introduction to a peripatetic showman, because you have derived some whimsical amusement from his wooden dolls. So I warn you beforehand, that if you expect to find many notabilities among the "Aged Pilgrims," you will be disappointed. But take my word for it that they are mostly clever fellows, that they may all be termed good fellows, if you have no objection to place a liberal construction on the words; and that whenever an "Aged Pilgrim" falls sick, and is thereby prevented from earning his weekly income, he has no occasion to appeal to his brother Pilgrims for assistance, for assistance is volunteered with a liberality which only those who know how hardly the dole of a literary hack is earned can appreciate. I am bound, in justice, to admit, that good fellows as they are, they have for the most part a reprehensible yearning for bar-parlours, long clays, and spittoons; but you must bear in mind that I prayed you to understand the term "good fellow" in its most liberal sense.

Of these "good fellows" one of the best was Ralph Warren— a tall, fair-haired young fellow, with a clever but not a strictly handsome face; indeed, if the truth must be spoken, his appearance spoke much too plainly of extremely irregular hours, and extremely regular brandies-and-sodas, to justify any very complimentary remarks on that score. I am sorry to add that his clothes were rather mildewy, and his boots a trifle lop-sided; his linen, however, was clean, and so were his face and hands. I hardly know how to reconcile the term "gentlemanly" with this rather unpromising description, but there certainly was an air of easy frankness about Ralph Warren— a genial gentlemanly bonhomie, combined with a suggestion of quiet, conscious power, that induced you to forget his seediness and his sodas-and-brandy, and to dub him "gentleman" before you had enjoyed five minutes of his conversation.

In point of fact, Warren was a gentleman by birth and education. His father, Lieutenant-Colonel the Hon. Guy Warren, was the second son of Lord Singleton, an extremely wealthy but eccentric nobleman, who quarreled on principle with every member of his family, except his heir-apparent or presumptive for the time being. Lord Singleton had turned Ralph's father into the world at the age of sixteen, with an ensign's commission in a marching regiment and a hundred a year, coming to an unavowed determination to avail himself of the earliest opportunity that should arise of quarrelling with this unfortunate young officer, and of forbidding him the house, as a natural consequence. The opportunity soon arose. Guy "went wrong" in the matter of debts before he had been six months with his regiment; his father paid the score without a murmur; intimated to Guy that he would not be cheerfully received at Singleton any more; and, indeed, determined to hold no further converse with him at any time, unless it should unfortunately happen that his elder brother, Spencer, were to die childless, in which case Guy, as the heir for the time being, would come in for all the gratifying consideration which, until the occurrence of that unlikely contingency, would be the hereditary right of his fortunate elder brother. At the same time Lord Singleton did not disguise from himself the bare possibility of such a complication taking place, and so, with the view of keeping Guy well before his eyes, so that he might be able to lay his hands upon him whenever he might happen to want him, he privately advanced that young officer's interests at the Horse Guards, and, indeed, went so far on one occasion as to pay the purchase-money for his captain's commission.

The old lord, however, was much too knowing a hand to do this good deed in his own name, and so lay himself open to the supposition of being accessible to the claims of impecunious kinsmen; he did it through a confidential valet, who, in the assumed character of a benevolent money-lender, called on Guy and offered to accommodate him with the necessary amount at insignificant interest, for any period he might choose to name, on his (Guy's) personal assurance that the money should be repaid as soon as Guy should find it convenient to do so. Of course the seedy lieutenant closed with the benevolent money-lender on the spot— the loan was there and then effected, and Guy sang the worthy usurer's praises to such effect among his brother officers and their friends, that that excellent person was embarrassed with innumerable applications from these straightened gentry for the loan of fabulous sums on the same security that Guy had given for the loan of the purchase-money for his captain's commission. It is, perhaps, hardly needful to add, that Lord Singleton's valet found it necessary to decline all the proposed negotiations.

It will not surprise the worldly-minded reader to hear that the treatment that Guy experienced at the hands of his ungenial parent contributed to sour that officer's mind against his own offspring generally and against his second son, Ralph, in particular. Guy retired from the army on captain's half-pay, and although he rose on the half-pay list to a lieutenant colonel's commission, this accession of dignity contributed in no way to increase his income. He married a young lady with five hundred a year of her own, and this, with his captain's half-pay, formed the bulk of his income. The lieutenant-colonel lived, all the year round, at a cheap watering-place, with his wife and eldest son, a hopeless cripple; and when he had procured for Ralph a clerkship in a bad Government office, he considered that he had done his duty by the boy, and left him to shift for himself in London.

Ralph's method of shifting for himself was, at first, a failure. He took cheap rooms with a brother clerk in Islington, attended at his office, and did his work in a slip-slop way during the day, dined flashily and unwholesomely at a cheap but showy eating-house afterwards, spent his evening usually at one of the theatres or at Cremorne, knocked about at cheap places of disreputable resort, went to bed at two in the morning, not tipsy, but yet having drank freely and unwholesomely, and woke up the next day with a hot head, a feverish pulse, and a mouth parched with cheap hot cigars. He got into debt with the money-lenders who infest Government offices, and was generally admitted by all who knew him to be going directly and unmistakably to the bad.

But Ralph was not a cad by instinct. A reaction set in, and although his life was anything but a spotless one from that moment, it was an immense improvement upon what it had been. He was a smart, clever fellow, with a natural turn for epigram and satire, and he began to turn these dangerous qualities to good effect in the columns of better-class periodicals. He began humbly and anonymously in obscure journals, but he obtained a certain measure of success in these, and this success induced him to aspire to greater things. He became, in course of time, a regular contributor to a weekly paper, and an occasional one to most of the monthly magazines. By degrees his income from these sources increased to such an extent as to justify him in throwing up his appointment in his seedy Government office, and taking to literature as his sole means of support. He joined the "Aged Pilgrims," with whom his smart, showy, conversational powers and irrepressible good humour made him an immense favourite. He had belonged to their brotherhood for about two years at the date of his introduction to the reader. I again apologize for bringing him into notice amid the unpolite surroundings of a theatrical house of call, but as, unfortunately, the "Jolly Super" was the place where Ralph Warren was generally to be found, as it was here that he, in company with other Aged Pilgrims, usually dined, always wrote his articles, and generally spent his evenings, it will be seen that I have an excuse for so doing. After all, he was more to be pitied than blamed. If he had had only an opportunity of making himself at home with three or four decent families of regular habits and with pretty daughters in them, he would have been as much disgusted with this Bohemian life as you yourself are. But this opportunity had never been offered to him, and so he stuck to his Bohemianism as the only form of life which was open to him.

Ralph was sitting in the club-room of the "Aged Pilgrims," on the first-floor of the "Jolly Super," with half-a-dozen other members of that sociable brotherhood. They were not particularly jolly at that moment, for news had just arrived of the failure of a new speculative magazine in which they were all interested, and of the bankruptcy of the proprietor. Poor Warren was especially down in the mouth, as he had been sent down to Sheffield by the editor with instructions to remain a fortnight, and to "do" a chatty descriptive account of all the manufactures of that cheerless city for the magazine in question. By way of rider to his instructions, he was told to make himself as jolly as circumstances would permit, and not on any account to spare any expense. He had acted fully upon these hints— he had taken pains with the articles, he had spared no expense whatever, and he was anxiously expecting a cheque for a hundred and twenty-five pounds (seventy-five pounds for the papers, and fifty for his hotel bill and travelling expenses), when the news of the collapse of the whole thing arrived. They were endeavouring to restore the balance of their equanimity with their customary panacea — brandy-and-soda; but whether it was that brandy-and-soda as a remedy did not apply to losses above five pounds, or whether the irrepressible good humour and aggravating jollity of Sam Travers (the low comedian of the Parnassus), who had that day signed an engagement for the next season at an increase of five pounds a week to his salary, operated as a damper with which it was impossible to contend, I don't know, but certainly the conversation flagged to an extent almost unknown among the "Aged Pilgrims."

"They say," said one of them, "that there won't be a penny in the pound. The whole thing is mortgaged to the paper-makers."

"Hang the paper-makers!" prayed another, while the rest chorused in "Amen!"

"Thirty pounds a month for 'Gnats and Camels,' till it ran through, I was to have had."

"Well, you'll get it off your hands in some other paper."

"Devil a bit; it was written to order— written up to some confounded blocks that the beggar bought wholesale of Flicker and Dowse before they went to smash."

"How much do you put your claim at, Ralph?"

"A hundred and twenty-five, and cheap enough, too, for a fortnight in Sheffield."

"It'll be all right, my boys," said Travers. "Never say die! Down one moment— up the next! Look at me— I began as call-boy and sub-deputy assistant property-man, at eight-and-sixpence a week, and I've just signed an engagement for five-and-thirty pound. It'll be your turn next. Lor' bless you, it isn't half such a bad world as people think! The devil isn't half as black as he's painted!"

"Nor speculating publishers half as white as they're white-washed," said Ralph. "Oh, come in; don't stand knocking there!"

The door opened, and a waiter put a letter into Ralph's hand. A lawyer's letter — blue paper and a red criss-crossed wafer. At any other time Ralph would have kept it to stick, unopened, upon his mantelpiece, where it would have remained for months, while he and his friends amused themselves with lively conjectures as to its contents. But matters were getting serious, and he opened it with a solemn face.

13, Lincoln's Inn Fields, Feb. 4, 1860.

Sir,

We regret to inform you that intelligence has just reached us of the death of the Right Hon. Baron Singleton and his eldest son, the Honourable Hugh Warren, who were unfortunately drowned by the sudden capsizing of a yacht off Selsey Bill. We are instructed by your father, the present Baron Singleton, to communicate to you his desire that you should join him at Singleton without any delay.

We are instructed that you are at liberty to draw upon us to the amount  of £100 (one hundred pounds) to defray your necessary expenses.

We have the honour to be, Sir, your very obedient servants,

Wardle and Tapp.

To the Hon. Ralph Warren,

The Jolly Super,' Bedfourdbury.

2:  Little Woman

RALPH WARREN rose and left his companions without a word. He walked moodily downstairs, paid his score, and strolled into the street. It was some time before he could quite realize his position. The whole thing was so sudden— so wholesale— the unexpected change in his prospects was so overwhelming, that he had to repeat the contents of the letter several times to himself before he could realize them. He walked up and down Covent Garden for nearly an hour, and after he had read and re-read the astounding letter three or four dozen times, he began to realize the fact that instead of drudging wearily and obscurely at half-paid author-work, he was to be suddenly removed to an almost brilliant position, with the probable command of what appeared to him to be unlimited wealth, and an almost certain prospect of a peerage; for his elder brother, the cripple, to whom allusion has already been made, would certainly never marry, and indeed was scarcely likely to live many years.

He put his hand into his breast pocket to open and read for the fiftieth time the communication which had so agitated him, and he drew forth by mistake a poor humble little letter addressed to him in a girlish hand. It reminded him that he had that evening promised to meet one Mary Vyner at Oxford Circus, at eight o'clock. It then wanted but twenty minutes to eight, so he went into the Strand and mounted an omnibus which would take him past the spot.

It's a dreadful thing to confess, but Mary Vyner was a milliner's assistant in Vigo Street, Regent Street. I am afraid I must add that Ralph Warren had never been properly introduced to her; and while I am about it, I may as well admit that he was in the habit of meeting her about twice a week, in the evening, too, at eight o'clock, and of taking her to a theatre (he was on the free list everywhere) or some other place of amusement, where they beguiled the time until eleven, when Mary Vyner had to report herself in Vigo Street. This is all very shocking indeed, and quite indefensible, and, indeed, the only thing that anybody could find to say in palliation of its atrocity was, that Mary Vyner was, on the whole, a very good little girl, that Ralph Warren, although a free liver, was not an utterly unconscientious scamp, and that although they had known each other for about two years, no harm had ever come, or was ever likely to come, of their meetings. I don't mean to say that Mary Vyner was altogether a perfect character; she was rather thoughtless, rather too fond of admiration perhaps, and certainly imprudent in allowing Ralph Warren to meet her, time after time, without ascertaining how he proposed that these meetings should end. But notwithstanding this, Mary Vyner was a quiet, modest, ladylike girl, whose greatest fault was an absolute devotion to, and an overwhelming belief in, the merits of the rather graceless young gentleman who was then on his way to meet her. She had learnt to love him with all the fervour that her blind little heart was capable of; and if he did not reciprocate her attachment to its full extent, he was still a great deal too fond of Mary Vyner to do her any deliberate wrong. So these heedless young people met, and met, and met again, and beyond the fact that it was very shocking and highly improper, no harm whatever had hitherto come of it.

Ralph Warren was in some perplexity. He hardly knew how to break the important news to Mary Vyner, and still less did he know how to act with reference to her, now that his position was so materially altered.

"Mary," said he, when they met, "I've good and bad news. My grandfather is dead."

Mary had never heard of his having a grandfather, for Warren had purposely kept the aristocratic features of his family history a secret from her. However, he didn't seem very much distressed, and Mary condoled with him in the usual form. She was so matter-of-fact as to wind up by asking Singleton whether his position would be at all improved by it.

"Very considerably. He was Lord Singleton, and my father was his second son."

"Lord Singleton! Then there is only one between your father and the title?"

"There is not one. My father's elder brother died with my grandfather, and my father takes the peerage."

"Your father Lord Singleton? Oh, Ralph, you never told me this!"

"Why should I? It would have frightened you away from me."

"It would. Oh, Ralph, you won't leave me— say you won't leave me! Promise me that!" said poor little Mary, her eyes full of tears.

"I must leave you for a short time to go to Singleton— my father's place; but— I will return."

They walked on in silence. It was pretty evident that they would "assist" at no theatre that night. "Ralph," said she, after a pause, "you may go away from me if you like, and I will never, never follow you or trouble you again. I have loved you, oh, so much, so much! and I think I shall never be happy again if you go; but do go, dear Ralph, if you think it best. I shall be dreadfully sad and dull at first— oh!" (bursting into tears) "how sad and dull I shall be!"

"Little Woman!" said Ralph, placing her hand in his (it was quite dark), "don't cry so terribly. Come into the Park, and we will talk it over."

I am afraid that when Ralph went to meet Mary Vyner that night, he had made up his mind that that meeting must be their last. But the Little Woman's sobs had moved him, and he felt that the tie between them was not to be so easily broken.

"Listen," said he, impulsively, but yet with a quiet force that astonished him, "I never openly told you that I loved you because I never thought— well I didn't expect to be ever able to marry any one. But if you will have me, Little Woman, now that my prospects are brighter— if you will take me with all my faults, as I am— we will be married, privately, as soon as the affairs connected with my grandfather's and uncle's deaths are settled." They stood still. Little Woman laid her fair young face against his strong chest, and he, bending his head, kissed the big brown eyes that looked up so trustfully into his own.

And this was the plighting of Ralph Warren to Mary Vyner.

3: Lady Julia and Her Rival

RALPH WARREN went down to join his father at Singleton the next day. The meeting of the two was curious enough. Lord Singleton had neither seen nor heard from Ralph since that erratic young man left his government appointment to seek his bread as a journalist. As Lord Singleton's father had "discharged" him on the first occasion of his running counter to his will, so did he discharge his son. It was a part of the family code, supported by many precedents, that erring second sons should be discarded at the first opportunity, until some important family convulsion rendered it necessary that they should be forgiven. The death of the old lord and his eldest son, and the consequent succession of Colonel Warren to the peerage, was an event of sufficient importance to bring father and son together again. They were extremely gentlemanly, and, indeed, courteous to one another at first, but this dignified state of things at length relapsed into a mere cold toleration of one another's presence. The health of the poor crippled elder son was failing fast, and it soon became evident that the ex-journalist would in all probability succeed to the style, title, and estates of Lord Singleton.

So it became necessary that he should marry, and marry well, and the lady selected for him by his father was that haughty, imperious beauty, Lady Julia Domner, the only daughter of the Earl of Sangazure, K.G., Lord-Lieutenant of the County, and Honorary Colonel of the Turniptopshire Yeomanry.

If I have conveyed the impression (and I am afraid I have) that all this was arranged the day after Ralph's arrival at Singleton, I must stop to correct it. It was the work of fifteen months. I should like to have conveyed some notion of that interval of time by expatiating at considerable length upon the demeanour of Lord Singleton and his son on stepping suddenly from the gloom of almost penniless obscurity into the full blaze of nobility, wealth, and county distinction. I should like to have told how the new lord made himself utterly ridiculous at first, how, by slow degrees, he arrived at something like a proper appreciation of the form of conduct which was expected of him, and how eventually he subsided into a fairly respectable type of a wealthy but rather foolish county swell. I should like to show how Ralph also made all sorts of blunders at first, more particularly in the matter of field sports and other county amusements, with which he was of course wholly unfamiliar.

However, he had more of the natural gentleman about him than his father, and at the dinner-table or in the drawing-room his behaviour was unexceptionable. I should also like to have shown how, at first, he corresponded regularly (though secretly) with Mary Vyner— how Little Woman's eyes gradually, though surely, opened to the fact that Ralph was slowly "getting out of it;" how she bore his faithlessness at first with a sham pride which did not sit at all comfortably on her homely little shoulders, and how the sham pride eventually broke down and left her as weeping, heart-broken, deserted, and hopeless a Little Woman as any in wide London. But there are other matters more immediately to the point, and I must not run on too long. Lady Julia Domner was, as I have said, a cold, imperious beauty. Her father was an impoverished peer, who hoped, by an alliance with the wealthy Warrens, to secure a becoming position for his only daughter. Lord Singleton saw, clearly enough, that his country position would stand all the more strongly for the shoring up that it would derive from an alliance with Lord Sangazure's family. Ralph, completely cut off from his old associates, and anxious to gain a good footing in his new position, didn't much care whom he married, so that that end was obtained. So the marriage was determined upon, and all parties were satisfied.

In justice to Ralph, I must admit that his desertion of poor Mary Vyner was not unattended by some serious qualms of conscience. He thought often and often of the poor little girl, read over and over again the long touching letters that she wrote upon its becoming evident to her that he was casting her off. But a sense that a public acknowledgment of her as his wife was out of the question, and moreover that he had gone too far with Lady Julia to render it possible that he could break it off with her without bringing himself into public contempt, reconciled him, to some extent, to the course of conduct he was pursuing.

He was not happy in his courtship of Lady Julia. He had always preferred the pretty to the magnificent, and her little brother's plump governess was very much more to his mind. Lady Julia began by treating him rather coldly, but she was a clever and intensely appreciative woman, and the singular charm of Ralph's conversation eventually exercised an extraordinary fascination over her. She began by rather disliking him than otherwise— she ended by loving him with as much devotion as her cold, undemonstrative nature was capable of.

The first novelty of the thing over, Ralph found that the fetters of a formal engagement bored him fearfully. The eternal rides and drives— always with the same companions; the eternal congratulations — always in the same form of words; the eternal evenings at Lord Sangazure's, each a replica of its predecessor, came to be looked upon by him with a feeling little short of aversion. He contrived to maintain an outward semblance of affection; but it was a hollow sham, and he knew it. His uneasiness was aggravated from time to time by receiving, at long intervals, letters from Little Woman, written in passionate bursts of grief, imploring him to send her some sign, if it was but a glove that he had worn. But Ralph could never make up his mind to open them — he kissed them and tore them up as they were.

He was altogether in a very unsatisfactory state of mind. He endeavoured at one time to revive the old happy Bohemian days by inviting Dick Pender, who wrote sporting novels, and two or three other "Aged Pilgrims," down to Singleton, but the scheme failed. Dick Pender was worth nothing on horseback, and the others spent the whole day in the billiard-room, and the evenings passed in a sort of genteel martyrdom on the drawing-room ottomans, listening to vapid county politics and stable talk, of which they understood never one word. Dick Pender made many notes on sporting subjects, of which he eventually made profitable use, but the others gained neither profit nor pleasure by the visit, and it was never repeated.

To return to Mary Vyner. The Little Woman fell dangerously sick shortly after her discovery of Ralph's faithlessness, and it became necessary that she should have country air; so she spent six months with her only relation, an uncle, who farmed a considerable number of acres in South Wales. She never breathed to any one the real cause of her illness, and when at length she recovered, and returned to Vigo Street to her work, it was supposed by her companions that her attachment to Ralph Warren was a thing altogether of the past, and her quiet, subdued demeanour was ascribed by them to the effect of the serious illness from which she had barely recovered. But Little Woman's thoughts still ran on the clever scapegrace who had left her. She made all sorts of excuses to herself for his desertion, and hoped and prayed that a day would come when he would return to her. It was silly enough in Little Woman to think such a thing possible, but in her seclusion in South Wales she had not heard of his engagement, and for aught she knew, he might be out of England, and so her letters might not have reached him.

But the young ladies at the establishment in Vigo Street subscribed to take in the Times, and in the columns of that paper she read one day that the alliance between the Hon. Ralph Warren and Lady Julia Domner, which had for some time been in contemplation, was definitely fixed to take place at Sangazure Hall, her father's seat, on the 15th of the ensuing month, and that the festivities on that occasion were to be on a scale of surpassing splendour.

She was an impulsive little girl. She only waited to get leave of absence from the Lady Superior, and off" she started to Singleton. With a beating heart she inquired for Ralph, and was told that he had just left unexpectedly for the Continent, and it was not known when he would return. She then asked the way to Sangazure Hall, and finding that it was six miles distant, she hired a trap at the inn, and drove there as fast as she could induce the flyman to take her.

At Sangazure she learnt that Lady Julia Domner was very unwell, and unable to see any one, but on sending a message to the effect that her business was of the deepest importance, Lady Julia consented to receive her. Little Woman's big heart bounded within her as she was ushered into her presence.

Lady Julia was a very beautiful woman, with a marble face and blue-black hair, and Little Woman felt her blood rush home as she looked upon her magnificent rival. But she did not cry— she was too excited for that; she stood in the centre of the room with one hand pressed to her heart, and breathing heavily, as one who had overtaxed her strength in running.

"Who are you? what do you want with me?" asked Lady Julia.

"I have come all the way from town to see you; forgive me— I am so unhappy!" gasped poor Little Woman.

"But what business have you with me? I am unwell, and may not be intruded upon without good cause."

"Lady Julia, I went first to Singleton, but he was not there."

Lady Julia started.

"Has your business any connection with Mr. Warren?"

Little Woman nodded affirmatively— she had no breath to speak with.

"Speak out — don't be afraid; let me know everything."

The proud woman seemed strangely agitated, although her countenance still wore the same cold marble rigidity as when Mary first entered the room. It was in the heaving of that magnificent bust, and the nervous clutching of those long firm fingers, that Mary saw that her words had worked some extraordinary effect on her rival.

"I am Mary Vyner— he loved me. Oh! I'm sure he loved me; give him back to me! Oh, Lady Julia, have mercy upon me!"

"He loved you!"

"Oh! so well; but that was long ago, when he was poor. He left me on his grandfather's death, promising to come back and marry me; but he never came, and I have been so ill."

Little Woman's tears came now.

"You should not have come here to seek your paramour — "

The tears stopped, frightened away by the indignant flash
of Little Woman's eyes. Lady Julia saw that she had made a mistake. "I beg your pardon," she said; "I spoke in hot blood. Mr. Warren is not here; it will perhaps be some consolation to you to learn that he and I are utter strangers from this day. He has just left Singleton, and will never return."

"Left you?"

"Left me. It is enough for you to know that. If it will tend to restore your peace of mind to learn that Mr. Warren is nothing whatever to me—"

The tears in her proud eyes belied it, and she turned aside to hide them. But they came all the more for that, although she strove with all the force of her strong will to repress them. At last she bent her head upon the arm of the sofa on which she was sitting, and let them have their way. Little Woman crept timidly to her side, and with fear and trembling took her noble rival's hand. Lady Julia did not withdraw it.

"Lady Julia, you are a lady of high rank, I am a poor milliner's girl; don't let me forget that in what I am going to say. I loved Ralph (I must call him so) devotedly; I love him still, or I should not be here. Before he quitted me, each day was an earthly life that died and left me in heaven. He was so good to me, so kind to me, so true to me; he was so clever and I so common-place. He left me to go to Singleton, and I have never seen him since. I have been true to him— who would not be?— I have waited and waited for him, believed in him through the long dreary days and the cold black nights— through a long, long illness which nearly killed me— through my slow recovery— even through the knowledge that he was on the point of being married to you. I loved him in my humble way as devotedly as you could have done. I suffered when he left me as you suffer now. Dear Lady Julia, I came here in hot anger to upbraid you for having torn my love from me; I remain to tell you how well I know how to sympathize with your bereavement, and to beg of you to pardon me for having broken in upon you with my selfish sorrow at such a time."

Lady Julia bent her beautiful head upon Little Woman's shoulder. All sense of animosity, all distinction of rank, was swamped by their common grief.

"We are sisters in our sorrow. God bless you, Mary Vyner, for your sympathy. You must leave me now; but take this ring, which may serve to remind you of the strange bond between us. Now go, but come and see me when I am stronger."

And Little Woman, with her hot sorrow strangely chastened, hurried back to town.

And there she found, at last, a letter from Ralph. A hot, fevered letter, written under a passionate pulse— a letter that told her how he had longed for her throughout his engagement to another, how her form had been in his mind all day, and in his eyes all night, how he had chafed under the fetters he had woven for himself, how he had freed himself from them at one reckless bound, and how he would be at the old trysting place at the old time that night.

And Little Woman kept the appointment.

_______________________

3: The Snake Fiend

Farnsworth Wright

1888-1940

Weird Tales  April 1923

EVEN as a child, Jack Crimi delighted in collecting reptiles, and he seemed to absorb much of their venomous nature.

His best-loved pet was a large blacksnake; but when it caused him a whipping by crawling into his father’s bedroom, he roasted it over a slow fire in a large pot. listening with glee to its agonized hissing and pushing it back with a stick when it strove to crawl out of the searing container. It is no cause for wonder, then, that his burning love for the girl of his dreams turned to fierce hate when she became the bride of another.

Crimi’s sentiment for Marjorie Bressi was aroused by her fine Italian beauty, which reminded him of his mother. He could have fallen in love with any other girl as easily, if he had set his mind to it in the same way. By dint of comparing her with his mother’s picture, he conceived a great admiration for her: then he wished to possess her, to be her lord and master,  to marry her. Gazing on her every day with this thought in his mind, his admiration grew to a burning passion. Of all this he said nothing to Marjorie, and then it was too late.

Marjorie loved, and was loved by Allen Jimerson, a young civil engineer. Crimi neither threatened nor cajoled. He simply accepted the fact, and meditated revenge. He was all smiles at their wedding, and he gave them a wedding present beyond what he could reasonably afford, while he planned to tumble their happiness in ruins about their ears.

After a short honeymoon, Jimerson departed with his wife to take up his duties as resident engineer of some construction work on a western railroad. Crimi. his face glowing with friendship and good will, was the last to clasp Marjorie's hand in farewell, as the train pulled out of the station.

"Write to me often, Marjorie," was his parting injunction. “Send me a letter as soon as you got settled, and let me know how you are getting along. I don’t want to lose touch with either of you."

And he meant it.

Marjorie was fond of the handsome, manly-looking Italian youth, and liked him immensely as a friend, although she had never been in lore with him. No sooner was she settled in her new home than she wrote him a long letter, telling of her husband’s work, the bleakness of the desert country, and the strange newness of her life. She and her husband occupied a cabin together, apart from the bunk-houses of the construction camp, in the sagebrush region of northern California, not far from the Nevada border.

A fierce joy and exultation leapt in Crimi's heart as he read Marjorie’s letter.

“You would like the country better than I do.” she wrote,  “for it is infested with rattlesnakes. The bare desert rocks on the ridge four miles from our cabin are swarming with them. Ugh! They sun themselves in tangled masses, Allen says, but truly I can’t bring myself to go near the place. I get quite too much of snakes without that, for we are constantly killing them in the sagebrush. This country has never been settled, and except for an occasional prospector, there was nobody to kill them before the surveyors came. The Indians never bother the snakes, but pass by on the other side of a sagebrush and leave them in peace.’’

Crimi scored these lines in red ink, word by word, as if to blazon them on his memory, and he drew little pictures of snakes on the margin. He burned out Marjorie’s signature with acid, spitefully watching with minute care as the letters faded, and gleaning a savage satisfaction from seeing the paper rot away under the venomous bite of the poison. Then he fed the letter to the flames, as he had roasted his blacksnake. years before, and watched the missive burn into black ashes and crumble slowly away, page by page, into gray dust.

Followed Crimi’s pursuit of the pair. His arrival was not expected by either Jimerson or Marjorie, but it was none the less welcome, for both of them liked the genial, companionable Italian. Life on the edge of the desert had few distractions at best. Crimi’s eyes lit with genuine pleasure at sight of his prospective victims. The joy on both sides was sincere.

“No, this isn’t a pleasure trip,” he explained to them, “although I expect to have pleasure enough out of it before I get through. I have turned from collecting reptiles to studying their lives and habits. I intend to write a monograph on rattlesnakes. When I got your letter. Marjorie, I knew that I could do no better than to come here. I expect to become very well acquainted with that ridge you wrote about, where the snakes sun themselves in tangled masses.”

Marjorie shuddered, and Crimi laughed.

"Well, don’t bring any of your snakes around here,” she said. “I turn cold and something grips at my insides every time I hear one rattle.”

Crimi built himself a small cabin about a mile from the Jimersons, in the direction of the rattlesnake ridge. He adorned the shack tastefully, and Marjorie's deft hand gave a distinctly feminine neatness and charm to its appearance.

He became a frequent visitor at the Jimerson cabin, and evening after evening he read to them in his melodious, well modulated voice. Sometimes the draughtsman or transit-man would come in, and Crimi would join in playing cards until late at night.

He seemed to take keen pleasure in the company of Marjorie and her husband, and his face always lit up at sight of them, especially when they were together. But it was the joy of a boy who sees the apples ripening for him on his neighbor’s tree, and knows that they will soon be ready for him to pluck. He was most happy when he was meditating his frightful revenge. As his preparations drew near their end, he often spent whole hours gloating over the fate in store for the couple. For Marjorie, in loving Jimerson, had aroused him to insane jealousy, and Jimerson, having robbed him of his heart’s desire, was included in Crimi’s fierce hate for the girl who had crossed him.

When, one evening, Marjorie and her husband happened in at Crimi’s cabin, Marjorie expressed her horror at the though of Crimi wandering among the snake-infested rocks of the rattlesnake ridge. The snake-hunter seated her on a box that contained a twisting knot of the venomous reptiles.

Marjorie, serenely unaware, talked on blithely, and Crimi’s merry laugh pealed out at regular intervals. He was in right jovial mood that evening. for he was ready to spring the death-trap prepared for his two friends. He only awaited a favorable opportunity to strike.

THE opportunity came when the surveyors’ cook, crazed by bad whisky, smashed up the kitchen. Jimerson discharged him. and the cook muttered threats of a horrible vengeance.

“Shut up!" Jimerson ordered. “This is the third time you’ve been seeing snakes, and now you’ve wrecked the cook shack. You ought to be sent to jail—or a lunatic asylum.’’

“It’s you that will be seeing snakes,” the cook spluttered. "You an’ that Italian wife of yours’ll see plenty of ’em— red an green, an’

Jimerson struck him across the mouth and sent him on his way. This was in the evening. The draughtsman and rodman went to town the next day to hire a new cook, while Jimerson and Marjorie went on an outing up the headwaters of Feather Creek. It was Sunday, and they intended to spend the day there.

Crimi declined their invitation to accompany them. It was the moulting season, he explained, when the snakes were casting their skins. He could ill afford to lose a day of observation at this time, for he had several perplexing points to clear up before writing his monograph.

Crimi walked fearlessly from rock to rock of the rattlesnake ridge, chuckling to himself. The tangled masses of snakes, of which he had been told, existed only in rumor, although there were snakes in plenty if one but looked for them. Tangled masses would serve his purpose later, but he had gathered them here and there, one or two at a time.

By noon the little cluster of cabins occupied by the engineers was deserted. Marjorie and her husband had been gone since sun-up, and the surveyors were all in town. Not a soul was stirring in the neighborhood of the shacks, and the men at the construction camp were mostly lying around in their bunks, or playing cards.

Crimi nailed fast the windows of Jimerson’s cabin. Then he entered and secured the bed to the floor so that it could not be moved. He laboriously carried his boxes of snakes a mile or more, from his room to the little gully behind the surveyors’ cabins, and hid them in the sagebrush.

Marjorie and her husband came back from their tramp after dark that evening, dog-tired. Marjorie cooked a little supper, and by 10 o’clock the two were asleep. Crimi entered their cabin about midnight. They were fast in the chains of Slumber, and he did not even find it necessary to muffle his tread. He removed the chairs, shoes, clothes, and even the hand mirror and toilet articles. Everything that might serve as a weapon, no matter how slight, he took away.

Then he brought his snakes from the gully, and collected them in front of the cabin. When he had assembled them all, he knocked the top from the largest box. carried it into the room, and, in the audacity of his certain triumph, he dumped the twisting mass of rattlesnakes on the bed where Marjorie and her husband lay asleep.

The other boxes ho emptied quickly just inside of the door, and withdrew, for he had no wish to set foot among the venomous serpents. Revenge is never satisfied if retribution overtakes the avenger, and Crimi had no wish to share the fate of his victims. He locked the door from the outside, and battened it. Then he removed the boxes that had contained the snakes, and returned to his cabin and peacefully went to sleep.

MARJORIE awoke with the first rays of the sun, and lazily opened her eyes.

Her heart leapt suddenly into her throat, and she was wide awake in an instant. The flat, squat head of a rattlesnake was creeping along her breast. Its beady eyes were fixed on her face, and its red tongue flickered before her like a forked flame. For a moment she thought she was still dreaming, but the familiar outlines of the room limned themselves in her consciousness, and she knew that what she saw was real.

Her shriek rent the air, as she threw back the bed clothes and sprang to the floor. She stepped on a coiled serpent, which sounded an ominous warning as it struck out blindly.

She quickly climbed back on the bed, and stood on the pillow, screaming. Her husband was beside her at once, hazily trying to understand the import of the hysterical torrent of words she was sobbing into his ears. For an instant he thought she must be in the clutch of some horrible nightmare. Then a quick, startled glance around the room turned his blood to ice.

There was now a continuous rattling, as of dry leaves blowing against a stone wall, for Marjorie’s screams had galvanized the snakes into activity. The room was filled with their angry din. It sounded in Jimerson’s ears like the crack of doom. The floor seemed covered with the creeping reptiles. Some were coiled, the whirring tips of their tails making an indistinct blur as they rattled, and their heads swaying slowly back and forth. Others writhed along the floor, their venomous squat heads thrusting forward and withdrawing, and their tongues darting out like red flames.

On the bed itself there was motion underneath the thrown-back coverlet and the ugly, gray head of a thick, four-foot snake protruded from under it, its evil eyes shining dully, as if through a film of dust. It extricated itself, and coiled as if to strike while Marjorie shrank fearfully against the wall, wide-eyed with horror.

Jimerson attacked the reptile with a pillow, sweeping it from the bed onto the floor. He quickly looked about him for a weapon, and saw at once that he was trapped. There was not even a shoe or a pincushion with which to fight the crawling, rattling creatures.

He tried to rock the bed toward the window, as boys move saw-horses forward while sitting on them. But the bed was firmly fastened to the floor, and in his efforts to release it he was bitten on the wrist by the strike of a large snake coiled near the foot of the bed.

Jimerson flung the reptile across the room, and sprang to the floor with an oath, crushing a large rattler with his heel as he jumped. He raced to the door, and wrestled with it for a full minute before he discovered that he and Marjorie were locked in that serpent-hole.

He sprang to the window, and felt a sharp stab of pain in the flesh of his calf as the open jaws of another reptile found their mark, and the poison fangs were imbedded deep in the flesh. The window, like the door, was nailed fast, but he broke out the glass with his bare fists.

Unmindful of the blood on his lacerated hands, he was back at the bedside, treading over reptiles with his bare feet. Marjorie lay on the bed, unconscious.

He lifted her in his bleeding arras and hurled her through the window to safety. He struggled out after her, tearing open his bitten leg on the jagged pieces of glass still left in the window frame. The spurting blood drenched him, and he leaned, faint and dizzy, against the cabin as three of his surveyors came running up. having been attracted by Marjorie’s screams.

In almost incoherent words he told them what had happened. He asked them to make immediate search for the discharged cook, for there was no doubt in Jimerson’s mind that it was the cook who had placed the snakes in the room.

Then the sky went suddenly black before his eyes, and he lost consciousness.

AT that minute Crimi was waking from peaceful dreams. He recalled what he had done the night before, and blissfully mused on what must be taking place in the Jimerson cabin.

A phantasmagoric succession of pictures weltered in his mind—Marjorie and her husband fighting with bare hands against the serpents— bitten a score of times by the angry fangs of the rattlesnakes— clinging to each other in terror— sinking to the floor in agony as the poison swelled their tortured limbs and overcame them— lying green and blue in death, with rattlesnakes crawling and hissing over their dead bodies.

It is remarkable how few people die from rattlesnake bites even when as badly bitten as Jimerson was. Probably not one adult victim in a hundred succumbs to the venom, although mistaken popular belief considers rattlesnake poison as fatal as the death-potion of the Borgias.

Jimerson had known too many cases of snake bite to believe his ease hopeless. He did not give up and die, nor did he try to poison his system with whisky. He knew that his condition was serious but he let rest and permanganate of potash, rubbed into his wounds, effect a cure. The bleeding from the lacerated leg had almost entirely washed out the poison, and there was little swelling. The pain of his swollen wrist, however, distended almost to bursting, kept him from sleeping, and the sickly green hue of the bite distressed him. But it did not kill him.

Crimi, careful observer of reptiles though he was, had never known an actual ease of snake bite, and he shared the popular illusion that the bite of the rattlesnake dooms its victim to death. Hence he was certain of the complete success of his revenge, and his gloating glee was unclouded by even the shadow of a doubt that Marjorie and her husband had been killed in his death-trap. He awaited only the supreme joy of drinking in the details of his success, to feel the exultant thrill of complete victory.

As Crimi sat alone, two days after that horrible morning, Jimerson was limping slowly toward his cabin. His swollen hand still pained him badly, and there was a dull ache in his ankle when he put too much weight on it, but he thought the fresh air would benefit him.

Supporting himself with a cane, and leaning heavily on Marjorie at times, he went painfully toward the young Italian’s desert home. Not once had his suspicion pointed toward Crimi as author of the crime, for the guilt of the lunatic cook seemed all too clear. Besides, he liked Crimi for his genial camaraderie, his joviality and good humor, and his frank interest in everything that concerned either him or Marjorie.

So intent was the snake fiend on passing the torments of his victims before his fancy, that he did not hear the knock on his cabin door. His brain was too busy to heed the message sent by his ears, for he was feasting on the mental and physical tortures that Jimerson and Marjorie must have endured before they lay cold in death on the floor of the cabin, hideously discolored by the venom of the rattlesnakes.

By degrees he became conscious that he was not alone. Two persons stood before him. and he raised his eyes in eager anticipation, to feed his revengeful spirit on the story he had waited two days to hear.

Even when he gazed on those whom he had consigned to a horrible death, the thought that they were alive did not penetrate his consciousness. The idea of failure had never entered his mind for even an instant. They were dead, beyond the peradventure of a doubt, and now— their avenging ghosts stood before him!

CRIMI dropped to his knees in white terror and crawled behind his chair. He clasped and unclasped his hands in agony of fear. Sweat poured from his face and bathed his body. He implored mercy. He screamed for forgiveness. He gibbered like a frightened ape. Half forgotten words of Italian, learned at his mother’s knee, fell from his lips.

He pleaded and begged for his life, crawling on his face toward the amazed couple in an endeavor to clasp their knees.

As the meaning of his broken ejaculations was borne in on them, a tremendous loathing and disgust overcame them. Marjorie clung to her husband, unnerved at the repulsive sight of the malicious coward groveling on the floor and trying to kiss their feet.

Crimi shrieked and gnawed his hands as he saw the avenging angels of his victims leave the cabin.

IT was impossible for the stern hand of the law to inflict a greater punishment on Jack Crimi than his own malice had wrought for him. Today he occupies a padded cell in a hospital for the incurably insane.

________________

4: The Barber-Shop Riddle

Robert Keene Thompson

1885-1937

The Cavalier July 1910

THEY say I’m cured. They ought to know, the State Lunacy Commission and the house doctors at Branglecliff Asylum, who signed my discharge last week.

But— somehow, I doubt it, myself!

When you have been cutting out paper dolls for six months in the company of a set of cripple-minded people who think they’re Napoleon Bonapartes, Julius Caesars, Andrew Carnegies, and the like— when you’ve been cooped up in a mad-house for a half-year— some kind of a demonstration is needed to prove to you that you’ve finally got back all your buttons.

That’s why I’m going to write this story. It’s going to be a sort of a test, the setting down of the awful circumstance that drove me to the seclusion of the booby-hatch.

If I can survive the strain of calling back to memory the details of the affair that cost me my reason, then I’ll know that I’m sane again.

To begin:

AT ELEVEN minutes past ten, on the sunshiny morning of April 15, last, a tall man, in a stylish suit of clothes, with an alligator-skin satchel in one hand and a suit-case in the other, stepped out of the Grand Central Station in New York City.

That was me.

Just back from a six-thousand-mile trip through the West, with a line of notions that I’d shown to every jay drygoods merchant between the two coasts, the big town certainly looked good to me!

I swung off in the direction of Broadway. And, as I walked, I kept my eye peeled for a barber-shop. There was a two-day stubble on my chin that needed, mowing, right away.

Pretty soon I came to a likely looking place. Not anything pretentious, but all right as far as I could tell from the outside. So I turned in at the door.

One barber was lounging against the cigar showcase, reading a midnight extra of an evening paper spread out between his elbows on the glass. Two more were sitting together over by the rear wall. They bounded up, as if on springs, and leaped to their chairs.

“Here’s luck,” I thought. “No customers in the place, and I won’t have to wait!”

I walked over to the row of coat-hooks at the side, took off my coat and hat, hung them up, set my bags down safe, and began to untie my necktie.

“I beg your pardon! ” said somebody behind me.

I turned round. There stood the barber who’d been reading by the door.

“Do you want anything?” he asked.

I winked at him.

“No, indeed! I’m the most absent-minded fellow you ever saw in your life, and I’ve just dropped in here out of sheer forgetfulness ! ”

He didn’t smile.

“You’ll have to go some place else, mister!” he announced.

With my hands up at my collar, I stood there staring at him. What was all this?

“I want a shave!” I said shortly.

“Sorry, but you can’t get waited on here! ”

My face turned red. I looked round at the three empty chairs and the two barbers standing idle beside them.

“You aren’t too busy,” I began.

“Yes,” he lied, “yes, that’s it. We’re very busy in here. These—these chairs are all reserved ahead of time. I’m expecting some regular customers at any minute. So—”

I was struck dumb. The truth had dawned on me— I was being turned out of that shop!

Well! In all the years that I’d been traveling round the country, dropping into barber-shops for a shave every day, and a haircut twice a month, nothing like this had ever happened 'to me before— ever!

Which was probably why I took it as I did. For, I was so stunned, I tightened my cravat, put on my hat and coat, picked up my baggage again, and walked out of that place without a single word.

Outside, I kept on walking. I was three blocks away before I came out of my trance— the stupor that the shock of the thing had thrown me into.

Then I began to grope around In my dazed mind for the reason. Why had I been turned away? What was the matter with me? Wasn’t I fit for a barber to handle?

Shucks, why hadn’t I thought of it before? There wasn’t anything the matter with me. The trouble was in that shop— the barbers were on strike. That was it!

But, if that was the case, why had two of them dashed to their chairs, fit to break their necks, when I came in at first?

The strike-theory was exploded. Then what other reason had the proprietor of that shop for insulting me by refusing to let me be shaved in his establishment?

Maybe he didn’t like my looks?

I am red-haired, and perhaps that barber didn’t like red-headed men. Disliked them, hated them— wouldn’t have any of them around.

That explained the whole business.

I’d heard of such things before. A barber out in St. Louis told me once that a friend of his wouldn’t let a cross-eyed man sit in a chair in his shop. Just out of prejudice.

So, that was settled. I felt mighty relieved, I’ll tell you. It had thrown a load on my mind, for a fact, to be treated the way I had been. I always got along well with anybody I brushed up against. And it had jarred me to be rebuffed that way without a minute’s warning.

But now I put the thing out of my mind. That wasn’t the only barber-shop in the city, not by several hundred. And it wasn’t every proprietor, either, who had a prejudice against red-headed men. So I’d find another place—

Here was one, now. I was right in front of another— and a better-looking shop.

I opened the door and went in. This outfit boasted four chairs— and every one of them was full. Well, I’d have to wait my turn, I made up my mind.

I walked across the shop, put down my grips, hung my hat on a hook, and sat down in one of the row of cane-bottomed seats.

Then, looking carelessly up, I discovered that every barber in the place had stopped work.

Just then the boss, so I gathered, stepped toward me.

“Excuse, please!” he faltered.

“Well?” I snapped.

“You— you want something here?”

I frowned.

“No,” I answered bitterly, “I don’t want anything here. I only came in to watch you keeping busy. I love to see people work. What do you suppose,” I barked, “that I came in for? To get a suit of fireman’s clothes?”

“So sorry, signor!” he said, shaking his head. “But you will have to go somewhere else! ”

I sat there, looking at the little Italian with my mouth open like a fish out of water. Could I believe my ears ?

“You— you won’t wait on me here?” I gasped.

He shook his head so fast his ears flapped like castanets on the shaved sides of his skull.

“No, signor!” he said.

I rose, like a man in a dream. I fumbled my hat on my head. Stooping, I hoisted my bags again into my hands.

Then I started for the door.

“Good morning, signor!”

I brushed by him, without a word, stumbled out of the shop, and strolled off up the street.

Was I drunk? Crazy? Dreaming? What was the matter with me ?

For the second time in five minutes I had been refused a shave in a barber-shop!

Why?

There were only two reasons that I could think of which would entitle any barber, working as a sort of servant of the public, according to the law, to turn a man away from his establishment.

First, if a customer was drunk he might be refused a seat in a tonsorial chair. Was I under the influence? I was not— and nobody could possibly think so, to see me.

Second, a barber would have good grounds to refuse to work on a man who had some plainly evident contagious disease. I was sound as a nut—nothing the matter with me at all. As a blind man could see at a glance.

Twice I had been turned away. Now I wanted a third try.

If I could get waited on in the next barber shop I came to, then I would understand why I had been refused in these last two.

I would go back to the strike-idea in the first shop. If I was shaved without any trouble in the next place I entered., I would be satisfied that there was nothing the matter with me; that the difficulty was all in the two shops where I had been rebuffed.

A strike in the first establishment, that had been empty when I entered it, would account for my turn-down there. (The two barbers might have jumped to their chairs, I reasoned, to prevent me from entering them, instead of to welcome me in.)

And the second place— well, I could fit the prejudice against red-headed men there. That Italian proprietor may have disliked me on sight because my hair was carroty. May have refused to shave me for that reason.

Everything would be explained in that way, if I had no difficulty in the next place I stopped.

But— if I was refused admittance to a barber shop for the third time in succession? What then?

Why— oh, but I wouldn’t be, that was all!

I was foolishly alarmed over the two surprises that I had already received. It was impossible— silly to suppose— that there was a ban against me in the city’s barboriums.

Breathlessly I ground to a stop before the striped pole in front of a swell-looking shop. Dashing the perspiration out of my eyes, and firmly clutching the heavy bags in my hands, I walked into the place.

And immediately I stopped stock still.

There were a half-dozen barbers in this place, some working, some taking it easy, when I stepped over the threshold.

As barbers will, they had all looked round at me as I pushed open the door. And then—

With one accord, the whole parcel of them bunched together and dashed to the rear of the shop in a shouting stampede. A moment I watched them, with the eyes staring out of my head, milling round a narrow door at the back of the establishment.

And the next minute they were all gone!

I stood there for a minute, turned to stone. And then I commenced to tremble—the uncanniness of the thing stopped the beating of my heart.

Three men, with lather dabbed on their faces— one with one side of his mustache off and the other side on— sat up in their chairs and looked foolishly in the direction that their barbers had fled.

Then they looked at each other, struck speechless with surprise. Add finally their eyes turned around to me, standing within the doorway.

“Here!” one of them called out to me. “What’s the meaning of all this?”

I took a step forward. Weakly I shook my head.

“I d-don’t know!” I stuttered in a ghastly whisper.

“What did you do to make those men duck out of this shop?” demanded another. “Huh— speak up?”

I swallowed hard and looked at them all piteously.

“Upon my soul, gentlemen,” I faltered, “I didn’t do a thing. Just stepped in through the door, and they took one look at me—”

“You didn’t have a gun or a Black Hand bomb in your hands,” began the man with half a mustache.

Silently I held up the two grips that I carried.

“Friends!” I whined. “What’s the matter with me? Tell me— in Heaven’s pity, tell me!”

I had them staring at me in real earnest now, their own troubles forgotten in the sight of my terrible distress.

“This is the third time this has happened,” I quavered on. “The third time, understand. Twice I have been refused a shave— a simple shave— in a barber-shop. And now—you see what has happened, the minute I set my foot inside this shop!

“Am I drunk— crazy— broken out with small-pox, scarlet fever, in the first stages of cholera or suffering with housemaid’s knee? I’m a white man, a Christian, entitled to patronize any barber-shop in the land, I believe. Yet— I’ve been turned down twice, and now six barbers run before me as though I had the plague!

“At first,” I added, “it was a blow to my pride, as it would be to any man’s to be insulted by a turn-down from a barber. But I’ve forgotten that now. What’s worrying me— losing my goat— is the riddle of what ails me, why I am refused wherever I go, what threw the fright into the force of this place?”

I took a step forward and threw out my arms.

“Can any of you tell?” I cried. “Look at me!” I turned slowly all the way around, like a clothing model on display. “What’s the matter with me? Why would any barber refuse to shave me?”

All shook their heads in silence. Evidently they saw nothing of whatever it was that made every barber I had encountered rule me out of consideration as a customer— turn tail and run from me—on first sight.

“I don’t see anything the matter with you, sir!” said the man with the half-shaved upper lip.

“You look all right to me!” commented another.

“If I was a barber myself,” added the third, “I’d shave you, all right!”

I looked searchingly at all three of them. They were serious. They saw nothing the matter with me— any more than I had when I looked in that barroom mirror.

“All right, friends!” I said tremulously. “Much obliged to you!”

And I turned on my heel and walked out.

Slowly I moved up the street. Three blocks away I entered another barber shop. Politely but firmly I was put out.

Turning to the north, I walked up an avenue and tried again. For the fifth time I was refused.

Dumb, paralyzed, I tried the sixth shop I passed. The seventh, the eighth— at length an even dozen.

I couldn’t get into a chair in a single one!

Why?

I did not know.

Can you imagine my feelings? To drop into the city of my birth, after a commercial trip through the West, and find, on arriving, that I couldn’t get into a single, solitary barber-shop?

And not to know the reason why?

The thing was unheard of. Absolutely impossible. Worse than a dream.

And yet—it was actually happening to me.

I felt reason tottering on its throne. Either I was mad— mad as a March hare— or I had walked into twelve barber-shops run by a set of trained lunatics.

But how could that be? In pretty nearly every place I stopped, customers were being shaved, massaged, singed, shingled, and bay-rummed in the ordinary way.

It was a mystery— why I could not be waited on.

Evidently I was the only sober Caucasian in the city that couldn’t. I was not like other men.

Strangest of all, too, only the barbers saw that!

Here I was, walking along the public highway, without a mob round me, creating no more attention than anybody else who was abroad on their own business—just an ordinary red-headed, six-foot man, carrying two heavy bags in his hands, and with a hardly noticeable two-days’ growth of beard on my face—

Which no barber I had seen would shave!

Horses didn’t shy at me, men passed me by without a second look, women didn’t pale as they caught sight of me, and little children gazed at me without running away.

To the eye of my ordinary fellow man, I was apparently no different than anybody. Yet— to a barber I was either a freak or an undesirable citizen in the extreme.

Absent-mindedly, I turned in at the thirteenth barber-shop I had encountered in my weary walk. Only one white-jacketed man was in the place, and he sprang to his chair as I opened the door.

Without a glance at him, I walked to the rear and laid down my grips. Methodically I took off my hat and coat, and started loosening my tie.

Before I got far, I thought, the barber would be telling me to get out. In just a minute he would be doing that.

But— he didn’t!

With my collar off, and in my shirt-sleeves,

I walked over and sat down in the chair. Was it possible? At last had I found a place where there was no objection to me?

“Shave, sir?”

The fellow breathed the question into my ear as pleasantly as you please, while he flapped a towel out before me and began to tuck it around my neck.

“Yes!” I blurted. “Once over, and be careful of the tender skin around the scar on my left cheek.”

He picked up his brush and mug.

“Very good, sir!” he answered.

I laid my head back on the plush rest with a sigh of content. At last— at last! My troubles were over—

There was a commotion in the rear of the shop. Twisting my neck around, I saw another barber come in, probably from the living-room beyond.

He darted forward, and pulled the man who was mixing the lather away from my chair. He whispered something in his ear. And then— there was a crash behind me.

I sat up and looked around. The barber, the minute before so ready to remove the stubble from my chin, had dropped the shaving-cup from his hands and stood staring at me with a chalky face.

