PAST MASTERS

TWENTY-SIX

April 2021

Part 4

Produced by Terry Walker

("Pulpmeister")

Contents

1: Nagasaki Bound / Raoul Whitfield

2: The Elusive Coronet / W. E. Norris

3: Lost: An Echo / George Allan England

4: Bridget's Locket / "Waif Wander"

5: Till Death Do Us Part / David Wright O'Brien

6: The Golden Fleece / Julian Hawthorne (novelette)

7: Public Sap-Head Number One / R. A. J. Walling

8: The Garden of Delight / Cosmo Hamilton

9: At the Belton Arms / Hugh Pendexter

10: A Scriptural Quotation / H Bedford-Jones

11: The Poet’s Ghost / Henry Pettitt

12: The White Wolf of Kostopchin / Sir Gilbert Campbell, Bt

Cumulative Index up to No 26

_____________________

1: Nagasaki Bound

Raoul Whitfield

1896-1945

Black Mask, Sept 1930

WHEN JO GAR stepped from the caleso, on the sun-rotted planks of the dock near the Manila Hotel, he glanced towards the stern rail of the yacht and saw Vandeer, the Holland detective, leaning against it and smiling down at him. Jo removed his pith helmet, wiped his forehead with a large-sized handkerchief, and sighed.

“I thought so,” he breathed wearily. “There is too much native blood in me. Randonn lacks the complete trust.”

He attended to his baggage, saw that it was started aboard. When he had paid the caleso driver he moved slowly up the narrow gangplank and was met on the awninged deck by the chief steward. The man was tall and thin; he towered over the diminutive Island detective.

“Señor Gar?” he guessed. “I will see you directly to your cabin.”

Jo smiled a little. “I trust there is a fan,” he said.

The chief steward nodded. “There is,” he replied. “It will be cooler when we steam off Formosa. Your luggage has gone ahead.”

Jo Gar nodded. He followed the tall man astern; the yacht was not particularly trim or new; her decks, where there were no awnings, baked in the hot sun. Vandeer came along and smiled at Jo. He was a ruddy-faced Hollander who had been in the Islands only a short time. He had broad shoulders, slightly rounded, and wore shell glasses over his blue eyes.

“So you did come,” he said in a voice that was pleasant but that held a hint of mockery. “It is good to see you, Señor.”

Jo Gar narrowed his almond-shaped eyes on those of the Hollander, said languidly:

“I feel my presence is unnecessary, with you aboard, Mr. Vandeer. But I was urged. It will be a change.”

The Hollander chuckled. “We will all feel safer, Señor,” he said with exaggerated politeness. “You have done much fine work in Manila, I hear.”

Jo Gar bowed his head slightly and moved on. When the chief steward stood aside and he entered the deck cabin it was agreeably cool. A small fan whirled— the air was cooler than the breeze blowing over the Bay.

The chief steward said: “We have our own cooling system, you see. The air is iced.”

Jo Gar sat in a small wicker chair and carefully set his helmet on the cabin flooring.

“I’m sure it will be— a most pleasant journey,” he said thoughtfully.

The chief steward bowed and withdrew. The Island detective stowed his luggage away in leisurely fashion and was reclining on the berth when Sanford Randonn tapped on the closed door of the cabin.

He came in at Jo’s call, smiled as the Island detective sat up. Randonn was lean-faced, quick in movement— an extremely active man for his fifty-odd years. He did not appear to notice heat. With his energy and fine organizing ability he had made millions in the Islands, in a period of some twenty years. He said in a thin, nervous tone:

“I hope you won’t mind my having Vandeer along. He’s done work for me many years, you know. I really hadn’t intended to take him on this trip, until a few days ago. But he seemed terribly hurt, disturbed. So I altered my plans.”

Jo Gar smiled. He made a slow, graceful gesture with his right hand. Lowering his voice, he asked softly:

“You have the pearls aboard?”

Randonn frowned. Then he shrugged, nodded his head. He said nervously:

“God— they are beautiful things, Gar. I hate to have them out of my sight. Sara loves to look at them. They are the most beautiful—”

The Island detective said quietly: “Your man Toyen will be able to reproduce them— the imitations will be just as beautiful. Toyen is the best workman on such matters, in the Orient.”

Randonn nodded, smiled. The yacht whistle sounded a long-drawn wail. The millionaire got to his feet.

“Vandeer does not know the real purpose of the trip,” he said. “You do. Sara, myself and you are the only three who know. Vandeer believes we are Nagasaki bound so that I may purchase some important altar jewels. I have done that before. There are so many shrines near Nagasaki. But I do not want Vandeer to know that the pearls are aboard.”

Jo Gar bowed. He did not speak. Randonn opened the cabin door and stepped on deck. The engines of the yacht were turning over, there was slight vibration. The wealthy Englishman said:

“It was a lucky deal, Gar. But I will feel much more secure when—” He checked himself. The whistle of the yacht wailed again. Jo Gar slipped his small feet into sandals and moved slowly to the deck.

Randonn smiled at him and went forward. The Island detective looked towards the stern and saw the Hollander at the rail. He frowned.

“It was a lucky deal—” he repeated slowly. “Randonn has often been wise and correct. Perhaps he is wise now—”

He thought of the pearls. They were the finest he had ever seen. He had looked at many, in the South Seas and the Orient. He was something of an authority on them. Randonn had paid a big price for the small lot, but they were worth twice as much as he had paid. And Toyen could imitate them beautifully, so that Sara Randonn could roll them in her fingers, wear them. But first they must reach Nagasaki— and Toyen.

The yacht was swinging clear of the dock now. Friends were waving. Jo Gar saw Juan Arragon climb hurriedly from a carromatta, move towards the edge of the dock. Jo waved his short arms— and the Manila police lieutenant grinned and waved back. The city became drowned in a sea of heat waves as the yacht headed out past Cavite and the Rock. After a while Jo went back into his cabin and lay on the berth again.

He dozed and was awakened by a Filipino boy who told him lunch was being served. He dressed, went forward towards the gay-colored awning under which several tables had been placed. The breeze was warm. Randonn smiled at him and gestured towards a table.

“Better than the dining saloon,” he said. “The captain tells me we’re in for a calm trip.”

Jo Gar looked beyond the millionaire; his eyes flickered on those of the Hollander. Vandeer was smiling. The Island detective said quietly:

“That is very— nice to know.”

The island of Formosa was a mile to port of the Eastern Star as the yacht rode steadily through a nasty swell. It was dark; dinner had been served in the saloon, but several of Randonn’s guests had not appeared. During the day the sea had been rough— at dusk, when the rugged coast line of Formosa had been sighted, the yacht was rolling heavily.

Jo Gar walked from the smoking room, turned towards the bridge. The door of Randonn’s cabin was suddenly opened— Randonn stepped to the deck. His face was white, twisted. He stared at the Island detective. Jo went to his side; Randonn shoved him into the cabin, closed the door. He said grimly:

“The pearls— they’re gone!”

Jo Gar half closed his eyes. He said in a quiet tone: “Where did you have them?”

The Englishman took from a small writing desk a camera. It was box-like, old. He opened one end of it. He said bitterly:

“They were in a small chamois bag— stuffed in here. The camera was on my desk. On top of it were two rolls of film. I was sure they would be safe. No one would think of looking in a camera— it was right there on the desk. And no one knew—”

Jo Gar said quietly: “Someone knew. Someone besides your wife, you— and myself. Almost always someone knows. You feared that, or you would not have come to me, asked me to accompany you on this trip.”

Randonn said savagely: “That German, Bacherman— he made money on the pearls. He bought them up, one by one, matching them. It took years. When he lost his money he had to sell them. He knew I’d pay the best price, but he hated to sell them to me. And I knew that. That’s why I came to you. Now— they’re gone.”

The Island detective leaned down and inspected the camera box carefully. He did not touch it.

“There will be no fingerprints,” he said. “But I’ll use powder on it. The camera is an old make— and a cheap thing. You would not use such a camera. You were very foolish.”

Randonn said slowly: “The pearls are gone— but they are aboard the yacht. I thought the camera would be a good hiding place. If I had made elaborate plans there might have been a leak.”

Jo Gar reached for his handkerchief, smiled. He said slowly:

“You do not trust Vandeer. You do not trust me. You have been foolish. Such an old camera. But the thief is clever. When did you see them last—the pearls?”

Randonn frowned. “I had my siesta— rose at four-thirty. The blinds were down— the cabin door closed and locked. I took the camera into my shower room. There is no window. I looked at the pearls. They were beautiful. Then I returned the camera to the desk. That was the last I saw of them. The cabin is always locked when I am not here.”

Jo Gar narrowed his eyes and rubbed stubby, browned fingers across his lips. He said:

“Does your wife know the pearls are gone?”

Randonn shook his head. “I was afraid of it,” he muttered. “I was afraid— something would happen. The German, Bacherman— he hated me to have them.”

Jo Gar said: “I will take the camera to my cabin. But I do not think there will be anything learned from it. You have told Vandeer?”

Randonn shook his head. “I just discovered they were gone,” he muttered.

The Island detective looked at his wristwatch. It was twenty minutes after nine. He stood with his feet apart, bracing himself against the roll of the yacht. The millionaire dropped heavily into a wicker chair. He swore bitterly.

Jo Gar said slowly: “The pearls are of much value. As you say, they are aboard. They were taken from this cabin between four-thirty and—”

He looked questioningly at Randonn. The Englishman said: “—and ten minutes ago.”

Jo nodded. “Only you and I— and the person or persons who took them know that they are gone. We will not reach Nagasaki for three days.”

Randonn said: “I think— Vandeer should know. That is what he is aboard for— to know such a thing.”

The Island detective said slowly: “Perhaps he— already knows.”

Randonn stared at him. He spoke in a hard voice, his eyes narrowed on Jo’s.

“You are accusing Vandeer of—”

Jo shook his head. “I said perhaps he already knows,” he stated. “You did not have the greatest confidence in him, or you would not have included me on this journey.”

Randonn said grimly: “I was afraid— from the beginning.”

“Why— were you afraid?” Jo Gar asked the question quietly, very quietly.

The millionaire fumbled in a pocket of his suiting, got a cigarette between his thin lips. He spoke sharply:

“I’ve told you— the German hated me. He loved the pearls. He’d never have sold them if he hadn’t needed money to pay his Filipinos, out on the plantations. He knew I had them, and he must have known I was taking them away— when he learned I was making the trip. I should have left secretly.”

Jo Gar shook his head. “He would have known, in any case,” he said, “Why did you come to me?”

Randonn kept his eyes narrowed on the eyes of the Island detective. He spoke in a low, hard tone.

“I’d heard you were an expert on pearls. I wanted your opinion on this Toyen. Vandeer doesn’t know pearls. Once I’d told you about them, I wanted you to come along.”

The Island detective smiled. “Very well,” he said. “Do not inform Vandeer of the loss. I will see about the camera. Later I will meet you on deck. Be cheerful, and say nothing about what has happened.”

Randonn looked uncertain.

Jo Gar said:

“You should not have brought both Vandeer and Señor Gar aboard the ship. You see how difficult it now becomes. You trust neither of us.”

The millionaire smiled. It was a hard, bitter smile.

“Very well, Gar,” he said sullenly. “I will not tell Vandeer. You will handle the thing. I am aware of your reputation. I will do just as you say.”

The Island detective got the camera wrapped inside his handkerchief. He placed it carefully under his left arm.

“That is very good,” he said. “I will be near the smoking room in a short while.”

He went outside and towards the stern of the yacht, walking carefully in the darkness. Several times he was forced to stop and brace himself. The swell was a heavy one. When he reached his cabin he closed and locked the door, pulled the blinds shut. He placed the camera on a small table, fixing it securely. The handkerchief he returned to his pocket.

Getting into his berth he lay on his back and smiled. He murmured softly:

“This Randonn— he is a shrewd gentleman. He says that he will not tell Vandeer of his loss. So many shrewd men— are liars.”

The four guests of the Randonns were assembled in the smoking room of the yacht. It was not quite ten o’clock. Captain Howker, of the yacht, stood beside Mrs. Lealand, the wife of Harvey Lealand. The captain was a short, thick-set man, with brown-gray eyes. His white uniform was spotless. Mr. Lealand and John Carris sat together, their eyes on Randonn. Mrs. Carris talked in low tones with Sara Randonn, a fine-looking woman in her late forties. Randonn was talking with Jo Gar and Vandeer; he was saying that the captain thought they would run out of the swell very soon. It was a condition usually encountered off the coast line of Formosa.

There was a puzzled expression in the Hollander’s eyes. As the yacht owner moved away from them and went to one end of the smoking room he said quietly to Jo:

“We are gathered here— for a reason?”

Jo Gar shrugged. Randonn raised a hand for silence, said in a low voice:

“There are aboard two dozen finely matched pearls. They are probably the finest I have seen. I am taking them to a man in Nagasaki, who can reproduce the jewels in excellent fashion. The crew has been carefully picked—many of the men have been with me for years. The captain has great faith in them. You are all my friends. Señor Gar is a man with a splendid Island reputation as a detective. Vandeer has handled my affairs in England for a long time.”

Randonn paused. He said, frowning: “The pearls disappeared from my cabin this evening. They are gone.”

There were exclamations from those present. Sara Randonn cried out in a low voice. The captain’s face was set in a grim line. At Jo Gar’s side, breathing heavily, Vandeer stared at Randonn. He said: “But I didn’t know— I wasn’t informed that the pearls—”

Randonn interrupted, smiling apologetically. He said: “I regret that, Vandeer. It was Señor Gar’s wish that you should not know. As I said— the pearls are gone from my cabin.” He smiled more broadly. “Fortunately— they were not the real jewels.”

There was silence, then exclamations of relief. Sara Randonn laughed in her rather high-pitched manner. The captain swore softly. John Carris said:

“Good! You already have had them imitated.”

Randonn nodded. “It was not a satisfactory job,” he replied. “But perhaps it has been good enough. I doubt that.”

Jo Gar said quietly: “This being the case, what is your object in betraying the fact that the thief has not obtained the real pearls, Mr. Randonn?”

The millionaire nodded, kept the smile on his lean face. He said in a steady voice:

“I am sure none of the crew did this thing. I am exempting them from suspicion. I feel very certain that the real jewels are quite safe. They are not resting in a chamois bag, in another camera. I regret very much that one among you—”

He stopped, shrugged. Captain Howker was letting his eyes move from one face to another. There was a grim expression in them. Harvey Lealand said in a protesting tone:

“That’s pretty thick, isn’t it, Randonn? You’re accusing one of us of being a thief.”

Randonn said in a hard voice: “Yes— that’s what I’m doing. I’d like to know who took the imitation pearls. You see, I’ve got to know. This trip will take several weeks. We will return together. I am making an offer. If the one who took the jewels will come to me and confess— that person may simply depart— at Nagasaki. There will be no prosecution, no further talk.”

The captain was frowning. John Carris spoke in an amused tone. “And if there is no confession?”

Randonn said grimly: “We will go after the imitations just as though they were real pearls. We will prosecute. And let me remind you that Señor Gar and Henrik Vandeer are aboard. They have each had much experience.”

Vandeer said: “We do not have to land at any certain hour. We can cruise for days.”

Randonn nodded. “I am very curious,” he stated grimly. “I have always played fair. We will investigate the crew also, of course. But I am reasonably certain—”

He checked himself again, shrugged. Then he smiled at those in the smoking room.

“The imitations are worth only a few hundred dollars,” he reminded. “There is a good chance that we will recover them. I will prosecute. Until midnight I shall be strolling about the deck, or in my cabin. A confession will mean absolute secrecy— no prosecution. I give my word.”

He bowed slightly, went from the smoking room. Jo Gar looked at Vandeer. The Hollander said in a low, puzzled tone:

“It’s a strange way— to go at the thing.”

Jo said lazily: “Why is it? The thief has got nothing of value. But he or she remains a thief. And consequently a threat. Mr. Random is a clever man. But you know that, of course.”

Vandeer said softly, smiling a little: “Of course.”

He turned and went from the cabin. Jo Gar listened to the varied comments of the guests for a few minutes, then he went outside and to his own cabin. He looked at his wristwatch. It was fifteen minutes past ten. The yacht was rolling badly. He went to the stern for a half hour, then moved forward. Randonn came along, moving cautiously. The Island detective gestured towards the rail. They moved to it— and stood watching the distant blur of the Formosa coastline.

Randonn said in a soft voice: “You think it worked?”

Jo shrugged. “If the thief knows pearls— it didn’t,” he said. “If the thief isn’t an expert, it may yet be successful.”

Randonn said: “It’s a fearful chance to take. Supposing the thief becomes afraid—believes that he has only fake jewels, decides not to confess—and tosses them overboard?”

Jo Gar said: “It is— a chance. But I do not think the thief will do that.”

Randonn frowned. “I would— if I believed they were not real,” he said. “I’d toss them overboard and sit tight.”

Jo Gar smiled in the darkness. “Why did you agree to make such a statement as you made, then?” he asked in a mild voice.

Randonn swore. “Perhaps I was a fool,” he breathed. “You have a reputation, you see.”

The Island detective said softly: “That is kind of you, Mr. Randonn. I think that one of two things will happen. The false jewels will be returned, or there will be a confession.”

Randonn straightened up. He said: “I hope so. I must leave you— so there will be an opportunity. But if you are wrong—”

Jo Gar tapped his fingers against the wood of the yacht rail. He said quietly:

“Then it will be more difficult, Mr. Randonn— much more difficult.”

AT ELEVEN-THIRTY, as Jo was smoking a brown-paper cigarette in his cabin, there was a knock on the door. The Island detective rose and opened the door—Vandeer stood outside. He smiled at Jo, who stood aside as he entered.

Vandeer touched long fingers to his shell-rimmed glasses and said: “I am inclined to think that this matter is a joke, Señor. Mr. Randonn has a peculiar sense of humor, I know that. Perhaps you are not aware of it.”

Jo shrugged. “Perhaps you are right,” he said after a little silence. “Men with much wealth often joke in strange fashion. Perhaps it is so.”

Vandeer stood near the cabin door and kept his ruddy face towards the Island detective’s.

“If imitation pearls had been stolen I do not think Mr. Randonn would have said anything,” he stated.

Jo Gar said quietly: “It is not pleasant to know a thief is aboard the yacht one owns.”

The Hollander frowned. “But such a statement informs the thief that he has not obtained the real thing. He might try again.”

Jo Gar spread his brown hands in a gesture of admission.

“He might not succeed so well— the second time,” he said simply.

Vandeer grunted. “I am sure it is a joke,” he said. “I did not want you to take it too seriously.”

Jo Gar smiled. “It is good of you— to think of me,” he returned. “Perhaps you are right.”

Vandeer opened the cabin door. He said in a cheerful tone:

“The swell isn’t so bad. It’s growing much calmer. I think that—”

His words died. Jo Gar took a swift step beyond the cabin as the shot sound echoed down the deck. Vandeer whirled, said fiercely:

“Randonn—”

Then he was running forward, followed by the Island detective. The scream of a woman reached Jo as he was amidships. He caught a glimpse of a figure coming down from the bridge. It looked like Captain Howker’s figure. A heavy list of the yacht sent him towards the rail— but he kept moving forward. When he reached the millionaire’s cabin the door was opened— light streamed on the deck wood.

The body of Randonn lay on the floor of the cabin. Captain Howker was bending over the owner. He straightened as Jo reached his side. He went to Sara Randonn and led her from the cabin. Jo Gar looked at the bullet wound, just over the right eye, touched the right wrist of Randonn.

His eyes moved over the floor of the cabin; he saw the pearls. There were four or five of them. They were perfectly matched. They gleamed dully in the light. The Island detective did not touch them. He went outside. The other guests were crowding around, white faced. The first officer said to Vandeer: “What’s happened?”

Jo Gar turned and said quietly: “Randonn is done— shot through the head.”

He heard Vandeer say grimly: “There are pearls— on the floor—”

The first officer was saying: “Any one seen running from here, moving away?”

Jo Gar stood motionlessly, looking forward and aft along the deck.

He said to himself:

“No powder burns— the cabin is small. The shot came clearly enough—”

Vandeer came to his side and spoke in a grim tone. “I guess it wasn’t— a joke, Señor Gar.”

The Island detective said quietly: “Someone came to return the pearls. They are in there, spilled on the floor. Then something went wrong— and the thief killed.”

Vandeer said: “He might not have believed that Randonn wouldn’t prosecute. Perhaps Randonn changed his mind, and told the thief—”

Captain Howker came up and said in a strained voice:

“I’d like you two gentlemen to come inside Randonn’s cabin. We’ve got—a killer aboard.”

Jo Gar and Vandeer followed the captain into the owner’s cabin. The first officer went outside, closed the door. The murmur of the guests’ voices came inside faintly. Howker said in a harsh voice:

“Those the— fake pearls?”

He pointed towards the jewels scattered about the floor. Jo Gar said quietly:

“I’m not an expert on jewels—perhaps you are, Vandeer?”

Vandeer shook his head. “I don’t know anything about them,” he returned.

The captain said grimly: “That’s a small caliber bullet, I’d say.”

Vandeer leaned over the body of the millionaire. When he straightened up his eyes were frowning. He said:

“A .22, perhaps.”

The captain said: “A woman’s weapon.”

Jo Gar said very gently: “A woman’s weapon— but one that men can easily use.”

It was one o’clock. Howker and Jo Gar were in the map room. The captain said in a hard voice, as his eyes narrowed on those of Jo Gar: “We’re holding the course for Nagasaki. Only we’re under full steam. You and this Vandeer— you’re not getting anywhere.”

The Island detective touched his grayish hair with his short, browned fingers. He said in an apologetic voice:

“No one was seen near Randonn’s cabin. Several of the guests are unaccounted for— they were alone, at the time of the shooting. The gun could so easily have been thrown overboard. We must accept the word of the guests who were alone. Mrs. Carris was indisposed and had retired. Mr. and Mrs. Lealand were at bridge with Mr. Carris and Sara Randonn, in the card room. They heard the shot clearly. They saw no one. The crew below— they saw no one. It was quite dark, of course.”

The captain swore. “The thief got yellow,” he said. “He stole the fake pearls. He was afraid that if he didn’t return them he’d be caught. You and Vandeer were aboard. He went to Randonn and confessed, bringing him the stones. Randonn may have said that he was going to prosecute. We don’t know what happened. But the thief murdered Randonn— and he’s aboard the ship.”

Jo Gar said quietly: “One of the crew—”

The captain shook his head. “None of them knew about Randonn’s personal affairs,” he said. “It was— one of the guests. Perhaps a woman.” The Island detective smiled a little. “But you referred to the murderer using the word ‘he’,” he reminded. “You do not think it was a woman.”

Captain Howker frowned. “I want that killer,” he muttered grimly. “It’s up to you and Vandeer to get him.”

Jo Gar narrowed his eyes on the face of the yacht commander. He said slowly:

“I will tell you something. The pearls that were stolen were not imitations. They were real.”

The captain stared at him.

The Island detective nodded. “In Vandeer’s presence I told you that I was not an expert on pearls. I am. I suggested to Randonn that he make the statement he made. It was my feeling that if the thief did not know pearls— he might return them. That was what happened. But the pearls that I now have in my cabin are real. They are extremely valuable. There are twenty-four of them— I found them all in the owner’s cabin, scattered about.”

The captain was still staring at Gar. His short body was tense. “Vandeer doesn’t know this,” he muttered. “Why?”

Jo Gar said slowly: “Randonn did not trust him— that was why he brought me on this trip. Because Randonn did not trust him— I am not sure.”

The captain swore softly. “Where was he when the shot was fired?” he snapped.

Jo Gar smiled with his thin lips. “He was talking with me— just outside my cabin, astern,” he said.

Captain Howker frowned. “God!” he muttered. “The thief returned the real pearls!”

The Island detective nodded slowly. He turned his sun browned face towards the bridge.

“Vandeer felt that Randonn was joking,” he said slowly, lazily. “That is what he told me. He was wrong, you see.”

The captain muttered something that the Island detective could not distinguish.

“But he was with you— when the shot was fired,” he stated. “I was on the bridge.”

Jo Gar said: “Yes, I know. I saw you come down, as I ran forward. The companionway faces astern.”

Howker spoke grimly. “If the thief killed Randonn— why did he leave the pearls?” he asked.

Jo said in a steady tone: “We do not know what happened in the cabin, Captain. The thief might have demanded the real pearls. He believed the ones he had were imitations—they were of no use to him. When Randonn refused— he killed. That is a possibility.”

The yacht captain shook his head slowly. He said in a harsh voice: “I have talked with each man in the crew. You have talked with the guests. What can we do?”

The Island detective smiled with his almond shaped eyes looking beyond the captain.

“Things did not work out as I had anticipated,” he said. “I am not sure just what we can do. But for the present, Captain, please inform no one of the fact that I have in my possession pearls worth a great deal of money. When we find the one who stole and returned these pearls— we will have Randonn’s murderer.”

Howker swore bitterly. “The Eastern Star is still Nagasaki bound,” he breathed. “I’ll hold her on the course. You have the pearls in a safe place?”

Jo Gar looked towards the bridge and nodded his head. He lighted a cigarette in a leisurely manner and said quietly:

“An extremely safe place. Captain. But I will turn them over to you—”

Howker shook his head. “Keep them,” he said grimly. “I’m after the murderer of Randonn. No one is missing. I’ve got two men on the deck, watching the boats. Even if this sea is bad—”

Jo Gar nodded. “Formosa is not too far distant,” he agreed. “A watch over the small boats is wise, Captain.”

Howker said: “Better watch this fellow Vandeer. If Randonn didn’t trust him— the very fact that he brought you on this trip—”

Jo Gar went towards the door that led to the bridge. He interrupted quietly.

“I am going to my cabin for a nap,” he said. “But later I shall go about the boat a little. You have radioed Manila about Randonn’s death?”

The captain nodded. He spoke bitterly.

“I’d like to be able to radio that we have the murderer,” he said. Jo Gar glanced at the wheelman. He said in a grim tone:

“I think we should all like that, Captain. All but— one of us.”

THE FIRST LIGHT of dawn was showing in the eastern sky when Jo Gar left his cabin. He closed the door, snapped the key in the lock. The sea was calmer; there was no blur of mountain peaks to port now. The Island detective went to the stern of the yacht, moved to the starboard side. Then he went forward. He moved soundlessly.

The sea was smoother than it had been in twenty-four hours; as he neared the bridge he thought his eyes saw a movement in the darkness. He stopped. Faint light came through from the smoking room, streaked across the deck behind him.

There was no sound from the spot near the bridge, where he had seen the change of color. He went forward again.

Back of him there was a creaking sound— the swift intake of breath. Jo whirled, saw the raised arm, the downward movement of it. He twisted his head to one side, threw up his left arm. Something struck him a battering blow on the shoulder.

The deck was slippery from spray— he slipped, went to his knees. His right hand fingers gripped the Colt— he jerked it from his duck trouser pocket. A voice, hoarse and strained, gritted:

“Sneakin’ around the deck—”

Jo Gar didn’t squeeze the trigger. He ducked under a second blow from the blunt object the man held in his right hand. He said sharply:

“Deming! Steady— it’s Gar!”

The man muttered an exclamation of surprise, straightened up. Jo Gar got to his feet. He faced the second officer, said grimly:

“I might have— squeezed the trigger! Deming—”

The man stared at him. He said in his husky voice:

“I’m sorry, sir— I saw someone creeping along the deck— I thought it might be—”

Jo Gar moved back a little. He held his weapon low, in his right hand. Deming took a step towards him. Gar said softly:

“Keep off— Deming!”

The second officer was a short man with red hair and a large head. In the darkness his eyes showed like pin points of light. He said huskily:

“I’m mighty— sorry, sir—”

Jo Gar moved back towards the light that made a thin line across the deck from the starboard side of the smoking room. The second officer followed him. He repeated that he was sorry. The light struck the officer’s uniform; he was wearing dark blue. The material was a heavy looking cloth, though the night was warm.

Jo Gar said grimly: “I wasn’t exactly sneaking along the deck, Deming. I’m dressed in white duck. You could have called to me first.” He spoke slowly, his eyes narrowed on the second officer’s. The dawn light was growing brighter now. The Island detective said in a soft voice:

“You wear a heavy uniform— why?”

Deming’s body stiffened a little. He spoke in a shaken tone. “It was chilly— on the bridge—”

“And you couldn’t be seen so easily— on the deck,” Jo Gar interrupted in a low tone.

He saw Deming’s eyes move away from his, go towards the stern of the boat. He said quietly:

“You can return to the bridge, Deming— you were fortunate I didn’t squeeze the trigger.”

He turned abruptly, moved towards the stern. But before he had taken two steps his body swung around. And as he swung Deming leaped at him.

Jo Gar brought the Colt up sharply. The barrel crashed through the second officer’s protecting hand. It stung him heavily on the forehead. His body relaxed— as he dropped to the deck the Island detective gripped him by the left arm partially breaking the force of the fall.

For a second he bent over the man. A blackjack was gripped in the second officer’s right fingers— Jo tore it loose. Then he moved rapidly towards the stern of the yacht.

He crossed the deck forward of his cabin, kept close to the wood of the superstructure. From somewhere forward he heard the voice of a man, calling hoarsely. The second officer’s fall to deck had been heard.

He was several feet from the door of his cabin when it opened outward. The beam of a flashlight struck across the deck, was extinguished suddenly. A cry came down the deck from up forward— it sounded like Harvey Lealand’s voice.

Jo Gar stood with his back against the cabin wood— raised his Colt slowly. A figure moved out from his cabin— the door closed. The man’s back was to the Island detective, and then the figure swung around, faced forward. Jo said quietly: “Please— stand still, Captain!” Howker’s body jerked erect— his breath was sucked in sharply. His right hand moved out from his side— in the faint light of the dawn sky Jo caught a glimpse of blue-black steel.

He aimed at the captain’s right arm— squeezed the trigger of the Colt. The gun crashed.

Jo Gar moved his body to the left as the captain’s gun cracked. Wood from the exterior of the cabin splintered across his right shoulder. Then the gun slipped from Howker’s grip— he stood swaying before Jo.

Men were running down the deck now. From the stern came the Hollander. He was clad in his pajamas—a gun was gripped in his right hand.

Jo Gar moved forward a few feet and kicked the captain’s weapon to one side. He said to Vandeer:

“Go forward— on the starboard side. The second officer— I have knocked him— unconscious. See that he is made a prisoner.”

Vandeer stared at Howker. The first officer came running up, followed by several of the crew. Harvey Lealand came along. Jo Gar kept his gun leveled on the captain and said quietly:

“I think we have found— the murderer of Randonn. He is shot— in the arm. We will go to the smoking room.”

Howker stood glaring at him, holding his right arm, just above the wrist. He breathed hoarsely:

“Deming— turned me up—”

Jo Gar shook his head. He smiled a little. He spoke in a tired voice.

“Mistakes— turned you up, Howker. It is often that way. Please walk— forward.”

CAPTAIN HOWKER sat in the smoking room with bandages on his right arm, and steel cuffs on his wrists. His face was expressionless. The women guests were not present, but the others were in the room. Jo Gar spoke in a steady voice, his eyes half closed.

“You see, the captain had many advantages. He could easily gain admittance to the cabins— there were duplicate keys. The first officer has informed me that Randonn intended to dispose of the yacht shortly. Howker saw a chance. He knows only a little about pearls. Randonn had told me that only himself, his wife and myself knew the pearls were aboard. That wasn’t so. He had informed Howker, because he wanted to be sure of the crew. I guessed that, when Randonn was so positive the crew was not involved in the theft. The captain would be the one Randonn would take into his confidence.”

Howker scowled at Jo. The Island detective said quietly:

“Howker got into the cabin and found the pearls. It wasn’t difficult. He had never seen Randonn using a camera. The second officer stayed outside and watched. But when Randonn announced that the pearls that had been taken were imitations— Howker believed him. The very fact that he had got them from the camera box, placed so conspicuously, helped him to believe. And perhaps he was becoming a little worried. Randonn was a determined man. Howker went to the cabin to replace the pearls— perhaps to search again. Deming was supposed to be watching Randonn, but the owner got away from him. He surprised Howker. The captain had a .22 caliber gun. He used it, ran to the companionway, went up a few steps towards the bridge, turned and came down. It was dark— and he moved rapidly. He tossed the weapon overboard. Randonn was silenced, and he had been shot by a bullet from the type of gun a sea captain does not carry."

Jo Gar smiled faintly. “But he made several mistakes. He thought up a logical story— and kept referring to the thief and murderer as ‘he.’ In spite of the woman’s gun that was used. I was suspicious. So I told the captain that the pearls that had been stolen and returned were not imitations, but the real thing. I told him they were in my cabin. At dawn I left the cabin and gave the captain the chance to seek the pearls. When Deming attacked me on the deck, when I saw he was wearing a dark-colored uniform— I knew Howker was the man. It was so.”

Howker swore hoarsely. Jo Gar smiled at him. He said:

“Six of the pearls in the group of twenty-four were real, Captain. Only six. But you had the six, along with the others. Toyen will make six more— and even an expert will have difficulty in distinguishing the real from the reproduced. You were not an expert, Captain.”

Howker said hoarsely: “I figured you’d go after— Vandeer.”

The Hollander smiled at Jo Gar. The Island detective said slowly: “Vandeer was with me when you shot Randonn. That was unfortunate, for you.”

The captain said nothing. The first officer looked at Jo Gar.

“I wasn’t in— on this, Señor Gar,” he said. “I didn’t even suspect—”

Jo Gar nodded. “I believe that,” he said. “Few of us suspected the captain. He said a short time ago that he would like to send a radio stating that we had Randonn’s killer.” The Island detective’s voice was grim. “Send it, please.”

The first officer nodded. He moved towards the door of the smoking room. Deming glared at him. Jo Gar rose to his feet and lighted a brown-paper cigarette. He said very quietly:

“The six pearls of value were not in my cabin, Captain. But they are aboard the ship. They are in a safe place.”

Howker smiled mockingly. “You half-breeds are clever, he said hoarsely. “Or lucky.”

Jo Gar bowed, his blue-gray, almond-shaped eyes looking beyond the murderer of Randonn.

“It would have been so easy to have been unlucky— bound for Nagasaki,” he said simply.

______________________

2: The Elusive Coronet

W. E. Norris

1847-1925

Cardiff Times and South Wales Weekly News, 4 July 1903

Telegraph (Brisbane) 24 Sept 1904

London-born William Edward Norris was a prolific author of novels and short stories from 1877 onward.

AS TO the wisdom or folly of marrying for money opinions may differ, but everybody will admit that it is a piece of good luck for any man to fall in love with an heiress, and this was what happened to Cecil Hawkesworth almost immediately after his first introduction to Ida, only child of Sir Thomas Peckover, an opulent contractor, who had been knighted for some reason not very vivid in the public memory.

And, being a young man of somewhat impulsive ways, he told her so at the end of a week. That week, to be sure, had been spent in a country house in which she and he were guests, and in country houses, as everyone knows, acquaintance ripens rapidly; so it is probable that his avowal did not astonish her, and indeed she did not appear to he astonished.

She was a decidedly pretty little person, grey-eyed, dark-haired, neatly proportioned, and always well dressed. Also her habitual speech, manners, and hearing were quite modern. Yet she made a reply so antiquated that Cecil in all his experience (which had been extensive for his years) had never heard the like; for she simply referred him to her father, whose bulky form loomed opportunely just then at the far end of the long saloon which was the scene of the above declaration. After which she swiftly and quietly withdrew.

Now Cecil Hawkesworth, as his relatives were well aware, had certain small defects of character; but lack of courage was not one of them. He was not afraid of the burly man with the shock of white hair and the bushy heard who stood silently facing him, a hand on each hip, while he unfolded his love-tale; perhaps he may have vaguely opined that his good looks and good birth were in some sort an equivalent to the prize which he was coolly demanding. If so, he was soon undeceived.

Sir Thomas, who had no notion of marrying his daughter to a needy young subaltern in a cavalry regiment, heard him out, put a few pertinent questions, and summed up with businesslike conciseness. "You tell me, Mr. Hawkesworth," said he, "that your father allows you £400 a year in addition to your pay, and upon that income you propose to marry my daughter, who is accustomed to spending fully us much upon dress and diversions. All right. Ida is of age, and can please herself; she generally does. I don't forbid the marriage; only, as I can't approve of it, you must not expect support in any sense from me. Should my daughter become your wife she will have an allowance of £200 a year from me while I live, and she will inherit a sum sufficient to produce the same annual amount when I die. No more, no less. I mean what I say, and this is final if you please."

It could not be anything else if Sir Thomas meant what he said, the discomfited suitor thought. To maintain existence upon the revenue above specified is, of course, just barely possible (though not to a married man in a cavalry regiment); but to ask a girl brought up as Miss Peckover had been to attempt such a feat would be simply monstrous. He said this to her in the course of the evening, and she smilingly acquiesced. He thought her sensible, but heartless, and he left the house on the following morning very sad and very sore. He still loved her; but he was certain that she could not love him, and he meant to forget her soon as he might be.

What his feelings would have been, had he known that Miss Ida shed some bitter tears after his departure, it is impossible to say; the chances are, however, that he would not, even in that case, have modified a line of conduct to which he could see no alternative. Thus Sir Thomas, who, albeit a masterful man, had on more than one occasion found his daughter a difficult person to deal with, triumphed easily, and thus one more was added to the number of those small social tragedies which are of every-day occurrence.

The episode above narrated took place just before the outbreak of hostilities in South Africa, whither Cecil was soon despatched, and where he discharged the duties belonging to the profession of arms with credit and good fortune. It was  perhaps a little unfortunate to be hit in the leg, towards the very end of the long campaign, after having escaped without a scratch for two years; still it was not so bad to he invalided home with a brevet and a D.S.O.

Like many another, he returned to England considerably changed from his former self, for the stern, practical business of fighting is apt to make short work of vanities and levities, and to show a man very plainly his value as a human unit. But what was certainly singular and not to be expected was that his love for the girl whom he had so lightly resigned remained with him, unchanged and undiminished, from start to finish.

Somehow or other, he had not been able to forget her. More than once, when the glittering possibilities which war offers had seemed disposed to smile upon him, he had been strongly tempted to write to her. But this temptation he resisted, knowing that, at best, he could never be anything but a comparative pauper, and recognising the absurdity of renewing an offer which Ida had virtually laughed to scorn.

There was, however, no reason why he should deny himself the solace of looking upon her face once more. Thus it came to pass that, on a certain spring afternoon, he hobbled up the steps of the resplendent mansion in Park lane which Sir Thomas Peckover had recently acquired.

Sir Thomas, rich before the war, had become twice as rich in consequence of it and of the lucrative contracts which it had brought him. Always socially ambitious, he was now bent upon outshining other millionaires who, with personal attractions not more conspicuous than his own, had contrived to secure a firm footing in circles to which he had as yet not been admitted, and that he would succeed was a matter of course. The one drop of bitterness in his cup, so it was said, was his daughter's obstinate rejection of the high alliances suggested to her.

All this information Cecil readily obtained, and if, as a whole, it could not be said to afford much encouragement, the fact that Miss Peckover remained Miss Peckover was a comforting one, so far as it went. Much more definitely comforting was Ida's reception of the wounded warrior when he was shown into the vast, ornate drawing-room where she was seated alone. She was not in the least prepared for his visit, she had not even heard of his arrival in England; and so, since she was so completely taken aback and off her guard, the great gladness to which the sight of his handsome face moved her found vocal and facial expression before she could control herself. And it is needless to add that her demonstration evoked a very prompt and warm counter demonstration.

Cecil did not utter one of the speeches which he had carefully rehearsed beneath the high stars on the South African veldt, beneath the white-washed ceiling of the hospital ward, and through the groanings and wallowings of a chartered transport. They were not required; others, unrehearsed, and more eloquent, took their place.

In less than five minutes both he and Ida knew all that they wanted to know.

"Of course I loved you from the first," the girl declared. "I was afraid you must have seen it. Are you quite sure you didn't? Then that only shows what a goose you must have been! Oh, no, my case was not a hit the same. I put you to a very simple test— the test that all heiresses would impose if they could—and it seemed to choke you off instantly. What else was I to think than that you were unwilling to take me without my money?"

"You don't think that now, though," observed Cecil radiantly. He added,  "We shall he quite ridiculously poor, you know."

She laughed. "That will be a change from being ridiculously rich, anyhow. At the same time, I don't see why we shouldn't do the best we can for ourselves. We are going to be married, happen what may; but I think we won't announce our intention until we have made some effort to get my father's sanction."

"Is that possible?"

"It might be. He prides himself upon always paying for what he gains. Of course he doesn't pay the full price, or he wouldn't be living in Park Lane; still he pays something, and if you could manage to get him the peerage for which his soul thirsts, I imagine that he would do a good deal for you."

"My dearest Ida, I am not the King!"

"No; but you have relations who can approach the King. Isn't Lord Glenwearie one of them?"

"Oh, yes, he's my uncle, and or course he is in the Ministry. I don't suppose that enables him to ask for peerages, though."

"Surely it must give him opportunities of making suggestions. My father, I should tell you, aspires to a viscount's coronet, which is prettier and far more distinguished than a baron's. He means to get it, too."

"Then, with his income, he'll get it right enough. Has he any particular claims, in addition to his income?"

"Well, he has contributed liberally to the party funds, and he has made a huge donation to the London hospitals; but a seat in the House of Lords doesn't seem to be quite so easily bought as is commonly supposed, and he has been  passed over in a way which has rather astonished him. He is persuaded now that. what, he needs is to be backed by persons high up in the world— as perhaps it is. That is why he is furious with me for having refused what I have refused, and that is why I think he would be more than pleased with you if you could introduce him to Lord Glenwearie."

"I see, said Cecil pensively. "Well, I'll look up Uncle Alick, and do what I can. I wonder whether Sir Thomas could put him on to a good thing in the city. That would appeal to him more than any entreaties of mine, I fancy."

Ida had very little doubt her father could and would oblige Lord Glenwearie in the direction alluded to. "And you had better come and dine on Thursday evening, " she added. "No, you won't be badly received; he never bears malice against people from whom he has nothing to fear, and you may be sure that he won't consider you dangerous. Besides, we must meet sometimes, and it would never do for us to meet by stealth."

The conversation now assumed a more tender turn and ceased to concern itself with Sir Thomas's demands, which Cecil could not feel very sanguine of his own capacity to further. He did not, however, omit to call, on the morrow, at the Government office at Whitehall over which his uncle presided, where he was. accorded a languid welcome by that nobleman, a harassed personage with a large family and means insufficient to meet their expensive requirements.

"Lucky beggar!" sighed Lord Glenwearie, surveying his stalwart nephew from between half-closed eyelids: "I wish I could change places with you, notwithstanding your limp, which won't trouble you long, I daresay. You have seen the whole business through, you have been wounded, and you came home  in the nick of time, just us the prospect of peace  is beginning to revive people's interest in the War; which was in danger of degenerating into a tiresome subject. It now only remains for you to marry an heiress."

Cecil remarked that that was exactly what he had some hope of doing, although he should consider himself lucky to have Miss Peckover's heart, whether she brought him riches or not. He then succinctly laid the whole case before his uncle, who heard him without interruption,  only raising his eyebrows slightly when Sir Thomas's demands were specified and exclaiming:

"The modesty of these people! Here is a rascal who has made hundreds of thousands by contracts with the War Office, which , would have brought him to the gallows in more civilised times, and all his requests by way of recognition is a viscounty,  If you please! Why doesn't he ask for the Garter?"

"I don't know, I'm sure," answered Cecil; "Perhaps he thinks that that would, be unreasonable. But he doesn't think it all unreasonable to ask for a viscount's coronet, and he. expects to get it— with help."

"Oh, indeed! Well, I am afraid he must not expect any help from me. To begin with, I have no more to do with the granting of peerages that I have— praise heaven!— With provisioning the army in the field."

"But you are upon intimate terms with those who do grant peerages," interrupted Cecil, persuasively.

"Not quite so intimate as you may suppose, my dear boy, and I don't particularly covet a snub. I should be charmed to see you married to a lady with a large income and magnificent expectations, but don't you think that your  request is just a trifle cool? Even if I could get your preposterous Peckover what he wants— of course, I can't, but if I could— what should I personally gain, beyond the consciousness, of having performed a benevolent action? In other words, where do I come in?"

His nephew told him. Sir Thomas, in addition to being a successful contractor, had proved himself a shrewd and most fortunate speculator; it was tolerably certain, that for value received, or even in anticipation of the same, he would be willing to furnish financial "tips" very well worth having.

At this Lord Glenwearie opened his eyes and picked up his cars. He protested, indeed, that he had no money to waste or risk on the Stock Exchange; but he ended, nevertheless, by saying:

"Well, well, I'll get your aunt to call on your friends, and we'll ask them to dinner. I am sure, from what you tell me, that Miss Peckover must be an enchanting young lady, and her father can't, after all be more objectionable than many other people whom we are proud to entertain in these days. Only mind, I make no promise; I commit myself to nothing— absolutely nothing ! And if you will be advised by me, you will adopt the same attitude."

Cecil was not in the sequel, much tempted to disregard this prudent advice. Sir Thomas, being like many other citizens of the British Empire, animated at that time by sentiments of glowing patriotism, was well disposed towards one who had earned honourable scars fn lighting his country's battles, and his friendliness increased visibly when he learnt (as he naturally did from his daughter) to whom he was indebted for the welcome sight of Lord and Lady Glenwearic's visiting cards.

"Things are going as well as possible," Ida told her lover. "He actually said yesterday that it was a thousand pities your being a younger son. It might, he almost safe to give him a hint already, but perhaps we had better wait until he has had an interview with your uncle."

That interview took place after a dinner party in Portman Square whore Lord Glenwearie resided, and was marked by the most unreserved candour on Sir Thomas's part. In the little room whither he was conducted by his host, in order that he might there discourse about city matters without danger of being overheard, he surprised the latter by saying at once:

"Now, my lord, I may as well tell you that I see what's up. Not being exactly a fool, I don't flatter myself  that your nephew is taking some trouble to oblige me after having sent him about his business with a flea in his ear rather more than two years ago. I've nothing against your nephew, except that he has no rank to offer my girl in exchange for the money that she'll have. As for his bring a pauper, that's a small drawback which I can easily put right. Likewise, I take into account that he has won his spurs and his laurels. All the same, I'm not fond of a one-sided bargains. I'm like Prince Bismarck, who, if you remember, said 'Do ut des.' "

"I remember that he did," answered Lord Glenwearie "And I remember thinking it rather impolitic of him to put things with such superfluous brutality. I have always found, Sir Thomas, that the host bargain's— the bargains which turn out most satisfactorily for both bargains concerned— are those which are not formulated in too explicit terms.

Sir Thomas's experience may have been of a different kind. He persisted, at any rate, in being so explicit that Lord Glenwearie was at length compelled much against his will, to promise that he would say a word or two to the Premier. But this was not until valuable information had been imparted to him— information so valuable that Sir Thomas, sooner than waste it upon one who declare himself devoid of funds available for speculative purposes, actually backed it up then and Micro with a loan of £3,000.  How was it possible to refuse anything to an informant at once so confident and so munificently obliging?

"I have already had the honour of an introduction to his lordship," Sir Thomas remarked, "and he was pleased to allude in flattering terms to the small help which I have been able to give to some deserving charities. But although I have more than once since then been near him on platforms and elsewhere, he has not seemed to notice me. He is a bit unapproachable, you know."

"Many people make that complaint of him," ' observed Lord Glenwearie drily. "'It is also, I am sorry to say, notorious, that he dislikes scattering titles broadcast. Still, it is said— I know very little about such matters myself— that a large number of new peers will be created on the occasion of the coronation; so perhaps we may be justified in hoping that you, with your undeniable claims, will be included amongst them."

"Sir Thomas left the house in high good humour. So gratified and so sanguine, indeed, was he (for he rather overrated Lord Glenwearic's influence in exalted quarters), that he  took his daughter's hand, which he patted affectionately, and told, her to set her mind at case.

"I see that you are bent upon marrying young Hawkesworth, Ida," said he. "Well, you might do a lot better for yourself; but apparently you don't want to do better, and I'll allow that he is superior in some ways to what I thought he was when he first had the impudence to come forward. So the wedding shall take place, if you like, on the day when I am made viscount; There!— I hope that satisfies you."

She, replied, embracing her generous parent, that it more than satisfied her, and no doubt she spoke truly. But it is only in accordance with the laws and attributes of human nature that those who have obtained much should ask for more, and ere long both Cecil and Ida felt constrained to point out that literal compliance with Sir Thomas's stipulation would entail considerable inconveniences. One must either be engaged to be married or not; intimations must needs be conveyed to friends and relatives some little time before a wedding ceremony is solemnised; one cannot wait for an announcement in the morning paper, and then tear off helter-skelter to the church in the afternoon.

To these representations Sir Thomas was fain, after some demur, to yield.

"It's not business," said he, "but l see your point, and I suppose you don't want to wait till August or September, when everybody will have left London. Very well, then; proclaim your engagement, and tell your friends that the wedding is fixed for the beginning of coronation week... I take it that I shall have had a hint to order my coronet and my robes by that time."

The ceremony was duly performed on that somewhat oddly selected date, and a very smart affair it was; for the bridegroom although impecunious, was related to a host of grandees with whom it rejoiced Sir Thomas's heart to shake hands.

He had, it, was true, received no intimation with, regard to robes or coronets; but he was assured by those in a position to know that no such intimation had as yet been vouchsafed to anybody so he presumed that it was going to be all right. In any case, his daughter was now Mrs. Cecil Hawkesworth, and he had settled al great sum of money upon her, and he had every reason to hope and believe that Lord Glenwearie, if reticent and difficult to catch alone, was an honourable man.

Let us hope that the keen disappointment and sorrow which the 24th of June, 1902, brought to Sir Thomas Peckover, as to all loyal Britons, was not due solely to selfish causes; let us hope, also, that the reassuring bulletins of the following week were as thankfully read by him as by his fellow subjects of all ranks. But what he could not possibly read with thankfulness, or, indeed, with anything but amazed indignation, was the unexpectedly early (and unexpectedly brief) list of Coronation honours which made its appearance in the newspapers one morning. His first thought was that there must he some mistake; his second, and far more bitter one, was that it was he himself who had made it.

"You appear to have taken far too much for granted, my dear sir," was the confirmatory remark of Lord Glenwearie, whom he furiously bearded in Whitehall at a late hour, and who received his very outspoken attack with courteous composure; "you certainly do so, and I may add that your memory plays you false as well, when you assert that I gave any other promise than that which I fulfilled by mentioning your wishes to the Prime Minister."

"H'm! And what did the Prime Minister say?" asked Sir Thomas, knitting his shaggy brows.

"Oh, he didn't say much. You are aware, perhaps, that the title of a viscount is one which it is most unusual to bestow upon commoners, it is practically restricted, in fact, to retiring Speakers of the House of Commons and ex-Cabinet Ministers."

"I'd have taken a barony— to begin with," growled Sir Thomas sullenly.

"I am sure you would; you are so reasonable! But even baronies, as you will have noticed, have been very sparingly granted this time. You are by no means the only candidate who will have to wait a little longer."

"In other words, my lord, you have made a fool of me amongst you. Now I didn't mean to have alluded again to that trifle of £3,000 with which I obliged you; but under all the circumstances—"

"My dear Sir Thomas, did you really imagine that I should accept a gift of money from you? When you came in I was upon the point of sending you a cheque for the amount of my debt. Here it is, with very many, thanks, and I am sure you will be glad to hear that I have followed your kind advice with satisfactory results. I hope, too, that upon reflection, you will not think you have, made such a bad bargain in marrying your daughter to my nephew. Cecil is not wanting in intelligence; he will very likely enter public, life, now that he has the means, and it would not at all surprise me to see him in some future Ministry. Then, perhaps, if not sooner, he may be able to obtain, for you what my poor efforts were unable to secure. I really could not have done more than I did. "

"You might at least have told me what the Premier said when you applied to him," grumbled Sir Thomas, somewhat mollified. "What did he say?"

Lord Glenwearie seemed disposed to evade the query; but, on being pressed, he shrugged his shoulders and smiled. "Well, if you insist upon knowing, he said, he was afraid there might be some difficulties about obliging you, but that he hoped there would be no necessity to prosecute you."

"Prosecute me!" roared the indignant contractor. "What the — did he mean by that?"

"Wasn't there something about mouldy hay? I didn't inquire; these things don't come within the scope of my department. But I seem to remember certain. rumours."

"Then," shouted Sir Thomas, bringing his fist down upon the table with a bang, "you remember certain lies, my lord! If that hay was mouldy at the time of shipment the fault was with the War Office, and with the War Office alone! I court and demand the fullest investigation!"

"Well, well, Sir Thomas," returned Lord Glenwearie, soothingly, "if you court an inquiry I daresay you will get one. These matters, as I tell you, do not concern my department. May I, without being inexcusably rude, remind you that there are other matters which do, and that I am neglecting them rather longer than I ought?"

He laughed softly to himself after the irate Sir Thomas had stormed away.

"Such people are a nuisance," he murmured philosophically; "yet there are visible reasons for their existence. Anyhow, I pocket about £5,000, which is not so bad. And the old rascal will get his peerage in due course. He won't ask for an inquiry;  and the hay will be forgotten, and the money will remain. It's a mere question of spending it sagaciously— and strikingly!"

___________________

3: Lost: An Echo

George Allan England

1877-1936

McClure's Magazine , June 1906

HE stood at the bar of a Bowery café, cheek by jowl with me, gazing mournfully into his empty stein; his eye was moist and his face florid, also a tear coursed down his bulbous nose and hung tremulous at the end.

“Hard luck, partner?” I ventured.

“Hart luck? Ach Himmel, de vorst ever! Don't you could see it?”

“Hm-m-m, well, you do look a little to the bad. Tipping your elbow, or how?”

“Elbow, ja... und teuf'lish luck. I don't look like I vonce vas somedings, eh? But I vas, sure t'ing; I useter get drei tollar a day und all de beer I vanted—I vas a echo vonce! Now vot vas I? Nix! Absolutely nix, ach Gott!”

“You were a— a what?” I felt decently familiar with most of the symptoms, but this was a new one on me.

“A echo, ja— drei tollar a day und Pils'ner, down to Blatz's Biergarten at Sout' Orange. Hundurts of Chermans useter come dere on Sundays und sit und trink by leetle round tables, trink und holler und jodel. Blatz he gif me drei tollar a day (und beer) to set on a ledge behind de bushes at de odder side de ravine, ain't it, und be der echo. Fourteen times I echoed, each time fainter as de last; I had a strong voice in dem days, also I could jodel goot. It vas hart on de t'roat, some of dem hot Sundays, but it vas a goot job, yust de same, drei tollar a day und beer, ja! Und now—”

He gazed critically at the bottom of his stein.

“Kellner!” I commanded, “here, fill this up and keep it full!”

Presently he resumed, sighing.

“Chermans vas great peoples, you know, to vander 'round lookin' at de sceneries, und trink und jodel und make echoes. So venn Blatz's Biergarten opened mit de announcement dat dere vas a fourteen-times echo in der glen opposite, de business growed like prairie-fire, und ve both made goot moneys, 'specially me, mit mine drei tollar a day und—”

“Yes, yes,” I interposed, “I know all about that! But what happened? What loosened up your hold on the cinch?”

“Und beer,” he concluded, undisturbed. “De business growed und ve vas happy — till Schwartz come! You see, noboddy never knowed noddings about it except'n' me und Blatz— und Schwartz!”

He blew froth from a fresh bumper.

“Ach, Schwartz! If dere vas any Hell, I hopes me Schwartz he sizzle up pooty black in de bottom part, nicht wahr? Blatz vas to blame, al-so, dough he never meant no harm. Blatz vas a goot man, foist rate! He pick me up after mine Elsa skip out mit some rich feller und take all my savings vot I had in der Chermania Bank und leave me auf mine uppers. Yes, he take me in yust venn de Biergarten open und gif me de job as echo. Two summers I stayed mit him, und all de time der Biergarten gettin' more und more famous, till Turnvereins und Schützenfesters begun to come from all ofer Essex County. Der second summer dey voiked me pooty near crazy, for a fact, but my t'roat vas strong und I vas villin', mit drei tollar a day—und beer!

“Vell, one day in Yuly, a stranger—dis Schwartz—dropped in mit a big thirst; he come in, set down to a round table und ordered some bier. Dere vas only two or t'ree odder people dere; it vas a veekday, und dull. After he drunk him a few he call Blatz und say:

“ 'I hear me you got one goot echo in dis here ledge, eh?'

“'Sure t'ing!' say Blatz, rubbin' his hants togedder und schmilin', so. 'Sure t'ing! Dere ain't no echo dis side of der Schwabenwald can touch dis one!'

“ 'So?' say der stranger. 'So? I try me him, ain't it?'

“He stood up, took some long breat's, opened his mout', und holler like one of dem steam-sireens:

“ 'Oooohé-e-e-ee! Yoch-hé-e-e-ee!'

“ 'Yoch-hé-e-e-ee.. ée.. hé.. ee..!' Fourteen times I went me so, Yoch-hé!

“'Ei du lieber Augustine!' went der stranger, more loud.

“'Augustine.. tine.. ine.. ine..!' went me.

“'How you like dat?' say Blatz, grinnin' like a cat eatin' cream. 'Dat vas pooty goot, ain't it?'

“ 'Ja, goot, goot, very goot. I been all ofer de woild huntin' der best echoes, und I ain't never found noddings no better as dis. Vait! I try me a jodel on him!'

“'Laa-lee-oo-lee-ooooooooo...'

“Laa-lee-oo-lee-ooo-OO-OO-oooo..!”

“'Ausgezeichnet! Fourteen times! Und so loud! She have de real kvality of der human voice, al-so— der timbre, vot? I always say, venn I find me a echo mit der timbre, den I buy me dot spot und build me ein house— I live dere und echo him mornings, noons, und nights. All ve Chermans like an echo, but I, I lofe it! She vas mine hobby! Haf you effer fought you sell dis place, eh?'

“ 'Um-m-m, vell, no,' say Blatz, lookin' ferry gloomy, dough I knowed his heart vas yumpin' fer choy. 'No, der place vas a pooty goot inwestments und I like to hold on; still, I might possibly consideration it, if you vas villin' to pay vat it's vorth. I got a goot Biergarten here, gewiss, all on account of dot echo—folks dey comes for miles aroundt, Schutzenfesters und all sorts Vereins; it's a goot business. I ain't sure I vant to sell out; still I might.'

“ 'Vell, I ain't sure I vants to buy— not yust yet, alretty. I knows me anodder place I get der same number of echoes out in Ohio, und I can buy dirt cheap. Money ain't no special objections to me, sure, but still, I ain't vant to t'row it avay. I drop in again in a few days und try him vonce more, ain't it? Goot-by!'

“Den he vent avay, dat stranger. I vish me he stay avay, oi! oi! Perhaps den I haf me der sinch now und not be a Bow'ry bum. Ach Gott!

“Dat night, after shuttin'-up times, Blatz he make some talks mit me.

“ 'You hear vat dat feller ask?' he say. 'He's sure got der echo-bug in his head und he vant to build him a house here— money ain't no considerationments vatsoeffer. If he vas only pleased he buy der place, ten, fifteen t'ousand, perhaps, vat only cost twelfe hundurt. He's got more money dan anyone can have und be decent, und ve— dat is I — vant to pry off a goot bunch. I do de right t'ing by you; I gif you a hundurt tollar cash if you keeps dis up— I write it in a contract! Only echo anodder veek, und you makes easy money.'

“ 'Vat?' say I, mit outraged honesties. 'Vat? You vas tryin' to corruptionate me for ein hundurt tollar? Nix on your life! Effery man has his price, mine freund, und I—vell, I ain't runnin' no bargain-counter! Ein hundurt? Aber nit! Who vas makin' dis real estate waluable, you oder me? Who vas all der cheeses? ME! Venn I don't echo no more, dis place vas nix vorth. Two t'ousand tollar vas more like somedings, ja! Zwei t'ousand, or I don't echo me, not vonce more yet, sure t'ing!'

“ 'Zwei t'ousand? Ach Gott im Himmel! You vants to ruination me, eh?' Blatz he twist his hands togedder like dey vas fly's legs und almost make some real tears come out of his pig-eyes. Dere vas some Yiddisher in Blatz, somewheres; pullin' teeth vas pretzels und beer 'side of makin' him loosen up on der currency.

“I had one hard time mit Blatz, a reg'lar inwerted auction, ja, und had to t'reaten him somet'ing fierce before I could bring him to a compromise of fifteen hundurt. I knowed vell und he knowed I knowed he couldn't find anodder goot echo inside of a veek at de shortest; der stranger vas comin' in a couple of days, al-so. Blatz vas sure in one tight place, ain't it, so venn I wrote out der agreement he signed her mournfulsome, sweatin' blood at effery pore.

“'Aber, fifteen times you echo for dis! Mind now!' he say savage, glarin' out der eyes. 'Fifteen echoes or de contract don't went!' I say ja, all right; it vas in der contract written, all dat und a lot more.

“ 'All right, gewiss!' say I. 'Bring on your man, und venn he don't go right up to Z, I'll handle him. Bring on your lamb; I sheer him, jawohl!'

“On der third day de stranger he drop in und he echo me 'most to death. Blatz set him in a different place where he could fifteen echoes get, und he got 'em, effery one. Himmel! I vas all of a sweatiness venn he finish— ein hour und forty minutes, mit jodels und foolishnesses. My t'roat feel like someone tip ash-barrels down it hinunter; I vas nigh to boisting, but I t'ought me of der fifteen hundurt und hung on. At last der stranger got enough und quit; him und Blatz had some long talks; denn he vent avay.

“ 'His name vas Schwartz und he's yust about make up his mind to buy,' say Blatz to me, venn I come strollin' in accidental-like, dat evenin'. 'He like der timbre better as effer, und he's tickled to death mit der fifteen times. Dere vas only one fly in der honig, ain't it? Dat is, he know a place in Sout' Car'liny where he get him sixteen echoes, only down dere de timbre vas no goot. But der sixteen times vas a great inducements. Don't you could make sixteen venn dis here chunk of ready money drops in termorrow? He vas yust about ripe enough to pick und ve don't must let him went.'

“ 'Sixteen?' say I. 'Um Gottes Willen!'

“ 'Ja, sixteen,' plead Blatz. 'Strain your t'roat yust dis vonce und gif him so many vot he find in Sout' Car'liny. Money, man, money! It mean great big money! Yust so soon ve close out for cash, you gets your fifteen hundurt und ve both fade avay sudden for some place where dere don't vas no extraditionments! For Gott's sake, keep it up!'

“Vell, oi! oi! I remembers me dat last day still! Golden Fortune yust at de finger-ends und flyin' avay quick; broken ribs und gebusted Zukunft— vat you call de future, nicht wahr? All dat voik und sweat und damage to der vocal strings, vot for? Nix, mine freund, absolutely nix, except eggsperience und bitter knowledges, ach, bitter, bitter!

“Der stranger, Schwartz, he come again nex' day, like he said, und ach Himmel, what for a miseries! All de odder voik vas noddings side of dat. But de voik wasn't der vorst part, like you vas goin' to see pooty soon alretty. Blatz he took der stranger to anodder spot, which he told him vas a secret, und say:

“ 'Now turn loose, mine freund, und you goin' to see she echo 'bout one t'ousand times better as Sout' Car'liny, sure thing!'

“Oh, it vas schrecklich! Der high C, der jodelling, der grand opera! I done it goot, effery bit; I vould haf done it all goot till de very end, sixteen times, veaker und veaker, so— but, oi! oi! der stranger begun to sing him one song, 'Oh, Jugendslieb,'— my song, our song! Elsa und me used to sing it, no one but us! I wrote it for Elsa, I taught it to her— ve used to sing it in der moonlight in Schwaben, long und long ago.

“Venn I heard dat, heard 'Oh, Jugendslieb,' mine heart yump up like a gemsbock, yump und leap, und some chills run around my spinal backbone like a ants' nest mit der cover off; but I stilled mine heart so quick I could, und echoed— a poor, veak echo it must have been, dough. I felt so shaky und queer-like I can't tell it; yet I peeked out der bushes und looked across at der stranger, Schwartz. He vas not pleased, he turn to Blatz und say:

“'Vat's der matter mit your echo, eh? She got some tonsilidis, maybe? Pfui! She sound like she got one frog in her t'roat!'

“ 'Der vind don't vas right, I guess,' say Blatz, frownin', 'but try her again. P'r'aps she do better alretty!'

“Dat stranger, Schwartz, vat he do den? He open wide his mout' und holler mit a jodel:

“ 'Oh, Elsa-a-a-aa! Yoché, Elsa-a-a-aa!'

“Gott im Himmel! A red-faced bloat like him hollerin' mine Elsa's name at me! Someding vent like blood before mine Augen— I knowed efferyding, all! I yumped, ein, zwei, drei yumps, down to der bottom of der ravine; I climb, scramble, tear mine way up der odder side— I rush among der tables! I run mit rage against dat stranger, Schwartz, him starin' mit eyes of wonder, like Blatz, too, both breat'less.

“ 'Elsa! Yoché, Elsa!' I holler loud like some thunderings. 'Take dat for Elsa! Take dat for Jugendslieb!' Den I smeck him mit all der muscles of de arms, so, on der fat mout', der mout' dat sing und jodel und kiss avay mine Elsa. 'Take dat,' I holler, 'you jodellin' robber, you Schweinhund, you!'

“Der stranger, Schwartz, he fall down pooty quick onto der back und bleed und bleed out of der mout', und look like he vas dreamin'; und I stand ofer him shakin' my fists und bellowin' und darin' him to get up so I can knock him hinunter once more yet, harder as before.

“ 'Ho, stand up, stand up, you echo-lover!' I hollers. 'Stand up once again und I fix you! I vas a echo mineself und I veigh two hundurt und fifty. You steal mine Elsa und my moneys vat I had in der Chermania Bank! You voik me mos' to death t'ree days! Now I get me even, mit mine hands! Get up, get up!'

“He still laid dreamin', so I double up my fists hard und smeck him where he vas on der ground— but Blatz, mit a roar, hurl himself on my back mit a strangle-hold. Blatz he must haf weighted close onto t'ree hundurt, so I fall down on der ground mit him on de top of me.

“ 'Gewalt!' holler Blatz. 'Help! Help mit der crazy man! Gewalt!'

“Der stranger, Schwartz, managed someway to vake up yust so soon he see help vas at hand; he get up sort of dazed, ain't it, still spittin' blood, but mad like some bees venn you poke 'em in der house alretty.

“'Ach, Blatz, you Lügner!' he hiss. 'You lyin' hypocrite! You'll went in der chail for dis conspirations! But first you settle mit me!' Und he yump on Blatz, like sev'ral t'ousands of bricks hinunter.

“Der fight vas triangular, ain't it, mit me at der base. Der stranger he vas fightin' Blatz (und me); Blatz he vas fightin' der stranger (und me); I vas fightin' efferyding in sight, ach Gott! It vas a hot day, too, und very dusty, rollin' round mit der tables, chairs, steins, und stale beer, all tipped ofer promiscuous. Pooty soon I don't can see noddings, but I keep both fists busy und mine teeth al-so; I got sev'ral goot bites on some leg, und all I know is dat it vasn't mine. I vas verrückt, ja— I fought like a t'ousand teufels. Und it lasted quite a while.

“Ve fought all over der place und come to der edge of der ravine, where de steep part is.

“'Ofer mit him!' I heard Blatz grunt. 'Ofer mit der crazy man dat say he vas a echo!

Heave-ho!'

“Someding hit me auf mine jaw so I let go mine hold; den dey t'rowed me down der ravine hinunter, und I rolled, und der bushes vas pricklesome und der rocks vas sharp; der bottom vas deep down, al-so. So I broke me t'ree Rippen— ribs, you say?— und cut mine head und didn't know noddings until I vaked up in der crazy-house, ain't it? Ach Himmel! Me in a bed in der crazy-house mit rags onto mine head— me mitout a chob und locked in der bug-house, for why? Yust because I smeck der man dat stole mine Elsa mit all de money in der Chermania Bank und den vanted me to echo aboudt it, nicht wahr?

“Dey let me out in six mont's, mitaus money nor voik nor noddings. So I vander on der Bow'ry und Park Row und trink me stale beer. Where der stranger go? I neffer knowed; but I heard Blatz he haf to shut down soon on account of der public indignations. Elsa? Pfui! Don't talk aboudt her! Was weiss ich, anyvay? Nix! All I know is I got me no chob nor money nor noddings alretty. I vish der stranger, Schwartz, he neffer haf der echo-bug und come into Blatz's Biergarten; I vish I still got t'ree tollar a day (und beer); I vish, oi! oi! I vas a echo once more yet, ain't it?”

___________________

4: Bridgets Locket.

"Waif Wander" (Mary Helena Fortune)

1833 – 1911

Australian Town and Country Journal 27 Nov 1886

i

IT WAS THE last night the passengers hoped to spend on board the Seabird, for, after a long and tedious voyage, she had dropped anchor in Hobson's Bay. One might think that after spending so many nights on board the vessel, this last one should seem as nothing to them, but it was not so; to most of them the hours appeared of double length while they waited for morning so near a shore upon, which they could not land.

Two of the female passengers sat together on the bulwarks, to which they had climbed, and were straining their eyes to try and make out what sort of country this land, which was to be their new home was. The sun had set away behind Williamstown, but the red glow was still there, and lay like a shadow of  blood on the placid, waters of our bay.

"So it has come to an end at last," said the elder of the two women, "and now there are only a few hours between you and your idol, eh, Bridget?"

"God forbid I should make an idol of anyone," ejaculated the young girl fervently, "sure, 'tis no harm to love me own husband."

"Your own husband," the other returned with a sneer. "Are you so sure of him, Bridget M'Dermot?"

"Sure of  him! Is it Michael you are talking of? You don't understand, Miss Webster—"

"My name is Jane— don't Miss me," the other interrupted shortly.

"Well, Jane, then— of course, I'm sure of Michael; amn't I married to him?"

"You are so innocent, my poor, child," murmured Jane Webster, half to herself, "and it seems, a pity to try and disturb your confidence in a man from whom you have been parted for three years. Does it never strike you that he may have met some one he liked better than you since you saw him last?"

"Like better than me? Me, his wife! Dear Jane; how can you talk like that?"  And as if to assure herself that she did not share in the treasonable fears of her companion, the; honest young Irish wife drew a locket from her bosom and kissed it."

"There!' What do you call that but worship, Bridget M'Dermot, mumbling over the, picture of a man's face like a simpleton as you are?  Let me tell you, now that we part so soon, that I was once as big a fool about a man as you, and— and, he deceived me."

"Maybe he. wasn't your husband, Jane?" the young wife said in a low voice.

"He was my husband, as fast as ever the minister who christened us could make him, and he deserted me for another woman. Is it any wonder that I have no faith in man?"

"No, perhaps not; but you must not judge Michael by the bad man who behaved wrong to you Jane. Michael is not like him."

"He is like him. It was his extraordinary likeness to my villain which made me doubt, him. Oh, don't look so, frightened, you foolish ;child. I am not going to put in a claim to your precious man. Mine would be twelve or fourteen years older than Michael M'Dermot. No, the likeness is in the evil look of his eyes, the low formation of his forehead, the cruel shape of his mouth, the brutal squareness of his jaws, See—" And she drew the locket from Bridget's now trembling fingers and opened it to point at the pictured face, "could anything but the folly of a woman's love see anything but evil in that face ?"

"He is my husband, and I love him dearly," was the gentle reply as Bridget recovered her treasure and hid it in her breast.  "I am not learned like you, Jane, and I can't speak grand words, but I feel all the same and I trust Michael. God didn't, make every one handsome, and I never thought Michael a beauty, but I know he loves me. We were poor when we married, and he would have brought me with him if we had the, money. Now he has sent for me thank God, and we will part no more."

"He has sent for you? Yes, when you had money to give him! Was there any word of sending for you until you told him of your uncle's legacy? Why, he did not even let you know where he was, and you had to advertise for his address You told me , all this yourself, Bridget, you know you did."

"Yes, Jane, I did; but how can you draw bad out of that? If Michael was so poor all along that he couldn't send the money for me, why wouldn't he be glad to have me come when I had the money myself?"

"I know, child, that I am too ready to look at the evil side of everything— I know it well," Jane Webster said repeatedly, as she stooped to kiss the honest rosy young face beside her, "but I have liked and trusted you more than I have done any one of my kind since evil days fell upon me, and I tremble for your happiness. May God have you in his keeping, my good and gentle Bridget."

"And you too, dear Jane. But don't be afraid for me— if you knew how happy I am! It seems to me that I am dreaming when I think that in a few hours I'll see my husband once more! Oh, if my little baby had lived, wouldn't this have been the happy day!"

"Heaven grant you happiness, child. I start for my sister's by rail to-morrow, and if you write to me at the post-office, Birra, I will get your letter and answer it. You don't know where your husband's place is yet, Bridget?"

"No; but please God I will know to-morrow."

"You will write then; and now let us go to bed and try to rest. Kiss me good-bye, my child; in the hurry of disembarking we may not have another opportunity."

The two women embraced for the last time, and went below; nor did they meet again, for when at an early hour Jane Webster hurried on deck, the boat -which Michael M'Dermot had sent for his wife was being rowed away. Not once did the happy and excited girl look back to wave her hand to her late shipmates, for she was gazing eagerly onward toward tho landing-place, where a man's figure was visible, standing and watching the approaching boat.

The happiest woman in-the whole wide world was Bridget M'Dermot as the evening of that same day was drawing on and she sat beside her husband in the trap he told her he had borrowed to meet her in town. Her rather ordinary face was nearly beautiful with the light of love in her eyes, and the smile of happiness on her lips. She sat close to Michael's side, holding his arm so lovingly with both clasping hands, and looking into his face ever and anon to read his thoughts there as she fondly hoped. .

But M'Dermot's face, was not one so easily to be read as poor Bridget fondly believed. He was a powerful .young fellow of seven or eight and twenty, with a low brow and deep set eyes too near his small; thin nose. All the lower part of his face was covered by a heavy sandy-hued beard, and his hair was coarse and of the lightest shade of brown. The hands with which he urged the fine horse he drove were strong and knotted in the joints, and his feet, though with a good pair of boots on them, looked huge and ill-shapen. If there had been anyone to see they must have wondered at the choice the young Irish girl had made, for his face had a natural scowl imprinted on it, while hers wore the sweetness and light of a summer sunbeam.

But there was no one to see, and no one to hear the happy prattle of the young wife, nor in truth did Michael M'Dermot seem to enjoy it much.

"You are greatly changed, Michael, darlin'," she said to him as they entered a bit of bush through which their rough road led them, "you used to be so full of fun and now I can hardly get a word out of you."

"I've had hard times of it since, I left the old world, Bridget."

"Yes, darlin', I know. But don't call me Bridget, Michael asthore— you used always call me 'Bride' or 'Bridie,' and no one has even called me Bride once."

"We are childer no longer, Bride."

"No, Michael, we are better; we are loving man and wife for ever and for ever."

She turned to look up into his face as she uttered tho fond words and wondered. Was it the shadow of the great strange trees that made him look so dark? Was it the chill of the words that made his arm tremble under her loving hands?

"Are you cold, Michael, asthore?",

"It is chilly here in the damp bush," he said shortly.

"And it is lovely, too, isn't it? The road, I mean. We haven't met a soul since we left that bridge. We have come a good, bit now, Michael?"

"About twenty miles, Bridie."

"Will you go much farther?"

"No! I think we'll camp down, by the creek.  It's about a mile from this; I  don't want to overdrive my neighbor's horse and he'll go fresh home if he gets a good spell to-night. It will be something new for you to camp out in the bush; Bridie."

"It'll be splendid! And with you, darling. Oh, I'm too happy, too happy, Michael! If only we had our baby alive!"

M'Dermot set his teeth and ground an oath between them as he turned the horse's head into the bush. It was like a grand gentleman's park that was near her Irish home, this Australian bush, to poor Bridget, and her expressions of admiration of the ferns and grasses they soon found themselves among, by the half-hidden creek side, were unbounded. It was such delight to bound from the vehicle and help Michael to unharness the horse, and to gather sticks according to his instructions, while he led the animal to the water. That Bride was a very girl again, with a heaven she had only dreamed of around her upon earth.

"You have forgotten nothing, darling?" she cried, as the bush fire blazed up against the log, and the billy was hung over to boil, while Michael produced from a tucker box" materials for a meal, which promised, to the poor unsophisticated girl, a perfect banquet.

The supper was eaten and apparently enjoyed by both, and as the obscurity of night crept deeper into the bush, the logs blazed up merrily, illuminated with great tongues of flame the weird looking trees around them and patches of the deep creek among the tall reeds and bordering ferns.

They had talked of home and the neighbors of old days; of the uncle in America who so unexpectedly remembered the sister's child he had never seen. The notes which represented Bridget's little fortune now lay snugly in M'Dermot's pocketbook, for it had been their first object when the young wife landed, to presents her draft at the bank and get it cashed.

"We will put it in our own bank above," Michael had said, "and in your own name, Bridie; so you can lend me a couple o'pounds when I'm hard up!"

And she had laughed merrily, saying it was all his, and she wanted no name to it but Michael's.

"And now my Bridie must be tired, and I'll show you how we camp out in the bush.  Put the things away in the box, asthore, while I spread the tarpaulin over the cart."

That was poor Bride's first initiation into the mysteries of bush life, and her last! While M'Dermot went to bring in the horse to where he had placed some feed for him, the poor girl arranged the blankets he had bought with her own money into a rough but comfortable bed, and when he came back he looked under the tarpaulin and saw that she was asleep.

Ho did not seem surprised, nor did he seem to fear awakening her, for he made a good deal of noise in dragging, big lumps of timber to pile on the already great fire which was blazing up against the logs. Perhaps he was afraid of the night dew for his young, wife, though the cart, with the drooping tarpaulin over it, was at a considerable distance from the fire, or perhaps he felt the loneliness of the deep bush now that his lively companion was asleep, and there was a sort of comfort in the vicinity of a crackling fire.

What sort of face had Michael M'Dermot on this the first night of having his young and innocent wife by his side in this new land?  A face which, never at any time prepossessing, had now the darkness of death in it. He sat on a log beyond the shrouded cart, with his pipe in his unheeding lips, until it roused him from his hellish thoughts by dropping to the ground and hiding itself among the grass, where it remained unsought. The moon was rising red and round beyond the creek, and he stared as if fascinated by the blood-red orb. Was he thinking of the deed her light should shine on ere long, or seeing in her awful hue the shadow of his approaching crime?

It was a night so perfectly still that behind him, in the shadows into which we dared not peer, the wretched being fancied he could hear a snake rustling among the grass; and, indeed, it might be so, for some little bell-birds, which were nestling on the branches far above his head, twittered uneasily as if half-conscious of an enemy's presence. A blood-red mist blinded the man for a moment, and there was such a strange pang in the region of his heart that his hand went suddenly to the spot and he felt Bridget's roll of notes.

The very touch of them seemed to recover the villain, and he rose to his feet. Moving cautiously now down to the border of the creek, he pulled back a handful of the tall rushes and peered into the silent water; then he shook himself, as if its chill had touched him, and returned to the fire.

The wood had burned fiercely, and there was now a great glow of embers, such as might be made for the smelting of ore. The man seemed to-hesitate ; but at last he decided, and, stooping over the box he had left ready by the wheel of the cart, he drew from it a new and heavy tomahawk, which he hefted anxiously as though fearing it was too light.

What was he going to do with that tomahawk that he stooped and so cautiously drew up the tarpaulin? Was it to let the moonlight fall on the girl's sleeping face that he did that? Bridget was lying in a peaceful sleep, fully dressed, and with a happy smile round the red lips, through which the regular breath came so softly, and her fingers were clasped round the locket that contained the portrait of her idol. Ah sleeper, awake! if it is not even now too late. The image you have bowed your young heart and soul to is not the gold you deemed it, but the foulest dross of hell!

As the moon rays fell upon the peaceful face of the trusting girl-wife, the rays also glittered on the chain of the locket she held near her lips. It was the first time he had noticed it, and laying the weapon down beside him, he knelt on the grass; and gently as his rough hands could disentangled the embossed silver from Bridget's relaxed fingers. It was a more difficult task to unfasten the clasp, but he accomplished it, and gathering chain and locket in his hand, he pushed them into his pocket and then as he seized the weapon in the grip of a murderer, a dark cloud stole over the moon's face, and the reeds down by the creek rustled in a moaning breeze that sounded sad as the wail of a mother over the grave of her firstborn.

ii

"WELL JANE, and what do you think of us now?" was the question asked by Jane Webster's married sister on the morning after her arrival at Birra. Jane was standing a little in front of the farm house door, among t the tall hollyhocks and old fashioned flowers, whose commingled perfume reminded her of the hour she did not regret.

"It is strange to you of course," Mrs. Allen went on, "but the country round here is considered very fine, and now that the railway comes within ten miles of us, no end of summer visitors come up to look at our mountains."

"No wonder, Ellen, they are very grand, but are you never lonely here? I can see only three houses round you, at least nearer than Birra. That's Birra over there under the hill, isn't it?"

"Yes, you could scarcely see it when we met you last night. Oh no, I have no time to be lonely, Jane. What with the cows and the children and the men—bless you, I am as busy as a bee all day. I wish, you were a houseworker instead of a dressmaker you'd be a greater help to me."

"I can be a help to you as it is. By the way, you .told me I'd be sure to get plenty of work in the neighborhood. Are you still of the same opinion?"

"Of course I am! Why, ever so many have been expecting you, and are keeping dresses for you I believe in my heart that Mrs. Connor has a month's work waiting for you."

"Who is Mrs. Connor ?"

"Our nearest neighbor. Do you see that stone house in the trees? That is the Connor's. They're Irish, but good neighbors. Mrs. Connor is rather uppish  and fond of dress and gaiety, but it is hardly to be wondered at. They have no children, and Connor himself is fond of company and very lively. But you'll see them all at the races to-morrow, and you must put on your most fashionable dress, for every eye will be on you the dressmaker just out from England, you know!" and the merry woman laughed heartily as she drew her sister in to breakfast.

Jane Webster was no longer young.  She was nearly forty. Her features were well formed, but there was a hard expression about the thin lips which scarcely ever smiled, and a dim look about the blue eyes which hinted at many tears. To strangers she was silent and cold, and even those who, knowing the hard sorrow of her life, made allowances for her variable moods, found her at times very trying.

Jane had no wish to present herself to the gaze of the good people of Birra. But her sister and family seemed to set such value on the yearly races that she sensibly determined on making the best of her circumstances and going without demur.

"It is fortunate that I made my new dress with a view to its being a sort of bush advertisement," she said to Mrs. Allen, "though it couldn't be on a worse block. I was never intended to serve in a dressmaker's showroom," and she was right. She looked stiff and respectable in the well-draped dress of fawn cashmere she attired herself in, but there was none of the style which another figure would have imparted to it.

To those who have seen a country race meeting I need not describe that of Birra. It was to the hard-working farmers around the one event of the year, and they with their families made it a regular day of enjoyment.

Almost every well-to-do farmer anywhere near a township in Australia owns a trap of some tort, and drives proudly in it to church or chapel, or even along the public road, to see and be seen by the neighbors; but on the race day it is that the waggon or spring cart puts its best foot foremost, so to speak, resplendent with the newest dresses and millinery of the jolly owners.

For a little after the Allen's trap had drawn up but a little distance from the centre of attractions to many— viz., the refreshment booth— Jane Webster looked around her in silence at the unaccustomed scene. They were early, but so apparently was every one else; and while dozens of horses rested in peace, tied to the nearest fence, their riders clustered like bees round the counter of the booth, and made bets in load, eager tones as they set their empty glasses down.

"I wonder whatever's come over Connor?" Allen said to his wife, as she was mixing his horse's feed in the cloth slung between the shafts.

"In what way?" asked Mrs. Allen.

"Why, look at him. Wouldn't you think he was going to be hanged to-morrow? And he's already got more drink than is good for him. John Bowan was telling me only this morning that Connor's a changed man since he went to town, though, by all accounts he went to get money which was left him."

"Money left him? That oughtn't to make him down-hearted, eh, Jane? It's the woman's husband I was talking to you about who has all the work for you, you know. That's he standing against the booth there."

"With the dark clothes on and the whip in his hand?"

"Yes, Jane."

Jane gazed in silence; but if her sister had not been occupied with some new interest she must have seen the more than strange look which developed in Jane Webster's eyes, nor will the reader wonder when I say that she had recognised in Michael Connor the husband poor Bridget had crossed the ocean to join, and whose miniature in the silver locket she had worn so faithfully near her heart.

"Is it that man with the red beard? He is talking now to a man on horseback. Is that Mr. Connor?"