And as I looked at him his eyes closed, and he tottered.

Evidently overcome by the words his partner had whispered in his ear—

He fell in a faint on the tiles of the floor.

I got out of the chair. Supported by one
hand on its arm, I stared at the other barber. Over the limp body of the unconscious tonsorialist we looked at each other for a space of seconds.

“What’s the matter?” I asked finally, with the quiet of a nervous crisis.

“Sorry, sir!” answered the second barber. “ But you’ll have' to leave here—go some place else!”

“This man—” I looked down at the body.

“Knocked out,” put in the other, “completely. He couldn’t shave you, as you see."

“And you?”

The man paled.

“I—I’ll have to close up shop,” he stammered, evading my eyes. “This poor fellow will have to be taken care of! You’ll have— have to leave here, sir, at once!”

Again! It was no use trying to avoid my fate— I must go from this place as I had from the others. I was ostracized; finally, I made up my mind, forbidden the patronage of every barbed-shop in the city!

I walked across the room, put on my collar, hat, and coat again, once more lifted my baggage, and walked out of the door—

And straight into the arms of a policeman!

“Got you!” he exploded, as I bumped into his embrace. “You’re my prisoner!” Over his shoulder I saw a barber standing out in front of the shop up the avenue that had turned me away before I entered this one.

Evidently the officer had been sent for to take me to jail by this establishment in which I had been repulsed.

“What’s— what’s the charge against me?”

I panted. “You are arresting me; I’ll go
with you quietly— only tell me, tell me what
is the matter with me? Put me out of my suspense! ”

“Come along!” the bluecoat answered, jerking me by the arm. “You’ll find out soon enough at the station-house!”

A sudden calm, following the storm of my feelings in the past hour and a half, descended on me. I walked along, unprotesting, beside my captor.

I was being taken to prison— but at least I would find out the solution to the puzzle that had softened my brain when I got there. That was all that mattered—all that I cared for.

To find out, once for all, why I had been turned out of every barber-shop I stepped into.

“Here y’are!” announced the officer, leading me up the steps of the precinct station-house. “Come in here and have a little talk with the sergeant, me boy!”

I was dragged up to the rail.

“So you got him all right, did you, Clancy?” said a stern voice from the desk. “Prisoner, answer truly— name?”

“John Arthur Barnes!” I whispered.

The sergeant put down his pen between the leaves of the “blotter” and looked down at me with a scowl.

“Give me your real name, young feller!” he snapped, in a tone of warning.

“That is my name, sir,” I began.

The telephone-bell ringing beside my inquisitor just then interrupted the proceedings.

“Lo!” answered the sergeant.

“What’s that?” he fairly shouted at the words that floated into his ear over the wire. “Say that again?”

His face, as he listened, turned from angry red to smiling, natural pink again.

“All right,” he said. “I see. Good-by!”

He looked down at Clancy, the copper who held me prisoner.

“You’ve made a mistake, officer! ” he said, with a deepening of his smile. “They’ve caught the real culprit over at the Sixty-Eighth Street house!”

The patrolman started.

“The divil, ye say!” he cried. “But this fellow”— he turned to stare at me— “this guy answers the description, all right. There it is: Red hair, tall, carrying one satchel and a suit-case, scar on the left cheek, appearance of not having shaved for several days—”

“I know!” interrupted the sergeant. “ But the real criminal has confessed. So this man goes free!”

“Well— I’ll— be— darned!”

Clancy released my arm. And I fell limply against the rail.

“You’re discharged, sir!” the sergeant called. “Sorry, if we’ve put you to any bother. But— come, come!”— sharply. “You can’t stay here. You’ll have to go some place else, sir.”

At these familiar words I pulled myself together with an effort.

“Tell me,” I begged, “what does all this mean? I’ve suffered a great deal—my mind appears to be leaving me. Will you kindly explain to me why I’ve just been turned out of twelve— thirteen— barber-shops in this town—”

“Why,” interrupted the officer at the desk, “do you mean to tell me— Clancy!” he broke off, “the poor fellow doesn’t understand what this is all about! Would you believe it?”

The patrolman looked at me kindly.

“Is it true, sir?” he questioned. “Do you mean to tell us that you haven’t read the papers to-day?”

I shook my head.

“I just came into town this morning,” I said. “I haven’t seen a newspaper yet. What—what is the matter?”

“Well,” laughed the officer, “ I’ll bet there ain’t a barber in this city that hasn’t read one item in to-days news, anyway. They’re all great readers of comic weeklies, magazines, and newspapers, ordinarily. But this time— well, here, look at this for yourself!”

He pressed a folded newspaper on me, one finger pointing to a half column of type bearing a heavy head-line.

I took the sheet, braced myself against the railing round the desk, and read:

WARNING-NEW YORK BARBERS

LOOK OUT!

Man in Town To-Day

Had Better Be Watched

For Carefully

By All Tonsorial Experts!

Geneva, N. Y., April 15.—The police of this city warn , the barbers in New York to be on the lookout for this man in the next few days:

A tall, well-built, youngish fellow, red-headed, and with a scar on one side of his face—the left cheek. Man is likely to be carrying two grips, a satchel and a suit-case, as he was seen to leave this town with these early last night.

William McClintock (the man’s name) is a dangerous maniac. He has already murdered three barbers, and has gone to the metropolis, it is supposed, on the hunt for more. All of his victims have been slain while shaving him—the madman overpowering the barber, taking the razor away from him, and cutting his throat.

It is believed that the madness to kill any and all barbers he can get his hands on was brought upon the lunatic in this way: He has a tender skin and a wiry beard. For a number of years, no barber has been able to shave hint without causing him inconvenience, pain, and suffering. McClintock tried for long to get .different tonsorialists to shave him properly. And the inability to do so in the end has driven him in-

So, barbers of New York, as you value your lives, don’t let the man herein described enter your chairs. If you do—you risk your own necks.

The paper dropped from my nerveless fingers. I saw it all!

“Now, sir, you understand!” said the policeman by my side. “Is there anything else I can do for you?” he added.

I turned a pair of glassy eyes on him.

“Oh, yes, little playmate!” I babbled. “You can sing me to sleep, if thou likest!”

I closed my eyes, and sank to the floor.

“Good Lord! ” I heard the bluecoat gasp. “The thing he’s gone through, and most likely the shock of the explanation of what was a mystery to him— all of it has drove the poor gent crazy as a loon!”

Such was indeed the case!

_____________________

5: Leixlip Castle

An Irish Family Legend

Rev. C. R. Maturin

1780-1824

The Literary Souvenir, 1826

THE INCIDENTS of the following tale are not merely founded on fact, they are facts themselves, which occurred at no very distant period in my own family. The marriage of the parties, their sudden and mysterious separation, and their total alienation from each other until the last period of their mortal existence, are all facts. I cannot vouch for the truth of the supernatural solution given to all these mysteries; but I must still consider the story as a fine specimen of Gothic horrors, and can never forget the impression it made on me when I heard it related for the first time among many other thrilling traditions of the same description.

The tranquility of the Catholics of Ireland during the disturbed periods of 1715 and 1745, was most commendable, and somewhat extraordinary; to enter into an analysis of their probable motives, is not at all the object of the writer in this tale, as it is pleasanter to state the fact to their honour, than at this distance of time to assign dubious and unsatisfactory reasons for it. Many of them, however, showed a kind of secret disgust at the existing state of affairs, by quitting their family residences, and wandering about like persons who were uncertain of their homes, or possibly expecting better from some near and fortunate contingency.

Among the rest was a Jacobite Baronet, who, sick of his uncongenial situation in a Whig neighbourhood, in the north— where he heard of nothing but the heroic defence of Londonderry; the barbarities of the French generals; and the resistless exhortations of the godly Mr. Walker, a Presbyterian clergyman, to whom the citizens gave the title of "Evangelist;"— quitted his paternal residence, and about the year 1720 hired the Castle of Leixlip for three years, (it was then the property of the Conollys, who let it to triennial tenants); and removed thither with his family, which consisted of three daughters— their mother having long been dead.

The Castle of Leixlip, at that period, possessed a character of romantic beauty and feudal grandeur, such as few buildings in Ireland can claim, and which is now, alas, totally effaced by the destruction of its noble woods; on the destroyers of which the writer would wish "a minstrel's malison were said."— Leixlip, though about seven miles only from Dublin, has all the sequestered and picturesque character that imagination could ascribe to a landscape a hundred miles from, not only the metropolis but an inhabited town. After driving a dull mile (an Irish mile) in passing from Lucan to Leixlip, the road, hedged up on one side by the high wall that bounds the demesne of the Veseys, and on the other by low enclosures, over whose rugged tops you have no view at all,— at once opens on Leixlip Bridge, at almost a right angle, and displays a luxury of landscape on which the eye that has seen it even in childhood dwells with delighted recollection.— Leixlip Bridge, a rude but solid structure, projects from a high bank of the Liffey, and slopes rapidly to the opposite side, which there lies remarkably low. To the right the plantations of the Veseys' demesne— no longer obscured by walls— almost mingle their dark woods in its stream, with the opposite ones of Marshfield and St. Catharine's. The river is scarcely visible, overshadowed as it is by the deep, rich and bending foliage of the trees. To the left it bursts out in all the brilliancy of light, washes the garden steps of the houses of Leixlip, wanders round the low walls of the churchyard, plays with the pleasure-boat moored under the arches on which the summer-house of the Castle is raised, and then loses itself among the rich woods that once skirted those grounds to its very brink. The contrast on the other side, with the luxuriant vegetation, the lighter and more diversified arrangement of terraced walks, scattered shrubberies, temples seated on pinnacles, and thickets that conceal from you the sight of the river until you are on its banks, that mark the character of the grounds which are now the property of Colonel Marly, is peculiarly striking.

Visible above the highest roofs of the town, though a quarter of a mile distant from them, are the ruins of Confy Castle, a right good old predatory tower of the stirring times when blood was shed like water; and as you pass the bridge you catch a glimpse of the waterfall, (or salmon-leap, as it's called,) on whose noon-day lustre, or moon-light beauty, probably the rough livers of that age when Confy Castle was "a tower of strength," never glanced an eye or cast a thought, as they clattered in their harness over Leixlip Bridge, or waded through the stream before that convenience was in existence.

Whether the solitude in which he lived contributed to tranquillize Sir Redmond Blaney's feelings, or whether they had begun to rust from want of collision with those of others, it is impossible to say, but certain it is, that the good Baronet began gradually to lose his tenacity in political matters; and except when a Jacobite friend came to dine with him, and drink with many a significant "nod and beck and smile," the King over the water;— or the parish-priest (good man) spoke of the hopes of better times, and the final success of the right cause, and the old religion;— or a Jacobite servant was heard in the solitude of the large mansion whistling "Charlie is my darling," to which Sir Redmond involuntarily responded in a deep bass voice, somewhat the worse for wear, and marked with more emphasis than good discretion;— except, as I have said, on such occasions, the Baronet's politics, like his life, seemed passing away without notice or effort. Domestic calamities, too, pressed sorely on the old gentleman : of his three daughters, the youngest, Jane, had disappeared in so extraordinary a manner in her childhood that though it is but a wild, remote family tradition, I cannot help relating it:—

The girl was of uncommon beauty and intelligence, and was suffered to wander about the neighborhood of the castle with the daughter of a servant, who was also called Jane, as a nom de caresse. One evening Jane Blaney and her young companion went far and deep into the woods; their absence created no uneasiness at the time, as these excursions were by no means unusual, till her playfellow returned home alone and weeping, at a very late hour. Her account was, that in passing through a lane at some distance from the castle, an old woman, in the Fingallian dress, (a red petticoat and a long green jacket,) suddenly started out of a thicket, and took Jane Blaney by the arm: she had in her hand two rushes, one of which she threw over her shoulder, and giving the other to the child, motioned to her to do the same. Her young companion, terrified at what she saw, was running away, when Jane Blaney called after her— "Good bye, good bye, it is a long time before you will see me again." The girl said they then disappeared, and she found her way home as she could. An indefatigable search was immediately commenced— woods were traversed, thickets were explored, ponds were drained,— all in vain. The pursuit and the hope were at length given up. Ten years afterwards, the house-keeper of Sir Redmond, having remembered that she left the key of a closet where sweetmeats were kept, on the kitchen-table, returned to fetch it. As she approached the door, she heard a childish voice murmuring— "Cold— cold— cold— how long it is since I have felt a fire!"— She advanced, and saw, to her amazement, Jane Blaney, shrunk to half her usual size, and covered with rags, crouching over the embers of the fire. The housekeeper flew in terror from the spot, and roused the servants, but the vision had fled. The child was reported to have been seen several times afterwards, as diminutive in form, as though she had not grown an inch since she was ten years of age, and always crouching over a fire, whether in the turret-room or kitchen, complaining of cold and hunger, and apparently covered with rags. Her existence is still said to be protracted under these dismal circumstances, so unlike those of Lucy Gray in Wordsworth's beautiful ballad:

Yet some will say, that to this day

She is a living child—

That they have met sweet Lucy Gray

Upon the lonely wild;

O'er rough and smooth she trips along,

And never looks behind;

And hums a solitary song

That whistles in the wind.

The fate of the eldest daughter was more melancholy, though less extraordinary; she was addressed by a gentleman of competent fortune and unexceptionable character: he was a Catholic, moreover; and Sir Redmond Blaney signed the marriage articles, in full satisfaction of the security of his daughter's soul, as well as of her jointure. The marriage was celebrated at the Castle of Leixlip; and, after the bride and bridegroom had retired, the guests still remained drinking to their future happiness, when suddenly, to the great alarm of Sir Redmond and his friends, loud and piercing cries were heard to issue from the part of the castle in which the bridal chamber was situated.

Some of the more courageous hurried up the stairs; it was too late— the wretched bridegroom had burst, on that fatal night, into a sudden and most horrible paroxysm of insanity. The mangled form of the unfortunate and expiring lady bore attestation to the mortal virulence with which the disease had operated on the wretched husband, who died a victim to it himself after the involuntary murder of his bride. The bodies were interred, as soon as decency would permit, and the story hushed up.

Sir Redmond's hopes of Jane's recovery were diminishing every day, though he still continued to listen to every wild tale told by the domestics; and all his care was supposed to be now directed towards his only surviving daughter. Anne living in solitude, and partaking only of the very limited education of Irish females of that period, was left very much to the servants, among whom she increased her taste for superstitious and supernatural horrors, to a degree that had a most disastrous effect on her future life.

Among the numerous menials of the Castle, there was one "withered crone," who had been nurse to the late Lady Blaney's mother, and whose memory was a complete Thesaurus terrorum. The mysterious fate of Jane first encouraged her sister to listen to the wild tales of this hag, who avouched, that at one time she saw the fugitive standing before the portrait of the late mother in one of the apartments of the Castle, and muttering to herself— "Woe's me, woe's me! how little my mother thought her wee Jane would ever come to be what she is!" But as Anne grew older she began more "seriously to incline" to the hag's promises that she could show her her future bridegroom, on the performance of certain ceremonies, which she at first revolted from as horrible and impious; but, finally, at the repeated instigation of the old woman, consented to act a part in. The period fixed upon for the performance of these unhallowed rites, was now approaching;— it was near the 31st of October,— the eventful night, when such ceremonies were, and still are supposed, in the North of Ireland, to be most potent in their effects. All day long the Crone took care to lower the mind of the young lady to the proper key of submissive and trembling credulity, by every horrible story she could relate; and she told them with frightful and supernatural energy. This woman was called Collogue by the family, a name equivalent to Gossip in England, or Cummer in Scotland, (though her real name was Bridget Dease;) and she verified the name, by the exercise of an unwearied loquacity, an indefatigable memory, and a rage for communicating and inflicting terror, that spared no victim in the household, from the groom, whom she sent shivering to his rug, to the Lady of the Castle, over whom she felt she held unbounded sway.

The 31st of October arrived,— the Castle was perfectly quiet before eleven o'clock; half an hour afterwards, the Collogue and Anne Blaney were seen gliding along a passage that led to what is called King John's Tower, where it is said that monarch received the homage of the Irish princes as Lord of Ireland, and which, at all events, is the most ancient part of the structure. The Collogue opened a small door with a key which she had secreted about her, and urged the young lady to hurry on. Anne advanced to the postern, and stood there irresolute and trembling like a timid swimmer on the bank of an unknown stream. It was a dark autumnal evening; a heavy wind sighed among the woods of the Castle, and bowed the branches of the lower trees almost to the waves of the Liffey, which, swelled by recent rains, struggled and roared amid the stones that obstructed the channel. The steep descent from the Castle lay before her, with its dark avenue of elms ; a few lights still burned in the little village of Leixlip — but from the lateness of the hour it was probable they would soon be extinguished. The lady lingered— "And must I go alone?" said she, foreseeing the terrors of her fearful journey could be aggravated by her more fearful purpose. "Ye must, or all will be spoiled," said the hag, shading the miserable light, that did not extend its influence above six inches on the path of the victim. "Ye must go alone— and I will watch for you here, dear, till you come back, and then see what will come to you at twelve o'clock."

The unfortunate girl paused. "Oh! Collogue, Collogue, if you would but come with me. Oh! Collogue, come with me, if it be but to the bottom of the castle-hill."

"If I went with you, dear, we should never reach the top of it alive again, for there are them near that would tear us both to pieces."

"Oh! Collogue, Collogue— let me turn back then, and go to my own room— I have advanced too far, and I have done too much."

"And that's what you have, dear, and so you must go further, and do more still, unless, when you return to your own room, you would see the likeness of someone instead of a handsome young bridegroom."

The young lady looked about her for a moment, terror and wild hope trembling in her heart;— then, with a sudden impulse of supernatural courage, she darted like a bird from the terrace of the Castle, the fluttering of her white garments was seen for a few moments, and then the hag, who had been shading the flickering light with her hand, bolted the postern, and, placing the candle before a glazed loophole, sat down on a stone seat in the recess of the tower, to watch the event of the spell. It was an hour before the young lady returned; when her face was as pale, and her eyes as fixed, as those of a dead body, but she held in her grasp a dripping garment, a proof that her errand had been performed. She flung it into her companion's hands, and then stood panting and gazing wildly about her, as if she knew not where she was. The hag herself grew terrified at the insane and breathless state of her victim, and hurried her to her chamber; but here the preparations for the terrible ceremonies of the night were the first objects that struck her, and, shivering at the sight, she covered her eyes with her hands, and stood immovably fixed in the middle of the room.

It needed all the hag's persuasions (aided even by mysterious menaces), combined with the returning faculties and reviving curiosity of the poor girl, to prevail on her to go through the remaining business of the night. At length she said, as if in desperation, "I will go through with it: but be in the next room; and if what I dread should happen, I will ring my father's little silver bell which I have secured for the night,— and as you have a soul to be saved, Collogue, come to me at its very first sound."

The hag promised, gave her last instructions with eager and jealous minuteness, and then retired to her own room, which was adjacent to that of the young lady. Her candle had burned out, but she stirred up the embers of her turf fire, and sat nodding over them, and smoothing her pallet from time to time, but resolved not to lie down while there was a chance of a sound from the lady's room, for which she herself, withered as her feelings were, waited with a mingled feeling of anxiety and terror.

It was now long past midnight, and all was silent as the grave throughout the Castle. The hag dozed over the embers till her head touched her knees, then started up as the sound of the bell seemed to tinkle in her ears, then dozed again, and again started as the bell appeared to tinkle more distinctly;— suddenly she was roused, not by the bell, but by the most piercing and horrible cries from the neighbouring chamber. The Crone, aghast for the first time, at the possible consequences of the mischief she might have occasioned, hastened to the room. Anne was in convulsions, and the hag was compelled reluctantly to call up the housekeeper (removing meanwhile the implements of the ceremony), and assist in applying all the specifics known at that day, burnt feathers, etc., to restore her. When they had at length succeeded, the housekeeper was dismissed, the door was bolted, and the Collogue was left alone with Anne; the subject of their conference might have been guessed at, but was not known until many years afterwards; but Anne that night held in her hand, in the shape of a weapon with the use of which neither of them was acquainted, an evidence that her chamber had been visited by a being of no earthly form.

This evidence the hag importuned her to destroy, or to remove, but she persisted with fatal tenacity in keeping it. She locked it up, however, immediately, and seemed to think she had acquired a right, since she had grappled so fearfully with the mysteries of futurity, to know all the secrets of which that weapon might yet lead to the disclosure. But from that night it was observed that her character, her manner, and even her countenance, became altered. She grew stern and solitary, shrunk at the sight of her former associates, and imperatively forbade the slightest allusion to the circumstances which had occasioned this mysterious change.

It was a few days subsequent to this event that Anne, who after dinner had left the Chaplain reading the life of St. Francis Xavier to Sir Redmond, and retired to her own room to work, and, perhaps, to muse, was surprised to hear the outer gate ring loudly and repeatedly— a sound she had never heard since her first residence in the Castle; for the few guests who resorted there came and departed as noiselessly as humble visitors at the house of a great man generally do. Straightway there rode up the avenue of elms, which we have already mentioned, a stately gentleman, followed by four servants, all mounted, the two former having pistols in their holsters, and the two latter carrying saddle-bags before them: though it was the first week in November, the dinner hour being one o'clock, Anne had light enough to notice all these circumstances. The arrival of the stranger seemed to cause much, though not unwelcome tumult in the Castle; orders were loudly and hastily given for the accommodation of the servants and horses;— steps were heard traversing the numerous passages for a full hour— then all was still; and it was said that Sir Redmond had locked with his own hand the door of the room where he and the stranger sat, and desired that no one should dare to approach it. About two hours afterwards, a female servant came with orders from her master, to have a plentiful supper ready by eight o'clock, at which he desired the presence of his daughter. The family establishment was on a handsome scale for an Irish house, and Anne had only to descend to the kitchen to order the roasted chickens to be well strewed with brown sugar according to the unrefined fashion of the day, to inspect the mixing of the bowl of sago with its allowance of a bottle of port wine and a large handful of the richest spices, and to order particularly that the pease pudding should have a huge lump of cold salt butter stuck in its centre; and then, her household cares being over, to retire to her room and array herself in a robe of white damask for the occasion. At eight o'clock she was summoned to the supper-room. She came in, according to the fashion of the times, with the first dish; but as she passed through the ante-room, where the servants were holding lights and bearing the dishes, her sleeve was twitched, and the ghastly face of the Collogue pushed close to hers; while she muttered "Did not I say he would come for you, dear?" Anne's blood ran cold, but she advanced, saluted her father and the stranger with two low and distinct reverences, and then took her place at the table. Her feelings of awe and perhaps terror at the whisper of her associate, were not diminished by the appearance of the stranger; there was a singular and mute solemnity in his manner during the meal. He ate nothing. Sir Redmond appeared constrained, gloomy and thoughtful. At length, starting, he said (without naming the stranger's name,) "You will drink my daughter's health?" The stranger intimated his willingness to have that honour, but absently filled his glass with water; Anne put a few drops of wine into hers, and bowed towards him. At that moment, for the first time since they had met, she beheld his face— it was pale as that of a corpse. The deadly whiteness of his cheeks and lips, the hollow and distant sound of his voice, and the strange lustre of his large dark moveless eyes, strongly fixed on her, made her pause and even tremble as she raised the glass to her lips; she set it down, and then with another silent reverence retired to her chamber.

There she found Bridget Dease, busy in collecting the turf that burned on the hearth, for there was no grate in the apartment. "Why are you here?" she said, impatiently.

The hag turned on her, with a ghastly grin of congratulation, "Did not I tell you that he would come for you?"

"I believe he has," said the unfortunate girl, sinking into the huge wicker chair by her bedside; "for never did I see mortal with such a look."

"But is not he a fine stately gentleman?" pursued the hag.

"He looks as if he were not of this world," said Anne.

"Of this world, or of the next," said the hag, raising her bony fore-finger, "mark my words— so sure as the— (here she repeated some of the horrible formularies of the 31st of October)— so sure he will be your bridegroom."

"Then I shall be the bride of a corse," said Anne; "for he I saw to-night is no living man."

A fortnight elapsed, and whether Anne became reconciled to the features she had thought so ghastly, by the discovery that they were the handsomest she had ever beheld— and that the voice, whose sound at first was so strange and unearthly, was subdued into a tone of plaintive softness when addressing her; — or whether it is impossible for two young persons with unoccupied hearts to meet in the country, and meet often, to gaze silently on the same stream, wander under the same trees, and listen together to the wind that waves the branches, without experiencing an assimilation of taste;— or whether it was from all these causes combined, but in less than a month Anne heard the declaration of the stranger's passion with many a blush, though without a sigh. He now avowed his name and rank. He stated himself to be a Scottish Baronet, of the name of Sir Richard Maxwell; family misfortunes had driven him from his country, and for ever precluded the possibility of his return: he had transferred his property to Ireland, and purposed to fix his residence there for life. Such was his statement. The courtship of those days was brief and simple. Anne became the wife of Sir Richard, and, I believe, they resided with her father till his death, when they removed to their estate in the North. There they remained for several years, in tranquility and happiness, and had a numerous family. Sir Richard's conduct was marked by but two peculiarities: he not only shunned the intercourse, but the sight of any of his countrymen, and, if he happened to hear that a Scotsman had arrived in the neighbouring town, he shut himself up till assured of the stranger's departure. The other was his custom of retiring to his own chamber, and remaining invisible to his family on the anniversary of the 30th of October. The lady, who had her own associations connected with that period, only questioned him once on the subject of this seclusion, and was then solemnly and even sternly enjoined never to repeat the inquiry. Matters stood thus, somewhat mysteriously, but not unhappily, when on a sudden, without any cause assigned or assignable, Sir Richard and Lady Maxwell parted, and never more met in this world, nor was she ever permitted to see one of her children to her dying hour. He continued to live at the family mansion, and she fixed her residence with a distant relative in a remote part of the country. So total was the disunion, that the name of either was never heard to pass the other's lips, from the moment of separation until that of dissolution.

Lady Maxwell survived Sir Richard forty years, living to the great age of 96; and, according to a promise, previously given, disclosed to a descendant with whom she had lived, the following extraordinary circumstances.

She said that on the night of the 30th of October, about seventy-five years before, at the instigation of her ill-advising attendant, she had washed one of her garments in a place where four streams met, and performed other unhallowed ceremonies under the direction of the Collogue, in the expectation that her future husband would appear to her in her chamber at twelve that night. The critical moment arrived, but with it no lover-like form. A vision of indescribable horror approached her bed, and flinging at her an iron weapon of a shape and construction unknown to her, bade her "recognize her future husband by that." The terrors of this visit soon deprived her of her senses; but on her recovery, she persisted, as has been said, in keeping the fearful pledge of the reality of the vision, which, on examination, appeared to be incrusted with blood. It remained concealed in the inmost drawer of her cabinet till the morning of her separation. On that morning, Sir Richard Maxwell rose before day-light to join a hunting party, — he wanted a knife for some accidental purpose, and, missing his own, called to Lady Maxwell, who was still in bed, to lend him one. The lady, who was half asleep, answered that in such a drawer of her cabinet he would find one. He went, however, to another, and the next moment she was fully awakened by seeing her husband present the terrible weapon to her throat, and threaten her with instant death unless she disclosed how she came by it. She supplicated for life, and then, in an agony of horror and contrition, told the tale of that eventful night. He gazed at her for a moment with a countenance which rage, hatred, and despair converted, as she avowed, into a living likeness of the demon-visage she had once beheld (so singularly was the fated resemblance fulfilled), and then exclaimed, "You won me by the devil's aid, but you shall not keep me long," left her — to meet no more in this world. Her husband's secret was not unknown to the lady, though the means by which she became possessed of it were wholly unwarrantable. Her curiosity had been strongly excited by her husband's aversion to his countrymen, and it was so stimulated by the arrival of a Scottish gentleman in the neighborhood some time before, who professed himself formerly acquainted with Sir Richard, and spoke mysteriously of the causes that drove him from his country — that she contrived to procure an interview with him under a feigned name, and obtained from him the knowledge of circumstances which embittered her after-life to its latest hour.

His story was this: —

Sir Richard Maxwell was at deadly feud with a younger brother; a family feast was proposed to reconcile them, and as the use of knives and forks was then unknown in the Highlands, the company met armed with their dirks for the purpose of carving. They drank deeply; the feast, instead of harmonizing, began to inflame their spirits; the topics of old strife were renewed; hands, that at first touched their weapons in defiance, drew them in fury at last, and, in the fray, Sir Richard mortally wounded his brother. His life was with difficulty saved from the vengeance of the clan, and he was hurried towards the sea-coast, near which the house stood, and concealed there till a vessel could be procured to convey him to Ireland. He embarked on the night of the 30th of October, and while he was traversing the deck in unutterable agony of spirit, his hand accidentally touched the dirk which he had unconsciously worn ever since the fatal night. He drew it, and praying "that the guilt of his brother's blood might be as far from his soul, as he could fling that weapon from his body," — sent it with all his strength into the air. This instrument he found secreted in the lady's cabinet, and whether he really believed her to have become possessed of it by supernatural means, or whether he feared his wife was a secret witness of his crime, has not been ascertained, but the result was what I have stated. The separation took place on the discovery: for the rest,

I know not how the truth may be,

I tell the Tale as 'twas told to me.

____________________

6: Tourists Three for Tampa

Clarence L. Cullen

1870-1922

Popular Magazine, 20 July 1919

"DOWN here to do a Florida film story, eh? The usual rubbish, I presume?”

“Rubbish is right. Rubbish unspeakable. Rubbish surpassing the power of language to describe. A picture play compounded mainly of milky moon-light, marshmallows, muddle-headedness, and mush. Well?”

“Oh, nothing. Only, it’s a wonder you movie people wouldn’t occasionally show us on the screen a story with a little sense to it. A story, that is, with some sure-enough innards. A story, not to put too fine a point on it, that really grown-up folks could follow without gagging,”

“You forget that we picture people are not purveying to grown-ups. We’re pandering, by compulsion, to Youth. You don’t give a kitten a Chinese-carved zodiacal ball of heavy ivory to play with. No. You give her— or him— a ball of yarn. Just so. Youth wouldn’t have screen stuff with heft to it, for the simple reason that Youth doesn’t savvy heft. Youth, itself being composed chiefly of fluff and fatuity, demands, for film provender, its equivalent qualities, meaning flubdub and folderol. Get me?”

The host, smoking his after-dinner cigar on the hibiscus-hedged greensward of his palm-swaddled and poinsettia-swathed winter home in Florida, nodded grimly. He could not fail to “get” his crony of other days when the latter, touched upon the raw of his favorite topic— which, if put forth in pamphlet form, would be called “An Apology for the All-around Asininity of the Average Screen Story”— began to strike from the shoulder on.that subject.

The host’s crony of a former period was Byron J. Bingley, that monolith among moving-picture directors, renowned as “Byron J. Bingley presents—” on the flicker film everywhere in the world from Ruritania to Rangoon. Mr. Bingley, as the colloquy already has disclosed, was just arrived in Florida, with his constellation of screen stars, for the film fabrication of a Florida picture the character of which is described above in Mr. Bingley’s own words. The first man he had met immediately upon his arrival in the sun-swept Florida city was this somewhat saturnine possessor of a superb Florida home, a pal of an earlier epoch in a great city of the North. By him Mr. Bingley had been incontinently thrust into an automobile and carried for dinner to the Spanish-mission “bungalow”— of thirty-four rooms and six baths— overlooking a river that glistened in the slanting rays of the setting sun like a great sprawling serpent of sapphire-hued enamel inlaid with gold. And now, on the green-plush lawn, over the cigars, Mr. Bingley had been touched upon the raw of his favorite topic.

“By compulsion, permit me to repeat, we address ourselves to the adolescent, we analyze adolescence,” dogmatized Mr. Bingley, skillfully hanging a smoke wreath around the plumy tip of a date-palm frond at his elbow. “You know, and' I know, what Youth is. Youth is benightedness, bunkerino, blurbiness, billy-be-dangedness—”

“H’m,” objected Mr. Bingley’s host. “Outside of that, Youth is all right, I hope.”

“And Youth, glorying in its mental opacity, glides forever in the rut of least resistance,” orated Mr. Bingley, ignoring the interruption. “Youth, itself as old as the world, never does anything new. Youth, patternized to the final pinfeather, fettered by formulae, lacks initiative, and therefore disdains innovation. Follow me?”

“Sort o’; but isn’t the going a little lumpy?” said the host.

“So, in pandering to Youth, we perforce provide Youth with its patternized pabulum,” rumbled Mr. Bingley. “Youth won’t have your ‘story with sense to it’ on the screen. Not on your silvery top-knot will it, shipmate! It clamors for the sirup of sentimentality; its sweetikins on the screen must be soaked in syllabub; She has got to be all sugar from stockinettes to side-combs, He has got to be one-hundred-proof saccharine on stilts. So there you are! ‘Story with a little sense to it!’ The bankruptcy court beckons with both hands to the bug who tries to feed ’em on film food that has a one-tenth-of-one-per-cent trace or tincture of what you call grown-up sense in it.”

“Forgive me,” feebly mumbled the host. “I knew not what I said.”

“Far be it from me to flail the foolish occupation which I follow, flitter mouse that I am,” continued Mr. Bingley, his tone now slightly tinged with self-pity, “but I am here to maintain that the movies are not for the mature-minded. They’re built for easy assimilation by bob-veal brains. All of us know this. All of us— moving-picture people, I mean— take our regular turns in sobbing out our little hearts over it. But Youth must be served. And Youth scorns the sensible, hoots at highbrowism, pooh-poohs plausibility, and hankers solely for the old, old hoakum. So the old hoakum, Heaven help us, is what we have to give ’em!”

“Queer idea, that, of yours, that young people are patternized,” murmured Mr. Bingley’s host. “I hadn’t noticed that. There’s plenty of kick-over-the-traces originality—too durned much of it, if you’re asking me, Bing— about the young people I see about me. About my own young people, when it comes to that.”

“You imagine that,” pronounced Mr. Bingley out of hand. “All adolescence is embedded in the amber of its own antiquity. Youth does the old, old things in the old, old way. If you could corral a million boys and girls, all under twenty-five, on an island, and prod them scientifically for new stuff, you wouldn’t snag a single new story out of the whole set. They’re liker, as to promptings and purposes, than peas in a pod. Youth, in short, is Old Stuff. Hence the deplorable State of the screen. Er— uh—”

Mr. Bingley, brought to a stop by the sudden appearance before him of the second butler, a young negro clad in white duck, bearing a trayful of bottles of mineral waters and glasses, made a slightly wry face. There was no Scotch on the tray.

His host caught his expression.

“Dreary-looking layout, ain’t it?” said the host, grinning. “But I’ve run plumb out of stuff. Shipment on the way from New York. Been on the way for a month— government-run railroads be hanged! And Florida, you know, is dustier than the desert— dead-and-gone bone-dry, save for one town, over on the west coast, where they make cigars, and that’ll be dry, too, in a few days. Dickens of it is, I’ve a birthday day after to-morrow, and always, on my birthday, I have my old buddies here— I’ve been living in Florida for fourteen winters, you know— at the house for a little party; Scotch and champagne and sandwiches and the like. But this birthday I’ll have to give ’em the painful fluids you’re making the face over. Sorry, old mate. Can’t be helped. You see how I’m fixed.”

“You might, at any rate, invite me to your old birthday party,” suggested Mr. Bingley with the air of a man striving to make the best of a bitter moment.

“You'll attend the party, of course, if I have to go out myself and rope you,” replied his host. “But I’ll promise you a sad occasion, with nothing on the sideboard to make the circulation circ.”

“That shipment— at any rate, a shipment— might, by some chance, arrive in time,” said Mr. Bingley, blinking reflectively. “From somewhere,” he added after a slight pause.

“Don’t figure on that— blast these government-mismanaged railroads!” chanted his host.

Mr. Bingley, doing the best he could by the mineral water, meaning that he sipped at it as if it had been a saturated solution of bichloride of mercury, presently took his departure for his hotel, after promising to attend his host's white-ribbon birthday party forty-eight hours later.

ii

HAVING JUMPED her job as a waitress in a Daytona hotel. Miss Daniella Diggs promptly reentered public life as the driver of a car “For Hire.” It may be that this is rather a crude way of stating her case, considering that there really were mitigating circumstances. The facts, therefore, will be briefly outlined.

Daniella, engaged in the North as a waitress for the winter season in this fashionable Daytona hotel, found herself in disfavor with the head waitress almost immediately upon her appearance for duty. The psycho-analyst probably would contend that the esoteric reason for the head waitress’ hostility toward Daniella was that, while both women had red hair, Daniella’s was of the true Titian tint, whereas the head waitress’ was decidedly of the Carrot— as distinguished from the Corot— hue. If this theory is to prevail, it may as well be amplified by additional facts.

Whereas, then, the head waitress was so forty-Iy robust as to be practically impervious to the craftiest efforts of the custom-made straight-front builders, Daniella was as twenty-ly lithe, though smoothly rounded in the sinuous style, as any single shaft in the great swaying stack of growing bamboo at the back of the hotel; whereas, again, the head waitress’ facial freckles, aggressively bran-colored, had been bestowed upon her as liberally as the Dalmatian’s spots are given unto or onto him, Daniella’s entire repertoire of freckles consisted of an insignificant little golden-brown affair planted squarely on the bridge of a shapely, if slightly tilted, nose that manifestly had been made to order for the piquant exploitation of just that one freckle; and whereas—the final one, since this begins to read like a set of resolutions—the head waitress, though vindictively competent at her profession, was homelier than any hedge fence ever was or could be, Daniella was as pretty as a crimson azalea in full blossom on a sun-drenched porch.

Another point of contrast between them, though the head waitress had no knowledge of this, was that Daniella, having already taken the Bryn Mawr degree that she had gone after, was now, if the money for it could be earned, pointing for a post-graduate summer course in domestic Science. Daniella’s rooted purpose in this, it is humiliating to record, was to learn how to keep house systematically in case the occasion should arise; meaning, that is, in case she should get married. Candor compels, even if delicacy might suppress, the statement that Daniella expected to be married, sooner or later, to the right kind of a male. She did not, of course, publicly and boisterously say so; but she fully intended to marry the right somebody in due time. Beneath her wavy Titian aureole, nestling comfortably at the back of her mind, were all kinds of agreeable little visions of A Home of Her Own, with dotted Swiss curtains, and a riot of rose bushes in the front yard and a flourishing truck patch at the back, and plenty of large, encompassing bath towels, and a fireless cooker and an ice-cream freezer and a sure-enough electric toaster ’n’ everything—not excluding babies.

All of this, of course, was for the future to mold. For the present, after having worked as a waitress, with other self-supporting college girls as mates, for two summers at a hotel in the Adirondacks to earn part of the money for her Bryn Mawr degree, she found herself “in Dutch,” as she indecorously phrased it in her self-communings, under the tyrannizing disfavor of a Florida winter hotel head waitress who, on the very first day Daniella appeared, had announced to the assistant head waitress that she was goin’ t ’git that stuck-up baggage or her name wasn’t Bernice.

The initial clinch came when Daniella was ordered to do her hair, for dining-room duty, into a synthetic or imitation bob, with those far too well-known little blobs of hirsute pinned, or glued, or something, just forward of the ears. All of the other waitresses had supinely submitted to this ukase. But Daniella, whose simple, nonclamorous method of doing her hair was quite satisfactory to herself, ignored the edict, where-upon the head waitress, before all the other waitresses at their own dinner in the ordinary, had pounced, figuratively, upon Daniella like a somewhat asthmatic and slightly profane pantheress, only to be quizzically smiled at in her gold-capped front teeth by her composed victim. So round one, as the pugilistic chroniclers would phrase it, was about fifty-fifty,

The succeeding rounds, however, were undeniably the head waitress’, owing to Daniella’s lamentable lack of training for a grueling, full-distance affair, or, indeed, for the more pronounced forms of rough stuff of any kind. Daniella, at the end of a few days, discerned that Bernice, her dining-room superior, was bent upon nothing short of setting the skids under her job. This did not worry her, knowing, as she did, that Florida, all the way from Jacksonville to Miami, is in the tourist season the most help-bereft and, therefore, the most job-prolific commonwealth for competent white women in the entire American Union. But she liked Daytona, a city that flashes like a jewel on the breast of a queen, and she hated the thought of being fired from any kind of a job. So Daniella had something to think about when, her day’s work finished, she went of evenings to her teenchy room over a bake shop on the river front, to write her nightly letter to her only near relative, a letter-exacting aunt in the North, before turning in.

Destiny, however, did not design that Daniella should be juggled out of her job. Or, if Destiny entertained any such a purpose, Daniella beat Destiny to it by resigning.

A middle-aged man with porcine jowls and a roll of fat on the back of his neck and an interrogative eye and an oleaginous leer was the chosen instrument whereby she was enabled to put her resignation over. This porkish one, an individual of great wealth, as his dazzling investiture of diamonds clearly indicated, sat in splendor, by himself, at one of Daniella’s tables. His waitress’ studied disregard of his questioning eye and oily grin, far from extinguishing him, only incited him to further coquetry. He made his final effort when, Daniella being just then engaged in serving him his dessert, he plopped a large, new and gaudily gleaming twenty-dollar gold piece on the tablecloth right alongside Daniella’s carefully kept right hand, where, according to his subtle calculation, it would be impossible for her not to see it.

Not the slightest twitching of a facial muscle nor even the symptom of a change of color, however, gave him to understand that Daniella had seen the glittering disk of gold. It was not, in fact, until his waitress failed to return to the dining room with the demitasse he had ordered that the larded Lothario felt convinced that she must have seen it.

Daniella, setting down her tray and calmly removing her pretty little ruffled apron, told the head waitress of the incident in a few incisive words, without any trace of excitement.

“Pretty soft for you,” was Bernice’s comment, her eyes envious. “That ol’ papa John’s got it to toss at the birdies. Ya grabbed th’ twenty, o’ course?”

Bernice knew differently, having seen the transaction, as she saw everything that happened in the dining room, with her eagle eye.

“You know that I didn’t take it,” said Daniella, neatly folding her apron. “I’m through here,” she added, making for the waitress’ exit.

“My Gawd, it’s time ya went, ya poor fish!” was the head waitress’ Parthian dart. “Floatin’ aroun’ Florida as a biscuit-shooter in the tourist season, tryin’ t’ pull that St. Cecilia stuff—”

Daniella, self-skidded out of a job and glad that it had happened that way instead of the other, started for her room, debating whether she should seek another place in Daytona or go farther South to Palm Beach or Miami and thereby get a more comprehensive view of Florida. Of course, she would immediately try for another job somewhere. She had to, in consideration of the very slight wad of small-sized bills reposing under her left stocking; in consideration, too, that she had come to Florida to work there during the entire winter, and meant to do just that, without writing to her aunt in the North for a penny, the aunt not being any too well fixed, at that.

On her way to her room Daniella, passing one of the two Beach Street corners where Daytona’s large winter allotment of “For Hire” automobiles were, at this early afternoon hour, lined up by the score as far back as Palmetto Street, caught the lamentation, to one of his mates on the line, of the good-natured-looking fat old proprietor of four of these cars for tourists.

“Here I am with two of my flivvers eatin’ their heads off, and nobody to drive ’em, and the town all jammed up with coin-burnin’ folks that’ll ride in any old thing that's got wheels,” wailed the white-mustached possessor of the four cars of a make so well known that the advertising department of a magazine couldn’t think of having the make mentioned on any other terms except regular advertising rates. Daniella,  walking slowly in order to listen, derived that the two regular drivers of the flivvers were down with influenza. Sudden thinking being one of this young woman’s most marked traits, she turned in her tracks and walked back to the flu-bereft owner of two non-working flivvers.

“I can drive that kind of a car,” Daniella said to him.

Which, of course, was perfectly true. Her aunt in the North owned a car of that kind, and Daniella, home for vacations, had had the time of her life driving the second-hand old thing everywhere within a radius of a hundred miles of her aunt’s Pennsylvania farm.

“So can a lot o’ folks, miss,” said the old boy, studying her wonderingly, “but that don’t help me none. People that can drive ’em ain’t what I need. What I’m hopin’ for is somebody that will drive my two loafin’ ones.”

“I’ll drive one of them,” said Daniella.

The proprietor of flivvers, when he recovered from his astonishment, grabbed at her offer. The prettiest red-headed girl he’d ever seen in all his long life, chauffeuring one of his flivvers for hire! Daytona would fall for the novelty with a clatter! Anybody could see that she was a downright nice square girl, too, who would give the flirty lads short shrift. The more timid women tourists would be glad to have a tidy, quiet girl drive ’em, too, instead of some rough skate of a man. This was the line of calculation that shot through his mind.

“Fifty-fifty, miss, is the cut for you,” said he to Daniella. “That is, you keep half of what you make with the bus. Or I’ll pay you a salary, and a good one, if you prefer, though you’d do better splitting the rake-down with me.”

Daniella, spending the rest of that afternoon driving the better of the two idle flivvers, to get the hang of its individual idiosyncrasies, over all the Daytona-surrounding roads from Tomoka Bridge to New Smyrna and from Ormonde to Ponce Park, appeared alongside her curb-parked car, ready for business, at eight the next morning, rigged in her neat dark-blue tailored suit and a regulation chauffeur’s cap that, perched slightly to one side on her glossy mop of bronzy hair, produced an effect of studied rakishness somewhat beyond her expectation or desire. She was compelled to modify or neutralize this rakish effect by the assumption of a demeanor of marked austerity in order to ward off the attempts at all-too-friendly chirrupings on the part of the admiring male drivers on the “For Hire” line. Daniella was so successful as a neutralizer that these gay blades from the North, within fifteen minutes after her appearance among them, were herded together in little subdued-speaking groups, the subject of these symposia being the strange and unprecedented frostiness of a red-headed girl in a chauffeur’s cap.

At exactly half-past eight, half an hour to the minute after Daniella had assumed the avocation of a flivver driver for hire, her first patron appeared. She had the least favorable position on the line, not yet, of course, having caught the knack of jockeying for the berths closest to the main river-front thoroughfare, her car being head-on to the curb not far from Palmetto Street. A blockily built man of middle age, red faced and somewhat pouchy as to jowls, but with a pair of keen and kindling eyes, bore down on her from the direction of Palmetto Street. Seeing that he was casting his kindling eyes along the long line of cars for hire, Daniella sized him for a prospective customer.

“Automobile, sir?” she said to him, stepping briskly toward him on the sidewalk.

The blocky man puckered his brows and scowled at her.

“Is that an automobile?” he growled at her, not loudly but certainly with a canine intonation, gazing at her flivver with an expression of extreme deprecation.

Daniella, instantly freezing solid, turned her back upon him.

“Pardon me. Bad joke. Out-of-date comedy. Yes, I want to engage a car.”

Hearing him say these things in a quite human voice, with the canine sound now entirely absent from it, Daniella turned to him again. She melted slightly when she saw that the smile on his jowly countenance was rather an agreeable one.

“I want,” said the thick-set man, still talking and smiling humanly, “to go to Tampa to-day and to come back here from Tampa to-morrow.”

Daniella felt like gulping, but didn’t. Tampa! Tampa, away over on the Gulf side of Florida! She had a hazy knowledge that there are no east-and-west railroads in Florida, all of its rail lines running north and South. But to catch, for her first attempt as a for-hire chauffeur, the job of driving a man—a strange man—all the way to Tampa and back, smack-dab through the State of Florida! Daniella showed considerable self-control in refraining from gulping; but it will have been noticed by this time, it is hoped, that Daniella was a remarkably self-possessed young woman.

“I am going to Tampa,” went on the first applicant for a ride in her flivver, “to get a couple of phonographs. The phonographs will be packed in rather large boxes. There is room, I think, at the back of your car for them. Of course,” he added with the pouchy smile of many creases that Daniella somehow was beginning to like, “I’ll ride in the seat alongside you.”

Phonographs. Man going all the way to Tampa in a hired flivver for two phonographs. Weren’t there any phonographs to be purchased or rented in Daytona, then? But that, of course, was the man’s own business. He was entitled to go to Tampa, or to the north pole, for phonographs if he wanted to. These reflections led cascade-wise through Daniella’s mind. Atop of them was another thought, and a poser: Just how far was it to Tampa and back, and supposing she took it, how much should she charge the man for the job?

“Tampa,” the blocky man went on, as if he had divined the character of this poser, “is, according to the road map, one hundred and sixty-five miles from Daytona. If we start now, we’ll make it easily before sundown. We’ll leave Tampa at this same hour to-morrow morning, and get back to Daytona before dark. I’ll pay for your hotel outlay in Tampa, settle for the gas and oil you use, make good for any breakages you may incur, and pay you a hundred dollars for the job. That satisfactory?”

A hundred dollars for two days of fun, just fun—driving a delicious old flivver, that made exactly the same kind of a noise that her aunt's flivver that she’d played with up North did, for two delightful days through the heart of Florida, and getting one— hundred— dollars for it, and fifty dollars of this windfall her very own! Daniella’s mind, well-controlled as it was, was in a whirl. But stay! Didn’t all this sound too good to be true? Maybe this man— though certainly he looked reliable!— really was insolvent, or broke, or something, and merely wanted a free ride to Tampa, and wouldn’t she be out of luck if, after being hauled to Tampa, he should decamp without paying her!

“Of course, you don’t know me,” Daniella, flushing over her first customer’s skill as a mind reader, heard him say then, “and it wouldn’t be square to ask you to take a chance on my honesty. So, if it’s agreeable, I’ll pay you the hundred now, in advance.”

He had taken a bulky bill fold from his breast pocket and plucked a brittle new one-hundred-dollar note from it before Daniella, flushing some more, held up a staying hand.

“I don’t know the Florida roads, but I've heard that some of them are pretty bad,” said she, smiling rosily. “And I haven’t got you to Tampa yet, sir— much less brought you back.”

The stocky man replaced the bill in the folder when he saw that she would not take it until she had earned it.

“I’m willing to do a little gambling that you’ll get me there and back,” said he in his succinct way of speaking.

Daniella felt herself thrilling under the remark. This nice old man— he was about forty-eight, and, therefore, incredibly aged to a girl of twenty-one— had confidence in her! She had felt slightly whipped, so far, in “the land of sunshine and flowers.” This was the first person she had met in Florida who really seemed to believe in her. Substantial-looking, well-spoken old thing, too —a gentleman; and what a sunny smile that was on his funny, crowsfooty old face! He would “do a little gambling” on her, would he? Then she’d drive him to Tampa, and drive him back from Tampa— and make good!

“We’d better be starting if we’re to make Tampa by sundown,” said Daniella, stepping into the car and settling herself in the driver’s seat as unconcernedly as if she meant merely to run the old bus around the comer to the grocery to get a loaf of bread for lunch.

“Plucky young woman— you do your sex proud,” briefly commented the blocky party as he got into the seat beside her.

Daniella headed the car south on the New Smyrna road. She had a very nebulous idea, barring the fact that New Smyrna was the turning-west point, of how she was going to get to Tampa, but she was on her way.

iii

LIEUTENANT Vincent de P. Mayhew— Distinguished Service Cross and French Croix de Guerre— felt that he was in kind of bad with his dad. He had no doubt that his dad sort o’ liked him in a way, and he knew that he himself more than liked his dad. But they’d gone to the mat together two or three times lately, and the guv'nor, the lieutenant was sure, had him figured for a mule head and a boob and an all-round N. G.; and the thought that this was his guv'nor’s opinion of him made the lieutenant feel distinctly measley.

The lieutenant, an aviator in the French service in 1916-17, and in 1917-18 a first-line flyer under Pershing, had been messed up a little, as he expressed it, when his scout plane, flying low over the enemy lines in the St. Mihiel operation, had been brought down at a spot in No Man’s Land from which he just could crawl to the safety of the American lines and no more. The damage wasn’t of any permanent kind, but it was sufficient to cause him to be mustered out just before the armistice. By the time he reached the United States his folks were established in their winter home in Florida, and for Florida, of course, the young man streaked twenty-four hours after landing in New York. His mother and sister gave him a tremendous wet-eyed reception— “frightful pawing-over” was his way of phrasing it in letters to buddies still in France—and the old dad looked him over kind of blinkily, too, and blew his nose considerably and all like that.

But, a couple of weeks after the young man’s arrival in Florida, the guv'nor had begun tossing out hints with regard to his only son’s future. The old dad entertained grisly ideas, the young man considered, of what his, the lieutenant’s, life should be. The guv'nor, having built up, practically from nothing, a publishing business in the North that was now worth about three million dollars at a conservative valuation, figured that the obvious and natural thing, now that his lad was through with college and finished with flying to make the world safe for democracy, and so on, and was now verging upon twenty-five years of age— the guv'nor figured that son Vincent, after having a good rest in Florida, ought to jump right into this publishing business of his, and learn it from the bottom up, so that he’d know what to do with it when the time came for it to be passed along to him.

Son Vincent, flyer of France and America, looked upon the publishing business as a dull sort of a game, and all but said so. Publishing wasn’t in his line a-tall. No flying whatever in publishing. No romping through the circumambient blue in a big buzzard of power, tuned to high C, and thereby getting something out of life. Just a dreary old grind, squatting at a desk and being bored to extinction by long-haired and crazy-in-the-dome writing people that the boy at the anteroom gate permitted to pass through. Not for him, son Vincent, if he could help himself!