"Yes, Jane, and here comes Mrs. Connor herself. She has seen you, and now don't be stiff with her like a good woman, for she is one of the best hearted poor things in the world if she takes a liking for anyone."

Stiff with her? Stiff with the woman who was occupying Bridget's place openly before the world! Stiff with the pleasant, jolly young wife who came to her with outstretched hand and a beaming face to welcome Mrs. Allen's sister to Birra.

"I am gladder to see you than the races Miss Webster," she cried, "though the races are very well in their way, and no end of fun when things go right. But just look at my gown. I'm ashamed of the old fashioned thing; even old Mrs. Crowdy has got one on of a newer make! When will you be able to, come to me? Ah don't say you're not rested yet! Sure I don't care how long you take over 'em if you'll only begin at me new gowns!"

Jane did not know what she murmered; her eyes were fixed sternly on Bridget's locket, which lay on the ample silken clad bosom of young Mrs. Connor; oh, it was it— she could have sworn to it among a thousand! What then had become of the girl her heart had gone out so strangely to during the long voyage in the Seabird?

Fortunately Mrs. Connor's attention was subtracted from Jane's countenance at that moment by the open admiration of Mrs. Allen for the mysteriously placed locket, and with a merry laugh of pleasure the young woman lifted it and touched the spring.

"Yes, Michael brought it to me from town. Wasn't it good of him? And they're all the fashion now these chains and lockets. It's a good one, he tells me, but I'm no judge. Don't you think the likeness is good, Mrs. Allen? He had it by him, he says. It was taken a couple of years ago, but there isn't a bit of difference, only he has more beard now. Come here Michael;" and she beckoned to the moody looking man who had just tossed off another glass at the booth.

He came slowly and with apparent carelessness toward his wife, and glanced sharply at Jane, whom he instantly recognised as a stranger. Ah, if he had guessed that the stiff looking woman whose eyes met his so penetratingly held his life in the hollow of her hand, and would crush it as lightly as an eggshell, would he have spoken so bravely or kept up such a face to the people of Birra?

"I'm telling Mrs. Allen about the locket, Michael, and she says it's the picture of you, in spite of the beard. Do you know, Mrs. Allen, that if you look close, you can see the scar at the corner of his mouth in the likeness? Well, that scar is under his great beard plain enough, though no one knows it but me— eh, Michael?" and she laughed merrily again, poor honest young woman, little thinking that every word was forging a stronger link in the chain which was to bind her husband to death and herself to dishonor.

"What the mischief is up with you, Connor?" cried farmer Allen as he let his hand fall heartily on Connor's shrinking shoulder. "I've heard two or three talking about your low spirits since you came back from town."

"I've got a— bad cold— that's all. I wish people wouldn't bother their heads about my looks. What is it to them?"

He spoke so surlily that even his wife looked wonderingly, at him; but he put it off with a laugh.'

"The fact is, Allen, I did a very foolish thing, and it serves me blessed well right to pay for it."

"What was it you did, Connor?"

"Camped out. I thought I'd make home that night; and so I would, but my horse fell lame. I camped at Howitt's Waterhole, and it seems the night air settled me."

"He's too much coddled up since he was married!" the laughing wife cried; "but I thought it was at Rae's Creek you told me you camped, Michael?"

"You dreamt it!" he said with an angry scowl at her, "what the devil would I go to Rae's Creek for? Why, it is out of the straight road altogether."

"So it is," agreed Allen "you'd have to take the old road— it's nearly a deserted track now— to get to Rae's Creek. Well Connor, a cold that hang's on a fellow is a nasty thing, and; you must try to rid of yours."

"I can't get rid of it, my very bones are cold and trembling. I'm sure I've drunk nearly half a gallon of, whisky already to-day and my teeth are chattering yet."

"Michael," said Mrs. Connor introducing Jane," this is Mrs. Allen's sister, Miss Webster. She has just come out from England to set up dress-making."

"Just come out?" he asked quickly and with a suspicious look at Jane.

"Yes, I only landed three days ago."

"In what ship?" His voice was almost inaudible as he asked the question.

"In the John Marsh."

"Ah!"— the "ah";was along breath of relief, but, as Jane made it her sister lodged at her in wonder, to get a frown that gave her a broad hint not to interfere.

"I was in town a couple of days, ago," Connor went on after a bit, "and there was talk of an emigrant ship— the Seabird."

"Yes, I heard of her," Jane murmured.

But now great preparations for the first race distracted the men's attention, and Mrs. Allen got an opportunity to whisper, "'Jane, why did you give the wrong name of the ship?"

"I have my reasons, Ellen, and mind you just, forget the right name for a while, and give John a hint to do the same."

Jane Webster sat in the trap, absorbed in thought, while the noise and excitement of cheering was going on around her. If she even saw the flying horses, it was as one might see them in a dream. Only one object had the least interest for her among all those around her, and that was the form of the man who was a living lie, and called himself by the name of Connor.

From the moment she recognised his face she had doubted him— from the instant she saw Bridget's locket on his innocent wife's bosom she felt that he was a murderer. The fact of his having committed bigamy accounted for the deed, which might never have been committed had not the faithful Irish girl traced him so truly when she had money to enrich him with.

And now she, Jane, had her work before her. She would work, sleep, eat, and speak with only one object-to convict and punish the villain with the two names. She felt almost as if she had him already in her grip— the likeness, the scar his poor wife had told of, and the locket she had seen her young shipmate almost worship. All she had to do was to find out what he had done with his victim. He had undoubtedly taken her from the vessel— one of the girls who had come out in the Seabird with them had seen Bridget in a trap— with as she supposed, her husband. Was it his own trap— the very one his happy-looking wife was seated in at that moment, and had he made away with poor Bridget on the road?

On the road? He had camped out a night on the road; and his wife had fancied he told her, at Rae's Creek. That was out of the way, and on an old and unfrequented road. How anxiously he had asked the name of her ship, and how angrily he had denied having camped at Rae's Creek. Oh, he was guilty. Jane had not one doubt of it; she could even read it in his white face now that she knew. It was fear which made his bones tremble, and had stricken the cold of death into his breast.

Something in this way Jane's thoughts ran until she aroused to find the races over, and horses being harnessed into traps. With a sudden determination she alighted and went among the people to Mrs. Connor's side.

"If you like I will go over to you to-morrow, Mrs. Connor?" Jane whispered. "I can take over some patterns and look at your things."

"Oh, thank-you ! how kind of you, Miss Webster. I will have everything ready, and make you as comfortable as ever I can."

iii

JANE WAS DRIVEN home with a sorrow for the living she had not calculated upon in avenging the dead. She was beginning to like this honest and good-hearted woman whom Michael M'Dermot had deceived.  How she would have to break the happy heart in doing justice to poor Bridget! Yet it must be. It would be a crime to let the villain go unpunished for even a good woman's sake.

Jane Webster started for Mrs. Connor's on the following morning, hardly, knowing what discovery she hoped to make. She wanted to be near Michael Connor, as he called himself, to watch the expression of his face and listen to his words. Perhaps she hoped he might unwittingly give her a clue to his own earlier conviction, enable her to find Bridget, if it was only to look upon her dead face before decay had time to do its work.

Mrs. Connor welcomed her into her large, comfortable kitchen with the most genuine warmth and would hardly listen to Jane's assurances that she had already breakfasted. Satisfied of that fact, however, the kind Irish woman bustled her into the sitting room, from off which her own bed chamber opened, and seated her beside a perfect display of dress materials and trimmings.

"Michael is keeping his bed to-day," she said, " to try and sweat out the cold. He's been taking some doctor's stuff which makes him heavy and sleepy. I couldn't got any sense out of him, he was so sound when I took in his breakfast. But, at all events, we won't disturb him with the door shut."

They talked of patterns and trimmings for an hour, and at last Jane decided on beginning to cut out her work. While helping her as well as she could, Mrs. Connor rattled on in her lively way, telling of her wedding, gown, bringing it out indeed from her own room to show her the elegance of its material. She told innocently how devoted Michael had been to her from the first, and how she had never believed envious neighbors who hinted broadly that Michael had married her for her fortune.

"As if," she added with a merry smile, which showed all her strong white teeth, "as if I was so ugly that a young man couldn't take me for myself."

"And you are nearly two years married?" Jane said, as she folded her pattern across Mrs. Connor's bed.

"Yes, nearly. I was disappointed," she whispered archly, " that no baby came. But I'll tell you a secret now, Miss Webster— you won't tell? I hope to see one of my own before Christmas. Good gracious! Are you ill, my dear?"

She had cause to ask. The material fell from Jane Webster's hands, and she sank into the seat behind her. Little did poor Mrs. Connor dream that it was the knowledge of her own expected happiness in being a mother which had so overcome the quiet dressmaker. Jane knew now that in bringing justice to the murderer's door there would be another innocent being to overwhelm with disgrace.

Pleading the unaccustomed heat as an excuse, Jane recovered herself and went on with her work. When it was so far advanced that the sewing machine was in requisition she proposed that no more should be done on that day as the noise might disturb Mr. Connor. The kindly woman readily agreed and went out to prepare some tea, leaving Jane to fold up and arrange the scattered material, &c.

Several times Jane Webster had heard a heavy snore from Connor's room during the morning; but now she listened vainly to hear it repeated. She had already observed that the partition was but papered wood, and now she had time to look for some opening through which she might observe the man's sleeping face. She had got a firmly fixed idea that his crime would be branded on it plainly when the mask he had to wear when awake had fallen off. She saw her hostess going past the window and know she was going to the hen-house to get fresh eggs. Jane moved quickly across the parlor and put her eye to a crack between the boards, where the paper in drying had split.

She nearly cried out in consternation as she saw the face of Michael M'Dermot within a couple of feet of her. He seemed wide awake too, and to be staring at nothing, with wide, horrified and yet unspeculating eyes.

A sudden impulse seized the unpitying woman. Bending her lips to the narrow crack she whispered in slow distinct accents,

"Michael M'Dermot!"

He started convulsively, and turned as if staring to see the dead standing at his elbow, but he seemed helpless to lift hand or foot— helpless from absolute terror. Jane saw the cold sweat grow out on his forehead in great drops, but she felt no pity for him— none.

"Michael M'Dermot! Where is your wife Bridget?"

Jane did not wait to see the effect of this second whisper through the partition; fearful of being suspected and her plans crossed, she slipped instantly from the room, and was in the garden when Mrs. Connor returned with the fresh white eggs in both plump hands.

They talked of the flowers and the vines a little, and then re-entered the house together. In the kitchen they were confronted by a tall shrunken-looking being, who, with his tangled beard and dishevelled hair, looked wild as with incipient lunacy. He was dressed in shirt and trousers alone, and his feet were bare. A cry of dismay arose on Mrs. Connor's red lips.

"Oh, Michael, dear, how ill you look. Go back to bed. Indeed, you are not fit to be out of it. Oh, do go to bed. You are feverish. I am sure, you are! I must send for Dr. Tennant at once!"

"Stand back!" he shouted, as he pushed her aside, "and let me see that woman. Who is she?"

"It is Miss Webster. Miss Allen's sister, you know, dear. I told you she was coming to-day. Don't you remember? Do go back to bed, Michael."

"Was anyone in my room just now?"

"Not a soul, Michael. Who would be in your room but me, dear, and I was out getting eggs  We have just come in from the garden this minute."

"There was someone in there— calling me! I heard 'em as plain as— plain as— Oh, God, I'm going mad!" And clasping both hands on his head, he rushed back to his bedroom.

Jane had now no difficulty in getting away.  The-poor young wife was distracted at her husband's condition. She sent a man on horse back for the doctor, and another for her own mother, who lived a few miles away, and Jane Webster walked to her sister's through the sunlit, green, growing leaves and grasses; feeling that she must have help and advice in her future proceedings against the man she knew to be  murderer.

"From whom should she seek advice? Of whom should she make a confidant? The answer, in her own mind, was prompt. Her brother-in-law, John Allen, was the man. She had known him from boyhood— a thoughtful, trustworthy, and  conscientious man. She would tell him the story at once.

Allen was at work up among the vines on the hill-side and he was alone. When she had changed her dress and explained the reason of her return to her sister, she went up the vineyard, to speak with her brother-in-law. The kindly man listened to her story, with actual horror, and was at first inclined to doubt its truth.

"My dear Jane," he said, looking into her face anxiously, "You used to be a sensible woman long ago; none more so. But you have had enough of trouble to craze any woman. Is this awful idea not some kind of horrible dream?"

"No, John— I wish it was. I wish that, even at the risk of being thought crazy. I could see my little Bridget's face before, me there in life. I got to love the poor simple girl, so much that she seemed almost a daughter to me; and her innocent blood is on that wretch's hands. How could l be mistaken? He left Melbourne with her. He camped a night on the road and he came here without her."

"But if this is so far true, my girl, Birra is the last place he would bring her to. He couldn't let the two women meet you know. Well, he may have put her to live in some out-of-the-way  place until he gets time to think."

"And the locket which my poor child would not have parted with save with her life. Ah, John, if you had heard her tell, with proud happiness, how that locket was the first thing she bought out of her uncle's legacy. The likeness was only in a little black frame, and she was so happy to he able to hang it round her neck for aye!  And now he has murdered her, the fiend, and hangs the child's trinket on another woman's breast."

"A poor, deceived, kind-hearted woman, Jane. It will break her heart."

"Yes; but, all the same, poor Bridget must be avenged. Are you the man to counsel that I should let a murderer go free, John Allen?"

"God forbid, though it goes hard against the grain to have any hand in hanging him.  What is it you want me to do, Jane?"

"I want you to take me to Rae's Creek by the old road. I want to find out where he camped that night, and see what he deft there. No one need know our errand, not even Ellen. l can want some dressmaking things from the township."

"All right. When shall we go?"

"To-morrow at sunrise, if you can."

"There is nothing to hinder me."

And so it was arranged. Before night the news that Michael Connor was in a raging fever was all over the neighborhood, and much sympathy was expressed with the poor wife. The doctor's comings and goings were watched, and many speculations were indulged in. But in spite of his good wife's urging, John Allen would not step over to inquire for the man he had promised to help on his way to the scaffold...

"It would be a merciful blessing from the Lord," John murmured once during the evening, to his wife's dismay.

"What?" she cried.

"If he would die."

Speechless for a few seconds from angry astonishment, Mrs. Allen at last burst out:

"I believe you are losing your senses, John Allen! I little thought to hear you talking that way of a neighbor; aye, and a good one! But if he hadn't a neighbor to regret him, hasn't he a wife; and can't her heart be broken as well as any other wife's heart? God help her!"

And John Allen puzzled his wife more by murmuring, "Ay, indeed!"

But Jane understood the poor man's feelings only too well.

iv

THE DEW LAY heavy on the long grass and sparkled bright on the broad vine leaves when Jane and Allen started on their expedition the next morning. The Englishman's heart was full of a sad unrest, and her lips quivered as they passed Connor's home, nestled amid its garden and vineyard. She felt she was going to sow desolation among the green corn and blight the pleasant vines― at least, as far as one innocent being is concerned― the unconscious wife of the criminal. Her brother-in-law, doubtless, felt affected in some similar way; for he turned his eyes away when they neared Connor's gate, and made his good horse increase his pace as if to escape from an unpleasant thing.

For five miles they drove in silence through the bush, with the grass-grown track winding in and out among the vales, and the birds in the branches overhead welcoming the sun with glad music. Then they had reached a spot were the track grew more indistinct, or seemed to separate into two less distinct ways.

Allen pulled up. "We can turn right down to the creek here," he said; "but isn't it like looking for a needle in a bundle of hay, Jane? This belt of bush is five miles wide, and the creek runs right through it. How are we to know where he camped?"

"Strike Rae's Creek as soon as you can, John, and leave the rest to heaven. God will bring hidden murder to light."

Allen turned his horse to the left, and walked him down among the patches of fairy growth and shaded green of the grass under the hundreds-of-years old bush trees. With the eye of an experienced bushman he was the first to detect a faint track which crossed in front of his horse's feet; and he pulled suddenly up and dismounted.

"Some wheels have passed here lately," he said, "though in the grass they are almost obliterated by the elasticity of the growing blades, but it is a strange place for a wheel track to be at all. You may as well get down, Jane. We had better follow this up."

The track was very faint, and in many places almost indiscernible; the driver seeming to have picked out the highest and hardest parts of the grassy land, and to have avoided the damp spots where his horse's hoofs might have sunk. But Allen's eyes were keen, and he declared that the wheel marks were those of such a vehicle as Michael Connor drove.

They followed them, Allen leading his cart down to the spot where Bridget had enjoyed her first and last meal camping in the Australian bush. Jane gazed round her with a queer feeling as if she had been touched with a cold hand; and Allen silently fastened his horse and looked around him.

"Some one has camped here, sure enough," said he. "There is where the cart stood. I see the mark of the shaft props. It's quite handy to the creek, you see. Jane, and the horse had been led to water down between those ferns and reeds."

"They've had a deuce of a fire," he added, looking at the heap of ashes by the charred log. "What was that for now? We've had nothing but the warmest of nights this month back. They've had an idea of hiding the ashes, too, or that young sapling would not have been felled to fall right across the heap."

He went to the butt of the sapling, a young tree about six inches in diameter, where it had been chopped from the root. As he stooped to draw it from the ashes he saw that it had been felled with an axe or tomahawk which had blood on it; for the wood was stained red. But he said nothing about it just then. He only dragged off the lightly branched young tree, disturbing and. scattering as he did so the white dead ashes.

A shriek was uttered by Jane Webster as a metal object, blackened by the fire and to which a scrap of some rough woollen material was attached, was tossed almost to her feet. Jane stooped and lifted it― her cheeks ghastly, her eyes wild and full of horror.

"Do you recognise that, Jane? You do. I see you do?" asked Allen.

"Yes, oh, yes! It is a clasp which was on a rough wool jacket the poor girl used to wear on board. I could swear to it. See how peculiar the pattern is. Shamrocks intertwined. She was proud of it, poor thing. And look, John! it is firmly clasped yet. My God, he has murdered Bridget and burned her body! She wore this jacket when she left the Seabird."

"No," said Allen, as he raked abroad the ashes in a careful search, "if it is so he has not destroyed the body here. There would be some remains of burnt bones. Jane, this a horrible job. I wish I had never begun it.  We had far better put the affair into the hands of the police; as you have actually recognised a portion of the poor thing's clothes here."

She made no immediate reply but with the bits of metal still in her fingers she raised her face and looked around her. It was as if she was asking the green fresh grass and the gray old trees to tell her the story of Bridget's cruel death that she might avenge it on her murderer.

Did the green grass reply to her? As her eyes wandered round the fatal spot seeking some farther evidence against the cruel wretch, they lighted on an object half hidden in the grass. She darted toward it and lifted it, coming back to Allen with it in one hand and the clasp still gripped in the other,

"It is a pipe, John." she said handing it to him, "and a peculiar one."

"I have seen Connor smoking it a hundred times," the man cried. "Indeed I've smoked it myself. It belongs to him."

And the man was right: it was the pipe which had dropped from the-murderer's lips as he sat on the log with the darkness behind him, and the glare of the great fire on his awful face.

"I have no doubt of the villain's guilt now," said Allen, "but I am sorry for the poor woman who believes herself his wife; and I will have no more to do with it. Let us go home, Jane, and let the police do the rest."

"I cannot," she said with determination. "If he did not destroy the body by fire, he must have hidden or buried it somewhere about. He would never take away the poor girl after― after―"

Allen looked at the blood marks on the stump of the sapling, but said nothing, and Jane, with, that clasp still held in her hand firmly as if it had been a talisman to guide her, stalked down to the creek.

She  did not reach it where the horse had evidently been watered. Where the bank sloped down to the water, and indentations of shod hoofs were yet visible in the grass, she went obliquely through a deep border of thick-growing wattle and ferns, and to where the bank was steep, though not high; and an old fallen tree lay, decaying and melancholy-looking half on the bank and half down' in the water which had once cherished its twisted, roots.

Around that log, the reeds grew strong and thick and there was a little eddy in the water as their quiet current swept round the end of the slimy and rotting log. Jane saw or fancied that this current had bent the reeds back toward the log as if an arm had pushed them, but then a sudden inspiration seized her and, putting the fire-darkened clasp in her bosom she gathered her attire more closely about her, and stepped boldly on to the fallen tree.

John Allen saw her, but did not interfere. He only stood and watched on the bank, wondering what discovery Jane had made. She had made none as yet, but when she gained the end of the log she knelt down carefully upon it, grasping one of the prominent roots with one hand to steady her, and then stooping to drag back the reeds with the other.

It was the work of some moments for there was no doubt that human force had been applied to bend those growing reeds; so that they should be held under the log to hide― what? The answer was there, lying still and awful when Jane succeeded in dragging away the rushes― an answer as loud as a thunder-clap; though it was spoken by the pale dead lips of the hapless Irish girl!

She was lying on her side in such a huddled and unnatural position that it was evident that her body had been forcibly pushed into its cramped position under the log, and it might have lain there packed and wedged in with the strong growing rushes and reeds until decay had done its work, had not Jane Webster's loving heart traced the murderer and his victim. One look only she gave at the awful crushed face, with the veil of water alone between her eyes and it and then she tottered back along the log, glad of her brother-in-law's offered support when she regained the bank.

Few words were needed on their hurried homeward journey. John Allen stopped near Connor's gate to let Jane alight, and while she made her way up to the farmhouse he drove on to the township to give information to the police. Jane's face was set and stern as she reached the kitchen door. Yet her lips trembled with sympathy, as she saw an elderly woman sitting at the table with her head bowed on her arms, and bitter tears running from her swollen eyes.

The woman rose as Jane entered and seeing she was a stranger, set her a chair. "You are some friend of Mrs. Connor's, and you have heard of our trouble; and oh, indeed, I am in sore trouble for my girl, for I am afraid her husband has taken leave of his senses for ever."

"I am Mrs. Allen's sister," Jane said pityingly, "and heaven only knows how I pity you and yours, Mrs. Mahony. But I am come with evil tidings, which you must be strong to bear for your poor daughter's sake."

"Evil tidings ! there is nothing wrong at home? They were all well when I left! Oh―"

"There is nothing wrong at your home, dear Mrs. Mahony. It is here, in this house, the evil is. Be strong now, for your poor innocent daughter's sake."

"Go on!" the poor woman whispered, gazing at Jane with terrified eyes, "what is it?"

"You must get Mrs. Connor away from this instantly, no matter what excuse you make. You must take her home with you, so that she is not here to see Connor arrested. The police will soon be here, and bad as it is to see him as he is, it would be worse for her to see him dragged to prison for a crime."

"Dragged to prison for a crime!" repeated the poor mother, "my daughter's husband dragged out, of his own, house― by the police― for a crime!".

"Oh, yes. it is only too true! I pray you, lose no time. Take me to her, and I will try to make some excuse for you to take her away before they come. My very heart is bleeding for the poor deceived girl!"

From the kitchen even June could hear the loud tones of M'Dermot's voice, and she went straight toward the bedroom, whose position she had become acquainted with on the previous day. The door between it and the sitting room was open, and Jane entered the bedroom, followed by the frightened, nay horror-stricken Mrs. Mahony. Connor or M'Dermot was partly dressed, and shrinking as far back on the bed as he could, in apparent terror, while his unhappy wife, poor soul, was bending toward and trying to pacify him with gentle words and touch.

She was prettily dressed, perhaps in honour of the doctor's visit, and the chain and locket she was so proud of, as her husband's last present, were round her neck, showing to advantage over the dark velvet of her bodice. She turned a pained face to her mother as she entered and laid her hand upon the locket as if to hide it from her husband's eyes.

"He wants the locket to break, mother! Oh, Miss Webster, I don't know what's come over my poor husband."

"Take it off, I tell you!" shrieked the madman, "she'll never rest till she gets it! Look at her standing there with the blood on her white face, just as if the water has not washed it, off long ago! Give her the locket, and she will, perhaps, leave me in peace!"

The eyes of Jane followed the staring gaze of the murderer, and she seemed to see the shadow of a form bearing the semblance of the dead Irish girl. Closing her eyes with an effort to destroy what she believed to be an illusion of her own excited imagination, she opened them again to see the same white, pitying face of Bridget M'Dermot, and a small shadowy hand outstretched toward Mrs. Connor, as if claiming her own, even from her watery grave among the reeds of Rae's Creek.

As the vision seemed to fade the locket and chain slowly slipped from Mrs. Connor's velvet bodice, and fell with a rattle to the floor. Jane Webster put her foot softly, on the glittering ornament while a shout of delight escaped from the murderer's parched lips...

"Bridget has taken it!" he exclaimed, "she has got her own locket again! Now she will rest; and let me rest!"

"Take her away," Jane whispered to the mother as she stooped to lift the chain; which had so strangely become unclasped, "This is no place for her," and poor, kindly Mrs. Connor allowed herself to be led out like a helpless, half-stupefied child.

Jane Webster followed, and locked the bedroom door behind her. The last glance she gave toward' the bed showed her the murderer huddling himself up in the bed clothes as if relieved, and composing himself to sleep. Hastening to the kitchen to relieve the bewildered mother, she found Mrs. Connor sitting in a chair as if stunned. She went to her side and laid her strong hand firmly on the soft shoulder.

"Dear Mrs. Connor; you must get ready at once and accompany your good mother home for I have brought bad news to you. The doctor says that a terribly infectious disease is developing in your husband, and he has ordered that the house to be strictly isolated."

"Oh, merciful Father! but they will let me stay with him― me, his own wife?"

"They will let no one stay with him but a professional attendant: The police will have the house in charge. Dear Mrs. Connor, let your mother get you ready to go while I go out, to tell one of the men to harness up a conveyance. I am sure you are too sensible to stop until you have to be, perhaps rudely, forced out of your own house. You cannot fight against the law."

"I will go; but, oh mother, come with me, I must see him once more― just once more!"

How could they say her nay? Jane softly unlocked the door, and saw it was as she had hoped. The man was asleep. Jane whispered to the poor wife not to arouse him from a sleep which might be of such benefit to him. Jane let the poor woman approach the bed, and gaze tearfully into the sleeping, white face. Tears for him! Tears for the wretch who had upon his guilty soul the innocent blood of a loving, trusting girl! Ay, tears, for even him!

Stern and unforgiving, for Bridget's sake, cool and hard, and silent, Jane Webster sat awaiting the myrmidons of the law who were to take the murderer in charge. She held the key of his room in her hand, and felt a sort of grim delight that even for a short space she only should be his gaoler. Time seemed to her to be annihilated, and passed by without being marked. She was going over every incident of the voyage with which the memory of faithful Bridget M'Dermot was connected. And then she came to the last hour they had spent together the night before landing, when she had vainly tried to shake the young wife's faith in a man whose pictured face seemed to her branded with evil.

Her sad thoughts; were interrupted by the sound of approaching feet, and two policemen stood before her. She rose and silently handed them the key of Connor's door. They asked her some questions in a low voice, and she gave them the chain and locket from her pocket. She told them that Mrs. Connor had gone home with her mother; and then, her work done until she was called to appear as a witness at the inquest to be held on poor Bridget's remains, she gathered her cloak around her, and prepared to go.

"Stop a minute Miss Webster," one of the men said, "do you think this man is in a condition to be moved?"

"The doctor would be a better judge," she replied, "he was asleep when his wife went in to see him for the last time. I should think he is suffering from over-drinking― in trying to drown the memory of his crime."

"And from all I hear, that's just what ails the villain. Come on Corbett, we must wait no longer, or we won't be ready when the cart comes back from the creek."

"Are they gone to Rae's Creek?" she asked, in trembling tones.

"Yes, to bring in the young woman's body, and we will take our prisoner to the lockup in the same conveyance."

A refinement of cruelty? As if one could be too cruel to a wretch like him.

The sudden and noisy unlocking of the door roused the murderer, and he sat up in bed with a sudden convulsive motion. His face had flushed during his uneasy sleep but at sight of the men in uniform it paled to a ghastly "greenish" hue. His lips moved, as if he tried to speak, but no words came from them.

"Get up!" said one of the constables roughly, as he seized the bedclothes and dragged them from the cowering wretch. "You have to come with us. You are arrested for the murder of your wife, Bridget M'Dermot."

"My― my wife!" he gasped, staring from one to the other in horror.

"Yes, your wife! 'Get up man― though 'tis a shame to call you a man― get up or I'll drag you out."

They had to drag him out bodily. He was struck, helpless with fear, and the growing delirium which was prostrating him.

"Does he understand you, Mrs?" asked the inferior constable, half pityingly."

"As well as you do, the villain! I arrest you, Michael M'Dermot, alias Michael Connor, for the murder of your wife, Bridget M'Dermot; and mind, whatever you say will be taken down in evidence against you. Handcuff him, Corbett."

They led him out of the house which had been his home, and down among the flowers a poor deceived woman had planted to make that home sweet for him. He passed them with a hangdog air, and quick, wild glances at either side of him, as if he feared to see at his right hand or his left the face of the" dead. At the gate were tied the horses of the mounted men who had arrested him, and a group of horrified looking men were standing half way between the gate and a double buggy, from which one seat had been removed, and which was in the middle of the road.

At the back of that buggy, covered with some dark woollen material, through which moisture was soaking, lay an object which to glance at even in its shrouded condition made the strongest man there shudder. The policeman led M'Dermot to the cart, and ordered him to mount the front seat, but he stood still gazing at the object in the wagon, until they had to drag him away and half lift, half push him to his seat between his two guards.

Even when seated he turned round to stare at the awful huddled looking shape, until Mac, the least patient of the constables, got quite out of temper with the unhappy being..

"Show it to him! Damn it, show it to him! Pull off the blanket, and show him his work since he will have it so!'

And the covering was partially withdrawn from the corpse of the murdered girl. As the terrible face came into view, with the fearful gap his tomahawk had made above the death-white brow, the prisoner tossed up his manacled hands as he rose from his seat. A shriek, so full of pain that it might well have been his last, pierced the air like a sharp knife.

"Bridget!" he cried, and before the men could hold him up he fell backward against the splashboard, and then rebounded to the men's feet; and leaving him lie there, they drove him insensible to the lockup.

A FEW WORDS now will close this tale of a heartless crime.

M'Dermot was tried, convicted, and hanged for the murder of the helpless Bridget. Before his death he made a full confession of his crime, and recounted how it was done; but ne never went the length of expressing sorrow for having committed it, and he never once uttered the name of the poor girl he had married under a false name, and while his lawful wife yet lived and loved him.

Perhaps it is as well to have to record that the woman, known as Mrs Connor, did not survive her husband. She died at the birth of the baby she had built such living hopes on. It had been impossible to keep the truth wholly from her, and when she closed her eyes for the last time it was gladly to escape from a  world which had no future for her and her babe, who, was buried with her.

Jane Webster took much trouble to secure for Bridget's aged mother, in Ireland, the three hundred pounds which had cost her her young life; but she succeeded, and still lives at Birra within an easy walk of her favourite Bridget's grave.

__________________

5: Till Death Do Us Part

David Wright O'Brien

1918–1944

Mammoth Detective  July 1946

STANDING in the doorway of the darkened shop, he watched the rain slash furiously from blackened skies, and turned his collar to shield his gaunt cheekbones from the dampness.

He was a tall man, thin and hatless. His hair was dark, plastered wetly, now, against his skull. He was dressed well in studiedly careless tweeds, and had it not been for the almost emaciated appearance of his wide, bony frame, he would have been extremely handsome.

When he saw the girl running through the darkness across the shining ebony of the rain-soaked street, faint interest came to his dark somber eyes, and somehow his heart quickened its beat as he realized she was headed for the shelter of his doorway. He was a lonely man, and in the cold vastness of this rain-swept city he was able to find warmth in the thought of proximity to any stranger.

The girl stood in the doorway, a few feet from him, shaking the rain from her slicker, brushing it from the lustrous raven black of her hair. It was several minutes before she realized his presence. He watched her quietly until she turned, saw him, and spoke. “It’s a horrible night, isn’t it?”

Her voice, he thought, was lovely. Soft, throaty, with a melancholy undertone that was warmth to his mood.

“I rather think,” he said quietly, “that we’ve missed the last bus. I’ve been waiting here almost half an hour now.”

The girl made a small sound of disappointment. He could see her face more clearly, now. Delicately ovaled, olive-tinted complexion, darkly hypnotic almond eyes, a soft, sad crimson flower of a mouth.

“I’ve had my eye out for cabs,” he added. “Not much luck there, either.”

“You look soaked through and through,” she said sympathetically. “And cold.”

“I am, I suppose,” he admitted. He gathered his courage, then, as he glanced at the lighted all-night restaurant across the street at the far end of the block. “You don’t look completely comfortable, either. Perhaps we could make a dash for that restaurant over there. Coffee would warm us both, and we could telephone for a cab.”

She smiled, and he felt suddenly bewilderedly glad.

“That’s a good suggestion,” she said.

And that was how they met...

AT EVERY possible opportunity in the week that followed, they were together. Each evening he waited outside the dress shop where she was employed, and they went off to dinner together, then to the theater, or to her snug, comfortable little two room apartment. Within a few days they were meeting for lunch, after which there would be brief, wonderful walks in the park.

In these few days, the cloak of his loneliness fell miraculously from him. For the first time in many years he found himself able to give himself to another. He told of his youth, his days in college. He spoke at length of the several novels he had already had published, and confided in her his plans for those to come.

It was incredible how much they had in common. Their tastes in books, the theater, art and music, food and wines. They laughed little, for he had long ago lost the touch of laughter, and she was seldom given to it. Yet there was complete joy in their nearness to one another.

When he proposed, exactly seven days later, there was a pounding in his heart and a constriction of his throat that almost left him mute. His hand trembled so badly that he dared not touch hers.

She didn’t seem surprised. There was no artificial coyness to her. She looked at him steadily with those hypnotic almond eyes, her red petaled mouth soft and tenderly unsmiling.

“You know absolutely nothing about me,” she said. “It’s been only seven days. I feel as if I’d known you forever. You’ve told me everything about yourself. And yet, I’ve told you nothing of myself. It— it isn’t fair to you for me to say yes.”

Fiercely he brushed this aside, his expression impatient.

“What difference does it make?” he said. “You say I know nothing about you. Why, I know everything about you that matters. You’re warm, and sweet, and lovely. I love you more than life itself. That’s all that matters.”

For answer she smiled one of her rare smiles, and reached across the table to place her small cool hand in his. His heart was almost too achingly ecstatic to beat.

“Tomorrow,” he said, “I’ll get the license first thing. We can be married at noon. By evening we can be on our way to my little country place. Does that sound all right?”

“That sounds like heaven,” she said....

HE SLEPT badly that night. For the first time in several weeks, his illness returned and he was shaken by one of its breathless attacks. He was in the bathroom, getting a glass of water, when the seizure took place. He felt the familiar dizzying numbness, th pounding in his temples. The room began to blur, and he was barely able to grope his way to the bed before he lost consciousness.

When he woke, the sunlight was pouring through the windows of his room, and the clock on the dresser told him it was almost nine.

He sat up quickly, panic filling his heart. When had he promised to meet her? Then he realized they would just have time to get the license, the ring, and—

He remembered the seizure, then, for the first time since waking. A sick fear stabbed his heart, and he put his hands to his temples. She had said she knew everything about him. But he had not told her of this. He had meant to, had tried to find the courage half a dozen times. But he had concealed it, subconsciously fearing that such a revelation would forever keep her from him. He had been filled with the fear that she’d never have him if she were aware that he was invalided. And he had, himself, no certain knowledge that it would not grow worse. That he had taken her into a promise which might eventually leave her tied to a helpless, bedridden invalid of a husband, was a suddenly aching fear.

“But she must realize that I’m not completely well,” he told himself. And slowly he forced the fear from his mind and buried it again in his subconscious. By the time he was dressed, he knew that he was not going to tell her. Later, perhaps, if the attacks continued to occur— if he grew no better, if the specialists he planned to see could not help him— he would tell her.

She was waiting for him, two hours later, in front of the tiny neighborhood church they had chosen for the ceremony. She was as lovely as a thousand angels.

The minister’s words were a melodious, meaningless drone as they stood before him. And they were repeating:

“Until death do us part....”

Walking from the church, with her hand on his arm, he moved lightly over an aisle of cloud....

THEY had driven most of the afternoon and into the early evening before the darkening sky was split by the first bolt of lightning. Moments later raindrops drummed light fingers on the windshield, and he stopped to put up the top of the convertible.

“At least we’ll be snug and dry,” he said, as they resumed their journey.

“I don’t mind the rain,” she said solemnly. “In fact, I think I love it. It brought us together, you know.”

Later, when the storm had reached torrential proportions, he said:

“It’s not much farther. A few more miles and we’ll come to the village. My place— I mean, our place— is at the edge of the town. I do so hope you’ll like it.”

They reached the little village abruptly, with no forewarning. It was like an etching of any one of a hundred New England seacoast towns.

“Near midnight in the midst of a storm is hardly a good time to show you the place,” he said. “But we’ll have all tomorrow to get you acquainted.”

When they woke in the morning the sunlight was warm as it flooded through the windows of the bedroom, and outside the birds were caroling tribute to a perfect day.

His happiness was almost boyish at the delight she expressed over the snug, pleasant comfort of their home. Proudly he escorted her through every corner of the house, pointing out this and that item which he’d expressly purchased and forwarded to the place ahead of their arrival.

He took pride in the lovely little garden behind the house, and in exhibiting his comfortable little summer cottage beyond, equipped with a tiny workshop where he carried on his hobby of wood sculpture, and a book-lined den in which he planned to work on his new novel.

They drove the mile and a half into town, then, to purchase groceries and to introduce her to the quiet little village for the first time. Again his happiness was full as she expressed her pleasure over the peaceful little town.

He had peace and contentment and companionship for the first time, now, in longer than he cared to remember.

Returning from town, early in the afternoon, she carried the armloads of groceries and odds and ends into the house, while he took their heavy luggage from the trunk of the car and carried it upstairs to the bedroom.

He could hear her preparing luncheon in the kitchen downstairs, and smilingly decided to surprise her by opening the luggage and putting away most of their clothing.

He had been busy about five minutes at this—hanging her dresses in the closet, placing her shoes on the floor, hats on the shelf—when he opened the small, tan-leather suitcase that contained the gun.

It was a small, pearl handled revolver, incongruously enfolded in a frothy lace chemise.

He stared at it first in bewilderment, then with a strange prickling feeling of uneasiness.

A quick search of the side compartments of the suitcase revealed a small box of shells of the caliber to fit the weapon.

Very carefully, he lifted the gun from the folds of the chemise and held it in his right hand, speculatively. In his left hand he felt the compact weight of the box of cartridges. His heart was beating more rapidly than was good for him, and he knew that the alarm tingling along his spine was silly, senseless.

“I’m being a damned fool,” he told himself uncertainly. “For a girl living completely alone in a large city, such a possession surely isn’t hard to understand. I— I’m thinking and acting like an ass.”

He forced himself to put the gun and the box of cartridges back where he’d found them. Then he closed the bag, deciding, self-consciously, not to unpack it, not to mention having opened it, or having seen the gun.

“Good Lord,” he told himself. “I don’t want her to think I’m sort of a prying,-suspicious fool. She’ll tell me about it, of course, when it occurs to her.”

But she didn’t tell him about the gun. Not, at least, during the wonderfully happy week that followed, the week in which they laughed through sunny days and cool, star-filled nights. There were walks, and picnics, and afternoons under the hot sun on the white sands of the beach, evenings in the cool comfort of the garden. And he might have forgotten about it completely— at least have shrugged it away from any further thought or concern— had it not been for the stark tragedy that struck the little village on the eighth day of their new happiness.

THE day was marked by the first bad turn in the weather in a week. Sometime in the early morning hours a storm had gathered, and by dawn a steady, incessant downpour swept over the countryside from the canopy of gray, ominous clouds that blotted out the sun.

Their breakfast was later than usual, and without enthusiasm, as if the dampness had smothered the spark of their carefree good spirits.

When the breakfast dishes were done, she suggested that it might be wise for her to drive to town for groceries earlier than she usually did.

“If this rain keeps up, the roads will be badly bogged by later afternoon,” she said. “I really ought to start out now.”

He agreed, offered to drive to town to save her the trouble. But she brushed aside his offer with a smile, promised that she wouldn’t be long, and would take no unnecessary risks.

She had been gone half an hour, and he had finished shaving when he decided to do a little work on his novel in her absence. There were some notes on his planned first draft he had to straighten out, and several aspects of the outline he wanted to give more careful consideration.

The house seemed cold and empty without her, and he decided to work in the summer cottage. There was a small fireplace in the den and he could work comfortably there until she returned.

He threw a topcoat over his shoulders as he left the house to cross the yard to the summer cottage. It was little more than fifty yards beyond the garden, back in a cluster of pines, but the ground was already sloppy underfoot, and the incessant rain was chilling, and his teeth chattered involuntarily as the dampness of the morning closed in around him.

He was halfway across the garden when he felt the first frightening symptims of his illness. There was a sense of dizzying loss of equilibrium, the numb throbbing of his temples, the breathless constriction near the muscles of his heart.

The rain veiled landscape blurred before his eyes as the seizure shook him with its violent tremors. And then he knew that his knees were buckling, and that the muddy earth was rushing up to meet him, and blackness pressed in upon his consciousness from every side. The last thing he remembered was his effort to call his wife’s name, and a muddled realization that she was beyond sound of his voice....

WHEN consciousness returned he was aware first of the icy chill that had saturated to the very marrow of his bones. And then he realized that he lay face forward in an ooze of frigid mud.

It was still raining, and his clothes were soaked, and plastered to his long, thin body.

Swaying dizzily from the exertion, aching stiffly in every joint as he did so, he forced himself to rise.

He saw the summer cottage, then, a few yards away. Behind him was the house. He realized that he had been considerably more distant from the cottage when the attack had seized him, and knew, then, that some instinct must have enabled him to walk or crawl toward the sanctuary of the summer house during some period of his unconsciousness.

He wiped the slime from his face and hands with a handkerchief he found in the water-soaked pocket of his topcoat. Then he looked at his watch. It was almost one o’clock. He’d been seized by the attack shortly after ten that morning; more than three hours had elapsed.

Suddenly he realized that she would be returning from the village at any moment. Swift panic seized him. He couldn’t let her know what had happened. He had still to tell her of his illness, and was frightened at the thought of having her find him like this, and of having to explain while still suffering the aftermath of the inexplicable malady.

As quickly as he could, he hurried into the house. He had peeled off his soaked and mud-stained clothes and was standing beneath a hot, miraculously restoring shower, when he heard the sound of their car turning into the driveway.

Panic left him with the realization that he was now safe with his secret. He’d be able to invent some plausible explanation for his soaked, muddied clothing, and she’d never know how helplessly he’d been felled by his affliction.

The steaming needles of the shower massaged his aching body, and he was comparatively relaxed when he heard her enter the house and call his name.

His shouted answer was normal, as was her admonishment not to linger too long in the bath, for fear of catching cold in the dampness of the house.

“You didn’t build a fire,” he heard her call. “The place is as chilly as a cave.”

When he joined her downstairs, coffee was percolating on the grill, and the pleasant tang of cheese and bacon sandwiches toasting in the oven filled the kitchen.

She had started a blaze in the living room fireplace, and moments later they lunched there in the comfort of the overstuffed chairs he drew up before it.

During their casual small-talk, he was able to mention, carelessly and with a wry laugh, the nasty spill he’d had when he slipped on a bad stretch of mud crossing the garden. He felt pleased with the neat offhand manner in which he had covered her ultimate discovery of his sodden clothing.

THE rain persisted through the rest of the afternoon, even growing somewhat more intense as night came.

An electrical storm joined the unpleasant display of the elements, and thunder cracked guttural snare-drum warnings of increasingly severe storm gatherings.

He noticed her restlessness shortly after dinner.

They were sitting in the living room, and he was trying unsuccessfully to tune out the static in the small radio on the book case by his chair.

“I wish you’d turn it off and forget about it,” she said irritably.

He obliged her instantly, snapping the switch off.

“I’m sorry, darling. Just thought music might be nice. No need to bit my head off.”

She tossed the book she’d been reading aside.

“This ceaseless rain drives me frantic,” she said. “Doesn’t it ever stop?”

“But you said once before that rain didn’t bother you,” he declared bewilderedly.

“Not a little rain,” she said. “Not even a day of it, or a night. But a morning, afternoon, and evening of rain, with never a let-up, is something else again.”

He rose, crossed to her chair, and dropped to his knees beside her, stroking the lustrous ebon softness of her hair.

“Now, now. It isn’t as bad as all that,” he said. He put his hand comfortingly over hers. He was surprised when he realized her hand was trembling.

“Why, darling,” he cried. “What on earth’s wrong? You’re all upset. You’re actually trembling!”

She stood up abruptly.

“I— I’m just on edge. I don’t feel well. This horribly gloomy weather— it’s given my nerves a raw edge, brought on a splitting headache. I’ll be all right tomorrow. I’m sorry if I sound nasty, darling. I’ll snap out of it. I’m going upstairs now and try to get some sleep.”

He started, solicitously, after her. “Please, I’ll be all right. Just let me alone. Don’t bother to come up now; sit around and read, why don’t you? Please, darling, I’m all right.”

He stood there bewilderedly, watching her ascend the stairs to their room.

“Very well,” he said, “but if there’s anything I can do—”

“Good night, dear. I promise I won’t be so churlish in the morning.”

He watched her step from view on the landing, then heard the bedroom door close behind her. He sighed, ran a thin hand through his lank black hair, walked over to his armchair.

He lighted a cigarette, turned on the radio, and picked up the half-read novel he’d left beside his chair.

The radio suddenly blared into sharp, startingly noisy life. With a start, he turned toward it, intending to tune it down as quickly as he could. A news announcer’s voice blasted the room in two words that, had the effect of freezing his gesture before he could touch the tuning dial.

“Obviously murder!”

And then he heard the announcer’s voice continuing:

“Leonard’s body was found in a clump of bushes near Harkness Lane and Petersen Road. Two bullets had been pumped into his head, two into his chest. There was no evidence of struggle, which leads police to assume that the mail carrier was ambushed, or slain openly by someone with whom he was well acquainted and from whom he expected no violence.”

It was then that he remembered the thunderous blatting of the voice, and he hastily turned the radio to a scarcely audible key. The news announcer’s voice was concluding the bulletin.

"Sheriff Wilde has said that every aspect of the brutal killing is under investigation, and that he is co-operating with State Police who have taken over this, the first such crime in the history of the village.”

TRANCE music came in, then, and he sat there stunned, trying to comprehend the implications of the news bulletin he’d just heard. Leonard was the name of the rural mail carrier in the village. Wilde was the village deputy sheriff. The lonely sector where Harkness Lane joined Petersen Road was a scant three miles from this house.

He realized now, that violent murder had entered the little community to which he’d taken his bride. A rural mailman had been shot down brutally less than three miles from their comfortable little house.

As he sat there, filled with the shock of it, he heard a sudden, sharp squeaking on the staircase landing.

His head swiveled sharply in the direction of the sound. He strained his eyes, trying to penetrate the darkness that blanketed the upstairs landing.

“Darling!” he called sharply. “Is that you?”

There was no answer, merely a tense silence in which he fancied he heard someone breathing.

He rose from his chair. The landing creaked again, and he heard the faint noise of a door— the door of their bedroom— being closed stealthily.

He stood there beside his chair uncertainly, his brow furrowed in bewilderment and anxiety. Had he only imagined hearing someone on the landing? Had his battered nerves deluded him into thinking he’d heard the bedroom door close?

He ran a trembling hand across his face. Perspiration beaded his forehead and his fingers shook ever so slightly as he groped in his pocket for his handkerchief.

“It’s my damned illness,” he muttered. “Every attack leaves me more unsettled. It pulls my nerves as taut as piano wires, it makes my imagination play tricks on me, it upsets my balance, my judgment.”

He put his handkerchief away, found a cigarette and lighted it shakily.

“I’ll not put it off any longer,” he told himself. “I’ve got to see a doctor before my health cracks completely.”

He sat down, sighing tremulously. “Tomorrow,” he promised himself, “tomorrow I’ll have a thorough physical check-up. This damned malady has gone on too long.”

He sighed, crushing out his cigarette. He needed rest. He might as well get upstairs and try to capture the luxury of sleep....

BUT sleep, in the hours that followed, provided little comfort, scant luxury. He was shaken, several times by hideous nightmares which woke him, cold with sweat and wide-eyed in horror. Each time, though the context of those horrible dreams was lost to him on waking, he found his heart pounding suffocatingly and his hands trembling badly.

But each time he was able to return to a stupor of coma through the realization of the comforting presence of his wife sleeping soundly, dreamlessly, beside him.

There was something akin to nightmare, however, which occurred during his coma, that was left to him is a half- real, half-figmentary, recollection. At one time it seemed to him, as he half opened his eyes, someone was standing over the bed, staring down at him. This someone was breathing with faint, regular cadence, and was dressed in flowing white. He recalled thinking that it was his wife, and remembered calling out her name questioningly.

But there had been no answer. The person, or thing, stared at him an instant longer, and was suddenly gone from sight.

Morning came in the same gray, rainswept fashion as it had the previous day, and when he woke he found his wife had already risen. He could hear her moving about in the kitchen downstairs. He glanced at his watch, then, unbelievingly, at the clock on the dresser. It was almost noon.

She had let him oversleep. He wondered if she had suspected the fatigue left on him by his attack of the previous day.

He sat up in bed and lighted a cigarette. It tasted bad but he let it hang there loosely in the corner of his mouth, savoring the smell of the tobacco that drifted to his nostrils.

He ran his hands through his lank black hair, trying to drive the cobwebs from his mind. Things began to take shape, and he recalled the scene of the previous evening, his wife’s, strange mood of irritation and pique. Then he recalled the news broadcast concerning the horrible murder.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, he found his robe, slid his bare feet into slippers— and then did an unaccountable thing. He rose from the edge of the bed, moving swiftly, stealthily, to the closet. There he paused a moment, listening.

Reassured by the sounds continuing downstairs in the kitchen, he opened the closet door gently.

There in the right hand corner of the closet was the suitcase in which he’d discovered the pistol with the pearl handle. The pistol about which she had not yet felt free to tell him.

He pulled the case out of the corner, opened it with swift noiselessness. As far as his swift appraisal could determine, the contents of the case were exactly the same as they’d been when he’d opened it almost a week before. Obviously she hadn’t found it necessary to unpack the bag as yet.

The contents were the same. That is— with one exception.

The pearl-handled revolver was not there.

HASTILY, almost clumsily, he rummaged through the case. But his exploring fingers found no evidence of the gun. He examined the side compartments of the bag, where the box of cartridges had been kept, but it, too, was no longer on hand.

Suddenly he straightened up. She had just called his name, sharply, her voice carrying clearly from the kitchen downstairs.

“Finally awake and stirring, darling?” she cried.

He felt a swift rush of guilt and embarrassment. Quickly he snapped the suitcase shut, pushed it back where he’d found it. He stepped out of the closet, called an answer.

“Be down in a few moments, dear.”

But as he dressed, he could not wash from his mind the guilty feeling that had flooded his conscience. He felt as if, somehow, his actions had been a flagrant breach of faith of trust in his wife. What had been the irrational motivating factor that made him act as he had, he could not imagine.

But suddenly, as he stood before the mirror, knotting his tie, the answer came to him with horrifying clarity.

“No!” he whispered. “No! I couldn’t have been thinking that. It’s, it’s ridiculous. It’s outrageous!”

But he stood there motionless, staring unseeingly at his reflection in the mirror. Then he shook his head quickly, viciously, as if trying to clear it of loathsome cobwebs.

He found himself trembling so badly he was unable to manage the careful Windsor knot he was tying in his cravat. An unaccountable nausea gripped him, and he realized that his complexion, reflected in the mirror, was ghastly white.

“This illness,” he whispered. “This damned illness is warping my mind, giving me hallucinations, driving me mentally blind!”

It was fully five minutes before he was able to regain some semblance of composure, and another ten before he was able to complete dressing.

By the time he started downstairs, however, he was reasonably certain that nothing in his appearance would betray his mental and physical turmoil to his wife.

She was wearing a silly, frilly little apron, and she was smiling at him.

“Everything’s ready, sleepyhead. Another five minutes and your toast would be cold.”

He smiled wanly in response.

“Guess I stayed up too late. Rather gone this morning.”

He saw that she’d set the breakfast table for the two of them, even to placing the rolled morning newspaper by his plate. He sat down with a sigh, reaching for the paper.

His gasp, when he unfolded it, was involuntary, but audible.

“What’s wrong?” she demanded instantly.

He was staring at the big black type which screamed forth the headlines.

“The murder,” he said tonelessly.

“The paper is full of the damned murder.”

She was beside him in a second, reading the headlines inaudibly, her lips moving slowly with the words.

He tried to hide his trembling hands in his lap. But she was paying scant attention to him.

“It’s, it’s horrible!” she gasped. “How on earth, in this peaceful little village, such a thing could happen—”

He looked up at her.

“Didn’t you know?”

She seemed startled.

“What do you mean?”

“Didn’t you hear it over the radio last night, right after you went upstairs?”

She gave him a look that was unfathomable.

“Why, no. Of course I didn’t. How could I? I was upstairs? You mean this came over the radio last night?”

He stared at her bewilderedly.

“Yes. But I thought I heard you. It was very loud. I didn’t tune it down for a few moments. I thought I heard you on the landing, listening.”

“I? Why, how silly. Of course not.”

“I, I called out,” he said lamely, “asking if it was you. There was no answer.”

“How could there be?” she demanded. “I wasn’t on the landing.”

HE WANTED to drop the matter, now. It seemed dreadfully urgent that he drop it. It was getting him nowhere. He was sounding like an idiot, babbling. His head was beginning to ache. He wanted to get off the subject immediately.

He had only horror, however, at the subject he found himself involuntarily choosing for the change. He couldn’t possibly imagine what prompted his lips to utter the question that now popped from them.

“Why didn’t you ever mention, darling, that you own a revolver?”

Her expression froze instantly.

“What did you say?” she asked slowly, coldly.

Miserably, in spite of his every desire to say anything else, he found himself repeating the question.

She was staring at him now with a cold, distant fury.

“You’ve been snooping,” she said quietly.

“No, dear, I— I was just unpacking your things and—”

Her voice, like a whiplash, cut him off.

“Spying on me! Sneaking about, peeking into my things!”

He tried to form words of protest, but they tumbled over one another before they reached voice. His temples pounded, and he felt a sickening dizziness obscuring his thought processes.

She had left the kitchen suddenly. And before be could rise, she was back again. Her coat was thrown over her shoulders.

“I’m going for a drive,” she snapped. “A long one.”

He stood up, her name escaping his lips in a groan of protest.

She paused, the whiteness of her cheeks regaining some color. Suddenly the anger seemed to wilt from her like starch.

“I— I’m sorry dearest. I didn’t mean what I said. I— I’ve an ungovernable temper at time. I suppose it’s one of the things you don’t know about me. I sometimes fly completely off the handle.”

She had stepped forward now, close to him. Her perfume was strong in his nostrils. She stroked his cheek softly with her cool, slim hand.

“I‘m sorry, darling,” she said humbly. “But I do think I need some fresh air. A drive would do me good. Where are the keys to the car?”

“In the summer house,” he said. “In the drawer of my wood sculpture bench. You— you won’t be long?”

She shook her head.

“No, I won’t be long. I’ll hurry back. But I just have to get some air. I have to calm down. I’ve been so snarled up, so depressed these last few days. I ought to be horsewhipped for treating you as I did. I promise I’ll reform, darling.”

He watched her leave, wordlessly. The screen door was open and he saw her cross the garden, gingerly picking her way through the mud, toward the summer house.

His lips were trembling. His hands shook so badly he was unable to light the cigarette he found until a half a dozen matches had been wasted.

He turned, went back to the living room. A few moments later he heard the sound of the motor starting in the driveway. He waited, smoking, until the sound was gone in the distance. Then he rose and went into the kitchen.

For several minutes he stared down at the headlines in the paper still spread on the breakfast table.

He felt weak, exhausted, feverish. And then the pounding in his temples returned. The dizziness, the gray-spotted blackness, the lack of equilibrium — all were closing in on him.

He opened his mouth, but his tongue was as cotton and his lips soaked wool.

“She— she didn’t explain,” he heard a voice croaking thickly. “She— she didn’t say what—”

And as the voice trailed off he knew it was his own, forming words for which he had no conscious thoughts. He could see things only as a blur, now. The blackness was worse. His knees were buckling, his heart was seized by a breath-stopping constriction.

He tried to move forward, and realized, dimly, that he was falling headlong into a swirling vortex of thickening and overpowering blackness....

IT WAS as gentle, this time, as waking unprompted from a pleasant sleep. As gentle and as gradual and untroubled. For fully three minutes he lay there, breathing easily, gathering consciousness around him like a staff on whose support he was going to rise.

Then he opened his eyes.

For an instant, his reaction was surprise. Then he sat bolt upright, looking around in bewilderment.

He was in the summer house, on the floor beside his workbench in his hobby shop. His clothes were damp, and it still rained outside. His shoes were muddied, and grass and bits of leaf still clung damply to them.

He rose, surprised at the strength in his limbs.

Aside from a certain almost giddy lightness, he felt normal enough. The hand he stretched to the table was meant to steady himself, rather than support him.

He knew, clearly and without having to unsnarl his thoughts, that he had been in the kitchen when the seizure had come. He could not remember having staggered outside— possibly with an instinctive pursuit of air— but he was perfectly aware that he certainly must have done so after the blackout. Instinct for shelter, no doubt, had carried him on increasingly wobbly legs, to the summer house.

That was the only way it could have been. He must have collapsed inside the summer house once he’d reached its shelter.

He looked at his watch. Almost four hours had elapsed.

He sat down slowly in the chair beside his workbench. Perplexity was written on his face, confusion in his eyes. He was trying to explain to himself the reasons for this totally unexpected and unusual aftermath to the seizure he’d suffered. It had always been definitely the opposite, after one of his attacks. Always, he’d been left sick and shaken.

Now it was decidedly different. He held his right hand, fingers spread, before him. There was no trembling.

He wondered what this meant. Subconsciously, he knew, there was the faint, glimmering hope that perhaps this new reaction to his old malady was an indication for the best. If he were now being left with practically no after effects from his seizure, might it not be possible that he was growing somewhat better?

He pushed this hope back into the corner of his subconscious from which it had risen. He dared not build, too much on it, dared not cherish it too strongly. He must wait and see.

Finding a cigarette in his pocket he lighted it, rose from his chair, and left the summer house.

He was crossing the garden when he saw the car parked in the driveway, and realized that she had returned from her drive. He wondered, fleetingly, how long she’s been back. He felt slightly hurt to think that— had she been home for a while— she hadn’t wondered at his absence and looked for him in the summer house. Then he realized, with relief, how fortunate he’d been that she hadn’t gone in search of him. She might have found him stretched on the floor. That would have resulted in her first realization of the spells he suffered. She knew nothing about them, and he did not want her to know— now of all times.

He was at the steps to the back porch when he saw her handkerchief. It was lying in the mud by the first step, slightly hidden beneath it. He picked it up, shaking the mud and water from it instinctively as he did so.

It was then that he realized something was wrong. The handkerchief was sticky— and its dampness was not all from water.

His heart stopped beating for an eternal second as he stared at the wisp of cloth. It was covered with sticky blood.

HIS first reaction was one of frightened alarm.

She was hurt! She had injured herself. Perhaps, at this moment, she was lying helplessly somewhere in the house, unconscious from a wound of some sort!

He stuffed the handkerchief into his pocket and dashed up the steps and into the house.

In the kitchen he called her name, loudly.

There was no answer, and he called again as he rushed into the living room. There was still no answer. His heart hammered wildy as he ran upstairs to the second floor.

He saw her the moment he opened the bedroom door. She was lying on the bed, still wearing the sports frock she had on when she had left the house that morning.

One hand was thrown back beside her gorgeous raven curls, and her eyes were closed in sleep. There was a faint, half-smile on her lips. She breathed evenly, naturally.

There was nothing wrong. Nothing at all.

He began to tremble as the wonderful surge of relief shook him. She was safe. There was nothing wrong. She was sleeping as peacefully as a child.

He stepped out into the hallway, closing the bedroom door softly behind him, not wishing to wake her, grateful that his first cries had not roused or alarmed her.

Quietly, he made his way downstairs.

He went into the kitchen, thinking to mix himself a drink.

He saw the paper parcels of groceries she had purchased, then, lying where she left them on the sink.

He began to remove the contents from the paper bags, placing them in icebox and cupboards. He had almost finished this, when a sudden, starkly frightening thought seized him.

The handkerchief!

She was unharmed, sleeping peacefully. She had not, in any way, injured herself.

Then what could explain the blood on the handkerchief?

Quickly, he took the handkerchief from his pocket. It was the same, of course, sticky with blood, muddy, moist from rain. And it was her handkerchief— there was absolutely no doubt of that.

He tore a section of paper dish towel from the roll over the sink, and wrapped the repulsive wisp of linen in it. Then he returned it to his pocket.

He stood there a moment, leaning against the sink, fighting back the wave of nausea and the formless clouds of nameless terror that closed in on him.

With a supreme effort of will, he forced the matter from his mind. Robot-like, he resumed his removal of the groceries from the packages.

At the bottom of the last bag was the package of strychnine.

He started to put it on the cupboard shelf automatically, then he saw the legend: “POISON!” stamped in red across the box.

He paused, holding the box in his hands, staring at it, fascinated by the grim skull and cross bones that accompanied the warning word.

IT WAS then that she spoke, from the door directly behind him. He hadn’t heard her descending the stairway, hadn’t heard her quiet entrance to the kitchen. The sound of her voice unnerved him so utterly, that the box dropped from his hand and crashed to the floor.

“Hello, darling,” she had said softly. And as the box fell from his hands, she’d added, “Goodness, I didn’t mean to startle you!”

He wheeled to face her. For a moment, while he stared at her, he could think of nothing to say.

“What on earth is wrong?” she asked.

Then he managed to say, “Nothing. Nothing at all, dear. You startled me terribly. I— I guess my nerves are a little raw.”

She came to him, smiling, tenderly, slipping her arms around him, looking up into his face as she said:

“I’m sorry I was such a nasty little beast this morning.”

Moments later, he asked: “What did you get this strychnine for, dear?”

Her eyes were wide in surprise.

“Didn’t I tell you? I thought I did. There are mice in the cellar, darling. The grocer said this was just the thing to get rid of them with.”

He didn’t mention the handkerchief, then or later. He could not bring himself to do so, no matter how desperately he wanted to. In the remainder of the afternoon, while he pretended to read in his chair by the radio, and she curled up, cat-like, on the couch, he fought down the thousand and one doubts and fears that assailed him.

By dinner time, they had almost regained a normalcy in their quiet pattern of existence. She chatted naturally about her trip to town, her visit to the grocers, inquired as to whether or not he’d been able to get in any work on his book; and he was able to answer her questions and supply comments of his own, in a manner that was externally, at least, reasonably natural.

Each of them carefully avoided any topic which might have led to any disturbance of the even keel of their reborn conviviality. And the tenor of their relations might have remained on that key, had it not been for the intrusion of the radio news bulletin several hours later.

THEN it happened, she was reading, and he was sitting in his chair by the radio, pencil and writing board before him, sketching in several difficult character motivations that had been bogging the plot of his novel.

A “canned” recording program of symphonic music had been on, providing a pleasant background for the evening, when he program was abruptly interrupted.

“Station KJMA interrupts this program to bring you a special news bulletin,” an announcer’s voice broke in. Then another voice came excitedly over the air, reading the flash news announcement:

“The little village of Westport was again visited by brutal murder, today, with the discovery, late this afternoon, of the body of Abner Crassons, a watchman employed at the Westport Stone Quarry, Bay Road and Portage Street.

“Crassons, longtime resident of Westport, was found in his watch shack at the quarry, by the night watchman who came to relieve him at four-thirty this afternoon, lying on the floor of the shack, dead as the result of a dozen vicious stab-punctures around his head and chest. The death wounds were inflicted by what is believed to have been a sharp, knife-like instrument closely resembling a file or chisel.

“The discovery of this hideous slaying marks the second mystery murder to occur within twenty-four hours in Westport. The slaying, yesterday, of mailman Levrett Leonard, was the first such singular crime to strike within the precincts of Westport in all the history of this—”

He was on his feet, by then, staring in horror at the radio as if it were some living voice which was dragging the gruesome tragedy into the inviolate sanctum of their living room.

Quickly he reached for the dial, snapping off the radio.

The sudden silence that followed the throttling of the radio was electric in its tension.

“Bay Road and Portage Street,” he said huskily. “That’s within a mile of here. The first murder occured less than three miles from here. It’s horrible!”

She was sitting up on the couch now, her eyes wide, mirroring the fear that was in his heart.

“Two of them— two within twenty-four hours!” she said. Her voice was tight, oddly containing no fright, however.

She rose, moved over to him, put her arms about his trembling shoulders.

“Now, darling,” she said softly, “I know it’s dreadful. But don’t let it alarm you so.”

He looked into her dark eyes then, and realized that what he’d thought to be fear there was not that emotion at all. It was something else, something strangely akin yet vastly separated from fear. An emotion which he found himself helpless to classify.

Something within him gave way at that moment. He found himself suddenly shaken by sobs, and cursed himself for his helplesness before her.

But her voice was liquid, soothing, reassuring, and there was comfort in her arms. He was scarcely aware of it as he babbled forth the confession of his illness, and when at last he had regained control of himself, he concluded:

“And that’s what’s been driving me desperately crazy, dear. The fear that I may have some dread malady that will fell me suddenly, without warning-- an illness that might take me from you forever in the flicker of an eyelash. I’ve fought against it, feared telling you in the dread that you might think I tied you unfairly to an invalid—but now, thank God, it’s off my chest!”

SHE was a pillar of comfort to him, a steadfast emotional rock behind which he could find shelter for the pain and turmoil and doubt which assailed him. Her voice was like soothing balm, and the words she spoke were as gentle and reassuring as the psalms of a thousand angels.

“You poor, poor dear... don’t worry any longer, dearest... it will be all right... we’ll have doctors... there’ll be rest…. you should have told me sooner... it would never have made any difference to me..."

And then he felt the symptoms of another seizure closing down on him. There was the increased tempo of his heart which brought the familiar breathless constriction. The spotted gray clouds that whirled in on him were returning, and behind them the black curtains of night billowed ominously.

With every last atom of his being he fought against it, and for a moment that was an eternity, he was dizzingly suspended between consciousness and submission to the attack.

He fought his way clear in a sudden, snapping, burst of will.

There was a faint dizziness, a ringing in his ears which followed a popping sensation much like a swimmer clearing his ears of water clots.

But he knew he had beaten it. He knew, with a vast, surging sense of triumph, that he had met the attack and thrown it back.

“Darling,” he heard his wife saying,

“Darling, you’re shaking like a leaf!”

He was able to smile, then. Smile and shake his head, as he said,

“Everything is going to be all right; you’re not wrong in saying that, dear. I’ll beat it; together we’ll beat it.”

She smiled at him then.

“Certainly we will, darling, together.” Then, “I think you ought to get a little rest now, don’t you, dear? Just an hour or so. This has really been a strain, weathering all that worry alone.”

He nodded. “A little nap, perhaps. Then we might play some gin by the fire, eh dear?”

She patted his shoulder tenderly.

“I’ll wake you in time,” she promised. “Now, try to get a little rest. You’ll wash your worry from your mind, I’m sure, with that nap.”

She stepped to the radio, turned it on, dialed in the soft syncopation of dance music.

“We won’t think about the outside world, darling,” she said. “There’ll be just the two of us. We can ignore everything else, and after a little you’ll be well again. I know it.”

He kissed her, and left her curled up in his chair by the radio, a book in her lap. He felt tired, and the ringing was still in his ears. But there was a sense of freedom, now, as he moved up the stairs to the bedroom. The weight of worry had been lifted in part from his mind, and the knowledge that she shared his burden was warmth and comfort.

It was only after he had entered the bedroom and closed the door behind him that his new found confidence began to slip slowly from his shoulders.

He had not switched on the light, and he stood there in the darkness the closed door walling him from any tangible evidence of the security her presence in the house had given him.

Cold perspiration broke out on his forehead, and the palms of his hands were suddenly icily damp.

It wasn’t as easy as they had pretended it would be. He knew that now with a sickening clarity.

There was something else. Something unspoken. Something that had not been cleared from the ominous gray oppression that had been closing in on him. Something that had been burned unmistakably in the blackened recesses of his subconscious. Something he had ignored—something he had, through fright, deliberately walled off.

His fingers trembled as he stripped himself of his shirt.

HE SAT down heavily on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands. The ringing in his ears was stronger now, but surprisingly not unpleasant.

He realized that he had not bothered to turn on the light, and knew in the same moment that the blackness welling in on him could not be dispelled by the glare of an electric bulb.

He rose from the bed and walked to the window. The rain outside had stopped. But the sky was still a mottled pattern of black and gray. The wind was high, and shook the trees beside the house with fierce gusts that slapped wet fragments of leaves against the window panes.

The black wave of depression that engulfed him was as sudden and inexplicable as his swift loss of confidence on entering the room.

He turned from the window and walked to the dresser, where he found cigarettes and a packet of matches. It was strange, he thought abstractedly, how well was he was able to see in the darkness. Strange, too, how crystal clear his thinking processes had become.

Lighting a cigarette, he blinked momentarily at the flare of the match and was grateful for the return of darkness when the match sputtered out a moment later.

He moved to the bedroom door, opening it softly. Music from the radio came faintly to his ears. He wondered how softly he would be able to move.

He opened the door a little wider, pleased with the noiselessness with which it swung on its hinges.

The music was louder as he stepped from the bedroom and closed the door silently behind him. He waited there a moment, listening, peering down the darkened stairway at the patch of light which formed a square just outside the living room door.

Slowly, with infinite stealth, he moved down the stairs, pausing every several steps to listen for any sound which might indicate her movement in the living room.

But there were no sounds save those of the radio and the dance music, and he was able to complete his descent of the stairs unnoticed and slip unseen into the kitchen.

He was able to slip out the back door into the garden with equally successful stealth a moment later. Then he made his way quickly to the summer house.

Moments later, in the summer house, he was rummaging quickly through the drawer of his wood sculpturing work bench. As his hands moved swiftly over the familiar tools the cold perspiration on his forehead increased.

Finally he stopped, closing the drawer slowly.

The death wounds were inflicted by a sharp, knife-like instrument closely resembling a file or chisel.

The words that the radio news announcer had read came back to him with bell-like clarity.

An instrument such as the wood sculpturing knife that had been in his drawer. The wood sculpturing knife that he was now unable to find in the drawer.

He could hear her voice, asking the question she had put to him that very morning.

“A drive would do me good. Where are the keys to the car?”

And he could hear his own voice, answering her as it had:

“In the summer house. In the drawer of my work bench.”

She had gotten the keys. She had rummaged through the drawer to get them. And the sculpturing knife was missing.

His hands trembled now, but not from fright. An almost breathless excitement possessed him, overwhelming the panic of his thoughts.

He left the sumer house, but as he crossed the garden he moved slowly, his head bent forward as he scrutinized the ground.

At the back porch stairway he paused before the place where he had found her bloodstained handkerchief. He crouched low, peering at the ground around the porch.

Then he was on his knees, his hands groping along the muddy earth in the radius of the place where the handkerchief had been found.

MOMENTS later, back beneath the the steps, almost buried in the mud, he found the thin, chisel-like sculpturing knife. It had been but a few yards from the handkerchief, but hidden from view.

As he held the instrument close, peering at it in the darkness, he could feel a stickiness which he knew was not mud. And when he threw the knife back beneath the steps and looked at his hands, he saw the thin, gray, blood-matted hairs that adhered to his fingers.

He rose, standing there in the darkness, fighting off the panic that swelled in his chest. His heart pounded with an intensity that left him breathless.

Calm. He knew that he must be calm. Panic was something he could not afford.

He moved up the steps soundlessly and slipped through the back door into the kitchen.

Music still came from the radio, and he stood there in the darkness of the kitchen holding his breath, listening intently. There was no sound to indicate that she had moved since he’d slipped from the house.

He moved cautiously through the kitchen, pausing in the darkened hallway just off the living room. Through a quarter inch aperture at the corner of the drapes that hung from the archway to the living room, he was able to see her.

She was still curled up in the chair by the radio. Curled up cozily, intent upon the book in her lap.

Cat-like.

The phrase rang in his mind. Cat-like. She looked exactly like that.

He moved away from the archway and to the staircase. He was able to ascend the stairs to the second floor landing as noiselessly as he had descended them scant minutes before.

He felt a weak, trembling wave of relief when he was at last again in the bedroom, the door closed behind him.

Standing there in the darkness he waited until he was able to breathe more normally and to control the trembling in his body. Then he crossed to the bed and sat down.

It was incredible to him that his mind was working with such knife-like keenness. Everything seemed etched with a sharp clarity that was almost frightening in the pattern it produced.

The gun. She had never explained it, even after it disappeared. Her past. What did he know of that? Nothing. She had said as much, but had volunteered nothing further. The handkerchief. The sculpturing knife.

And it suddenly came to him that he had given her a terrible weapon in his confession of his helpless illness.

The thought was enough to start the tremors in his hands again, so uncontrollably that he was forced to grip them between his knees to keep from becoming completely unnerved.

Panic filled him and he fought desperately against it, knowing that he dared not let it best him.

IT WAS then that he heard the footsteps on the stairs. Her tread was light, soft, and for a moment he listened like a man hypnotized, counting the steps.

Suddenly he swung his legs onto the bed, rolled over and buried his head in the softness of a pillow.

She was coming to the bedroom, and he dared not let her realize that he hadn’t been sleeping all this time. He tried to force his breathing into a regular pattern. She mustn’t become suspicious.

The footsteps stopped outside the door.

For a breathless eternity he waited. Then he heard the knob turn gently, felt, rather than saw, the inward opening of the door.

He could feel her presence there in the doorway, though he did not look up. With every effort of his will he forced himself to maintain the pretense of the deep, regular breathing of one in sleep.

She was standing there in the doorway, looking into the darkened room at him, he knew. Cat-like. How well could she see through the darkness?

Then the door was closing again, gently, and at last he heard her footsteps descending the stairs.

He moved over to the edge of the bed, swinging himself up to a sitting position on the edge of it again.

The trembling in his hands had ceased, and he felt a calm that was as startling as it was sudden. He knew now what he had to do. He had to brazen it through. He had to let her have no inkling of what he suspected—until he confronted her with the truth.

He stood up, found another cigarette on the dresser, lighted it, his mind working swiftly, coolly.

He found himself marvelling at the keenness with which his mind was functioning. The calculating cunning with which he was able to plan his moves was wonderfully reassuring, and gave him a courage that was vitally necessary if he were to carry them through.

There was a telephone extension in the hallway just outside the bedroom, but he realized it would be idiotic of him to think of using it. Later would be time enough to call. Now would mean too much risk. She could listen in from the telephone downstairs.

He found his shirt, donned it carefully.

Then he stepped to the door. He could hear her moving around in the kitchen downstairs, then, and the sound of her movements was louder as he opened the door and stepped out onto the landing.

He had been careful to make a natural amount of noise in leaving the bedroom. And, as he had expected, she heard him.

“Are you up already, dear?” she called.

He answered her briefly, satisfied in the realization that he was playing the role of normalcy perfectly.

“I was fixing a snack for us, darling,” she called as he started down the stairs. “I wasn’t going to wake you until I had it ready.”

He could smell the coffee percolating, and bacon frying.

She was busy at the stove when he entered the kitchen, and turned to smile at him.

“A few sandwiches ought to go well,” she said. “Did you get any rest?”

“Plenty,” he said. “I think I’ve got everything straightened out pretty well, now.”

“That’s grand. If you want to help, you can slice the bread for the sandwiches.”

He glanced at the table, where she’d set out cups and saucers and plates.

“Glad to help,” he said. He stepped to the cupboard.

And then he saw the strychnine. The same box she’d purchased that afternoon. The same box that he had dropped, then put away. Only it wasn’t where he’d put it. It had been moved, and it was opened. The corner of the top was torn.

She was talking, saying something conversationally trivial, but he paid no attention to her. His gaze was frozen to the box.

She must have said something that required an answer, for she had turned from the stove and was staring at him sharply, saying:

“What on earth is wrong?”

HE WET his lips remembering that he had to remain calm.

“Nothing,” he said, forcing a laugh. “That’s no place to leave poison. I stuffed it way back into the cupboard this afternoon.”

Her answer was easy, almost glib.

“You stuffed it into a corner, and it almost beaned me when I opened the cupboard. It fell out missing me by a fraction. It broke open on the floor.”

She laughed easily. “It won’t hurt anyone there.”

“No,” he said slowly. “No. I suppose it won’t.”

“The bacon’s almost ready. You’d better slice the bread.”

He nodded. He took the long, sharp bread knife from the drawer, found the loaf on the shelf.

He was rummaging for the breadboard when he said:

“There are several things I’d like to ask you about, if you don’t mind.”

The expression on her face was almost bland as she said:

“What on earth? What’s troubling you, dear?”

He straightened up, forgetting the breadboard, ignoring the loaf, the feeling of the long, sharp knife in his hand giving him confidence.

Now was the time. There was no sense in playing it out any further. It had to be now.

“You never told me anything about yourself,” he said quietly. “I never knew where you came from, who you really were, anything about your background.”

The expression on her face was no longer bland.

“What do you mean?” she asked quietly.

“You never did tell me why you carried that gun, my dear,” he declared. He was watching her eyes, now. Watching her eyes and thinking how very much like the almond eyes of a cat they were.

“You accepted me without an explanation of my past,” she said slowly. “Why are you suddenly so curious about it?”

Carefully, speaking each word slowly, he let her know that he knew.

“It has recently become a matter of life and death—and murder,” he said.

Her sharp gasp, the sudden freezing of her expression, told him that he had scored. Now she knew that he was on to her. Now was the time for him to play through the rest of his cards quickly decisively. There could be no faltering now.

“Murder,” he repeated. “Murder with a gun, murder with a—”

And then the seizure swept over him. Swiftly, without warning. The stifling constriction that choked off his breath, his words. The dizziness, the trembling, every dreadfully familiar symptom of his malady.

His lips moved, but he knew he wasn’t making sounds.

Panic surged through him, pounding sickening fear wildly through his veins, to his temples, to his brain. Now, now when he had played his hand, when he had revealed his knowledge to her— now he was being stricken helpless!

BUT an instant later he knew there was something subtly different. There was no blackness—this time— pouring in to blot out consciousness.

Everything about this seizure was the same as the others had been—save for that fact, and the fact that the weakness was swiftly leaving him and that his brain was functioning with incredible clarity. The familiar swimming of objects before his eyes was leaving, and things were coming into focus again.

He felt a strange exhilaration, and the ringing in his ears was an exultant clamor. A door, deep in the darkened recesses of his mind, was slowly opening, and quite suddenly he was able to see beyond the black veil that had shuttered his actions in unconsciousness during all his previous seizures.

Now he was staring at the girl before him, seeing her beyond the shining glitter of the knife he held in his hand. Her eyes were wide with sudden fright, and her moist, lovely lips were half parted in horror.

“You!” she whispered hoarsely. “You!”

The word writhed and danced around his ears, and he realized that she, too, had glimpsed what was behind that tiny door far back in the darkness of his brain.

“You killed them!” she gasped.

Light flickered and danced from the blade of the knife in his hand. He laughed, and the sound jerked from his lips like a cough. She was clever. How did she know? She was peering through the tiny door, that’s what she was doing. But it was clever of her. And she was right. So very right. Why hadn’t he realized until now? Of course he had killed them. During that one seizure he had stolen the tiny gun of hers, and the cartridges. He could see it, through the little door. It was so clear, so crystal clear.

He began to move slowly toward her. He didn’t want to startle her. She was clever and she might guess at what he had to do.

Her lips were moving, making words. But he couldn’t hear them. Through the little door he could see his actions after the last seizure. He had made his way to the summer house, gotten the sculpturing knife. When he had retunrned from his walk he had hidden the knife under the steps, and found her handkerchief where she’d dropped it. He’d wiped his hands clean with her handkerchief, then dropped it by the steps. He hadn’t remembered any of it when he’d regained consciousness in the summer house. But now he remembered. It had been clever of him to use her handkerchief. Just as he had been clever in stealing her gun.

She was backing away from him, now, and her lips were still moving soundlessly.

The knife in his hand was light, so exquisitely balanced. He felt pleased about the knife. It was so clever of him to have it on hand, actually in hand, when he needed it.

As he closed in on her his eyes sought the white contours of her throat. A soft white throat. Lovely.

She was backed against the wall now. She couldn’t move any further. It was all so clear, so perfectly clear. And he knew what he had to do. He had to keep that throat from screaming....

____________________

6: The Golden Fleece

A Romance

Julian Hawthorne

1846-1934

Munsey's Nov 1897

American author Julian Hawthorne was the son of Nathaniel Hawthorne.

THE PROFESSOR crossed one long, lean leg over the other, and punched down the ashes in his pipe-bowl with the square tip of his middle finger. The thermometer on the shady veranda marked eighty-seven degrees of heat, and nature wooed the soul to languor and reverie; but nothing could abate the energy of this bony sage.

"They talk about their Atlantises,— their submerged continents!" he exclaimed, with a sniff through his wide, hairy nostrils. "Why, Trednoke, do you realize that we are living literally at the bottom of a Mesozoic— at any rate, Cenozoic— sea?"

The gentleman thus indignantly addressed contemplated his questioner with the serenity of one conscious of freedom from geologic responsibility. He was a man of about the professor's age,— say, sixty years,— but not like him in appearance. His figure was stately and massive,— that of one who in his youth must have possessed vast physical strength, rigidly developed and disciplined. Well set upon his broad shoulders was a noble head, crowned with gray, wavy hair; the eyes and eyebrows were black and powerful, but the expression was kindly and humorous. His moustache and the Roman convexity of his chin would have confirmed your conviction that he was a retired warrior; in which you would have been correct, for General Trednoke always appeared what he was, both outwardly and inwardly. His great frame, clad in white linen, was comfortably disposed in a Japanese straw arm- chair; yet there was a soldierly poise in his attitude. He was smoking a large and excellent cigar; and a cup of coffee, with a tiny glass of cognac beside it, stood on a mahogany stand at his elbow.

"Do you remember, Meschines, the time I licked you at school?" he inquired, in a tone of pleasant reminiscence.

"I can't say I do. What's more, I venture to challenge your statement. And though you are a hundred pounds the better of me in weight, and a West Point graduate, I will wager my pipe (which is worth its weight in diamonds) against that old woollen shirt of Montezuma's that you showed me yesterday, that I can lick you to-day, and forget all about it before bedtime!"

"Well, I guess you could," returned the general, with a little chuckle, "even if I hadn't that Mexican bullet in my leg. But you couldn't, forty-five years ago, though you tried, and though I was a year younger than you, and weighed five pounds less. Come, now: you don't mean to say you've forgotten Susan Brown!"

"Oh— ah— hah! Susan Brown! Well, I declare! And what brought her into your head, I should like to know?"

"Why, after breaking your heart first, and then mine, I lost sight of her, and I don't think I have seen her since. But it appears she was married to a fellow named Parsloe."

"Don't fancy that name!" observed the professor, wagging his head and frowning. "Has a mean sound to it. But what of it?"

"Well, she died,— rest her soul!— and Parsloe too. But they had a daughter, and she survives them."

"And resembles her mother, eh?— No, Trednoke, the time for that sort of thing has gone by with me. Susan might have had me, five-and-forty years ago; but I can't undertake to revive my passion for the benefit of Mrs. Parsloe's daughter. Besides, I'm too busy to think of marriage, and not— not old enough!"

At this tour de force, the general laughed softly, and finished his coffee. An old Indian, somewhat remarkable in appearance, with shaggy white hair hanging down on his shoulders, stepped forward from the room where he had been waiting, and removed the cup.

"No letters yet, Kamaiakan?" asked the general, in Spanish.

"In a few minutes, general," the other replied. "Pablo has just come in sight over the hill. There were several errands."

"Muy buen!— I was going to say, Meschines, her father and mother left the girl poor, and she, being, apparently, clever and energetic, took to—"

"I know!" the professor interrupted. "They all do it, when they are clever and energetic, and that's the end of them!— School-teaching!"

"Not at all," returned General Trednoke. "She entered a dry-goods store."

"Entered a dry-goods store! Well, there's nothing so extraordinary in that. I've seen quantities of women do it, of all ages, colors, and degrees. What did she buy there?"

"Oh, a fiddlestick!" exclaimed the general. "Why don't you keep quiet and listen to my story? I say, she went into a great dry-goods store in New York, as sales- woman."

"Bless my soul! You don't mean a shop-girl?"

"That's what I said, isn't it? And why not?"