Son Vincent’s idea of a future for himself was something entirely different. It had to do with aviation— commercial aviation. He wanted to establish a light-express air-plane line between, say, New York and Chicago for a starter. Later, he could build up light-express air-plane routes right through from New York to San Francisco, Seattle, and Los Angeles, delivering parcels, of course, at way points in between; little places like Detroit and Omaha and Denver and so on. There’d be class to a business like that— the new-stuff thing; not the dreary, monotonous old-stuff game like the dry-as-dust publishing business. With a light-express air-plane line, or lines, of his own, he could keep in constant trim and fettle by doing a little flying himself right along; in fact, at the start he’d run one of the planes himself over his parcel route. And the light-express air-plane line between New York and Chicago wouldn’t cost much to start; little matter of five hundred thousand or so; cigarette change for the old dad.

To all of which the guv'nor had replied, each and every time son Vincent stated his commercial aviation plans, with just the one Word:

“Shucks!”

Not only that, but his father had seemed quite peeved on these occasions, showing no imagination whatever. Son 'Vincent felt disappointed. He always had given the old dad credit for possessing a quite passable imagination. But now!

Son Vincent, on the night of his latest run-in with his father over this future thing, decided to make a little jog somewhere in his car on the next day for the purpose of thinking matters out. Of course, the guv'nor was all wrong—hopelessiy and unimaginatively all wrong about everything— but, still, he, son Vincent, hated to have the only father he possessed look upon him as a fat-head and a fizzgigger; so maybe it would be best for him to beat it away in his car for a couple of days and give the guv'nor a chance to cool out and feel ashamed of his pitiable lack of imagination.

Where to go? He had already raced his car down from Daytona to the great army aviation camp in Southern Florida at Arcadia, where he’d had the time of his life— incidentally nearly losing it twice— trying out new air planes to the profound admiration of the young army aviators, still anchored on this side when the armistice came, who knew all about his record in France. So he wouldn’t go to Arcadia again this trip. How about Tampa? That would make a neat little day’s run. And he knew a feller over there, a young Floridian recently mustered out of the British air service, who had a pretty good buzzard of his own, a four-seated British plane. Tampa it would be! He’d get a little flying over there in the British air bus.

Vincent, in his aviator’s uniform because his new civilian duds were not yet ready, started for Tampa at nine o’clock on a morning of soft amber sunshine, in his custom-made speedster, a sport car with a mauve body that had not been built to take the dust, on regular roads, of any other car whatever. He made the fifteen miles on the concrete road, which is part of the Dixie Highway, between Daytona and New Smyrna in something satisfactorily under fifteen minutes, slowing down to thirty miles an hour only when he had to, upon heading westward out of New Smyrna over the lumpy, badly eroded shell road to De Land, twenty-six miles away.

Breathing sulphurous remarks about some of the cross-State motor roads of Florida, which he knew by heart, he had bumped over about half of the distance between New Smyrna and Deland when, at a hair-pin turn, he found himself in behind a flivver floundering along in the wheel ruts, which were pretty deep at this spot. He gave the flivver the horn to turn out so that he could pass around. The rattly old car turned all correct into the deep sand to the right, and Vincent, giving his speedster gas, was shooting around through his own deep mess of sand to the left, when, as he came opposite the flivver, he saw something that brought him to a stop practically in his car’s own length. A slim, shapely and very white hand had fluttered out, signal-wise, from the driver’s seat of the flivver. The owner of this hand, he saw, being an accomplished seer in some instances, was a singularly pretty girl, with a chauffeur’s cap perched on her astonishingly perfect-colored auburn hair— and he a maniac over red hair! He braked his car, as this girl now was braking her flivver, and twisted around in his seat to ascertain her wishes.

“Am I headed for Tampa?” the girl in the flivver inquired of him in a contraltoish voice—and he a madman over the contralto voice!

Seeing that he himself was headed for Tampa, he came perilously near to ejaculating, “Gosh! I hope sol” But, being an exceedingly well-reared young man, he replied politely:

“Yes, miss. Aren’t you acquainted with the roads hereabouts?”

He noticed now that a middle-aged man sat beside the red-haired girl—probably her father, since his own hair was sort of sandy. And he wondered to himself why these buttinski fathers of pretty red-haired girls couldn’t stay at home and read the papers or play checkers or something when their daughters went for a little tour.

“I haven’t a rabbit's idea of the way to Tampa,” the girl replied out of hand, her smile uncovering what the young man considered an amazingly faultless assortment of teeth. “But,” she added with a slight toss of her head, “I am going to Tampa all the same, and I am going to get there by sundown.”

“You can do that all right!” exclaimed this young aviator with rather excessive enthusiasm. “The road’s rotten from here to the St. John’s River. But, after you cross at Sanford, you hit the brick road, and the going’s elegant from there to Orlando and most of the way on the shell road from Orlando to Tampa, except a few miles of bad stuff around Kissimmee. But stay! I’m on my way to Tampa. Since you don’t know the road very well, why not follow my bus? I'll keep far enough ahead of you so as not to kick any dust back at you.”

“Twenty miles an hour is all I can get, with safety, out of this car on roads like these,” said the girl, looking dubious over this offer. “And you’re speeding!”

"No, I am not, really—not a-tall,” he protested, never batting an eye. “Twenty miles an hour is plenty fast enough for any car to shoot over these rutty roads. I’m not figuring on getting to Tampa much before sundown myself.”

“The young gentleman’s suggestion is very generous,” put in the middle-aged party seated beside the girl, “and it might be wise to accept his guidance to Tampa, Miss Diggs.”

Miss Diggs! Vincent, seeing that she was gazing reflectively out over the palmetto-studded scenery, took the opportunity to stare most pronouncedly at Miss Diggs’ face, his own taking on an expression of wonder as he did so. Miss Diggs! Then this jowly. elderly party beside her wasn’t her father at all. If he was her father, of course he wouldn’t be calling her Miss Diggs!

“I shall be glad to,” said the girl, and without more ado the young gentleman in the mauve-bodied car released his brake and started forward at the extremely sedate pace, for him, of twenty miles per hour, the flivver, as he saw on looking back a minute later, following him at the same gait a few hundred yards back, out of range of his car’s kick-up of dust.

The driver of the slowed speedster, steering with one hand, fell into a reverie the factors of which were woven into a medley of bronze-red hair, slim white hands, lively eyes of hazel, and a voice that reminded him of an ascending slur on the 'cello. Miss Diggs; that is to say, Dinny Diggs, christened Daniella: what oodles and slathers of enthusiastic talk he’d heard at home about Dinny Diggs almost from the day he’d reached Florida from France! And here she was, unbeknownst to his sister, Dinny Diggs’ untiring booster, wearing a chauffeur’s cap and driving a zinc Elizabeth over the rutty road to Tampa, and here he was, lucky hound! showing this wonderful Dinny Diggs the way! Life, after all, was pretty good, even if one did have to put up with a guv'nor hopelessly devoid of imagination. He’d almost be willing to make the supreme sacrifice and take a crack at the old dad’s publishing business if he could have at his side a girl like this Dinny Diggs to ameliorate the corroding monotony of a publisher’s existence. And, as to his marrying Dinny Diggs out of hand, just like that— well, why not?

He had got this far in his agreeable pastime of mapping out his own immediate future and that of another when his trained ear caught, above the muffled lisp of his sedately ambling speedster, the pr-rr-rr-rr! that is made by but one kind of an engine. He had spent three years, by day and night, awake and asleep, listening for that sound, and, knowing that he could not be mistaken, he searched the far blue ahead of him, that being the direction from which the motor’s monotone came, for the air plane. His keen young eyes found it after a few seconds of sky-groping— a big biplane, instantly recognized even at the great distance as of a famed British type, the only one of its kind, as he knew, in Florida. It was circling in descending curves, but still three thousand feet aloft, over the town of De Land, seven or eight miles away. The skies of Florida began to be flecked everywhere with the great gas birds soon after the United States “got in,” and landing fields were scraped in or around most of the towns of the State for the accommodation of the aerial visitors, most of these being army aviators on practice cruises from the Arcadia aviation field. But the aviator in the jogging speedster knew that this huge British plane was not from Arcadia.

“It’s Jack Bernays, the lucky whelp, taking a little hop around in his English bus,” he murmured enviously, said Jack Bernays being the aviator he was on his way to see in Tampa. “I wonder if he’s going to stick around inland for the day only— he’s shinning down into De Land now— and if he’ll be back in Tampa with his old buzzard when I get there?”

Then, with startling suddenness, he was brought back to earth and to swift study as to what he was going to do with his life during the next few seconds. A big car, that had just shot around a curve, was coming straight at him, only fifty feet away, holding the two ruts of a road that had mid-path room for but one car, and showing not a symptom of an intention to turn out. Vincent gripped his wheel. If the onrushing car were to smash into his relatively light sport car, he knew which of the two automobiles would be converted into kindling wood and piano wire. The car being steered straight at him, by a piggy-eyed road hog in an elaborately yoked Shantung suit, was one of those heavy, solid-silver-hooded affairs that expresses with perfect outward fidelity the twelve thousand dollars that it actually represents. The porcine person at the wheel, sitting in stuffed-shirt State in the car all by himself, manifestly expected Vincent to take to the deep sand beside the pair of ruts, or to the jungle itself alongside the trail for that matter, in order to give him an unbroken mid-path passage on the road for his twelve thousand dollars’ worth of car. And that, when the onrushing car was only fifteen feet away from him, was precisely what Vincent, having a natural desire to live a while longer, was forced to do. He gave his steering wheel a powerful wrench to the right. Something in his steering gear snapped as he did so, and the two right wheels, caught in a foot-deep gully of sand at the road’s right, rolled the car over on its right side. Vincent was tossed out of the steering seat against a road-lining mass of extremely prickly palmetto scrub. But he picked himself up instantly, being undamaged except as to his State of mind, and stopped his racing engine.

The incredible bitterness seething within him gave way, for the moment, to fear for what might happen to the flivver back of him. The car that had ditched him, far from halting, was, he saw, plunging at accelerated speed, still smack-dab in the middle of the road, toward the car, now only two hundred yards away, driven by the remarkable Dinny Diggs, his sister’s Bryn Mawr chum and school heroine in chief.

Vincent, helpless at his distance to do anything to prevent the impending accident to Dinny Diggs, stood in the middle of the road, his hands on his hips, and gave vent to language that on any ordinary occasion would have disgraced him but that now really helped him.

But he was helped more when he saw Dinny Diggs, with the road hog’s big car still catapulting at her and only fifty feet away, deliberately draw her flivver squarely across the middle of the narrow road, broad-side-on to the world in general and to road hogs in particular, leaving not enough room on either side of her car for even a toy express wagon to pass! The catapulter did the one thing in the world for him to do in these circumstances: he brought his car to a dead stop.

Vincent, his heart pounding with happiness, raced down the road at the leaping pace of a young man of twenty-five trained to the minute. When he got alongside the silver-hooded car he listened, for a very few brief seconds, to the expostulations of the Shantung-suited person with the roll of fat on his neck who, leaning forward in the steering seat and gesticulating at Daniella with heavily be-diamonded hands, was demanding passageway.

“Get out of my road, will you?” was the gist of his demand. “I have a date in Daytona at eleven o’clock. Why do you block my road? Get out of my way, will you?”

Daniella, sitting at ease with her hands resting on the top of her wheel, seemed not to hear. But she was gazing steadily, as if expecting something, at the young man in aviator’s uniform— as yet unseen by the Shantung-swaddled one— who had loped up behind the silvered car. Vincent proceeded to live up to whatever she might be expecting. He sauntered around to the steering side of the big car, stepped on the running board, reached in with a pair of swift and sinewy hands, and grabbed the occupant of the car by the two lapels of his nice silky coat.

“Say, you,” Vincent inquired in a matter-of-fact tone of this person, “are you aware that you ditched me back yonder a couple of minutes ago?”

The porkish one whose twenty-dollar gold piece Daniella had seemed not to see on the day before, looking panic-stricken, fluttered bejeweled hands wildly about his head, and all but screamed:

“I did not see. I am in a hurry. I have an appointment in Daytona at eleven. Take your hands off me, will you?”

“A hog,” said Vincent, tightening his grip on the lapels, “is generally swabbed before he’s got ready for smoking. And I can’t remember, just at the moment, any hog that needed a little wetting-down more than you do.”

With a sudden irresistible yank, he pulled the wailing pudgy one out of the car. A drainage trench, holding about two feet of almost-stagnant water overgrown with scummy-looking water hyacinth, paralleled one side of the road at this spot. Vincent, pulling the now veritably screaming one to his feet after getting him out of the car, turned him in the direction of this creek, set him going by the simple expedient of pressing a knee into the small of his back, hustled him to the verge of the canal, and incontinently thrust him into it. He hit the water, face and stomach down, with a splash, rolled around for a few seconds searching for footing, and emerged, spluttering horribly, on the bank, his hair and his Shangtung apparel so wreathed with entwining sprigs of water hyacinth that he looked like a bad caricature of a sort of clothed, twentieth-century Bacchus.

“Well done, ol’ son,” commented the blocky man in Daniella’s flivver, fixing his keen and kindling eyes on Vincent. “I could go a little myself when I was your age, but I could never at any stage of my life have done that job so capably.”

Daniella, her own eyes considerably a-kindle, drew her car ahead of the silver-wrapped one, and the road hog, pulling wet and weedy leaves from his hair and muttering terrible things in some tongue unfamiliar to those present, got into his car, pulled her wide open, and sped eastward.

Daniella, bent upon utilizing her lowly flivver for Samaritan service, drew it up the road alongside the lordly high-powered car with the mauve body, now lying helplessly on its side. The latter car’s owner found, after the briefest investigation, that an arm of a steering knuckle had snapped when he turned the car off the road. His car, therefore, was dead for the time; it would not steer under its own power, and could be guided only with difficulty if towed.

Daniella undertook to pull the car back into the road and to tow it to De Land, where there are good repair garages. So Vincent rigged his ditched car to the flivver’s rear axle by the hawser he found in his junk box, and Daniella, setting her car in low gear and giving it the whole throttleful of gas, tugged and tugged and tugged, the straining flivver uttering sounds upon that still subtropical landscape that sent the blue cranes and white herons screaming from the palmetto scrub for the next county. Vincent and the blocky passenger, while she tugged, succeeded in getting the overturned car on its wheels beside the road. But at the very instant they accomplished this, there was a riot of ripping and tearing from the flivver— a sound, on an enormously magnified scale, like that which ensues when a two-dollar watch is wound too tightly and all of the Works thereof jangle together in a hideous, terrifying bust like the wreck of worlds. Daniella shut off the flivver’s power and Vincent took a look to see what had happened. Nothing much had happened except that the rear-end spider gears of Daniella’s car had been utterly stripped. The lowly car-for-hire, until repaired, was as useless as a bladeless jacknife.

So here were three well-meaning people, all bound for Tampa on different quests and purposes, who for their own respective reasons had been keen to get to Tampa on that day, standing somewhat baffledly in the middle of the De Land road, and Tampa still a hundred and thirty-five miles away!

But, far back on the long level road from New Smyrna, Vincent, looking for it, soon saw the dust of the approaching Daytona-De Land big six-wheeled motor bus.

“We’ll make Tampa by sundown all right,” he remarked matter-of-factly. “Here comes the bus. It’ll get us to De Land in half em hour. I’ll hire a car in De Land and drive it, and we can shoot over to Tampa in no time at all.”

The blocky man, Daniella’s passenger for Tampa, murmured his approval. But Daniella dissented. There seemed no further. reason for her to go to Tampa. A car that didn’t belong to her, which she was chauffering for hire, lay disabled in the road. This was the ending of her first job as a chauffeur for hire. Now, of course, she would lose her job; not only that, but she would have to pay for the flivver’s repairs. Therefore it behooved her to stand by her car until it was repaired, drive it back to Daytona, go through the motions of being fired from her job, and then proceed to look for another one. She pictured her duty in the situation with the appealing gravity of youth.

The two men, upon this presentation of Daniella’s case, laughed with utter callousness and evident enjoyment. Seeing which, Daniella laughed with them.

“You forget,” said her passenger, showing the crowsfooty smile which by this time she had learned decidedly to like, “that in engaging your car I undertook to make good for breakages. Your car can’t be out of the De Land repair garage until some time tomorrow. You’ll be back in De Land from Tampa to-morrow in time to drive your repaired car back to Daytona before dark, which conforms with the schedule we arranged. Better make the little journey to Tampa with this young officer and me. It’ll relax you—take your mind off jobs and the like.”

The young officer concurred eloquently with this view. But before Daniella, oscillating betwixt the two males’ differing methods of persuasion, was forced to a decision, the big bus for De Land rumbled along, and they got aboard of it, Daniella and Vincent squeezing into the last crosswise seat and Daniella’s passenger grabbing the one empty space directly in front of them in the seat ahead.

“Listen,” said the young man to the girl after the bus had got under way; he had been grilled in the Gehenna of war for three years, but he spoke with a lad’s impulsiveness and his face wore a lad’s grin as he spoke. “Aren’t you the girl my sister Edith calls Dinny Diggs— her Bryn Mawr buddy?”

Not a vestige of surprise was mingled with Daniella’s responding smile.

“Edith Mayhew nicknamed me that,” she replied. “But I’m Dinny only at Bryn Mawr. My name in Florida, and other places where I work, is Daniella.”

“Daniella— dandy name— never heard it before!” ejaculated the aerial veteran. “But listen: I heard all about you when I was over yonder. Edith wrote about you in most of her letters. She’s bugs about you. Well, first thing I saw in Edith’s room when I got here to Florida was your picture —photograph of you in tennis togs; it’s in a filigree frame on Edie’s dressing table. Good picture—except that the red hair doesn’t show in the photograph, but she told me about that. Well, anyhow, listen: D’ye know, Daniella, what I said to Edie the minute I saw that picture of you?”

“I haven’t the least idea,” said Daniella.

“I told her I was going to marry you on sight,” was the astounding remark of the brash youth in the aviator’s uniform.

“Did you?” inquired Daniella, not seeming to find anything astounding in it. “Rather a reckless prophecy, wasn’t it? But, of course, I’ve heard that you always were pretty reckless.”

“Why, did you ever hear anything about me?” he inquired with the fatuous grin of a boyish egotism.

“None of us at Bryn Mawr heard much of anything else from Edith from the time you went abroad,” said Daniella, entirely composed. “She had pictures of you—first in your French flying rig, and later in the American uniform you’re wearing now—all over her rooms. The girls used to burn joss sticks before the pictures, by way of incense, every time your name was mentioned in the papers. I’ll say for you, though, that you don’t look quite so frightfully conceited in real life as you do in those photographs. It was, of course, because I’d become so familiar with all those pictures of you in Edith’s rooms at Bryn Mawr that I knew, as soon as I saw you to-day, that you were Vincent Mayhew.”

The bus had come to a stop to pick up another roadside passenger at the instant when Daniella mentioned, in the sudden silence, the young man’s name. Daniella’s flivver passenger, wedged in the seat directly in front of them, gave a slight start and squirmed around in his place to scrutinize with considerable intentness the young man’s countenance. He turned this off into a good-natured smile of inquiry.

“Having a good time, young people?” he asked them.

“All out for Dee La-a-and!” the bus driver megaphoned through his funneled hands a few moments later. The three Tampa-bound passengers debarked from the rumbler and made for a near-by garage.

iv

VINCENT, before engaging a car for the drive to Tampa, was giving directions to the garage boss as to the towing-in and repairing of the two crippled cars lying back on the road, when a hurrying young man, all in flying leather, and with his goggles pushed back upon his aviator’s helmet, jumped out of the automobile, with trailer attached, which he had just driven with reckless speed through the clutter of motor vehicles into the garage. When his falcon’s eye fell upon the young man in the uniform of an aviation officer talking with the garage boss, he made in two pounces the spot where that youth was standing and, roughly grabbing Vincent by a shoulder, turned him half around.

“ ’Lo, Vince,” said the leather-rigged one. “Just the buddy I want. Where you bound?”

“ ’Lo, Jack,” said Vincent. ‘What’s the idee? I was bound for Tampa, to swap service lies with you, and plug around a little in your old buzzard. You’ve sailed her here, I see. How’s she workin’?”

“Eleganter than ever,” said this Jack Bernays person, a young man with a boyish, if not a really infantile, countenance and big round blue eyes, who, in the service of Britain, had piloted a scout plane during the two British battles of Ypres, afterward putting in some months bombing German Rhine cities from a huge Handley-Page— and still remained the invincible boy! “Say, listen, Vince,” he rattled on with a lad’s wheedling way of asking a favor, “do somethin’ for me, will ya?”

“Shoot,” said Vincent. “You know me Al.”

“Well, it’s this way, Vince,” said Jack Bernays, this American lad now rated a British ace. “I’ve just lobbed over here from Tampa to see— er— you know— the one that was with the Red Cross at Saloniki.” The boy flushed. “Miss Graham— she’s just back from Saloniki. I’m going to marry her, and all like that—if she’ll let me. She’s visiting my uncle’s folks at their orange grove back of here. But she’s going to Miami at five this afternoon. And, durn it, I want to be with her for a little while, don’t I?”

“ 'Course,” said Vincent. “Who’s stopping you?”

“But listen, Vince,” agonizedly went on the British ace. “When I land at the grove, what do I get but orders from my Uncle Ed for a return trip to Tampa? It’s Lily, the black cook at the grove, in trouble. Her granddaughter—a year-old pickaninny— that she’d been keeping with her at the grove, died suddenly early this morning. Atop of that comes a telephone message from Tampa, about an hour ago, saying that Lily’s son, this dead pickaninny’s father, working in the shipyards at Tampa, had been badly messed up in an accident. Lily wants to be with her son right away, and, of course, she wants to bury the dead pickaninny with her mother in Tampa. So, to oblige Lily, who’s been with his family for thirty years, my Uncle Ed orders me, as soon as I land, to turn around and head again for Tampa, and tote Lily and the dead baby with me. Savvy?”

“Sure,” said Vincent. “And that'd rob you of your day at the grove with the Red Cross young lady just back from Saloniki that you’re going to marry if she’ll stand for it. I get you, bo. Sure I’ll shoot your old buzzard to Tampa for you. Glad to, ol’ scout.”

“That's what I call bein’ a reg’lar feller, Vince,” delightedly exclaimed the boyish veteran of the air by the name of Bernays. “But how ’bout these folks with you?”

“They’re going along,” was Vincent’s calm declaration.

He led young Bernays over to Daniella and Daniella’s passenger and introduced him briefly.

“I’m going to do a little errand, to Tampa and back here, for Jack in this air bus,” he said to them, “so that fixes everything. There’s plenty of room—it’s a four-seated plane— and you folks are going with me.”

He told them, in a few words, what Bernays had told him about the troubles of black Lily, Daniella’s eyes filling when the dead pickaninny was mentioned. Her blocky passenger blew his nose violently.

“Suits me,” said the latter. “You’re coming back here to De Land in the plane, you say? I’m afraid that lets me out for the return trip. I’ve got those two phonographs to haul from Tampa to Daytona.”

“There’ll be room in the fourth seat for them when we leave-Lily at Tampa,” Vincent promptly arranged that. “You ready for the ride. Miss Diggs?” She was “Miss Diggs,” plainly, only because there were others present.

Daniella, it appeared, had been insanely eager to ride in an air plane ever since she had first seen one.

Bernays had brought the trailer to the garage to get gasoline for his air plane. The filled cans of fuel were loaded on the trailer, and the party, in the Bernays automobile, were taken to an orange grove, a few miles back of De Land, of principality proportions, with a modern manor house to match about a mile back from the entering road— a hard-packed shell road of double width that Bernays had found a perfect runway for his big British plane. Uncle Ed and his womenfolk, a quick-minded American family, caught the situation after the briefest explanation when Nephew Jack and his party drew up in the automobile, and all hands got busy helping with the preparations. Vincent disappeared with Bernays, and when he reappeared he was wearing the latter’s leather clothes. The womenfolk took Daniella in hand, and when she came down from their apartments she was swaddled like an Eskimo woman, with a heavy knitted woolen shawl swathed around her head and face until only the automobile touring goggles over her eyes were visible. Uncle Ed hauled Daniella’s flivver passenger off to his rooms, and when the blocky man' returned to the front porch he was padded like a stage Falstaff. ,Then Lily, a very elderly black servitor naturally very stout, was escorted around from the kitchen, arrayed against the upper-ether cold like the others. Daniella took the dead black baby from the old negress’ arms and carried it to the plane, two hundred yards down the grove road from the house. The black woman was not in the least afraid of the journey through the sky to Tampa. For years she had been hurtled hither and yon through Florida in motor cars by the desperado drivers, male and female, of her family of white folks, so that life could hold no further terrors for her.

Jack Bernays carefully strapped them all into their seats, gave Vincent some final directions about throttle management, tugged at the propeller blades, and the big plane, gliding down the long shell road like a great dragon fly, took the air majestically a few hundred yards from the grove’s main gate. The riders, for the ensuing hour and a quarter, were conscious of little else save the all but overpowering noise, which they had been accustomed to consider a mere pr-r-rr-rr, of the plane’s motor, though Daniella’s aerial mood was one of extreme exaltation, which she yearned to express by singing wildly, and she would have done that save for the presence, in the arms of the old black woman in the seat behind her, of the dead baby.

Vincent, holding the great plane at three thousand feet, steered it, straight as the flight of a frigate bird, and the motor under a slight pull at that, the one hundred and thirty-five miles to Tampa in an hour and a quarter, landing joltlessly in the Tampa Fair Grounds at two o’clock in the afternoon. Here, leaving the plane in charge of the fair-grounds watchman, Vincent and Daniella took a jitney, with Lily and the dead child in the back seat, for a colored folks’ undertaking establishment, from which they carried Lily to the hospital where her injured son lay, Daniella’s blocky passenger at the same time taking a separate jitney for the establishment where he was to get his precious phonographs. He brought the two big boxes back in the jitney with him an hour later, just as Vincent and Daniella, having carried Lily from the hospital to the home of her Tampa relatives, swung back into the fair grounds. The boxes were stowed and strapped in the seat Lily had vacated, and at half past three, all Tampa business having been disposed of, the car was headed back for De Land.

“D’ye mind a simple little stunt or two?” Vincent asked the other two just before the start. “I ain’t had no fun in so long I’m lonesome! Maybe I’ll feel like trying this ol’ pelican out after I get her going good.”

Daniella and her ex-passenger nodded in a manner that signified “Go to it!” as plainly as words— and were sorry they had done so about fifteen minutes later.

If they gave themselves up for lost when Vincent thrust the plane into a nose dive that was like the swoop of a meteor, they were convinced that they already had arrived in the world beyond when, a little later, he backed the machine into a prolonged tail spin. Having attained this State of ghostliness, they yearned for Nirvana and its complete cessation of consciousness when, with De Land two thousand feet below them, he looped the loop ten distinct and agonizing times above the distant tiny roofs of that lovely city of the palmetto plain.

They took dinner at the manor house in the orange grove, participated in the agreeable evening of music and talk in the drawing room, slept in Uncle Ned’s remarkably comfortable beds, and, in mid-forenoon of the next day, started back for Daytona in their repaired cars, Daniella again possessed of her passenger, whose brace of boxes held down the rear seat of the flivver, and Vincent, slightly depressed over this unavoidable arrangement, leading the way in his mauve-bodied speedster. A brittle new one-hundred-dollar bill, folded lengthwise, lay neatly tucked under the sweat band of Daniella’s chauffeur’s cap. Her passenger had tucked it there when, on the last leg of the return trip from New Smyrna, Daniella had stoutly and sincerely demurred at accepting it for a service which she had been able to render only in part. His method of stifling her demurrer was to threaten to get out of the flivver and walk the rest of the way to Daytona, carrying a heavy box under each arm, unless she accepted the fee he had agreed to pay her.

The two cars, reaching Daytona soon after the hour of noon, drew up together in front of Daniella’s passenger’s hotel, the main hostelry on Ridgewood Avenue, the nearest thing on the mainland of North America to a magic thoroughfare in a fairy domain. Two negro porters raced down a flower-bordered walk to carry the pair of boxes into the hotel. The blocky man, debarking from the flivver, shook hands with Daniella and then, stepping over to the speedster, with Vincent, he rested his arms for a moment on the side of Vincent's car, and, smiling his crowsfootiest, said to that young man:

“Son, you drove that aerial horse right well. It surprised me somewhat to see you do so well, for at the age of five you gave little or no promise of ever becoming a good driver of anything. The last time I saw you, up to yesterday, was on a Christmas

Day just twenty years ago. On that occasion you were trying to ride a white-maned, calico-dappled rocking horse that I’d given you for a Christmas gift. You were so unpromising at the business then that you fell off the rocking horse and skinned your nose quite badly, and, you may believe me or not, my boy, but the bawls and bellers that you let out of your system after that mishap are ringing in my ears yet, after all these years.”

Whereupon this astonishing individual with the smile of many creases, chuckling, turned away from Vincent’s car and trotted with the greatest briskness, for a man of his heavy build, up the flower-bordered walk into the hotel.

Vincent gaped after him. Daniella, who had overheard the little reminiscence, stared inquiringly at Vincent.

“Gave me— kid five years old— a rocking horse,” Vincent mumbled wonderingly. “Now I wonder who the dickens that dead-game old sport is?”

“Of course I've no more idea who he is than you have,” murmured Daniella. “But I can tell you what he is.”

“What's that?” asked Vincent.

“A duck,” said Daniella,

v

VINCENT de P. Mayhew, senior, was apologizing ruefully to the old-boy guests of his birthday party, as they arrived, for the monotonous exhibit of mineral waters on his sideboard.

“Not a thing in the house but that infernal stuff,” was the gist of these apologies. “I did my blamedest to have it otherwise, but I couldn’t make the grade, fellers. Ordered oodles of stuff from the North more than a month ago. Stuff was shipped, too— I have letters and wires to that effect. But these gosh-danged government-balled-up railroads—”

The arriving guests, tactful elderly lads of substance, did what they could to palliate their host's visible humiliation. But this is not saying that they were not, so to speak, slightly disappointed. They, too, had ordered shipments from the North that had not arrived. But they had hoped that Friend Mayhew’s luck had been better. Despite all they could do to sprinkle the called-for cheer over the occasion, their protests of indifference as to what was on the sideboard rang with a certain hollowness; they wore the air of tactful old boys striving earnestly to make the best of something.

They had just seated themselves, the dozen and odd birthday guests, around the flower-embellished table, and were setting themselves to do the very best they could by a very choice collation that, nevertheless, lacked the accompanying liquids of Mr. Mayhew’s birthday parties of other years, when the black butler— grinning with his foreknowledge of what was impending— opened the door leading into the great hall.

Two spick-and-span negro bell hops, wearing the uniform of Daytona’s leading Ridgewood Avenue hotel, stood outside the door in the hall's blaze of light, one on either side of a handsome new ice box. The butler helped them roll the ice box into the dining room and place it alongside the sideboard. Vincent de P. Mayhew, senior, and his old-boy guests blinked wonderingly at the proceeding. The black butler, while the two hell-hops went out to complete their errand, opened the lid of the ice box and drew something from it. The something was a quart bottle of a vintage champagne, wearing its fine misty perspiration that indicated perfect icing.

“Fo’ty-seven mo’ lak dis heah one in de box, suh,” the butler, with his ineradicable grin, said to his employer.

If there were any sedate people walking on Beach Street in front of the Mayhew residence just at that moment, they no doubt concluded, from the wild cheer that broke from the dry throats of the old boys, that there must be highly indecorous carryings-on in progress behind the doors of that splendid Spanish-mission bungalow.

The two bell hops from the Ridgewood Avenue hotel re-entered the room of festivity almost immediately, carrying between them a large box duly stamped with the trade name and device of one of the leading American manufactories of phonographs. The black butler, all ready with his shiny-bladed hatchet, made a swift job of knocking the top off this box, and, from its straw packing, he plucked one of the bottles and held it up for the inspection of his employer and his employer’s guests. It was a sure-nough bottle of a brand of Scotch that has been all but extinct in the United States since the beginning of the war.

“Twenty-fo’ bottles of dis heah Scotch medicine in de box, suh,” announced the butler, his grin now extending literally from ear to ear.

In the midst of another cheer that might easily have been heard on the far side of the moon-silvered river, Mr. Byron J. Bingley, Daniella’s flivver passenger, appeared smiling at the hall door, a pretty tidy-looking middle-aged party in his well-fitting evening clothes.

The birthday party rose to Mr. Bingley, and two of the husky old boys lifted him clear of the ground and carried him to the table on their shoulders.

So a pleasant time was had by all at the fourteenth Florida birthday party of Vincent de P. Mayhew, senior.

When the party had dispersed, Mr. Mayhew and Mr. Bingley sat, old-cronylike, on the bungalow’s second-story portico, smoking their cigars and looking out over the moon-drenched river. From the white motor yacht, moored to the Mayhew private landing that extended from the grassy, date-palm-shaded bluff, floated, in the stillness, the chattering voices of young people. The young people were Lieutenant Vincent de P. Mayhew, his sister Edith, and Daniella Diggs; the latter irrecoverably Dinny again in the presence of the schoolmate inventor of that nickname.

“Clean boy, that scamp of yours,” said Mr. Bingley to Mayhew, senior. “And I’ll bet you the best hundred cigars procurable for money that he’ll marry the very nicest red-headed girl that I ever saw.”

“Hope so,” said Mayhew, senior, who had held considerable converse with Daniella late that afternoon, when Daniella, on Edith Mayhew’s masterful insistence, became her schoolmate’s house guest. “She’d settle the cub down; and when he’s settled down maybe I could make a publisher of him.”

A silence fell between them for a space,
and then Mayhew, senior, began to chuckle. Mr. Bingley had told him at length of his adventures on his quest of the “phonographs;” of the gumption, the good nature, the ability to meet emergencies, the all-around dash and go that had been exhibited by his two youthful companions on this journey on the ground and in the air. So Mayhew, senior, his saturnine mind working back to Mr. Bingley’s enthusiasm over these traits of the two young people, chuckled.

“ ‘Adolescence is embedded in the amber of its own antiquity,’ ” he quoted softly.

Mr. Bingley pretended not to hear.

“ ‘Youth, patternized to the last pin-feather, in the fetters of formulae, lacks initiative and disdains innovation,’ ” the host, chuckling some more, went on quoting.

“Go ahead—rub it in,” growled Mr. Bingley.

“ ‘Youth, glorying in its mental opacity’ —whatever that is!— ‘glides forever in the rut of least resistance.’ ”

“Enjoy yourself, old top!”

“ ‘Youth does the old, old things in the old, old way.’ ”

“That’s it— hit a feller when he’s down.”

“ ‘Youth is benightedness; bunkerino; blurbiness—’ ”

“Great little game— soakin’ a man below the belt.”

“ ‘Youth, if it’s a She, has got to be all sugar from stockinettes to side combs, and, if a He, one-hundred-proof saccharine on stilts.’ ”

“Say, can’t you see you’ve won this round already?”

“ ‘Youth, scorning the sensible and pooh-poohing plausibility, hankers solely for the old, old hoakum. Youth—’ ”

“Aw, shut up, Mayhew!”

Mr. Bingley, taking the raking with a good-natured grin, tossed his cigar over the portico rail, and, rising, stretched his big arms.

“There’s something in knowing how to make your mistakes work for you, Mayhew,” said he. “Maybe you remember, with that too infernally good memory of yours, what I told you the picture play I came down here to film is composed of?”

“ ‘Milky moonlight, marshmallows, muddle-headedness, and mush,’ ” promptly replied Mayhew, senior.

“Right-o,” said Mr. Bingley. “Well, I’m going to can that, and write a movie myself, for immediate Florida filming, around your rogue of a son and the nice red-haired girl he’s making love to at the present moment in the boat over yonder.”

________________

7: An Alibi for Altogether Al

Clarence L. Cullen

Popular Magazine, 20 Nov 1920

THIS BEING a delicate subject or an extremely indelicate one, according to the point of view, the need for the exercise of a proper restraint in publicly reviewing it is duly recognized. But, if the case is to be considered impartially, there is no possible way of avoiding, even for so worthy a purpose as the conservation of public morals, a downright presentation, at the very outset, of the essential fact in the affair. This, then, is the main fact:

Immediately following the announcement of the candidacy for Congress of Alfred Z. Budlong, a rumor was rapidly circulated, and widely accepted to the effect that some unmentioned person, living within the boundaries of the district which Alfred Z. Budlong aspired to represent in Congress, was known to possess a highly improper, not to say a shocking, photograph of the aspirant; a photograph showing that Alfred Z. Budlong, apparently in a state of entire sobriety and clothed in his right mind, shamelessly had posed for a camera when clothed in nothing else; denuded, that is to say, of every single, solitary stitch of drapery; in a condition, in short, of complete and unqualified unappareledness.

This rumor, swift as contagion and pervasive as an irruption of caterpillars, completely overspread Bloomoria, Mr. Budlong’s home town of fifty thousand inhabitants, within less than twenty-four hours after the friends of the wholesale lumber merchant, somewhat against his desire, had pitched his hat into the ring as a candidate in the primaries for Congress.

But, as usual in such cases, the rumor achieved a glancing or ricocheting penetration to the consciousness of the individual whom chiefly it concerned and besmudged. Mr. Budlong, in fact, found himself moving in a medium of mystery— mystery swaddled in an encircling sibilance of snickers— three minutes after leaving his home for his office on the morning following the proclamation of his candidacy.

He drove his rattly old roadster, which he vastly preferred to the car with the hyphenated name which his wife and daughters used, into the rear of his regular or. daily repair garage— for the antique roadster developed some new ailment every day— to have a loose radius-rod rebolted. He viewed the slightly sidelong, greasy grins with which the garage mechanics regarded him as the natural method of expression of a certain shyness which no doubt they now felt in the presence of a prominent Bloomorian upon whom the signal honor of candidacy for Congress had just been conferred.

But the quizzical sparkle in the eye of the garage proprietor, who presently strolled into the rear shop from his office, plainly did not proceed from any feeling of shyness; Mr. Budlong knew that it would be asking a good deal to expect a man, who as a boy had played shinny and hookey with him and punched him in the nose and get punched back, to look embarrassed or self-conscious in his presence even now that so exalted a distinction had been bestowed upon him.

“ 'Lo, Al!” greeted the garage proprietor, the peculiar sparkle queerly illuminating his sardonic grin. “Aiming for Congress, I see.”

“Mornin’, Jim— yep, they’re going to stick me up for you fellers to take a shot at,” replied the candidate in the tone he employed with people he had known always. -“Better hop in and help haul me through the primaries, if you want your income tax shaved. Because I’m telling you there’s going to be something stirring in Washington, if you folks send A. Z. B. down there!”

“I s’pose they’ll be spreading your picture —your all-dressed-up picture— from one end of the district to the other now— eh, Al?” observed the garage man, with a certain saturnine detachment, strongly stressing the “all-dressed-up” phrase.

Mr. Budlong, watching the rebolting of the loose radius-rod, said he supposed so, pictures of candidates being one of the inflictions their friends had to endure. The garage man, seeing that his barb had gone wide, tried another.

“I don’t recollect ever seeing any picture of you, Al— barring them comical caricatures the papers printed of you and the rest of the reception committee last Old Home Week,” he probed, gazing pointedly at the candidate through narrowed eyes in which the quizzical sparkle still shone. “Come to think of it, there’s never been any photograph of you in our album at home. Ain’t had many photographs taken, have you, Al? Of course I don’t mean private photographs, as you might call ’em, but pictures taken in a regular photograph gallery with your Sunday duds on and all like that.”

Mr. Budlong looked slightly annoyed. His annoyance proceeded from a sensitiveness which, from his adolescence onward, he had always felt on the subject of photographs. “As homely as Al Budlong,” he knew, had been a comparison in common usage in his home town since his earliest manhood. The garage man, taking his registering of annoyance as a palpable admission of guilt, grinned more grimly than ever.

When Mr. Budlong, after driving away from the garage, pulled up at the drug-store curb— his breakfast beginning to remind him that he was out of the dyspepsia tablets— he waved his hand, in accordance with a custom formed in his childhood, at an old lady with a market basket whom he had known all his life and who had been his consistent and irrepressible booster. Far from waving back at him, as per her pleasant habit, the old lady, bringing her portly waddle to a sudden jarring halt and standing rigid, glared at him with a ferocity that fairly glittered through the lenses of her gold-rimmed spectacles, then waddled on at an accelerated pace as if to make it impossible for him to overtake her should he feel disposed to demand an explanation. Mr. Budlong, frozen for a full minute to complete immobility, stared after her. Then, his need for coffee-conquering dyspepsia tablets becoming too exigent for further delay, he entered the drug store.

The druggist, a pallid little bald man, with a fixed catlike smile, greeted him with at least the ghost of a certain condescension, in which, too, could be traced a kind of drab, diluted amusement.

“Give me a two-hundred-size box of those make-food-behave tablets, Jeff,” he said with a new and slightly artificial breeziness, as of a candidate for Congress. “I celebrated a little rashly this morning— drank three cups of coffee instead of my usual one and a half.”

“Celebrated what?” icily inquired the druggist.

“Oh, a little stroke of luck that came my way yesterday,” replied Mr. Budlong. The breeziness had gone out of his tone. The contacts of the morning were beginning to have a certain corrosive effect upon this candidate.

“Luck, hey?” chillingly commented the druggist. ‘Well, you have been pretty lucky — so far. You’ve been the very image— I might say the taken-from-life photograph— of luck; the stark-stripped snapshot of luck, when it comes to that. But it’s just as well to remember that luck like you’ve had ain’t going to last always, in certain contingencies, Mister Budlong.”

“Mister Budlong!” The candidate, bound anew upon the wheel of wonder by this second distinctly pointed allusion of the morning to photographs, was forced to repress a gasp at the “Mister Budlong.”

“Say, look a here, Jeff,” he started to storm, in the tone of an outraged friend, “supposing you thaw out a little and tell me what the dev— the dickens,” he amended, seeing a woman customer entering the store, “you mean by this silly all-of-a-sudden mistering busi—"

“What can I do for you this morning, miss?” the druggist, stepping with unwonted elaborate politeness from behind the counter, inquired of the woman customer.

Mr. Budlong, thus reduced to fatuity, could only pick up his packet of dyspepsia tablets and walk out. But he walked in a simoom of uncomfortable speculation. Photographs! What in blazes did everybody mean this morning by chattering to him about photographs? And that “Mister Budlong” rap—for, of course, it had been meant for a rap: what was the sinister hidden meaning back of that? He determined hotly to return to the drug store, later in the forenoon, to demand of Jeff Pringle just what the dev—

Siss for shame! Siss for Shame! Everybody knows your name!

This harmless chant of childhood, which in other circumstances might have amused the candidate with its well-remembered implication of uninjurious infantile accusation, had an entirely different effect as boomed at him at this instant in a deep bass voice from a car standing in front of his roadster.

The chanter, a paunchy man with a practically circular countenance and thickly larded jowls, was a Bloomorian who, in a way of speaking, could afford to chant or not to chant, just as the caprice might seize him, and who could equally well afford to enact the part of the community clip, with a hippopotamuslike sense of humor, whenever he felt like it, as too frequently he did; being none other than the president of Mr. Budlong’s bank—which, to make it the more binding, was the Federal Reserve Bank of the district—and Bloomoria’s wealthiest inhabitant; being also the chief stockholder of Bloomoria’s leading afternoon newspaper, with the policy of which he was known often to interfere with inevitably bungling results.

Mr. Budlong, taut as a stanchion under the sudden impact of the surprising street greeting, stared blankly at the banker.

“Well, A. Z.,” inquired Mr. Powellton with cheery malevolence, ‘“how’s the little old focus and everything this fine morning? You look fit to fight for your life. Every move a picture. Talking about pictures now—"

Mr. Budlong, frozen solid from his feet to his neck, but practically in flames from his collar band to his top hair, remained stock-still in the center of the sidewalk, waiting. Locomotion and speech were for the moment denied him.

“Talking about photographs,” rumblingly repeated the wealthy hippo humorist, resting his forearms comfortably against the wheel of his car, “just what seemed to be your little old idea, A. Z.? In the altogether, I mean. That Trilby impersonation of yours. Or maybe it was meant to be Ajax, dudless, defying the lightning. Did some prowling snapshootist catch you unawares, or did you just nachully decide to give posterity the pleasure and benefit, through photography, of acquainting itself with your anatomical contour.”

“Wait a minute,’ Mr. Budlong said hoarsely, stepping alongside the banker’s car. He took a good working two-hand grip on the car door and stuck his flaming face under the top until it was only about four inches distant from Mr. Powellon’s. “Now,” be demanded, “lop the trimmings off this rigmarole of yours and tell me what you're gabbling about!”

An abashed bank president in the act of being earnestly, if not fiercely, addressed by his abasher is so uncommon a spectacle that little knots of passing Bloomorians paused on the sidewalk to absorb it.

“Why, you don’t mean to say, A. Z.,” he broke out in a hearty tone of incredulity, with the sidewalk rubberers intently listening in, “that I am the first to tell you about this— er— undraped photograph of yourself that everybody in Bloomoria is saying you had tak—"

Mr. Budlong’s arm— the arm attached to the fist that was flying straight for a bank president’s nose— was caught and yanked back by somebody in the candidate’s rear.

“Come along, Al— got to have a talk with you right away about a little matter,” this capable yanker, a raw-boned, middle-aged man with shrewd eyes and a look of substance, said calmly in the candidate’s nigh ear, hanging on to the arrested arm. The banker-humorist, exhibiting marked talent in selecting the correct moment for a get-away, shot his car down the street.

“Did you hear what that dam’ chucklehead said to me, Bill?” Mr. Budlong, figuratively foaming, demanded of his friend and political sponsor, William S. Hazelbush, national committeeman, who, by his timely grab of the catapulting arm, had spared the chucklehead at least one healthy wallop.

“Ye-eh, I heard it— and I haven’t heard much of anything else since I got on the street this morning,” unexcitedly replied Bill.

It was in his own office, and from Bill Hazelbush, already self-designated as the Budlong political manager, that the candidate presently got the facts about the rumor that had been glancing and ricocheting all around him from the beginning of his morning.

Mr. Budlong listened agitatedly, but with locked jaws. When he had heard the tale out he took a couple of heavy-footed back-and-forth turns on his office rug.

“They can have their smudgy old Congress seat, Bill,” he said to Mr. Hazelbush, his intimate from tike-hood. “I’m not going to stand for this kind of smearing.”

Bill, smiling the inscrutable smile of a national committeeman sagely familiar with all these symptoms of a first-time candidate, twiddled his thumbs and said nothing.

“Got a wife and daughters to think about,

Bill,” mumbled the tender-skinned tyro. “Can’t fool with a game that messes a man up this way— mustn’t do it, if only for the sake of my womenfolks.”

Under the rush of another torrent of hideous realization, Mr. Budlong’s undeniably homely countenance again turned a fiery red for about the fourteenth time since Bill had revealed to him the nature of the rumor.

“Whew— gosh!” feverishly raved Mr. Budlong. “This is going some for an alleged respectable citizen and taxpayer! Bill,” he demanded of his sponsor, “did you ever have one of these here fool dreams of being present at a ball or party or something, or walking on a crowded street, without a rag of clothes to your back?”

Bill nodded.

“Well, that’s me right now— wide awake!” muttered Mr. Budlong. “Great little mess for a man to find himself in. Man of forty-two. That’s supposed to be decent. His neighbors saying there’s a photograph of him somewhere without any duds on. Tittering over it! Whew-gosh! Hey, Bill,” pausing in front of his friend and political sponsor, “get my name scratched off the whole blasted program.”

“Fine,” Bill broke his prolonged silence. “You’ve got the right idea about the whole thing, Al. I wish I’d known long ago that you had all this political talent.”

“Never mind the kidding, Bill— I mean what I’m saying,” put in the candidate.

“Right idea all around,” Bill went on calmly. ‘First off you go up in the air over the opening campaign yarn and start to soak on the nose the leading banker in town— your own banker— who in addition to that publishes a viperish evening newspaper fastbound to the interests of the opposite party. Next, with the campaign nearly one whole day old, you demand that your name be withdrawn altogether. Ill have to hand this to you, if nothing else: you sure are some fast little political worker, Al.”

Mr. Budlong, under the gun, plumped into a swivel chair and sat silent.

“The beauty about that quitting-’em-cold idea of yours,” Bill continued, “is that it would let the springers of this yarn get away with it. Because all hands— not only the agin’-you gang that want the nomination for themselves or their pals, but your friends as well— would say, and be justified in saying, that you’d-quit because you couldn’t or wouldn’t take a chance on that supposititious, there-ain’t-no-sich photograph being dangled before the electorate. The other candidates all know you’ve got ’em licked if you stay in. That’s why the hot little sooners have started something that they hope will make you crawfish out.”

The candidate, visibly impressed, was going to say something, but Bill wasn’t through.

“So,” Bill finished, “they’ve got you sewed in, coming and going. They’ve handed you a case of Hobson’s choice. If you stick, of course they’ll keep on trying to muddy you up by threatening to pull this fig-leaf photograph on you. If you draw out they’ll yell gloatily that you laid down like a lascar because you feared they’d produce this birthday-suit picture. In which wedged-in contingency, of course, it’s up to you and nobody else. But there’ve been times when you’ve shown yourself to be a fair-to-middling decider when there was deciding to be done.”

Mr. Budlong, rising grandly from his swivel chair, with the crusader’s gleam in his eye, whacked his desk.

“I’m going to stick, Bill,” he hoarsely declared himself. “A. Z. Stick Budlong— that’s going to be my candidation name from hell to breakfast!”

“Atta ol’ son!” murmured Bill, just as the phone bell on Mr. Budlong’s desk tinkled; and Bill, seated on the opposite side of the desk when the candidate answered the call, could hear a woman’s voice agitating the transmitter with emphatic language. The crusader’s gleam was a mere vanishing afterglow in Mr. Budlong’s eye when he hung up the receiver.

“The wife’s heard that infernal yarn,” he said subduedly to Bill. ‘You know women-folks— all worked up about it. Wants me to come home. Expect I’d better humor her.”

“Sure you’d better,” concurred Bill. “I'll fetch some of our bunch up to your house after lunch and then we'll ferret into this thing systematically.”

By the time the candidate reached home his wife’s agitation had subsided, or ascended, into a sort of abnegatory austerity. When a lady with at least two well-formed chins and a frame carrying a full two hundred pounds undertakes to be self-immolatingly austere she has her work cut out for her. But Mrs. Budlong, a disdainer of handicaps, was all set for the job when the candidate got home.

“My poor Alfred— this is shocking indeed!” was her cheero greeting when he found her in the library. She said it in a deep contralto voice, Mrs. Budlong possessing an impressively resonant lower register which she employed on occasions calling for nobility of tone. Mr. Budlong derived at once that his spouse was addressing him from a great altitude.

“Shocking my eye!” he broke out. “What’s shocking about it? It’s just a dam’ ding-whanged campaign lie, and

“Don’t be profane, Alfred— don’t be common, I beg of you,” she interrupted him, raising a deprecatory hand. “Not at such a time as this, of all times.”

Mrs. Budlong’s husband shot out of his chair, and began, in short laps, a swift marathon of the library.

“Listen here, Myrtle!” spluttered Mr. Budlong. Of late years, or since his wife’s steady increase in corpulence, his regard for congruity deterred him from calling her Myrtle except on argumentative occasions, his regular appellation for her being “Maw.” “Are you deliberately sitting there and telling me that you actually believe there’s a photograph like that in exist—"

“Nothing is to be gained now by going into that, Alfred,” she interrupted him, again raising the staying hand. “You would not, I hope, expect your wife and the mother of your children to discuss a matter like that. Calm yourself, I beg of you. These visitations are meant to be a test of fortitude. And always, as you know, the way of amendment lies open. Pray sit down, my poor husband, and contain yourself.”

Mr. Budlong sat down, but not in the library. He bounded, at a lope, for his own room, where he remained, not particularly contained, until the luncheon bell sounded. The meal, which Mrs. Budlong herself served —it being the bolshevik housemaid’s full day off and the two Budlong daughters being away on a visit with relatives in another city— was a gloomy gastronomic rite. Mrs. Budlong, meticulously avoiding the tragic subject, attempted, still employing the noble contralto, to make table talk, to which Mr. Budlong replied in sepulchral monosyllables.

Her attitude, plainly, was that a heavy disgrace having fallen upon the home, it was her wifely and womanly duty to make the best of it. Having taken A. Z. Budlong for better or for worse, she would abide by any awful consequences which might— and presumably would!— follow her husband’s exposure. She was going to be game, and also she was going to be sad and sweet. When a lady who has unsuccessfully taken a great many obesity cures, practically in the presence of a husband of twenty years’ standing, essays the sad-and-sweet role in a domestic jam she is bound to encounter a certain amount of difficulty in convincing him of her eligibility to enact the part.

Absorbed in the details of her enactment, Mrs. Budlong overlooked mentioning, until her husband was pushing his chair back, an occurrence of her forenoon that concerned him. ‘You have an aunt Abigail, it appears,” said she, very ’cello.

“Appears? Why appears?” he choppily inquired. “I’m not stuck-up about her, but I haven’t tried to hide the guilty knowledge that she exists.”

“Only vaguely, seeing that you haven’t mentioned her more than twice, I should say, in the twenty years we’ve been married,” loftily countered Mrs. Budlong. “At all events, she called up this morning.”