"Oh, well!— but, shade of Susan Brown! Ichabod!— what is the feminine of Ichabod, by the way, Trednoke? But, seriously, it's too bad. Susan may have been fickle, but she was always aristocratic. And now her daughter is a shop-girl. You and I are avenged!"

"You are just as ridiculous, Meschines, as you were thirty or fifty years ago," said the general, tranquilly. "You declaim for the sake of hearing your own voice. Besides, what you say is un-American. Grace Parsloe, as I was saying, got a place as shop- girl in one of the great New York stores. I don't say she mightn't have done worse: what I say is, I doubt whether she could have done better. That house— I know one of its founders, and I know what I'm talking about— is like an enormous family, where children are born, year after year, grow up, and take their places in life according to their quality and merit. What I mean is, that the boy who drives a wagon for them to-day, at three dollars a week, may control one of their chief departments, or even become a partner, before they're done with him; and, mutatis mutandis, the same with the girls. When these girls marry, it's apt to be into a higher rank of life than they were born in; and that fact, I take it, is a good indication that their shop-girl experience has been an education and an improvement. They are given work to do, suited to their capacity, be it small or great; they are in the way of learning something of the great economic laws; they learn self- restraint, courtesy, and—"

"And human nature! Yes, poor things: they see the American buying-woman, and that is a discipline more trying than any you West Pointers know about! Oh, yes, I see your point. If the fathers of the big family are fathers, and the children are children to them... All the same, I fancy the young ladies, when they marry into the higher social circles, as you say they do, don't, as a rule, make their shop girl days a topic of conversation at five-o'clock teas, or put 'Ex-shop-girl to So-and-so' at the bottom of their visiting-cards."

"I believe, after all, you're a snob, Meschines," said the general, pensively. "But, as I was about to say, when you interrupted me ten minutes ago, Grace Parsloe is coming on here to make us a visit. She fell ill, and her employers, after doing what could be done for her in the way of medical attendance, made up their minds to give her a change of climate. Now, you know, as she had originally gone to them with a letter from me, and as I live out here, on the borders of the Southern desert, in a climate that has no equal, they naturally thought of writing to me about it. And of course I said I'd be delighted to have her here, for a month, or a year, or whatever time it may be. She will be a pleasure to me, and a friend for Miriam, and she may find a husband somewhere up or down the coast, who will give her a fortune, and think all the better of her because she, like him, had the ability and the pluck to make her own way in the world."

"Humph! When do you expect her?"

"She may turn up any day. She is coming round by way of the Isthmus. From what I hear, she is really a very fine, clever girl. She held a responsible position in the shop, and—"

"Well, let us sink the shop, and get back to the rational and instructive conversation that we— or, to be more accurate, that I was engaged in when this digression began. I presume you are aware that all the indications are lacustrine?"

Hereupon, a hammock, suspended near the talkers, and filled with what appeared to be a bundle of lace and silken shawls, became agitated, and developed at one end a slender arched foot in an open-work silk stocking and sandal-slipper, and at the other end a dark, youthful, oval face, with glorious eyes and dull black hair. A voice of music asked,—

"What is lacustrine, papa?"

"Oh, so you are awake again, Señorita Miriam?"

"I haven't been asleep. What is lacustrine?"

"Ask the professor."

"Lacus, you know, my dear," said the latter, "means fresh-water indications as against salt."

"Then how does Great Salt Lake—"

"Oh, for that matter, the whole ocean was fresh originally. Moisture, evaporation, precipitation. Water is a great solvent: earthquakes break the crust, and there you are!"

"Then, before the earthquakes, the Salt Lakes were fresh?" rejoined the hammock.

"There was fresh water west of the Rockies and south of—  Why," cried the professor, interrupting himself, "when I was in Wyoming and around there, this spring, in what they call the Bad Lands,—  cliffs and buttes of indurated yellow clay and sandstone, worn and carved out by floods long before the Aztecs started to move out of Canada,— I saw fossil bones sticking out of the cliffs, the least of which would make the fortune of a museum. That was between the Rockies and the Wahsatch."

"People's bones?" asked the hammock, agitating itself again, and showing a glimpse of a smooth throat and a slender ankle.

"Bless my soul! If there were people in those days they must have had an anxious time of it!" returned the sage. "No, no, my dear. There was brontosaurus, and atlantosaurus, and hydrosaurus, and iguanodon, — lizards, you know, not like these little black fellows that run about in the pulverized feldspar here, but chaps eighty or a hundred feet long, and twenty or thirty high; and turtles, as big as a house."

"How did they get there?"

"Got mired while they were feeding, perhaps; or the water drained off and left them high and dry."

"But where did the water go to?"

The general chuckled at this juncture, and lit another cigar. "She knows more questions than you do the answers to them," quoth he. "But I wouldn't mind hearing where the water went to, myself. I should like to see some of it back again."

"Ask the earthquakes, and the sun. There's a hundred and thirty degrees of heat in some of these valleys,— abysses, rather, three or four hundred feet below sea- level. The earth is very thin-skinned in this region, too, and whatever water wasn't evaporated from above would be likely to come to grief underneath."

"But, professor," said the musical voice, "I thought there was a law that water always seeks its own level. So how can there be empty places below sea-level?"

"It's the fault of the aneroid barometer, my dear. We were very comfortable and commonplace until that came along and revealed anomalies. The secret lies, I suppose, in the trend of the strata, which is generally north and south. You see the ridges cropping out all through the desert; and there's a good deal of lava oozing over them, too. They probably act as walls, to prevent the sea getting in from the west, or the Colorado leaking in from the east."

"In that case," remarked the general, "a little more seismic disturbance might produce a change."

"It would have to be more than a little, I suspect," returned Meschines.

"Kamaiakan told me that the Indians have a prophecy that a great lake will come back and make the desert fruitful, and that there are some who know the very place where the water will begin to flow." And here the hammock, with a final convulsion, gave birth to a beautiful young woman, in a diaphanous silk dress and a white lace mantilla. She crossed the veranda, and seated herself on the broad arm of her father's chair.

"Why, that's important!" said the general, arching his brows. "I wonder if Kamaiakan is one of those who know the place? If so, it might be worth his while to let me into the secret."

"Oh, you couldn't go there! It's enchanted, and people who go near it die. There are bones all about there, now."

"This Kamaiakan appears to be a remarkable personage: where did you pick him up?" inquired the professor.

"It was rather the other way," Trednoke replied, taking one of his daughter's hands in his, and caressing it. "We are appendages to Kamaiakan. You look so natural, sitting there, Meschines, that I forget it's thirty years since we met, and that all the significant events of my life have happened in that time,— the Mexican war, my marriage, and the rest of it! I have been a widower ten years."

"And I've been a bachelor for over sixty!" said Meschines, with a queer expression. "Your wife was Spanish, was she not?"

"Her father was a Mexican of Andalusian descent. But her mother was descended from the race of Azatlan: there are records and relics indicating that her ancestors were princes in Tenochtitlan before Cortez made trouble there."

"And I've been losing my heart to a princess, and never realized my audacity!" exclaimed the professor, laying his hand on his waistcoat and making an obeisance to Miriam.

She tossed her free foot, and played with the fringe of her reboso.

"I will tell my maid to look for it," she said; "but I think you must have left it in papa's curiosity-room."

"No: I'm an Aztec sacrifice!" cried the professor; and they all laughed. "One would hardly have anticipated," he resumed after a pause, addressing Trednoke, "that you would have made a double conquest,—  first of the men, and then of the woman!"

"The woman conquered me, without trying or wishing to, and then, because she was a woman, took compassion on me. Whether my country has benefited much by the Mexican annexation, I can't say; but I know Inez— made a heaven on earth for me," concluded the general, in a low voice. His countenance, at this moment, wore a solemn and humble expression, beautiful to see; and Miriam bent and laid her cheek against his. Meschines knocked the ashes out of his pipe, and sighed.

"No woman ever took compassion on me," he remarked, "and you see the result,— ashes!"

"Ashes,— with their wonted fires living in them," said Trednoke.

"We were talking about this Indian of yours," said Meschines.

"Ay, to be sure. Well, he was attached to Inez's family when I first knew them. It was a peculiar relation; not like that of a servant. One finds such things in Mexico. The conquered race were of as good strain as their conquerors; the blood of Montezuma was as blue as the best of the Castilian. There were many intermarriages; and there are many instances of the survival of traditions and records; though the records are often symbolic, and would have no meaning to persons not initiated. But they have been sufficient to perpetuate ties of a personal nature through generation after generation; and the alliance between Kamaiakan and Inez was of this kind. His forefathers, I imagine, were priests, and priests were a mighty power in Tenochtitlan. For aught I know, indeed Kamaiakan may be an original priest of Montezuma's; no one knows his age, but he does not look an hour older, to-day, than when I first saw him, over twenty years ago."

"He must be!" said Miriam, with some positiveness. "He has told me of seeing and doing things hundreds of years ago. And he says—" She paused.

"What does he say, Niña adorada?" asked her father.

"It was about the treasure, you know."

"Let us hear. The professor is one of us."

"It's one of our traditions that my mother's ancestors, at the time of Cortez, were very rich people," continued Miriam, glancing at Meschines, and then letting her eyes wander across the garden, blooming with roses and fragrant with orange-trees, and so across the trellised vines towards the soft outline of the mountains eastward. "A great part of their wealth was in the form of jewels and precious stones. When Cortez took the city, one of the priests, who was a relative of our family, put the jewels in a box, and hid them in a certain place in the desert."

"And does Kamaiakan know where the place is?" asked the general.

"He can know, when the time comes."

"Which will be, perhaps, when you are ready for your dowry," observed the professor, genially.

"A spell was put upon the spot," Miriam went on, with a certain imaginative seriousness; for she loved romance and mystery so well, and was of a temperament so poetical, that the wildest fairy-tales had a sort of reality for her. "No one can find the treasure while the spell remains. But Kamaiakan understands the spell, and the conjuration which dissolves it; and when he dissolves it, the treasure will be found."

"And, between ourselves," added the general, "Kamaiakan is himself the priestly relative by whom the spell was wrought. He bears an enchanted life, which cannot cease until he has restored the jewels to Miriam's hands."

"There might be something in it, you know," said Meschines, after a pause. "The treasures of Montezuma have never been found. Is there no old chart or writing, in your collection of curiosities and relics, that might throw light on it?"

"The scriptures of Anahuac were of the hieroglyphic type,— picture-writing," replied the other. "No, I fear there is nothing to the purpose; and if there were, I shouldn't know how to decipher it."

"But, papa, the tunic!" exclaimed Miriam.

"Oh! has the tunic anything to do with it?"

"Is that the queer woollen garment with the gold embroidery?" inquired the professor, becoming more interested. "I took a fancy to that, you remember. Has it a story?"

"Well, it is a kind of an anomaly, I believe," the general answered, looking up at his daughter with a smile. "The Aztecs, you are aware, dressed chiefly in cotton. Even their defensive armor was of cotton, thickly quilted. Their ornaments were feathers, and embroidery of gold and precious stones. But wool, for some reason, they didn't wear; and yet this garment, as you can see for yourself, is pure wool; and that it is also pure Aztecan is beyond question."

"Admitting that, what clue does it give to the treasure?"

"You must ask Kamaiakan," said Miriam: "only, he wouldn't tell you."

"Possibly," the professor suggested, "the place where the treasure is hidden is the place whence the water is to flow out; and the water is the treasure."

"Seriously, do you suppose that such a phenomenon as the return of an inland sea is physically practicable?" asked Trednoke.

"No phenomenon, in this part of the world, would surprise me," returned Meschines. "The Colorado might break its barriers; or it is conceivable that some huge stream, taking its rise in the heights hundreds of miles north and east of us, may be flowing through subterranean passages into the sea, emerging from the sea-bottom hundreds of miles to the westward. Now, if a rattling good earthquake were to happen along, you might awake in the morning to find yourself on an island, or even under water."

"A moderate Mediterranean would satisfy me," the general said. "I wouldn't exchange the certainty of it for the treasures of Montezuma."

"The thirst for gold and for water are synonymous in your case?"

"Give this section a moist climate, and I needn't tell you that the Great American Desert would literally blossom as the rose. Even as it is, I expect a great deal of it will be redeemed by scientific irrigation. The soil only needs water to become inexhaustibly productive. Our desert, as you know, is not sand, like parts of the Sahara; it has all the ingredients that go to nourish plants, only their present powdery condition makes them unavailable. Now, I can, to-day, buy a hundred square miles of desert for a few dollars. You see the point, don't you?"

"And all you want is expert opinion as to the likelihood of finding water?"

"The man who solves that question for me in the affirmative is welcome to half my share of the results that would ensue from it."

"Why don't you engage some expert to investigate?"

"One can't always trust an expert. I don't mean as to his expertness only, but as to his good faith. He might prefer to sell the idea to somebody who could pay cash,— which I cannot."

"Why, you seem to have given this thing a good deal of thought, Trednoke."

"Well, yes: it has been my hobby for a year past; and I have made some investigations myself. But this is the first time I have spoken of it to any one."

"I understand. And what of the investigations?"

"I can say that I found enough to interest me. I'll tell you about it some time. I should be glad to leave Miriam something to make her independent."

"I should say that her Creator had already done that!" said Meschines. "By the way, I know a young fellow— if he were only here— who is just the man you want, and can be trusted. He's a civil engineer,— Harvey Freeman: the Lord only knows in what part of the world he is at this speaking. He has made a special study of these subterranean matters."

"Don't you remember, papa, Coleridge's poem of Kubla Khan?— Where Alph, the sacred river, ran Through caverns measureless to man Down to a sunless sea!

"Our sacred river, when we find it, shall be named Miriam."

"It ought to be Kamaiakan," she rejoined; "for, if anybody finds it, it will be he."

"I think I hear the wings of the angel of whom we have been speaking," said the general. "Yes, here he is; and he has got the letters. Let us see! One for you Meschines. And this, I see, is from our friend Miss Parsloe, postmarked Santa Barbara. Why, she'll be here to-morrow, at that rate."

"Here's a queer coincidence!" exclaimed the professor, who had meanwhile opened his envelope and glanced through the contents. "The very man I was speaking of,— Harvey Freeman! Says he is in this neighborhood, has heard I'm here, and is coming down to pay me a visit. Methinks I hear the rolling of the sacred river!"

"But you won't mention it to him, until—"

"Bless me! Of course not. I'll bring him over here, in the course of human events, and you can take a look at him, and act on your own intuitions. I won't say on Princess Miriam's, for Harvey is a very fine- looking fellow, and her intuitions might get confused."

"A civil engineer!" said Miriam, with an intonation worthy of the daughter of a West-Pointer and the descendant of an Aztec prince.

Kamaiakan (who spoke only Spanish) had been gathering up some cushions that had fallen out of the hammock. Having replaced them, and cast a quick glance at Meschines, he withdrew.

ii

THE SOUTHERN PACIFIC Railway passes, today, not far from the site of General Trednoke's ranch. But the events now to be narrated occurred some years before the era of transcontinental railroads: they were in the air, but not yet bolted down to the earth. The general, therefore, was a pioneer, and was by no means overrun with friends from the East in search of an agreeable winter climate. The easiest way to reach him— if you were not pressed for time — was round the cape which forms the southernmost point of South America and sticks its sharp snout inquiringly into the Antarctic solitudes, as if it scented something questionable there. The speediest route, though open to strange discomforts, was by way of the Isthmus; and then there were always the saddle, the wagon, and the stage, with the accompaniments of road- agents, tornadoes, deserts, and starvation.

Miss Grace Parsloe came via the Isthmus; and the latter part of her journey had been alleviated by the society of a young gentleman from New York, Freeman by name. There were other passengers on the vessel; but these two discovered sympathies of origin and education which made companionship natural. They sat together at table, leaned side by side over the taffrail, discussed their fellow-travellers, and investigated each other. As he lolled on the bench with folded arms and straw hat tilted back from his forehead she, glancing side- long, as her manner was, saw a sunburnt aquiline nose, a moustache of a lighter brown than the visage which it decorated, a lean, strong jaw, and a muscular neck. His forehead, square and impending, was as white as ivory in comparison with the face below; his hair, in accordance with the fashion introduced by the late war, was cropped close. But what especially moved Miss Grace were those long, lazy blue eyes, which seemed to tolerate everything, but to be interested in nothing,— hardly even in her. Now, Grace could not help knowing she was a pretty girl, and it was somewhat of a novelty to her that Freeman should appear so indifferent. It would have been difficult to devise a better opportunity than this to monopolize masculine admiration, and she fell to speculating as to what sort of an experience Mr. Freeman must have had, so to panoply him against her magic. On the other hand, she was the recipient of whatever attentions he could bring himself to detach from the horizon-line, or from his own thoughts (which appeared to amount, practically, to about the same thing). She had no other rivals; and a woman will submit amiably to a good deal of indifference, provided she be assured that no other woman is enjoying what she lacks.

Freeman, for his part, had nothing to complain of. Grace Parsloe was a singularly pretty girl. Singular properly qualifies her. She was not like the others,— by which phrase he epitomized the numerous comely young women whom he had, at various times and in several countries, attended, teased, and kissed. Both physically and mentally, she was very fine-wrought. Her bones were small; her body and limbs were slender, but beautifully fashioned. She was supple and vigorous. Grace is a product of brain as well as an effect of bodily symmetry: Grace had the quality on both counts. She answered to one's conception of Mahomet's houris, assuming that the conception is not of a fat person. Her head was small, but well proportioned,— compact as to the forehead, rather broad across the cheek-bones, thence tapering to the chin. Her eyes were blue, but of an Eastern strangeness of shape and setting; they were subject to great and sudden changes of expression, depending, apparently, on the varying state of her emotions, and betraying an intensity more akin to the Oriental temperament than to ours. There was in her something subtle and fierce; yet overlaying it, like a smooth and silken skin, were the conventional polish and bearing of an American school graduate. She was, in deed, noticeably artificial and self-conscious in manner and in the intonations of her speech; though it was an aesthetic delight to see her move or pose, and the quality of her voice was music's self. But Freeman, after due meditation, came to the conclusion that this was the outcome of her recognition of her own singularity: in trying to be like other people, she fell into caricature. Freeman, somehow, liked her the better for it. Like most men of brain and pith, who have seen and thought much, he was thankful for a new thing, because, so far as it went, it renewed him. It pleased him to imagine that he could, with a word or a look, cause this veil of artifice to be thrown aside, and the primitive passion and fierceness behind it to start forth. He allowed himself to imagine, with a certain satisfaction, that were he to make this young woman jealous she would think nothing of thrusting a dagger between his ribs. Reality,— what a delight it is! The actual touch and feeling of the spontaneous natural creature have been so buried beneath centuries of hypocrisy and humbug that we have ceased to believe in them save as a metaphysical abstraction. But even as water, long depressed under-ground in perverse channels, surges up to the surface, and above it, at last, in a fountain of relief, so Nature, after enduring ages of outrage and banishment, leaps back to her rightful domain in some individual whom we call extraordinary because he or she is natural. Grace Parsloe did not seem (regarded as to her temperament and quality) to belong where she was: therefore she was a delightful incident there. Had she been met with in the days of the Old Testament, or in the depths of Persia or India at the present time, even, she might have appeared commonplace. But here she was in conventional costume, with conventional manners. And, just as the nautch-girls, and other Oriental dancers and posturers, wear a costume which suggests nature more effectively than does nature itself, so did Grace's conventionality suggest to Freeman the essential absence of conventionality more forcibly than if he had seen her clad in a turban and translucent caftan, dancing off John the Baptist's head, or driving a nail into that of Sisera. Grace certainly owed much of her importance to her situation, which rendered her foreign and piquante. But, then, everything, in this world, is relative.

Racial types seem to be a failure: when they become very marked, the race deteriorates or vanishes. In the counties of England, after only a thousand years, the women you meet in the rural districts and country towns all look like sisters. The Asiatics, of course, are much more sunk in type than the Anglo- Saxons; and they show us the way we would be going. Only, there is hope in rapid transit and the cosmopolitan spirit, and especially in these United States, which bring together the ends of the earth, and place side by side a descendant of the Puritans like Freeman, and a daughter of Irak-Ajemi.

"What are you coming to California for, Mr. Freeman?"

Freeman had already told her what he had been in the Isthmus for,— to paddle in miasmatic swamps with a view to the possibility of a canal in the remote, speculative future. He had given her a graphic and entertaining picture of the hideous and inconceivable life he had led there for six months, from which he had emerged the only member of a party of nineteen (whites, blacks, and yellows) who was not either dead by disease, by violence, or by misadventure, or had barely escaped with life and a shattered constitution. Freeman, after emerging from the miasmatic hell and lake of Gehenna, had taken a succession of baths, with soap and friction, had been attended by a barber and a tailor, and had himself attended the best table to be found for love or money in the charming town of Panama. He had also spent more than half of the week of his sojourn there in sleep; and he was now in the best possible condition, physical and mental,— though not, he admitted, pecuniary. As to morals, they had not reached that discussion yet. But, in all that he did say, Freeman exhibited perfect unreserve and frankness, answering without hesitation or embarrassment any question she chose to ask (and she asked some curious ones).

But when she asked him such an innocent thing as what he was after in California— an inquiry, by the way, put more in idleness than out of curiosity— Freeman stroked his yellow moustache with the thumb of the hand that held his Cuban cigarette, gazed with narrowed eyelids at the horizon, and for some time made no reply at all. Finally he said that California was a place he had never visited, and that it would be a pity to have been so near it and yet not have improved the opportunity of taking a look at it.

Grace instantly scented a mystery, and was not less promptly resolved to fathom it. And what must be the nature of a mystery attaching to a handsome man, unmarried, and evidently no stranger to the gentler sex? Of course there must be a woman in it! Her eyes glowed with azure fire.

"You have some acquaintances in California, I suppose?" she said, with an air of laborious indifference.

"Well,— yes; I believe I have," Freeman admitted.

"Have they lived there long?"

"No; not over a few months. I accidentally heard from a person in Panama. I dropped a line to say I might turn up."

"She— you haven't had time to get an answer, then?"

Freeman inhaled a deep breath through his cigarette, tilted his head back, and allowed the smoke to escape slowly through his nostrils. In this manner, familiar to his deep-designing sex, he concealed a smile. Grace was, in some respects, as transparent as she was subtle. So long as the matter in hand did not touch her emotions, she had no difficulty in maintaining a deceptive surface; but emotion she could not disguise, though she was probably not aware of the fact; for emotion has a tendency to shut one's own eyes and open what they can no longer see in one's self to the gaze of outsiders.

"No," he said, when he had recovered his composure. "But that won't make any difference. We are on rather intimate terms, you see."

"Oh! Is it long since you have met?"

"Pretty long; at least it seems so to me."

Grace turned, and looked full at her companion. He did not meet her glance, but kept his profile steadily opposed, and went on smoking with a dreamy air, as if lost in memories and anticipations, sad, yet sweet.

"Really, Mr. Freeman, I hardly thought — you have always seemed to care so little about anything— I didn't suspect you of so much sentiment."

"I am like other men," he returned, with a sigh. "My affections are not given indiscriminately; but when they are given,— you understand,— I—"

"Oh, I understand: pray don't think it necessary to explain. I'm sure I'm very far from wishing to listen to confidences about another,— to—"

"Yes, but I like to talk about it," interposed Freeman, earnestly. "I haven't had a chance to open my heart, you know, for at least six months. And though you and I haven't known each other long, I believe you to be capable of appreciating what a man feels when he is on his way to meet some one who—"

"Thank you! You are most considerate! But I shall be additionally obliged if you would tell me in what respect I can have so far forgotten myself as to lead you to think me likely to appreciate anything of the kind. I assure you, Mr. Freeman, I have never cared for any one; and nothing I have seen since I left home makes it probable that I shall begin now."

"I am sorry to hear that," said Freeman, slowly drawing another cigarette out of his bundle, and beginning to re-roll it with a dejected air.

"Indeed!"

"Yes: the fact is, I had hoped that you had begun to have a little friendly feeling for me. I am more than ready to reciprocate."

"I hope you will spare me any insults, sir. I have no one to protect me, but—"

"I assure you, I mean no insult. You cannot help knowing that I think you as beautiful and fascinating a woman as I have ever met; but of course you can't help being beautiful and fascinating. Do I insult you by having eyes? If so, I am sorry, but you will have to make the best of it."

With this, he turned in his seat, and calmly confronted her. Beautiful she certainly was, at that moment; but it was the beauty of an angry serpent. She had a pencil in her hand, with which, a little while before, she had been sketching heads of some of the passengers in her little notebook. She was now handling this inoffensive object in such a way as to justify the fancy that, had it been charged with a deadly poison in its point, instead of with a bit of plumbago of the HH quality, she would have driven it into Freeman's heart then and there.

"Is it no insult," said she, in a sibilant voice, "to talk to me as you are doing, when you have just told me that you love another woman, and are going to meet her?"

Freeman's brows gradually knitted themselves in a frown of apparent perplexity. "I must say I don't understand you," he observed, at length. "I am quite sure I have said nothing of the sort. How could I?"

"If you wish to quibble about words, perhaps not. But was not that your meaning?"

"No, it wasn't. You are the only woman who has been in my thoughts to-day."

"Mr. Freeman!"

"Well?"

"You have intimated very clearly that you are engaged— married, for aught I know — to a woman whom you are now on your way to meet—"

At this point she stopped. Freeman had interrupted her with a shout of laughter.

She had been very pale. She now flushed all over her face, and jumped to her feet.

"Sit down," he said, laying a hand on her dress and (aided by a lurch of the vessel) pulling her into her seat again, "and listen to me. And then I shall insist upon an apology. This is too much!"

"I shall ask the captain—"

"You will not, I promise you. Look here! When I was in Panama, I met there a fellow I used to know in New York. He told me that he had recently crossed the continent with Professor Meschines, who used to teach geology and botany at Yale College, when he and I were students there. The professor had come over partly for the fun of the thing, and partly to look for specimens in the line of his profession. My friend parted from him at San Francisco: the professor was going farther south."

"What has all this to do with the woman who—"

"It has this to do with it,— that the professor is the woman! He is over sixty years old, and has always been a good friend of mine; but I am not going to marry him. I am not engaged to him, he is not beautiful, nor even fascinating, except in the way of an elderly man of science. And he is the only human being, besides yourself, that I know or have ever heard of on the Pacific coast. Now for your apology!"

Grace emitted a long breath, and sank back in her seat, with her hands clasped in her lap. She raised her hands and covered her face with them. She removed them, sat erect, and bent an open-eyed, intent gaze upon her companion.

After this pantomime, she exclaimed, in the lowest and most musical of tones, "Oh! how hateful you are!" Then she cried out with animation, "I believe you did it on purpose!" Finally, she sank back again, with a soft laugh and sparkling eyes, at the same time stretching out her right arm towards him and placing her hand on his, with a whispered, "There, then!"

Freeman, accepting the hand for the apology, kissed it, and continued to hold it afterwards.

"Am I not a little goose?" she murmured.

"You certainly are," replied Freeman.

"You mustn't hold my hand any more."

"Do you mean to withdraw your apology?"

"N— no; but it doesn't follow that—"

"Oh, yes, it does. Besides, when a man receives such a delicate, refined, graceful, exquisite apology as this,"— here he lifted the hand, looked at it critically, and bestowed another kiss upon it,—"he would be a fool not to make the most of it."

"Ah, I'm afraid you're dangerous. You are well named— Freeman!"

"My name is Harvey: won't you call me by it?"

"Oh, I can't!"

"Try! Would it make it easier if I were to call you by yours?"

"Mine is Miss Parsloe."

"Pooh! How can that be your name which you are going to change so soon? When I look at you, I see your name; when I think of you, I say it to myself,— Grace!"

"How do you know I am going to change my name soon— or ever?"

"Whom are you talking to?"

"To you,— Harvey! Oh!" She snatched her hand away and pressed it over her lips.

"How do I know you are beautiful, Grace, and— irresistible?"

"But I'm not! You're making fun of me! Besides, I'm twenty."

"How many times have you been engaged?"

"Never. Nobody wants to be engaged to a poor girl. Oh me!"

"Do you know what you are made of, Grace? Fire and flowers! Few men in the world are men enough to be a match for you. But what have you been doing with yourself all this time? Why do you come to a place like this?"

"Maybe I had a presentiment that... What nonsense we are talking! But what you said reminds me. It's the strangest coincidence!"

"What is it?"

"Your Professor Meschines—"

"On the contrary, he is a most matter- of-fact old gentleman."

"Do be quiet, and listen to me! When my mamma was a girl in school, there were two boys there,— it was a boy-and-girls' school,— and they were great friends. But they both fell in love with my mamma—"

"I can understand that," put in Freeman.

"How do you know I am like my mamma? Well, as I was saying, they both fell in love with her, and quarrelled with each other, and had a fight. The boy that won the fight is the man to whose house I am going."

"Then he didn't marry your mamma?"

"Oh, no; that was only a childish affair, and she married another man."

"The one who got thrashed?"

"Of course not. But the one who got thrashed is your Professor Meschines."

"I see! The poor old professor! And he has remained a bachelor all his life."

"Mamma has often told me the story, and that the Trednoke boy went to West Point, and distinguished himself in the Mexican war, and married a Mexican woman, and the Meschines boy became a professor in Yale College. And now I am going to see one of them, and you to see the other. Isn't that a coincidence?"

"The first of a long series, I trust. Is this West-Pointer a permanent settler here?"

"Yes, for ever so long,— twenty years. He's a widower, but he has a daughter—  Oh, I know you'll fall in love with her!"

"Is she like you?"

"I don't know. I've never seen her, or General Trednoke either."

"Come to think of it, though, nobody is like you, Grace. Now, will you be so good as to apologize again?"

"Don't you think you're rather exacting, Harvey?"

However, the apology was finally repeated, and continued, more or less, during the rest of the voyage; and Grace quite forgot that she had never made Harvey tell what was really the cause of his coming to California. But she, on her side, had a secret. She never allowed him to suspect that the past eighteen months of her life had been passed as employee in a New York dry- goods store.

iii

GENERAL TREDNOKE'S house was built by Spanish missionaries in the sixteenth century; and in its main features it was little altered in three hundred years. In a climate where there is no frost, walls of adobe last as long as granite. The house consisted, practically, of but one story; for although there were rooms under the roof, they were used only for storage; no one slept in them. The plan of the building was not unlike that of a train of railway-cars,—  or, it might be more appropriate to say, of emigrant-wagons. There was a series of rooms, ranged in a line, access to them being had from a narrow corridor, which opened on the rear veranda. Several of the rooms also communicated directly with each other, and, through low windows, gave on the veranda in front; for the house was merely a comparatively narrow array of apartments between two broad verandas, where most of the living, including much of the sleeping, was done.

Logically, there can be nothing uglier than a Spanish-American dwelling of this type. But, as a matter of fact, they appear seductively beautiful. The thick white walls acquire a certain softness of tone; the surface scales off here and there, and cracks and crevices appear. In a damp country, like England, they would soon become covered with moss; but moss is not to be had in this region, though one were to offer for it the price of the silk velvet, triple ply, which so much resembles it. Nevertheless, there are compensations. The soil is inexhaustibly fertile, and its fertility expresses itself in the most inveterate beauty. Such colors and varieties of flowers exist nowhere else, and they continue all the year round. Climbing vines storm the walls, and toss their green ladders all over it, for beauty to walk up and down. Huge jars, standing on the verandas, emit volcanoes of lovely blossoms; and vases swung from the roof drip and overflow with others, as if water had turned to flowers. In the garden, which extends over several acres at the front of the house, and, as it were, makes it an island in a gorgeous sea of petals, there are roses, almonds, oranges, vines, pomegranates, and a hundred rivals whose names are unknown to the present historian, marching joyfully and triumphantly through the seasons, as the symphony moves through changes along its central theme.

Everything that is not an animal or a mineral seems to be a flower. There are too many flowers,— or, rather, there is not enough of anything else. The faculty of appreciation wearies, and at last ceases to take note. It is like conversing with a person whose every word is an epigram. The senses have their limitations, and imagination and expectation are half of beauty and delight, and the better half; otherwise we should have no souls. A single violet, discovered by chance in the by-ways of an April forest in New England, gives a pleasure as poignant as, and more spiritual than, the miles upon miles of Californian splendors.

Monotony is the ruling characteristic,— monotony of beauty, monotony of desolation, monotony even of variety. The glorious blue overhead is monotonous: as for the thermometer, it paces up and down within the narrowest limits, like a prisoner in his cell, or a meadow-lark hopping to and fro in a seven-inch cage. The plan and aspect of the buildings are monotonous, and so is the way of life of those who inhabit them. Fortunately, the sun does rise and set in Southern California: otherwise life there would be at an absolute stand-still, with no past and no future. But, as it is, one can look forward to morning, and remember the evening.

Then, there are the not infrequent but seldom very destructive earthquakes; the occasional cloud-bursts and tornadoes, sudden and violent as a gunpowder-explosion; and, finally, the astounding contrast between the fertile regions and the desert. There are places where you can stand with one foot planted in everlasting sterility and the other in immortal verdure. In the midst of an arid and hopeless waste, you come suddenly upon the brink of a narrow ravine, sharply defined as if cut out with an axe, and packed to the brim with enchanting and voluptuous fertility. Or you will come upon mountains which sweep upward out of burning death into sumptuous life. When the monotony of life meets the monotony of death, Southern California becomes a land of contrasts; and the contrasts themselves become monotonous.

General Trednoke's ranch was very near the borders of these two mighty forces. An hour's easy ride would carry him to a region as barren and apparently as irreclaimable as that through which Childe Roland journeyed in quest of the Dark Tower; lying, too, in a temperature so fiery that it coagulated the blood in the veins, and stopped the beating of the heart. Underfoot were fine dust, and whitened bones; the air was prismatic and magical, ever conjuring up phantom pictures, whose characteristic was that they were at the farthest remove from any possible reality. The azure sky descended and became a lake; the pulsations of the atmosphere translated themselves into the rhythmic lapse of waves; spikes of sage-brush and blades of cactus became sylvan glades, and hamlets cheerful with inhabitants. Only, all was silent; and as you drew near, the scene trembled, altered, and was gone!

Hideous black lizards and horned toads crawl and hop amid this desolation; and the deadly little sidewinder rattlesnake lies basking in the blaze of sunshine, which it distils into venom. Sometimes the level plain is broken up into savage ridges and awful canons, along whose arid bottoms no water streams. As you stagger through their chaotic bottoms, you see vast boulders poised overhead, tottering to a fall; a shiver of earthquake, a breath of hurricane, and they come crashing and splintering in destruction down. Along the sides of these acclivities extend long, level lines and furrows, marks of where the ocean flowed ages ago. But sometimes the hills are but accumulations of desert dust, which shift slowly from place to place under the action of the wind, melting away here to be re-erected yonder; mounding themselves, perhaps, above a living and struggling human being, to move forward, anon, leaving where he was a little heap of withered bones. A fearful place is this broad abyss, where once murmured the waters of a prehistoric sea. Let us return to the cool and fragrant security of the general's ranch.

At right angles to the main body of the house extend two wings, thus forming three sides of a square, the interior of which is the court-yard. Here the business of the establishment is conducted. It is the liveliest spot on the premises; though it is liveliness of a very indolent sort. The veranda built around these sides is twenty feet in breadth, paved with tiles that have been worn into hollows by innumerable lazy footsteps, mostly shoeless, for this side of the house is frequented chiefly by the servants of the place, who are Mexican Indians. Ancient wooden settles are bolted to the walls; from hooks hang Indian baskets of bright colors; in one corner are stretched raw hides, which serve as beds. Small brown children, half naked, trot, clamber, and crawl about. Black-haired, swarthy women squat on the tiled floor, pursuing their vocations, or, often, doing nothing at all beyond continuing a placid organic existence. Boys and men saunter in and out of the court-yard, chatting or calling in their musical patois; once in a while there is a thud and clatter of hoofs, a rider arriving or departing. It is an entertaining scene, charming in its monotony of small changes and evolutions; you can sit watching it in a half-doze for twenty years at a stretch, and it may seem only as many minutes, or vice versa.

Most of the rooms in the wings are used for the kitchens and other servants' quarters; but one large chamber is devoted to a special purpose of the general's own: it is a museum; the Curiosity-Room, he calls it. It is lighted by two windows opening on opposite sides, one on the court-yard, the other on an orange grove at the south end of the house. Besides being, in itself, a cool and pleasant spot, it is full of interest to any one who cares about the relics and antiquities of an ancient and vanishing race, concerning whom little is or ever will be known. There are two students in it at this moment; though whether they are studying antiquities is another matter. Let us give ear to their discourse and be instructed.

"But this was made for you to wear, Miss Trednoke. Try it. It fits you perfectly, you see. There can be no doubt about your being a princess, now!"

"I sometimes feel it,— here!" she said, putting her hand on her bosom. She was looking at him as she said it, but her eyes, instead of any longer meeting his, seemed to turn their regard inward, and to traverse strange regions, not of this world. "I see some one who is myself, though I can never have been she: she is surrounded with brightness, and people not like ours; she thinks of things that I have never known. It is the memory of a dream, I suppose," she added, in another tone.

"Heredity is a queer thing. You may be Aztecan over again, in mind and temperament; and every one knows how impressions are transmitted. If features and traits of character, why not particular thoughts and feelings?"

"I think it is better not to try to explain these things," said she, with the unconscious haughtiness which maidens acquire who have not seen the world and are adored by their family. "They are great mysteries,— or else nothing." She now removed from her head the curious cap or helmet, ornamented with gold and with the green feathers of the humming-bird, which her companion had crowned her with, and hung it on its nail in the cabinet. "Perhaps the thoughts came with the cap," she remarked, smiling slightly. "I don't feel that way any more. I ought not to have spoken of it."

"I hope the time will come when you will feel that you may trust me."

"You seem easy to know, Mr. Freeman," she replied, looking at him contemplatively as she spoke, "and yet you are not. There is one of you that thinks, and another that speaks. And you are not the same to my father, or to Professor Meschines, that you are to me."

"What is the use of human beings except to take one out of one's self?"

"But it is not your real self that comes out," said Miriam, after a little pause. She never spoke hurriedly, or until after the coming speech had passed into her face.

Freeman laughed. "Well," he said, "if I'm a hypocrite, I'm one of those who are made and not born. As a boy, I was frank enough. But a good part of my life has been spent with people who couldn't be trusted; and perhaps the habit of protecting myself against them has grown upon me. If I could only live here for a while it would be different.— Here's an odd-looking thing. What do you call that?"

"We call it the Golden Fleece."

"The Golden Fleece! I can imagine a Medea; but where is the Dragon?"

"If Jason came, the Dragon might appear."

"I remember reading somewhere that the Dragon was less to be feared than Medea's eyes. But this fleece seems to have lost most of its gold. There is only a little gold embroidery."

"It shows where the gold is hidden."

"It's you that are concealing something now, Miss Trednoke. How can a woollen garment be a talisman?"

"The secret might be woven into it, perhaps," replied Miriam, passing her fingers caressingly over the soft tunic. "Then, when the right person puts it on, it would— But you don't believe in these things."

"I don't know: you don't give me a chance. But who is the right person? The thing seems rather small. I'm sure I couldn't get it on."

"It can fit only the one it was made for," said Miriam, gravely. "And if you wanted to find the gold, you would trust to your science, rather than to this."

"Well, gold-hunting is not in my line, at present. Every nugget has been paid for more than once, before it is found. Besides, there is something better than gold in Southern California,— something worth any labor to get."

"What is it?" asked Miriam, turning her tranquil regard upon him.

Harvey Freeman had never been deficient in audacity. But, standing in the dark radiance of this maiden's eyes, his self- assurance dwindled, and he could not bring himself to say to her what he would have said to any other pretty woman he had ever met. For he felt that great pride and passion were concealed beneath that tranquil surface: it was a nature that might give everything to love, and would never pardon any frivolous parody thereof. Freeman had been acquainted with Miriam scarcely two days, but he had already begun to perceive the main indications of a character which a lifetime might not be long enough wholly to explore. Marriage had never been among the enterprises he had, in the course of his career, proposed to himself: he did not propose it now: yet he dared not risk the utterance of a word that would lead Miriam to look at him with an offended or contemptuous glance. It was not that she was, from the merely physical point of view, transcendently beautiful. His first impression of her, indeed, had been that she was merely an unusually good example of a type by no means rare in that region. But ere long he became sensible of a spiritual quality in her which lifted her to a level far above that which can be attained by mere harmony of features and proportions. Beneath the outward aspect lay a profound depth of being, glimpses of which were occasionally discernible through her eyes, in the tones of her voice, in her smile, in unconscious movements of her hands and limbs. Demonstrative she could never be; but she could, at will, feel with tropical intensity, and act with the swiftness and energy of a fanatic.

In Miriam's company, Freeman forgot every one save her,— even himself,— though she certainly made no effort to attract him or (beyond the commonplaces of courtesy) to interest him. Consequently he had become entirely oblivious of the existence of such a person as Grace Parsloe, when, much to his irritation, he heard the voice of that young lady, mingled with others, approaching along the veranda. At the same moment he experienced acute regret at the whim of fortune which had made himself and that sprightly young lady fellow- passengers from Panama, and at the idle impulse which had prompted him to flirt with her.

But the past was beyond remedy: it was his concern to deal with the present. In a few seconds, Grace entered the curiosity- room, followed by Professor Meschines, and by a dashing young Mexican señor, whom Freeman had met the previous evening, and who was called Don Miguel de Mendoza. The señor, to judge from his manner, had already fallen violently in love with Grace, and was almost dislocating his organs of speech in the effort to pay her romantic compliments in English. Freeman observed this with unalloyed satisfaction. But the look which Grace bent upon him and Miriam, on entering, and the ominous change which passed over her mobile countenance, went far to counteract this agreeable impression.

One story is good until another is told. Freeman had really thought Grace a fascinating girl, until he saw Miriam. There was no harm in that: the trouble was, he had allowed Grace to perceive his admiration. He had already remarked that she was a creature of violent extremes, tempered, but not improved, by a thin polish of subtlety. She was now about to give an illustration of the passion of jealousy. But it was not her jealousy that Freeman minded: it was the prospect of Miriam's scorn when she should surmise that he had given Grace cause to be jealous. Miriam was not the sort of character to enter into a competition with any other woman about a lover. He would lose her before he had a chance to try to win her.

But fortune proved rather more favorable than Freeman expected, or, perhaps, than he deserved. Grace's attack was too impetuous. She stopped just inside the threshold, and said, in an imperious tone, "Come here, Mr. Freeman: I wish to speak to you."