“Called up?” hollowly echoed Mr. Budlong, plainly showing that he couldn’t have been more surprised had his wife informed him that the late Empress Messalina had been a morning visitor at his home. “Called up— what about?”

“Nothing in particular, but a little of everything,” said Mrs. Budlong, registering praiseworthy patience. ‘When the operator informed me there was a long-distance call from— er— Gubbinses Corners— I think that was the name of the place—”

“That’s pretty close to it— Gilmans’ Crossroads— well?” he set her right

“From Gilmans’ Crossroads, then. When the operator told me there was a long-distance call from Gilmans’ Crossroads I had no idea, of course, what the call could be about

“Until the caller told you. Having the idea now, supposing you tell me.”

“You might at least refrain from trying to snap my head off,” said Mrs. Budlong, now sad and sweet almost to the point of saturation, yet plainly giving her disgraced husband to understand that his present position was none too sound for him to assume the role of a snapper. “The caller, after sharply inquiring the name of the woman— she said ‘woman’— with whom she was speaking, and being told, announced herself as your aunt Abigail; a very deaf and very disagreeable old person, I should judge.”

“Announced herself as my aunt Abigail, whereupon she instantly clapped her receiver upon the hook— that it?” inquired the abused candidate for Congress.

“Oh, not precisely that,” said Mrs. Budlong with a certain indulgent airiness, as if she were addressing the intelligence of a very small child. “Since you are so pressing about it, she was good enough to tell me, for one thing, that if my husband was half as mean a scoundrel— I employ her language, pray remember— as my husband’s late father, meaning her late brother, I must enjoy a grand life.”

“Am I to take it that that is all she said?” snorted Mr. Budlong.

“Oh, no— she certainly was suffering from no deficiency of words,” replied Mrs. Budlong. “I should dislike to have to tell you all she said. Nor would you yourself, I suppose, care to hear what she said— as to your candidacy for Congress.”

“Wouldn’t I?” chopped the candidate. “Her remarks on that subject ought to be darned entertaining.”

“Very well, since you insist upon it,” resignedly replied Mrs. Budlong. “She had nothing personal against you, she admitted, except that she had heard that you closely resembled your father in appearance; and she said that Congress— which she called a snug harbor for crooks and rapscallions— would be exactly the right place for the son of your father. But she gave it as her opinion that any one of her seven fox-terrier pups had a far better chance to be elected to Congress than you have, and—"

“That’s about enough, thanks, if the rest of it’s like that,” growled Mr. Budlong.

“The message she gave me for you,” wearily concluded Mrs. Budlong, “was that, in cleaning out the attic of her home a few days ago, she had come upon an article that would be better in your keeping than in hers, especially as she didn’t in the least care for it, and that she would surrender this article to anybody you might send for it; though she didn’t want you yourself to come for it, considering how much you resembled, as she’d heard, your scoundrelly father.”

“Lovable old party, I'd call her,” muttered Mr. Budlong. “I can imagine how enormously you must have enjoyed my aunt Abigail.”

“Sarcasm scarcely becomes you, my dear— as matters stand,” frostily remarked Mrs. Budlong, vanishing kitchenward with the luncheon dishes,

The candidate himself answered the doorbell, which rang a moment later. National Committeeman William S. Hazelbush, with half a dozen members of “our bunch,” had arrived for the close-hauled caucus of personal and political friends of the candidate which, under the seasoned guidance of Bill, was to undertake the nailing of anti-Budlong campaign lie number one. Mr. Budlong knew where Bill stood with regard to the rumor. But as he ushered them all to the library, he perceived, or fancied he perceived, that all of them, Bill alone excepted, were careful to avoid his eye. He noticed also, or imagined he noticed, when, with somewhat lumbering jocularity, he adverted to the occasion for the conference, that all of them, barring Bill, leered hangdoggily and exchanged surreptitious glances. So Mr. Budlong had no trouble in discerning how matters stood.

“Secretly tittering over it!” he raged to himself as he politely pulled seats forward for them in the library.

“Didn’t take our friend Powellton long to sink one under your short ribs, Al,” said Bill with a cheero grin when all hands were seated. “Take a look at this— some crafty headline, what?” and he spread cut and passed to Mr. Budlong the first afternoon edition of the evening newspaper of which the tactfully chanting banker was the chief stockholder.

Mr. Budlong, who by now was becoming used to suddenly pounding pulses and swift cascades of blood to the head, had a return of these symptoms of a first-time candidacy for public office as he read, where it was spread over two columns on the paper’s first page, this headline:

AN ANNOUNCEMENT BY

ALTOGETHER AL.

The text beneath this headline was perfectly unobjectionable:

Mr. Alfred Z. Budlong, the well-known wholesale lumber merchant, in announcing yesterday his candidacy in the primaries for congress for this district— et cetera, et cetera.

Not a line, from beginning to end, that Mr. Budlong himself could take exception to, much less base an action for libel on. The “Altogether Al” headline, clapped over the innocuous text by a deftly devilish hand, was not in itself actionable, unless its victim chose to make it so by going into open court and explaining its dark and sinister meaning. The Bloomoria reader was allowed to judge for himself, from data in hand, just what “Altogether Al” meant—which of course the Bloomoria reader collectively and uproariously did.

“Hot stuff, eh?” jovially remarked Bill to the candidate. “But there’s no need to turn so many different colors over it, old scout — it’s just routine mud-pitching and all a part of the little old political pastime as we play it in this country. Now let’s get down to business; I’ve got hold of a small clew that may lead somewhere. Let’s see—what’s the name of the dinky place?” He got a slip of paper from his sack-coat pocket and referred to it. ‘Oh, yes— Gilmans’ Crossroads. Gilmans’ Crossroads is that dairy hamlet about sixty-five miles to the west’ard of us, isn’t it? D’ye happen to know anything about Gilmans’ Crossroads, Al— or know anybody over there?”

“I don’t know any more about it than that I was born there, as my father was before me,” was Mr. Budlong’s surprised and surprising reply. ‘And I’ve got an aunt over there— my aunt Abigail, oldest sister of my father, a poison-tongued old dame that I’ve never seen so far as I know; that I don’t want to see, either, permit me to add.”

“The deuce you say!” broke out Bill, his eyes alight. “This begins to look like a clew what is! You were born in Gilmans’ Crossroads. Your father likewise got an aunt Abigail over there that you’ve never seen. We'll have to run this down. Because I’ve found out— or the runners for my bureau of investigation have found out for me— that this story about that chaste photograph was brought into Bloomoria before daylight yesterday morning by the crew of the milk train that leaves Gilmans’ Crossroads at midnight. The conductor of the milk train is a fellow by the name of Condon.”

“Condon,” put in Mr. Budlong, “is the married name of my aunt Abigail of Gilmans’ Crossroads. I don’t know any of her sons, my first cousins, but she’s got a whole bunch of ’em, and this milk-train conductor probably is one of the lot.”

“Getting warm!” delightedly exclaimed Bill. “What was all this row with aunt Abigail about—for there must have been some kind of a rough-house or you wouldn’t be saying you’d never seen her that you know of, and don’t want to see her. Strictly a family riot, I suppose?”

“Family riot between my father, the only son, and Abigail, the only daughter, over the division of my grandfather’s farm property, when the old man died,” explained the candidate. “I don’t know the details. All I know is that my dad left the farm about a year after I was born there, coming to Bloomoria, and that he never had anything more to do with aunt Abigail to the day of his death. For her part the old girl has always ignored me and my family on account of her hatred for my father. Never any sort of communication between us in all these years—here, wait a minute! I’m forgetting to mention that she called up this house this morning, after I’d gone downtown, and regaled my wife with some fragrant items. of the Budlong family history.”

“Warmer still, son!” broke out Bill. “Why, particularly, did she call up this house this morning?”

“Oh, by way of an excuse to work off the family history on my wife. She said she’d found something or another in her attic that I ought to be the custodian of instead of her, and she said she’d give this article—some old piece of junk, I presume— to anybody I’d send for it, enjoining, though, that I myself shouldn’t come for it, seeing that she would be unable to undergo the ordeal of looking at me on account of my resemblance to my father.”

“Conference is adjourned, boys,” said Bill succinctly. “It’s getting on a bit in the afternoon, and I’ve got a sixty-five-mile drive ahead of me.”

“Sixty-five-mile drive?” inquired the candidate, looking puzzled.

“Going to tool the old bus over to Gilman’s Crossroads, Al,” explained Bill, the smile gradually reaching for his ears. “I'll get that article from aunt Abigail that she thinks you ought to be the custodian of, whatever it is, and bring it back. So long. Come on, gang,” and Bill and the rest of the caucus members filed out of the Budlong residence.

Mr. Budlong, remembering that he had a flourishing wholesale lumber business that might be the better for a few minutes’ personal attention, drove to his office. But the contacts of the afternoon, as of the morning, gave him little or no chance to concentrate on lumber. He saw—or thought he saw, which amounted to the same thing— a lurking grin on the face of each and every one of his business callers. One of them, an old friend and a heavy customer, in giving directions as to the delivery of some lumber he had purchased, said: “Don’t send me that stuff in little scrappy lots, will you? Send it altogether, Al.”

Feeling strangely friendless, and wrought upon by the self-reproach that, under the impact of calamity, he had been unnecessarily crabbed with his little wife— no conceivable increase in corpulence could ever make Myrtle anything but his little wife to Mr. Budlong— he went home early. Myrtle, who had been watching for him from a second-floor window, met him at the door. She had discarded the sad-and-sweet role and was now merely her very agreeable and very human self. She had spent a part of the afternoon in washing her hair— Mrs. Budlong invariably solemnized this washing-her-hair-rite by way of smoothing things out when in trouble— and she looked adiposely pretty and mighty good in general, to her husband, with the drying hair hanging over the towel spread around her shoulders. In the vestibule she caught him into her capable arms and clipped him to her comfortable breast.

“You know I don’t believe a word of it, ol’ thing!’ she said with her cheek against his. ‘Let the scandalmongers rave! We’ve got each other and the girls, haven’t we, Al?”

The candidate, plumping into a hall chair, felt more like blubbering than at any time since his boyhood. He might have given way, at that, had not the bell of the library phone saved him by sounding in the nick of time. He answered the call.

“This is Hazelbush, talking from Gilmans’ Crossroads,” came Bill’s voice.

“ 'Lo Bill,” said the candidate. "Find anything there?”

“I've found aplenty,” said Bill. Then, in quite a solemn and accusatory voice for him: “Al, I’m surprised at you. I sure am.”

More pulse racing and another Niagara in the head for Mr. Budlong.

“Surprised at what?” he gulped.

“That photograph,” said Bill. “Al, it’s the nakedest darned photograph I ever saw in my life. It sure does get me how you ever allowed a thing like that to be taken”

Mr. Budlong, practically certain now that this telephone conversation was nothing but fluff stuff belonging to the prolonged nightmare he was undergoing and probably soon would awake from, nevertheless forced himself to inquire:

“Where did you get the photograph?”

“Got it from ‘Bull’ Condon, your first cousin; your aunt Abbie’s son and the conductor of the Gilmans’ Crossroads milk train,” replied Bill. ‘Bull’s been carrying the photograph around with him, showing it to choice spirits of his acquaintance, for a couple of days. He surrendered it to me under protest; I had to get aunt Abbie’s written order before he’d fork it over. The photograph, you know, is that article your aunt thought you ought to be the custodian of instead of her— and I'll say she was right about that!”

“All right, Bill,” sepulchrally said Mr. Budlong. “I’m taking your word for all this because I, myself, am a hopeless case of lost identity. Not to put too fine a point on it, Bill, I no longer know who the hell I am!”

“How late you going to stay up to-night?” inquired Bill.

“All night, if there’s anything to be gained by my doing that,” replied the candidate.

“Well, I'll be dropping in on you for a minute or so ‘long "bout ten o’clock,” said Bill. “I’m leaving Gilmans’ Crossroads right now, and it’ll take me three hours or so to drive home.”

“I'll be waiting for you,” said Mr. Budlong. “‘Better fetch a strait-jacket along with you. I may be violent by that time.”

However, he did not grow violent. On the contrary, a fine fatalistic calm fell upon him. No matter what happened, he knew he never could have a more horrible day than the one now at an end. Let the howling old storm beat outside! He was at home, eating a good dinner, with a cheerful and good-looking wife on the other side of the table. Moreover, he had a pretty hefty bank roll, and they’d have their work cut out for them, if they tried to pry him loose from that! Let ’er storm!

All the same, he answered the bell with alacrity when it rang a few minutes before ten o’clock. Bill, wearing the expression of a man who had steeled himself to perform a disagreeable duty, walked without ushering to the library, where Mrs. Budlong sat at her embroidery, Mr. Budlong trudging after him.

“Well, Al,” said Bill, reaching for the breast pocket of his coat, “murder will out, won’t it? Can’t keep things like this under cover,” and he pulled the cabinet-sized photograph partly out of his breast pocket. The candidate tried to catch Bill’s eye, but Bill wouldn’t permit it to be caught. So Mr. Budlong, for the protection of his wife, was compelled to speak out.

“Better come into my den to show me that thing, Bill,” he said. “The wife—”

“No, Al, I can’t consent to that,” Bill amazed Mr. Budlong by saying, looking suddenly stubborn and righteous. “A man’s wife, as I see the matter, is entitled to know the worst as well as the best about him. And a woman with well-grown children is no longer a child herself and can face the facts of life without flinching. So, ol’ hawss, I really feel it incumbent upon me, if you’ll pardon the liberty, to show this photograph to Mrs. Budlong.”

Whereupon, stooping suddenly before Mrs. Budlong, who was sitting in a deep chair alongside the bright reading lamp, he dropped the cabinet-sized photograph into her lap.

Mrs. Budlong, who had stiffened slightly when she saw what Bill was going to do, glanced downward, her eyes drawn by the sheer force of a curiosity which she found it impossible to resist, at the upfaced photograph. Like the sudden appearance of a beacon on a headland the mother’s light flashed in her eyes and the smile of motherhood played over her face.

“Why, the duck!” she broke out. “Ain't it sweet!”

Whereupon she clapped the photograph  to her lips and kissed it.

Back in the late seventies of the nineteenth century, soon after the old collodion wet plate of photography gave way to the dry plate, and “instantaneous picture-taking,” as it then was called, came into existence, there broke out among the young mothers of the United States, and probably of other more or less civilized countries, a peculiar epidemic psychosis, the main manifestation of which was an irresistible impulse on the part of the young mother to carry her infant to the nearest approved photograph gallery and have the baby’s photograph taken, in a state of stark and often howling nudity, in a china washbowl.

The baby, on being stripped squarely down to the skin, without any mitigating circumstances whatsoever, was deposited on something supposedly soft and sufficiently warm that had been placed in the washbowl; the photographer, abetted by the anxious mother, whistled and chuckled and pranced and talked about the little birdie that was going to appear to an infant that obviously cared no more for the little birdie than for the most ordinary proprieties of life; and at the least howlful instant, if such an instant ever arrived, the bulb was pressed, or the trap was sprung, and the sinister purpose was achieved. That is to say, a photograph was made that would haunt and pursue and mortally embarrass the victim for the remainder of its natural life. The fact that the victims themselves, even at their early age, must have had some premonition that they were going to suffer frightfully in after life, from these pictures, is evidenced by the expressions of withering disgust, of eloquent but hopeless dissent, or of downright yelling protest that are to be seen on the countenances of most of the babies in these washbowl photographs.

On Sunday afternoons, when folks came a-visiting, it was the custom—and may be yet, for all that is known to the contrary— for the fond mother of the baby in the wash-bowl to make a very particular point of showing the photograph to all hands, in all of its pagan and unblushing nakedness. The fond mother continued to do this even when the baby in the washbowl, having grown into a proud minx of a girl with her hair tucked up and her skirts let down, or into a haughty lump of an adolescent boy very ambitious to be considered a man, was compelled by considerations of politeness to company to stand by and listen to the company’s idiotic and quite unedited comments on the incredible fatness of the washbowler’s legs or the extreme chubbiness of the washbowler’s tummy or the ferociously prophetic scowl on the washbowler’s face. Wherefore, it is less a marvel that so many of these wash-bowl photographs, in the course of time, mysteriously disappeared from the red-plush albums, than that any of them at all have been spared for the wonder of posterity by their outraged grown-up victims.

Mr. Budlong not only never had seen this washbowl photograph of himself, but he had been unaware of its existence. His own folks’ copy of the photograph had gone up in the smoke of his mother’s red-plush album when the Budlong home in Bloomoria had burned to the ground, in his childhood, and his mother had disappeared from earthly scenes even before he could fix her face in his mind. By some miracle the photograph exhibited the now gaunt and angular A. Z. Budlong not only as an astonishingly chubby baby but as a positively pretty, dimpled, smiling baby. Mr. Budlong, holding it close to the light and gazing at it unbelievingly through his reading spectacles, chuckled dryly.

“Bill,” he inquired, “there can’t be any mistake about this, can there? Did my aunt Abigail convince you, beyond the peradventure of a doubt, that this positively is a picture of me?”

“It’s you, all right, Al, hard as it may be to believe,” said Bill. ‘You can safely make you affidavy to that.”

“Bill,” said Mr. Budlong, grinning at his homely visage in the mantel mirror, “ain’t it hell how a human being can so utterly live down his good looks when he can’t live down anything else?”

On the following day, the rival afternoon paper to Mr. Jason’ Powellton’s printed, smack-dab in the middle of its first page, an extremely well-reproduced three-column cut of the Budlong baby-in-the-washbowl photograph, with this caption, in heavy block type, spread all across the page:

HERE’S THAT SCANDALOUS

PHOTOGRAPH OF THE

HONORABLE ALFRED Z. BUDLONG!

This reproduction, and the explanatory story accompanying it, not only won the primaries election for Mr. Budlong— the victory at the primaries in that district being equivalent to election— but it had still another effect.

It so happened that quite a large number of young mothers in Bloomoria never had chanced to see a photograph of a baby in a washbowl.

“That Al Budlong baby picture is the cutest thing I ever saw!” many a young mother said to many a young father by the reading lamp that evening. ‘“Let’s have baby taken that way!”

“All ri’— sure thing— goo’ idea,” many a Bloomoria young father, struggling to get some sense out of the baseball news, vaguely replied. And so, in so far as Bloomoria at least was concerned, the baby-in-the-wash-bowl outrage was visited upon another generation of victims.

_____________________

8: The Mahogany Garden

Frank Stanton Jnr

1879-1936

Adventure Aug 1915

1: A Knife in the Dark

HASKELL bent his head not an instant too soon, not a second too late. The steel blade of the henequen sword swept a whistling arc above him and the heavy hooked tip missed his neck an inch— perhaps two inches. His fingers itched to twitch the blue-barreled magazine revolver away from his hip and end this thing. Twice now within ten minutes some one had stooped down from the stone gallery around the patio and tried to snip his head from his shoulders, and though the soft swish of the blade spoke a malice and wickedness that sprang from some most murderous purpose, Haskell had not the remotest conjecture to offer as to why any one should wish to kill him, a stranger, in this strange land.

A month before he had left the mining camps and gone to Denver for his vacation, only to be handed a telegram from the senior member of the great engineering firm with which he had been under contract since he had left Yale, a firm that guided all the mining operations, devised all the irrigation and lumbering systems and surveyed and superintended all the railroad, tramway power-plant, dock and warehouse construction for a powerful Wall Street group with money to invest anywhere in the world that one dollar would make another.

The telegram had been brief but specific:

Robert Haskell, Hotel Oxford, Denver, Col. Mclrnery down with typhoid. Go via Mexico City, Vera Cruz, to Progresso, Yucatan, then inland to hacienda of Calderon y Ortegas family beyond Valladolid. Instructions going by Ward Line mail. John R. Peters.

That was all. That was enough. He had caught the evening train for the land beyond the Rio Grande and, save for the days lost by missing the boat at Vera Cruz, he had traveled with the haste of a king's messenger. That was a standing rule among "Peters' Men."

Up from the coast to Morida and on to Valladolid by train, slow train, the engine of which ate up cords of small wood from piles cut and assembled by Maya peons along the right of way; on from the sun-smitten cluster of stone, stucco and wattle-work houses of Valladolid he had traveled slowly and tediously by platform car. This meant a little truck about the size of a hand-car, with a canopy over it, drawn by two galloping mules driven by a squat, brawny Maya in cotton shirt and pants, whose stubby, bare great toes turned in; whose skin was the color of an old penny; whose close-cropped wiry hair was crowned with a straw sombrero wound with green and yellow; in whose teeth was clenched a long cruel, plaited whip; at whose side hung one of the long, massive-bladed, bent tipped henequen knives— a formidable figure who was strangely shy and gentle save to the mules— and for them he found more curses, threats and poetical phrasings of damnation and opprobrium than Haskell had ever heard before.

At the end of the last mile of the narrow rusted tram-rails the ultimate means of travel was mule-back. The last driver of the last tram had hinted that it was wise to travel by day only, but now after nightfall of the second day the white man and his Indian guide had ridden up to the gates of the Calderon y Ortegas hacienda, been admitted by a servant who had vanished without a word, and now Haskell was walking up and down the patio in the moonlight, waiting— waiting to see if some unknown assassin with the henequen knife would get him before the problematic host arrived, or vice versa.

He was not greatly alarmed, but it was not a good way to begin on a piece of Peters' work— to allow himself to be killed or wounded or to be compelled to kill in self-defense some one with whom he had no quarrel, so he kept his right hand only near the butt of his revolver.

There was one advantage he had: though the duel had been going on ten minutes, at least the unknown second principal was not aware that Haskell knew of the danger.

The first thing Haskell had noticed was the fall of a bit of stucco as big as a pea. He had glanced up to the arches of the second floor gallery in time to see a shadowy figure whisk back out of sight. A moment later, when he had crossed to the other side of the court and was directly under the gallery, he had heard the swiftly indrawn breath of some being above him and, experience having taught him that the drawing of breath precedes the deliberate blow with a knife, he had stooped, pretending to have dropped his gauntlet.

Out of the tail of his eye he had seen the downward sweep of the blade. Drawing from his pocket a little round mirror from a transit, he held it in the palm of his left hand in such a way that it could not be seen from above, and though he appeared to be looking down and paying no attention to what went on over his head, he could see well enough to be in no danger so long as the unknown pursued the tactics of creeping around the galleries and striking when the marked man came within reach below.

At the time of the second blow all that Haskell had seen was an arm and head over the parapet and then the sudden swoop and the blow. It had been too quick for him to catch more than a glance in the little mirror, but from that head he had caught the gleam of two eyes that shone like the eyes of a cornered mountain cat.

Now, he walked into the middle of the patio and carefully surveyed the darkened galleries. Not a light was there in all the house. Without, the horses stamped in the dust where the Indian held them; from a distance came the crooning song of the servants in their outlying quarters; a native dog barked inquiringly in the same general direction, and overhead the moon rode the cloudless purple sky verily outpouring a torrent of radiance.

Suddenly he caught a movement in the shadows back under the arches and could scarcely refrain from putting a steel-jacketed bullet into the spot. And then forth into the moonlight there stepped a slender girl!

Haskell's heart beat faster at the sight than it had a few minutes before when he had escaped the first blow, and he dropped his hand hurriedly from the pistol-butt. The thought came— what if he had yielded to impulse and fired at the movement in the shadows?

The girl appeared in the moonlight under the arch at the head of the broad stone stairway leading down into the patio. At the top step she paused and looked down. She was taller and slighter than the sturdy Maya women Haskell had seen. There was a loose curl in her heavy hair, and from the point where she had it caught up at the crown of her head and fastened it with the familiar thorn and red flower it fell over her shoulders far below her hips. Her neck and shoulders were bare. On her little feet were the soft Maya sandals, and her dress was the simple white native tunic falling in straight Grecian lines from shoulder to ankle and broidered with a deep hem of the brilliantly colored Maya patterns.

When she turned on the stair so that the moonlight fell full on her face Haskell felt a queer little thrill in his throat— it was the type that is the boast of Leon— shadowed, slumbrous, languorous eyes, features of the delicacy of the high-caste Singalese, cream and olive coloring, with a little rich red mouth.

With simple grace she came slowly down the stair, and with his spurs jingling on the red tiling of the court Haskell crossed to meet her. He was absurdly conscious of the layers of dust that lay not only on his clothing but even in the thick yellow brown curls of his head as he swept off his hat and bowed, wondering what language she would use.

"Buenas tardes, señor," she said, solving the question by addressing him in a quaint Spanish with a curious little purl in it.

Haskell was glad that he was not compelled to use the Maya, which he had begun to acquire from the time he encountered the first Yucateco on the steamer from Vera Cruz. He was sorry to note in her manner, however, not only an absence of the cordiality with which the Spanish-American greets a guest, but a little constraint, a certain chill dignity such as even a chance visiting stranger would not be accorded ordinarily.

He returned her salutation: "Good evening, señorita. I am Mr. Haskell, an engineer sent from the United States to this hacienda, where letters of instruction await me. My preliminary instructions came by telegram; I have no letters, nor do I know for whom to inquire, save some member of the family Calderon y Ortegas."

"I am Ortegas y Escalendon, señor," she said with an added touch of hauteur. Knowing the custom of a husband's following his own name with that of his wife, this told him that she was a niece, on the maternal side, of the family Calderon y Ortegas.

In the recesses of the house somewhere there was a low murmur of hushed voices. The girl saw that Haskell heard them, and a little flush crept into her cheeks while a quick change came over her as she looked at him standing embarrassed and uncertain before her.

"My uncle and his sons are absent from the plantation, señor, but I bid you welcome; pray believe our house is yours."

She accompanied this many-centuries'- old conventional formula with a fleeting smile which seemed to say that though she had been sent to greet him and show him that he was unwelcome she meant to receive him regardless of all considerations. Haskell felt a warm impulse of gratitude toward her, for at the words there was a note of impatience and displeasure in the hushed voices, and then silence.

Twice she clapped her little palms together, and the servant who had admitted him reappeared, took the horses and guide in charge after laying off Haskell's bags, and a sullen old Maya woman, who had been lurking under the arches, led him away to a chamber that opened on the gallery directly at the spot where the unknown knife-wielder must have stood at the time of the delivery of the second blow. Haskell swept the shadowed spots with cautious eyes but, once within the chamber, seeing the spotlessly white pallet, the little gilt shrine, the great earthen bathing-vessel brimming with water, he breathed a sigh of relief, for he was weary from his long journey and here before him were the means to the ends of physical comfort and cleanliness at least. He stepped to the door to close it and place the heavy bar across it when the old servant had backed out. He saw that the girl was still standing on the stair.

"At the señor's pleasure will he attend in the dining-hall? " she said in her low. sweet voice that carried clearly across the broad patio.

On his acknowledgment she turned and walked slowly away toward the gate, where the shadows swallowed her. The grace with which she moved, the exquisite lines of her arms and throat caused Haskell to exclaim to himself, but nevertheless, when he had bathed and replaced his riding-clothes with white military ducks, he drew across his chest the civilian holster designed to carry the heavy pistol under the left arm and examined the weapon carefully before he put it in its resting-place.

There was a knock at the door. Cautiously he opened it, to find a porter with a much-stamped and counter-stamped envelope addressed to him in care of Sr. Don Felipe Ramon Batista Calderon y Ortegas. He ripped it open. The firm's draft for five thousand and his letter of instructions, dictated by Peters himself:

Dear Haskell:

You are permanently to supplant Mclrnery in this work and are expected to carry it through to success. I am sending my nephew, John Peters, Jr., who has just finished in Berlin, to join you and I expect you to break him in. If he does not show the proper fitness, give me time enough to get another man to you and ship him back without compunction. I am sending him to the hot country to get him out of the way of one of Trainsby's girls as much as anything. I regret to be unable to inform you in detail of your new work. Mclrnery had it in hand direct from the men of the syndicate who investigated it and he is in no condition to transmit his information. However, I trust you to get along without it. Two or three months ago the syndicate acquired from Sr. Don Juan Rafelo Calderon y Ortegas the rights to all the hardwood on lands of the extreme southern part of the family estate on a royalty basis, and you are to estimate the extent of it, select the means of getting it to tide-water, prepare the specifications for the needed plant, order the same through us and install the needed equipment. When it is in operation it will be time to consider placing the work in charge of a superintendent. Now, my dear Haskell, I have given you no child's task in this mahogany garden, as Embrie calls it, and I have been opposed sufficiently in my selecting so young a man as you, despite the efficiency you displayed in Telluride and the Copper River Valley, to be more than anxious that you should allow nothing to interfere with your making a sweeping success, both for my own sake and yours. Remember that every problem you face is yours, not mine. I wish you unbounded good fortune. Yours cordially, John J. Peters.

"And the first dash out of the box someone tries to behead me, and a pretty girl treats me as if the murder would have been justifiable!" said Haskell, puzzling over the strangeness of his reception where nothing that had gone before had conveyed any hint of unpleasantness.

2: Don Felipe Returns

WHEN he stepped forth to the gallery he stopped a moment, scrutinized every shadow, listened for every sound and then strode along toward the stair, keeping well away from the doorways that opened on the arched passageway. The sight of a servant bearing a covered dish into a lighted doorway guided him and he followed into a spacious chamber to the right of the head of the stair.

In the center stood a great table of dark wood roughly polished and evidently hacienda made. Around it were many chairs, also of hand workmanship. The walls were bare, and on the tiled floor were some simple bright-colored mats. In heavy silver candelabra burned a number of candles, lighting the table and the earthen bowls of fruit, fresh cheese and cold fowl grouped about one end, with some bottles of liquors and an olla, on the porous sides of which showed the exuding water, the evaporation of which rendered cold the water within. The servant stood aside, steeped in the awkwardness of unaccustomed service, and the door at the farther end of the apartment opened and four women entered, one a massive woman of fifty in an unstayed black silk gown, heavy old gold bracelets and chain, and with bare feet and broad sandals; two younger women, unmistakably her daughters though of a distinctly mestizo or part Indian type, clad in the simple Maya tunics with a ribbon or bit of jewelry to give a touch of finery; and lastly the girl who had received him.

With concealed interest and amusement Haskell noted that in greeting him the mother executed something resembling the courtesy of the Empire, the first daughter used the Maya straight-backed, cross-legged bow and the other faltered between the two. Plainly he read the story of the situation in its minor points. Knowing the habitual seclusion of their women by the rural gentlemen of Spanish-American lands, he saw that this appearance was prompted largely by curiosity which could be indulged in the absence of the lords and masters of the casa. He had no doubt that before him stood Senora Calderon y Ortegas and her two daughters, and he marveled at the difference between them and the niece. By reason of the hour he felt sure they had eaten the last meal of the day and appeared again to see what he was like under pretense of keeping him company at his meal.

Haskell noted that the niece did not raise her eyes, though her cheeks were flushed as if with anger and she took her place at the table as if in sufferance only. This nettled him and relieved his own embarrassment. With what savoir faire his age, experience and understanding of Latin peoples permitted he took the situation in hand and led the talk to matters of the outside world, the things of which secluded women dream hungry dreams. His reward was speedy, and the stages of the change that came over them were interesting to watch. From a stiff dignity that had a strong undercurrent of dislike and enmity, they passed to a slight interest, then a frank curiosity, then questions and naive comment ending in open good-humor.

Through it all the niece sat silent and for the most part with averted eyes. Plainly she had been rebuked for her welcome to Haskell and was very resentful.  Physically fortified by his excellent meal and a glass of satisfactory claret, Haskell talked on until he made the fatal mistake of a reference to his mission. A swift cloud crossed the elder woman's dark brow, the girls dropped their eyes and fell silent, and there was a little impatient movement on the part of the niece that told him he had blundered. In a moment, they rose and, bidding him an almost curt goodnight, left the room.

TAKING one of the candles, the servant lighted Haskell to his door and was backing out with his "Buenas noches, buenas noches, señor," when Haskell called him back. "See here, muchacho, do you know what this is?"

"Twenty pesetas, señor," answered the man, looking at the coins.

"Well, I want you to take this and to understand that there is plenty more for you if you will work for it. I come to this house as a stranger, but I am an honest man and I come on honest business, with no intentions of harming any one or doing any wrong. You know, and I know, that I am looked on as an intruder, as an enemy. I do not know why. Will you tell me why?"

"Señor is a friend and guest in the casa; no harm can come to him," answered the Maya, shuffling his feet and looking anywhere but into Haskell's eyes. The engineer laid a gold piece of the largest denomination on the coins and pushed them toward the man with the tips of his fingers. The Indian shot him one furtive glance.

"You know that is not true, 'Nacion. I am not afraid, but I do not want to go on in the dark."

"My father and his father worked on this hacienda, and I shall work here, and, with the sacred mercy, my children shall work here. I can not serve the señor."

The man's direct and simple expression of loyalty evoked Haskell's admiration. He slowly pocketed the money. He had heard that the Mayas, though a terrible people when roused, were brave, patient and steadfast.

"You are an honest man, 'Nacion. Good-night."

The Indian turned to go, but at the door he hesitated, fumbled at the tawdry sacred medallion at his throat, and said in a lowered tone.

"The señor should be very careful and go soon, or it may be the same things will come to him as to the other caballero."

"What other caballero? What do you mean?"

Encarnacion stepped quickly to the pallet and drew from its place of concealment a little red morocco photograph-case and gave it to Haskell. Within was the small picture of a very beautiful girl across one corner of which was written, "Semper fidelis, Gertrude Trainsby."

It had come from young Peters' personal belongings!

The lad was here in advance of him, thanks to the lost days at Vera Cruz ! Apparently he had occupied this very room. Where was he now? What had befallen him? What did the Maya mean by "the same things" which had befallen the youngster?

As these questions flashed through his mind, Haskell felt a hot anger rising within him. He whirled on the impassive Maya.

"This belongs to a young man who was to work with me in this country. I command you to tell me where he is!"

"I do not know."

"When was he here?"

"Don Felipe can tell you all— but— señor, do not wait till he comes back!"

The man was retreating toward the door as he said this, and with the last word he darted out. Haskell cursed softly under his breath, pocketed the little red case, inspected the room with the candle to be sure that there were no means of entrance save the door and, after barring this, went to bed, the revolver tied to his right wrist by a thong.

Somewhere about dawn there was a clatter of hoofs in the courtyard, and in his subconsciously alert state the noise awoke Haskell. Peering over the transom he could see several horsemen below. Three, in the habiliments of haciendados, were ascending the stair, and four others, evidently servants, were leading away the horses and mules. As nearly as he could make out in the dim light the party had been on a hard ride, and before they entered the house the three men thrashed their clothing to get off the dust.

One of these was squat, massive and wore a heavy square black beard; the others were younger and slighter men— evidently the master of the house and his sons. Haskell noted that they were well armed, bearing pistols on hip and leaving three carbines leaning against the stone newel at the right of the foot of the stair.

Rapidly he dressed and, when silence had fallen over the place, he stepped from the room and reconnoitered.

No one was in sight save the porter squatted by the gate asleep. Acting on impulse the engineer stepped quickly down to the carbines, threw the bolts and drew out the firing-pins; then he returned to his room and waited. Soon the songs of the peons on their way to the henequen fields rose and died away, the household servants began to appear and the two daughters came forth on the gallery from a door on the other side of the court.

Next Encarnacion came to his door bringing a bowl of fruit and pieces of bread browned through and through, and a mug of milk and coffee.

"Don Felipe is home, I see," remarked Haskell as he ate.

"Si, señor," was the Indian's sole response, and, try as he would, the engineer could not draw him into conversation.

When the Maya had gone Haskell lighted a cigar and began to ponder his best course in the face of the baffling strangeness of all that had happened. The question was whether to take the bull by the horns at once or to pursue the policy he had begun the night before when he had pretended not to be aware of the knife-blows. He decided to let circumstances guide him and, leaving the middle buttons of his jacket unloosed so that he could draw with proper speed if matters came to a sudden climax, he strolled forth on the gallery.

3: More Warnings

JUST around the pillars of the corner he beheld a pretty sight. Holding a parrot on one forefinger, Señorita Ortegas y Escalendon stood leaning against the parapet, feeding the creature berries from the other hand. Her hair was bound in heavy braids about her little head, and her simple clinging tunic revealed the exquisite lines of her body sufficiently to complete a pose of the utmost grace. In her creamy cheeks shone a faint color, and her eyes were dancing as she teased the bird. At the sound of his step she turned, and Haskell meant that she should read the admiration in his eyes. Her lowered lids and heightened color signified that his wish was granted.

"Buenos dias, señorita," he said cheerily.

"Good morning, señor; we hope that you rested well in our house last night." Haskell said that he had and spoke of the beauty of the morning. Then, with his eyes on her face to catch its most vagrant expression, he asked whether the master of the house was among the men who had arrived at dawn. Her lower lip quivered a trifle, her eyes grew shadowed and after a quick glance at him she said, as if addressing the bird: "Don Felipe is now in the house."

"And may I see him soon to take up my business with him?"

She put her hand on his arm with a quick, detaining, protesting gesture, and as quickly withdrew it.

"Oh, senor, you must go away! I am so sorry that you came!"

"Since I have found you here, señorita, I am very, very glad I came," he answered, putting a purposeful earnestness in his tone. "I came here in all innocence and honesty, supposedly at the wish of Don Felipe and all concerned, and I do not see why I should go away until my business is finished. You surprise me by what you say. What do you mean, child?"

She shuddered and turned away without answer. Within one of the rooms on the family side there was a peremptory hand-clap, a call in a brutal tone for a servant, followed by a savage, ill-natured oath. The girl shrank as from an imaginary blow and half pointed to the door of the room from which the sounds came. Encarnacion appeared on winged feet to answer the summons.

"Is that Don Felipe?" asked Haskell in a hardened tone. " That is the master. I beg you, I implore you to go!" she whispered, trembling and coming close to him, her eyes on the doorway down the gallery.

With an assuring, protective instinct he put his arm half about her. The color flamed into her cheeks, she threw back her head and gave him one blazing flash from her eyes as she drew herself erect, but before the look that had come on his face at the touch, the nearness of her, her glance softened, her lower lip trembled like that of a hurt child and she whirled away from him and vanished down the corridor, leaving him strangely stirred with emotions new and strange to him, but not unwelcome.

"Little girl," he said to himself, "if this were hell I would stay!"

Left alone, he leaned against one of the pillars, smoking quietly and listening. In a little while 'Nacion appeared, backing out the door, and in a moment Don Felipe followed. His heavy hair and his thick beard were still damp from his bath, but his cotton clothing was white, fresh and immaculate and there was an air about him that evoked Haskell's admiration.

"Ah, senor," he cried at sight of the American, "buenos dias, buenos dias! I regret not having been at home when you came; my house is yours, pray believe me," and he advanced to bow courteously, smiling with his lips but not with his eyes; nor did he offer his hand, for which Haskell thought the better of him.

"Don't speak of it, sir; your family received me most hospitably and if my instructions had been more definite I should have known how and to whom to send notice of my coming."

Haskell, with his right hand never far from the opening in his jacket near the butt of his revolver, watched the other narrowly.

"Did you have a pleasant journey to the peninsula? It is useless to ask farther than that, as we are so primitive here that traveling is hard for men used to the easy ways of civilization, so you must forgive our humble and comfortless methods of living, Señor Haskell."

The engineer could scarce repress a smile as he thought of the intended addition of thirty inches of henequen knife to his comforts the night before, but he said cordially:

"For years I have been living in camps in outlands and I like the life; and, contrary to what you say of your district, I have enjoyed my two days in it very much and am looking forward to a pleasant stay during the period of my work."

"It shall be our gratification to contribute in every way to your pleasure and entertainment!"

Don Felipe had a little light in his eyes as he said this that would have been envied by the devil himself.

"Of course, having lost several days, I am anxious to get on the grounds at once. Now to clear away any misunderstanding, I am here as the agent with full authority of the syndicate which has acquired from Señor Don Juan Rafelo Calderon y Ortegas the rights to cut and export the mahogany and other hard woods from certain lands close to the border of the district, and if my calculations are correct, the nearest part of the tract is not over ten miles to the south. I was ordered by telegraph to come to this hacienda and here I found a letter of instructions. Señor Don Juan Rafelo is your father?"

"My father is dead. This is a brother."

There was a hidden significance in his choice of words.

"Is the forest near?"

"Yes; yonder, not a league, begins the great woodland and it extends on hundreds of miles, and there are things hidden away in it which the world never dreams of."

"Yes, I know the Central American forest is comparatively unexplored."

"And though the sun shines fiercely and the rain pours down like a river from the clouds and the trees and vines grow thick, some men may pass through parts of it, but they will come out knowing little. Even the Maya aborigines fear it."

"Well, with your help in securing provisions and a guide, I shall ride to-day to begin taking care of the part of it assigned to me."

"Ah, but not to-day, señor. You have no reason for haste. Is my hospitality falling so short—"

"No, far from it, Don Felipe; but I have lost too much time and I must push on to join young Peters, my assistant."

Haskell's eyes dwelt coldly on the other 's face.

"Peters? Peters? Your assistant is now in the mahogany garden?"

"He came here before me. Have you not seen him?"

Don Felipe shook his head as if deeply puzzled.

"No, Señor Haskell, I have not seen him or heard of him."

Slowly, without taking his eyes from the Yucateco, Haskell drew out the little red case:

"You surprise me. This is his; I found it last night in the room in which I slept."

Beyond a fierce gleam in his eyes Don Felipe gave no sign of being disconcerted.

"Strange, indeed," he said suavely. "There was a young gentleman who stopped with us one night while I was away and he slept in that room, but I did not learn his name or his business. He rode on before my return and I do not know where he is."

For a moment Haskell was afraid to speak, for his blood was boiling within him, but he realized that, being single-handed against a rich and powerful haciendado, with hundreds of peons at his back, and far from communication with the outside world, his only hope of avenging anything that had befallen young Peters, and of saving his own life, was to dissemble till he could secure a position of vantage.

"This is most unfortunate, for I can not waste time in hunting for him and I need his help at once. He is certain to return here to join me, and the best that I can do is to have you send him on to my camp."

"No, señor, you must permit me to send my boys into the forest to look for his party, and you can remain here and give us the pleasure of your society meanwhile."

"Your kindness overwhelms me, but I regret to say that I must ride on to-day. Can it be arranged that I start at once?"

"If the señor will, he will," said Don Felipe with a shrug of his shoulders.

He called to the porter, ordered his own and Haskell's horses and sent an Indian maid scurrying to prepare the required provisions. He disappeared into his room, returning in a little while, booted and spurred, and by the time Haskell had assembled his belongings the horses were waiting.

Looking down from the gallery Haskell saw that the party was to be made up of himself, the Indian who had ridden with him to the hacienda, Don Felipe and two burly mozos armed with the long henequen knives.

Just then 'Nacion appeared. Haskell saw something flutter from his hand to the tiling and, picking it up, he reentered his room. It was a crumpled green leaf, but inside was a tiny note:

The Señor Haskell:—Do not go. Do not go. I shall never see you again, for you go to die. Emalia.

4: An Attack and a Rescue

HASKELL'S heart seemed to expand within him. It mattered to her whether she did see him again! Perhaps she was right, but he felt his chances were better in the open than in the hacienda, so he stood at the head of the stair and bowed low before Señora Calderon y Ortegas as he expressed his gratitude for the pleasure of having been in her house.

Then he descended and mounted, keeping a careful eye on Don Felipe. The latter seemed quite merry and, saying that they might find a spotted cat in the woods, caught up one of the carbines and threw it by the strap across his pommel. For a man accustomed to the handling of firearms, this was a strange thing to do. Any one riding up even with the muzzle was likely to be killed by an accidental discharge, but Haskell, pretending not to see, quietly and unhesitatingly took his place beside the haciendado, not a foot from the muzzle of the weapon, and so they rode away.

At the first opportunity, Haskell looked back and was sure that a certain figure he saw darting among the bushes that screened the way from the house to the little houses of the peons was that of little Emalia, and, stealing a glance now and then, in a few minutes he made out the same figure returning, and another, a little man mounted on a pony, riding swiftly off in a direction that paralleled their course, as if he meant to intercept them. If Don Felipe or the mozos noted the little rider they gave no sign.

The party was now moving straight south. Far, far distant was an uneven blue line, the higher wooded lands. To the right and left and behind them stretched uncounted miles of scrub thickets with now and then a full-grown tree, the dreary waste broken by the henequen fields, the miles of rows of the golden source of the peninsula's vast wealth.

Haskell had noted that the plants were very much like the century-plant, scores of thick, fleshy leaves averaging a yard in length growing out from one low, thick stem. Through those leaves he knew ran a fiber which, when stripped of the watery pulp, made sisal hemp, from which the world's binder twine for harvesting machines is spun. Grown and shipped to the United States at a cost of two cents a pound, and bringing ten cents a pound after the destruction of the Philippine hemp industry, the Yucatecos— white, mestizo and Maya— owning the lands, the only lands in the world on which the plant could be grown, were made millionaires in a few years' time.

Not one-twentieth of the land could be cultivated because of the scarcity of labor, and that kept up the price. After the fifth year a plant would produce for thirty years, and it required little attention, for the soil was so dry and stony that even the weeds were unenthusiastic. Not that there was not enough rainfall. The trouble was that when the rain fell it went down through the soil at once and collected on the hard-pan floor from ten to a hundred feet below the upper level, where it formed subterranean rills, brooks, swamps and rivers called cenotes, a peculiar condition similar to that in certain districts in the Belgian Congo, the American desert and in the Jamaican cockpit country.

Here and there, dotted about the level plain of the peninsula, were holes where the earth had fallen in, exposing the underground streams. Sometimes the hole was a few feet deep; sometimes one must descend a fraction of a mile to get water.

The greater part of an hour passed before the party was beyond the bounds of the last henequen field and out of sight of the last group of laboring peons. The trail led straight on into the thicket, and Haskell noted that the number of large trees was increasing, but he dared not take his eyes from matters close at hand. From the tail of his eye he must catch the first suspicious movement of Don Felipe's hands.

Once or twice Don Felipe reined up to scan some tracks in the trail, and, again, he called a halt and commanded silence while he listened as if he heard sounds ahead that alarmed him, but he rode on again until they came to a cluster of rocks.

Haskell was forced to ride a little to the front. He heard the click of the bolt of the carbine as Don Felipe threw in a cartridge, and, as he turned, the muzzle was pointed, full at his back. Hate and murder shone in the haciendado's eyes as he pulled the trigger, but the carbine did not speak. There was only the snap of the trigger.

"You dirty, murderous, cowardly dog!" cried Haskell, throwing the blue nose of his gun level with the Yucateco's eyes.

Charging like a dragoon came the first of the two mozos. The other could not get around Haskell's astonished guide, who had reined up squarely across the trail. Seeing the flash of the upraised henequen knife, the American swung the pistol at right angles and let three of the bullets from the magazine pour forth before he took his finger from the trigger.

The terrific impact of heavy steel-jacketed missiles seemed to lift the mozo out of the saddle, and he pitched sideways among the rocks, while his pony clattered on toward the forest. But Don Felipe had had time to draw his revolver. A shot splintered Haskell's pommel and burned his thigh. Another whirred under his ear, and then he fired.

The glittering pistol whirled into the air, and Don Felipe, cursing bitterly, clapped his left hand to his right forearm, where there was a red welling of blood on the white sleeve. Rearing madly and backing from the flame of the revolver before his eyes, the Yucateco's horse threw himself and rider behind the guide and his mount.

It was a stroke of fortune for the haciendado, this confusion between the two Indians and the blocking of Haskell's line of fire. He saw it and, seizing the reins, whirled his horse and sped down the trail. The mozo followed suit, and the best that Haskell could do was to send Don Felipe's horse to his knees.

The rider was off as the horse fell, up behind the mozo and out of sight untouched, though Haskell sent the last of nine shots after them. Well back on the trail could be heard the drumming of many hoofs and many voices shouting. In advance was a lone rider approaching rapidly. Now he dashed into sight. It was the little man Haskell had seen riding away from the quarters of the peons. He was a cripple with a withered hand and a queer twisted face.

"Señor, don't wait! Come quick, señor! Follow me and ride fast!" he cried, reining up and turning under the very nose of Haskell's horse.

The engineer stooped and caught up the carbine, rode over to Don Felipe's dying horse and lifted the ammunition belts from the saddle; then set out after the newcomer and the guide, already a hundred feet ahead on the trail toward the forest.

In about ten minutes the three came to a little eminence and the cripple drew rein and pointed back. Not more than half a mile behind them was a large party of horsemen. Haskell studied them with his glasses. Don Felipe was leading all the others, his right arm bandaged roughly and bound across his chest, his two sons close behind him and a dozen mozos from the hacienda mounted on any sort of animal from an antiquated stallion to a female donkey in foal.

"Let me see if I have forgotten the trick," said Haskell, throwing open the carbine, replacing the firing-pin, throwing the bolt and taking careful aim. With the crack of the gun, the horse of the second son plunged headlong, sending his rider sprawling, and the whole column came to a halt.

"This little thing is a wonder!" said Haskell, gazing at the neglected piece with admiration, as they rode on.

The trees and the undergrowth grew suddenly more dense. They had come to the belt of soil that retained the moisture, and the tropical forest was begun. Save for the stifling closeness of the air it was a relief from the sun to get in under the interlocking arms of the great giants woven together with festoons of creeping plants whose main stems were nearly as large as the trees themselves and whose farthest, newest tendrils would be hundreds of feet from the parent root.

It is a popular idea that the tropical forest always teems with animal life. The truth is that there is far less than in the temperate zone, save in rare localities. The section through which the riders were now passing was silent and deserted, and after half an hour the very sound of the horses' hoofs seemed to become magnified to something enormous and dreadful.

The little withered man begun to scan the wayside signs carefully, for the trail was growing fainter, and at a point where it had branched he had taken the faintest of three paths.

At last he halted before a veritable wall of creepers and parasitic plants at one side of the trail and, moving a part of the whole aside as a curtain, signed for Haskell to dismount and lead in his horse. To his amazement the engineer found himself in an old machete-trimmed pathway now growing shut once more. For two hundred feet along this artificial path they made their way and came to a veritable wall of growing tree trunks matted with vines.

Something in the set of it suggested to Haskell that it had been purposefully planted, like a hedge, and he said as much to the cripple, who smiled and nodded his head and said cryptically:

"When a man lives in among the trees he must build his walls with them."

Twisting around this trunk, stooping under that one and squeezing between another two, they passed the living barrier and stood in a great circular place grown up with a thicket to the height of a man's head. From the center rose a four-cornered mound at least ninety feet tall, and on the truncated top, embowered in great trees, was a broad stone building, with ruined sides, carved in beautiful, deeply cut designs. All along the face of the wall nearest to him was a row of darker stone on which Haskell made out successive figures of the Central American tiger.

"El Iglesia del Tigre!" said the little old cripple, making a curious gesticulation with his withered hand.

Haskell knew he was looking for the first time on one of tens of thousands of ruined buildings which dot the country from the Gulf of Mexico to the lakes of Nicaragua, bespeaking the life and death of a wonderful people, older than the Aztecs, even older than the Toltecs, perhaps even more ancient than the Colhuans, and some say that these stone cities, often miles in extent, were teeming with the life of a highly civilized people long before the days of Babylon or the birth of the first Pharaoh.

5: The Temple of the Tiger

THE engineer stood gazing at the strength and beauty of the architecture of the ruined building. The cripple watched him a moment with pleasure and then said: "You see but one, and a little one, señor. The white men have found Uxmal, Chichen-Itza, Palenque, Copan and the other great cities, but the others they have not seen. There are those through which the señor must travel half the day to pass, even without looking, ah, for they are far greater. The trees have grown up to hide them since the Great Serpent took our people away, and the señor might travel through a city and be within ten steps of a thousand houses and yet see none of them. I have passed through such, and when a little boy with my father he showed me one of the greatest of all the temples and said that some day he would run away from the hacienda and we would travel to the heart of the forest where there was a city of our people that still lived."

It was the old familiar evasive legend which one hears throughout the length and breadth of the continent; the circumstantial tale that somewhere in the depths of the forest there is a city where some of the ancient race still live cut off from the world by the wilderness.

Suddenly the American realized that the cripple was taking the saddle from his pony, and he cried:

"Here, mozo, what are we going to do? This is no place to camp— no water."

"The señor does not know." said the cripple gently. "From a hole in the stone seat of El Tigre Grande runs fine water. Our horses are tired and no one at the hacienda can find the way here but me. Let Don Felipe ride on— let him ride to purgatory— he can not come here!"

Out of the door of the old temple ran a little stream and it cascaded in a deeply worn channel down to the level on which they stood. The freed pony was even now wending his way to the little pool formed at the base of the mound. How, without a hidden pump, could that water be made to flow from that high point? Within miles there was no land that was as high. It could not be a spring.

"All right, my man," said Haskell, yielding. "By the way, what is your name, how did you happen to come to my help and what is the meaning—"

"The señor serves himself best by the single question that calls for the single answer," said the little man with a queer bow. "I am Juan and my father was Pedro Juan and my grandfather was Juan Ramon. We have been of the hacienda since the coming of the true religion and the days of the old wars. But my mother was from the hacienda Ortegas and when their lands were taken away by the Governor my mother bade me see to the mother of the Little One."

"The mother of Señorita Emalia?" inquired Haskell.

"Si, señor. Now I lose all things for her."

"How?"

"Your friend comes here to take away from the Mayas their forest, and Don Felipe and his sons ride out with him as they rode out with you."

"Is he dead? Do you know anything, Juan?"