"Thank you," he replied, resolving at once to widen the breach to the utmost extent possible, "I am otherwise engaged."

"Upon my word," observed the professor, with a chuckle, "you're no diplomatist, Harvey! What are you two about here? Investigating antiquities?"

"The remains of ancient Mexico are more interesting than some of her recent products," returned Freeman, who wished to quarrel with somebody, and had promptly decided that Señor Don Miguel de Mendoza was the most available person. He bowed to the latter as he spoke.

"You— a— spoken to me?" said the señor, stepping forward with a polite grimace. "I no to quite comprehend—"

"Pray don't exert yourself to converse with me out of your own language, señor," interrupted Freeman, in Spanish. "I was just remarking that the Spaniards seem to have degenerated greatly since they colonized Mexico."

"Señor!" exclaimed Don Miguel, stiffening and staring.

"Of course," added Freeman, smiling benevolently upon him, "I judge only from such specimens of the modern Mexican as I happen to meet with."

Don Miguel's sallow countenance turned greenish white. But, before he could make a reply, Meschines, who scented mischief in the air, and divined that the gentler sex must somehow be at the bottom of it, struck in.

"You may consider yourself lucky, Harvey, in making the acquaintance of a gentleman like Señor de Mendoza, who exemplifies the undimmed virtues of Cortez and Torquemada. For my part, I brought him here in the hope that he might be able to throw some light on the mystery of this embroidered garment, which I see you've been examining. What do you say, Don Miguel? Have these designs any significance beyond mere ornament? Anything in the nature of hieroglyphics?"

The señor was obliged to examine, and to enter into a discussion, though, of course, his ignorance of the subject in dispute was as the depths of that abyss which has no bottom. Miriam, who was not fond of Don Miguel, but who felt constrained to exceptional courtesy in view of Freeman's unwarrantable attack upon him, stood beside him and the Professor; and Freeman and Grace were thus left to fight it out with each other.

But Grace had drawn her own conclusions from what had passed. Freeman had insulted Don Miguel. Wherefore? Obviously, it could only be because he thought that she was flirting with him. In other words, Freeman was jealous; and to be jealous is to love. Now, Grace was so constituted that, though she did not like to play second fiddle herself, yet she had no objection to monopolizing all the members of the male species who might happen, at a given moment, to be in sight.

She had, consequently, already forgiven Freeman for his apparent unfaithfulness to her, by reason of his manifest jealousy of Don Miguel. As a matter of fact, he was not jealous, and he was unfaithful; but fate had decreed that there should be, for the moment, a game of cross-purposes; and the decrees of fate are incorrigible.

"I had no idea you were so savage," she said, softly.

"I'm not savage," replied Freeman. "I am bored."

"Well, I don't know as I can blame you," said Grace, still more softly: she fancied he was referring to Miriam. "I don't much like Spanish mixtures myself."

"One has to take what one can get," said Freeman, referring to Don Miguel.

"But it's all right now," rejoined she, meaning that Freeman and herself were reconciled after their quarrel.

"If you are satisfied, I am," observed Freeman, too indifferent to care what she meant.

"Only, you mustn't take that poor young man too seriously," she went on: "these Mexicans are absurdly demonstrative, but they don't mean anything."

"He won't, if he values his skin," said Freeman, meaning that if Don Miguel attempted to interfere between himself and Miriam he would wring his neck.

"He won't, I promise you," said Grace, sparkling with pleasure.

"I don't quite see how you can help it," returned Freeman.

"I should hope I could manage a creature like that!" murmured she, smiling.

"Well," said Freeman, after a pause,—  for Grace's seeming change of attitude puzzled him a little,—"I'm glad you look at it that way. I don't wish to be meddled with; that's all."

"You shan't be," she whispered; and then, just when they were approaching the point where their eyes might have been opened, in came General Trednoke. The group round the Golden Fleece broke up.

The general wore his riding-dress, and his bearing was animated, though he was covered with dust.

"I was wondering what had become of you all," he said, as the others gathered about him. "I have been taking a canter to the eastward. Kamaiakan said this morning that one of the boys had brought news of a cloud-burst in that direction. I rode far enough to ascertain that there has really been something of the kind, and I think it has affected the arroyo on the farther side of the little sierra. Now, I don't know how you gentlemen feel, but it occurred to me that it might be interesting to make up a little party of exploration to-morrow. Would you like to try it, Meschines?"

"To be sure I should!" the professor replied. "I imagine I can stand as much of the desert as you can! And I want to catch a sidewinder."

"Good! And you, Mr. Freeman?"

"It would suit me exactly," said the latter. "In fact, I had been intending to gratify my curiosity by making some such expedition on my own account."

"Ah!" said the general, eying him with some intentness. "Well, we may be able to show you something more curious than you anticipate.— And now, Señor de Mendoza, there is only you left. May we count on your company into the desert?"

But the Mexican, with a bow and a grimace, excused himself. Scientific curiosity was an unknown emotion to him; but he foresaw an opportunity to have Grace all to himself, and he meant to improve it. He also wished leisure to think over some plan for getting rid of Señor Freeman, in whom he scented a rival, and who, whether a rival or not, had behaved to him with a lack of consideration in the presence of ladies.

iv

GENERAL TREDNOKE'S household went early to bed. As there was more accommodation in the old house than sufficed for its present inhabitants, it followed that each of them had a regal allowance of rooms. And when Grace Parsloe became one of the occupants, she was allotted two commodious apartments at the extremity of the left wing. They communicated, through long windows, with the veranda in front, and by means of doors with the passage, or hall, traversing the house from end to end. If, therefore, she happened to be sleepless, she might issue forth into the garden, and wander about there without let or hindrance until she was ready to accept the wooing of the god of dreams; or, if supernatural terrors daunted her, she could in a few seconds transfer herself and her fears to Miriam's chamber, which occupied the same position in the right wing that hers did in the left.

The night, as is customary in that climate, where the atmosphere is pure and evaporation rapid, was cool and still. By ten o'clock there was no sound to indicate that any person was awake; though, to an acute ear, the rise and fall of regular breathing, or even an occasional snore, might have given evidence of slumber. At the back of the house, the Indian retainers were lapped in silence. They were a harmless people,—  somewhat disposed, perhaps, to small pilferings, in an amiable and loyal way, but incapable of anything seriously criminal. There were no locks on the doors, and most of them stood ajar. Tramps and burglars were unknown.

Miriam, having put on her night-dress, stood a few minutes at her window, gazing out on the soft darkness of the garden. All there was peacefulness and fragrance. The leaves of the plants hung motionless; the blossoms seemed to hush themselves to the enjoyment of their own sweetness. The sky was clear, but there was no moon. A beautiful planet, however, bright enough to cast a shadow, hung in the southwestern sky, and its mysterious light touched Miriam's face, and cast a dim rectangle of radiance on the white matting that carpeted the floor of her room. It was the planet Venus,— the star of love. Miriam thought it would be a pleasant place to live in. But one need not journey to Venus to find a world where love is the ruling passion. Circumstances over which she has no control may cause such a world to come into existence in a girl's heart.

She left the window at last, and got into bed, where she soon presented an image of perfect repose. Meanwhile, in a dark corner of the court-yard at the rear, a dark, pyramidal object abode without motion. It might have been taken for a heap of blankets piled up there. But if you examined it more narrowly you would have detected in it the vague outlines of a human figure, squatting on its haunches, with its head resting on its knees, and its arms clasped round them,— somewhat as figures sit in Egyptian hieroglyphics, or like Aztecan mummies in the tomb. So still was it, it might itself have been a mummy. But ever and anon a blinking of the narrow eyes in the bronze countenance told that it was no mummy, but a living creature. In fact, it was none other than the aged and austere Kamaiakan, who, for reasons best known to himself, chose to spend the hours usually devoted to rest in an attitude that no European or white American could have maintained with comfort longer than five minutes.

An hour— two hours— passed away. Then Kamaiakan noiselessly arose, peered about him cautiously for a few moments, and passed out of the court-yard through the open gate. He turned to the left, and, stealing beneath Miriam's windows, paused there for an instant and made certain gestures with his arms. Anon he continued his way to the garden, and was soon concealed by the thick shrubbery.

History requires us to follow him. The garden extended westward, and was quite a spacious enclosure: one not familiar with its winding paths might easily lose himself there on a dark night. But Kamaiakan knew where he was going, and the way thither. He now stalked along more swiftly, taking one turn after another, brushing aside the low-hanging boughs, and passing the loveliest flowers without a glance. He was as one preoccupied with momentous business. Presently he arrived at a small open space, remote and secluded. It was completely surrounded by tall shrubbery. In the centre was a basin of stone, evidently very ancient, filled to the brim with the clear water of a spring, which bubbled up from the bottom, and, overflowing by way of a gap in the edge, became a small rivulet, which stole away in the direction of the sea. Across the slightly undulating surface of the basin trembled the radiance of the star.

Kamaiakan knelt down beside it, and, bending over, gazed intently into the water. Presently he dipped his hands in it, and sprinkled shining drops over his own gaunt person, and over the ground in the vicinity of the spring. He made strange movements with his arms, bowed his head and erected it again, and traced curious figures on the ground with his finger. It appeared as if the venerable Indian had solemnly lost his senses and had sought out this lonely spot to indulge the vagaries of his insanity. If so, his silence and deliberation afforded an example worthy of consideration by other lunatics.

Suddenly he ceased his performance, and held himself in a listening attitude. A light, measured sound was audible, accompanied by the rustling of leaves. It came nearer. There was a glimpse of whiteness through the interstices of the surrounding foliage, and then a slender figure, clad in close-fitting raiment, entered the little circle. It wore a sort of tunic, reaching half-way to the knees, and leggings of the same soft, grayish-white material. The head was covered with a sort of hood, which left only the face exposed; and this too might be covered by a species of veil or mask, which, however, was now fastened back on the headpiece, after the manner of a visor. The front of the tunic was embroidered with fantastic devices in gold thread, brightened here and there with precious stones; and other devices appeared on the hood. The face of this figure was pale and calm, with great dark eyes beneath black brows. The stature was no greater than that of a lad of fifteen, but the bearing was composed and dignified. The contours of the figure, however, even as seen by that dim light, were those of neither a boy nor a man. The wearer of the tunic was a girl, just rounding into womanhood, and the face was the face of Miriam.

Yet it was not by this name that Kamaiakan addressed her. After making a deep obeisance, touching his hand to her foot and then to his own forehead and breast, he said, in a language that was neither Spanish nor such as the modern Indians of Mexico use,—

"Welcome, Semitzin! May this night be the beginning of high things!"

"I am ready," replied the other, in a soft and low voice, but with a certain stateliness of utterance unlike the usual manner of General Trednoke's daughter: "I was glad to hear you call, and to see again the stars and the earth. Have you anything to tell?"

"There are events which may turn to our harm, most revered princess. The master of this house—"

"Why do you not call him my father, Kamaiakan?" interposed the other. "He is indeed the father of this mortal body which I wear, which (as you tell me) bears the name of Miriam. Besides, are not Miriam and I united by the thread of descent?"

"Something of the spirit that is you dwells in her also," said the Indian.

"And does she know of it?"

"At times, my princess; but only as one remembers a dream."

"I wish I might converse with her and instruct her in the truth," said the princess. "And she, in turn, might speak to me of things that perplex me. I live and move in this mortal world, and yet (you tell me) three centuries have passed since what is called my death. To me it seems as if I had but slept through a night, and were awake again. Nor can I tell what has happened— what my life and thoughts have been— during this long lapse of time. Yet it must be that I live another life: I cannot rest in extinction. Three times you have called me forth; yet whence I come hither, or whither I return, is unknown to me."

"There is a memory of the spirit," replied Kamaiakan, "and a memory of the body. They are separate, and cannot communicate with each other. Such is the law."

"Yet I remember, as if it were yesterday, the things that were done when Montezuma was king. And well do I remember you, Kamaiakan!"

"It is true I live again, princess, though not in the flesh and bones that died with you in the past. But in the old days I was acquainted with mysteries, and learned the secrets of the world of spirits; and this science still remained with me after the change, so that I was able to know that I was I, and that you could be recalled to speak with me through the tongue of Miriam. But there are some things that I do not know; and it is for that I have been bold to summon you."

"What can I tell you that can be of use to you in this present life, Kamaiakan, when all whom we knew and loved are gone?"

"To you only, Semitzin, is known the place of concealment of the treasure which, in the old times, you and I hid in the desert. I indeed remember the event, and somewhat of the region of the hiding; but I cannot put my hand upon the very spot. I have tried to discover it; but when I approach it my mind becomes confused between the present and the past, and I am lost."

"I remember it well," said Semitzin. "We rode across the desert, carrying the treasure on mules. The air was still, and the heat very heavy. The desert descended in a great hollow: you told me it was where, in former days, the ocean had been. At last there were rocky hills before us; we rode towards a great rock shaped like the pyramid on which the sacrifices were held in Tenochtitlan. We passed round its base, and entered a deep and narrow valley, that seemed to have been ploughed out of the heart of the earth and to descend into it. Then— But what is it you wish to do with this treasure, Kamaiakan?"

"It belongs to your race, princess, and was hidden that the murderers of Montezuma might not seize it. I was bound by an oath, after the peril was past, to restore it to the rightful owners. But our country remained under the rule of the conquerors; and my life went out. But now the conquerors have been conquered in their turn, and Miriam is the last inheritor of your blood. When I have delivered to her this trust, my work will be done, and I can return to the world which you inhabit. The time is come; and only by your help can the restitution be made."

"Was there, then, a time fixed?"

"The stars tell me so. And other events make it certain that there must be no delay. The general has it in mind to discover the gates through which the waters under-ground may arise and again form the sea which flowed hereabouts in the ancient times. Now, this sea will fill the ravine in which the treasure lies, and make it forever unattainable. A youth has also come here who is skilled in the sciences, and whom the general will ask to help him in the thing he is to attempt."

"Who is this youth?" asked Semitzin.

"He is of the new people who inherit this land: his name is Freeman."

"There is something in me— I know not what— that seems to tell me I have been near such a one. Can it be so?"

"The other self, who now sleeps, knows of him," replied the ancient Indian. "He is a well-looking youth, and I think he has a desire towards her we call Miriam."

"And does she love him?" inquired the princess.

"A maiden's heart is a riddle, even to herself," said Kamaiakan.

"But there is a sympathy that makes me feel her heart in my own," rejoined Semitzin. "Love is a thing that pierces through time, and through barriers which separate the mind and memory of the past from the present. I— as you know, Kamaiakan— was never wedded; the fate of our people, and my early end, kept that from me. But the thought of that youth is here,"— she put her hand on her bosom,—"and it seems to me that, were we to meet, I should know him. Perhaps, were that to be, Miriam and I might thus come to be aware of each other, and live henceforth one life."

"Such matters are beyond my knowledge," said the Indian, shaking his head. "The gods know what will be. It is for us, now, to regain the treasure. Are you willing, my princess, to accompany me thither?"

"I am ready. Shall it be now?"

"Not now, but soon. I will call you when the moment comes. The place is but a ride of two or three hours from here. None must know of our departure, for there are some here whom I do not trust. We must go by night. You will wear the garments you now have on, without which all might miscarry."

"How can the garments affect the result, Kamaiakan?"

"A powerful spell is laid upon them, princess. Moreover, the characters wrought upon them, with gold thread and jewels, are mystical, and the substance of the garment itself has a virtue to preserve the wearer from evil. It is the same that was worn by you when the treasure was hidden; and it may be, Semitzin, that without its magic aid your spirit could not know itself in this world as now it can."

As he spoke the last words, a low sound, wandering and muttering with an inward note, came palpitating on their ears through the night air. It seemed to approach from no direction that could be identified, yet it was at first remote, and then came nearer, and in a moment trembled around them, and shivered in the solid earth beneath their feet; and in another instant it had passed on, and was subdued slowly into silence in the shadowy distance. No one who has once heard that sound can mistake it for any other, or ever can forget it. The air had suddenly become close and tense; and now a long breeze swept like a sigh through the garden, dying away in a long-drawn wail; and out of the west came a hollow murmur, like that of a mighty wave breaking upon the shore of the ocean.

"The earthquake!" whispered Kamaiakan, rising to his feet. And then he pointed to the stone basin. "Look! the spring!"

"It is gone!" exclaimed Semitzin.

And, in truth, the water, with a strange, sucking noise, disappeared through the bottom of the basin, leaving the glistening cavity which had held it, green with slimy water-weed, empty.

"The time is near, indeed!" muttered the Indian. "The second shock may cause the waters from which this spring came to rise as no living man has seen them rise, and make the sea return, and the treasure be lost. In a few days all may be over. But you, princess, must vanish: though the shock was but slight, some one might be awakened; and were you to be discovered, our plans might go wrong."

"Must I depart so soon?" said Semitzin, regretfully. "The earth is beautiful, Kamaiakan: the smell of the flowers is sweet, and the stars in the sky are bright. To feel myself alive, to breathe, to walk, to see, are sweet. Perhaps I have no other conscious life than this. I would like to remain as I am: I would like to see the sun shine, and to hear the birds sing, and to see the men and women who live in this age. Is there no way of keeping me here?"

"I cannot tell; it may be,— but it must not be now, Semitzin," the old man replied, with a troubled look. "The ways of the gods are not our ways. She whose body you inhabit— she has her life to live."

"But is that girl more worthy to live than I? You have called me into being again: you have made me know how pleasant this world is. Miriam sleeps: she need never know; she need never awake again. You were faithful to me in the old time: have you more care for her than for me? I feel all the power and thirst of youth in me: the gods did not let me live out my life: may they not intend that I shall take it up again now? Besides, I wear Miriam's body: could I not seem to others to be Miriam indeed? How could they guess the truth?"

"I will think of what you say, princess," said Kamaiakan. "Something may perhaps be done; but it must be done gradually: you would need much instruction in the ways of the new world before you could safely enter into its life. Leave that to me. I am loyal as ever: is it not to fulfil the oath made to you that I am here? and what would Miriam be to me, were she not your inheritor? Be satisfied for the present: in a few days we will meet and speak again."

"The power is yours, Kamaiakan: it is well to argue, when with a word you can banish me forever! Yet what if I were to say that, unless you consent to the thing I desire, I will not show you where the treasure lies?"

"Princess Semitzin!" exclaimed the Indian, "remember that it is not against me, but against the gods, that you would contend. The gods know that I have no care for treasure. But they will not forgive a broken oath; and they will not hold that one guiltless through whom it is brought to naught?"

"Well, we shall meet again," answered Semitzin, after a pause. "But do you remember that you, too, are not free from responsibility in this matter. You have called me back: see to it that you do me justice." She waved her hands with a gesture of adieu, turned, and left the enclosure. Kamaiakan sank down again beside the empty bowl of the fountain.

Semitzin returned along the path by which she had come, towards the house. As she turned round one of the corners, she saw a man's figure before her, strolling slowly along in the same direction in which she was going. In a few moments he heard her light footfall, and, facing about, confronted her. She continued to advance until she was within arm's reach of him: then she paused, and gazed steadfastly in his face. He was the first human being, save Kamaiakan, that she had seen since her eyes closed upon the world of Tenochtitlan, three hundred years before.

The young man looked upon her with manifest surprise. It was too dark to distinguish anything clearly, but it did not take him long to surmise that the figure was that of a woman, and her countenance, though changed in aspect by the head-dress she were, yet had features which, he knew, he had seen before. But could it be Miriam Trednoke who was abroad at such an hour and in such a costume? He did not recognize the Golden Fleece, but it was evident enough that she was clad as women are not.

Before he could think of anything to say to her, she smiled, and uttered some words in a soft, flowing language with which he was entirely unacquainted. The next moment she had glided past him, and was out of sight round the curve of the path, leaving him in a state of perplexity not altogether gratifying.

"What the deuce can it mean?" he muttered to himself. "I can't be mistaken about its being Miriam. And yet she didn't look at me as if she recognized me. What can she be doing out here at midnight? I suppose it's none of my business: in fact, she might very reasonably ask the same question of me. And if I were to tell her that I had only ridden over to spend a sentimental hour beneath her window, what would she say? If she answered in the same lingo she used just now, I should be as wise as before. After all, it may have been somebody else. The image in my mind projected itself on her countenance. I certainly must be in love! I almost wish I'd never come here. This complication about the general's irrigating scheme makes it awkward. I'm bound not to explain things to him; and yet, if I don't, and he discovers (as he can't help doing) what I am here for, nothing will persuade him that I haven't been playing a double game; and that would not be a promising preliminary towards becoming a member of his family. If Miriam were only Grace, now, it would be plain sailing. Hello! who's this? Señor Don Miguel, as I'm a sinner! What is he up to, pray? Can this be the explanation of Miriam's escapade? I have a strong desire to blow a hole through that fellow! — Buenas noches, Señor de Mendoza! I am enchanted to have the unexpected honor of meeting you."

Señor de Mendoza turned round, disagreeably startled. It is only fair to explain that he had not come hither with any lover- like designs towards Miriam. Grace was the magnet that had drawn his steps to the Trednokes' garden, and the truth is that that enterprising young lady was not without a suspicion that he might turn up. Could this information have been imparted to Freeman, it would have saved much trouble; but, as it was, not only did he jump to the conclusion that Don Miguel was his rival (and, seemingly, a not unsuccessful one), but a similar misgiving as to Freeman's purposes towards Grace found its way into the heart of the Spaniard. It was a most perverse trick of fate.

The two men contemplated each other, each after his own fashion: Don Miguel pale, glaring, bristling; Freeman smiling, insolent, hectoring.

"Why are you here, señor?" demanded the former, at length.

"Partly, señor, because such is my pleasure. Partly, to inform you that your presence here offends me, and to humbly request you to be off."

"Señor, this is an impertinence."

"Señor, one is not impertinent to prowling greasers. One admonishes them, and, if they do not obey, one chastises them."

"Do you talk of chastising Don Miguel de Mendoza? Señor, I will wash out that insult with your blood!"

"Excellent! It is at your service for the taking. But, lest we disturb the repose of our friends yonder, let us seek a more convenient spot. I noticed a very pretty little glade on the right as I rode over here. You are armed? Good! we will have this little affair adjusted within half an hour. Yonder star— the planet of love, señor— shall see fair play. Andamos!"

v

HAVING MOUNTED their steeds, the two sanguinary young gentlemen rode onwards, side by side, but in silence; for the souls of those who have resolved to slay each other find small delight in vain conversation. Moreover, there is that in the conscious proximity of death which stimulates to thought much more than to speech. But Freeman preserved an outward demeanor of complacent calm, as one who doubts not, nor dreads, the issue; and, indeed, this was not the first time by many that he had taken his life in his hand and brought it unscathed through dangers. Don Miguel, on the other hand, was troubled in spirit, and uneasy in the flesh. He was one soon hot and soon cold; and this long ride to the decisive event went much against his stomach. If the conflict had taken place there in the garden, while the fire of the insult was yet scorching him, he could have fought it out with good will; but now the night air seemed chiller and chiller, and its frigidity crept into his nerves: he doubted of the steadiness of his aim, bethought himself that the darkness was detrimental to accurate shooting, and wondered whether Señor Freeman would think it necessary to fight across a handkerchief. He could not help regretting, too, that the quarrel had not been occasioned by some more definite and satisfactory provocation,— something which merely to think of would steel the heart to irrevocable murderousness. But no blow had passed; even the words, though bitter to swallow, had been wrapt in the phrases of courtesy; and perhaps the whole affair was the result of some misapprehension. He stole a look at the face of his companion; and the latter's air of confident and cheerful serenity made him feel worse than ever. Was he being brought out here to be butchered for nothing,— he, Don Miguel de Mendoza, who had looked forward to many pleasures in this life? It was too bad. It was true, the fortune of war might turn the other way; but Don Miguel was aware of a sensation in his bones which made this hope weak.

At length Freeman drew rein and glanced around him. They were in a lonely and—  Don Miguel thought— a most desolate and unattractive spot. An open space of about half an acre was bounded on one side by a growth of wild mustard, whose slender stalks rose to more than the height of a man's head. On the other side was a grove of live-oak; and in front, the ground fell away in a rugged, bush-grown declivity.

"It strikes me that this is just about what we want," remarked Freeman, in his full, cheerful tones. "We are half a mile from the road; the ground is fairly level; and there's no possibility of our being disturbed. I was thinking, this afternoon, as I passed through here, what an ideal spot it was for just such a little affair as you and I are bent on. But I didn't venture to anticipate such speedy good fortune as your obliging condescension has brought to pass, Don Miguel."

"Caramba!" muttered the señor, shivering. He might have said more, but was unwilling to trust his voice, or to waste nervous energy.

Meanwhile, Freeman had dismounted, and was tethering his horse. It occurred to the señor that it would be easy to pull his gun, send a bullet through his companion, and gallop away. He did not yield to this temptation, partly from traditional feeling that it would not be suitable conduct for a De Mendoza, partly because he might miss the shot or only inflict a wound, and partly because such deeds demand a nerve which, at that moment, was not altogether at his command. Instead, he slowly dismounted himself, and wondered whether it would ever be vouchsafed him to sit in that saddle again.

Freeman now produced his revolver, a handsome, silver-mounted weapon, that looked business-like. "What sort of a machine is yours?" he inquired, pleasantly. "You can take your choice. I'm not particular, but I can recommend this as a sure thing, if you would like to try it. It never misses at twenty paces."

"Twenty paces?" repeated Don Miguel, with a faint gleam of hope.

"Of course we won't have any twenty paces to-night, "added Freeman, with a laugh. "I thought it might be a good plan to start at, say, fifteen, and advance firing. In that way, one or other of us will be certain to do something sooner or later. Would that arrangement be agreeable to Señor de Mendoza?"

"Valga me Dios! I am content," said the latter, fetching a deep breath, and setting his teeth. "I will keep my weapon."

"Muy buen," returned the American. "So now let us take our ground: that is, if you are quite ready?"

Accordingly they selected their stations, facing respectively about north and south, with the planet of love between them, as it were. "Oblige me by giving the word, señor," said Freeman, cocking his weapon.

But Don Miguel was staring with perturbed visage at something behind his antagonist. "Santa Maria!" he faltered, "what is yonder? It is a spirit!"

Freeman had his wits about him, and perhaps entertained a not too high opinion of Mexican fair play. So, before turning round, he advanced till he was alongside his companion. Then he looked, and saw something which was certainly enigmatic.

Among the wild-mustard plants there appeared a moving luminosity, having an irregular, dancing motion, as of a will-o'-the- wisp singularly agitated. Sometimes it uplifted itself on high, then plunged downwards, and again jerked itself from side to side; occasionally it would quite vanish for an instant. Accompanying this manifestation there was a clawing and reaching of shadowy arms: altogether, it was as if some titanic spectral grasshopper, with a heart of fire, were writhing and kicking in convulsions of phantom agony. Such an apparition, in an hour and a place so lonely, might stagger a less superstitious soul than that of Don Miguel de Mendoza.

Freeman gazed at it for a moment in silence. It mystified him, and then irritated him. When one is bent heart and soul upon an important enterprise, any interruption is an annoyance. Perhaps there was in the young American's nature just enough remains of belief in witches and hobgoblins to make him feel warranted in resorting to extreme measures. At any rate, he lifted his revolver, and fired.

It was a long shot for a revolver: nevertheless it took effect. The luminous object disappeared with a faint explosive sound, followed by a shout unmistakably human. The long stems of the wild mustard swayed and parted, and out sprang a figure, which ran straight towards the two young men.

Hereupon, Don Miguel, hissing out an appeal to the Virgin and the saints, turned and fled.

Meanwhile, the mysterious figure continued its onward career; and Freeman once more levelled his weapon,— when a voice, which gave him such a start of surprise as well-nigh caused him to pull the trigger for sheer lack of self-command, called out, "Why, you abominable young villain! What the mischief do you mean? Do you want to be hanged?"

"Professor Meschines!" faltered Freeman.

It was indeed that worthy personage, and he was on fire with wrath. He held in one hand a shattered lantern mounted on the end of a pole, and in the other a long- handled net of gauze, such as entomologists use to catch moths withal. Under his left arm was slung a brown japanned case, in which he presumably deposited the spoils of his skill. Freeman's shot had not only smashed and extinguished the lantern which served as bait for the game, but had also given the professor a disagreeable reminder that the tenure of human life is as precarious as that of the silly moth which allows itself to be lured to destruction by shining promises of bliss.

"Upon my soul, professor, I am very sorry," said Freeman. "You have no idea how formidable you looked; and you could hardly expect me to imagine that you would be abroad at such an hour—"

"And why not, I should like to know?" shouted the professor, towering with indignation. "Was I doing anything to be ashamed of? And what are you doing here, pray, with loaded revolvers in your hands?— Hallo! who's this?" he exclaimed, as Don Miguel advanced doubtfully out of the gloom. "Señor de Mendoza, as I'm a sinner! and armed, too! Well, really! Are you two out on a murdering expedition?— Oho!" he went on, in a changed tone, glancing keenly from one to another: "methinks I see the bottom of this mystery. You have ridden forth, like the champions of romance, to do doughty deeds upon each other!— Is it not so, Don Miguel?" he demanded, turning his fierce spectacles suddenly on that young man.

Don Miguel, ignoring a secret gesture from Freeman, admitted that he had been on the point of expunging the latter from this mortal sphere.

The professor chuckled sarcastically. "I see! Blood! Wounded honor! The code!— But, by the way, I don't see your seconds! Where are your seconds?"

"My dear sir," said Freeman, "I assure you it's all a mistake. We just happened to meet at the gen— er— happened to meet, and were riding home together—"

"Now, listen to me, Harvey," the professor interrupted, holding up an expository finger. "You have known me since some ten years, I think; and I have known you. You were a clever boy in your studies; but it was your foible to fancy yourself cleverer than you were. Acting under that delusion, you pitted yourself against me on one or two occasions; and I leave it to your candid recollection whether you or I had the best of the encounter. You call yourself a man, now; but I make bold to say that the— discrepancy, let us call it— between you and me remains as conspicuous as ever it was. I see through you, sir, much more clearly than, by this light, I can see you. I am fond of you, Harvey; but I feel nothing but contempt for your present attitude. In the first place, conscious as you are of your skill with that weapon, you know that this affair— even had seconds been present— would have been, not a duel, but an assassination. You acted like a coward!— I say it, sir, like a coward!—  and I hope you may live to be as much ashamed of yourself as I am now ashamed for you. Secondly, your conduct, considered in its relations to— to certain persons whom I will not name, is that of a boor and a blackguard. Suppose you had accomplished the cowardly murder— the cowardly murder, I said, sir— that you were bent upon to-night. Do you think that would be a grateful and acceptable return for the courtesy and confidence that have been shown you in that house?— a house, sir, to which I myself introduced you, under the mistaken belief that you were a gentleman, or, at least, could feign gentlemanly behavior! But I won't— my feelings won't allow me to enlarge further upon this point. But allow me to add, in the third place, that you have shown yourself a purblind donkey. Actually, you haven't sense enough to know the difference between those who pull with you and those who pull against you. Now, I happen to know— to know, do you hear?— that had you succeeded in what you were just about to attempt, you would have removed your surest ally,— the surest, because his interests prompt him to favor yours. You pick out the one man who was doing his best to clear the obstacle out of your path, and what do you do?— Thank him?— Not you! You plot to kill him! But even had he been, as you in your stupidity imagined, your rival, do you think the course you adopted would have promoted your advantage? Let me tell you, sir, that you don't know the kind of people you are dealing with. You would never have been permitted to cross their threshold again. And you may take my word for it, if ever you venture to recur to any such folly, I will see to it that you receive your deserts.— Well, I think we understand each other, now?"

Freeman's emotions had undergone several variations during the course of the mighty professor's harangue. But he had ended by admitting the force of the argument; and the reminiscences of college lecturings aroused by the incident had tickled his sense of humor and quenched his anger. He looked at the professor with a sparkle of laughter in his eyes.

"I have done very wrong, sir," he said, "and I'm very sorry for it. If you won't give me any bad marks this time, I'll promise to be good in future."

"Ah! very smooth! To begin with, suppose you ask pardon of Señor Don Miguel de Mendoza for the affront you have put upon him."

To a soul really fearless, even an apology has no terrors. Moreover, Freeman's night ride with Don Miguel, though brief in time, had sufficed to give him the measure of the Mexican's character; and he respected it so little that he could no longer take the man seriously, or be sincerely angry with him. The professor's assurance as to Don Miguel's inoffensiveness had also its weight; and it was therefore with a quite royal gesture of amicable condescension that Freeman turned upon his late antagonist and held out his hand.

"Señor Don Miguel de Mendoza," said he, "I humbly tender you my apologies and crave your pardon. My conduct has been inexcusable; I beg you to excuse it. I deserve your reprobation; I entreat the favor of your friendship. Señor, between men of honor, a misunderstanding is a misunderstanding, and an apology is an apology. I lament the existence of the first; the professor, here, is witness that I lay the second at your feet. May I hope to receive your hand as a pledge that you restore me to the privilege of your good will?"

Now, Don Miguel's soul had been grievously exercised that night: he had been insulted, he had shivered beneath the shadow of death, he had been a prey to superstitious terrors, and he had been utterly perplexed by the professor's eloquent address, whereof (as it was delivered in good American, and with a rapidity of utterance born of strong feeling) he had comprehended not a word, and the unexpected effect of which upon his late adversary he was at a loss to understand. Although, therefore, he had no stomach for battle, he was oppressed by a misgiving lest the whole transaction had been in some way planned to expose him to ridicule; and for this reason he was disposed to treat Freeman's peaceful overtures with suspicion. His heart did not respond to those overtures, but neither was it stout enough to enable him to reject them explicitly. Accordingly, he adopted that middle course which, in spite of the proverb, is not seldom the least expedient. He disregarded the proffered hand, bowed very stiffly, and, saying, "Señor, I am satisfied," stalked off with all the rigidity of one in whose veins flows the sangre azul of Old Castile. Freeman smiled superior upon his retreat, and then, producing a cigar-case, proceeded to light up with the professor. In this fragrant and friendly cloud we will leave them, and return for a few minutes to the house of General Trednoke.

It will be remembered that something was said of Grace being privy to the nocturnal advances of Señor de Mendoza. We are not to suppose that this implies in her anything worse than an aptness to indulge in romantic adventure: the young lady enjoyed the mystery of romance, and knew that serenades, and whisperings over star-lit balconies, were proper to this latitude. It may be open to question whether she really was much interested in De Mendoza, save as he was a type of the adoring Spaniard. That the scene required: she could imagine him (for the time-being) to be the Cid of ancient legend, and she herself would enact a role of corresponding elevation. Grace would doubtless have prospered better had she been content with one adorer at a time; but, while turning to a new love, she was by no means disposed to loosen the chains of a former one; and, though herself as jealous as is a tiger-cat of her young, she could never recognize the propriety of a similar passion on the part of her victims. She had been indignant at Freeman's apparent infidelity with Miriam; but when she had (as she imagined) discovered her mistake, she had listened with a heart at ease to the protestations of Don Miguel. She had parted from him that evening with a half expressed understanding that he was to reappear beneath her window before daylight; and she had pictured to herself a charming balcony-scene, such as she had beheld in Italian opera. Accordingly, she had attired herself in a becoming negligee, and had spent the fore part of the night somewhat restlessly, occasionally emerging on the veranda and gazing down into the perfumed gloom of the garden. At length she fancied that she heard footsteps. Whose could they be, unless Don Miguel's? Grace retreated within her window to await developments. Don Miguel did not appear; but presently she descried a phantom-like figure ascending the flight of steps to the veranda. Could that be he? If so, he was bolder in his wooing than Grace had been prepared for. But surely that was a strange costume that he wore; nor did the unconscious harmony of the gait at all resemble the señor's self-conscious strut. And whither was he going?

It was but too evident that he was going straight to the room occupied by Miriam!

This was too much for Grace's equanimity. She stepped out of her window, and flitted with noiseless step along the veranda. The figure that she pursued entered the door of the house, and passed into the corridor traversing the wing. Grace was in time to see it cross the threshold of Miriam's door, which stood ajar. She stole to the door, and peeped in. There was the figure; but of Miriam there was no trace.

The figure slowly unfastened and threw back the hood which covered its head, at the same time turning round, so that its countenance was revealed. A torrent of black hair fell down over its shoulders. Grace uttered an involuntary exclamation. It was Miriam herself!

The two gazed at each other a moment in silence. "Goodness me, dear!" said Grace at last, in a faint voice, "how you have frightened me! I saw you go in, in that dress, and I thought you were a man! How my heart beats! What is the matter?"

"This is strange!" murmured the other, after a pause. "I never heard such words; and yet I seem to understand, and even to speak them. It must be a dream. What are you?"

"Why, Miriam, dear! don't you know Grace?"

"Oh! you think me Miriam. No; not yet!" She raised her hands, and pressed her fingers against her temples. "But I feel her— I feel her coming! Not yet, Kamaiakan! not so soon!— Do you know him?" she suddenly asked, throwing back her hair, and fixing an eager gaze on Grace.

"Know who? Kamaiakan? Why, yes—"

"No, not him! The youth,— the blue- eyed,— the fair beard above his lips—"

"What are you talking about? Not Harvey Freeman!"

"Harvey Freeman! Ah, how sweet a name! Harvey Freeman! I shall know it now!— Tell him," she went on, laying her hand majestically upon Grace's shoulder, and speaking with an impressive earnestness, "that Semitzin loves him!"

"Semitzin?" repeated Grace, puzzled, and beginning to feel scared.

"Semitzin!" the other said, pointing to her own heart. "She loves him: not as the child Miriam loves, but with the heart and soul of a mighty princess. When he knows Semitzin, he will think of Miriam no more."

"But who is Semitzin?" inquired Grace, with a fearful curiosity.

"The Princess of Tenochtitlan, and the guardian of the great treasure, "was the reply.

"Good gracious! what treasure?"

"The treasure of gold and precious stones hidden in the gorge of the desert hills. None knows the place of it but I; and I will give it to none but him I love."

"But you said that... Really, my dear, I don't understand a bit! As for Mr. Freeman, he may care for Semitzin, for aught I know; but, I must confess, I think you're mistaken in supposing he's in love with you,— if that is what you mean. I met him before you did, you know; and if I were to tell you all that we—"

"What are you or Miriam to me?— Ah! she comes!— The treasure— by the turning of the white pyramid— six hundred paces—  on the right— the arch—" Her voice died away. She covered her face with her hands, and trembled violently. Slowly she let them fall, and stared around her. "Grace, is it you? Has anything happened? How came I like this? What is it?"

"Well, if you don't know, I'm afraid I can't tell you. I had begun to think you had gone mad. It must be either that or somnambulism. Who is Semitzin?"

"Semitzin? I never heard of him."

"It isn't a man: it's a princess. And the treasure?"

"Am I asleep or awake? What are you saying?"

"The white pyramid, you know—"

"Don't make game of me, Grace. If I have done anything—"

"My dear, don't ask me! I tell you frankly, I'm nonplussed. You were somebody else a minute ago.... The truth is, of course, you've been dreaming awake. Has any one else seen you beside me?"

"Have I been out of my room?" asked Miriam, in dismay.

"You must have been, I should think, to get that costume. Well, the best plan will be, I suppose, to say nothing about it to anybody. It shall be our secret, dear. If I were you, I would have one of the women sleep in your room, in case you got restless again. It's just an attack of nervousness, probably,— having so many strangers in the house, all of a sudden. Now you must go to bed and get to sleep: it's awfully late, and there'll be ever so much going on to- morrow."

Grace herself slept little that night. She could not decide what to make of this adventure. Nowadays we are provided with a name for the peculiar psychical state which Miriam was undergoing, and with abundant instances and illustrations; but we perhaps know what it is no more than we did twenty-five or thirty years ago. Grace's first idea had been that Miriam was demented; then she thought she was playing a part; then she did not know what to think; and finally she came to the conclusion that it was best to quietly await further developments. She would keep an eye on Freeman as well as on Miriam; something, too, might be gathered from Don Miguel; and then there was that talk about a treasure. Was that all the fabric of a dream, or was there truth at the bottom of it? She had heard something said about a treasure in the course of the general conversation the day before. If there really was a treasure, why might not she have a hand in the discovery of it? Miriam, in her abnormal state, had let fall some topographical hints that might prove useful. Well, she would work out the problem, sooner or later. To-morrow, when the others had gone off on their expedition, she would have ample leisure to sound Don Miguel, and, if he proved communicative and available, who could tell what might happen? But how very odd it all was! Who was Semitzin?

While asking herself this question, Grace fell asleep; and by the time the summons to breakfast came, she had passed through thrilling adventures enough to occupy a new Scheherazade at least three years in the telling of them.

vi

BY NINE O'CLOCK in the morning, Professor Meschines and Harvey Freeman had ridden up to the general's ranch, equipped for the expedition. The general's preparations were not yet quite completed. A couple of mules were being loaded with the necessary outfit. It was proposed to be out two days, camping in the open during the intervening night. It was necessary to take water as well as solid provisions. Leaving their horses in the care of a couple of stable-boys, Meschines and Freeman mounted the veranda, and were there greeted by General Trednoke.

"I'm afraid we'll have a hot ride of it," he observed. "The atmosphere is rather oppressive. Kamaiakan tells me there was a touch of earthquake last night."

"I thought I noticed some disturbance,—" returned the professor, with a stealthy side-glance at Freeman,—"something in the nature of an explosion."

"Earthquakes are common in this region, aren't they?" Freeman said.

"They have made it what it is, and may unmake it again," replied the general. "The earthquake is the father of the desert, as the Indians say; and it may some day become the father of a more genial offspring. Veremos!"

"How are the young ladies?" inquired Freeman.

"Miriam has a little headache, I believe; and I thought Miss Parsloe was looking a trifle pale this morning. But you must see for yourself. Here they come."

Grace, who was a little taller than Miriam, had thrown one arm round that young lady's waist, with a view, perhaps, to forming a picture in which she should not be the secondary figure. In fact, they were both of them very pretty; but Freeman had become blind to any beauty but Miriam's. Moreover, he was resolved to have some private conversation with her during the few minutes that were available. A conversation with the professor, and some meditations of his own, had suggested to him a line of attack upon Grace.

"I'm afraid you were disturbed by the earthquake last night?" he said to her.

"An earthquake? Why should you think so?"

"You look as if you had passed a restless night. I saw Señor de Mendoza this morning. He seems to have had a restless time of it, too. But he is a romantic person, and probably, if an earthquake did not make him sleepless, something else might." He looked at her a moment, and then added, with a smile, "But perhaps this is not news to you?"

"He didn't come— I didn't see him," returned Grace, wishing, ere the words had left her lips, that she had kept her mouth shut. Freeman continued to smile. How much did he know? She felt that it might be inexpedient to continue the conversation. Casting about for a pretext for retreat, her eyes fell upon Meschines.

"Oh, there's the dear professor! I must speak to him a moment," she exclaimed, vivaciously; and she slipped her arm from Miriam's waist, and was off, leaving Freeman in possession of the field, and of the monopoly of Miriam's society.

"Miss Trednoke," said he, gravely, "I have something to tell you, in order to clear myself from a possible misunderstanding. It may happen that I shall need your vindication with your father. Will you give it?"

"What vindication do you need, that I can give?" asked she, opening her dark eyes upon him questioningly.

"That's what I wish to explain. I am in a difficult position. Would you mind stepping down into the garden? It won't take a minute."

Curiosity, if not especially feminine, is at least human. Miriam descended the steps, Freeman beside her. They strolled down the path, amidst the flowers.

"You said, yesterday," he began, "that I would say one thing and be another. Now I am going to tell you what I am. And afterwards I'll tell you why I tell it. In the first place, you know, I'm a civil engineer, and that includes, in my case, a good deal of knowledge about geology and things of that sort. I have sometimes been commissioned to make geological surveys for Eastern capitalists. Lately I've been canal-digging on the Isthmus; but the other day I got a notification from some men in Boston and New York to come out here on a secret mission."

"Secret, Mr. Freeman?"

"Yes: you will understand directly. These men had heard enough about the desert valleys of this region to lead them to think that it might be reclaimed and so be made very valuable. Such lands can be bought now for next to nothing; but, if the theories that control these capitalists are correct, they could afterwards be sold at a profit of thousands per cent. So it's indispensable that the object of my being here should remain unknown; otherwise, other persons might step in and anticipate the designs of this company."

"If those are your orders, why do you speak to me?"

"There's a reason for doing it that outweighs the reasons against it. I trust you with the secret: yet I don't mean to bind you to secrecy. You will have a perfect right to tell it: the only result would be that I should be discredited with my employers; and there is nothing to warrant me in supposing that you would be deterred by that."

"I don't ask to know your secret: I think you had better say no more."

Freeman shook his head. "I must speak," said he. "I don't care what becomes of me, so long as I stand right in your opinion,— your father's and yours. I am here to find out whether this desert can be flooded,— irrigated,— whether it's possible, by any means, to bring water upon it. If my report is favorable, the company will purchase hundreds, or thousands, of square miles, and, incidentally, my own fortune will be made."

"Why, that's the very thing—" She stopped.

"The very thing your father had thought of! Yes, so I imagined, though he has not told me so in so many words. So I'm in the position of surreptitiously taking away the prospective fortune of a man whom I respect and honor, and who treats me as a friend."

Miriam walked on some steps in silence. "It is no fault of yours," she said at last. "You owe us nothing. You must carry out your orders."

"Yes; but what is to prevent your father from thinking that I stole his idea and then used it against him?"

"You can tell him the truth: he could not complain; and why should you care if he did? I know that men separate business from— from other things."

They had now come to the little enclosed space where the fountain basin was; and by tacit consent they seated themselves upon it. Miriam gave an exclamation of surprise. "The water is gone!" she said. "How strange!"

"Perhaps it has gone to meet us at our rendezvous in the desert.— No: if I tell your father, I should be unfaithful to my employers. But there's another alternative: I can resign my appointment, and let my place be taken by another."

"And give up your chance of a fortune? You mustn't do that."

"What is it to you what becomes of me?"

"I wish nothing but good to come to you," said she, in a low voice.

"I have never wanted to have a fortune until now. And I must tell you the reason of that, too. A man without a fortune does very well by himself. He can knock about, and live from hand to mouth. But when he wants to live for somebody else,— even if he has only a very faint hope of getting the opportunity of doing it,— then he must have some settled means of livelihood to justify him. So I say I am in a difficult position. For if I give this up, I must go away; and if I go away, I must give up even the little hope I have."

"Don't go away," said Miriam, after a pause.

"Do you know what you are saying?" He hesitated a moment, looking at her as she looked down at the empty basin. "My hope was that you might love me; for I love you, to be my wife."

The color slowly rose in Miriam's face: at length she hid it in her hands. "Oh, what is it?" she said, almost in a whisper. "I have known you only three days. But it seems as if I must have known you before. There is something in me that is not like myself. But it is the deepest thing in me; and it loves you: yes, I love you!"

Her hands left her face, and there was a light in her eyes which made Freeman, in the midst of his rejoicing, feel humble and unworthy. He felt himself in contact with something pure and sacred. At the same moment, the recollection recurred to him of the figure he had seen the night before, with the features of Miriam. Was it she indeed? Was this she? To doubt the identity of the individual is to lose one's footing on the solid earth. For the first time it occurred to him that this doubt might affect Miriam herself. Was she obscurely conscious of two states of being in herself, and did she therefore fear to trust her own impulses? But, again, love is the master-passion; its fire fuses all things, and gives them unity. Would not this love that they confessed for each other burn away all that was abnormal and enigmatic, and leave only the unerring human heart, that knows its own and takes it? These reflections passed through Freeman's mind in an instant of time. But he was no metaphysician, and he obeyed the sane and wholesome instinct which has ever been man's surest and safest guide through the mysteries and bewilderments of existence. He took the beautiful woman in his arms and kissed her.

"This is real and right, if anything is," said he. "If there are ghosts about, you and I, at any rate, are flesh and blood, and where we belong. As to the irrigation scrape, there must be some way out of it: if not, no matter! You and I love each other, and the world begins from this moment!"

"My father must know to-morrow," said Miriam.

"No doubt we shall all know more to- morrow than we do to-day," returned her lover, not knowing how abundantly his prophecy would be fulfilled: he was over- flowing with the fearless and enormous joy of a young man who has attained at one bound the summit of his desire. "There! they are calling for me. Good-by, my darling. Be yourself, and think of nothing but me."

A short ride brought the little cavalcade to the borders of the desert. Here, by common consent, a halt was made, to draw breath, as it were, before taking the final plunge into the fiery furnace.

"Before we go farther," said General Trednoke, approaching Freeman, as he was tightening his girths, "I must tell you what is the object of this expedition."

"It is not necessary, general," replied the young man, straightening himself and looking the other in the face; "for from this point our paths lie apart."

"Why so?" demanded the general, in surprise.

"What's that?" exclaimed Meschines, coming up, and adjusting his spectacles.

"I'm not at liberty, at present, to explain," Freeman answered. "All I can say is that I don't feel justified in assisting you in your affair, and I am not able to confide my own to you. I wish you to put the least uncharitable construction you can on my conduct. To-morrow, if we all live, I may say more; now, the most I can tell you is that I am not entirely a free agent. Meantime— Hasta luego."

Against this unexpected resolve the general cordially protested and the professor scoffed and contended; but Freeman stayed firm. He had with him provisions enough to last him three days, and a supply of water; and in a small case he carried a compact assortment of instruments for scientific observation.

"Take your departure in whatever direction you like," said he, "and I will take mine at an angle of not less than fifteen degrees from it. If I am not back in three days, you may conclude something has happened."

It was certainly very hot. Freeman had been accustomed to torrid suns in the Isthmus; but this was a sun indefinitely multiplied by reflections from the dusty surface underfoot. Nor was it the fine, ethereal fire of the Sahara: the atmosphere was dead and heavy; for the rider was already far below the level of the Pacific, whose cool blue waves rolled and rippled many leagues to the westward, as, aeons ago, they had rolled and rippled here. There was not a breath of air. Freeman could hear his heart beat, and the veins in his temples and wrists throbbed. The sweat rose on the surface of his body, but without cooling it. The pony which he bestrode, a bony and sinewy beast of the toughest description, trod onwards doggedly, but with little animation. Freeman had no desire to push him. Were the little animal to overdo itself, nothing in the future could be more certain than that his master would never see the Trednoke ranch again. It seemed unusually hot, even for that region.

There was little in the way of outward incident to relieve the monotony of the journey. Now and then a short, thick rattlesnake, with horns on its ugly head, wriggled out of his path. Now and then his horse's hoof almost trod upon a hideous, flat lizard, also horned. Here and there the uncouth projections of a cactus pushed upwards out of the dust; some of these the mustang nibbled at, for the sake of their juice. Freeman wondered where the juice came from. The floor of the desert seemed for the most part level, though there was a gradual dip towards the east and northeast, and occasionally mounds and ridges of wind-swept dust, sometimes upwards of fifty feet in height, broke the uniformity. The soil was largely composed of powdered feldspar; but there were also tracts of gravel shingle, of yellow loam, and of alkaline dust. In some places there appeared a salt efflorescence, sprouting up in a sort of ghastly vegetation, as if death itself had acquired a sinister life. Elsewhere, the ground quaked and yielded underfoot, and it became necessary to make detours to avoid these arid bogs. Once or twice, too, Freeman turned aside lest he should trample upon some dry bones that protruded in his path,— bones that were their own monument, and told their own story of struggle, agony, exhaustion, and despair.

None of these things had any depressing effect on Freeman's spirit. His heart was singing with joy. To a mind logically disposed, there was nothing but trouble in sight, whether he succeeded or failed in his present mission. In the former case, he would find himself in a hostile position as regarded the man he most desired to conciliate; in the latter, he would remain the mere rolling stone that he was before, and love itself would forbid him to ask the woman he loved to share his uncertain existence. But Freeman was not logical: he was happy, and he could not help it. He had kissed Miriam, and she loved him.

His course lay a few degrees north of east. Far across the plain, dancing and turning somersaults in the fantastic atmosphere, were the summits of a range of abrupt hills, the borders of a valley or ravine which he wished to explore. Gradually, as he rode, his shadow lengthened before him. It was his only companion; and yet he felt no sense of loneliness. Miriam was in his heart, and kept it fresh and bold. Even hunger and thirst he scarcely felt. Who can estimate the therapeutic and hygienic effects of love?

The mustang could not share his rider's source of content, but he may have been conscious, through animal instincts whereof we know nothing, of an uplifting and encouraging spirit. At all events, he kept up his steady lope without faltering or apparent effort, and seemed to require nothing more than the occasional wetting which Freeman administered to his nose. There would probably be some vegetation, and perhaps water, on the hills; and that prospect may likewise have helped him along.

Nevertheless, man and beast may well have welcomed the hour when the craggy acclivities of that lonely range became so near that they seemed to loom above their heads. Freeman directed his steps towards the southern extremity, where a huge, pallid mass, of almost regular pyramidal form, reared itself aloft like a monument. He skirted the base of the pyramid, and there opened on his view a narrow, winding valley, scarcely half a mile in apparent breadth, and of a very wild and savage aspect. Its general direction was nearly north and south, and it declined downwards, as if seeking the interior of the earth. In fact, it looked not unlike those imaginative pictures of the road to the infernal regions described by the ancient poets. One could picture Pluto in his chariot, with Proserpine beside him, thundering downwards behind his black horses, on the way to those sombre and magnificent regions which are hollowed out beneath the surface of the planet.

Freeman, however, presently saw a sight which, if less spectacularly impressive, was far more agreeable to his eyes. On a shelf or cup of the declivity was a little clump of vegetation, and in the midst of it welled up a thin stream of water. The mustang scrambled eagerly towards it, and, before Freeman had had time to throw himself out of the saddle, he had plunged his muzzle into the rivulet. He sucked it down with such satisfaction that it was evident the water was not salt. Freeman laid himself prone upon the brink, and followed his steed's example. The draught was cool and pure.

"I didn't know how much I wanted it!" said he to himself. "It must come from a good way down. If I could only bring the parent stream to the surface, my mission would be on a fair road to success."

An examination of the spring revealed the fact that it could not have been long in existence. Indeed, there were no traces whatever of long continuance. The aperture in the rock through which it trickled bore the appearance of having been recently opened; fragments were lying near it that seemed to have been just broken off. The bed of the little stream was entirely free from moss or weeds; and after proceeding a short distance it dwindled and disappeared, either sucked up in vapor by the torrid air, or absorbed into the dusty soil. Manifestly, it was a recent creation.

"And, to be sure, why not?" ejaculated Freeman. "There was an earthquake last night, which swallowed up the spring in the Trednokes' garden: probably that same earthquake brought this stream to light. It vanished there, to reappear here. Well, the loss is not important to them, but the gain is very important to me. It is as if Miriam had come with a cup of water to refresh her lover in the desert. God bless her! She has refreshed me indeed, soul and body!"

He removed the saddle from the mustang, and turned him loose to make the best of such scanty herbage as he could find. Then he unpacked his own provisions, and made a comfortable meal; after which he rolled a cigarette and reclined on the spot most available, to rest and recuperate. The valley, or gorge, lay before him in the afternoon light. It was a strange and savage spectacle. Had it been torn asunder by some stupendous explosion, it could not have presented a rougher or more chaotic aspect. To look at it was like beholding the secret places of the earth. The rocky walls were of different colors, yellow, blue, and red, in many shades and gradations. They towered ruggedly upwards, sharply shadowed and brightly lighted, mounting in regular pinnacles, parting in black crevices; here and there vast masses hung poised on bases seemingly insufficient, ready to topple over on the unwary passer beneath. A short distance to the northward the ravine had a turn, and a projecting promontory hid its further extreme from sight. Freeman made up his mind to follow it up on foot, after the descending sun should have thrown a shadow over it. The indications, in his judgment, were not without promise that a system of judiciously-applied blastings might open up a source of water that would transform this dreadful barrenness into something quite different.

The shade of the great pyramid fell upon him as he lay, but the tumultuous wall opposite was brilliantly illuminated: the sky, over it, was of a peculiar brassy hue, but entirely cloudless. The radiations from the baked surface, ascending vertically, made the rocky bastion seem to quiver, as if it were a reflection cast on undulating water. The wreaths of tobacco-smoke that emanated from Freeman's mouth also ascended, until they touched the slant of sunlight overhead. As the young man's eyes followed these, something happened that caused him to utter an exclamation and raise himself on one arm.

All at once, in the vacant air diagonally above him, a sort of shadowy shimmer seemed to concentrate itself, which was rapidly resolved into color and form. It was much as if some unseen artist had swept a mass of mingled hues on a canvas and then had worked them with magical speed into a picture. There appeared a breadth of rolling country, covered with verdure, and in the midst of it the white walls and long, shadowed veranda of an adobe house. Freeman saw the vines clambering over the eaves and roof, the vases of earthenware suspended between the pillars and overflowing with flowers, the long windows, the steps descending into the garden. Now a figure clad in white emerged from the door and advanced slowly to the end of the veranda. He recognized the gait and bearing: he could almost fancy he discerned the beloved features. She stood there for a moment, gazing, as it seemed, directly at him. She raised her hands, and pressed them to her lips, then threw them outwards, with a gesture eloquent of innocent and tender passion. Freeman's heart leaped: involuntarily he stretched out his arms, and murmured, "Miriam!" The next moment, a tall, dark figure, with white hair, wrapped in a blanket, came stalking behind her, and made a beckoning movement. Miriam did not turn, but her bearing changed; her hands fell to her sides; she seemed bewildered. Freeman sprang angrily to his feet: the picture became blurred; it flowed into streaks of vague color; it was gone. There were only the brassy sky, and the painted crags quivering in the heat.

"That was not a mirage: it was a miracle," muttered the young man to himself. "Forty miles at least, and it seemed scarcely three hundred yards! What does it mean?"

The sun sank behind the hills, and a transparent shadow filled the gorge. Freeman, uneasy in mind, and unable to remain inactive, filled his canteen at the spring, and descended to the rugged trail at the bottom. Clambering over boulders, leaping across narrow chasms, letting himself down from ledges, his preoccupation soon left him, and physical exertion took the precedence. Half an hour's work brought him to the out- jutting promontory which had concealed the further reaches of the valley. These now lay before him, merging imperceptibly into indistinctness.

"This atmosphere is unbearable," said Freeman. "I must get a little higher up." He turned to the right, and saw a natural archway, of no great height, formed in the rock. The arch itself was white; the super-incumbent stone was of a dull red hue. On the left flank of the arch were a series of inscribed characters, which might have been cut by a human hand, or might have been a mere natural freak. They looked like some rude system of hieroglyphics, and bore no meaning to Freeman's mind.

A sort of crypt or deep recess was hollowed out beneath the arch, the full extent of which Freeman was unable to discern. The floor of it descended in ridges, like a rough staircase. He stood for a few moments peering into the gloom, tempted by curiosity to advance, but restrained partly by the gathering darkness, and partly by the oppressiveness of the atmosphere, which produced a sensation of giddiness. Something white gleamed on the threshold of the crypt. He picked it up. It was a human skull; but even as he lifted it, it came apart in his hands and crumbled into fragments. Freeman's nerves were strong, but he shuddered slightly. The loneliness, the silence, the mystery, and the strange light-headedness that was coming over him combined to make him hesitate. "I'll come back to-morrow morning early," he said to himself.

As if in answer, a deep, appalling roar broke forth apparently under his feet, and went rolling and reverberating up and down the canon. It died away, but was immediately followed by another yet more loud, and the ground shook and swayed beneath his feet. A gigantic boulder, poised high up on the other side of the canon, was unseated, and fell with a terrific crash. A hot wind swept sighing through the valley, and the air rapidly became dark. Again came the sigh, rising to a shriek, with roarings and thunderings that seemed to proceed both from the heavens and from the earth.

A dazzling flash of lightning split the air, bathing it for an instant in the brightness of day: in that instant Freeman saw the bolt strike the great white pyramid and splinter its crest into fragments, while the whole surface of the gorge heaved and undulated like a stormy sea. He had been staggering as best he might to a higher part of the ravine; but now he felt a stunning blow on his head: he fell, and knew no more.

vii

TWO HORSEMEN, one of whom led a third horse, carrying a pack-saddle, had reached the borders of the desert just as the earthquake began. When the first shock came, they were riding past a grove of live- oaks: they immediately dismounted, made fast their horses, and lay down beside some bushes that skirted the grove. Neither the earthquake nor the storm was so severe as was the case farther eastward. In an hour all was over, and they remounted and continued their journey, guiding their course by the stars.

"It was thus that we rode before, Kamaiakan," remarked the younger of the two travellers. "Yonder bright star stood as it does now, and the hour of the night was the same. But this shaking of the earth makes me fear for the safety of that youth. The sands of the desert may have swept over him; or he may have perished in the hills."

"The purposes of the gods cannot be altered, Semitzin," replied the old Indian, who perhaps would not have much regretted such a calamity as she suggested: it would be a simple solution of difficulties which might otherwise prove embarrassing. "It is my prayer, at all events, that the entrance to the treasure may not be closed."

"I care nothing for the treasure, unless I may share it with him," she returned. "Since we spoke together beside the fountain, I have seen him. He looked upon me doubtfully, being, perhaps, perplexed because of these features of the child Miriam, which I am compelled to wear."

"Truly, princess, what is he, that you should think of him?" muttered Kamaiakan.

"He satisfies my heart," was the reply.

"And I am resolved never again to give up this mortal habitation to her you call its rightful owner. I will never again leave this world, which I enjoy, for the unknown darkness out of which you called me."

"Princess, the gods do not permit such dealings. They may, indeed, suffer you to live again; but you must return as an infant, in flesh and bones of your own."

"The gods have permitted me to return as I have returned; and you well know, Kamaiakan, that, except you use your art to banish me and restore Miriam, there is nothing else that can work a change."

"Murder is not lawful, Semitzin; and to do as you desire would be an act not different from murder."

"On my head be it, then!" exclaimed the princess. "Would it be less a murder to send me back to nothingness than to let her remain there? Mine is the stronger spirit, and has therefore the better right to live. I ask of you only to do nothing. None need ever know that Miriam has vanished and that Semitzin lives in her place. I wear her body and her features, and I am content to wear her name also, if it must be so."

Kamaiakan was silent. He may well be pardoned for feeling troubled in the presence of a situation which had perhaps never before confronted a human being. Two women, both tenants of the same body, both in love with the same man, and therefore rivals of each other, and each claiming a right to existence: it was a difficult problem. The old Indian heartily wished that a separate tenement might be provided for each of these two souls, that they might fight out their quarrel in the ordinary way. But his magic arts did not extend to the creation of flesh and blood. At the same time, he could not but feel to blame for having brought this strenuous spirit of Semitzin once more into the world, and he was fain to admit that her claim was not without justification. His motives had been excellent, but he had not foreseen the consequences in which the act was to land him. Yet he more shrank from wronging Miriam than from disappointing Semitzin.

But the latter was not to be put off by silence.

"There has been a change since you and I last spoke together," she said. "I am aware of it, though I know not how; but, in some manner, the things which Miriam has done are perceptible to me. When I was here before, she did but lean towards this youth; now she has given herself to him. She means to be united to him; and, if I again should vanish, I should never again find my way back. But it shall not be so; and there is a way, Kamaiakan, by which I can surely prevent it, even though you refuse to aid me."

"Indeed, princess, I think you mistake regarding the love of Miriam for this young man; they have seen little of each other; and it may be, as you yourself said, that he has perished in the wilderness."

"I believe he lives," she answered: "I should know it, were it otherwise. But if I cannot have him, neither shall she. I have told you already that, unless you swear to me not to put forth your power upon me to dismiss me, I will not lead you to the treasure. But that is not enough; for men deceive, and you are a man. But if at any time hereafter I feel within me those pangs that tell me you are about to separate me from this world, at that moment, Kamaiakan, I will drive this knife through the heart of Miriam! If I cannot keep her body, at least it shall be but a corpse when I leave it. You know Semitzin; and you know that she will keep her word!"

She reined in her horse, as she spoke, and sat gazing upon her companion with flashing eyes. The Indian, after a pause, made a gesture of gloomy resignation. "It shall be as you say, then, Semitzin; and upon your head be it! Henceforth, Miriam is no more. But do you beware of the vengeance of the gods, whose laws you have defied."

"Let the gods deal with me as they will," replied the Aztecan. "A day of happiness with the man I love is worth an age of punishment."

Kamaiakan made no answer, and the two rode forward in silence.

It was midnight, and a bright star, nearly in the zenith, seemed to hang precisely above the summit of the great white pyramid at the mouth of the gorge.

"It was here that we stopped," observed Semitzin. "We tied our horses among the shrubbery round yonder point. Thence we must go on foot. Follow me."

She struck her heels against her horse's sides, and went forward. The long ride seemed to have wearied her not a whit. The lean and wiry Indian had already betrayed symptoms of fatigue; but the young princess appeared as fresh as when she started. Not once had she even taken a draught from her canteen; and yet she was closely clad, from head to foot, in the doublet and leggings of the Golden Fleece. One might have thought it had some magic virtue to preserve its wearer's vitality; and possibly, as is sometimes seen in trance, the energy and concentration of the spirit reacted upon the body.

She turned the corner of the pyramid, but had not ridden far when an object lying in her path caused her to halt and spring from the saddle. Kamaiakan also dismounted and came forward.

The dead body of a mustang lay on the ground, crushed beneath the weight of a fragment of rock, which had evidently fallen upon it from a height. He had apparently been dead for some hours. He was without either saddle or bridle.

"Do you know him?" demanded Semitzin.

"It is Diego," replied Kamaiakan. "I know him by the white star on his muzzle. He was ridden by the Señor Freeman. They must have come here before the earthquake. And there lie the saddle and the bridle. But where is Señor Freeman?"

"He can be nowhere else than in this valley," said Semitzin, confidently. "I knew that I should find him here. Through all the centuries, and across all spaces, we were destined to meet. His horse was killed, but he has escaped. I shall save him. Could Miriam have done this? Is he not mine by right?"

"It is at least certain, princess," responded the old man rather dryly, "that had it not been for Miriam you would never have met the Señor Freeman at all."

"I thank her for so much; and some time, perhaps, I will reward her by permitting her to have a glimpse of him for an hour,— or, at least, a minute. But not now, Kamaiakan, — not till I am well assured that no thought but of me can ever find its way into his heart. Come, let us go forward. We will find the treasure, and I will give it to my lord and lover."

"Shall we bring the pack-horse with us?" asked the Indian.

"Yes, if he can find his way among these rocks. The earthquake has made changes here. See how the water pours from this spring! It has already made a stream down the valley. It shall guide us whither we are going."

Leaving their own horses, they advanced with the mule. But the trail, rough enough at best, was now well-nigh impassable. Masses of rock had fallen from above; large fissures and crevasses had been formed in the floor of the gorge, from some of which steaming vapors escaped, while others gave forth streams of water. The darkness added to the difficulties of the way, for, although the sky was now clear, the gloom was deceptive, and things distant seemed near. Occasionally a heavy, irregular sound would break the stillness, as some projection of a cliff became loosened and tumbled down the steep declivity.

Semitzin, however, held on her way fearlessly and without hesitation, and the Indian, with the pack-horse, followed as best he might, now and then losing sight for a moment of the slight, grayish figure in front of him. At length she disappeared behind the jutting profile of a great promontory which formed a main angle of the gorge. When he came up with her, she was kneeling beside the prostrate form of a man, supporting his head upon her knee.

Kamaiakan approached, and looked at the face of the man, which was pale; the eyes were closed. A streak of blood, from a wound on the head, descended over the right side of the forehead.

"Is he dead?" the Indian asked.

"He is not dead," replied Semitzin. "A flying stone has struck him; but his heart beats: he will be well again." She poured some water from her canteen over his face, and bent her ear over his lips. "He breathes," she said. Slipping one arm beneath his neck, she loosened the shirt at his throat and then stooped and kissed him. "Be alive for me, love," she murmured. "My life is yours."

This exhortation seemed to have some effect. The man stirred slightly, and emitted a sigh. Presently he muttered, "I can— lick him— yet!"

"He will live, princess," remarked Kamaiakan. "But where is the treasure?"

"My treasure is here!" was her reply; and again she bent to kiss the half-conscious man, who knew not of his good fortune. After an interval she added, "It is in the hollow beneath that archway. Go down three paces: on the wall at the left you will feel a ring. Pull it outwards, and the stone will give way. Behind it lies the chest in which the jewels are. But remember your promise!"

Kamaiakan peered into the hollow, shook his head as one who loves not his errand, and stepped in. The black shadow swallowed him up. Semitzin paid no further attention to him, but was absorbed in ministering to her patient, whose strength was every moment being augmented, though he was not yet aware of his position. But all at once a choking sound came from within the cave, and in a few moments Kamaiakan staggered up out of the shadow, and sank down across the threshold of the arch.

"Semitzin," he gasped, in a faint voice, "the curse of the gods is upon the spot! The air within is poisonous. It withers the limbs and stops the breath. No one may touch the treasure and live. Let us go!"

"The gods do not love those who fear," replied the princess, contemptuously. "But the treasure is mine, and it may well be that no other hand may touch it. Fold that blanket, and lay it beneath his head. I will bring the jewels."

"Do not attempt it: it will be death!" exclaimed the old man.

"Shall a princess come to her lover empty-handed? Do you watch beside him while I go. Ah, if your Miriam were here, I would not fear to have him choose between us!"

With these words, Semitzin stepped across the threshold of the crypt, and vanished in its depths. The Indian, still dizzy and faint, knelt on the rock without, bowed down by sinister forebodings.

Several minutes passed. "She has perished!" muttered Kamaiakan.

Freeman raised himself on one elbow, and gazed giddily about him. "What the deuce has happened?" he demanded, in a sluggish voice. "Is that you, professor?"

Suddenly, a rending and rushing sound burst from the cave. Following it, Semitzin appeared at the entrance, dragging a heavy metal box, which she grasped by a handle at one end. Immediately in her steps broke forth a great volume of water, boiling up as if from a caldron. It filled the cave, and poured like a cataract into the gorge. The foundations of the great deep seemed to be let loose.

Semitzin lifted from her face the woollen mask, or visor, which she had closed on entering the cave. She was panting from exertion, but neither her physical nor her mental faculties were abated. She spoke sharply and imperiously:

"Bring up the mule, and help me fasten the chest upon him. We must reach higher ground before the waters overtake us. And now—" She turned to Freeman, who by this time was sitting up and regarding her with stupefaction.

"Miriam!" was all he could utter.

She shook her head, and smiled. "I am she who loves you, and whom you will love. I give you life, and fortune, and myself. But come: can you mount and ride?"

"I can't make this out," he said, struggling, with her assistance, to his feet. "I have read fairy-tales, but this... Kamaiakan, too!"

Semitzin, meanwhile, brought him to the mule, and half mechanically he scrambled into the saddle, the chest being made fast to the crupper. Semitzin seized the bridle, and started up the gorge, Kamaiakan bringing up the rear. The lower levels were already filling with water, which came pouring out through the archway in a full flood, seemingly inexhaustible.

"I see how it is," mumbled Freeman, half to himself. "The earthquake— I remember! I got hit somehow. They came from the ranch to hunt me up. But where are the general and Professor Meschines? How long ago was it? And how came Miriam... Could the mirage have had anything to do with it?— Here, let me walk," he called out to her, "and you get up and ride."

She turned her head, smiling again, but hurried on without speaking. The roar of the torrent followed them. Once or twice the mule came near losing his footing. Freeman, whose head was swimming, and his brains buzzing like a hive of bees, had all he could do to maintain his equilibrium in the saddle. He was excruciatingly thirsty, and the gurgling of waters round about made him wish he might dismount and plunge into them. But he lacked power to form a decided purpose, and permitted the more energetic will to control him. It might have been minutes, or it might have been hours, for all he knew: at last they halted, near the base of the white pyramid.

"Here we are safe," said Semitzin, coming to his side. "Lean on me, my love, and I will lift you down."

"Oh, I'm not quite so bad as that, you know," said Freeman, with a feeble laugh; and, to prove it, he blundered off the saddle, and came down on the ground with a thwack. He picked himself up, however, and recollecting that he had a flask with brandy in it, he felt for it, found it intact, and, with an inarticulate murmur of apology, raised it to his lips. It was like the veritable elixir of life: never in his life before had Freeman quaffed so deep a draught of the fiery spirit. It was just what he wanted.

But he felt oddly embarrassed. He did not know what to make of Miriam. It was not her strange costume merely, but she seemed to have put on— or put off— something with it that made a difference in her. She was assertive, imperious; as loving, certainly, as lover could wish, but not in the manner of the Miriam he knew. He might have liked the new Miriam better, had he not previously fallen in love with the former one. He could not make advances to her: he had no opportunity to do so: she was making advances to him!

"My love," she said, standing before him, "I have come back to the world for your sake. Before Semitzin first saw you, her heart was yours. And I come to you, not poor, but with the riches and power of the princes of Tenochtitlan. You shall see them: they are yours!— Kamaiakan, take down the chest."

"What's that about Semitzin?" inquired Freeman. "I'm not aware that I knew any such person."

"Kamaiakan!" repeated the other, raising her voice, and not hearing Freeman's last words. Kamaiakan was nowhere to be seen. Both Freeman and she had supposed that he was following on behind the mule; but he had either dropped behind, or had withdrawn somewhere. "O Kamaiakan!" shouted Freeman, as loud as he could.

A distant hail, from the direction of the desert, seemed to reply.

"That can't be he," said Freeman. "It was at least a quarter of a mile off, and the wrong direction, too. He's in the gorge, if he's anywhere."

"Hark!" said Semitzin.

They listened, and detected a low murmur, this time from the gorge.

"He's fallen down and hurt himself," said Freeman. "Let's go after him."

In a few moments they stumbled upon the old Indian, reclining with his shoulders against a rock, and gasping heavily.

"My princess," he whispered, as she bent over him, "I am dying. The poisonous air in the cave was fatal to me, though the spell that is upon the Golden Fleece protected you. I have done what the gods commanded. I am absolved of my vow. The treasure is safe."

"Nonsense! you're all right!" exclaimed Freeman. "Here, take a pull at this flask. It did me all the good in the world!"

But the old man put it aside, with a feeble gesture of the hand. "My time is come,—" said he.—"Semitzin, I have been faithful."

"Semitzin, again!" muttered Freeman. "What does it mean?"

"But what is this?" cried the girl, suddenly starting to her feet. "I feel the sleep coming on me again! I feel Miriam returning! Kamaiakan, have you betrayed me at the last?"

"No, no, princess, I have done nothing," said he, in a voice scarcely audible. "But, with death, the strength of my will goes from me, and I can no longer keep you in this world. The spirit of Miriam claims her rightful body, and you must struggle against her alone. The gods will not be defied: it is the law!"

His voice sank away into nothing, and his beard drooped upon his breast.

"He's dying, sure enough, poor old chap," said Freeman. "But what is all this about? I never heard anything like this language you two talk together."

Semitzin turned towards him, and her eyes were blazing.

"She shall not have you!" she cried. "I have won you— I have saved you— you are mine! What is Miriam? Can she be to you what I could be?— You shall never have him!" she continued, seeming to address some presence invisible to all eyes but hers. "If I must go, you shall go with me!" She fumbled in her belt, caught the handle of a knife there, and drew it. She lifted it against her heart; but even then there was an uncertainty in her movement, as if her mind were divided against itself, or had failed fully to retain the thread of its purpose. But Freeman, who had passed rapidly from one degree of bewilderment to another, was actually relieved to see, at last, something that he could understand. Miriam—  for some reason best known to herself— was about to do herself a mischief. He leaped forward, caught her in his arms, and snatched the knife from her grasp.

For a few moments she struggled like a young tiger. And it was marvellous and appalling to hear two voices come from her, in alternation, or confusedly mingled. One said, "Let me kill her! I will not go! Keep back, you pale-faced girl!" and then a lower, troubled voice, "Do not let her come! Her face is terrible! What are those strange creatures with her? Harvey, where are you?"

At last, with a fierce cry, that died away in a shuddering sigh, the form of flesh and blood, so mysteriously possessed, ceased to struggle, and sank back in Freeman's arms. His own strength was well-nigh at an end. He laid her on the ground, and, sitting beside her, drew her head on his knee. He had been in the land of spirits, contending with unknown powers, and he was faint in mind and body.

Yet he was conscious of the approaching tread of horses' feet, and recollected the hail that had come from the desert. Soon loomed up the shadowy figures of mounted men, and they came so near that he was constrained to call out, "Mind where you're going! You'll be over us!"

"Who are you?" said a voice, which sounded like that of General Trednoke, as they reined up.

"There's Kamaiakan, who's dead; and Miriam Trednoke, who has been out of her mind, but she's got over it now, I guess; and I,— Harvey Freeman."

"My daughter!" exclaimed General Trednoke.

"My boy!" cried Professor Meschines. "Well, thank God we've found you, and that some of you are alive, at any rate!"

viii

AS IT WAS still some hours before dawn, and Freeman was too weak to travel, it was decided to encamp beside the pyramid till the following evening, and then make the trip across the desert in the comparative coolness of starlight. Meanwhile, there was something to be done, and much to be explained.

The spirit of Kamaiakan had passed away, apparently at the same moment that the peculiar case of "possession" under which Miriam had suffered came to an end. They determined to bury him at the foot of the great pyramid, which would form a fitting monument of his antique character and virtues.

Miriam, after her struggle, had lapsed into a state of partial lethargy, from which she was aroused gradually. It was then found that she could give no account what ever of how or why she came there. The last thing she distinctly remembered was standing on the veranda at the ranch and looking towards the east. She was under the impression that Kamaiakan had approached and spoken with her, but of that she was not certain. The next fact in her consciousness was that she was held in Freeman's arms, with a feeling that she had barely escaped from some great peril. She could recall nothing of the journey down the gorge, of the adventure at the bottom of it, or of the return. It was only by degrees that some partial light was thrown upon this matter. Freeman knew that he was at the entrance of the cave when the earthquake began, and he remembered receiving a blow on the head. Consequently it must have been at that spot that Miriam and the Indian found him. He had, too, a vague impression of seeing Miriam coming out of the cave, dragging the chest; and there, sure enough, was a metal box, strapped to the saddle of the pack-mule. But the mystery remained very dense. And although the reader is in a position to analyze events more closely than the actors themselves could do, it may be doubted whether the essential mystery is much clearer to him than it was to them.

"We know that the ancient Aztecan priests were adepts in magic," observed the professor, "and it's natural that some of their learning should have descended to their posterity. We have been clever in giving names to such phenomena, but we know perhaps even less about their esoteric meaning than the Aztecans did. I should judge that Miriam would be what is called a good 'subject.' Kamaiakan discovered that fact; and as for what followed, we can only infer it from the results. I was always an admirer of Kamaiakan; but I must say I am the better resigned to his departure, from the reflection that Miriam will henceforth be undisturbed in the possession of her own individuality."

"As near as I could make out, she called herself Semitzin," put in Freeman.

"Semitzin?" repeated the general. "Why, if I'm not mistaken, there are accounts of an Aztecan princess of that name, an ancestress of my wife's family, in some old documents that I have in a box, at home."

"That would only add the marvel of heredity to the other marvels," said Meschines. "Suppose we leave the things we can't understand, and come to those we can?"

"I have something to say, General Trednoke," said Freeman.

"I think I have already guessed what it may be, Mr. Freeman," returned the general, gravely. "Old people have eyes, and hearts too, as well as young ones."

"Come, Trednoke," interposed the professor, with a chuckle, "your eyes might not have seen so much, if I hadn't held the lantern."

"I love your daughter, and I told her so yesterday morning," went on Freeman, after a pause. "I meant to tell you on my return. I know I don't appear desirable as a son-in-law. But I came here on a commission—"

"Meschines and I have talked it all over," the general said. "When an old West-Pointer and a professor of physics get together, they are sometimes able to put two and two together. And, to tell the truth, I received a letter from a member of your syndicate, who is also an acquaintance of mine, which explained your position. Under the circumstances, I consider your course to have been honorable. You and I were both in search of the same thing, and now, as it appears, nature has sent an earthquake to do our affair for us. No operations of ours could have achieved such a result as last night's disturbance did; and if that do not prove effective, nothing else will."

"If it turns out well, I was promised a share in the benefits," said Freeman, "and that would put me in a rather better condition, from a worldly point of view."

"After all," interrupted Meschines, "you found your way to the spot from which the waters broke forth, and may fairly be entitled to the credit of the discovery.— Eh, Trednoke? At any rate, we found nothing.— Yes, I think they'll have to admit you to partnership, Harvey: and Miriam too,— who, by the way, seems to be the only one who actually penetrated into this cave you speak of. Maybe the removal of the chest pulled the plug out of the bung-hole, as it were: the escape of confined air through such a vent would be apt to draw water along with it. By the way, let's have a look at this same chest: it looks solid enough to hold something valuable."

"I would like, in the first place, to hear what General Trednoke has to say about what I have told him," said Freeman, clearing his throat.

"Miriam," said the general, "do you wish to be married to this young man?"

The old soldier was sitting with her hand in his, and he turned to her as he spoke. She threw her arms round his neck, and pressed her face against his shoulder. "He is to me what you were to mamma," she said, so that only he could hear.

"Then be to him what she was to me," answered the general, kissing her. "Ah me, little girl! I am old, but perhaps this is the right way for me to grow young again. Well, if you are of the same mind six months hence—"

"Worse; it will be much worse, then," murmured the professor. "Better make it three."

The chest was made of some alloy of steel and nickel, impervious to rust, and very hard. It resisted all gentle methods of attack, and it was finally found necessary to force the lock with a charge of powder. Within was found another case, which was pried open with the point of the general's bowie-knife.

It was filled to the brim with precious stones, most of them removed from their settings. But such of the gold-work as remained showed the jewels to be of ancient Aztecan origin. There was value enough in the box to buy and stock a dozen ranches as big as the general's, and leave heirlooms enough to decorate a family larger than that of the most fruitful of the ancient patriarchs.

"I call that quite a respectable dowry," remarked Meschines. "Upon my soul, Miriam, if I had known what you had up your sleeve, I should have thought twice before allowing a 'civil engineer'— do you remember?— to run off with you so easily."

At dawn, they prepared the body of old Kamaiakan for its interment. In doing this, the professor noted the peculiar appearance of the corpse.

"The flesh is absolutely withered," said he, "especially those parts which were uncovered. It must have been subjected to the action of some destructive vapor or gas, fatal not only to breathe, but to come in contact with. I have heard of poisonous emanations proceeding from the ground in these regions, but I never saw an instance of their effects before. That skull that you say you found, Harvey, was probably that of a victim of the same cause. But it is strange that Miriam, who must have remained some time in the very midst of it, should have escaped without a mark, or even any inconvenience."

"Kamaiakan ascribed it to the magic of the Golden Fleece," said Freeman.

"Well," rejoined the other, "he may have been right; but, for my part, the only magic that I can find in it lies in the fact that it is made of pure wool, which undoubtedly possesses remarkable sanative properties; or maybe the fiery soul of Semitzin was powerful enough to repel all harmful influences. The poor old fellow himself, being clad in cotton, and with no soul but his own, was destroyed. Let us wrap him in his blanket, and bid him farewell— and with him, I hope, to all that is uncanny and abnormal in the lives of you young folks!"

The last rites having been paid to the dead, the party mounted their horses and rode out of the gorge on to the long levels of the desert.

"Who come yonder?" said Freeman.

"A couple of Mexicans, I think," said the general.

"One of them is a woman," said Meschines.

"They look very weary," remarked Freeman.

Miriam fixed her eyes on the approaching pair for a moment, and then said, "They are Señor de Mendoza and Grace Parsloe."

And so, indeed, they were; and thus, in this lonely spot, all the dramatis personae of this history found themselves united.

In answer to the obvious question, how Grace and De Mendoza happened to be there, it transpired that, left to their own devices, they had undertaken no less an enterprise than to discover the hidden treasure. Grace had communicated to the Mexican such bits of information as she had picked up and such surmises as she had formed, and he had been able to supplement her knowledge to an extent that seemed to justify them in attempting the adventure,— not to mention the fact that Don Miguel (such was the ardor of his sentiment for Grace) would, had she desired it, have gone with her into a fiery furnace or a den of lions. Grace, who was ambitious as well as romantic, and who longed for the power and independence that wealth would give, was all alight with the idea of capturing the hoard of Montezuma: her social position would be altered at a stroke, and the world would be at her feet. Whether she would then have rewarded Don Miguel for his devotion, is possibly open to doubt: the sudden acquisition of boundless wealth has been known to turn larger heads than hers. Fortunately, however, this temptation was withheld from her: so far from finding the treasure, she and Don Miguel very soon lost themselves in the desert, and had been wandering about ever since, dolely uncomfortable, and in no small danger of losing their lives. They were already at the end of their last resource when they happened to encounter the other party, as we have seen; and immeasurable was their joy at the unlooked-for deliverance. So there was another halt, to enable them to rest and recuperate; and it was not until the evening of that day that the journey was finally resumed.