"They rode out; they rode back this morning, and he is dead or they would not have come back. It is as it should be. You should have been killed also."

Haskell looked at him aghast.

"I should be killed! Why?"

"Don Felipe had the papers to say that you would take away our forest."

"No, Juan, not your forest; just some of the trees. And Don Felipe has been paid tens of thousands of pesetas to allow me to do it."

"Then he lied to us!"

It seemed queer to Haskell that Don Felipe, having the absolute power, even to life and death, over the peons of his remote hacienda should have taken the trouble to explain or lie to them; but he put it among the other mysteries of this strange adventure. "Tell me who tried to kill me from the gallery of the house, Juan."

"Ernesto. You shot him a while ago."

"And why, if you think, or did think, I should be killed, did you ride out to-day and help to save my life?"

"Because the Little One came to me and said the Ortegas needed that I should ride ahead of you, that I should kill Don Felipe if necessary and take you to the runaway Mayas in the forest whence no man ever comes back to the hacienda even though he starves."

"The señorita told you to kill Don Felipe if you had to do so to save me?"

"Si, señor."

"Would you have done it?" From where he lay on the grass, Juan turned so that he displayed his withered arm, drawn face, misshapen leg.

"When I was in the woods with my father, he had run away with me, but when I and my brothers were starving we went back and Don Felipe's father beat my father to death before all the hacienda. Me they tied up and let little Don Felipe beat me till he was so weary that he wept. Since that day I have been like this."

Haskell could not repress a shudder and he found himself looking forward to the next time Don Felipe Calderon y Ortegas was within whip-range.

"So you are going to take me to the runaways in the woods, eh, Juan? Since I have business to which to attend, suppose I will not go?"

"Then I will bring them and we will take you."

Haskell laughed outright at the cool finality of the assertion.

"All right, Juan, we will wait and see."

Taking his observation instruments from his bags, Haskell parceled them between the three of them and led the way up the steep slope of the mound, saying he wanted to make sure of their exact location.

The red men looked on the lensed brass things as the appurtenances of witchery and handled them with fear.

The ruined temple Haskell found to be far less ruined than he had imagined. The walls were of solid masonry about eight feet thick and twenty-five feet high. The space they enclosed was about eighty by one hundred. All around the walls were the niches in which the wooden beams, rotted and gone thousands of years ago, had once reposed when they supported the roof. There were no rooms, but on either side of an altar, on which perched a huge stone tiger, were the remains of foundations that showed there had been wooden structures within the square.

From just beneath the tiger ran a two-inch stream of pure cold water— a complete mystery to him, an insoluble problem in hydrostatics. On both the outer walls and inner panels were inset single stones about a foot square, on the face of each of which was carved a different design of curves and dots, the indecipherable hieroglyphics of the so-called Maya language, the written, stone- treasured narratives of a people which Le Plonjeon says will add ten thousand years to the history of humanity when the man is found who can read them aright.

In the enclosure were a number of large trees, one a gigantic hardwood tree, at least eight or nine hundred years old and reaching up one hundred and fifty feet in the air. Buckling on steel climbers, Haskell spiked his way up the great trunk, clinging to the huge ridges of the bark and, perching in a crotch near the top, looked out over the scene. To the north lay the reaches of the wild scrub thicket, broken by the white cultivated expanse of the hacienda; east, west and south swept the forest.

To the eastward there seemed to be a dip in the horizon. At first he thought it was a low-lying cloud-field there, but, leveling his glasses, he saw that the forest stopped short off— in fact, seemed to have a sort of bay in it, and that at the outer edge of this was the sea. If it was swamp through which a channel could be forced and logs floated to tide-water, he knew that it meant much to him.

HE WAS about to descend, thinking what a fort the temple would make, when he noticed some moving spots between him and the far hacienda. By careful work he made out that it was Don Felipe's party returning.

Not all of them, however. One son and five men had been left behind in the forest. The haciendado had left a sort of patrol while he hurried home to have his wound dressed, lay his plans and get reinforcements, not to effect a capture once the fugitives were overtaken, but to locate them. None of them had seen Juan at the time of the shooting and Haskell realized that the two sons and the other men had ridden after Don Felipe, not when they had discovered Juan's departure, but when they had found the two carbines left behind to be minus their firing-pins. That had told them that Don Felipe was armed with a useless weapon and that Haskell was on his guard.

The natural thing had been to set out post-haste. It was a relief to the engineer to think that Emalia's part in the affair was not discovered, to lay her open to abuse, perhaps real danger, at the hands of her brutal uncle.

Juan had built a fire of dry sticks when Haskell descended after making a rough topographical map of the country, and was preparing the evening meal, careful that no smoke should rise from the cooking. The blaze was screened within the temple and they kept it alight till long after dark. The Indian Haskell had brought with him was very silent and apparently dejected all evening, while the American sat by the fire, listening to the tales of the old Mayas which Juan had to tell.

But neither of the others thought anything of the lad's behavior, and all three lay down to rest, confident that where no enemy could find his way in daylight none could come by dark.

When Haskell awoke at daybreak the first thing he noticed was that the Indian's place was empty.

Calling to Juan, he ran to the door of the temple. The lad was gone and had taken his horse; not only that, but he had taken so much of the food that there was not enough left for more than two meals. It was plain that he had noted carefully the path through the labyrinth of tree-trunks and, filled with fears of the forest, being a plantation-bred Indian pure and simple, he had deserted. If he had left early he might have reached the hacienda by midnight. If so, then Don Felipe and his men might be at the very door of their hiding-place this minute!

Mounting the tree quickly, while Juan prepared breakfast, Haskell surveyed the country. Nowhere was there a sign of the pursuit, but as he studied the trail from the hacienda his heart gave a great leap. In an opening a big white horse showed for a moment; then came a mule bearing a mozo. But the rider of the white horse? At the next opening Haskell saw it was Emalia, riding toward the forest in desperate haste.

6: Nuñez Paola

TAKING a reflector, he tried to throw a ray of the rising sun in her direction as the signal-corps man heliographs. If the rays reached her she did not make them out, for she rode on without heeding.

Some of Don Felipe's men descried him, though.

A half-spent bullet whined through the air below him and a report among the trees to the west located the marksman. There was another and closer shot from less than two hundred yards beyond the labyrinth and, taking the sheltered side of the tree, Haskell hurried down.

Not only was their hiding-place discovered, but they were surrounded!

Juan was painfully indifferent about the matter.

"Every man must die some time," said he with a toss of his head, but he agreed with Haskell that they could stand siege so long as the food held out, and that forty men could not take the mound even by assault, save in the hours between sunset and moonrise.

The temple had but the one entrance and they need defend that and no more. As for evacuating and taking flight, there was no path except the one by which they had entered and this must be known to the enemy.

With a heavy heart Haskell went about inspecting the outside of the temple from the top of the wall.

That Emalia should imperil herself for his sake was the depressing, painful thought, though it brought him a great joy to know that her heart had prompted her to make what was plainly a useless attempt.

Having made certain that the temple could be approached only by the front slope of the mound, he descended and helped Juan make a barricade for the entrance. By great effort they got one of the horses half way up the slope, intending to use them for food if need be, when a shot from the forest dropped the animal and a sharp fire that followed compelled them to retreat to the temple walls.

The morning grew on slowly, and at last the sun was at the meridian. All was still and peaceful. A vagrant troop of monkeys passed in the tree-tops at some distance, and during the afternoon they heard now and then the deep, solemn note of a distant bell.

"El Campanero!" whispered Juan, crossing himself.

"And what is El Campanero?"

"He is a bird of size and his voice is the voice of a bell. When the bell rings by day it is for souls that are to pass!"

Haskell laughed, but a little shiver crept about the back of his neck.

As the evening drew on, there fell a great stillness broken only by a little burst of outcries among some vagrant paroquets in the forest and the dismal sounds of the vultures, descended from their vigilant circling aloft to their night's perch in the vicinity of the bones of the horse and man killed the day before.

The sun dropped slowly to the horizon and then, as is the way in those latitudes, seemed to shoot down in haste before the onrushing darkness. In fifteen minutes it was a transition from broad daylight to velvety black gloom intensified by a miasmatic mist wafted inland from the seaboard. Haskell took a sheltered position behind the barricade.

Juan crept down the gully worn by the water from the altar of the tiger, first fastening in his hair two of the big glow-beetles of the region so that Haskell should not mistake him for one of the enemy. The keen eyes of the old Indian were to be counted upon to detect the first signs of attack.

Gradually his eyes, marred by the uses of civilization, became accustomed to the gloom and Haskell found he could make out the trunks of trees and other objects at the base of the mound. Suddenly there was the scratch of a match in the stillness.

A point of flame burst out down the slope. Juan had lighted a clump of dried twigs and was hurrying up the gully. As he darted across the open space before the barricade and climbed the front of it to enter, a dozen points of flame cut the darkness from the edge of the labyrinth.

Don Felipe's men had wasted no time. The attack was on.

By the growing light of the fire Haskell made out several darting figures among the trees, and he fired. A howl of pain was the sign of his success. Their bullets had pattered about the front of the temple. Juan had not had a close call even.

Again Haskell pulled trigger, and every human form vanished from sight. For a few minutes all was still. Then came a murmur of voices off to the right, in the direction from which the wind was coming. A light broke out there. They, too, were lighting a fire! Now they kindled a second and a third, and the terrible truth burst upon the two defenders. By firing the dry undergrowth on the windward slope of the mound they meant to shroud the temple in a pillar of fire and either drive out their quarry or cook them alive.

With an oath Haskell ran to the eastern wall and scrambled up the broken stones. Lying flat, he crawled to the edge.

Two of Don Felipe's men were just lighting another blaze and, as he fired, they darted for cover, one of them falling, but rising and dragging a wounded leg. From the avidity of the flames it was plain that in five minutes a wall of fire would be beating against the temple; that the parasitic plants on the stonework would catch and the interior would follow. There was nothing to do but escape down the darkened side.

Sliding back, he began to descend, but exposed himself for an instant and a shower of bullets cut the smoky air about him. A blaze shot up from the other side of the mound. They were trapped— completely, fully trapped!

"Señor!" The voice came from close at hand as he touched the ground. It was not Juan speaking— Juan was kneeling behind the barricade.

"Señor!" said the voice again.

Haskell whirled. It came from the wall within ten feet of him. Slowly one of the big stones there turned as if on a nicely adjusted pivot, and in the narrow opening Haskell beheld the dim figure of a beardless old man of powerful frame. A shower of sparks and burning fragments fell within the enclosure, lighting up the ancient carved walls and setting fire to the undergrowth in many places.

"Call your mozo and come quickly!" said the old man.

Juan had no need to be called. He had seen the seeming apparition and appeared to understand its exact meaning, for he came on a hobbling run, and, as the stranger stepped aside, was the first to dart into the opening in the masonry. Haskell handed the old man his carbine and, darting across the enclosure, caught up his bags and belongings and hurried back.

The barricade was now on fire and the heat was so intense that it was a great relief to gain the cool shelter of the narrow passage in the wall. Once within, the old man followed him and closed the door of stone, taking care that it should rest in exact position and thus keep its own secret.

Feeling his way past the fugitives, their unknown rescuer took the lead in conducting them along a short level passage, then down a flight of steps. Haskell counted one hundred and sixty of these, with two turns to the right. He could touch both walls at all times.

Now they appeared to have come to a small subterranean chamber and, asking Haskell to take hold of his bandero de stomacho, he began to feel his way across, apparently guiding himself by the jointures of the flagging under foot, which he followed with his bare toes.

Haskell heard a sudden rush of water close at hand and was conscious that everything about him was dripping wet.

"May we stop?" he said, his engineering instincts getting the better of him.

The old man came to a halt, and, lighting a match, Haskell held it above his head. The dim light disclosed the four walls of a square chamber and at one side was a hewnstone tank from which came the sound of the water.

Lighting another match, the American stepped to the side of it and looked in. The mystery of the Fountain of the Tiger was solved!

At one end of the tank was the entrance for a stream of water of at least a two-foot volume— doubtless one of the underground brooks. At the other end was the exit, with a thin slab of slate that slid up and down to open and close it. In the tank floated a sealed earthen vessel. As the tank filled it rose, and when it reached a certain height the lever to which it was tethered raised the slate slab and let out the water in the tank. At the same time the rising water bore up another float that was held in place by two upright guides. This float was large enough to carry a stone weighing at least two hundred pounds. When the water was let out the weight of the descending stone bore on a rude stone piston in a stone cylinder, and the water in the cylinder was driven up through a set of stone piles like tiles to the top of the mound.

Haskell stood dumfounded before this visible evidence of the mechanical ingenuity of the priests of a civilization so long dead that there even is no certain name that it may bear.

"Come, señor, there is no time to spare!" urged the old man, and Haskell turned reluctantly away.

Across the chamber was a low doorway and another passage that ran less than three hundred feet due east, when it suddenly narrowed, the roof lowered and, on hands and knees, they proceeded a short distance to emerge in the center of a thicket.

The light of the fire was very strong all about them, and now and then they could get glimpses of the besiegers behind them. Slowly and carefully they made their way from shadow to shadow until they came to an almost impenetrable growth among the trees. The old man took Juan's henequen knife and began to hew the vines, the small branches and the entwining parasites. Haskell marveled at the ease and certainty of stroke from every conceivable angle. Also, they were nearly noiseless, and though the three proceeded very slowly and the old man cut incessantly for an hour his arm seemed never to tire or his aim to waver.

The moon was up, and where it filtered through the branches the light was of great help as they drew away from the red glow of the conflagration.

At last they broke into a sort of glade, and across this was an old path which made the way easier.

Some time after midnight they came to another group of ruins in the forest, the shapeless remains of three large buildings not raised on mounds, and, seeking a shelter among the dilapidated walls, the old man commanded Juan to light a fire, sat down, and drew from his girdle a cigar of excellent appearance.

Haskell had been waiting for him to speak or offer some explanation for his strange appearance at the critical moment, but as he did not seem to be inclined to communicativeness, the American asked: "Will you accept my gratitude for your sorely needed help to-night, and will you tell me how it happened that you knew of our dilemma?"

"There are many of us who would never have left the haciendas had they continued to be Ortegas. My older brother is by birth a cacique, and when a daughter of the Ortegas comes to the forest, asking shelter from the cruelty of a Calderon and seeking help for her friends, no one among us would refuse her. I was sent to get you away through the passage of which only the caciques know, as they know of other things that the oppressors never have learned and never will learn."

"And it was Señorita Ortegas y Escalendon that sent you?"

"She has forfeited her life in causing this man's flight from the hacienda, and her uncle struck her and planned to beat her strung up in the patio when he returned, so she persuaded my nephew to run away from the hacienda and bring her to us."

A queer, softened feeling seemed to smother Haskell's heart and becloud his eyes. "Are we on our way to where she is?"

"Why should you ask us to show to a stranger the retreats which are our only hope of life until the time when we are strong enough to rise and drive the oppressors from our lands?"

Haskell saw the force of the argument and was silent a moment.

"But the señorita?— she can not go back. What is to become of her?"

"She is welcome to our poor houses in the forest as long as she lives."

A sudden resolution possessed the American, but he did not speak of it. Instead, he asked: "Where are we going now?"

"We shall rest till daylight and then I will lead you to the coast and to a village I know of there. A fisherman with a boat can take you to Cozumel and you can go home to your own country and not come back to steal our forests. We will kill you and all you bring with you if you do!"

Haskell stared hard at the stern features illuminated by the glow of the twig fire. The snores of Juan, already asleep, forgetful of the day's danger and bloodshed, were the only sounds for a minute.

"I am not a thief, amigo. The men who sent me are not thieves. We pay the rightful owners their own price for what we take, or we do not take it. We have paid Calderon y Ortegas much money and will pay very much more."

The old man seemed about to speak, but checked himself and, after gazing at the fire a moment, sadly said:

"The words of Nunez Paola have been spoken. They are true and shall stand!"

Then he bowed himself by the fire, drawing one arm under him across his abdomen, and was soon asleep.

7: Two Americans Shake Hands

AT DAYBREAK the trio was astir and, though weak from lack of food, pushed on through the dense growth. When he was not watching the marvelous woodcraft of the old man in places that seemed impassable, Haskell was studying the trees about him— mahogany, dyewood, the several hard gum-bearing trees, the tropical cousins of the oak and the beech— hundreds of millions of feet of lumber, millions of dollars' worth of wealth.

At last, toward noon, the way before them began to lighten, and they emerged at the edge of the tract which the American had seen from the tree the day before. It was a dried salt marsh with a most peculiar consistency of soil, the very material that under former conditions would have been turned into bituminous coal. It was free from creeping vines but rich in timber, especially in mahogany and dyewood.

Around the edge was a path that was traveled with some frequency apparently, and in the middle of the afternoon they came within sound of the sea. Passing over a hummock of rotten trap at one point, Haskell used the elevation to survey the marsh, and he saw what was the occasion for its peculiar nature. It was lower than the mean sea-level, and in the rainy season would turn into a fresh lake which would force a channel through the sand ridge that separated it from the sea. The tide, invading the marsh, would make it salt until such time as the wind and waves would pack the channel with sand and debris in the beginning of the dry season, and the sun would dry up the enclosure for the six months to follow.

When he had determined this he begged for a halt, and, taking an observation, figured out the position and compared it with his maps. This thirty square miles of sublevel timber land was part of his huge task. He felt his heart tighten within him.

When they reached the beach their guide turned northward, and after about two miles of tramping over the dunes they came to a cove in which an Indian fishing village nestled, embowered in palms and plantains. Within the bar rode a half-dozen fishing- boats, of the size in which the daring natives go to sea hundreds of miles. As they neared the hamlet they were descried by a swarm of naked children who ran like young partridges.

Haskell was deeply absorbed in some new plans and left Juan and Nunez Paola to make all arrangements with the villagers who gathered to see the strangers. He came to with a start just as they were entering the wattle-work hut that was to shelter them.

"Haskell! For heaven's sake! Haskell!"

On a rude settee reclined the figure of a pale, fever-burnt young man, his neglected beard and matted hair giving his face the look of one insane. The engineer turned and stood staring at the unknown under the coiba before the door.

"I don't expect you to know me, old chap. I'm Jack Peters!"

In an instant Haskell was grasping the thin extended hand. "Honestly I feel as if I were talking to a dead man! Great guns, boy! how did you get here? What does this mean?"

Then Jack told him the story of which he already had glimmerings.

He had reached the hacienda only three days before Haskell, having come by a different route, and when he told Don Felipe his mission, the haciendado had laughed and refused to credit him. Jack had shown him the papers which the brother had signed in New York and Don Felipe had gone into a terrific rage. He declared that his brother had had no right to dispose of the timber-rights— that they were the joint property of the whole family. Peters, however, was in possession of the search papers obtained from Merida, which showed that the brother was the sole trustee of the estate and the bargain legal.

Don Felipe then said that none of the interested parties would ever live to see it executed, and the following morning had inveigled the youth on the ride of which Haskell had heard, had shot him through and left him for dead in the forest.

All he remembered was being borne on the shoulders of Indian bearers. He came to consciousness in the hamlet, under the care of an herb-doctor and was getting well.

When Jack had heard Haskell's story to the end he sat looking at the little red case which Haskell had given him and, after a moment's silence, put out his hand.

"Haskell, will you shake on our getting that fellow?"

"I'm with you and we will get him good!" said the engineer, gripping the thin palm. "But I tell you, boy, I feel there is something more behind all this than a mere quarrel between brothers over a trustee's rights."

"Señor," said a grave voice behind them, "your words are the words of the wise in some things, but of the foolish in others. Take warning and return to your own country."

It was Nunez Paola. There was a serious gentleness in his tone that gave his utterance unusual importance.

"I— I did not know you understood English!" exclaimed Haskell.

The old man shrugged his shoulders as he turned away and said: "I was General Hernando Ortegas' body-servant at Oxford, fifty years ago— and I wrote his lessons for him." Silently they watched him as he strode away.

"Say, Haskell," said the convalescent in a lowered tone, "we think we are a smart people up home, but I will bet that a lot of these old Mayas could give us cards and spades!"

WHEN Haskell awoke the next morning after restful slumber and attacked the steaming breakfast Juan placed before him, he missed the old Maya and asked for him. Juan shook his head: "He struck inland at daybreak, some cakes inside his jacket, and he bade me say to you, señor, that you are commanded finally to take the young señor and go back to your own country and come here no more."

The little withered man nearly dropped the leaf on which he was serving the fried plantains when Haskell made his comment, but in a moment the big American laughed, ate his breakfast and, lighting a cigar, said: "Juan, go out and tell every able-bodied man you see that I want him to work for me, and I will give him five dollars silver a day for a month."

"Oh, señor, señor, ask me not this thing! They will lash me for lying to them!"

" Why, hang it! I mean it. Go do as I tell you. Also, if you will stay with me, that is your wage-rate from this time on, but let me tell you there is going to be more work and fewer fiestas in this corner of the republic than there has ever been before!"

In ten minutes' time there was a wildly excited mob of a hundred men before the hut, and in the background were the women and children. Haskell, with Jack leaning on his arm, walked out under the coiba and told them what he wanted. He picked out twenty men who could handle axes and sent them into the forest to cut young trees for piles. He picked out eight men who were boat-builders and set them to constructing four ten-foot barges. Half of the others were to get the piles out of the woods to the beach, and the other half were detailed as shovelers, with the exception of two men who understood carpentry and masonry. These he held for further orders.

In an hour's time the ordered work was under way and he was showing the carpenters how to build a pile-driver, using a block of granite for the hammer, with guiding grooves chiseled in the sides and a big drum windlass on which to draw it up. Not being ready to use the shovelers yet, he led them down the beach to the point where the three had come to tide-water the day before, and set them to building a working camp. That evening he wrote a long cablegram to the firm and at dawn one of the boats put to sea to carry it to Cozumel.

Chapter 8: War And Engineering

ONE week later Jack Peters was strong enough to transfer himself down to the working camp, and there he found a work under way that made him yell and whoop. Beginning at low-water mark a double line of piles was being driven inland entirely across the beach ridge that barricaded the sea from the dried marsh. The rows were twenty feet apart. In the firmest part of the ridge the masons and carpenters were building a wooden sluice-gate, set in stone blocks. Its lowest level was low-water mark. The shovelers were at work taking out the sand on the landward side of the gate, as they had taken out all but a small part on the seaward side, to a level three feet below high-water mark.

"Do you mean you are really going to try to do a thing like that, Haskell?"

"Wait just half an hour and see. The tide is coming up now."

And he left the enthusiastic youngster to marshal more men on the landward work. Peters watched the tide creep up to near the three-foot sublevel and then he saw Haskell coming back, taking a shovel from a workman as he came.

"Open the gates and lash them!" cried the engineer, and he watched the water narrowly as the gates were made ready. Then, wading in at the edge of the water, he threw a narrow channel through the slender sand barrier and saw the first rush of the sea-water through the canal, which was still two-thirds choked with sand.

Steadily the speed and volume of the rivulet grew as the tide increased. One foot wide, two feet wide, four feet wide— more and more the sea-water, rushing inland, dug down and sideways into the sand, and a yellow, sand-laden, boiling flood tumbled into the nearest reaches of the marsh, spreading the sand ripped out from between the piling over a wide area. Then at last the tide was at maximum and began to ebb. In half an hour the water that had flowed in with a mad rush came out with decreased volume, and by the middle of the afternoon the canal stood revealed, two rows of glistening piling with every grain of sand and soil washed out down to low-water level.

Now Haskell ordered the gates closed and all cracks sealed for the time being. Inland the floor of the marsh, as far as could be seen, was covered with a coating of wet sand that would not interfere with the lumbering in the least when dried, but would make a far cleaner and better foundation than the salt peat of the bog.

When he understood the whole thing, the younger man clapped an arm around the elder and said: "How I would like to see Uncle John watching this! He would have four joy spasms a minute. It is great, Haskell, it is great!"

"He is wondering just about now what I want with twenty saws to work from barges, twenty donkey-engines to run them, three tow-boats and everything needed to get the lumber in the water, trim the logs, get them through the canal and tow them in rafts to steamer-side to be heaved inboard."

"Didn't you explain how you were going to do it?"

"No. John Peters doesn't want explanations before or after."

"Great guns, Haskell, that must mean a forty per cent, saving, F.O.B.!"

"Nearer sixty, Jack!"

"On thirty miles— let me see—" his voice trailed off to a murmured following of his mental calculation, till suddenly he clutched Haskell by the arm and said almost aghast, "Why, man alive, that means thirty million dollars!"

"About forty million, lad, when we figure the saving in getting out the timber farther inland by dredging a five-foot canal on from the inland water-mark. But we are not through yet, lad. I thought it wise to put an order for one hundred rifles, with three hundred rounds each, in the requisition, and I am sorry, from something I saw last night, that I did not order them shipped by special steamer from Kingston—"

"You saw something last night?"

"Yes, some time about midnight Juan waked me and I ran to the window just in time to see two men drop into the dry side of the canal, after inspecting the gate, and sneak off inland."

"Two white men?"

"No, two Mayas, and both were armed— rifle, pistol and knife."

Peters whistled significantly and then asked: "Well, what are you going to do about it?"

"Just this. I am going to leave you in camp to-morrow, and I want you to trench both sides of the ridge to defend the gate, and to start a timber stockade north side of the camp— timbers that will stop high velocity, sub-caliber bullets. Have the masons build a tank that will hold a thousand gallons of water and put it under cover; then dig a cellar in the sand, lined with masonry, that will hold three or four boatloads of provisions. I am going upshore for provisions, all the arms in the village and all the fresh water I can float back."

"Why don't you send a messenger to telegraph the Governor, if there is going to be any trouble?"

"It would take ten days to get a detachment of regionales here, and I would rather have twenty of these fishermen than five hundred of those poor convicts, half-dead from fever and homesickness. Also, if it is Don Felipe that is threatening us, his cousin is the Governor. If it is the Mayas from the woods— well, the Government never has been able to get the best of them and I believe I would rather handle the situation myself."

IT WAS late the next afternoon when Haskell had his boats loaded and the sun was creeping down in the west. The dozen men he had taken with him were waiting at the water's edge to put off and, as he stood talking to the aged headman of the village, he called out to the boats to proceed, with the exception of the lighter and swifter one.

The sound of horses' hoofs at the rear of the village! A party of horsemen riding through the gardens scattering the chickens and children!

"Don Felipe! The mercy of heaven!" cried the old man. Haskell threw his hand to his hip. His gun was in the boat! They had not seen him yet. He stepped within the doorway, saying: "Lie for me, father, till I can get to the boat!"

"Oya, you old beggar!" cried Calderon y Ortegas, riding up and taking a playful slash at the patriarch of the village with a freshly cut withe. "How does it happen that the vultures have not got you yet? Where are the boys?"

"All are working down the shore with the Senor Haskell, Don Felipe."

"Where are those boats going?"

"They are taking my children food and water, Don Felipe."

"Call them back, before I brain you!"

The old man pretended to call in his cracked voice, but it was too feeble to carry to the beach, so Don Felipe roared his own mandates. The two were already beyond the reach of his voice, and the men in the third that waited for Haskell showed signs of fear and gave no indication of putting out.

The haciendado cursed and threatened dire vengeance, stopping only to ask:

"Is there a girl here, or down there with this American?"

"No, Don Felipe. I have seen no women this year but my own children."

"I hear they are cutting down my timber and are digging in my land. What is he trying to do?"

"I do not know, Don Felipe, but he is building things on the sands by the water."

"I shall go down to see."

Evidently the two spies were not Don Felipe's men, thought Haskell.

"The Señor Peters says they will soon have ships here loading timber."

"Señor Peters! Do I hear your words? A lad of little more than twenty?"

"The same, Don Felipe. He came to my house wounded and grew well here."

The haciendado ground his teeth in his rage and, turning to his elder son, said: "Now, do you see what we must do, and do at once?"

Plainly he feared that, his attempt to kill young Peters having been open and indefensible, if Peters or Haskell were left alive long enough to get in touch with the American consul at Merida, the Governor would be forced to act. Peering through the wattle-work, Haskell could see the son nodding his head in acquiescence.

"It seems that we rode over none too soon. Now bring us the best you have, you old dog, for we are hungry, and then we will go down where these gringo scoundrels are playing in my sand!"

The party dismounted and Haskell counted them quickly— Don Felipe, the son and four mozos. The mozos had no firearms, and the two white men left their carbines slung in rurale fashion on their horses. The son carried his heavy pistol in a saddle holster, and Don Felipe had his holster flap buttoned over the pistol at his belt.

One of the mozos led the horses under a tree and stood them with their heads together, untethered.

The old man, seeing they were about to enter the house, and knowing that there was no hiding-place within for Haskell, was trying to divert them by asking Don Felipe to choose his fowls from those about. Haskell determined on a desperate course of action. Don Felipe was within three feet of the doorway with his back turned. Stepping quickly to his side, Haskell snatched both holster and pistol from his belt and, as the bulky haciendado wheeled to face the attack, drove his fist with terrific force squarely in the center of the repulsive face, hurling him back on the son so that both staggered into the midst of the mozos.

Don Felipe slipped to the ground, bathed in blood. Trying to get out the pistol as he ran, Haskell made for the nearest horse, the mozos now close on his heels, and, through surprise, he had gained enough lead to leap into the saddle, strike the other horses right and left and send them stampeding.

He galloped through the village, shouting to the third boat to put away and make haste to the camp. Relieved from the fear of Don Felipe's carbine, the men pulled away with a will, and Haskell turned to note the stage of the pursuit. One of the mozos was ahorse and another was coming on with speed afoot. Drawing the carbine and making sure of the charge, he checked his horse and fired once— twice— thrice.

The first shot stopped the runner in a pile in the dust. At the third the mounted mozo reeled in the saddle and the American rode on.

He could not go down the beach to the camp. He could only follow the road toward the hacienda until he found a good spot to enter for a detour that would bring him out on the northern edge of the dried marsh, which he could follow back to camp.

9: A Prisoner

IT WAS very nearly dark when he reached the path he had followed with Juan and Nunez Paola the previous month, and as he turned toward the sea he moved with care. Twice the horse shied and Haskell thought he saw dim blurs of white off among the trees. Once he drew rein and thought of tethering his horse and proceeding on foot on account of the sound of the horse's hoofs, but, laughing at himself for fearing any enemy in this quarter, he started to ride on. From out the growth on every hand appeared a dozen white shapes, two steel rifle-barrels were thrust in his face and strong hands were laid on his horse's bits! Haskell laughed bitterly. " Good evening, amigos. What does this mean?" he asked. "Buenas tardes, Señor Haskell," said a familiar voice. "We were told not to shoot you, but you are riding one of Don Felipe's horses, and in the dark many things might happen."

The speaker felt carefully as he spoke for arms other than the pistol and carbine and then turned the horse in the trail.

"Who are you?" cried Haskell. "Why do you hold me up this way if you are enemies of Don Felipe? I have just escaped from him in the village. He nearly got me. Where are you taking me?"

"The fool seeks information of the ignorant, señor; the wise man takes counsel with his own eyes and ears."

The triteness of the proverb struck an odd note. It precipitated Haskell's own philosophical resignation to this new and astounding development and he drew out a cigar, lighted it and in silence allowed himself to be led inland without further protest. For a half-hour they marched with surprisingly little noise, and then encountered another body of men, at least twenty in number, moving in the opposite direction and apparently well armed. A signal word was exchanged and the two parties passed.

Another hour of silence, then the man leading the horse turned aside by a certain white, barkless tree, and after a few minutes' difficult passage through the dense growth, two men parting the way before the horse, they came into an open space and Haskell smelled fresh wood-smoke but could see no fire. There was also the sound of running water, but there was no stream nor a depressed channel for one.

The man in advance sounded the peculiar note of the canillan bird twice, and it seemed to be answered from directly below them. A flaming torch appeared, almost under their feet. A naked Maya boy carried it, and Haskell saw they were on the edge of a great hole forty feet deep and at least one hundred across. The boy had stepped forth from a sort of cave at the bottom.

By the light of the torch the horse was led down a winding trail from shelf to shelf of the sides and when the lower level was reached, Haskell was asked to dismount and saw the horse led away to a second hole in the earth.

"Enter, señor," said the familiar voice, and now by the light of the torch the engineer saw that the leader of his captors was 'Nacion from the hacienda. His heart sank within until he noted that the other men were of a far wilder type than the mozos of the hacienda. Haskell stepped into the cave and saw that it was a water-worn causeway into the earth.

"You can not pass out this door," said 'Nacion, pointing to the two men who guarded it. Haskell made the mental reservation that he certainly would do so the first opportunity that was half-way healthful.

The old channel turned and a strong blast of wood-smoke struck him just as a great sight was revealed. Before him opened a huge oblong enclosure more than three hundred feet in its greatest dimension, the roof of limestone supported in many places by natural pillars of rock, and in the light of the fires that glowed here and there moved hundreds of men, women, children and dogs.

Close at hand was a chasm, and at the bottom roared the underground river. Plainly this had once been its channel on this level, but it had broken through to a new one some fifty feet lower, leaving an ideal place of concealment for such a band as this—a band of the wild Mayas of the forest and their runaway peon recruits. Most of them had only rudimentary clothes and no weapons but the crooked henequen knives and the straight woodman's machetes, and all of these seemed worn.

Cries heralded the arrival of the party, and there was a rush from all sides; a wall of gleaming bronze bodies, serried rows of curious dark eyes, formed on either hand in a twinkling and Haskell found himself noting the difference between this reception and that which would have been accorded in the village of American blanket Indians. On the far side of the big chamber some matted vines and cloths had been combined to make screened chambers and to one of these the engineer was conducted, to find himself in the presence of an old but erect and virile man sitting on a tiger-skin, a flat earthen dish of fat by his side with a lighted wick thrust in it. He was smoking a thick black cheroot and removed it to bow gravely as Haskell entered and his captors retired.

"I am Nuñez Jose, Señor Haskell, chief of the Itzchen-Maya. I grieve to see you here. My brother was sent to save you from one of our oppressors and lead you to the sea, that you might leave our country, where you have no right. You were told to go, and told that you could not despoil our forest, our last retreat, and yet you would not be warned. Now we must deal with you— not to punish you, for we have no right to do so, but to protect ourselves against you and all men from your country.

"You are a prisoner and you can not escape. Because of the bravery you have shown, because of the good heart you have shown to our people, you are to be a prisoner until we leave this spot, and then you must die. We can not let you go free. We can not be burdened with guarding you. You have brought this on your own head, for you were fully warned. These are the words of a chief. You will go now, and food will be given you."

While the old man had been speaking, calmly and without feeling, Haskell had thought of a number of things to say, but when he heard his sentence and saw the logic of it from the tribe's point of view he realized that it would be hopeless to enter into any argument or to make any appeal. The chances were a thousand to one against him, but he must take his respite to find that one chance and, with the words of dismissal, he bowed gravely and turned to leave the chamber almost as if in a dream, the whole situation seemed so unreal. The curious crowd without had turned away to its own pursuits, it being the time of the preparation of the evening meal, and Haskell stopped to note a woman rolling some beans in a shallow stone mortar with a stone pestle the size of a large grapefruit.

"Señor," said 'Nacion's voice, "it is prayed that you follow me."

Threading their way among the merry family groups, the two passed, leaving the illuminated portion of the enclosure behind, until Haskell saw before him against the farther wall more of the screening mats and cloths. Lifting aside the green curtain of one more or less isolated, the mozo bowed in the engineer. In an earthen vessel used as a brazier glowed fresh coals, and on a flat stone at one side were some fresh cakes, the odor of which came pleasantly to his nostrils. Beside them lay some dried meat, and near by a leaf laden with fruit and a cool dripping olla. Carelessly Haskell noted that at one side was a rude pallet of boughs and twigs woven so as to make an excellent bed, and over it was thrown what seemed a scrape in soft colors. Encarnacion stood to attend him and, thrusting aside all thoughts of the evil lines in which he had fallen, he ate heartily.

Almost completed was his meal when a gleam of something among the twigs of the narrow pallet caught his eye and, reaching over, he drew it forth— a little coral and silver beaded rosary with a medallion engraved with "Emalia Rosanna Ortegas y Escalendon. "

The rosary she had worn as she rode to his help!

" 'Nacion," he said breathlessly, "is this the Señorita Emalia's chamber?"

"It is now for you, señor."

"And she?"

"The señorita will be with my sister."

On the cake in his hands he now saw the unmistakable print of her little fingers! It seemed that the mouthful he had been about to swallow would choke him, and sudden, surprising hot tears sprang to his eyes. He bent his head lest the mozo should see.

"Will you bring her, 'Nacion?" he said huskily, and when the Indian had gone, he stared at the coals, while between them and his eyes rose the vision of a queenly, haughty slip of a girl poised proudly on the steps of the ancient hacienda stair, the stair at the portal of her ancestral home.

A rustle of the vines!

Springing to his feet he faced her and noted, beyond her, the sister of 'Nacion standing with crossed hands and dropped eyes as becomes the duenna. The two approached, his eyes bent intently on her face in which the color rose and fled in quick alternation, her eyes wavering away but coming back constantly to his as if compelled, while her fingers tugged childishly at the seams of the sides of her native riding-garb. More than two arms' length apart they paused, and there was a little silence.

10: Love And A Plea For Life

"SENORITA, it is strange that we meet here, but it is the blessing of heaven that I see you again at all. It is not enough that I twice owe you my life; that you have suffered cruelly at the hands of your own flesh and blood to save a stranger; that you have even cut yourself off from your home and come to a life among savages? Is all that not enough, that you should seek to thrust on me your poor little comforts, and— and with your own hands do for me what there was no one else to do?"

"And you are angry, señor?" she quavered, the hurt tears in her eyes.

"Angry! No, you beloved child, no! —only my heart melted within me. You were angry with me. Do you remember? I could not help loving you at once, angry as you were, and now—"

She had pressed her hands palm to palm on her breast. A look of amazed, half-incredulous rapture stole over her face at his words, and a slow smile of incomparable sweetness dwelt on her parted lips. He faltered and moved toward her, his hands outstretched, eager inquiry and the adoration of a strong man blended in his face.

"Why — why, little Emalia, did you do this for me?"

She yielded herself into his arms with a little sigh that caught in her throat almost like a sob, and presently she answered: "Because I, too, have loved you since I first saw you, and it was sweeter than anything I have ever done in my whole life to work for you!"

IN A LITTLE while some flash of remembrance of conventions cut into the dream of her love, and she drew away from him shamefacedly, glancing at the patient figure by the door, then she laughed merrily.

"I forgot that I had no one to reprove me but myself. Now I am yours and I may love you as much as I can love, and it is all without wrong or your reproof—is it not wholly good?"

The sweet phrases made his heart thrill.

"It is— it is wholly good!" he answered with reverent earnestness. In the light of fresh twigs placed on the brazier they sat and talked of the present situation. He took counsel with her as the American does with his wife and true love, and she was amazed and proud beyond utterance, but when the whole matter had been reviewed she said: "You should have gone when I told you. You should have gone when 'Nacion told you. You should have obeyed Nuñez Paola. Your compania has no right to take these trees, and I am sure of it, because I know that whoever gave them to my father, my grandfather and his father had no right to do so. They belong to the Itzchen-Maya."

"This forest was your father's. How did it come into the hands of the Calderon y Ortegas?"

"I do not know. My uncles told me that it did—that is all I know. But it was not right. It belongs to these people here in this Cenote, There is no way for you or no help for you, beloved; you must die. They will soon move on— and I will die with you!"

She smiled as if glad that she might. Haskell shuddered and thought desperately.

"You say that they will move on? Where are they going?" he asked. "They will soon be insurrecto again," she answered almost blithely. "Twice since the great war they have risen, and each time they were beaten because they did not have enough arms. But now all Yucatan is with them except a few rich haciendados, and when the Mexicans are driven out Yucatan will be free again. All good Yucatecos admire the Mayas, but they are not so brave as the men of the forest or they would give them the money for arms. They have surrounded your camp to drive you out, take you and Señor Peters captive and kill you because you are going to take the forests, and then they will march on Valladolid, killing the Maya-hating haciendados and taking their arms and horses, but not harming the haciendas of the others. They will wipe out Calderon y Ortegas first of all."

A great light broke on Haskell. Fear of provoking the Mayas was what had caused the cunning Don Felipe, who knew the imminence of a rising, to repudiate his brother's contract and to discourage the syndicate, as he imagined, by doing away with its agents, as fast as they came, in such a way that the murders could not be laid at his door but would be blamed on the Mayas.

Rising with sudden resolve, he gathered the girl once more in his arms and said: "You must remain here. I am going to talk of this thing to Nuñez Jose, and perhaps—well, when I come back we shall talk more."

All but a few of the Mayas were asleep and, studying them with interest as he picked his way among them, Haskell reached the chamber in which he had confronted Nuñez Jose, and encountered the old chief sitting before the door. Hardly had the American begun to state his extraordinary mission before the chief raised his hand, stopped him and sent two boys scurrying to summon his brother Nuñez Paola and all the elders of the tribe not away stirring up the Mayas on the plantations.

It was an hour, perhaps, before all were assembled in the chamber, seated on the ground around the grease-lamp. Haskell cast his eyes around the circle, and with admiration noted the line features of many, the size and intelligence of their eyes, and the wisdom written on their brows. What a race their forefathers must have been in their heyday! At last Nuñez Jose commanded him to speak, saying: "Son of strangers, speak to the fathers of my children; tell the poor remnant of the family of the Great Serpent the thoughts of thy white man's mind and the wishes of a heart that we know to be brave and strong."

There is a certain sort of training which encourages the man trained to use a map or to draw as he speaks or thinks, and following this impulse Haskell stepped to a smooth spot on the white limestone wall and with a piece of rotten yellow stone began to draw.

While they watched they saw him create an accurate outline of "The Hook" of the North American continent, marking in the wilderness and dotting in the towns in the developed and cultivated region. The only words spoken while he worked were little exclamations of comment.

When it was complete, he turned and spoke to them, clearly pointing out their location, showing how they were cut off naturally, leading on to the conclusion that by the designs of nature the peninsula and the lands east of the mountains were a region unto themselves— the natural heritage of the Maya people. At this there was approval from every side. He passed to the natural wealth of this region and showed how its greatest wealth, the hardwoods and the chicle of the forest, could be drawn on forever by careful use, if the users did not destroy the forest. He then entered into the question of territorial rights, of the oppression of the Mexicans and the pro-Mexican haciendados, and of the fate of the Maya people if they continued to allow themselves to be forced back into the forest or if they submitted to the peonage system and became absorbed in the great body of Mexican economic serfs.

Then he spoke of the Aztecs, the Toltecs, the Tehuantepecs, now crushed forever, and of the Yaquis' brave fight for three hundred years. The thing to do, however, was not to fight the Mexican and his civilization, but to return all Mayas to the plane of civilization which they once enjoyed and to make the peninsula a Maya land once more. Guerrilla warfare would not do this; ravage and pillage would lead to no good ends. There was great wealth in the forest and in the uncleared lands that would grow henequen to raise the whole Maya people to eminence— if Yucatan were all Maya.

"I came to your country believing that I had a right to take these trees, that right having come through Calderon y Ortegas, and the right is one which the Government would enforce with its troops against Don Felipe and against you. But have I sent for troops to come to fight you? On the other hand, do you not see that if you take my life the Government must take extreme measures, or my own more powerful country will do so? Must I explain to you that the men who sent me may not learn the rights and wrongs of things as I have learned them?

"Listen to my plan. You are not averse to toil, if you are well paid. I will provide labor and pay for every Maya man who will have it. We will work together and from the profits a share shall go to the chiefs of the Mayas that will soon make a fund that will allow the Mayas to come again to their own. There is wealth enough for me to keep faith at the same time with Calderon y Ortegas. In a few days my ships will arrive off the coast. Even now the first may be there, and they will have aboard the arms which you need to carry out your plans of driving back the haciendados who have encroached on your lands without rights. Those arms you may have, but if you kill me you can not get them. With all this in mind, I ask you: Will you delay your revolution till you are fitted for it— perhaps many years from this time? Will you confine your insurrection to the punishment of haciendados who deserve it? Will you work with me in getting out the wealth of these trees without destroying your forest? Will you enrich yourselves, and will you spare my life?"

There was no question but that the gathering was greatly impressed. There was an uncertain silence and then Nuñez Jose signed to Haskell that he had better with draw while they deliberated. Just before the engineer reached the door, a middle-aged man whose face bore a strong resemblance to that of Cromwell said:

"We have heard the words of a white man, of a stranger, one who is not any part of us and has no interest in this land except to despoil it—will he tell us why we should trust him, what sympathy he has with this land?"

Haskell turned in the doorway: "Fathers of the Itzchen-Maya, as soon as I may, I shall wed the Señorita Ortegas y Escalendon!"

A look of surprise, one of pleasure, apparently, passed around the circle, and Haskell stepped out. He had been pacing up and down before the door but a few minutes when he was summoned within.

"My son," said Nuñez Jose, "return to-night to your camp by the sea. To-morrow messengers will start to our people in the west and we will await the fulfilment of your promises. Encarnacion and ten men will go outside and remain with you till you can give us such arms as you do not need."

It seemed to Haskell that a sudden load had been lifted from his heart, and when he left the place and crossed to the chamber where he had left Emalia he repressed a boyish desire to run. She was sitting by the brazier, her wealth of hair about her shoulders, and she was just beginning to braid it. The vessels in which the meal had been cooked and served were cleaned and set in a neat row, and there was such a little air of domestication about the almost bare room that he marveled till he saw that it was the visible expression of the spirit that pervaded her. Brightly as she smiled at the sight of him, there was anxious inquiry in her eyes which his very manner answered as he caught her to him, and when he told her the outcome of the conference she merely pressed her face close to him and said: "Almost would I rather that you were to remain here and die than that you were to leave me!"

IN KEEPING with the other new emotions that had come to him, Haskell was surprised to feel the great tug at his heart-strings when he said good-by to her. It was not to be for long— only till he could have a fit abode erected for them, and until a boat could be sent to Cozumel for a priest. She went with him to the entrance of the cenote and watched as far as she could see, and Haskell called back to her that he would soon return, little knowing of all that must intervene.

11: The Siege

THE moon was up. and riding was not difficult. About an hour before dawn they were within the sound of the sea, after having passed two bodies of the Mayas making their way back to the cenote.

Suddenly, from the locality of the camp, a dozen quick shots sounded, one or two wild yells and then silence. With a word to 'Nacion, Haskell put spurs to his horse and the entire party dashed ahead at reckless speed. When they came into the open, firing broke out again from the ridge to the north of the camp, and bullets whistled around them. One of the men gave a cry and his bridle-arm fell limp. The fire was returned from the camp and, to be sure that the men there did not mistake his arrival for an attack, Haskell began calling to Peters and Juan, galloping madly ahead as he did so. Soon they were under shelter among the buildings and saw about them in the moonlight a half dozen men crouched under cover at points of vantage armed with a variety of nondescript weapons. Haskell noted one horse-pistol of the period of Maximilian.

"By George, Haskell!" cried Peters, springing up from behind a log. "Where did you come from? I thought you were done for, sure!"

Briefly Haskell told him what had happened. He spoke in Spanish so that the men might hear.

"Well, we have been having a of a time here. Old Bluebeard did not come around from that punch you gave him till about midnight, I suppose, but they had sent at once to the hacienda and to two others up the coast for reinforcements, and they are just starting in to clean us out, with the first arrivals, I suppose. We are using all the arms we have, and I kept two men to every weapon, telling the others to sneak back to the village, as they would be no good as targets here, and if they were in the village as neutrals and vowed they were unfriendly to us, Don Felipe might not burn their houses or hurt their women and children. The scheme must have worked, for Juan, who sneaked in with them and then back with the news I have told you, says that the hacienda people did not molest them. I believe we are going to have a regular devil-party as soon as it gets daylight."

"I wish I had had sense enough to foresee this before I left the Mayas," was Haskell's comment as he turned away to inspect the defenses. "To think of this going on here and me letting forty armed men pass me, bound inland, five miles away!"

There had not been time to get the food and water properly stowed and two of the big water-jars were shattered and another pair were pierced with bullets. By the time dawn had begun to show, Haskell was sure of the plan of his defense, and three of the men who had come with him were in the growth at the foot of the ridge with the useless horses, ready to ride back to the cenote as soon as the moon passed under a cloudbank rising in the south. Now the moment was come and, with a faint rustle of the undergrowth and a noise of hoofs that seemed to Haskell far louder than it should have been, they were off.

They had reached the point from which Haskell first saw the sea, when a sheet of flame burst out of the piles of trap-rock. Don Felipe's forces had been sufficiently augmented for him to throw a line completely around the camp!

Down went two of the riderless horses and in a moment the cavalcade had wheeled and come careering back. When half way one of the men reeled in the saddle and fell into a bush, where he lay like a rag spread out to dry. The loose horses were running free over the upland and the marsh.

The two Mayas bent low and, riding hard, made for the camp, covered by the fire of Haskell's men. One went down with his horse on top of him and the other fell into Encarnacion's arms. The man in the bush was struggling to rise, but fell back.

The engineer, throwing down his carbine and ripping off his pistol, and belt, leaped over the low defenses and, running bent and zigzagging, reached the bush, lifted the man out and came staggering in with him, while from right and left on the ridge and from the posts inland at least fifty rifles and pistols crackled merrily.

When he was safe inside with his burden the Mayas sent up a wild yell of pride and exultation, and there was an answer from the line of the enemy, three round cheers and a

"Viva Haskell!"

"Maybe they don't know a good thing when they see it!" said Peters, refilling his magazine.

"But I would rather they had yelled loud enough to reach the ears of Nunez Jose!" panted Haskell. "It is getting too bright for any man to try to get through on foot, Jack, and there must be a hundred of them out there. We have eighteen men, seven rifles and nine pistols. And will you look up there!"

In the first light two sailboats could be seen coming down the coast, the reflected flash of arms showing among the scores of men that crowded them.

"But see here, Haskell, suppose they do kill us off; you know there is such a thing as law in this country after all. This will make a big muss."

"No, Jack, I have learned that Yucateco haciendados stand by each other. All that Don Felipe will have to prove is that I assaulted him, disarmed him and nearly killed him and then that I and my men resisted arrest from an entrenched camp. The American State Department is accustomed to swallowing tales like that. If we were British subjects there would have been a gunboat flying the flag of St. George in the offing this very minute."

"Well, what are we going to do about it?"

"Fight!"

All day long under the burning sun the little band, keeping close under cover, fired at every movement of the enemy in the bush, and every time a rifle spoke after a half-hour's stillness a veritable shower of bullets would hurtle over the camp, spat against the defenses and throw up little spurts of sand about. Only three found human targets. One of the men from the village had a wound in the shoulder; Jack Peters had the back of his left hand seared, and once, when the Maya who had ridden back wounded raised from his couch in his delirium, a bullet, coming through the wattle-work, had struck him fairly and he fell back, his suffering at an end.

In the early part of the day it was plain that the attacking party was interested in perfecting the investiture, but when they attempted to advance they were driven off the bare ridge to the north and south, and gradually the main body massed in the thick cover to landward, the low bushes of the dried marsh affording excellent cover.

Utilizing the first darkness, two swimmers struck out from camp and, assembling drift-wood up the beach, simultaneously started two chains of fire and then swam back safely. This was in accordance with a plan of Haskell's.

About two hours after sunset he saw that what he had foreseen was coming to pass. The increasing fire from the landward, though it was doing no harm, signified an added activity there and an effort to cover some movement.

"Direct all your fire to the right!" was his order. "Gee!" responded Jack Peters insubordinately. "Are you going to let those fellows down there do as they please? "

"Wait and see, Jack, wait and see, ''replied Haskell.

A little after midnight there were whistles and signal-calls from the bush, then some shouted orders, and with wild yells the mass of the enemy now assembled in the marsh broke into the open, dashing forward for a grand assault.

"Here they come!" cried Peters with a groan.

"I guess it's good-by, old man!"

He was pumping away with his carbine, and suddenly stopped short at the sight of Haskell dashing to the sluice-gate and throwing his weight against the levers.

The tide was nearly at its full height and with a roar the water poured in on the very ground over which the attack was advancing— great yellow overwhelming waves. There were wild shouts of triumph and derision from the defenders, cries of fear from the hacienda men. Those in the rear had time to withdraw, but the van was caught among the bushes, and their own confusion militated against their escape. It was not likely that there would be much loss of life, save among those who could not swim, but their arms went down out of sight in the water.

By the light of the fires men could be seen struggling in the yellow swirl in the undergrowth, and the two Americans forebore to fire on them in their helplessness.

Suddenly little old withered Juan gave a shriek of joy. He had descried something the others had not seen— a bearded man tangled in some vines, with the water rising about him. Into the water up to his armpits went the little man, breasting his way toward the struggler, shouting as he went: "Your cripple is coming, Don Felipe! Your cripple is coming, Don Felipe!"

Don Felipe heard and struggled the harder, tearing free and striking out for the ridge below the gate as the nearest dry land. Close after him came the little red demon of vengeance, and as the haciendado found a footing and turned to face his erstwhile peon, Juan struck with his henequen blade, and the heavy steel sank deep in the neck of Calderon y Ortegas. Now they clinched in a death-struggle and rolled over and over together into deeper and deeper water, and neither reappeared. The cripple's debt was paid.

From far inland came several long blasts as if from a horn and then a burst of shots.

"The Itzchen-Maya! The Itzchen-Maya" cried Encarnacion and the men with him, and in a few minutes, with a roar of hoofs, the crackle of rifles and yells of victory, they came into view. In every direction the hacienda men were in flight, and by moonrise the battle was over. As the tide receded the joyous defenders flocked to the canal to catch the hats by the dozen that came floating out, evidences of the completeness of the rout.

AT DAWN Haskell put his men to work to assemble the wounded and transport them to the village. He found pleasure in the small loss of life, and turned away with a shudder when the men brought in two bodies— that of a massive bearded man locked tight in the arms of a little withered one, the latter with his thin lips drawn back in a fixed smile.

"Look, señor, look!" cried 'Nacion, pointing up the shore. Haskell turned and beheld a steamer flying a signal and steaming swiftly down the shore. At her peak floated the flag of the syndicate's shipping lines, and when she dropped anchor and a boat put off from her he was overcome with surprise to see standing in the bow, scanning the shore and the signs of battle through binoculars— John J. Peters, Sr.!

An hour later, as they sat over their camp breakfast and Haskell had finished his relation of events, with Jack Peters now and then interposing credit where credit was due, Peters, Sr., said: "Haskell, you remember that I told you I was banking on you personally. Well, I guess I win. I knew when I got your requisitions that I would, and I made a bet with the president. I bet ten per cent of the costs against ten per cent of the net on this deal and, since I win, I turn it over to you. Clean this up right now, and you will be ahead close to two million. Stay right here on the job."

"I want a day or two to attend to a little personal matter—"

"Uncle John, don't you understand that there is a wedding due?"

"Oh, yes, of course, of course, and while I am about it I may as well tell you this land properly belongs to the Ortegas heirs anyhow— the Calderon brothers flim-flammed them when Ortegas died, and the future Mrs. Haskell, being the last of the family, why, I shall want to make a new contract with her as soon as she comes to camp. You had better send for her at once."

IT WAS dusk when Nuñez Paola rode down with Emalia and the sister of Encarnacion, and that evening John J. Peters, Sr., strolled over to the spot where the two stood looking out at the steamer swinging at anchor.

"Miss Ortegas," he said, "it just struck me that sea captains have power to perform marriage ceremonies. How would you like to go aboard to-morrow morning and have it over with and then spend your honeymoon on the Colleen Bawn while she lies out there this month? You see, I need Haskell here every day now. What do you say?"

She blushed rose-red and turned her face away to hide it against Haskell's arm.

______________________

9: Rayhouse in Space

Duncan Farnsworth  (David Wright O'Brien)

1918–1944

Amazing Stories December 1941

"I QUITE DEFINITELY advise you to give up the idea, Mr. Kelvin," the commander at Interplanetary Space Base One told Claude as tactfully as he could. The commander was a short, stocky, grizzled old gentleman who held no delusions about science and the progress of interplanetary unity.

"But you say you already have a man stationed on Asteroid Eighty," Claude Kelvin answered with mild determination. "If he can endure the, ah, dangers and rigors of his post I don't see why I shouldn't be able to do likewise."

The commander looked at the tall, wiry, bespectacled young man standing before his desk. He looked at the delicate, nervous hands of the chap, noted the studious solemnity of his expression. He glanced again at the permit lying on the desk. It was signed by a staggering array of important names. He shrugged and gave up the battle.

"Very well, Mr. Kelvin. There's nothing I can do to prevent your risking your neck. This permit allows you to do that. But I might remind you that you'll be stuck on that God-forsaken little blob of matter in space for two months. Our zone space cruiser puts in there only every ten weeks."

"That should be quite satisfactory, Commander. My studies will take all of thirty weeks on Asteroid Eighty."  *

________________

* Asteroid Eighty  —One of the Rayhouse Stations in the asteroid belt. Unsettled, savage, and—except for the rayhouse—almost as it was before the first Earthmen decided to use its strategic position as a beam signal outpost for the space lanes of that none-too-well charted area.—Ed.

"And the man we have stationed there," the commander broke in for one last reminder, "is not the, ah, most gentlemanly sort of fellow, you could desire as a companion in your solitude."

"It pleases me," said Claude Kelvin with obvious pride, "to think that I can get along well with any of my fellow beings. It is no particular trick."

The Commander sighed.

"And please," he begged, "watch yourself with the krickaks. * They're a deceitful, treacherous, nasty lot."

___________________

* Krickaks are the still savage, "uncivilized" inhabitants of a certain desolate outer asteroid belt of which asteroid 80 is a key beam base for the space lanes in that vicinity, Krickaks got their name from the first Earthmen to observe their almost electrically controlled bodies and hear the loud "crick-crackling" that is the vibratory sound that emanates from their strange bodies.—Ed.

"Has your man there found any difficulty with them?" Claude inquired.

Again the commander sighed. "No," he admitted. "But there have been tales. And don't forget, our rayhouse there is well equipped with enough weapons to keep them quiet."

"And what was the name of the rayhouse keeper," persisted Kelvin.

"Interplanetary officer Grimes."

Claude Kelvin took out a small black notebook and entered this fact.

"Thank you, Commander. I'm certain that Officer Grimes and I will hit it off admirably."

The commander watched him leave the office. He shook his head, sighing. "You don't know Grimes," he muttered. "And you've never seen a krickak!"

THE INTERPLANETARY zone cruiser was two days out on its inspection journey, and its sole passenger, Claude Kelvin, leaned against the enclosed deck railing and explained his presence to a junior officer who paused to pass the time of day.

"I'm working on a fellowship grant," young Kelvin declared. "You see, my studies have been a combination of bio-chemistry and sociology."

"They are?" said the junior officer, unimpressed.

"Yes, that's why my work on this lonely little asteroid outpost is going to be so important," Kelvin went on, warming up. "You see, it's long been a theory of mine that bio-chemistry is the key to complete interplanetary union, so to speak. Ever since the discovery of the interplanetary cosmos, and since man's conquest of it has been completed, there has been constant trouble and misunderstanding among the peoples of the interplanetary systems. Look at all the wars that were fought before we Earthmen finally won our conquest."

The junior officer nodded his head in bored agreement.

"That was due solely to the fact that we didn't understand the peoples of other planets," Kelvin said with growing warmth. "We were unable to find useful niches for these peoples in the mode of life we had imposed on them."

The junior officer concealed a yawn.

"And you intend to solve that problem— on the krickaks?"

Claude Kelvin nodded eagerly.

"Through bio-chemistry, the very computation of their vastly different physical selves, and a mixture of applied sociology, I will find the key. I know it!"

The junior officer frowned.

"But why pick an asteroid infested with krickaks?" he persisted.

Claude Kelvin smiled tolerantly.

"Because," he said, "I have heard that they are the, ah, most unmanageable group of space creatures in this particular asteroid chain."

"You're right about that," agreed the junior officer. He half shook his head and muttered something to himself as he took in the lean, ascetic, studious appearance of the young scientist. Then he touched his hand to the visored peak of his uniform cap.

"Well, good night, Kelvin. My watch is coming up."

Claude Kelvin raised a hand to detain him, while fishing rapidly into his tunic pocket for his small black notebook.

"What did you say your name was?" young Kelvin inquired.

"MacQuales," said the junior officer. "Sub-lieutenant MacQuales is the name."

Claude Kelvin painstakingly entered this in his little black book. Then he smiled.

"Thank you, Officer MacQuales," he said. "Good night."

As Sub-lieutenant MacQuales moved down the enclosed deck to the bridge of the space cruiser, he was still shaking his head and muttering to himself dubiously.

ASTEROID EIGHTY was almost exactly as the commander at the Interplanetary Space Base so graphically described it. It was nothing more than a God-forsaken little blob of matter in space. Being one of the fungus infested variety of asteroids, it seemed to Claude Kelvin, as he watched it growing larger from the deck of the zone space cruiser, as being nothing but a gray, greenish, ugly blob at that. But Kelvin smiled, undaunted.

Five minutes later the atomic motors of the zone space cruiser suddenly stopped throbbing beneath Claude's feet, and the space craft slowed to a complete stop.

Claude was dressed in the space gear that had been given him at the Interplanetary Base, and consequently didn't hear the approach of Sub-lieutenant MacQuales when that young officer came down the deck toward him.

MacQuales was clad in space gear also, and tapping Claude on the shoulder he indicated the communications button on his own radiphone. Claude nodded and switched his on.

"Well," MacQuales said, "are you ready?"

Claude was slightly startled.

"We're not moored on Asteroid Eighty, yet," he protested. "There's plenty of time."

MacQuales made a face that might have been a grin.

"Moored, hell. There's no way of mooring on that damned little jungle. We halt our zone cruiser here, then cover the rest of the distance in the ship's lifeboats."

Claude considered this, it seemed to MacQuales, a little unhappily. Then he shrugged.

"Very well, I'll gather my gear and equipment."

"Got much?" MacQuales asked.

"Oh, lots of it. A lifeboat should suffice, however," the tall young man replied.

"We have supplies to deliver to interplanetary officer Grimes, you know," MacQuales explained. "This trip wasn't made especially for your benefit. However, I suppose we can use an extra lifecraft."

"Thank you," said Claude Kelvin. Then he was off hastily to get his equipment.

THE JOURNEY from the zone space cruiser to the squat little rayhouse on Asteroid Eighty was a bumpy one. Claude Kelvin, in the first of the lifeboats, shepherded his equipment like a cackling mother hen over a brood of chicks. He spent the trip dashing back and forth along the slim craft from the helmsman to his gear, and back again, constantly admonishing that space veteran to take it a little easier, to watch where he was going, and to remember that the Kelvin equipment was delicate stuff.

At length, however, both the lifeboats moored safely at the tiny aluminoid space landing platform that stretched circularly around the squat duralloy rayhouse.

On the platform, waiting eagerly for them, was a space-helmeted figure of surprisingly small stature. His radiphone was tuned to theirs as they stepped from the lifeboats.

"Glad to see yuh," the voice boomed. And Kelvin blinked to think that such a small man could have a voice so deep. "Where's my new bunk mate?"

Sub-lieutenant MacQuales had stepped over beside Claude Kelvin, and the two of them advanced toward the short fellow. "Ahoy, Grimes," MacQuales bellowed cheerfully. "Glad you're still alive."

And interplanetary officer Grimes, face wreathed in a huge grin, stepped up to them, hand extended.

"This is Claude Kelvin," MacQuales said. "Kelvin, officer Grimes. I hope you two hit it off well, for you'll certainly see enough of one another."

Claude extended his hand, looking down on the short, rugged, little Grimes.

"I'm sure we'll get along well," he said. "And I hope I won't be in officer Grimes', ah, hair."

Grimes was as bald as a doorknob. A fact the red-faced Claude Kelvin didn't realize until he'd finished his remark.

"Joker, eh?" Grimes looked up unsmilingly into Claude's face.

MacQuales was spluttering redly, forcing back his giggles.

And then Grimes turned, motioning toward the square, airlock door at the front of the rayhouse.

"Come on," he said. "Join me in a drink before you go, MacQuales."

They followed Grimes up the landing as the space stevedores went on with the unloading behind them. Minutes later they removed their helmets as they stepped out of the final airlock into the comfortable and compact quarters of the rayhouse.

"Well, what do you think of it?" Grimes asked Claude, waving a hand at his quarters.

"Very nice. Very nice indeed," said Claude, "but—"

"But what?" Grimes frowned.

"Will there be any room for me to set up a laboratory?"

"There's a sort of cellar below," Grimes said. "You should have plenty of room there."

By now the three had climbed from their space gear, and Grimes was rummaging around in a duralloy compartment, bringing out three glasses and a spiraled bottle.

"Venusian stuff," Grimes said, holding the bottle high as he brought it back to a table with the glasses.

"Good," MacQuales observed a few minutes later, smacking his lips and holding out his glass for a refill.

"Damned right it is," Grimes retorted. "If those krickaks knew I had this in stock they'd have been raiding the rayhouse every night."

Claude's ear pricked up with sudden interest.

"The krickaks like liquor?" he asked.

"Love it," Grimes said, "when they can get it."

MacQuales looked meaningly at Grimes.

"Young Kelvin has an idea that he's going to make the krickaks one big happy part of our interplanetary family."

Claude dove head first into the conversation. With breathless enthusiasm he proceeded to tell Grimes exactly how he was going to "socialize" the krickaks.

Grimes listened to all this with a straight face. When Claude finally finished he said,

"I think you're going to be a little disappointed, Kelvin. Those krickaks are a bad lot. I don't want them within a mile radius of these quarters."

"But my work," Claude began protestingly.

"The work of running this rayhouse is of first importance around here, Kelvin," Grimes snapped. "And anything that might interfere or endanger it is out."

"A one mile radius," Claude said reflectively. Then; "I understand, perfectly, Grimes. But if I wish to go to the krickaks, in their own habitat— so to speak— that will be permissible, won't it?"

MacQuales was gazing neutrally at the ceiling.

Grimes poured himself another drink.

"That will be entirely up to you. Your neck is your own. If you want to risk it, it's your own business."

"Thank you," Claude said stiffly.

"But," and Grimes raised a forefinger in warning, "if you should get in trouble out there," he pointed toward the door, "I can tell you now not to expect any help from the rayhouse."

"I understand perfectly," said Claude, and his lips were compressed whitely.

MacQuales suddenly stood up.

"The supplies and Kelvin's equipment should be stored by now," he said. "I'll be running along." He began to climb into his space gear once again. Before putting on his glassicade helmet, he added: "I'll see you two gentlemen in another ten weeks. Goodbye and good luck."

Grimes and Claude watched him enter the first airlock, both silent. Then he was gone. Grimes picked up the bottle of Venusian whisky. He was silent as he refilled his glass.

"The fact that this rayhouse keeps going, the fact that I've never let these lightbeams falter once, has saved thousands of lives of space travellers. I don't intend to let this Rayhouse blink off— even once. So to repeat, you'll have to take care of yourself if you get in trouble out there."

Claude Kelvin stood up stiffly. Forgotten were his theories of getting along with people. He didn't like this stocky, rugged little Grimes, and no amount of reasoning could make him do so.

"I heard you the first time," said Claude...

FOR THE next four days relations between Grimes and Claude Kelvin didn't improve. They ate their dinners in silence for the first two days. And after several sharp exchanges, they ate at different intervals after that. In the meantime Claude was acquainting himself with the rayhouse and Asteroid Eighty.

It was with no little surprise that Claude found the rayhouse to contain a complete arsenal of atomic rifles and electro-handbombs. He remembered the commander at the Interplanetary Base having remarked that the rayhouse was safe from the mischief of the krickaks because of its supply of weapons, but somehow he hadn't imagined that such a complete store of killing gadgets would be on hand.

And Claude had seen the great ray turbines which kept the beams of the rayhouse sweeping uninterruptedly out into space. These were of scientific interest to him, but due to Grimes attitude, Claude didn't have much chance to inspect the apparatus as carefully as he'd have liked. Tersely Grimes had explained their operation to him, indicating in no uncertain terms that he didn't want Claude browsing around such important equipment.

But by the third day Claude had his own minor laboratory set up in the cellar of the rayhouse, and found himself engrossed in the first steps of his own work. Grimes didn't bother him in this. In fact the hard-bitten little space officer didn't even bother to inspect Claude's project.

And it was on the fourth day, late in the afternoon, when Claude had finished climbing into his space gear and Grimes came down from the ray towers to prepare his own meal, that the two had their longest conversational interchange since the departure of the space zone cruiser.

"Going some place?" Grimes asked.

"I've decided to have a look at Asteroid Eighty," Claude answered briefly.

"And the krickaks?" Grimes persisted.

"And the krickaks."

Grimes didn't answer him immediately. He went over to the small supply chest at the corner of the room, rummaged around for a moment, and returned bearing a brace of atomic pistols.

"Here," Grimes said. "You'd better takes these with you."

Claude's lips went stubbornly flat.

"I don't believe I'm going to do any hunting," he said frigidly.

Grimes hesitated only an instant. Then he shrugged, jaw gone hard.

"Suit yourself," he replied. He hurled the weapons back into the supply chest.

But Claude had a word or two to say.

"Those guns," he declared, "and the arsenal you keep here, are all an indication of just why the krickaks have never been friendly."

"That's why they've kept their distance these past ten years," Grimes said evenly.

"If you treat them that way," Claude went on, "you can always expect trouble from them. When this little asteroid chain was first discovered did anyone make any attempts to establish friendly relations with the krickaks?"

"They were born to make trouble at every chance. They're as nasty and treacherous as any group of interplanetary natives still existing," Grimes said with even calm. "I took over this post ten years ago, after eight men had died in the space of a decade trying to keep it going. I haven't failed. And I don't intend to."

Claude stepped over to the airlock, opening it. Then he stepped into the chamber. He had a vision of obvious disgust painted on Grime's space-seared features as the door closed. Then he waited for the second airlock to open.

WHEN HE STEPPED out onto the landing platform that encircled the squat bulk of the rayhouse, Claude had dismissed his irritation at Grimes' stupidity from his mind. There were now other and more interesting things to consider.

Such as the thick tangle of green gray jungle that surrounded the platform on every side. A weird scramble of lush and harsh vegetation that was ominously silent.

There was a ladder at the rear of the platform. A ladder that ran down to a path at the fringe of the strange jungle. Claude moved over to this and deliberately began his descent to the path. He looked up once, as he clambered down the ladder, and caught a glimpse of Grimes— in the ray towers— peering out through the glassicade shell at him. Then Grimes' head disappeared.

Claude smiled quietly to himself. Grimes was like the rest of the old time space officers. He'd been part of the group who discovered this asteroid chain, charted it, fought through it, and more or less "civilized" it. To him the whole thing was a simple matter of force and conflict.

Claude's feet touched the ground, and he released his grip on the ladder. Then he turned and looked around, staring through the tangled underpath that led down into the morass of wild vegetation. He smiled again, a little tightly, and started down that path.

As he walked, his hand found the radiphone button on the front of his space gear and switched it off. Then he opened his vibration panel at his chest. This would permit him to hear any sounds that came through the atmosphere around him.

The tangled underpath grew steeper, and darker, but Claude walked on. Sounds came to him through the vibration panel. Faint scratching sounds, as Claude saw small, curiously colored insects slithering along the surface of great rough leaves.

And then there was a definite crackling coming through the vibratory panel.

An involuntary shiver of excitement ran down his spine. Krickaks were somewhere in the vicinity! He'd never seen anything but radifoto pictures of these creatures, but he knew— almost as surely as if he'd heard it before— that their physical mechanisms were marked by the peculiar crackling sounds constantly vibrating from their weird bodies. Their very name krickaks— came from the first auditory impression they'd made on Earthmen who'd discovered them.

Claude moved onward. Ten yards more and he stopped. Ahead, up on the summit of the path, was a krickak!

The luminous shine to the creature's body made him easily visible in the semi-darkness of the strange surroundings.

He was of standard size, about as tall as the average Earthman. But his body was round, globular, and his head was of the same shape. He had round eyes, almost an inch in diameter each, and they were lidless and staring.

There was no nose to the creature. And for a mouth there was a constantly open oval, perhaps an inch wide and three inches long. Its legs were short and straight, with apparently no joints. And its arms were long and trailing, reaching almost to the ground.

The crackling vibrations grew louder as it regarded Claude. Now Claude moved forward once again, his arms extended wide, space gauntlets open, showing that he was unarmed.

Then, less than five yards from the krickak, Claude stopped. He fished into the small knapsack pocket on the side of his space suit.

The crackling vibrations grew in intensity, as though in alarm or fury.

Claude brought forth a bottle— from Grimes' Venusian stock— and placed it ahead of him on the ground!

The crackling vibrations were now querulous, and after an instant's hesitation the krickak moved forward with lightning speed, seized the bottle, and darted back. Claude smiled. Grimes hadn't been lying. The creatures liked this stuff.

Now Claude took a few steps toward the krickak. The creature didn't retreat, and its vibrations were steady. Claude took a deep breath as he stepped within arm's reach of the krickak. He kept smiling. This was working splendidly. Grimes should see him. It would change a few of his asinine notions.

Claude extended his hand, with the notion of placing it on the krickak's shoulder. And then, with incredible speed, the creature whirled and bolted off into the underbrush!

Claude stood there gaping foolishly, startled by the abruptness of the krickak's departure. Then he shrugged in good humor.

"The first gesture has been made," he said to himself. "And now there's a slight groundwork to start on."

He stood there for perhaps ten minutes longer, listening intently for any sign of the return of the krickak or the approach of any others of the strange breed. Then he turned and retraced his steps down the sloping path toward the rayhouse.

GRIMES was waiting for Claude when he returned. The grizzled little space officer seemed irritable and anxious about something. He was pacing back and forth in the narrow confines of the living quarters as Claude emerged from the airlock and into the room.

"What'd you find out there?" Grimes snapped.

Claude was startled. Then he was smug.

"I encountered one of the oh-so-dangerous krickaks," he said casually. "In no time at all I had a friendly footing established. The creature fled, of course, but not until I'd convinced him I was harmless."

"I'm surprised your hide is still intact," Grimes snapped. "Because there's something stirring on Asteroid Eighty, Mr. Kelvin. And not space mice!"

Claude essayed his most superior smile.

"Really? You know, Grimes, I believe that you've been living in a world of your own imagination for these past ten years. When I return I'll recommend a vacation for you back in civilization. It might do you some good."

Grimes forced back the words that choked his throat. His jaw was a solid line of muscle. He jerked his thumb as he turned on his heel.

"Come on, Kelvin. I'm sure this will be of interest to you."

Still smiling in smug complacency, Claude followed Grimes up the staircase that led to the ray towers. The two were wordless until they reached the observation platform above the vast turbines that generated the ray beams.

Grimes walked over to an instrument panel at the front of the platform.

"Look at that," he invited, pointing to one large dial on the panel in particular.

Claude bent over, frowning at the dial. He straightened up.

"I'm sorry," he smiled, "but I don't get it."

"You're supposed to be a bit of a bio-chemist," Grimes said sarcastically, "and I imagine you have sense enough to note a wavering instrument needle when you see one."

Claude nodded.

"I'll agree, the instrument needle is doing quite a bit of wobbling back and forth. But what's that got to do with bio-chemistry?"

"You've seen a krickak?" Grimes asked tersely. "You've heard the crackling vibrations emanating from its body?"

Again Claude nodded.

"Bio-chemistry has proven that the krickaks are physiologically 'juiced' by some electrical current that gives them their life impulse. There's some sort of dynamo in them that's just as important to them as a heart is to us." Grimes stated.

Claude was somewhat taken aback. Grimes seemed to know more than he had given him credit for. He listened as the grizzled little officer went on.

"Well because of that electricity, which is a very real force, the body vibrations of the krickaks— when especially active— usually register here in the rayhouse on our instruments. It's not enough to affect our instruments unless they are especially strong in number and unusually excited about something."

Claude found himself looking again at the wavering needle.

"I haven't seen those instruments react as strongly from those devils in a very long time," Grimes said. "Something is afoot, I'll stake my heart on it."

FOR A CHANGE, Claude Kelvin didn't know quite what to say. He opened his mouth and closed it, wordlessly.

Grimes was staring at him.

"What did you do when you ran into that krickak out there this afternoon?"

Claude gulped.

"I gave him a present, er, a token of good will."

"What was it you gave him?"

"Some whisky— a bottle of it— belonging to you."

Grimes glared in disgust. His fists bunched and he stepped forward slightly.

"See here," Claude said hastily, backing a pace, "I intended to reimburse you for it. I'll pay you this instant if you don't believe me."

"You blundering jackass!" Grimes spat the words. "I never should have let you poke your nose outside the rayhouse. Do you think the price of the stuff meant a damned thing to me?"

"Well, then," Claude said hastily, in an effort to dismiss the affair, "I don't see why you're making such a melodramatic fuss about everything. Surely a little whisky, just a bott—"

"One bottle of whisky," said Grimes, emphasizing each word with ominous clarity, "is enough to make an entire tribe of krickaks crazy drunk for a week. One drop to a krickak can cause enough hell for two days' shooting."

"How was I to know—" began Claude.

"I shouldn't have expected you to know anything," Grimes said in disgust. "That was my mistake!"

Again Claude opened his mouth, ready to protest hotly. But Grimes leaped suddenly to the side of the flickering instrument needle on the panel. It was wobbling twice as madly as before.

Grimes' language was not delicate.

"See here—" Claude managed.

"Shut up," Grimes snapped. "Get downstairs and bring up a pair— no four— atomic rifles!"

Something in Grimes' tone made Claude wheel automatically and turn hastily down the spiral of the staircase. When at last he was pounding up the stairs again he had divested himself of the rest of his space gear and was bearing four atomic rifles.

Grimes grabbed two of the rifles from his hand.

"Know how to shoot?" the grizzled little space officer snapped.

Claude nodded mutely. Grimes shoved two of the rifles onto the railing before him. Then he reached out and threw a switch. The entire landing platform outside and beneath the rayhouse was flooded with light. The fringes of the jungle around it were also revealed.

And Claude gasped at what the sudden flood of light revealed. A swarm of krickaks had climbed to the landing platform and were milling about the duralloy sides of the rayhouse. Grimes had been busy pulling forth a pair of space helmets and brief garb from under a compartment by the panels. He handed one of these to Claude.

"Climb into that," he snapped, "and we'll roll down the tower turret and get down to some plain and fancy dealing with those krickaks!"

Claude suddenly stiffened stubbornly.

"How do you know those poor devils mean any harm?" he demanded.

"They're just out there to thank us for the whisky," Grimes blazed sarcastically. "Do as I say!" he thundered.

Dazed, Claude climbed into the rig Grimes had tossed him. Then Grimes grabbed him by the arm.

"Look at them closely," he ordered. Claude peered down at the krickaks. "See those small sticks they carry in their hands?" Grimes demanded.

Claude nodded.

"Those are weapons, and nasty ones at that," Grimes explained. "When one's pointed your way, duck. There're electrical charges in those innocent sticks that completely paralyze a man who's unfortunate enough to be in the way when they hit!"

Claude nodded again, punctuating his emotions with a gulp.

THEN GRIMES touched a button and the glassicade turret around their tower swiftly dropped down on all sides. Grimes leaned over the railing, atomic rifle at his shoulder.

Hastily Claude took a post several yards away from Grimes, picking up an atomic rifle and assuming the same pose.

"They haven't seen us yet," Grimes called. "They haven't grown used to the light." And with that he carefully picked out the foremost krickak on the landing platform and squeezed the trigger on his atomic rifle.

The krickak dropped flat on its round stomach, a shower of sparks splashing from its body like blood. It lay there inertly, its comrades milling around it in surprise.

"They're looking up at us now!" Grimes yelled. He squeezed the trigger on his atomic rifle again. Another krickak splashed sparks and rolled off the platform edge into the tangled underbrush of the jungle.

But Claude hadn't moved his rifle from its position at the rail. He was staring pop-eyed at the two fallen krickaks, at the showers of sparks that spewed from their bodies.

Grimes turned his head toward Claude momentarily.

"Dammit," he bellowed. "I thought you could shoot. Let fire!"

A small red ball of electrical fury suddenly zipped past Claude's helmet. Then another, and a third blazed through the chromealloy railing at his elbow.

Claude trained his rifle on a krickak almost directly beneath him. The creature was pointing the stick-like object in its hand up at him. Claude squeezed jerkily on the trigger. The krickak went over backward like a toy soldier before a cork. Again there was the shower of sparks, and again Claude's jaw hung agape in astonishment.

Grimes was firing with coolness and accuracy. One by one he picked off the leaders of the group on the platform. His atomic rifle was glowing at the duralloy barrel point, so he put it down and picked up his spare.

Another shot. Another shower of sparks.

The small blazing electrical pellets were smashing all around them now, and Claude was firing with mechanical accuracy that surprised him. And as each krickak fell backward, sparks showered forth and Claude shook his head unbelievingly.

Then finally, Claude was aware that the platform was bare of krickaks— living krickaks, that is— and that Grimes had stopped firing. Claude could see other krickaks poking their round heads out of the underbrush spasmodically, while their comrades who were able to leave the platform alive retreated in confusion.

Grimes found the button that brought the glassicade tower turret up around them once again, and was pulling off his helmet a moment after it closed. Claude followed suit, and when he'd climbed out of the rest of his gear Grimes was gazing down at the krickak-strewn landing platform with grim satisfaction.

"Not bad for a lesson to them," he said.

CLAUDE WAS a little sick. They were, after all, living, thinking creatures, even though their bodies were hardly human. He nodded whitefaced.

"Do you think they'll be back?" Claude asked.

Grimes nodded positively.

"Of course. This is just the first of a series of attacks. The light will keep them frightened off for a bit. That'll give you a chance to catch a few winks below."

Claude hesitated.

"Look," he blurted finally, "if I was in any way responsible for this, I'm sorry."

Grimes looked at him expressionlessly.

"Skip it," he said. "That can be ironed out later. Right now there's a job to be done. We've the rayhouse to protect, and we can't expect any help from the zone cruiser, since it won't be back for another six days yet."

"Surely they can't do anything against weapons such as these—" Claude began.

"They're tricky devils," Grimes said noncommittally. "You never know what to expect. There's an interspecial liner— one of the biggest passenger crates in this chain— due past here in another two days. We'll have to keep the beams going until then, or there'll be hell loose for better than a thousand of our Earth pals."

"But—" Claude began, aghast.

"Isn't that a noble enough reason for staying alive two days?" Grimes asked sarcastically. "We've got to keep the rayhouse going. Get below and grab some shut eye!"

Claude Kelvin, considerably shaken, started toward the spiral staircase. He paused before stepping down.

"Those sparks," he said. "There'd be a shower of them, like blood, every time we got one of the krickaks. Why?"

Grimes shrugged in annoyance.

"Never stopped to figure it out. The hooch you gave them is responsible, I'm reasonably sure. When you plug 'em when they aren't crazy drunk, nothing but a bluish liquid oozes out."

"But why—" Claude began.

"What a hell of a thing to be worried about at a time like this!" Grimes snapped in sudden vexation. "Get below!"

Claude got below.

IT WAS SOMETIME in the early morning when Claude Kelvin, sleepy eyed and frightened, scrambled up the spiral staircase to the ray towers where a weary Grimes still stood watch.

"I'm sorry if I took too much sleep," Claude began.

"Skip it," Grimes growled. He handed Claude the atomic rifle he'd been resting against the platform railing. "If anything comes up, wake me. Don't try to handle it yourself."

He disappeared down the spiral staircase.

Claude peered down into the dense foliage that surrounded the landing platform at the bottom of the towers. There, somewhere in the darkened thickness of the weird jungle, were the krickaks he had intended to use for study.

He noticed that the bodies of the roundly formed creatures who'd been slain on the platform the night before were still there, exactly as they'd fallen. Then he turned his attention once more to the tangled gray-screen morass of strange jungle.

The minutes crawled by. The hours oozed along. A cramp came into Claude's back, and a sweat of strain and anxiety clouded his spectacles. He stretched, took a firmer grip on the atomic rifle. Grimes had said that the space liner would be passing in two days.

That would mean some time tomorrow. They would have to hold out untill tomorrow. And suddenly Claude was aware of the resignation of his thoughts. Until tomorrow. And after that, supposing the krickaks got them?

Claude Kelvin shuddered. Up until this very moment in his young life the thought of death had been but contemplation in a science laboratory. He had studied death in relation to other people. Never to himself.

It wasn't pleasant. Claude took off his spectacles with one hand and wiped them carefully on his tunic. Then he placed them back on his lean, ascetic nose and resumed his contemplation of the jungle foliage.

He looked over his shoulder for an instant. The needle on the big dial of the instrument panel was flickering with the same intensity as it had the day before. He shuddered, thinking of those pop-eyed krickaks lurking out there, watching him. He wondered how he had escaped death when he'd ventured out there.

Suddenly Claude felt a sense of guilt assail him. Here he was wrapped up in consideration of the salvage of his own hide when the lives of thousands were at stake. For he knew, even though Grimes hadn't said so in so many words, that the stopping of the rayhouse beams would hurl the luxury space liner into an unnavigable morass of small, interwoven asteroid belts. The liner would undoubtedly crash on one of these webs without the guidance of the ray beams.

Claude saw a round, globular body appear against the gray green thickets on his right. He turned swiftly and squeezed the trigger of the atomic rifle. The figure disappeared. Claude was unable to tell if he'd made a hit or not.

Another hour crept by, and then another. Claude was finding it difficult to keep the haze from his spectacles. They reflected too much light. Far too much light. It made everything seem hazy, dim, dim.

CLAUDE CAME awake with a start. It might have been due to the loud crackling vibrations that seemed to be everywhere around him. Or it might have been due to the splat, splat, splat of an atomic rifle firing rapidly somewhere on the spiral staircase.

Darkness was setting in, and Claude realized even as his eyes blinked open that he'd been guilty of horrible weakness. He'd fallen asleep on watch!

He lurched erect, grabbing his atomic rifle and rushing to the staircase. It was clear to him now that that was where the noise of the rifle and the crackling vibrations of krickaks came from.

The krickaks had stormed the rayhouse as he slept— and somehow they had gained entrance!

Claude was at the staircase, now, and he looked down to see Grimes, his tunic streaked with sweat, backing up the stairs while blazing away at a swarm of krickaks who were trying to follow him!

He had only one emotion, a vast overpowering sense of relief at the realization that his negligence hadn't cost Grimes his life. Then Claude hurled himself recklessly down the steps until he stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Grimes, blazing away at the hideous round, open-eyed faces that pressed up at them.

The two worked their way back up the staircase, step by step, rifles growing hot in their hands. Occasionally electrical pellets of fire swept around them as the krickaks fought back.

Grimes looked at Claude once, and the contempt that was in his glance was withering.

And finally they had gained the towers, and Grimes was pulling a thick, duralloy hatch cover over the staircase, clamping down bolts on all sides of it, while the krickaks milled around in crackling angry frustration on the other side.

Grimes stood back, then, and Claude saw that the grizzled space officer's right shoulder was seared gruesomely, sickeningly, almost to the bone.

"They hit you!" Claude exclaimed.

Grimes snarled his reply.

"While both of us were asleep!"

The crackling below the hatch cover over the staircase was receding. The krickaks were evidently going down to the living quarters of the rayhouse to reconnoiter.

Grimes was whitefaced, and his eyes were fever glazed. Claude watched in horror as the veteran space fighter slumped sickly to the platform. Then, suddenly, something was strangely, ominously silent.

Grimes looked up at Claude, his teeth biting down the anguish of his wound.

"That sudden silence is the stopping of the ray turbines by our friends the krickaks," he said bitterly. "The beams have stopped." His speech was labored, thickening.

Claude stood there, wordless, filled with burning shame and self-accusation.

"The beams can't stop!" Grimes muttered thickly. "The liner'll probably be passing tonight. Gotta have beams— gotta!" He made a futile attempt to climb to his knees. This failed and he tried to drag himself toward the hatch cover. "Start the beams myself," he muttered, "have to start 'em!"

And then interplanetary officer Grimes lost consciousness, and sprawled face downward on the platform of the towers. Claude was sobbing blindly in shame and rage as he bent over the inert figure.

HE DRAGGED Grimes' body over to a comparatively safe corner of the platform, then, still carrying his atomic rifle, he rummaged through one of the compartments beneath the instrument panels until he found what he sought.

When he walked over to the hatch that covered the spiral staircase he had a haversack of metacloth slung over his neck. In the haversack were two dozen elecro-hand bombs. Then, deliberately, Claude set to work unfastening the bolts Grimes had thrown over the hatch. Moments later and he was prying the hatch off the opening.

Claude Kelvin marched down the spiral staircase unmolested. The krickaks were gathered in the living quarters. He could hear the wild confusion of crackling that went on down there, and the smashing of furniture and the breaking of bottles. They were probably having a hell of a time on Grimes' Venusian whisky.

Passing the level on which the ray turbines were stationed, Claude saw sickly that they had been utterly smashed by the krickaks. He had feared, yet expected that. The crackling grew louder. He was but a few yards from the living quarters. The first krickak appeared at the bottom of the stairs, just three steps away.

Claude fired the atomic rifle from his hip, straight into the krickak's face. There was a shower of sparks. Then other round heads appeared at the doorway. Claude fired rapidly, efficiently, his mind a blaze of fury. The faces showered sparks, fell back.

Claude stepped into the living quarters. He hurled his first electro-handbomb at a group of some fifteen krickaks milling about in the far corner of the room. The explosion was terrific. Somehow the walls withstood it. Claude was hurled to the floor by the force of the shock. Then he was crawling to his feet, rifle still at his hip, firing again and again at the now terrified creatures. Sparks showered everywhere.

Those who could were swarming toward the airlocks through which they entered. The jam there gave Claude time to pick off each krickak like a clay duck. None got out.

And in the smoke and sparks and horrible confusion, Claude Kelvin, no longer an ascetic young man, looked eagerly about the room for another krickak to kill. There were none.

Claude dropped his rifle, his electro-handbombs. He grabbed the thin tendril-like arms of four of the creatures and dragged their inert bodies up the spiral staircase.

He dropped them on the landing where the useless ray turbines stood. Then, with the grim unseeing stare of a man under hypnosis, he went to work. His brain was bare of all but one thought. The beams had to be there for the liner.

SUB-LIEUTENANT MacQuales was naturally dumbfounded when he arrived at the rayhouse on Asteroid Eighty some four days later. The place was a scene of incredible confusion and chaos. And young Claude Kelvin, tattered, smoke-streaked, and delirious from overwork and hunger, was incoherently unable to explain much.

But the rayhouse was operating. Its beams were flashing with consistent and surprising strength. And officer Grimes, with a wound that could only have been inflicted by a krickak, was also beyond anything but delirious babbling.

There was also an extremely peculiar odor about, and absolutely no krickaks except the two found beside the ray turbines. The odor was of burning electrical matter— almost fleshy— and Venusian whisky.

It wasn't until later that young Claude Kelvin explained that the electrically powered bodies of the krickaks— soaked in whisky— had provided excellent, sparking, dynamos to replace the turbines they'd destroyed, and had kept the ray beams sweeping forth from the towers and out into the space lanes.

As officer Grimes put it, after he and Claude had buried the hatchet at his bedside,

"The kid knew nothing at all about sociology, but boy what a whiz at bio-chemistry!"

____________________

10: The Masque of Tragedy

Ethel Watts Mumford

1878–1940

Short Stories magazine, 10 July 1924

WITH a little sigh of satisfaction, Clinton Braithwait leaned back as far as he could without losing his precarious balance, and squinted happily at the study of the picturesque courtyard his last brush stroke had completed. Then his glance lifted from the picture and roved over the scene it portrayed— rose-tinted walls covered with fig vine, balconies, blue and green, now faded to exquisitely tender tones, butter-colored oil jars, dripping clusters of purple flowers, a banana tree and two oleanders, trenchantly green against the low, open patterned brick wall at the far end of the garden, where presided a gaudy Madonna in a niche above a gurgling fountain. Beautiful, peaceful, fragrant.

The peculiar, brooding charm that is New Orleans, the New Orleans of the vieux Carré— the old French and Spanish quarter— permeated this, the home of Mesdemoiselles Bébé and Roxanne Dumontel. The artist turned quickly at the sound of footsteps under the echoing arch behind him that opened on the street. There approached a handsome middle-aged citizen of New Orleans, slender, quick of movement, mobile of countenance.

"Hello," said the newcomer, with hardly a trace of French accent. "How did you manage it?"

"Manage what, Thiery?" said Braithwait, grinning a welcome.

"To get Mlle. Bébé's permission to paint this courtyard. She's sicked the dog on more artists than you can count, for daring so much as to shoot a covetous glance at her pet banana tree. You must have hypnotized her. Roxanne, she is amiable, but Bébé— oh, la, la!"

Braithwait removed the canvas, set it against the wall and proceeded to unlimber the collapsible easel.

"Vamped the dog first, and then an extraordinary lady, whether she is Bébé or Roxanne I haven't the honor of knowing. But she's sixty and dresses in sprigged muslin."

"That's Bébé, right enough. Roxanne is the elder, but she looks ten years younger— fact is, poor Mlle. Bébé isn't more than thirty-five, if she's that. Hers is a queer story and a sad one."

Gaston Thiery started guiltily as the creaking of a board and the sweep of a raised Venetian blind warned them of the approach of the subject of their talk.

"Bon jour, mam'selle," called Thiery, advancing quickly into the center of the garden. "I see you have raised the embargo in favor of my friend, Monsieur Braithwait. Be careful, mademoiselle, he is a dangerous charmer."

The woman, a miniature creature, smiled down upon her visitors and leaned her crossed arms on the balcony rail. "What would you?" she asked with the tiniest of tiny shrugs. "He comes in, your friend, he implores, he cajoles. I am not of stone. If it were not for my fiancé, I might be foolish— but as it is, I feel safe enough to give him the permission." She had the dried look of a withered rosebud; her small features were finely wrinkled, as if a cobweb had been laid over them; her large, heavily pouched black eyes were feverishly bright; her voice, drawling in her soft Creole speech, had withal a curious sharpness, the pitch of strained nerves.

Braithwait joined his friend under the balcony. "I am very grateful, I assure you, mademoiselle, and I shall avail myself often of the privilege you were so gracious to give. There are a dozen angles of your charming garden, every one an inspiration."

"Of a surety, come when you wish— Ah, Roxanne is calling me. Bon jour, messieurs." She waved a blue-veined band and hurried into the house.

"My compliments— a complete conquest," laughed Thiery. "Are your labors ended? Then come with me to the Guiries', and we will lunch."

Braithwait nodded agreement, gathered his paraphernalia and followed his friend out into the sun-drenched street.

"Her fiancé?" he said in a puzzled tone. "Is that dear little old thing engaged?"

"That's part of the story," said Thiery. "Wait till we are settled with a table between us and I'll tell you the whole thing. It's worth listening to. You'd never guess, for instance, that that piece of Dresden China had been in jail, now would you?"

"I wouldn't and I don't," said Braithwait flatly. "I've been a detective long enough to know criminal earmarks when I see them. That woman is as innocent as a child— I'd bet on it."

"And keep your money," Gaston agreed. "She is innocent and a child, but— here we are. I'll order because I know what and how, and then I'll relieve your curiosity." He summoned a waiter, held a confidential conversation, and having arranged things to his satisfaction, slumped into his chair and leaned across the table.

"This all happened about fifteen years ago. At the time it made a tremendous stir, for Mlle. Bébé was the prettiest thing in ten counties then, all eyes and enameled skin, and a mouth as red as a chili pepper. She certainly was a belle, beaux in rows, but she wouldn't look at one of 'em until along comes a rank outsider, an added starter, a dark horse in the race. A quiet spoken, slim, good-looking chap he was. Nobody knew anything about him. He said he came from New York, and his name was Jack Creel. He seemed to have plenty of money, and he was stopping at the St. Charles Hotel. Well, as it came about, Mlle. Bébé and Roxanne and a dozen or so escorts go to the races one fine day, and from her box Bébé looks down and sees this Creel, and he looks up and sees Bébé. Bang!— they're off! How they managed to meet Bébé never would tell. You know how carefully guarded are our girls of the old French families, but love will find the way, and they found theirs. First we began hearing rumors that they were seen together at strange places and stranger hours. In the dusk of the Cathedral at twilight, they were stumbled on by one of the devout gossips. Stepping out of the dining-room at Antoines' they were marked by the bon vivants. Driving in mysterious barouches, by any and all who cared to look—that sort of thing. I was a bit hurt myself—a little bit sentimental about Bébé, to tell the truth. How my sisters 'Oh'd' and 'Ah'd' and gossiped. However, it ended by Bébé's announcing that she is engaged. And, of course, that's a terrible breech of etiquette, and the whole Dumontel connection fall upon this Creel and demanded his pedigree, and any excuse he may have for being alive.

"He's got a pretty good bank balance, it seems, and is very vague as to ancestry. All the Dumontels and the Chaberts and the Dequenes are wild. But Bébé just beams. They're going to be married, and then to Paris to live. The nine days' wonder passes by, and then he goes North to settle up his affairs. What happened next, of course, didn't come out until afterward. But it was like this: He writes her from New York that he has a surprise in store for her. She is to tell no one, but he will be in New Orleans just one night. It's Carnival time. If a masquer climbs her wall at twelve o'clock of a certain night, she is not to be frightened. It will be— 'guess who?' All very romantic.

"Sure enough, she's in the garden—I don't mean the courtyard where you were painting, but the garden that makes the corner of Esplanade, and is shut off from it by a good seven foot high brick wall, with a little green door on the side street. There she waits, palpitating. In comes the masked lover, and well—one can imagine it. Moonlight, distant music, tin horns, confetti, Carnival. He puts into her hands a pearl necklace— an astounding thing, the sort that wraps three or four times around the throat and then hangs to the waist. They are big, evenly matched pearls, a wonder string. He tells her it is an heirloom, his one great treasure. When they are in Paris he will sell it and they will have a fortune. She is to tell no one, not even sister Roxanne, not a word. It is their secret.

"Her family have treated him shabbily he explained, had more than hinted that he was a fortune-hunting pauper. He didn't choose to pander to their greed. Let them think what they chose. It was his little vengeance. Let her hide his treasure and keep it very, very carefully, unsuspected of anyone. He would leave for the North in the morning, and make his official appearance a week or ten days later, for the wedding. And poor Bébé is such an innocent little love-sick ninny that ever} word is gospel, and her Jack the most marvellous poetic figure. And, of course, girl-like, she can't stand having those divine pearls in her possession and not showing them. So what does she do but wear them to the Carnival Ball.

"At first everyone takes it for granted that they are just Mardi Gras paste, so she gets annoyed at that, and acts so mysteriously that pretty soon the story goes from lip to lip that this is the gift of the groom-to-be. And from that, the few people at the ball who really are experts and can tell the real from the imitation however good, spot that necklace as being something priceless. The length of it, the unusual size of the pearls, perfectly matched, make it something quite unique— and presto! the fat's in the fire.

"A few days, nearly a week later, a detective arrives from the North. Mr. Jack Creel has been located and arrested. The pearls answer to the description given by Mrs. Charling Bullard, of Washington, of her stolen jewels. Mr. Creel, it turns out, is wanted for a whole series of robberies.

"With her world crumbling about her ears, Mlle. Bébé refuses to believe. She refuses to divulge the whereabouts of the necklace. She repeats his statement to her, that the pearls are his, an heirloom. Nothing can move her. She changes her story a dozen times— she's given the pearls to a messenger; she doesn't know where they are, the string she wore to Carnival ball was only a lot of cheap beads she had bought, and strung herself. She believes absolutely in her fiancé. He is a persecuted angel. She will stand by him forever. And stand by him she did.

"She is searched, the house is searched. She is called an accessory after the fact, and in spite of the whole Dumontel clan, they put Bébé in jail. She goes quite cheerfully, with her poodle and her negro maid, and her little portable altar and her special chocolate pot. And the pearls never were found from that day to this. They've never been seen. But her devotion and faith couldn't save Creel. There was too much against him. They couldn't prove the Bullard robbery on him, but they didn't need that one. Bébé was in jail when his trial came on. They brought her up North and faced her with him in hopes she'd break down, but she didn't, merely said, as she always had, that she loved him and believed in him; insisting that all the accusations against him were lies. She even accused her revered aunts and uncles— she and Roxanne were orphans— of committing perjury and joining in a conspiracy to break up her marriage. She was the despair of everyone, friend, foe and family. He was given a long sentence. There was a terrible scene in court. She had literally to be torn from him, they say, and he broke down and cried like a child.

"From then on, poor Mlle. Bébé began to fail. At first it was melancholia. When he died of pneumonia a year later in prison, they tried to keep it from her. But she found out. A convict, who had made friends with Creel in prison, wrote her about it, presumably at the dying man's request. She nearly died, too, but she pulled through, and then— suddenly she became cheerful and happy. She was waiting for him to come. She thought that he had just gone North to settle his affairs and was coming in a few days, and then they'd be married. She's perfectly sane on all other matters, but in this she's just gone back and stayed as matters were before the catastrophe. But she's grown old in jumps, as you might say, just withering away, but happy always, looking forward to her wedding day. Her gown has been hanging in her closet, they tell me, for fifteen years, and she is always ordering orange blossoms from the florists. They all know her and respectfully take her orders and fail to fill them. But Roxanne gave her a wax wreath under glass, and she's quite content with that. Poor little Mlle. Bébé! The sight of her always goes to my heart. Why couldn't she have lavished all that faith and love on somebody worthy of it? Irony of fate. Poor little soul!

"Ah, there comes our quail roasted in vine leaves, see if you don't like them."

But Braithwait hardly glanced at the succulent birds, as they were ceremoniously presented to his attention. "Of course, she's got the pearls cached somewhere," he said thoughtfully, "with this delusion that he is coming and that she is to be married, she would obey his instructions. She is holding them for him. It is their nest egg for the future. But where could she have put them so securely that not in all this searching and overhauling they have never come to light?" He grinned ruefully. "I almost wish, my good Thiery, that you hadn't told me the tale of Mlle. Bébé's love tragedy. I'm on my vacation, and when I'm vacationing I make it a point to be my artist self, pure and simple. I'm supposed to be a painter now, and here you're rousing my sleeping sleuth instinct. Hang it all! I wanted to leave my profession behind me when I came back here. I wanted to be an artist and a gourmet. Let me compliment you, by the way, in your choice in quail in grape leaves; it's a new one on me, but I'll say it's a little bit of all right."

The subject of Mlle. Bébé and the vanishing pearls would not so easily be set aside. As they sipped the last taste of the heavy black Louisiana after luncheon coffee, Braithwait came out of a prolonged reverie.

"Are they sure that the sister Roxanne knows nothing of the whereabouts of the pearls?" he asked.

The white-haired, olive-skinned Thiery opened wide black eyes. His own mind had been traveling back into the past. "Not she. A simple creature, Roxanne. If she had known anything the priest would have learned of it before now. No, she doesn't know— and there is another point of tragedy. Bébé was always devout; when she was a very young girl, she had a notion of taking the veil, but this love affair estranged her from the church. What it must have cost her— la pauvre! She still has her plaster saints all over the house, and as I told you, she took her little portable altar to jail with her. However, she seems to have worked out a plan of doing without, as you might say, the middle man. She deals direct with her saints. Of course, in her twisted mind she has the idea of pursuit. She does not dare confide in anything human. Alas, I must confess, my friend, it is my tragedy, too. I have never married." Thiery rose nervously and reached for his hat. "Allons! If you are painting this afternoon, you had best install yourself before the light begins to change. Since you have forgotten that you are a detective, remember that you are a painter."

"You're right," agreed Braithwait. "I have an appointment this afternoon with the northeast corner of the Cabildo. Good-by, and thank you for all your forms of entertainment. That story and quails in vine leaves, what more could an artist Sherlock want?"

They parted before the door of the little restaurant, and Braithwait took his leisurely way to Jackson Square and the ancient Cabildo.

BUT in spite of the lure of warm color, architectural felicities and linear perfections, his mind would travel back to the vision of the tiny dried rosebud woman, leaning with crossed arms on the gallery rail, looking down with feverishly bright black eyes, at the faithful lover while she talked of a fiancé, dead long ago, of whose passing she had only the message written by a fellow convict. Perhaps heaven in its mercy had blanked out the sorrows, leaving her the happy illusion of expectancy forever.

When he left the quiet of the interior court of the old prison, it was to meet the blast of playing bands. The streets were full of hurrying people, men and women in tinsel and rainbow colors, crowded taxis from which fluttered the Carnival colors of purple, yellow and green. Dusk was hovering in the sky, and the myriad electric lights swung above across the wide thoroughfare, made a golden haze in the misty atmosphere. The contrast of the stillness of the prison yard and the gathering festivity of the street was startling. Why not play truant himself? The next day would bring the finale, the mad climax. The license of Mardi Gras made every man and woman abroad in the jostling throng a possible acquaintance, a friend and companion, maybe for an hour or the night long, or a lifetime— who knew? Braithwait ducked out of the crowd and into a costumer's. There was little left for choice, but he bought a cheap suit of the black and white of Pierrot, a black skull cap and a supply of grease paint and powder.

For that night and half the next day Braithwait disappeared from the earth, and another Pierrot had joined the black and white army that danced in and out of house, club and café. Dawn found him and a motley crew of bedraggled merry-makers on the shores of the lake. A breakfast at the Bungalow, topped off by a taxi race into town that avoided disaster by a miracle. It was nearly noon, and Rex had taken the city keys in his keeping, when the thought of his room, a bath and a shave loomed up as the three things most to be desired in a topsy-turvy world. Without the formality of a leave-taking, Braithwait abandoned the remains of the party and sought his hotel. The streets were littered with serpentine and confetti, sodden and mired with the tramplings of the mob. The wires across the streets and the crisscrossed lines of light bulbs, were dripping with colored ribbon, like Spanish moss of a live oak. The streets were nearly deserted of masquers now. The idea of rest and recuperation against the festivities to be renewed with the afternoon had penetrated to the weary minds and tired feet of the quondam revelers.

Braithwait glanced up the marble flight of stairs leading into the hotel, as he paid his cab fare, and stopped open-mouthed. By the center pillar stood Gaston Thiery. His skin was ashen, his face drawn in hard lines of anxiety and pain, his eyes deep sunken and filled as if with a film of withheld tears. The man was a wreck! Forgetting his disguise, Braithwait rushed up to his friend, seizing his shoulder almost roughly.

"In heaven's name, what's wrong with you, man?" he demanded.

"Braithwait!" Thiery gasped. "Thank God! I've been waiting for you since seven o'clock. Been to your room— asked everywhere. Quick; quick, come with me— at once."

The detective became suddenly aware of his bedraggled finery. "Let me get this confounded stuff off. What's happened?"

"Never mind, come as you are. Here, taxi!" Thiery gripped the detective's arm with nervous fingers that dug into the flesh as he thrust his reluctant companion into the vehicle, and gave the Dumontel address to the driver.

Braithwait started. "Where? The Dumontels? What's wrong there?"

The car had started. Thiery leaned forward, covering his face with his hand. He was crying. Great scalding tears slipped between his fingers. Shocked and puzzled, Braithwait laid a sympathetic hand on the other's shoulder.

"What is it, mon vieux? How can I help? Come, come, get a grip on yourself."

The Frenchman pulled himself together with a tearing effort. "It's Mademoiselle Bébé," he whispered hoarsely. "She's dead— murdered!"

"What!" exclaimed Braithwait. "Murdered! Why? What for? Are you sure?"

"You shall see," said Thiery. "I have held them all off. I made Roxanne insist. The Chief of Police knows of you. I explained who you are. She has not been moved, nothing has been touched— and she so gentle. It is this cursed story of the pearls, I feel sure of it, and yet— but you shall see, you shall see." The little man placed a snaking hand on the limp, soiled folds of the Pierrot ruff. "I trust to you, my friend, to see that this devil is punished. He must be found. The most dastardly, the most cowardly—" he choked.

"I'll do everything I can, you may be sure of that." Braithwait's face was grim beneath its streaked coat of powder and smeared rouge. The cab rattled to the curb. Already a knot of curious neighbors were gathered at the wide entrance under the fan arch where they were held back by a policeman. At a word from Thiery the guardian permitted them to enter the familiar courtyard. All was as sunny calm and softly gay as ever— the red bird in its cage warbled sleepily, the vivid green banana leaves rustled together, whispering.

Thiery led the way up the stairs to the first gallery and knocked on the double doors. Roxanne, a tall, slender woman, who bore herself with dignity in spite of the ravages of shock and grief, admitted them.

Gaston clasped both her hands in his."I have brought him. He will give us our one consolation, Roxanne. He will not let her murderer go unpunished. He, of all the world, is the one man I could trust— and he is here."

Miss Dumontel looked at the tattered masquerader without surprise. "They have waited, monsieur," she said gravely. "The coroner is here, and the police. They all knew her— she was the friend of everybody, my poor Bébé." She turned toward a door leading from the salon, which, when opened, revealed a corridor that at its further end, terminated in an iron, festooned balcony that overlooked the garden. Right and left were doors, and a transverse hall ran the entire depth of the old mansion. Before the door to the left of the hall window, sat a blue-coated officer.

"There," said Roxanne, giving a sudden racking sob. "Was it not enough that her life was ruined, that her beautiful mind was broken? And now, mon Dieu—this!" She controlled herself. "He will show you, monsieur. I— I cannot. It was I, who found her," she added simply, as she turned away.

The policeman rose, received Thiery's explanation as if expecting it, looked at Braithwait curiously, and, unlocking the door, preceded them into the room. The tall windows stood open, their blue painted shutters folded back. The broad green, varnished leaves of a magnolia tree thrust themselves over the wrought iron balcony railing. The floor was of red tile, the furniture, huge polished mahogany pieces, an immense canopied bed, an armoire of gigantic proportions, a rosewood prie dieu drawn up beside the bed. In the middle of the western wall was a small open fireplace, whose shelf was ornamented by a Sevres clock, and two plaster statues of St. Joseph and St. Anthony. On a stand between the windows stood what the investigator recognized as the portable altar, mentioned by Thiery. It was of gilded wood, with painted panels, but the figure that should have stood before it, on the little Gothic pedestal, was not in its place.

Braithwait took in the details of the room before he permitted himself to look at the almost doll-like figure that lay outflung before the opened casements. Then he went close and knelt down beside it. Mlle. Bébé was miraculously young in death. She looked a girl again, the fine web of wrinkles that had covered her face like a veil, blurring her features, was gone, wiped away, leaving them chiseled and cameo-like. She was dressed in an elaborate negligée, such as a Creole bride of fifteen years ago would inevitably have selected for her trousseau. Her almost white hair fell in soft curls about the still brow. She looked, not old, not even her years, but like some powdered-haired belle of the eighteenth century. The black lashes that swept her cheeks and the dark arches of her brows enhanced the illusion.

Carefully, after closely examining the corpse, the detective lifted it in his arms. The cause of death was instantly apparent. The neck was broken. She had fallen, or been thrown with great violence, her head striking on the stone lintel of the French window. The two brass sunken sockets that received the old-fashioned closing rods operated by the turning of the door-like knob, were directly at the base of the skull. Death had been instantaneous. He laid her gently back, and rose from her side. His gaze traveled out to the stone-floored balcony with its hand-wrought delicate iron railings. He stepped over the dead hands that seemed to bar his passage. The balcony, as he had surmised, ran the entire length of the house, overhanging the garden. A trellis covered with vines came up nearly to its base, forming an iron pergola. Through the crowding leaves he could make out the forms of green-painted benches and seats below, evidently a little arbor for hot weather relaxation. The high wall that shut the garden from the street was pierced almost directly opposite by a small green door. Once inside the enclosure any agile person could easily climb the trellis, pull himself up and over the railing, and enter the room. If Mlle. Bébé had been murdered, this was certainly the way her assailant had come. There was proof of it in plain sight— broken tendrils, freshly scraped paint, the heavy imprint of a foot in the moist soil.

Braithwait turned back into the room. Both Thiery and the officer were regarding him expectantly as if they believed him capable of unravelling the mystery at once. Standing still in the middle of the room, he studied all the surroundings once more in detail. There had been no struggle, evidently. Only two things attracted attention in the orderly chamber— the door of the great armoire stood open, revealing a white satin wedding dress, turned ivory with age. Other dresses, sheer embroidered trifles of lawn and mull. Evidently in this wardrobe the bereft bride had stored her trousseau. One hook was empty, evidently the gorgeous wrapper that now clothed the stiffened form, had hung there. Why had she, if frightened in the night by an intruder, put on this treasured, locked away, garment, instead of slipping at once into the handy familiar bathrobe which was by her bed? Little pale blue silken mules were on the waxen feet, the square-toed black kid bedroom slippers stood undisturbed on the wooly knitted mat. But most puzzling clue of all, the only object in the room that was out of place or damaged, was a colored plaster figure of St. Rita. It lay on the floor, broken in three pieces. Braithwait picked up the base and tried it on the empty pedestal of the altar. It fitted exactly. This, then, was the occupant of the little shrine. The statue was hollow. He examined each piece carefully. It had been stuffed with cotton. Here and there on the rough contours of the casting, shreds adhered. He looked at the base once more. It had been crudely sealed with wax, yellow wax, such as votive candles are made of.

He replaced the shards and again made the tour of the room, once more bent above the body and studied its expression, the attitude of the hands, the manner of its position.

"I believe," he said slowly, "she kept the pearls in that statue. Of course, they couldn't find them. She had them with her. I think you told me, Thiery, that even in jail she took her little altar. Do you see," he held a fragment toward him, "the bits of cotton wool clinging there? She packed the inside with it, so the contents wouldn't rattle. She sealed the base with wax candles she bought at the Cathedral and brought home with her instead of burning on the altar. There would be nothing to account for that wax. Thus far I think I'm right; but who in the world could know or guess that, after all these years? Who came here to compel her to give them up? And how could he force the secret she had kept against all odds for years. The only person who possibly could have made her tell, the man she loved and who gave the pearls into her keeping— is dead. I confess I don't get it; but someone was here, and someone killed her, though I doubt if that was intentional. She fell, or was thrown. It was the way her head hit the stone lintel and the brass cups."

Thiery's eyes were bitter, hard. "But he killed her, just the same. To kill her was like killing a child. Look how little she is, how helpless!" The tears sprang again to his eyes. "You've got to find the brute. Think, think hard. Things don't just happen. There is a reason for everything. Somebody knew, somebody must have known."

"He came in," Braithwait continued, "either over the wall, or through that green door— but that's a detail. He climbed to the balcony by way of the arbor. He knew which were her windows, for his tracks land over the railing directly in front of them, not further down, which would have been an easier climb, if you look and see. We have to deal with someone who knew. And why is she dressed in that lace negligee? As I read the signs, she wanted to look her best. Could she have expected someone?"

Thiery blanched, his fists clenched. "How dare you?" he snarled. "Were you not my friend—!"

The detective held up a restraining hand. "Remember that we have to deal with a defective reason," he cautioned. "She lived emotionally, as you told me, in the past. You are not to take offense at what I say. You are to try and help me. It is for you to think."

Thiery sobered. "Perhaps Roxanne," he ventured, "but no. I knew as much and more of my poor dear little friend than her sister, and I tell you there is no one. If anyone who was capable of committing this crime had known, then this would have been done long ago—"

"Unless," interrupted the policeman shrewdly, "that person had only just found out— something that mademoiselle herself may have said may have informed this person."

"This person may have signaled to her, given her time to throw on that lace gown. It isn't conceivable that she, a modest, shrinking creature, would have dressed herself before someone already in the room. She must have realized he was there outside, for look, there is a brooch fastened at her neck. She took time to put it on, hurriedly, no doubt— but she dressed. I don't understand it at all." Braithwait thrust his hands deep into the wide pockets of the black and white trousers, hunching up the long blouse from which half of the huge black buttons had been torn away. Pierrot's black skull cap was awry and his own tawny hair escaped in a yellow halo. Black, white and red had mingled in indescribable confusion on his face. As he raised his eyes, he caught sight of his reflection in the long mirror hung on the inside of the wardrobe door. He started, shrugged and grinned, and then stiffened like a bird dog at point. He stared and his eyes widened. He seemed hypnotized by his own double in the glass. "By God!" he exclaimed. "By God! that's it. I've got it! I know!"

He dashed past his amazed companions, through the salon, where the startled Roxanne rose to meet him, down the steps to the courtyard and out to the street, breaking through the curious crowd and thrusting aside the policeman on watch. Down the avenue, now beginning to fill again with the gaudy costumes of the fête, he ran like one possessed. Waving aside all delay and interference, he made his way directly to the Chief of Police. That functionary, at first angry and disbelieving, became excitedly convinced, anxiously coöperative. To Braithwait's reiterated demands for immediate action he responded with efficient zeal.

"Are you sure you can pick up his trail?" the detective inquired. "It's not so easy, but he can't have left the city yet, unless he got aboard of some tramp freighter sailing this morning. Have everyone that leaves the mouth of the river overhauled. Send a police boat down immediately."

Orders flew.

Unmindful of his appearance, Braithwait paced the floor.

"How long has he been out? Got long distance? Has he had time to grow a mustache or beard? Are there any distinguishing marks? Has anything happened of recent years that might serve as further means of identification?"

There were delays inevitable, but fretting. At last the required information was forthcoming. Eric Johns had been released on the 18th of January—time off for good behavior. Followed a chart of measurements; a notation as to where fingerprints and photographs were available. There was a white scar in his hair over the left ear. He was known to have gone to friends in Atlanta, Georgia.

"Trail him from there," ordered Braithwait. "They will have had an eye on him at headquarters. At any rate they can verify that he's left. Get busy now, time is precious."

More long distance, and while the sergeant was busy at the task, under Braithwait's nervous directions, plainclothes men, on duty watching the harvesting of the pickpockets convened by Carnival, were called in and despatched north, east, south and west. A description of the wanted man was circulated. With radio rapidity, the dragnet was spread.

"You're right," came the voice of the chief, as he glanced over the shoulder of the man at the telephone who was jotting down in shorthand the words that were pouring over the wire from Atlanta. "He gave them the slip. Got out of town some time last week. They haven't the remotest idea where he went. He'd got a job in a garage, and seemed to be working honestly; lived with his friends, didn't go to any of the hangouts."

"All right," the detective cut in, "tell them to get in touch with the people he stayed with— they may come across with something." He looked at his colleague, suddenly conscious of his bedraggled state.

"You're all in, Mr. Braithwait," the chief said kindly. "You need a bath and a change. I'll send you to your hotel in one of the department cars. There's nothing more you can do now, until we begin to get reports in."

Braithwait looked at his torn and soiled blouse and spattered trousers, no longer white. "Pretty tough looking customer—what? But just the same I'm grateful to these sad rags. I'll tell you why later on, if you haven't guessed it already."

"Guessed what— that you've been forty-eight hours without sleep? I don't have to guess, I know," said the officer.

"Not that at all," said the detective, yawning. "But never mind, you're right. Me for forty winks and some every day clothes. I've had about all of this tragic masquerade that I can use. Put me aboard your dreadnought and pack me home. If anything stirs, wake me upland for goodness' sake, don't call me unless there is."

Braithwait, as it happened, was allowed all of ten hours of rest before he was called— he was even up and dressed before his telephone rang.

"We've got him," said the voice of the chief over the wire. "Picked him up in New Iberia. Think he was headed west. He won't talk. No trace of pearls. Kelly and Bassee are bringing him back."

"Not in the baggage and not on him, hey?" said Braithwait sharply. "Get a specimen of his handwriting. Go to the post office here in the city and find out what packages were sent out by parcel post, early this morning. It's dollars to doughnuts he's mailed them to himself under another name— somewhere west, since he was headed that way. But don't neglect address in Mexico, either. Probably it's insured— he wouldn't take a chance on losing them. Have them look up registered packages first of all."

"At that, you may be right," came the answer. "I'll have the P.O. combed inside of half an hour. Call you again later."

It was hardly more than the time specified when the bell jangled once more.

"There are three packages registered, between 9 and 11 a. m.," the chief reported. "One to Galveston, one to Los Angeles, and one to San Francisco. We're having all three watched for on delivery. If he's sent them to himself, he won't be there to receive it. But we'll have 'em all held for identification in case he's got a pal at the other end. All the other stuff that went through unregistered was bulky stuff and from known residents. We've checked up all the stations."

"Good," approved Braithwait. "My bet is Galveston. Just a hunch, of course, but I think he'll make for a port less conspicuous than San Francisco, and more handy than Los Angeles. However, we mustn't be too sure, our man's no fool."

Braithwait hung up, and, realizing that the hunger that gripped him was the natural result of semi-starvation, betook himself to breakfast. Later he went in search of Thiery and found the little Frenchman in the depths of despair. There was no justice in the world— all his faith in Braithwait's prowess had ebbed.

"I don't blame you," said the detective; "but I'm sure, positive, and it's straight deductions. I'm not just playing a hunch. Poor Mlle. Bébé's ghost is not going to walk, demanding vengeance, though I doubt if she was ever the sort to demand it—" He paused and his eyes had a far away look. "Funny thing— imagination," he said softly. "Do you know I can see what happened last night, as clearly and in detail as if I'd been hidden in that great armoire of hers watching it all. There's only one detail that is still a mystery to me, but that I'll know very soon. I'm going to have the prisoner brought directly to the Dumontel house. He's due in an hour, if he isn't here already. Wait, I'll telephone." He was gone only a few moments, when he returned, he nodded with an air of satisfaction. "Come on, Thiery, let's go. The chief is coming, too." He laid his hand with a comforting gesture on Thiery's bowed shoulder.

Into the silent courtyard, now blurring into the soft shadows of twilight they made their way. The curious crowd had dispersed, only the policeman on duty differentiated the entrance under the ancient doorway from its counterparts up and down the street. Here and there a citizen hurrying home, or a brightly-garbed masquer on his way to dinner, enlivened the thoroughfare.

"He's coming now," said Braithwait, as he caught the distant sound of an approaching patrol wagon.

"We'll go straight to Mlle. Bébé's room. She will confront him."

Roxanne, her dignity broken by the strain, admitted them tearfully. She had been advised by telephone of what was to happen.

"Leave this to us, Mlle. Dumontel," said Braithwait sympathetically; "but rest assured, justice is not going to be cheated this time."

With her handkerchief to her eyes, the bereaved sister motioned them to proceed down the corridor.

On the bed in Mlle. Bébé's virginal room lay the little corpse, so small, so young seeming, like a child asleep. She was dressed in the lace negligee, for in this, Roxanne had decided, Mlle. Bébé was to be buried. At head and foot the soft radiance of many candles glowed. An ebony and silver crucifix lay on the still breast beneath her delicate hands. Through the open window the breeze stole softly, bending the candles' flame. On the floor lay, undisturbed at the detective's orders, the three pieces of the broken statuette of St Rita. The officer sitting outside the door, saluted respectfully. With a sob, Thiery threw himself on his knees by the bedside, his lips moving in silent prayer.

"What I am going to do," whispered Braithwait, "will be rather spectacular. Don't let it get on your nerves, old man. I'm going to put over a third degree of my own invention, from inside that armoire. When the chief is here, tell him, so the suspect won't hear you. Get him outside. The chances are that the guilty man will be so upset at sight of his victim he won't notice anything else. Listen— I hear them."

He tiptoed to the massive wardrobe, tested its balance and stepped inside. Its depth was sufficient to readily conceal him, behind the pendant clothing and the cardboard boxes he had to push aside. The doors he left ajar.

Thiery rose to his feet, and a moment later, the door to the passage was pushed open and the chief entered. Close behind him, between two uniformed policemen, stumbled a haggard, wild-eyed man. As his gaze fell upon the dead woman he gave a smothered shriek and, had it not been for the men beside him, would have crumpled to the floor.

The chief spoke low, his voice reproachful. "How could you kill a helpless little woman like that?"

The prisoner began to tremble, his handcuffs rattled sharply.

"Eric Johns," said an eerie voice. "Eric Johns!"

The prisoner struggled, twisted, fought; even the men who held him paled.

Thiery, close to the chief, was whispering eagerly.

"And you swore you were my pal," said the voice, "and you used all I told you— to rob her— the woman I loved. You had learned that for love of me, me— Creel— she had lost her reason. You waited till it was Carnival time, till you could come in the disguise and masque I told you I had worn, when I came to her with the pearls. You thought that, seeing you, she would think it was I come again. And for me she would reveal the hiding place of the trust she had kept so long and well."

Half-fainting the accused reeled. His face was ghastly, sweat poured from his brow. "I didn't kill her. I didn't, I didn't!" he screamed. "She tried to follow me. I threw her down— I didn't know— I didn't know!"

"She thought I had come back to her," the hollow voice went on. "She told you the hiding place. You couldn't wait. You broke the statue, the necklace fell out, the pearls— my pearls— I had gambled my life for. You threw her from you, when she clung, thinking that her lover was leaving her— you!"

"Oh, my God! Listen, I didn't mean to kill her," cried the frantic prisoner. "I did dress as you told me you had that night— in a black Spanish costume with a red cape. She fell for it, yes, and let me in— but I didn't mean to kill her, didn't even know she was dead till now. I thought it out. The pearls weren't no use to her— she was crazy. If she'd died, nobody would have known, they'd 'a' been just lost. Creel, Creel, for the love of God, don't haunt me! You'd 'a' done the same thing yourself, you know you would."

He groveled, his breath came in hoarse rattling gasps.

The cool voice of the chief cut the pause. "What did you do with the loot, Johns?"

"I'll give 'em back, I will," panted the huddled wreck on the floor. "I sent them to Galveston by parcel post, to William Haynes— that's the name I used. I faked stuff to identify myself with. I'll get 'em— I'll send for 'em— but for the love of God, get a priest, and have him lay that ghost. He was my pal, Creel was, and I went back on him. I double-crossed him after he was dead, but so help me, I didn't kill her. She was such a little bit of a thing I just shook her off, and she fell, I didn't even look back, just thought she dropped— so help me, Creel, that's the God's truth." With an unconsciously dramatic gesture he approached the bed and laid his shaking hand on the two quiet ones that lay above the crucifix.

"I do believe you." The impulsive Frenchman spoke for all present. The thief turned his haggard eyes gratefully to his face. "I do believe you," Thiery repeated, "and I loved her."

"Take the prisoner down," said the chief huskily. "I'll join you in a moment."

Between the two guards Eric Johns was led from the room. A moment later Braithwait appeared at the door of the wardrobe and stepped to the floor. Even his steeled nerve was shaken. It showed in the drawn look about his mouth and eyes.

"Poor devil!" he said at length. "Poor devil—anyway we got the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth." He paused, then crossed softly to the window. "She saw the masquer in the garden," he said dreamily, as one recalling a half-forgotten memory. "He must have called to her, somehow attracted her attention, so she flew to the great armoire, hurried into her beautiful gown, found her satin mules, fastened the lace at her throat with the brooch he had given her, and opened the windows to let him in. Anyway, she had her little moment of happy illusion before she went."

The Chief of Police came up to Braithwait and held out his hand. "You were right every inch of the way. What put you on the trail?"

"The fifteen years' lapse of time," said Braithwait. "If it had been possible for anyone having the requisite knowledge and capable of such a thing to act before, he would have acted. In the second place, when I caught sight of my own reflection in the mirror, I suddenly remembered Thiery's story, of how Creel had warned her the night he brought the pearls, to expect a masquer in her garden. Had anyone known all this and known also the poor woman's delusions, which was a very open secret, there would be ninety-nine chances to a hundred that the imposter would be received with open arms, and the secret of the lost pearls revealed. It would be the only way to break through her habit of secrecy. And, of course, the man who had been Eric John's pal in prison, who had written to the fiancée the particulars of his death, would be the one person in the world who would know in all probability how he had disguised himself on that fateful night, and he would have had to wait fifteen years, until he had served his term to make use of his knowledge. Well, the mystery is cleared. Eric Johns goes back to jail. Mrs. Charling Bullard of Washington, will get the agreeable surprise of her life— and Mademoiselle Bébé has entered into rest. Saint Rita pray for her."

__________________

11: The Intruder

Ethel Watts Mumford

The Smart Set Dec 1902

THE dowager duchess sat, still and grim, amid the dimmed splendors of the great hall of the chateau. She was small, slender, aristocratic to the tips of her lean fingers. The poise of her head was haughty, the glance of her eye, save to her few equals, a scornful rebuff. The dowager duchess not only represented the ancient house of Vantôme, but came herself of a line that traced itself back to dim days of heroic legends—the Gleōcs-Keral of Brittany. Now she awaited the coming of her only son, Germain Marie Claude Raoul, Duke of Villiers-Vantôme, and his parvenu bride.

Mellow chimes from the clock-tower of the Henry IV. wing rang out the hour— eleven. The sonorous music, beating softly through the wide halls, gathered mystery and depth as it reverberated from the Gothic arches of the chapel to drift in roaring cadence down the echoing corridors. The dowager duchess shuddered. Only half an hour more, and the stately palace must acknowledge an upstart American as its mistress. As she gazed on the painted ornaments of the huge, hooded fireplace— the rampant stags of Vantôme— tears rose to her eyes, tears of humiliation and disappointment. Was it for this she had servilely labored since the death of her husband? She had administered the estate with a hand of iron, that its dwindling revenues might provide the hereditary luxury, that Raoul might appear in Paris in the state befitting his rank, might live as the Duke de Vantôme should live, and marry a woman whose quarterings should do honor to the princely parchments of his father's pedigree. She had cloistered herself to live to this end, and to command the loyalty of peasants, the grudging homage of neighboring chatelaines. She had lived rigidly by the old régime; but her son had succumbed to the new.

She had refused to attend his wedding, giving ill health as her excuse; had been represented by her gift alone, the famous Valois necklace— noblesse oblige; the gifts of the dowager duchess must be princely.

Slow color mounted to her ashen cheeks, at the recollection of the Marquise de Vaux's scornful congratulations.

"Ah, ma chère, I hear from Paris, Raoul is to make a great marriage, a dot of millions, they say—oh, but millions and millions and millions—made in pork!"

"Raoul does not need to consider money," the dowager duchess had answered, superbly mendacious; "the lands are intact." The marquise had winced, visibly. The estates of Vaux were mortgaged, neglected.

"Nor family, either, it would seem," the viper tongue had retorted.

"Yes, he has sufficient of that, also." The dowager duchess had the better of the encounter, yet the stab went deep.

The flighty, beruffled occupants of Arques Forret had dared to call upon her, excusing the intrusion by their intimacy with the foreign fiancée. Fortunately, she had been able to crush them with the accumulated magnificence of the château and her own queenly demeanor.

The sound of wheels aroused her from painful reverie.

Subdued whisperings in the corridor warned her that the servants were collected to welcome the new chatelaine. The ponderous, bronze-studded doors swung wide. The soft-toned tapestries undulated along the walls. A breath of Autumn air, sad with the memories of fallen leaves, swept into the room.

She remained seated in her ancient, throne-like chair, before the fire, only turning her head slightly as her tall son hurried to her side. Silently, she extended the thin fingers heavy with rings.

"Be welcome, my son," she said, at length.

He kissed the proffered hand.

"Madame, my mother—I present to you my wife, Claire."

With stately grace she turned to the intruder. "My son's wife should be welcome to Vantôme."

The girl bowed gracefully, but the flush that mantled her cheeks revealed her sense of the grudging reception accorded her.

The dowager duchess regarded her daughter-in-law fixedly, noting every line of the frail, fashionably gowned figure, every detail of the small, oval face, with its wide-set, blue eyes, and crown of iridescent black hair. The girl shivered slightly.

"You are cold," the dowager duchess suggested. "Raoul, there is wine and cake upon the table. The Autumn winds are chill."

"Thank you," said the bride, simply. "I am cold. I have only just recovered from a long illness, as perhaps you know."

"My son has told me. You must be weary. Amélie will conduct you to your apartments."

A gaunt woman, wearing the characteristic garb of Aries, appeared at the door as her name was spoken. With a sigh, half of weariness, half of relief, the Duchess Claire rose.

"Pardon my not accompanying you," the unforgiving voice went on; "I do not walk with ease." As the dowager spoke, she slightly lifted an ebony cane.

"An accident in the hunting field," her son hastened to explain, with a slight laugh. "You would never imagine that my mother was once a most enthusiastic sportswoman, first in every boar hunt in the arrondissement, would you?"

The girl looked up with a quick wonder in her blue eyes. She knew little or nothing of the ancien régime.

"Go and rest, Claire," her husband persisted, gently. "Remember, you are an invalid still. Amélie, see that she is well cared for."

The woman nodded, as her young mistress, with an inclination to the others, passed before her.

"Pretty and presentable, is she not, madame, ma mère?" said the duke, playfully, anxiety piercing the lightness of his tone.

His mother's eyes froze, her mouth set tight. "Pretty she is—presentable, never! The daughter of a parvenu, without race, without pride—presentable? Not among your father's people nor mine!"

"She's a sweet little girl," her son insisted, his brow darkening. "Her dot will place us once more among the first houses of France." That he loved his wife sincerely, was the last reason he would have dreamed of putting forward. He dreaded his mother's ridicule.

"Better poverty! And this"— with a sweeping gesture to the faded glories of the hall— "is not poverty; yet better the poverty of Gilles of the cross-roads, than a stain upon that!" She pointed bitterly to the shield and rampant stags of the carved mantel.

Raoul winced. "Do you love me, mother?" he asked, abruptly.

She turned to him. Her hard eyes softened, her mouth relaxed. "You are my only son," she answered.

He leaned over her, solicitous, tender. "Then be kind to her— for my sake. Remember, she is young, very young. She has been ill, is only half recovered. If her father had not been "called back to America, we should have postponed the wedding till the new year. Don't make it hard for her!"

"It is not as your mother that I object to this marriage," she said, slowly, avoiding a direct answer to his request. "It is the widow of Duke Henri of Villiers-Vantôme who rebels, the last descendant of du Guesclin, of the Gleōcs-Kerals, who weeps over this dishonor. I know it is useless, I know that in this age all that is thought of is money, all that gives position is extravagance. I belong to the relegated generation, with which honor and breeding is the only seal of superiority. I cannot accept this mésalliance as you would have me.

"She is a sick child, mother."

"She is an intruder in the house of your forefathers." The dowager duchess rose, leaning heavily upon her ebony cane. "Your hand, Raoul." He hastened to her assistance. "The gallery," she said, quietly.

They crossed the huge room slowly, her quick eyes flashing with pride unutterable upon the tattered banners, the shining trophies, the stands of armor; resting with loving recollection upon the vast Breton chests of carved wood, black with age, ponderous with Gothic locks, that had contained her marriage linens, heirlooms of the vast, rugged castle in which her early years had bloomed and waned.

Her son swung back the door to the passage, held the tapestry aside as she entered, and rejoined her, offering his arm.

The gallery was vast, long and narrow, one side a series of deep-set Gothic windows looking out upon terraces, where a sun-dial stared blankly at gray, Autumnal heavens, and mossy, marble rims confined dark spaces of water that reflected the deep green of huge hedges of trimmed box and cedar.

On the wall, facing the somber outlook, the portraits of the dead lords of Vantôme, with their ladies, hung, row on row— belaced seigneurs and mincing dames, by Mesnard; stalwart, beruffled gentlemen, by Vandyke; a subtle, smiling Italian countess, pictured by da Vinci; a black-browed, Spanish infanta, by Murillo; a laughing demoiselle de Bourgogne, by Rubens, and many more. Not one of all that pictured gathering but bore, either upon the masterly canvas, or its convoluted frame, the arms and tokens of heraldic fame— not one.

The dowager duchess made no comment. The duke understood; yet he persisted in his attempt to break down the barriers of caste. As they reëntered the great hall, he turned to her once more.

"Madame, ma mère, you will go to her soon; will you not? Make some excuse— anything. Be gentle with her, make her feel at home. You were once a bride. You know what it must be to come among strange faces and surroundings. Besides, she is not even of our country— think how alone she is! Mother, forget you are a Vantôme— remember you are a woman!"

They paused a moment by the huge centre-table with its weight of treasures— massive silver candlesticks, enamel boxes, the great horn of carved ivory, gift of Mazarin to Duke Jean IV., the bowl of priceless d'Oiron faīence, the work of the Countess Hélène herself. The eyes of the dowager duchess rested upon a casket of wrought steel. A strange look flitted across her pale, set face, a look at once of horror and fanaticism.

"Is this woman a heretic?" she asked, turning suddenly.

"She is a Protestant, madame, ma mère. We were married by special dispensation. I have no doubt," he added, grasping at this straw of hope, "that, if you will gain her confidence, you can win her to the Church."

She shook her head. "If she has not recanted for your sake, she will not for mine," she answered, coldly.

The strange look deepened in her old eyes, her thin, claw-like fingers played nervously with the hasps of steel. There was a moment's silence.

"Leave me now, Raoul," she said, slowly; "I wish to be alone. Later, I shall go to see your wife. She seems not well— I shall do for her what seems necessary."

The duke's face lighted up, joyously. "You are good, madame, ma mère. I knew, in the end, you would accept her for my sake."

"For your sake I shall do much. May God forgive me!"

He raised her unresisting hand to his lips. She seemed not to notice it, her head was sunk upon her breast, her eyes fixed upon the foliated lock.

"I leave you, then, madame, ma mère."

She nodded, absently.

Once alone, she glanced up, quickly, casting a look almost furtive about the silent room. Helmets gleamed in the subdued light. Omphale and Hercules stared out unseeing from the tapestry, the gargoyles of the carved beams grimaced, unobservant.

"None can ever guess," said the dowager duchess, slowly. She sought at her side the silver chatelaine with its trousseau of keys, which had been worn for generations by the ladies of Vantôme. She fitted and turned the key in the ancient box, threw back the lid, and looked within. There lay various packets wrapped in soft silk; one, larger and flatter than the others, she withdrew daintily. A yellowed slip of paper bore characters in old French:

"The gloves of Catharine de' Medici, Queen of France, wife of Charles IX., given by her to Jeanne de Gae, second wife of Michael de Vantôme. These gloves were poisoned by Conotelli, the celebrated alchemist, who accompanied Catharine when, as Princess of Florence, she was married to the son of Francis I. To put one on is said to be certain and painless death, leaving no trace whatsoever. The secret, which belonged originally to the Borgias, died with the physician of the great Catharine."

She folded the slip, concealing it in her bosom.

A few moments later, the dowager duchess requested admittance to the presence of the new mistress of the manor.

Claire shivered slightly, as she lay on the great carved bed with its hangings of embroidered Genoese velvet, and, drawing her lacy négligée about her, struggled to a sitting position. "If she will pardon— will pardon—!" she stammered. The slow tap of the ebony cane and the heavy step outside her door made her tremble anew. In her weakness, she feared this haughty woman of ice and iron, as she had feared no one else in her life. She longed for the comforting presence of her husband, but it would be best to receive his mother at once.

Amélie flew to the door. The dowager duchess dropped the arm of the man-servant who escorted her, and leaned her weight upon the faithful Arlésienne.

"Pierre, bring the steel casket from the table in the tapestry hall— now, at once." The cane tapped impatiently. Turning, the dowager advanced slowly toward the bed.

Claire gazed, fascinated; she strove to rise, but sank back as, with a wave of her hand, her stately visitor directed. Amélie placed a chair for her mistress, taking up her position behind it.

"The casket for which I have sent contains some heirlooms. They should have formed a part of my wedding gift, but I preferred to wait till you came to place them in your keeping. In your country, perhaps, they do not value such things."

"Oh, yes, indeed we do," cried the girl. "You don't know how I love this wonderful place and all the beautiful things. Please don't think we Americans have so little appreciation—"

She broke off, tremulous, uncertain. Something in the inflexibility of the stern mouth before her, in the concentrated fire of the dark eves that burned into hers, made her feel strangely apprehensive. To her overwrought nerves, the woman before her seemed a terrible incarnation of some bird of prey, with curving beak and lean, unmerciful talons, herself its weak and fluttering quarry.

"Many of these things— trifles, some of them— were gifts or souvenirs of the great men and women who have honored Vantôme with their presence," the duchess went on. "Raoul never has taken the interest in these matters that he should. Half of these trophies he has never seen, nor has he ever cared to inquire into their history when he has been shown them. Yet, as chatelaine, you must guard and care for them."

"You honor me, madame," said the Duchess Claire.

A knock at the door interrupted them. The gaunt servant received the casket, and, placing it on the bed, was dismissed.

The older woman opened the box painfully; the lock was stiff and complicated; her jeweled fingers trembled.

"This," she said, reverently, opening a tattered velvet case of almost unrecognizable blue, "is the marshal's baton of Angoulême, and this, the ring of Cardinal Richelieu."

Claire sat up, her eyes wide, her breath coming quick. "How wonderful!" she murmured. The ring of Richelieu!— a huge, engraved amethyst, set in heavy gold. She slipped the band upon her finger, turning it over and over with awe.

"This is the tambour and part of the embroidery, just as she left it, made by Anne of Brittany during her brief stay in Normandy. She occupied the turret apartments in the old wing."

"Here?" asked Claire, under her breath.

"Here," said the dowager duchess. "This pin belonged to Mary Stuart, the Scottish princess, when she was the wife of the dauphin of France. These were her rooms— this is the bed she slept in."

Claire's eyes traveled in bewilderment over the huge, dark pillars, the red and tarnished gold of the hangings. "Mary Queen of Scots!" she murmured. "This— this is all like a dream, a sort of fairy story. I— I can't realize—"

The older woman smiled, contemptuously. "Here is the snuff-box my lord of Buckingham presented, when he was envoy from England at the court of Louis XV. The fan was the Montespan's; this star, the gift of Louis XIV. to Duke John— the royal party occupied Ventôme during the Autumn hunts; that dagger Diane de Poitiers wore to the chase— see the entwined crescents on the guard and the leaping stag upon the hilt. But, perhaps, I weary you."

"No, no!" cried the Duchess Claire. "This is all fairyland, too good to be true. I shall wake up— I know I shall!"

"Here is a diamond shoe-buckle of La Pompadour's. The reliquaire was made by Benvenuto Cellini to the order of Cardinal Vantôme." The claw fingers touched the last packet, fearfully. There was a pause, the bright eyes clouded. A spasm contracted the grim mouth, leaving it livid and determined.

The Duchess Claire gave no heed. With reverent fingers, she turned and re-turned the golden reliquary, with its garlands and sculptured saints, wondering, dreaming. All these treasures, hers! treasures heavy with the weight of centuries— actual, tangible links in the great human chain of history, bringing the past here to her hands— hands born and grown in that far, new world, where the wheel of Fortune whirled a hundred years of concentrated living into as many days. Something of the awe of mighty heights and depths grew in her soul, leaving her shrinking upon the brink of eternities of time and life. She raised her eyes to the face of the woman beside her. It was white as death itself, and as cold.

"These," said the dowager duchess, bending low over the packet in her lap, "are the gloves of Queen Catharine de' Medici. They were embroidered for the wife of Duke Michael. They have never been worn— look, how soft and flexible they are after all these years."

The Duchess Claire took the gloves, silently.

"How sweet they smell," she said, softly, raising them to her face, breathing the strange, dim fragrance they exhaled. "What is it? It's like nothing that I know— it seems hardly of earth."

"Put one on your hand for a few moments." The dowager duchess looked away, her eyes fixed on the ivory-and-silver crucifix upon the wall. "Your hand will retain the perfume, so they say, for a long, long time. It was a secret, the property of Catharine's court physician, and it died with him."

The girl obeyed, gently pulling on the embroidered gauntlet, preserved almost miraculously, its texture still flexible and fine, its golden flowers still whole, though brown with age.

"See how it fits!" she exclaimed. "It might have been made for me instead of for the wife of Duke Michael."

"Jean wishes to know at what hour you wish the déjeuner." The Arlésienne stood at the door.

"When the duke is ready," said the dowager duchess. Then, turning to her daughter-in-law: "Don't try to come down. Stay and take your rest. Amélie will serve you here, and Raoul shall come to you afterward. Let us put back your treasures now."

One by one, the storied relics were returned to their places, folded, enwrapped, encased many times, the girl stripping the gauntlet from her hand, reluctantly, and the gloves of the Florentine disappeared from the light of day to their steel prison.

With a sigh, the bride leaned back among her pillows. "I am so sleepy!" she murmured.

The dowager duchess rose with the help of her ebony cane, standing above the girl, a dark, brooding shadow.

"My daughter," she said— there was something tense and terrible in her tone— "my daughter, you will forgive me, if I have dealt hardly with you. Remember, I have but one son, and for him I have wished only the greatest and best the world had to give. I am the descendant of the kings of Brittany; my husband came from the lords of the Norman conqueror. When the hour comes that I must be judged, remember this. Forgive what seemed cruel."

The Duchess Claire sought to open her eyes, sought to make reply. Her lips repeated, mechanically, "What seemed cruel— forgive—" and, with a little sigh, like a tired child, she turned on her pillows, and fell asleep. Her face grew yellow-white as wax, her breathing difficult. How black seemed her hair on the white pillow!

Slowly, the dowager duchess crossed the room; slowly, the sound of her ebony cane and dragging footfall sounded down the echoing corridor. She found her way, unaided, to the wide hall, where the banners hung in tattered glory, where the shining arms of forgotten heroes gleamed in martial array.

There, in her great throne-chair, she sat down, her heart dead within her shrunken breast.

"No one will ever know," mured the dowager duchess. "My son's sons have been spared a low-born mother— God rest her soul!"

___________________

12: Cocaine Smugglers' Catspaw

Aidan de Brune

World's News (Sydney) 27 May 1931

GEORGE BUTTLE was a good workman— one of the best on the Sydney waterfront. He was so good that he was never missed in a pick-up, if he offered for work; and that in spite of his rather, unenviable reputation, when in drink.

For, George Buttle got drunk, on occasions; gloriously and thoroughly. And, while "under the influence" displayed an irresponsibleness that was awe-inspiring. Mrs. Buttle, after laboring long and valiantly in combat against her husband's weakness, had retired—to where brave and long-suffering wives usually go.

Many others had tried their hands at reforming George. Very few had been able to boast of any measure of success. A select few of the more ardent spirits had been fished out of the harbor, their enthusiasm considerably dampened.

It is saying much for the "reformer spirit" that George was never quite free from good friends, seeking to wean him from the bottle. Towards them, to a certain limit, he displayed a patience that was elevating and worthy. He was more than willing to listen to their arguments on the disabilities of alcoholic drinking. He was willing to support those arguments with fearsome and vivid examples from his varied experience of life. In the mood, he could match tale for tale against the most earnest shipmaster who had "gained religion" in any of the million ports of the world.

"Strong drink betrayeth a man." Captain Henderson, long-visaged, melancholy and with a reputation for preaching his crews long sermons while at sea, observed while he and George watched half-a-dozen cargo breakers struggle. with an obstinate case in the hold of the Elmira.

"Sure!" George spoke explosively, and the captain staggered away from the alcoholic perfume surrounding the word.

"It sappeth a man's strength," continued the captain unctuously.

"What the blinking blazes are you all-fired sons of duff-spoiling sea-cooks after?" George had turned to face the hold, wrathfully surveying the men below. "Get the slings under that case or..."

One of the struggling men turned and made a jeering remark. George released his hold on a stay that had, herebefore, preserved his equilibrium and dropped into the hold. Half-shocked by the fall, he staggered over to where the men were gathered, thrusting them roughly aside. A mighty heave and he had the case up from the bed into which it had wedged. Someone thrust a small case under the lifted end.

"As y'say, cap'n." George looked up at the deck with a broad grin. "Th' darned drink saps a bloke's strength; but there's no blarsted case goin' t' stick in th' 'old while I'm abart." George's illustration against drink went into Sydney's waterside history.

George and his reformationists became the joke of the water-front. Not that the wharfie was given to talking of his successes, but he had a voice, in argument, that many Sydney pilots would have given much to possess, on foggy mornings. It was impossible for him not to be overheard— and as his reputation became more widely known many were not above listening. A good tale usually resulted for the after-work bar talk.

Then the Karkeye came to harbor and George was included in the pick-up. Martin Freak was skipper; a big bullyman with a voice nearly as powerful as George's. Tod Ainsley was mate, thin, furtive and smooth-tongued.

Tod came to notice George because of his voice, strength, and agility. Captain Henderson was in port at the time the Karkeye arrived. He was friendly with Captain Freak and spent much of his time on the Karkeye's deck. As usual George dominated the wharfies. Henderson was moved to repeat his tale of the immovable case. Tod listened, a sly smile growing in his eyes.

"The man wants handling right." The mate Joined in the conversation, brusquely. "I'd undertake to keep him sober, specially during work."

"That so?" Freak turned with a grin to his brother captain. "Get that, Bill? I've got a mate as knows something!"

Captain Henderson laughed, shortly. "Putting up a 'fiver' on it, mister?" he asked.

Without a word Tod fished in his pockets and produced five dirty pound notes.

"What's the game?" Captain Henderson asked, curiously. "You're not thinking you're going to have a talk with George, and then pocket the bet, are you?"

"Not on your life." The mate answered, confidently. "No, we'll take it gradual. I'll persuade him to hump a bottle of beer round all day and not open it."

"Can't be did," Henderson answered emphatically.

"Then you cover that fiver and we'll say that each day we're in port I'll give George a bottle of beer. If he opens it on the wharf Capt'n Freak'll hand you two pounds. If George takes it from the wharf he hands me two pounds. That right?"

"It's gift money!" As stakeholder Freak held out his hands for the two rolls of notes. "Henderson, I envies you!".

The master nodded, a smile of triumph hovering on his lips. He watched Tod make for the wharfie and engage him in conversation. He saw the mate go to his cabin and come back with a wrapped bottle of beer and hand it to George, who promptly stowed it in his hip pocket.

Throughout the day Henderson camped on George's trail. With many misgivings he sought occasion to remind George of the heat of the weather; the dust in the hold and on the wharf; and the general torridness of work. George replied smilingly— yet never did he give sign that he remembered the bottle of beer. Five o'clock came and as George retrieved his coat and the bottle Henderson heaved a deep sigh. He sighed again when Captain Frost handed to his mate two of the precious bank-notes.

"It's unnatural!" Captain Henderson told Customs Inspector Fredericks. "George ain't no drunkard, though he does get drunk. But to see him go about with that bottle and never open it— its unnatural." A big sigh for a faded banknote put a period to the sentence.

"Carried it in his pocket all day?" queried Fredericks.

"No." Henderson spoke lugubriously. "He carried it round for a while and then put it in his coat pocket, hanging in the shed. It was safe there. No one'd take anything out of George's pocket."

The next morning Fredericks took occasion to go to "A2" wharf where the Karkeye was tied up. A few words with Captain Henderson, who was engaged watching over his pound notes, informed him that that day's bottle had been duly handed to George. Slipping into the shed the inspector made a voyage of discovery. He unwrapped the bottle and held it to the light. The contents looked like beer, the faint aroma that clung to the bottle smelt like beer. To make certain he took the bottle and with one of the curious instruments of his trade, discovered that the bottle indeed held beer.

Yet he was not satisfied. He settled a close watch on the Karkeye, the skippers, the mate and George. He found nothing suspicious. George was dead sober. At the end of the day the wharfie carried the bottle from the wharf. Fredericks thought George would stop outside the gates to sample it, but he continued down the road and went into the bar at the "Three Kings."

Day followed day, Henderson watching George and Fredericks watching the beer bottle. Again and again he took opportunity to inspect the bottle; again and again he tested the contents. He was certain that George carried from the wharf a full bottle of beer— and nothing else. The Inspector could not repress a grin as he watched Henderson's face grow longer as each day Freak handed to his mate two of the precious notes.

The eve of the day set for the Karkeye's departure arrived. Fredericks watched George closely throughout that day. He was not hopeful, yet he was certain that there was something to be discovered.

The stop-work whistle blew. George retrieved coat and bottle and went to the gates. The Inspector, on sudden impulse, followed him. The wharfie made his accustomed bee-line for the hotel bar.

Why did George go to the bar for a drink when he had a full bottle in his pocket? Fredericks asked himself the question. He quickened his pace, entering the hotel immediately behind the wharfie.

"There's th' last ov 'em, Art." George lugged the bottle from his pocket and stood it on the bar. "Damned easy job— to lug a bottle of beer from the ship here every day at a quid a bottle— eh, what?"

"The usual, George?" Art. Utting, the "Three Kings" proprietor, laughed as he drew a foaming pot of ale for the wharfie.

"Sure." George laughed. "If you've got any more jobs like that— I'm on."

"Perhaps the next time " Utting swallowed his words as a firm hand reached out and rested on the bottle. George looked round to see Inspector Fredericks tearing the wrapping from the bottle. A glance showed that the contents was not now beer. It was half-filled with a fine white powder.

" 'Ere!" George swung round, pot in hand, on the Inspector. "Say, mister, that ain't yours."

"Cocaine!" The Inspector chortled gleefully. He jumped to the door and blew a police whistle shrilly.

"'Ere, wot's th' joke?" The wharfie spoke angrily.

"You don't know?" For a moment there was a disbelief in the officer's eyes, then they cleared. "No, I don't believe you do. I've been watching you carrying these bottles here every day— and never guessed. No, you thought you was carrying beer— and you carried 'snow.' Tod Ainsley changed bottles just before knock-off."

"Snow?" George looked from the Inspector's face to Art. Utting. The strange look on the hotel-keeper's face brought realisation. A dull flush mounted to the wharfie's face; with a sudden jerk he flung the contents of his mug right into Utting's face.

"You——!"

It took five policemen and most of the frequenters of the bar to keep George away from Utting. That half-hour was long afterwards spoken of in Sussex Street as entirely epic.

Captain Freak, mate Ainsley and "host" Utting were committed for trial the next day on a charge of smuggling cocaine. In the same court a few minutes later, George Buttle was solemnly warned of the offence of resisting several constables in the execution of their duty, and let off with a caution. The quiet smile on the magistrate's lips as he reprimanded George was largely magnified on the faces of several battered-looking constables. The defendant looked as if he had been engaged in a serious argument with a shunting locomotive.

________________

13: Drug Running Extraordinary

Aidan De Brune

World's News (Sydney) 3 Dec 1930

MAX CLARKE called himself an Importer. In Australia many men claim that title— and a number of them do not import one ounce of goods a twelvemonth. Clarke certainly imported. His offices were filled with strange and weird articles from all quarters of Asia.

A tall, fair man, inclined to stoutness, ne possessed a pleasing manner and a very engaging smile. A dinky little moustache adorned his upper lip, not concealing the rows of very even teeth.

Clarke was a great favorite with women. Nearly every night he was to be met at one of the houses of amusement decorating Sydney, always surrounded by friends, and always the chief adorer of some fair dame.

His business offices consisted of a couple of rooms in a narrow turning from George Street. A young typist sat in the outer office. Both outer and inner offices were almost museums of curiosities. Clarke welcomed many men in that inner office— most of them did not know one specimen of Asian art from another.

Detective-Sergeant Wrexham, of the Drug Squad, had certain misgivings concerning Max Clarke. He had held them for quite a time, and on occasions had been hauled to the carpet to explain them. His explanations were halting and not accepted; yet Wrexham felt he was not mistaken.

"Max is the goods." Wrexham had just come down from the Commissioner's room, and was strolling down Phillip Street with his brother officer, Chalmers. "I don't care what the Chief says; he's the goods, and one day he's going to trip. Mark my word."

"Been a long time about it." Chalmers was not pleased. Privately he had a great sympathy with Wrexham. Clarke was a suspect, although there was not a thing to be definitely fastened on to him. "How the deuce does he keep up all that style on the revenue of those two rooms?"

"He doesn't." Wrexham was emphatic. "That office, working legitimate, wouldn't pay his weekly bill at the Envoys in a year."

"And the ladies?" Chalmers smiled secretly. "Say, Wrexham, Clarke's a dud for the girls. New one every night, or thereabouts."

Wrexham nodded. Clarke was a puzzle; one that he was beginning to think was unsolvable.

There was little that went on in the two-roomed office in Bates Lane that Wrexham did not know of. Yet in no one instance had he been able to place his finger on a suspicious circumstance. Goods had come into the docks by Asian steamers; some of them dutiable, others not. In every case Clarke had shown the utmost anxiety to play an open game with the Customs officials. Again and again ne had called attention to certain articles, claiming that they were dutiable— and would hardly believe the assurances of the officers that he was mistaken.

"If I could only catch him!" Wrexham had a habit of growling under his breath, when he came across Clarke in the course of his business at the wharves or in the streets of Sydney.  And, almost as if the suspect had heard him, Clarke would turn and flash a bright "Good morning," from between his very even white teeth.

"The Baki Maru's due in to-morrow morning." Assistant Boarding Inspector Alberts paused beside Wrexham just outside wharf No. 1. He laughed slightly. "Your friend, Max. Clarke informed me just a moment ago. Says he has some dutiable things aboard."

"Shouldn't wonder," the detective growled.

"Well, he declares all he gets— and more;" Alberts spoke defensively. "That's more than a lot of them will do."

"Does he?" The tone and the glassy stare accompanying it would have frozen a braver man than Alberts. He turned and went into the dock.

"Still got that bee in his bonnet," The Inspector muttered to a mate. "Say, if you want to get Wrexham's goat, just mention Max Clarke to him."

"Declares all he gets!" Wrexham shook his head while he walked up the street to join Chalmers. "Hanged if he does; but—"

The BAKI MARU was to dock the next morning, and Clarke would be there to declare and clear his imports. The detective decided that here was a chance to again put the rule over his adversary. This time there should be no mistake. Every single thing that appeared in the manifest against Max Clarke's name would be gone over with a fine-toothed comb. This time the question should be settled. If the man passed the test the detective had decided on then—well, then he was cleverer than his hunters, and deserved to be let alone.

The Baki Maru arrived off the Heads in the early hours of the morning. Wrexham had gone down the harbor in the pilot's boat, and was on board when the ship came through the Heads. He had made no attempt to search on the boat. That was for the Customs authorities to do. He would take no active part in the search at the docks. All he would do would be to watch. Somewhere, he knew, Clarke would make some mistake. If he was off his guard for a single moment the game would be against him.

Max Clarke was one of the first to board the Baki Maru when she tied up at the wharf. Wrexham was at the head of the ladder, and watched him come aboard. He strolled after him carelessly as he went to the purser's office. This he did more as a matter of routine. He had no expectations that anyone on board was in league with the importer. Clarke was too cunning to have anyone connected with the smuggling on board the boat. If he was importing illegitimate articles then they came in under an innocent guise— they were not helped In by human agency in Sydney.

Clarke left the boat in the course of a quarter of an hour, promising to come back that afternoon and clear his goods. Wrexham stood by as he made the statement, and for a brief moment the eyes of the two men met and held. Wrexham smiled. Something indefinable had lurked in the eyes of the importer. Something that was almost fear.

Clarke was to return in the afternoon, but Wrexham stayed by the boat during the intervening time. Every case that came into the sheds passed under his examination. Nowhere could he see anything suspicious. There were quite a few cases for Clarke, as he had taken occasion to inform everyone at the wharf. Wrexham surveyed them curiously. He knew that if he had them opened he would find in them just what the manifest declared. Clarke's cases had been opened again and again, and always without result— from the detective's point of view. No, if the man was running illegal drugs, as the detective suspected, he did not do it that way.

It was almost four o'clock before Clarke returned to the wharf. All the lighter top cargo had been taken into the sheds. Clarke sauntered down the aisles until he found his cases, and carefully checked them by the list he carried. He turned and went to the Customs officers' shed and brought one of the inspectors to where his goods were stored. The two men went down the list Clarke produced, searching each item carefully. As was usual, quite an animated discussion ensued. Clarke had to be convinced by the production of certain printed papers that some of the goods he claimed were not dutiable were entitled to free entry.

At length matters were apparently settled to Clarke's and the officer's satisfaction. They left the goods and went to the office. There Clarke produced a fat pocket-book and laid it on the counter. Wrexham tracked him to the door and watched for a moment, then went back to the stack of goods.

He was certain that Clarke had fooled the Customs official. The man had been nervous when he had left the ship during the morning. He had been nervous when he arrived at the sheds that afternoon. The nervousness had gradually left him, and when he went to clear his imports he had been almost aggressive.

"Thinks he's put one over us," growled Wrexham, when Chalmers came up to him. He was standing gazing down at Clarke's pile of cases.

"Has he?" Chalmers smiled. "Looks as if the Inspector made a good search."

"Told him to, but he gave me the high sign that all was clear. Damn that man!"

"Queer lot of stuff." Chalmers was closely examining the antiques that had been turned out of the cases by the Inspector. "Who buys this sort of junk?"

"That's art," Wrexham snorted. "High art—and there's enough fools in Sydney to keep a man importing it for them—if he does only that."

"Queer stuff and queer cases." Chalmers was examining one of the packing-cases from which the goods had been taken. "Look at this, Wrexham. Old as the hills. Been between Clarke and the man he buys from again and again. Shouldn't think it worth his while to return cases. Look here. Why. it's so old that they've had to put on a double bottom."

Wrexham was interested. For some time he went over the cases carefully. Two of them he paid special attention to. Then he turned his attention to the cases stacked on either side of Clarke's imports. Again he picked out a couple of cases for special attention. These he chalk-marked.

"What's the game?" asked Chalmers, interestedly.

The detective did not answer. For some time he stared at the cases speculatively, then turned and went out of the shed.

"Find out who is carting Clarke's things away," he said shortly. "Don't go into the shed again, and don't attract attention around here. Let the man have a free hand for—"

"What?" The Junior officer was interested "For we've got him." Just for one moment Wrexham allowed triumph to shine in his eyes

"Drugs?" asked Chalmers, in a whisper.

"Of course."

The detective nodded, and strolled up the street.

At Circular Quay he hung about until Chalmers arrived. Then the two men went up George Street, to the corner of Bates' Lane. There they halted.

"What's the game, Wrexham?" asked the police officer, curiously.

"That lorry loaded?" Wrexham evaded the question.

"Should he along in ten minutes."

The detective rested his shoulder against the wall at the corner of the lane. In spite of Chalmers's efforts, he could not get a word out of him. Wrexham chewed on a match, staring down the road towards the harbor.

At length the lorry came in sight, and turned into Bates' Lane. Wrexham waited until it drew up at the door of the building in which the importer had his offices. Then he went briskly to the cart and mounted it. A moment, and he selected one of the cases.

"Bring Clarke down here, Chalmers." he said curtly. "You know what to do if he doesn't want to come."

The officer nodded. He knew Wrexham was too wary to make a mistake. In a few moments he again stood by the lorry, this time accompanied by the importer.

"This case been examined, Mr. Clarke?" Wrexham asked quietly.

"Of course. You were there and saw it done." Yet Clarke's face blanched slightly.

"I saw your cases examined." The detective spoke slowly. "Next to your pile were some goods in cases like yours, consigned to a man named Phillips."

"Were there?" The importer tried to speak with indifference.

"There were. Sure one of them didn't get mixed up with yours? This one, for instance?" He placed his hand on the case by which he stood.

"Does it bear my labels?" The Importer's voice seemed to fail him.

"It does— and it's like others of yours, got a double top or bottom."

Max Clarke did not reply. For a moment Wrexham watched him curiously. "Anything to say?" he asked, at length.

"No." There followed a long pause; then the man looked up. "I guess, Wrexham, you're cleverer than I gave you credit for being."

"WHAT was the Joke?" asked Chalmers later in the afternoon, when they sat in Wrexham's office at Police Headquarters.

"Easy." The detective laughed. "Clarke has an office under the name of 'Phillips.' That man imports from Japan. In one of his cases is stored the drugs Clarke wants. Now, when the ship comes in Clarke gets there as soon as possible and arranges that his goods are to be cleared immediately. Phillips always is late."

"Well?"

"When Clarke is re-packing his stuff he knocks off one of the double bottoms from one of his cases. Under the outer wood are labels consigning the case to Phillips. He tacks the wood end with the labels bearing his name and address to one of Phillips's cases— the one containing the drugs. It's easy to imitate the Customs men's chalk marks, and to wipe out those not wanted— so long as old cases are used. See?"

Chalmers nodded. Clarke had been clever— and yet his cleverness had been in his openness. No one suspected him, because he always insisted on a full examination. Once he was clear he could find time to switch the cases— and the unexamined case consigned to the unknown and careless Phillips always carried illegal drugs.

__________________

14: Enough Rope

Raoul Whitfield

Black Mask, July 1930

JO GAR shrugged his narrow shoulders, let his grayish-blue, almond-shaped eyes stare down over the rail of the bridge. He could see the body dangling from the rope; the wind that blew a drizzling, cool rain in from the Bay rocked the dead shape. The white face was upturned; the chin pressed against the hemp. Below there were several sampans; Chinese looked up at the body and kept their lips closed. Rain struck the black water of the river quietly; long legged birds skimmed the surface, some distance from the sampans screaming shrilly at intervals. A launch streaked out from the docks; Jo could see the khaki colored uniforms of Filipino police.

The bridge was at least forty feet above the surface of the water at this point. One end of the rope was knotted around the rail support almost at the Island detective’s feet. And the shape that dangled at the end of the rope was not many feet above the surface of the water. Jo Gar, shaking his head slowly, said:

“It is very curious. Such a long rope. The body hanging so far below the bridge.”

He listened to the putt-putt of the official launch as it neared the water spot above which the body rocked and swung in the breeze. He recognized the figure of Lieutenant Juan Arragon; he smiled and waved a hand. Juan waved back.

Jo Gar said in his toneless voice, to himself:

“The launch deck is only a few feet above the water—they reach the body with ease. If it is suicide the neck has surely been broken. Such a drop from the bridge. Certainly thirty feet or more.”

A voice from behind him said in the tone of an American: “What is it, Señor Gar? Someone fall in?”

Jo Gar watched the slash of the knife—saw the body collapse into the arms of several native police, standing close to Juan Arragon on the launch deck. He straightened, turned and faced Dean Price. He said slowly:

“The body did not reach the water, Mr. Price. See—there is one end of the rope.”

He pointed towards the rail support, around which the rope was wound and knotted. Price stared down at it. He was a tall, lean man of about forty-five. His slicker seemed to cling to his thin body. He had a sharp, hatchet-like face. Tropic sun had burned the skin almost black. His blue, watery eyes came up and met Jo Gar’s squinted ones.

“Suicide, eh?” he muttered, and looked over the rail. The Island detective smiled. He said slowly:

“A strange way to suicide, Mr. Price. And yet, a broken neck is very certain.”

Dean Price straightened; he smiled with his thin lips. He said grimly:

“They’ve cut him down. White or—”

The American checked himself; his eyes held a confused expression.

Jo Gar said quietly, smiling a little:

“Not brown like myself, Mr. Price. White—like yourself.”

Price reached for a cigar and offered one to the Island detective. Jo shook his head. Price spoke in embarrassment: “I meant no offense, Señor Gar.”

Jo nodded. “It is all very well,” he replied tonelessly. “I imagine the man is dead, just as both of us will be some day.”

Price frowned. He said in a slightly aggressive tone: “Well, it was his doing, anyway.”

Jo Gar looked down at the knotted rope and nodded very slowly. “It is a possibility,” he said. “Perhaps you are right.”

She was small and dainty in appearance; her skin was very white. Her hair was almost a golden color, and her blue eyes were filled with tears as she spoke. She had a thin voice, but it was steady in tone.

“He did not kill himself, I know that, Señor Gar. If the police think so—they are fools. It was not suicide.”

Jo Gar leaned back in his chair and looked at the fly-specked wall. He smiled. He did not speak, and the girl, after a few seconds of silence, went on.

“He was in good spirits. We had just received a contract to tour through the bigger cities of the Orient—and we were going to Australia. It was a nice booking, one of the few made in Manila. He was—murdered—oh, I know he was—”

Her voice broke. Jo Gar leaned forward in the chair and spoke quietly:

“You were married to him?”

She nodded. “Ten days ago, very quietly. We came here from England together, you see. On the same boat. I work on the wire—but my act wasn’t going well. We met on the boat, and talked a great deal—talked theatrical business, I mean. After about ten days—I guess we were in love. We talked of working together, doing a double—”

Her voice broke again. Jo Gar said very gently.

“Gary Landon—he was a very strong man. Lieutenant Arragon has told me of some clippings he found in your rooms. He was an acrobat?”

The girl shook her head. “He was a crack shot,” she said. “But he was strong—very strong. He closed his act by going up a—” She stopped, covered her white face with her fingers. Her body trembled.

The Island detective said softly:

“I know how difficult it is, Mrs. Landon. But it is necessary, too.

He went up a rope, hand over hand?”

She took her hands away from her face. She said shakenly:

“Yes—and then he fired at the targets as he swung in the air, holding to the rope by one hand. It was a good finish for an act.”

Jo Gar nodded. He said in a voice that held little expression: “He had enemies?”

She shook her head. “Everyone liked Gary,” she said quietly. “He hadn’t an enemy.”

Jo Gar frowned up at the ceiling of his tiny office. The girl dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. She said:

“We lived at the Orient Hotel. We were always together. We had started to pack. Gary left our room at about ten o’clock last night. He went out to get some special cigars he always smoked. He said he might take a little walk, perhaps to the Luneta, or along the Bay. I was tired and went to bed. I woke at about one; Gary hadn’t returned. I was worried. At three I called the police. I called every hour after that, until just after dawn. Then they found—”

She checked herself. Jo Gar leaned forward and touched her trembling hands with his own browned ones. He said: “You hadn’t quarreled?”

She shook her head. “Never,” she said emphatically. “He kissed me, just before he left the hotel—”

The Island detective smiled a little. He got up and stood looking down on the narrow alley that ran between the Pasig and the Escolta. It was growing dark; the rain had ceased.

“He was a strong man,” he said. “He could have fastened the rope to the railing, tossed the length over the bridge. He could have gone down in the darkness, hand over hand.”

He stopped. The girl said. “He didn’t. I know he didn’t. Why would he?”

Jo Gar shrugged. “He could have used a boat—there was a slip knot at the lower end of the rope. The boat could have gone on. But finding that dangling rope, in the darkness—”

The girl said dully: “But why? Why would Gary do such a thing? He didn’t. He was lowered from the bridge. He was unconscious. It was—murder.”

Jo Gar turned towards the door of the office, which was closed.

There was a soft knock. He said: “Come in, Juan.”

The girl rose. She looked at Lieutenant Arragon once, then turned her eyes away. She said to Jo Gar:

“I haven’t much money. But Gary Landon didn’t kill himself. That’s a reflection on him—and on me. I won’t have it that way. I’ll pay you as much as I can. Will you help me?”

The Island detective took her hands in his. He said simply:

“I do not work always for money. I will surely try to help you.” She smiled through her tears.

“I am going to the Orient Hotel,” she said. “If you wish to see me—I’ll be there.”

Jo Gar went to the door of the office with her. Juan Arragon, stepping to one side, said very slowly:

“The verdict of the coroner’s jury is suicide, I have just been told. There is evidence of no violence other than strangulation. Mr. Landon was an expert with rope. Perhaps, fearing that he would fight, after the rope tightened, he made certain that the bridge was far above. Weakened from the effort of getting down, combined with the first strangulation he believed it would be impossible for him to save himself. Perhaps he did not try to do that, but he thought of it. That is my theory. The coroner’s verdict is a good one.”

The girl said very softly: “It was murder. You are wrong.”

She went into the hall, moved slowly down the wooden steps towards the alley. Jo Gar turned back into the office, closed the door. Juan Arragon said grimly:

“You think we’re wrong, again, Jo?”

The Island detective shrugged. He stood near the window and listened to the strange sounds of Manila traffic—the horns of automobiles, the shrilling voices of caleso and carromatta drivers, the clatter of the ponies’ shoes against the street surfaces. And there were river sounds, too. From the Bay the deep-toned note of an ocean boat’s whistle. He said after a few seconds:

“I am not satisfied. The girl says her husband was happy. They were booked for theatrical work and were leaving soon. He had no enemies. His neck was not broken; there were no bruises, wounds. It was a strange way to die, Juan.”

The lieutenant of Manila police smiled with his dark eyes. He said: “Not for one who is strong—who can climb a rope. He wanted enough of it. He wanted to be sure instinct for life would not defeat him. He did not want to have an easy climb to safety.”

Jo Gar said: “There are many ways of killing oneself without using rope. He was also an expert shot.”

Juan smiled. “I suggested you to his widow, when it was clear she was not satisfied with our investigation today. I think perhaps they had quarreled—we have traced the rope. It was bought from Manuel Locracia’s store. Forty feet of it. Manuel’s son sold it to Landon. He remembered the man because the boy had seen his act at the Spanish Theatre, a few days ago. Landon stated, he needed the rope for practice. He specified that it must be very strong.”

Jo Gar said: “What hour was the rope bought— and what day?” Juan made a chuckling noise. “It was bought at about ten-twenty, last night,” he said. “Locracia’s store is often open until eleven. He is a thrifty man. Señor Landon did not lose much time. The medical examiner stated the body had been hanging between four and eight hours. River men discovered it at five.”

Jo Gar nodded. “It is a strange thing,” he said slowly. “But then, death is often strange.”

Juan Arragon smiled, showing his white teeth.

“And women are so often in love with more than one man,” he said quietly.

Jo Gar widened his eyes a little; he went towards a wicker chair, lifted a slicker and a soiled straw hat. He said:

“You have not told me all you know, Juan. You have found Mr.
Landon’s widow to be in love with another man?”

Arragon bowed.

“It might be wise to talk with Señor Flores, manager of the Spanish Theatre,” he said. “It was about the Señor that a man and his wife quarreled so loudly it was necessary for the clerk at the Orient Hotel to request quiet in their room.”

Jo Gar frowned. “That is unfortunate,” he said slowly. “Mrs. Landon did not mention it.”

Juan Arragon bowed again. There was a broad grin on his round face.

“I did not think she would,” he said, with soft grimness.

Alverez Flores was a short, heavy man with shaggy, gray eyebrows and fine teeth. He frowned at Jo Gar, shrugged his shoulders to question after question and did not at all favor the interview. He knew little about Gary Landon; the act was not too good, the man who shot at targets while swinging from a rope had not been talkative—and the rain brought dampness into Señor Alverez’ chest. Perhaps it was the dengue.

Jo was sympathetic. He said, after a little silence:

“Clearly Landon was annoyed by his wife. That fool woman—”

He broke off as Flores showed anger in his eyes. The theatre manager sucked his breath in with a hissing sound; his arms stayed at the sides of his drill suiting, but the fists were clenched. Jo Gar said:

“It is always some street rat of a woman, picked up by a man, that—” He shrugged, turned away from the theatre manager. He could hear the man’s heavy breathing as he moved a few feet away. And then Flores laughed. It was a bitter, strange laugh. Jo Gar turned slowly, looked at the theatre man with surprise in his narrowed eyes.

Flores said:

“It is— as you say, Señor Gar. Most always it is for women that men kill themselves.”

The Island detective nodded. “The police are clearly correct; it is suicide,” he said quietly. “But I am interested in such cases, and the manner in which Mr. Landon died was unusual. The long rope—”

Señor Flores shrugged. He glanced at photographs on the wall of his theatre office.

“He was a strong man, Señor Gar,” he said. “So often men try to die—and fight against their desire. Half strangled, weakened from the effort of lowering himself, Landon would have had great difficulty in climbing to the bridge again. Perhaps he knew that.”

Jo Gar said: “He could have dropped into the water, after loosening the noose about his neck. He could swim, you see.”

Flores said sharply: “He could not— think of so many things as one trained in your fashion, Señor Gar.”

The Island detective bowed slightly. He said softly:

“You flatter me, Señor Flores. But you are undoubtedly correct. I am going towards the Manila Hotel. Perhaps you are walking in that direction?”

The theatre manager appeared regretful. He shook his head. He smiled.

“There is theatre business,” he said. “I am sorry.”

Jo Gar made a pleasant gesture and went from the office. He reached the Escolta; the street was crowded. He turned towards the Bay. His lips moved very little as he murmured to himself:

“Señor Flores is a deft man. But he is quite aware of the fact that Gary Landon could not swim.”

The desk clerk at the Orient Hotel was a suave Filipino; he had recently returned from the States, where he had studied law. His position at the hotel was only temporary; he made Jo Gar instantly aware of that. He was not unwilling to talk. He had his own theory.

“It was very much of an argument, Señor. And the walls of this establishment are not too thick. Also, there was a sick English lady in an adjoining room. Upon her complaint I was forced to ascend and speak to the occupants of Room C12. They were instantly regretful, as I have told the police.”

Jo Gar nodded.

“Life is filled with quarrel sound,” he philosophized.

“You caught perhaps some words of anger as you approached the room?”

The Filipino made a gesture with his immaculate hands. He said smilingly:

“Señor Landon was a strong man. It seemed plain to me that I must be diplomatic. So I hesitated—to formulate the method of my entrance.”

To Gar grinned. “You are very wise,” he said simply.

The clerk smiled broadly. Then the smile vanished. He lowered his voice, glanced around the small lobby of the hotel.

“The Señor was saying that he was finished. He had been made a fool, a goat, an ass. He was sick of it all. The lady did not love him. She loved another. He was going to do some terrible thing. He would perhaps jump from one of the bridges.”

The Filipino stopped. He shrugged.

“It was not right for me to listen. I knocked, told of the English lady being ill, requested more quiet. Then I descended. A few minutes later Señor Landon descended. He was surely in a fierce mood. He looked neither to the right nor left, and hurried from the hotel. That is all, Señor Gar.”

The Island detective nodded, a serious expression in his eyes. He said tonelessly, raising his narrow shoulders a little:

“A pity—to do such a terrible thing. A lovers’ quarrel.”

The Filipino looked sad. His dark hair was slicked so perfectly to his small head.

“It is good that I was able to tell of his words and actions, to the police. Much effort is saved.”

Jo Gar closed his eyes and rubbed the lids gently with the tips of his third finger and thumb. His left hand fingers tapped lightly on the counter behind which the clerk stood. When he opened his eyes again he smiled pleasantly at the Filipino.

“The one who is now dead did not mention a name—the name of the one he suspected his wife of loving?”

The Filipino shook his head. He said thoughtfully:

“His wife was very handsome, Señor. Perhaps he was jealous of little smiles. They had only recently arrived from England. We appreciate the women more, in the Islands, I think. We smile oftener, and mean less.”

Jo Gar grinned again. “I repeat, you are very wise,” he said softly. “Undoubtedly it was simply a foolish act. One works with rope—and one instantly turns towards it—to die. An interesting affair.”

The Filipino looked sad again. “It is unfortunate—she is quite left alone,” he said slowly.

The Island detective offered a brown-paper cigarette. It was refused; he rolled one, between his lips, said quietly:

“She will soon learn to smile again. There are so many men.”

The Filipino widened his eyes, made a chuckling sound in his throat.

“That is very true, I think,” he replied, as Jo Gar moved away from the counter.

Juan Arragon shifted papers about, on his desk. He said, without looking at Jo:

“There was a quarrel. Landon was temperamental. Regardless of what Clara Landon told you, I do not think their act was doing so well. The girl is very pretty. Many humans have used a rope in order to find death. Landon was familiar with a rope, but conscious of the fact that he must completely defeat any instinctive effort to fight for his life. Few use the bridge late at night. It was dark, rainy. He waited for an opportunity, fastened the rope, went down and let the noose tighten. I do not think he fought much. The neck was not broken—the skin was bruised only as much as one might expect. At dawn he was found. Clara Landon is like many women—she seeks to defend him, and herself. She wishes to create enemies. But it was suicide.”

Jo Gar smiled. “He had no insurance?” he asked.

Juan shook his head. “It was expensive for him to carry it,” he replied. “His widow informs me they were trying to save money for it. But his theatrical work meant that a high rate must be paid.”

The Island detective said: “Clara Landon—she has told me the dead man had no enemies. If she were trying to create enemies—”

The police lieutenant chuckled. He said in a very sure tone:

“She is not a fool, Jo. Suppose she were in love with—well, Señor Flores, say. She would not want him involved.”

Jo Gar made a clicking sound with his lips. He rolled his cigarette between them, inhaled deeply.

“If he had been unconscious when he was lowered over the water—there would have been some mark on his body, I should think,” he mused aloud, “But there is none—I have seen for myself. It is very strange.”

Juan Arragon stood up and smiled cheerfully at Jo.

“You want very much to believe this has been a murder, Jo,” he said. “For once you are wrong. I am convinced this Gary Landon hanged himself. It is finished.”

Jo Gar said: “I think it was murder. I do not agree that such a man as Landon would kill himself in such a fashion. Because you think so, and Señor Flores thinks so—and the Filipino clerk thinks so—I am even more doubtful.”

Arragon grunted in disgust. “You have been right too often, perhaps,” he said. “You wish to be different.”

Jo Gar said: “You have been wrong so much, Juan—but you still wish to be the same.”

He went to the street, moved along the Escolta. A carromatta pulled in close to the curb, after he had walked a square or so. He recognized the thin voice of Clara Landon.

“Señor Gar—”

He removed his straw hat, leaned towards the carriage. The widow of Gary Landon was dressed in black; she wore a thin veil. She said, smiling wanly:

“I think—I have been wrong, Señor. My grief has been—so great. I think perhaps poor Gary wanted to end everything. He was very temperamental. I do not think he was murdered. I wanted to—tell you.”

Jo Gar bowed. He said in a gentle voice:

“Perhaps you are right. I have found no evidence of murder. You have told me your husband had no enemies. Perhaps, after all, there was a quarrel—a little one—”

He watched her lower her veil. Her body was suddenly tense. She said, with an effort:

“Yes, there was. I tried to hide it, Señor Gar. I did not think Gary had taken it so seriously. I am terribly sorry—but there was a quarrel. At the hotel. I must accept what happened—”

Her voice broke. Jo Gar said quietly:

“That is much different, then. It gives us a motive for suicide. I think that is sufficient.”

She bowed her head. Jo Gar stepped back from the carromatta.

The driver twisted in the little seat, grinned at him. Jo said quietly: “Proceed.”

The pony pulled the vehicle away. Jo Gar stared after it. He shrugged his shoulders.

“It is all very nice,” he murmured to himself. “Who can say her reactions were not normal? Hiding the real cause—then becoming calmer, stronger. Admitting the truth. Admitting that her husband took his own life.”

He waved to a caleso driver; when the larger carriage reached the curb beside him he pointed down the Escolta.

“The brown carromatta—a square distant. You see? Follow it, but do not go close. When it stops—you stop. That is clear?”

The driver was an aged, bulky man with teeth stained red from the constant chewing of betel-nut. He nodded. Jo Gar got inside the caleso; the driver spoke shrilly to the horse. The caleso jerked forward. It was after ten in the evening; the day had been a busy one. And in the many things Jo Gar had done he had missed his siesta. Always an early riser, he was now tired. But it was a physical weariness. His brain was alert.

His eyes watched the lights of the Escolta, some of them flaring strangely, the rain had ceased; it was warmer again. At intervals he caught glimpses of the brown-colored carromatta ahead. He nodded, murmured to himself:

“Yes, it is all very natural—the things these people have said. Señor Flores, Mrs. Landon—the clerk; at the Orient Hotel. And yet”—he smiled with his thin lips—”I am very certain that it was murder.”

The caleso jerked onward. The brown carromatta was beyond the Orient Hotel now. Still it was moving along the Escolta. And Manila’s main street was becoming an alley of Chinese now. It was swinging close to the river, the Pasig. The lights were fewer; many of them were flaring torches. Strange, discordant music reached the street. Jo Gar narrowed his eyes on the carriage that carried Clara Landon; he kept his small figure back of the bulk of the driver most of the time. He muttered softly:

“Perhaps, if there is enough rope—”

When the brown carromatta was lost from sight, near the marketplace, Jo Gar ordered his driver to stop. He descended, was reaching for silver coins when the driver touched his left arm, pointed to the far side of the market square, to the right of the Escolta. The brown-colored vehicle was circling the market square; the pony was walking. Jo Gar got back into the caleso, slumped low in the seat. He said quietly:

“Follow.”

When the carromatta had passed they followed along. The route led up the Escolta, to the Orient Hotel. At the hotel the figure in black descended. The carromatta driver was paid—it drew away from the entrance. Jo Gar, moving more swiftly than usual, got from the caleso, paid his driver and hurried into the hotel. He went directly to the clerk’s counter, but the woman in black was already moving up the stairs. There was no elevator.

The Filipino smiled at him. Jo Gar said: “Mrs. Landon has ascended?”

The Filipino nodded. “She has taken the key,” he replied. “It is very sad—”

But Jo Gar was moving towards the stairs. He went up them rapidly. The clerk had spoken of Room C12. That would be the third floor.

He came upon the woman at the second floor. She was breathing heavily; he could hear her drawing in deep breaths. She moved on, started up the third flight. Jo Gar said sharply:

“Mrs. Landon!”

The figure kept climbing the stairs.

Jo moved quickly to the woman’s side. He said: “You are tired, perhaps ill—”

She turned away from him. He caught her by the right arm, swung her around. She said weakly:

“No—please!”

And then the fingers of his right hand were jerking the veil: he stared into the white, pinched face of a woman he had never seen before. Her eyes were dark, wide with fear or pain. There were red spots on her cheeks.

Jo Gar said quietly: “You are ill—the steps are bad for you. It is your lungs, I think.”

The woman did not speak. The Island detective said:

“You were going to Mrs. Landon’s room. You have her key. That is unlawful. It will be necessary for you to come with me. I am Señor Gar, and my friend, Lieutenant Arragon, is of the police.”

There was terror in the woman’s eyes. She was a mestizo, mostly Filipino. But Spanish or Anglo-Saxon blood had given her skin a white tint. She was small, very thin. She did not speak.

Jo Gar said:

“You are dressed as Mrs. Landon was dressed when she spoke to me minutes ago. You have stepped into her carromatta when she stepped out in the market square. You did this because it was Mrs. Landon’s wish that if she were followed it would only appear natural that she should come to her hotel. But she did not come. Where is she?”

The woman shook her head. She said in broken English: “I do—not—know.”

Jo Gar shrugged his shoulders. He smiled into the woman’s dark eyes.

“We will go to the police,” he said simply. “Perhaps there you will be I persuaded to think more clearly.”

The woman started to speak, but her lips closed suddenly. She was breathing deeply and with an effort. The Island detective said:

“I do not like to take one who is ill to the police. It is not good for them. In Bilibid Prison much work is done. Many die there—”

The woman said: “I did not want to wear these clothes. I am not a bad woman.”

Jo Gar half closed his eyes. He said slowly: “I have seen you—you are in the house of Señor Flores—”

She shook her head. She said in a quieter tone: “No—that is not so.”

Jo Gar smiled. “Where is Mrs. Landon?” he asked. “She left the brown carromatta at the market square. Where did she go?”

The woman in black coughed. She shook her head from side to side. She said weakly:

“I do not know. I was told to come here. I had not seen Señora Landon before this. Even now I do not know her face. I am not able to climb so many stairs. The doctor—he has said—” Jo Gar interrupted in a soft, persuasive tone:

“You have done a wrong thing. There is a penalty for impersonating another. You must go to the police, unless you answer my questions truthfully. You do not know Mrs. Landon. Then perhaps you do not know that the police are searching for her. Her husband is dead—murdered.”

The woman’s eyes were wide with terror. She started to speak, choked. She said finally:

“I was sent to meet the brown-colored carromatta. It came on time. This woman, dressed much like myself, descended. I got inside. That is all I know. I gave to the driver the address given me—”

The Island detective said quietly: “It is not well to be connected with murder. It is much better to tell the truth. Who sent you to meet the carromatta?”

The woman hesitated. She closed her eyes, swayed a little. Jo Gar did not touch her. He said:

“We will go now to the police—”

She cried weakly, shrilly: “No—no, please!” She was silent for several seconds. Then she spoke very softly. “I was sent to the square by—”

Her words died. She closed her eyes; he caught her in his arms as she crumbled towards the hardwood floor of the landing. She was very light; he lifted her, carried her up the remaining flight, moved towards Room C12. There was no one about. Steadying her with one arm, he took from her open, lace bag the key, turned it in the lock. When he had laid the woman on the bed he opened the shutters wide, moved towards the water pitcher. He said softly to himself:

“She has only fainted. But it will not be wise to wait here until Mrs. Landon returns. She is a clever woman. Or an obedient one. I must learn where to find her. The element of surprise is often—an important factor.”

He moved back towards the bed, and the motionless figure of the woman in black. He was smiling with his almond-shaped eyes.

Juan Arragon was nervous as the small car followed the road that ran along the river’s edge. The Pasig was narrower here than it was downstream near Manila. Caribou slept along the muddy banks; thatch-roofed huts were passed, from time to time. Arragon, working with the wheel, said:

“It is very strange—it seems incredible. And why you were suspicious—”

Jo Gar said, interrupting: “It is the weaklings who kill themselves over little love quarrels. Gary Landon was not a weakling. He was a strong man. But the woman, Clara—she was not strong. An actress, yes. But when she spoke to me an hour ago, on the Escolta, I was instantly more suspicious. She wanted me to think that now she, too, agreed that her husband had killed himself. But not until she had first cried of murder. She was very clever.”

Juan Arragon frowned. The car was slowing down. He said:

“We do not know much yet. We have nothing but the word of a servant.”

Jo Gar smiled. “That is much,” he replied. “Mrs. Landon did not think anyone would address the woman who returned in her place to the hotel. Grief is a barrier many fear. But I did not think Mrs. Landon, in so much sorrow, would drive around the Escolta and the market square, on such a night. And this half-breed woman did not sit at ease in the carromatta, or walk from it into the hotel as Mrs. Landon does.”

Juan Arragon grunted. “This is the place,” he said, gesturing towards the right. “There is the bay and the dock. The house, too.”

Jo Gar nodded. “We will leave the car some distance away, and walk to the house,” he said. “I think it will be a surprise.”

“Or perhaps—a mistake,” Arragon said grimly.

Jo Gar nodded. “There are many of each in life,” he replied with faint amusement, “We must accept the chance.”

The house was low and rambling; it was not the home of a poor man. There were many trees in the ground that surrounded it—the slope that rose to the screened front porch was perfectly landscaped. Jo Gar led the way; Lieutenant Arragon was just back of him. He muttered in a low voice:

“He is a very wealthy man—a powerful man. If we are wrong there will be trouble.”

Jo Gar said in a whisper: “If we are not wrong it will be good for you. Do not forget that.”

They reached the porch—the outer screen door was not locked. Jo opened it; they tiptoed to the front door. There were lights inside, dim and well shaded. They could see the wicker furniture, the huge, fan-backed chairs. There was a bell; Jo pulled the knob. It tinkled faintly, somewhere within the house. After a short time there was the pad of sandaled feet on hardwood flooring; the door was opened cautiously.

Arragon said: “It is Lieutenant Arragon, of the police. We wish to enter quietly. Do not give warning. Open the door.”

The door opened. The Filipino boy was small and wide-eyed. Jo Gar smiled at him.

“Your master is in—and with him is a lady. An English lady. You will tell us where we may find them.”

The boy, fear in his eyes, said brokenly:

“They are in the back—in the curio room. They have just arrived from the boat.”

Jo Gar smiled pleasantly. He said:

“Would they hear that bell—in the curio room?”

The boy swallowed hard. He replied in a strained voice: “I do not think so.”

Juan Arragon said: “Lead us to the door of the room—make no sound. It will be bad for you, if you fail to obey.”

They followed the house-boy down a hall that was dimly lighted. There was a sharp turn to the right, they descended several steps. There was a door ahead. Voices reached them faintly. The boy lifted an arm, gestured towards the door. Jo Gar led the way.

He recognized Mrs. Landon’s voice, though it was distorted as she spoke. Her words came to them clearly but without strength.

“ … the risk of doing this. It was a terrible thing. If I had only known, before I sailed—”

Her voice died. There was silence. Jo Gar waited long seconds, then stepped close to the door. He nodded to Juan Arragon, who slipped his right hand into the pocket of his khaki uniform. Jo Gar turned the knob, shoved open the door.

He stepped inside. The woman was in the arms of a man whose back was turned to them. She twisted free, stared wildly at Jo Gar, screamed. Arragon stepped into the room, closed the door behind him. The man swung around. Jo Gar said quietly:

“We are sorry. Love is a beautiful thing. We have come to arrest Mr. Price—for the murder of Gary Landon.”

Dean Price’s hatchet-shaped face was twisted. He took several steps towards a divan above which hung Igorote shields and spears. He sank down on the divan, said bitterly:

“It’s—a lie. You can’t come in here—”

Jo Gar said quietly: “We are here.” His eyes narrowed on the white face of Clara Landon. He smiled with his thin lips. “We are here because Mrs. Landon did as you instructed—went to the market square and then to the dock where your boat was waiting. I intercepted the woman who rode back to the Orient Hotel in Mrs. Landon’s place. She told of working for you, Mr. Price. So we are here. There are other reasons.”

Clara Landon sank into one of the fan-backed chairs. She moved her head from side to side. She said:

“There is a mistake—”

Jo Gar smiled a little with his blue-gray eyes. He said quietly:

“There were several. The motive for the strangling of Gary Landon was self-protection. He was a strong man, Price—you feared him. You feared him because you wanted his wife, and he had learned of that. He had told her that he would kill you if you persisted in seeing her. That was the quarrel the clerk overheard. It was after such a scene that Landon left the hotel last night. He was going to hunt you, Price. He bought no rope. You own most of the Filipino stores on the street where Locracia’s place is located. You set Locracia up in business, and you have promised to back Manuel’s son. We went to him tonight, after we learned your name. He has confessed to telling a story that was not true. You own the Spanish Theatre—and your—manager—Señor Flores, has also talked. Often in the last ten days you have met Clara Landon there. You suggested the suicide thought to Señor Flores, and he felt it would be wise to think the same way. It was a simple matter, Mr. Price, after we had your name.”

Dean Price said hoarsely: “It’s—ridiculous. I was on the bridge, asking you questions, as they were cutting the body down. That was just chance, like a number of—”

Jo Gar smiled more broadly: “It was not chance, Mr. Price,” he said. “It was deliberate. But it will do you no good. There is too much evidence against you. We have found the woman here. She is guilty, too.”

Clara Landon said hysterically: “No—I did not—”

Price cut in. His voice was hoarse; his eyes were wide, staring at Jo Gar.

“I suppose she lowered the body. I suppose Landon didn’t fight. He was out to get me, you say. You say I murdered him. Yet there isn’t a mark—”

The expression in Jo Gar’s eyes stopped him. The Island detective said:

“There isn’t a mark—except the mark of the rope,” he agreed. “And the medical examiner has stated death was due to strangulation. You strangled him, Mr. Price. But you didn’t lower him over the bridge. He didn’t die dangling in the air. A rope was twisted around his neck—the same one from which he was cut down. He was choked until death came. On your launch, Price. Then, late at night or in the early morning, the rope was fastened to the bridge. The launch brought the body down—he was lifted from the deck, slipped into the noose.”

Dean Price was on his feet, swaying. He was breathing heavily. He cried:

“It’s—not—true—”

Jo Gar said sharply: “It is true. We have talked with the ones who helped you—those on the boat. They have—talked—to save themselves. They accuse you—and this woman.”

He gestured towards Clara Landon. She rose to her feet, her eyes wide with fear.

“I didn’t—I didn’t!” she screamed. “I begged—Dean—not to do it. I tell you—I wasn’t there! I warned him that Gary was coming—to the dock—to the launch. I sent a boy. But I wasn’t there! I swear it—I swear—”

Her voice died. She turned her back, walked slowly, unsteadily towards Dean Price. He said grimly:

“Well—that finishes—me.”

He sat down on the divan again. The woman went over and leaned against a wall. She buried her face in her arms and started to cry. Juan Arragon said:

“I guess you were right, Jo.”

Price stared stupidly at the Island detective. He muttered:

“That damned, squealing crew. I can forgive a woman. We couldn’t keep away from each other. I knew he was going to take her away. And when I heard he was coming after me—”

He checked himself. Jo Gar said quietly:

“I think it would be wise for you to tell the whole truth, Mr. Price. The crew say it was you who held Landon—”

Dean Price cut in grimly: “That’s a lie! He was coming to get me—that will be my defense. We caught him as he came along the deck. One of the boys dropped the rope over his neck, tightened it. I held one arm—others of the crew gripped him from behind. He tried to struggle. He was strong. But the rope was tight around his throat; he couldn’t twist his head. It was only a matter of seconds. That damned, squealing crew—”

Jo Gar said: “The crew didn’t squeal, Mr. Price. We haven’t been aboard the launch. I was hitting in the dark, because I felt it had happened as you have said.”

Dean Price swore grimly. The woman was sobbing. Juan Arragon said, with grudging admiration in his voice:

“You felt it was not suicide, from the beginning, Jo.”

The Island detective looked towards the many weapons hanging on the walls of the room. He spoke in his toneless manner.

“They gave Landon—sufficient rope. I was giving them enough rope, Juan.”

________________

15: The Centenarian

Barry Pain

Townsville Daily Bulletin (Qld) 23 Oct 1926

NUMBERS 33 AND 35, London-road, were two semi-detached villas, forming one block. At No. 33 lived a widower, Peter Gay, a robust and sardonic gentleman now in his eighty-eighth year. At No. 35 lived Peter's bachelor brother, Robert, twelve years older than Peter and much less active, but still in a fine state of preservation. They were not wealthy, but both possessed sufficient means to enable them to live in comfort.

There were considerable differences between the two brothers, and they lived, as they always had done, on what might be described as terms of friendly animosity. Robert was a convinced teetotaller; Peter, the younger, kept a cask of strong ale in the cupboard under the stairs and enjoyed a glass or two of port on Sundays. They differed on political and religious questions. They differed in their views on horticulture.

A low fence separated the two gardens. Robert seated at the open window of a room on the first floor at the back of his house was able to survey Peter toiling on the land and to ask him what he thought he was supposed to be doing, to which Peter would reply simply but rudely.

The irritation was increased by the fact that letters and parcels addressed Mr. Gay were frequently left at the wrong house. The mistake was always put right, but never without acrimony.

On one occasion Peter's regular monthly bottle of whisky was delivered by a new errand-boy at the house of Robert. Robert sent it on to Peter with a denunciatory text of Scripture written on the label. Peter countered with a request to Mr. Robert Gay, If he had a Bible In the house, to lead John 11., 1—11.

The animosity infected the other inhabitants of the two houses. Peter's household was controlled by his widowed daughter, Mrs. Magworth, a blithe young thing of 65, who employed a daily servant addressed as Jenny. Robert had put the control of affairs in the hands of Mrs. Porlock, who at the age of 71 at any rate had some slight experience, and the girl Bessie assisted her.

What Mrs. Magworth and Mrs. Porlock said to one another over the garden fence at times used to make the sparrows take their young out of hearing. But it was surpassed by the interchanges between Jenny and Bessie when the cleaning of their respective front door-steps synchronised.

Life at the two houses was possibly open to criticism, but at any rate it was never dull. There was always something doing. And there were understood limits. Mrs. Porlock might and did call Mrs. Magworth a worthless, thieving slut, and Mrs. Magworth might and did reply by costing reflections on the character of Mrs. Porlock's mother, but this would not prevent Mrs. Porlock three minutes later from borrowing Mrs. Magworth's second-size frying-pan or Mrs. Magworth from lending it.

The trouble between the two houses became accentuated when September 15th drew nigh, for on September 16th Robert became a centenarian, and it must be confessed that the old man was inclined to give himself airs about it

'There are but few that live to be a hundred,' he observed to Peter. 'I count I've earned it. I've never upset my stomach with strong drink, nor fouled my lungs with filthy tobacco smoke. You'll never be a centenarian Peter, for you are a slave to both. I should think another two years will see you out— three at the most. For though we come of a long-lived family, vice will undermine the strongest.'

'You may last to be called a hundred,' said Peter, 'but you've never lived. I have. I've enjoyed myself, I have. What do you think you are? I'll tell you. You ain't a man— and you never were. You're nothing more than a sort of human turnip.'

'Aye. I can't hear what you're saying, you do mumble so. They're going to make a bit of fuss over me on the 15th, from all I hear. The band's coming up to play me a tune in the morning, and then I show myself at the window and bows to them. So if you should hear the music, keep yourself at the back, or you'll only make a fool of yourself. There's to be a piece about me in the Gazette.  They're sending up a gentlemen from the office to talk to me about the secret of longevity. In the morning, too, I'm to have my picture took. Nothing to pay, neither, because a centenarian is an object of public interest. Letters and telegrams will be streaming in from friends. There will be presents and bouquets. What were you thinking of giving me, Peter?'

'New hat— to allow for the swelling,' said Peter.

'As I was saying, there are but few centenarians, and should doubt if there's another one just like me.'

'By the mercy of Providence!' added Peter fervently.

'I'm not an invalid. I can hear anybody speaking, so long an they don't mumble. I don't use glasses, except to read the Gazette, and I walk down to the shop to buy it every week. I can potter about in my garden.'

'Putting in everything too early and losing it through frost, in the same pigheaded way you always have. Don't trouble to tell me the rest of it. It'll all be in the obituary.'

And Peter returned to his own house to talk things over with his daughter. Nell Magworth.

'Your Uncle Robert's getting past all bearing,' said Peter, gloomily.

'Always was,' said Nell. 'What's fresh?'

'Over his birthday to-morrow. If he were going to be made Lord Chief Justice and Emperor of India he couldn't be more cock-a-hoop than what, he is. Brag — brag — brag the whole time. I've just had twenty minutes of It.'

'I should think you'll In wanting a glass of ale after that.'

'Well, if it ain't eleven it soon will be. You may as well draw it.'

'You know, Father,' said Mrs. Magworth. as she put the jug and glass beside him, .'I don't think the old fool's much more to blame than those that are spoiling him. People seem to me to have gone off their heads. What do you think I saw when I was down at Tomson's after the bread this morning? A birthday cake covered with white icing and "One Hundred, Not Out" done on it in red. And there were a hundred little colored candles ranged round it on the stand. Seems it's a present from some friends of his at Bath-street, Chapel.'

'And no kindness either,' said Peter 'He was always a hog for sugar, was Robert. That'll very likely finish him, that cake will.'

Mrs. Magworth was glancing through the window.

'There's that tabby of Mrs. Porlock's in our garden again!' exclaimed Mrs. Magworth. 'I'll break its neck this time.'

It may be noted incidentally that in order to break a cat's neck with a broom it is first necessary to get within reach of the cat, and that your chances of doing this are lessened if you shout loudly, as Mrs. Magworth did on approaching.

Notwithstanding this, since the formalities of etiquette must be observed, Mr. Peter Gay and Mrs. Magworth made an early call on Robert on the morning of the 15th, bringing with them a silver inkstand as their offering.

'With our united, compliments,' said Peter.

' "Many happy returns" being out of place,' added Mrs. Magworth.

Robert diverted his attention from his second breakfast-egg to examine the offering. He admitted that it was a nice inkstand.

'May come in useful, ' said Peter, 'when you're writing your "Reminiscences of a Centenarian," or "The Guide to Gardening" or what-not.'

'I suppose,' said Robert, 'you wouldn't care to drink my health in a glass of nice lemonade.'

'Thank-you,' said Peter politely, 'We have already drunk "Better Health and More Sense" to you at home— not in lemonade nor in any other form of hog- wash.'

The band then struck up in the road outside and Peter and Nell withdrew.

DURING the morning three congratulatory telegrams, intended for Robert, were delivered to Peter. And Peter sent them on to Robert without one rude word in addition. The birthday cake reached its correct destination at the first attempt, but a bouquet of one hundred chrysanthemums labelled, 'To the Centenarian with Best Wishes' was handed in at No. 35.

Peter smiled patiently and directed the girl, Jenny to take the flowers next door with his compliments.

(The message that Jenny actually gave to Bessie was: 'These must be for you, as we has no centipedes or other vermin at our house.!')

Mrs. Magworth watched her father and wondered.

'You keep on smiling,' she said.

And thereupon her father unfolded to her the details of the little Joke— I mean, the diabolical outrage— which he had in contemplation.

Shortly before noon a young man In a light suit and a soft hat— a reporter from the Gazette came alone. That noble centenarian, Mr Robert Gay, was asleep In his easy chair after the tolls and the gratifying excitement of the morning. If anybody came from the Gazette he was to be awakened. Otherwise he was not to be roused until the boiled fowl at one o'clock required his serious attention.

But his younger brother. Mr Peter Gay, was by no means asleep. He was leaning over the front gate of the narrow strip of garden which separated his house from the road. He seemed to be looking out for that reporter. Behind him, round the knocker on the front door, was a wreath of laurel. This little artistic touch was due to Mrs. Magworth. Mr Mullins, the young man from the Gazette, was almost sure that they had told him No. 35 at the office, but that was a very old man leaning over the gate of 33, and the laurels round the knocker seemed irrefutable evidence.

'You're Mr Gay?' he asked.

'I am, sir, I take it you're the young gentleman from the Gazette. I was expecting you.'

'That's right, Grandfather. We want you to tell us the secret of how to live to be a hundred.'

'Ah, and I can do it,' said Peter. 'I can that. Come along in, sir. This is my daughter, Mrs. Magworth . Nell, get the decanter and glasses. You'll drink my health, sir.'

'Delighted. And a very healthy specimen of the centenarian you look, fo be sure.'

For the purposes of his impersonation Peter was careful to be a little more bent than usual, and to walk and talk with more hesitation. But he need not have troubled— Mullins had not seen many centenarians, and never had a suspicion.

As a matter of fact Peter gave a much better interview than Robert would have done.

Robert was a little restive on the following morning. He said that the Gazette had never sent the man up after all, and as they had asked for permission to send him up It was what he culled high-handed conduct.

Peter was consolatory.

'I expect that'll be all right,' said Peter. 'The photographer came up in the morning, didn't he?'

'Oh, yes. He was there all right.'

'And I expect you had some conversation with him, and from that the Gazette was able to get what It wanted. I shouldn't worry about that if I were you. You'll find you're in the Gazette to-morrow all right.

He was.

The article, which included a photograph of Robert Gay, was headed:

A WONDERFUL OLD MAN.

OUR NEW CENTENARIAN.

A KNOCK FOR THE TEETOTALLERS.

The personal description of Mr Gay with which the article began was distinctly flattering and should have pleased Robert. A few reminiscences followed, Peter having told Mr Mullins various things which he well remembered and some which he did not.

The real sting of the article was in its tail. It read as follows:

Asked by our representative to what he ascribed the unusual prolongation of his life and activities, the old man answered, without hesitation, that he felt he owed much to a moderate indulgence in alcohol.

'Some old chaps,' said Mr Gay, 'knock it off when they come to sixty or seventy, and that's just the time when, as a matter of fact, they need a little extra. I should call myself a moderate man, but I'm taking more now than I used to take, and I would take more still if the stuff were not so dear. This tee-totalism is doing a great deal of insidious harm in the world, and in my opinion tends to shorten life. That's my experience.

Peter Gay and his daughter read that number of the Gazette with a great and unholy joy. Peter said he was not a man to go throwing money about in a general way, but he was going to cut that piece out of the Gazette and to buy a frame for it.

'And then,' he said, 'If ever I feel low-spirited or cast down, I've only got to throw my eyes over that and it'll cheer me up again.'

'And what did you suppose Uncle Robert thinks about it?'

'Can't say. But as long as he don't think the truth, it don't matter. Suppose you strayed along the garden fence, casual-like,  and see if you could pick up a word with Mrs. Porlock.'

Mrs. Magworth acted on the suggestion. She addressed Mrs. Porlock with unusual politeness and asked how Uncle Robert was that morning. She found Mrs. Porlock in a conversational mood.

'The old gentleman's in his usual health,' said Mrs. Porlock, 'but something about him in the Gazette seems to have upset him. It was a wonderful coincidence that you and your father should have given him that inkstand as you did, for he's writing all day now, except when he's asleep or having his meals.'

'What's he writing?' asked Mrs. Magworth.

'He says it's a letter to the editor of the Gazette. Looks as if it was going to be a long one, too. He's covered six pages to-day and he says that he doesn't count that he's more than half way through. I don't follow all his arguments myself but he says the photographer that the Gazette sent up on his birthday must have told a pack of lies about him, and he's going to expose It and get the man the sack.'

'You didn't read the article, I suppose?' asked Mrs. Magworth.

'Read it? No. I've sot too much to do to sit about reading articles all day. I took a glance at the picture and thought it rather flattered him, but I didn't read it. Did you?'

'Yes,' said Mrs. Magworth innocently. 'I run my eye over it. The last part of it rather surprised us, because I'd always thought Uncle Robert was a teetotaller.'

'So he is.'

'Don't you believe it. They wouldn't have said what they did in that paper If he had been. I daresay he takes it on the quiet and don't talk about it. There can't be any doubt that he takes it. The Gazette wouldn't get wrong on a point like that.'

'Ah,' said Mrs. Porlock with great intelligence. 'It would never surprise me if that was what he was writing to the editor about.'

On the following evening it was reported that when not asleep or at meals, Robert had divided his time between a consumption of birthday cake and a continuation of the letter. On the day following the letter was finished and Robert had a slight bilious attack.

The letter never appeared in print. All that Robert could find in the next number of the Gazette was the following very brief statement In very small type.

'We regret that by error certain views were ascribed in our last issue, to Mr Robert Gay, which the gentleman now disclaims. He requests us to state that he is a lifelong teetotaller .

And as that was all the satisfaction Robert ever got. He has taken the strong course of discontinuing the Gazette.

'One week,' he says, 'you're a centenarian, and the next week you're the dirt under their feet. I like a little consistency.'

_______________________

Cumulative Index to Past Masters 25

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:

P:  Past Masters

M:  More Past Masters

3:  Past Masters Three

4:  Past Masters Four
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

My Gifted Young Friend 25

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

Mrs. W. K. Clifford

The Last Touches  24

J. Storer Clouston

The Fortunate Lord Fabrigas 13

Magic 13

The Trials of Tony 13

Arthur Conan Doyle:

The Disintegration Machine  10

The Mystery of Sasassa Valley 24

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

Clarence L. Cullen

An Alibi for Altogether Al  25

Tourists Three for Tampa   25

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

Cocaine Smugglers' Catspaw 25

Drug Running Extraordinary 25

The Empty Match Box  P

The Fifth Domino (as by John Morris)  12

The Elusive Mr Chon 24

The Gift to See Ourselves as Others See Us  8

Proof of the Pudding 24

A Question of Coke 24

The Wedding Cake 24

Wiles of  Cho Chun 24

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

Pod Flits 24

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

Ashes of Circumstance 24

The Gravity Experiment 21

Not on the Bill  21

The Return  23

William Schwenck Gilbert

Diamonds  25

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 Demon of Tlaxpam 24

The Malignant Entity 24

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 K. Leys

The Letter With The Black Seal  24

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

Rev. C. R. Maturin

Leixlip Castle 25

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

Ethel Watts Mumford

The Intruder 25

The Masque of Tragedy 25

Talbot Mundy

Making £10,000 3

Edith Nesbit

The Mystery of the Semi-Detached  M

Frederick Niven

The Queer Place  24

William Edward Norris

The Willingham Van Dyke 6

David Wright O'Brien

The Money Machine M

Rats in the Belfry 9

Rayhouse in Space 25

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

The Centenarian 25

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

Will Rogers

Spring is Here  24

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

Monsieur De Guise 24

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

Junius B. Smith

An Arc of Direction 24

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

Raymond S. Spears

Demons of the Cold  24

Henry Spicer

Called To The Rescue 18

Frank Stanton Jnr

The Mahogany Garden  25

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

Robert Keene Thompson

The Barber-Shop Riddle  25

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

The Sovereign of the Sea  24

The Strange Adventure of Tommy Lawn 24

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

Enough Rope 25

The Great Black  14

Inside Job  14

Red Hemp 23

Signals of Storm 24

West of Guam 20

Oscar Wilde

The Canterville Ghost  8

Charles Michael Williams

The Case of Minna Lang  24

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

Farnsworth Wright

The Snake Fiend 25

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: My Gifted Young Friend / Anonymous
- 2: Diamonds / William Schwenck Gilbert
- 3: The Snake Fiend / Farnsworth Wright

- 4: The Barber-Shop Riddle / Robert Keene Thompson

- 5: Leixlip Castle / Rev. C. R. Maturin

- 6: Tourists Three for Tampa / Clarence L. Cullen

- 7: An Alibi for Altogether Al / Clarence L. Cullen

- 8: The Mahogany Garden / Frank Stanton Jnr

- 9: Rayhouse in Space / David Wright O'Brien

- 10: The Masque of Tragedy / Ethel Watts Mumford

- 11: The Intruder / Ethel Watts Mumford

- 12: Cocaine Smugglers' Catspaw / Aidan de Brune

- 13: Drug Running Extraordinary / Aidan De Brune

- 14: Enough Rope / Raoul Whitfield
- 15: The Centenarian / Barry Pain
- Cumulative Index up to Past Masters 25