Meanwhile, Grace had time to think over all that happened, and to arrive at certain conclusions. She was at bottom a good girl, though liable to be led away by her imagination, her vanity, and her temperament. Don Miguel's best qualities had revealed themselves to her in the desert: he had always thought of her before himself, had done all that in him lay to save her from fatigue and suffering, and had stuck to her faithfully when he might perhaps have increased his own chances of escape by abandoning her. Did not such a man deserve to be rewarded?— especially as he was a handsome fellow, of good family, and possessed of quite a respectable income. Moreover, Harvey Freeman was now beyond her reach: he was going to marry Miriam, and she had realized that her own brief infatuation for him had had no very deep root after all. Accordingly, she smiled encouragingly upon Don Miguel, and before they set out on their homeward ride she had vouchsafed him the bliss of knowing that he might call her his.

The general, as her guardian, did not withhold his approval; but when Grace drew him aside and besought him never to reveal to her intended the fact that she had once been a shop-girl, the old warrior smiled.

"You can depend upon me to keep your secret, if you wish it, my dear," said he; "but I warn you that such concealments between husband and wife are not wise. He loves you and would only love you the more for your frankness in confessing what you seem to consider a discreditable episode: though I for my part am free to tell you that you will be lucky if your future life affords you the opportunity of doing anything else so much to your credit. But the chances are that he will find it out sooner or later; and that may not be so agreeable, either to him or to you. Better tell him all now."

But Grace pictured to herself the aristocratic pride of an hidalgo shocked by the suggestion of the plebeianism of trade; and she would not consent to the revelation. But the general's prediction was fulfilled sooner than might have been expected.

For, after they were married, Don Miguel decided to visit the Atlantic coast on the wedding journey; and one of the first notable places they reached was, of course, New York. Don Miguel was delighted, and was never weary of strolling up Fifth Avenue and down Broadway, with his beautiful wife on his arm. He marvelled at the vast white pile of the Fifth Avenue Hotel; he frowned at the Worth Monument; he stared inexhaustibly into the shop-windows; he exclaimed with admiration at the stupendous piles of masonry which contained the goods of New York's merchant princes. It seemed to be his opinion that the possessors of so much palpable wealth must be the true aristocracy of the country.

And one afternoon it happened that as they were strolling along Broadway, between Twenty-third Street and Union Square, and were crossing one of the side-streets, a horse belonging to one of Lord and Taylor's delivery- wagons became frightened, and bolted round the corner. One of the hind wheels of the vehicle came in contact with Grace's shoulder, and knocked her down. The blow and the fall stunned her. Don Miguel's grief and indignation were expressed with tropical energy; and a by-stander said, "Better carry her into the store, mister; it's their wagon run her down, and they can't do less than look after her."

The counsel seemed reasonable, and Don Miguel, with the assistance of a policeman, lifted his wife and bore her into the stately shop. One of the floor-walkers met them at the door; he cast a glance at their burden, and exclaimed, "Why, it's Miss Parsloe!" And immediately a number of the employees gathered round, all regarding her with interest and sympathy, all anxious to help, and— which was what mystified Don Miguel— all calling her by name! How came they to know Grace Parsloe? Nay, they even glanced at Don Miguel, as if to ask what was HIS business with the beautiful unconscious one!

"This lady are my wife," he said, with dignity. "She not any more Miss Parsloe."

"Oh, Grace has got married!" exclaimed the young ladies, one to another; and then an elderly man, evidently in authority, came forward and said, "I suppose you are aware, sir, that Miss Parsloe was formerly one of our girls here; and a very clever and useful girl she was. I need not say how sorry we are for this accident: I have sent for the physician: but I cannot but be glad that the misfortune has at least given me the opportunity of telling you how highly your wife was valued and respected here."

At this juncture, Grace opened her eyes: she looked from one face to another, and knew that fate had brought the truth to light. But the physical shock tempered the severity of the mental one: besides, she could not help being pleased at the sight of so many well-remembered and friendly faces; and, finally, her husband did not look by any means so angry and scandalized as she had feared he would. Indeed, he appeared almost gratified. The truth probably was, he was flattered to see his wife the centre of so much interest and attention, and at the discovery that she had been in some way an honored appanage of so imposing an establishment. So, by the time Grace was well enough to be driven back to her hotel, the señor was prattling cheerfully and familiarly with all and sundry, and was promising to bring his wife back there the next day, to talk over old times with her former associates.

Such was Grace's punishment: it was not very severe; but then her fault had been a venial one; and the episode was of much moral benefit to her. She liked her husband all the better for having nothing more to conceal from him; her vanity was rebuked, and her false pride chastened; and when, in after-years, her pretty daughters and black-haired sons gathered about her knees, she was wont to warn them sagely against the un-American absurdity of fearing to work for their living, or being ashamed to have it known.

But the married life of Miriam and Harvey Freeman was characteristically American in its happiness. The representatives of the oldest and of the latest inhabitants of this continent, their union seemed to produce the flower of what was best in both. Their wedding is still remembered in that region, as being everything that a Southern Californian wedding should be; and the bride, as she stood at the altar, looked what she was,— one of those women who, more than anything else in this world, are fitted to bring back to earth the gentle splendors of the Garden of Eden. In her dark eyes, as she fixed them upon Freeman, there was a mystic light, telling of fathomless depths of tenderness and intelligence: it seemed to her husband that love had expanded and uplifted her; or perhaps that other spirit in her, which had battled with her own, had now become reconciled, and therefore yielded up whatever it had of good and noble to aggrandize the gentle victory of its conqueror. Somehow, somewhere, in Miriam's nature, Semitzin lived; and, as a symbol of the peace and atonement that were the issue of her strange interior story, her husband preserves with reverence and affection the mysterious garment called the Golden Fleece.

__________________

7: Public Sap-Head Number One

R. A. J. Walling

1869-1949

Townsville Daily Bulletin (Qld) 2 October 1937

Robert Alfred John Walling  was an English journalist and author of detective novels, who signed his works "R. A. J. Walling". His major detective series character was Philip Tolefree

WILLIE SHERWOOD'S friends all tell him he must have looked less of a sap-head than usual when Captain Whatman let him in on his plans for bringing the Greenhaugh kidnapping case to a satisfactory conclusion.

Of course, we have only Willie's word for what happened between him and the captain. How near the truth it is must be judged from the known facts .

Sherwood, after a lounging Summer along the coast, was spending a last lazy October fortnight at a modest hotel in that favorite resort in Brittany, La Plage d'Armor. The big Hotel de l'Europe et de l'Univers had put up most of its shutters, leaving down only those of a small corner of the restaurant kept open for the casual belated, like Sherwood.

It was in this corner that he first saw Whatman. He had lunched very well. Sitting by an open window facing South, which let In the warmth of the sun, replete with food, he must have snoozed for two hours. At the moment when he woke, close on four o'clock, a man was slowly passing the back of his chair and went on to rap on a table a few yards away.

Until the girl came to discover his needs, they were the only two human beings in the place.

The man made a striking figure, big and wiry, with a piercing dark glance. He seemed to have been in the wars very recently; his right cheek was decorated with a star of sticking plaster. A foreigner of some sort, evidently, for he conveyed his order to the waitress by gesture.

What particularly attracted Sherwood's attention to him was a queer bit of by-play. Whatman rolled his own cigarettes, and before rolling the second one and finishing his drink, he scribbled a few words on the paper. He left the restaurant as a nurse-girl and some noisy children arrived. Sherwood, going out to his car, saw the cigarette lying on the cement pavement, and was hesitating about picking it up, when two men approaching, eyed him curiously. He grabbed it to end the scene, feeling rather foolish.

In the car, he touched the starter, opened the cigarette carefully, smoothed out the paper, and read:

'Follow me up the beach.'

He switched off the engine.

Whatman must have walked fast, for when Sherwood reached the beach it was empty as far as the first rocky point that splotched the yellow sands with Vandyke. In what he says was 'a mood of idle inquisitiveness,' he resolved to go exactly as far as that corner; in a spirit of sloth to go no further. Then, arriving at the point, he saw Whatman a hundred yards ahead of him, facing the two men who had passed the car. All three were gesticulating excitedly. Perceiving Sherwood, however, Whatman waved the fellows away and turned back towards him.

'Say you're English,' he explained, coming up. Sherwood confessed that he was English.

'Phew!' said Whitman. 'I was afraid you mightn't be able to read that cigarette paper after all. I'm In the devil of a jamb, not knowing a word of French. And if I did, they jabber so !— those two guys— my aunt—!'

'Awkward,' said Sherwood. 'What did you want to know?'

'The simplest thing— Where's a place called Peninnis? Know it?'

'Of course. You might have asked me at the hotel.'

'I should have. But the crowd came in,' he grimaced. 'Strike you as odd that I don't want people here to know I'm asking about this place?'

It did seem a little odd, especially as he seemed to have been asking two casual Frenchmen two minutes before.

'Not on your life I didn't! I couldn't. I just asked them if they spoke English. That's what all the oratory was about. Where is Peninnis?'

'Fifteen miles North-East — twenty by road,' said Sherwood.

'Thanks.' They walked together round the point and back towards the hotel. 'Odd?— it must all seem bats to you!'

During a long silence, his dark eyes were bent on Sherwood's sleepy green ones. Sherwood says he began to feel uncomfortable. But at last Whatman went on, 'Look here — you're an Englishman: you wouldn't let me down?'

Sherwood was flattered by this international compliment.

'I'm a good judge of a man. Got to be,' said Whatman. 'I'll have to trust you or go phut. But I'm afraid, Mr—?'

Sherwood gave his name; Whatman responded with his.

'Pleased to meet you, Captain Whatman,' said Sherwood.

'Shan't ask for information without telling you why, Mr. Sherwood. Don't be alarmed by what I say, I'm in on the Greenhaugh case on behalf of John H. Greenhaugh.'

'The devil you are!' cried Sherwood.

'I am. You've said it. So you know the case?'

Sherwood, like all the rest of the world, had been unable to avoid the Greenhaugh case; but lately it had gone quiet. He had seen nothing for more than a week till that very afternoon, when the only paragraph in the 'Echo de Paris' which hold his attention was one reporting a rumor that the kidnappers of young Peter Greenhaugh were believed to be in Europe and that inquiries were on foot along the coast of France.

'That what it said? Can't read the language. But I can tell you later news than that, Mr. Sherwood. Last night Bill Greenhaugh and I as good as had our hands on the boy—'

'You had!' exclaimed Sherwood; 'but— Bill? I thought it was John H.?'

'Brother of John H.— boy's uncle. Came across with me. We trailed 'em down— I say, let's walk further out. Too many people about.'

Whatman led the way to the edge of the tide.

'We trailed 'em down,' he said, 'to a little one-horse port about a hundred miles up the coast— Le Conquet.'

Sherwood nodded.

'We had the foulest luck. They got away just in time last night. Know nothing about us— quite another reason: the gang's quarrelled and split in two. One lot's chasing the other one, which has the boy. They took him off last night in a boat. Coming to this Peninnis place to-night, thinking the others aren't wise to it—'

'And are they?'

'Yes, Mr. Sherwood. And that's my jamb. They're there now, waiting. I'm between two fires. And I'm singlehanded. I flew down from Brest today. Bill Greenhaugh's coming by train, but anyhow he's no good in a jamb— too old. All I can do is to watch— keep on trailing 'em. That's why I want to know about this Peninnis place.'

But why, Sherwood inquired, need Captain Whatman be single-handed? He could have all of the police of the Department to help him by telephoning to the bureau in La Plage d'Armor.

'Police?' Whatman's deep voice expressed astonishment. 'The least whisper of police and it's all down the drain! Those guys can smell a policeman for miles. Good-bye to little Peter Greenhaugh if you do that, Mr. Sherwood. You won't let me down? Leave me to handle it. Tell me all about Peninnis and how to get there, I ask no more than that'.

ii

THAT 'Good-bye to little Peter', Sherwood says, did for him. It brought him into Whatman's plans up to the neck. Peninnis-les-pins was quite familiar to him. He had spent some weeks of his holiday in the solitary hotel among the pines on the peninsula before it closed on the 15th September. He knew every inch of that queer little estate, surrounded by the sea except for the neck of land where its gateway stood. A very remote and secret place, he admitted. Steep cliffs all round and only one landing place, a boat slip at the corner of a tiny bathing beach.

'Hotel?' said Whatman.

'There's some place there where half the gang's gone— but it can't be a shut hotel. Ain't there some other place?'

One private house, deep in the wood, said Sherwood. He'd never seen it.

'Bet you a million that's the place. Deep In the wood?— well, it'll be easy to watch.'

Then, Sherwood says, the idea came to him. He and Whatman stood on the edge of the sea, far from the nursemaids and the children, and he put the idea forward while Whatman's eyes became excited and his voice went deeper. If the watching gang was at the house— how many of them? Only two?— well, two couldn't do more than man the place.  What about diverting the others when they landed? Could that be done? How many were in the boat?— two? Well—

'That's a scheme. I hand it to you. But of course, it can't be done. Not a man I can trust. Two could do it, but not one'.

Sherwood felt what was passing in Whatman's mind as plainly as If he had said it.

'Well, there are two of us, aren't there?' said Sherwood. 'You.— I daren't ask you. Wouldn't be right.

'I'm not waiting to be asked,' said Sherwood. 'What's your plan?' '

It took some time to persuade Whatman to agree, but at last he put up a plan which seemed to Sherwood practicable. The problem was to divert the gangsters who had the boy from getting contact with the others. Whatman didn't know the ground, but he thought that if they could be induced to go to a point where he was waiting for them he could do the rest.

'I've got it,' he said. 'Tell 'em just that— the second gang's occupying the house. You're only a visitor, but you're suspicious about what's going on at the house. Offer to show the way to safety—'

Sherwood thought he might find a way of managing the gang if there were only two.

'You can say one and a half,' Whatman declared. 'That is, in a rough house. The old devil with the boy is as mild as a milk-cocktail on the outside. His fighting man's a different proposition. But for heaven's sake, Mr. Sherwood, don't get Into any argument with 'em. You tell 'em just that— there's a bunch of suspicious guys at the house. You'll find they listen.'

Which was how, after more talk, they left it, Sherwood says. Now, Sherwood admits that what he did when he left the captain was the real cause of the breakdown of the plan. Not that he was afraid of gangsters!— no such thing. He didn't suffer from cold feet. What he felt was that, as Whatman said, it was far more important to get the boy alive and well than to bring the wrong-doers to justice. In any case, Whatman was wrong about their numbers. There proved to be three, not two. And Sherwood thought he was acting for the best. So he defends himself vigorously.

Who was to know what the mere mention to an acquaintance of his probable whereabouts at such and such a time would wreck the whole scheme? Except for that he says, he obeyed Whatman's Instructions to the letter. What else he did was only precaution for his own personal safety.

He went to his hotel and picked up his revolver. He had a meal with Whatman at the restaurant. He drove him the twenty miles to Peninnis, arriving just at dark, left him to guard the only exit from the estate, and himself went on through the woods to the point where any incoming vessel must be seen. Stowing his car in a clearing he began prospecting.

The speed of the boat, Whatman had said, would not allow her to reach Peninnis until between nine and ten. He employed the next hour in establishing the presence of the second gang at the solitary house. Knowing all the woodland paths, and moving silently along the carpet of pine needles, he was able to get within a few feet of the by-road which looked down on this gloomy and solid granite building which, he understood, some rich Frenchman had built but rarely visited. He had never seen any signs of habitation before. But people were undoubtedly there now— and they seemed quite confident that their presence was unsuspected, for there were two lighted windows, and not a symptom of any guard.

Having satisfied himself of this position, Sherwood stole back to the seaward point. He was there, effacing himself against the trunk of a pine, when the boat chugged in without lights. In the flickering gleam of a torch, he saw the silhouette of a man standing with a boat hook ready to hitch in the crevices of the slipway. The boat became motionless. A second man stepped ashore holding a torch. A third man. carrying a bulky burden, was handed out of the boat, and stood on the slip.

The light vanished, and he heard the sound of a rope being reeved through a ring.

Silence for several minutes.

'En avant, Bezellec— conduisez moi!'

Sherwood started. The French words were spoken In low English accents.

'Doucement— les pistolets en joue!'

The light was thrown on the slipway and a procession towards Sherwood began. The leader of the band must be the boatman— Bezellec was a Breton name. But he had no time for speculation. Next moment the torch was shining In his eyes, blinding him. An exclamation, a voice growling, 'Cover him, Joe!' a rush of footsteps — and Sherwood's arms were seized and bent back round the tree. A child began to whimper. The English voice said, 'Shut up!'

Three to one were odds too great. He could do nothing. One man continued to pinion his arms. The second held in one hand the torch which glared at him, and in the other a gun; occasionally he waved it warningly in the light. Meanwhile the man with the burden stepped forward and started hard at Sherwood. He said: 'What's this, Joe? Frisk him!'

Sherwood felt a hand extracting the revolver from his pocket, and his arms were released.

'Hurry!' said the man with the burden; 'bring him along,' and the procession started through the woods, the Breton leading, Sherwood next, the gunman behind him, the man with the burden last.

He noticed that they went unerringly by the nearest path to the house, in complete silence save when the man carrying the child asked, 'Ah— nous arrivons, Bezellec?— e'est let?' And the man in front grunted, 'Ouai, le patron.'

'Keep hold of him, Joe,' said the English voice, and a big fist grabbed the back of Sherwood's collar. He was roughly propelled down a few steps from the road, along a grass-grown path, past a door which seemed to open magically at Bezellec's touch, and into a broad hall brightly lighted. The door slammed behind the party.

Sherwood had barely time to note the patter of footsteps along a tiled floor before his gaoler, still holding his collar and poking the gun into his back, pushed open a door at the side of the hall, threw him into some apartment beyond, and locked him in.

And thus Whatman's great scheme collapsed into ruin!

iii

SHERWOOD felt around the walls in pitch-blackness— a tiny room, quite empty, hardly more than a cupboard— and pulled up when he came to the door. Some excitement was going on in the hall. He thought it was not more than three or four minutes before the door opened, and the English voice said: 'Come out!'

Sherwood stepped into the hall and saw a strange tableau. An elderly man with a bald head and blue eyes— undoubtedly the bandit who, Whatman said, was mild as a milk cocktail— looked at him with an unwinking stare. On one side stood a bearded ruffian in a blue jumper; on the other a keen-eyed, clean-shaven, brawny young man holding a gun; in the background two women each clasping a hand of a frightened little boy. Clearly any other gangsters in the place had been surprised and disposed of.

'Your name Sherwood?' said the blue-eyed man, and before Sherwood could answer, 'Hello!— here they are!'

A door at the back of the hall burst open and a man in kepi and blue coat rushed in, crying 'Shairwood!— nous I'avons!'

'Horroo! Got him!' yelled Sherwood.

The man in the kepi leaped to him, kissed him on both cheeks, and poured a torrent of French over him. When the deluge had subsided, the blue-eyed man held out a hand to Sherwood, who shook it. The bearded ruffian and the gunman followed suit.

'Served you a bit rough, Mr. Sherwood,' said the blue-eyed man, 'but we couldn't know. Forgiven?'

Sherwood forgave him.

'You've guessed me?— William Greenhaugh. This is Bezellec— the best scout in the world. I met him down here last week; he put me on to this place, and he's run his old tub two hundred miles in two days for me. Meet Mr. Bezellec. And this is Joe Whatman, of New York. He's the fellow that tracked down those devils and knocked out one of 'em at Le Conquet last night when we got Peter away. Now we all know each other, so let's have a drink.'

Mr. Greenhaugh led the way to a dining room. Sherwood having been made acquainted with him, Peter Greenhaugh, half asleep already, was spirited away by the women. Mr. Greenhaugh made a wry face, said he liked something harder than the crimson liquid Bezellec routed out from behind the carved door of a cupboard, but raised his little glass with the other three and drank to Sherwood's health.

'Now, Sherwood,' said he, 'I'd like to know how you saw through that wily devil Jake Black. Our friend's patter'— he looked at the kepi— 'is a knot or two fast for me. Jake told you the tale, I gather, something about a split In the gang, thought you'd fallen for his trap. We had him stone cold last night. But someone up there must have known where Bezellec's boat came from. And, gosh! if he could have kindiddled you he might have brought it off again. Now, Mr. Sherwood— you're the bright-eyed boy of this circus. Spill it all, will you?'

Sherwood lazily protested that there wasn't much to spill. He didn't really think the captain very wily. In fact, the captain's tale was a thoroughly bald and unconvincing narrative which wouldn't have deceived little Peter himself. The captain looked to him every inch a shyster. The captain's horror of the police was far too sincere. The captain evidently dropped that cigarette to be picked up by his two confederates hanging about the hotel.

'Above all,' said Sherwood, 'the captain's face was ornamented with sticking-plaster on the very spot where, as I'd been reading in yesterday's Echo de Paris, a suspected person had a most conspicuous birthmark.'

'Ah, mon ami Shairwood!' exclaimed the kepi, 'the tache de naissance! But that was clever '.

'How'd you get him?' Sherwood asked.

'It was simple— of the most simple. It was perfect. While you dine we invite his two confederates to the bureau de police. They do not want to come, but we persuade them. When you drive off, we follow. Half an hour after you leave the captain at the gate of the forest he is in the cell at La Plage de l'Armor and we uncover a tache de naissance splendide— of the most beautiful!'

'It must have hurt when you took off the plaster—'

'I hope so.'

'What beats me, Sherwood,' said Mr. Greenhaugh, 'is why they dragged you in,  instead of working the racket themselves.'

'That also is of the most simple,' smiled Sherwood. 'They couldn't speak French, they didn't know the place; they hadn't got the hang of French police ways. But the real reason, Mr. Greenhaugh, is that the gallant captain mistook me for Public Sap-head Number One!'

______________________

8: The Garden of Delight

Cosmo Hamilton

1870-1942

Liberty, 20 July 1929

THERE WAS to be a Gala that night in the open air restaurant of the Grand Duke Boris.

Sun had come to Nice again after a wet December and a January spoiled by snow. The Carnival had been a catastrophe. In the memory of the oldest inhabitant no season had been so bad. It was time, therefore, that the Garden shook off depression, put on a show of gayety, and made a bold effort to capture some of the entertainment money of the visitors who were coming at last.

The little box in which the Grand Duke kept his earnings was at its lowest ebb.

There was a screen of canvas drawn across the gate and it was locked. That meant nothing to Ivan Storogev, the successful gigolo, who, at 3 O’clock in the afternoon, had crawled from his comfortable bed. A year ago he had been a waiter in that place, a loyal member of the commonwealth of the Russian aristocrats who made a precarious livelihood under the gentle and satirical leadership of the dead Czar’s cousin.

In a sense a deserter, because he had capitalized his beautiful face and slim figure by attaching himself as a professional dancing man to the Negresco Hotel, Count Storogev was still welcomed in a friendly spirit by his former chief and given the run of the untidy villa in which the brotherhood lived, cooked, and laughed away their tragic memories.

He made his way through the house, saw Princess Irina Petrovna hanging paper lanterns on the shabby pergola, and marched quickly to her side. He had the look of a man whose nerves were about to crack.

“You!” she said lightly. “How nice of you to come. None of us hang these bedraggled lanterns with such a touch.”

In a vivid sweater and a short brown frock, hatless, with a glint of sun in her extraordinarily fair hair, she looked even more lovely than when, among the orchestra, she faced her father’s fluctuating clientele every night in her Cossack uniform. There were men all over the world to whom the mere mention of Nice stirred the haunting memory of her enchanting face and that clear sweet voice.

He made no attempt to hang the lantern which she gave him. In his dissipated eyes there was deep resentment, and on his white face two red spots of rage.

He said thickly, “Why don’t you answer your letters? You’ve had two from me this week.”

Irina continued to put the candles in their sockets with a steady hand. All about her there was the air of one whose whole concern, like that of her companions, was to beautify the garden in order to refresh her father’s box. Neither the time nor the mood was hers for emotion or personal things.

“If you’re not going to help us,” she said, “you’re badly in the way.”

He followed his own line of thought with the obstinacy of weakness.

“I don’t intend to be ignored,” he said, jerking back his hair. “You can’t put me off as though I were a man who had come to mend something, a Niceoise with a bag. I’m here to know what you mean by treating me like this.”

Irina was disturbed only because this man was interfering with her work. Treating him as though, he were a yapping Pekingese, she mounted a rickety kitchen chair and hung the lantern herself. All the same, there was something in Ivan’s expression which made her take the precaution of calling to her father who was festooning the trelliswork near by with branches Of newly cut leaves.

Always amiable, the Grand Duke Boris turned, smiled at his daughter, who was the apple of his eye, and left what he called his exterior decoration to join her at once. He wore a blue beret on a head that was noticeably small. It was cocked over his left ear and looked all the bluer because of the whiteness of his hair.

His eyes were large and wide apart, gray and rather deep-set; his nose large and well cut, and his mouth very sensitive under a mustache that was curled away from his lip—a dyed mustache, palpably dyed, so that it looked unreal and as though stuck on with gum. There was a cleft in his chin.

He was wearing a thick white sweater and a pair of trousers far too tight. Here and there they were stained with the juice of stewed plums. There was an apron of very much worn green baize tied round his waist and a pair of chamois leather gloves on his long thin hands. He was proud of his hands which, in the old days, had turned over the leaves of his rare books for so many hours at a time.

All about him still there was the look of a delicate and whimsical student who did not confine himself altogether to his library, but spent many of his nights with women and champagne. No one would have guessed that he had commanded a Russian army during the first year of the war, or that he had had the physical stamina and mental courage to endure the frightful hardships of winters at the front. On his face there were, of course, the lines of indescribable suffering and of those nightmares which, even now, and in that peaceful place, disturbed his sleep and caused him to leap from his bed in the dark and suppress a scream by clapping a hand on his mouth.

“Very nice,” he said. “Charming. This is the sixth year during which these lanterns have turned our Garden of Delight into a Bower of Romance. They wear well.”

He laughed at his exaggerated description of the effects of the tenth-rate things which had been purchased originally for almost nothing in one of those numerous little shops in the picturesque Italian quarter behind the flower market which devoted themselves annually to the Carnival. He gave Ivan his left hand—his cousin Ivan who, if the world had not turned a somersault, would at that moment have been wearing the gorgeous uniform of an officer in the bodyguard of the Czar. Ivan Storogev, gigolo, deserter.

The presence of the Grand Duke, even in that place and in those circumstances had the usual effect. Ivan clicked his heels and bowed over that friendly hand.

“I’m afraid that you, like ourselves, have not done well so far.”

“Quite right, sir. Far from well.”

“There has been a scarcity this year of those elderly dancing women on whom you rely. Never mind. The sun is here again. Optimism has returned. Meantime, it is kind of you, my dear Ivan, to come round to lend a hand.”

Ivan was honest for once. He said, “I’ve not come round for that. I can’t and won’t stand the way in which I’m being treated by Irina— that’s what’s brought me here. You know as well as she does that I regard myself as engaged to be married. Except in such rotten times I earn enough money on which we can keep a respectable apartment, and I’ve saved enough as it is to lift her out of this place.

“A year ago, even while I was a waiter, you gave your consent to our marriage. I want to know— in fact. I’m damn well going to know— why Irina holds off and plays the fool with me; among other things ignoring my letters, slipping into shop doors when she sees me coming, and generally treating me to a systematic flippancy which is not deserved. That’s all— and I’m glad you’re here to be told.”

Although the Grand Duke was astonished at this outburst from a man whose manners were usually beyond reproach, he retained his expression of bland aloofness from human emotion, and shrugged.

“My dear fellow,” he said, “I am the keeper of this Garden. My little box is at its lowest ebb. We have a Gala tonight. Marriage, life, death, and the great hereafter have no importance compared with the vital necessity of making francs. There is the rent to be paid. Even a commonwealth must eat. Forgive me if I go back to my leaves.”

He blew a kiss to his daughter, who looked so charming on that chair. She was, he considered, quite capable of managing this high-strung person without his help. It was already 4 o’clock, time was flying, and there was much to be done. One whole wall of trellis remained to be beautified. He smiled at Ivan and moved away with grace. To make a success of that evening was as important to him then as a strong attack upon the enemy had been in those never to be forgotten days already far in the past— incredibly far, as it seemed.

From force of habit Ivan clicked his heels again.

Irina assumed an anger that she did not feel. This petulant man was no longer a person to be taken seriously. He had taken the easiest way. He had sold his pride for the fees of elderly fools. He had proved himself disloyal. When, a year ago, she had watched him carrying plates from table to table with a napkin over his arm, and he, like the other members of the commonwealth, was an eager and honest worker in the cafe which her father, in a satirical mood, had called the Garden of Delight, there had been a flutter in her heart. It was no longer there.

She said, “You have the naive, dramatic qualities of a newspaper, my friend. You talk in headlines. You bore me. You know the way to the gate.”

Ivan stamped his foot. The gesture was almost effeminate. But the two red spots of rage on his face were redder now.

“My God,” he cried out, “has the degradation of this cursed place dulled your moral sense? Why not be honest at least? Why not say that you’re in love with someone else?... I may be blear-eyed after my enforced late hours, blind from the smoke of cigarettes, but I’ve been watching you whenever I could slip away from the Plage to which I’m doomed. You think— and I’ve seen it in your eyes— that I’ve lost caste by dancing with old fat women. I have. But so have you.

“I’ve seen you looking at Shakovskaya, that damned peasant, with his ‘magic’ violin, as once you looked at me. If it’s true that you and he have the faintest glimmer of an idea of going up to our church on the hill, I tell you this in cold blood, here and now, there’ll be murder in this Garden of Delight and suicide as well. As God’s my judge, that’s true.”

He stood near to her chair for a moment, shaking with an ague of emotion. His face was turned up and Irina could see in his eyes what, knowing him so well, was an astonishing flare of love. She had never believed, even before he had proved himself to be so complete an egotist, that he was capable of loving anyone but himself. She said nothing. She used her father’s eloquent and frequent gesture— a slight shrug to the accompaniment of raised eyebrows, which was so essentially Russian.

He turned on his heel and marched away— a slight, tall, almost too beautifully waisted figure, with black hair, glossy, a little too long. With his presence removed, the restaurant in its oblong garden among the trees, with numerous iron chairs which needed paint so badly, and uneven gravel with a sort of mosaic of weeds, resumed its cheerfulness.

Not only was the Grand Duke whistling Raquel Meller’s latest song as he stuck his leaves into the once green trellis, but General Igorivitch, the head cook, and Prince Vladimir Dionisievitch, the xylophonist of the orchestra, were singing to themselves as they arranged the tables and treated the cheap napkins in their expert way. The other members-of the commonwealth— a dozen or so ex-officers of the Russian army and navy whose names gleamed in the pages of their country’s history, and the girls who were their sisters and cousins, some of them quite young—were busy and happy, too.

That “damned peasant,” Paul Shakovskaya, the violinist, was tying pieces of colored paper to the pergola.

Both in his Cossack uniform and now in an ill-cut suit of tweeds, the trousers far too tight, the man of whom Ivan had become so passionately jealous caught every female eye. He was huge and simple, with broad shoulders and a magnificent torso; six foot one and a half. His was the square face with the high Tartar cheekbones and wide blue eyes which one associates with the men who sing the Volga Boat Song as they haul up their battered fishing smacks from the sea. His fair skin was brown even although the sun had been so shy for weeks. There was nothing about him to suggest the artist, although he certainly was that. There was no man in any of the numerous orchestras which lend an added charm to the irresistible beauty of the Côte d’Azur who was so fine a player of the violin. His amazing technique and his almost religious interpretation of the music of the great masters were, oddly enough, unhandicapped by the possession of what is called, usually, as an excuse for unpleasantness and irresponsibility, the artistic temperament.

He played because he couldn’t help himself, as a bird sings, and there was hardly a moment of his day when his beloved fiddle was not tucked under his chin. His genius would not have been so great without the infinite capacity for taking pains. With and without his instrument, however, he was a simple soul, utterly devoid of inhibitions; cheerful, good-natured, helpful, always ready with a big laugh whether it was necessary to go underfed or not; as loyal as a dog to the Grand Duke; as much in love with Irina as a sculptor is in love with his coldest masterpiece.

Peasant, yes. Why not ? He came of a line of peasants, and the occasional touches of melancholy in which he allowed himself to indulge only when playing the traditional folk songs of his country were inherited by him.

The murder and suicide that Ivan had threatened in his hysterical outburst might, if he had seen the look in Irina’s eyes as Shakovskaya lumbered past her chair, have turned the Garden of Delight into the Garden of Despair.

The fact was, although no one knew it but herself, that Princess Irina Petrovna was ready at any moment to lose the caste to which her people clung, the possession of which enabled them to carry out their honest, servile work with undiminished pride, and go up with this peasant to the Russian church on the hill.

She loved this man with all the strength of her heart, hung enthralled upon his music every night, and admired the simple nobility of his character beyond the power of words. But she knew that unless she were herself to smash all the conventions and propose to him, the little church on the hill would never see them there. To Shakovskaya she was the daughter of the Grand Duke Boris, as far removed from his touch as though she were a star.

And when he came up to help her, having finished the job to which he had been allotted, she hid her feelings behind a friendly smile and spoke with the camaraderie which was the keynote of that place.

“Once more,” she said, “the same colored papers that were used when we came here first.”

He laughed. “Economie, Princess—the word we have learned in France. Without it where would she be? Well, I hope we have a success. His Highness is a little worried about the lowness of his box. We are to be gay. Look. These are the numbers I have chosen for tonight.” He gave her an old menu on the back of which he had set out his program in full. Tschaikowsky, Stravinski, Rimski-Korsakov, and the inevitable Puccini— a master in spite of the modern critic who pretends to be scornful of melody.

“You are to sing, if you will, Gounod’s Ave Maria. But that is far from sad. That is an inspiration. We will have it with the fish.”

It was she who laughed this time. “And with the veal, the inevitable veal, the Coq d’Or,” she said. “And with coffee— what?”

“Bohème,” he said without a moment’s hesitation; “brandy goes well with that. After which a descent for the sake of the dancers to Ah Can’t Give Yer Anythin’ but Love, Babee. My God!”

The Grand Duke had never been able to afford a second band— one of those jazz bands such as were to be found at the Negresco, the Savoy, the Peroquet, and the Ruhl. Without any grumbling, Shakovskaya and his companions swung every night into what seemed to them to be trivial dance music at the end of their classical program, just as in the same loyal way they turned, their hands to any job in the day time which would help the fortunes of the restaurant.

It was nothing unusual to see the xylophonist mending broken chairs in the shed, or the four men, who played what appeared to be gargantuan mandolins, painting the legs of the iron tables with a thin coating of green. As for General Igorivitch, that dashing old cavalry officer, he was always to be seen, with his cook’s cap tilted on the side of his head, pottering about the garden, picking the dead leaves, and tempting the straggling geraniums into bloom. A man of seventy-one, as thin as a greyhound, as bald as a billiard ball, with a large mustache which would have been the envy of a walrus, no one would have imagined that in the days of the Little Father he had been one of the ornaments of the court, a notorious lady-killer whose all-night parties in a magnificent and exotic house were famous throughout Russia.

Alone among the members of that commonwealth he, although his eyes were dim, had noticed with anxious sympathy Irina’s dismissal of the man who was a member of her own family, and her growing love for the violinist who, under the old regime, would have been beneath her.

He watched them now from beneath his bushy eyebrows as he went about with a rake, and as he did so he said to himself, “How will it end— if ever it begins? Poor children! It is true that we have escaped from death or Siberia, and are thankful to be alive in this beautiful spot even although life is only possible as the servants of the bourgeoisie and as objects of curiosity to those English and American tourists who come here for a thrill. They find it amusing, those people, to be served and waited upon by the aristocracy of a fallen country, and for that reason they give us larger tips. But because in this strange upheaval we find ourselves at the bottom, our traditions remain, and I cannot conceive the vaguest possibility of marriage between the daughter of the Grand Duke Boris and a son of Shakovskaya who herded swine. It is too soon, I fear, for the utter forgetfulness of those old conventions and shibboleths which are in our blood, though for my part, if I were Irina’s father...”

He halted in the middle of that thought like a horse refusing a jump. Human and sympathetic as he was, he revolted against anything so revolutionary as the marriage of a princess of a royal house with a man, however noble his character, who in the old days had been something of a slave. He asked himself, all the same, if the beauty and youth of that girl were to be wasted, to flower and go off in that garden as his geraniums did.

The only alternatives were that she should marry without love one of their younger bandsmen or waiters who were of good families, or the elderly Frenchman with mackerel eyes and several chins, who was only too ready to place at her feet the pearls and diamonds which gleamed in the polished cases of his shop in the Avenue de la Victoire. Ugh!

“Well, well. Life is scarce the twinkle of a star in God’s eternal day’— and I must slice the onions for my soup.” And with a Petit Caporal hanging from his lip General Igorivitch stumped back to his familiar kitchen with somewhat creaking knees.

The word Gala, familiar as it is almost everywhere in France, never fails to exercise an irresistible pull. Somehow or other it suggests super gayety, a blaze of lights, myriads of small woolen balls which can be flung without fear of arrest at attractive or dignified neighbors, and many-colored balloons which may be killed eventually with the tip of a cigarette. There may be dolls as well— fantastic things with dead eyes, chalk-white faces, a long red slit for a mouth, and boneless legs— limp and horrid things.

The hand-painted placards and bills which had been stuck all over the place by the Grand Duke’s younger followers actually did bring to the Garden that evening a goodish crowd. The tradespeople of Nice, who had grown accustomed long ago to the high-sounding titles of their Russian friends, came in the spirit of celebration at the return of the sun. It was good once more to be able to dine with comfort in the open air, even although it was still necessary to take the precaution of bringing coats.

The remainder of the guests were made up recognizably of the tourist sheep who were doing the Riviera at the cheapest possible rates, and herded quickly from place to place by the nerve-racked shepherds of the firms of Cook and Lunn.

The Garden of Delight lived almost up to its name.

The day had failed early and the lanterns attached to the pergola and dotted among the trees gave the place, to kind eyes, an air of fairydom. Then, too, the huge electric light under its tin reflector threw from its high pole a large and circular pool, making the colored streamers into a sort of waterfall.

MOST of the tables were taken when the Grand Duke Boris left the shabby villa to move blandly and agreeably from side to side, as much to convey the romantic note as to encourage his people. As he passed the rather violently painted shed in which the orchestra was perched, he halted for a moment, a gracious and charming figure in a white tie and an almost white waistcoat and the long tails of what is known to novelists, some novelists, as “full evening dress.”

The orchestra, under the brilliant leadership of Shakovskaya, had just finished playing the preliminary and inevitable march— the appetizer which goes in France before every public dinner. In their Cossack uniforms, with polished boots and furry caps, the little band looked very picturesque— Irina with her fair hair arranged cunningly about her ears, especially so.

"Things are looking up, my children,” said the Grand Duke gleefully; “all I hope is that we have enough food to go round. And I can see at least a dozen people here who, judging from former experience, will order decent wine—Beaujolais at least, Chateau Lafitte perhaps. Bravo! Our united efforts are winning a reward. We may gloat over that box tonight after the gate is closed.”

With the distribution of the soup he started on his tour, murmuring pleasant things in perfect French both to strangers and to those whom he remembered to have seen before. To the diners who were obviously English he spoke with only the slightest foreign touch, and to the Americans who were briefly in that place on Mediterranean cruises he played the part of the Grand Duke with the sort of dignified humor which moved them very much.

Shakovskaya watched him with a smile in which there were affection, deference, and the deepest admiration. He said, turning to Irina, “A master of men, Princess. One whom it is a joy and an honor to serve.” And because he was happy at the fullness of the Garden, exhilarated at the near presence on that platform of the girl who went with him through all his dreams, he took her hand and raised it to his lips. It was a gesture, made with simple spontaneity, in which he thanked her for her father and congratulated all the world that she herself had been born.

Excited, too, that that hitherto almost empty place was now filled with laughter and talk, Irina bent forward a little so that her curls touched one of the high cheekbones of the peasant’s face. She was startled and even more excited at the effect it had on him. Reticence and deference moved away from his eyes like clouds which had covered the sun. Their places were taken by a blaze of love, passion, and desire which seemed to shake the stand. Her hand trembled under his touch and he and she seemed to stand for a moment in another world, another dimension, lovely in its clear light, vibrating with the high clear notes of birds.

“Oh, my God,” he said beneath his breath, and withdrew his hand with a sense of shock, clicked his heels as a private to his commander, seized his violin, and stuck it beneath his chin.

Ave Maria— which was to go with the fish.

And when, hardly able to pull herself together, Irina took her place in front of the platform to sing, there was a tremor of so great a joy in her voice that it hushed the conversations at the tables and brought forth a burst of applause.

Lifted to another plane by what he had seen in her eyes, Shakovskaya said without looking round, “We will repeat, if you please.”

With the veal, the Coq d’Or; with the chicken, Petrouchka; with the salad. Chant sans Paroles; with the coffee and brandy, Bohème—all according to plan.

And at the back of the Garden, near the gate in the shadow, Ivan Storogev, with a revolver in his pocket, and madness in his brain—all according to fate.

He had not been back to his rooms. Madame la Concierge at the brittle-looking building of flats in the Rue du Marechal-Joffre had remarked to her husband that the Count, whose profile she admired so much, had broken his routine. Not in her knowledge had he ever failed before to return at 6 o’clock for dinner and then to change into his extremely smart evening clothes in which to go to work, having debated as to whether he could wear a shirt which he had worn already twice. Economie.

He had left the Garden after his melodramatic threat, blazing with rage and suspicion, and walked all along the Promenade des Anglais to the spot where it withered into a fag end. There it was lined on the right with sordid little houses and on the left with the beach used only by the children from the village of Saint Augustin a little way up the hill.

Cursing life, Shakovskaya, Irina, the Grand Duke Boris, himself, and his folly in ever leaving the Garden, he made his way to the rooms of a man of his own nationality— a small suite attached to the restaurant and swimming place called La Californie. He had said to Irina, “If it’s true that you and he have the faintest glimmer of an idea of going up to our church on the hill,” knowing then that “if” was a word which had been left behind long ago like a signpost on the road. Before that hysterical interview with Irina he had made up his mind that she had come to a secret understanding with Shakovskaya and that that damned peasant who adored the ground on which she stood— everyone knew that— had taken the place to which he, Ivan, had the right. It was now his duty and even, indeed, his vocation, to avenge himself, his family, and the old traditions of Russia by wiping out this disgrace.

So, in a sort of delirium of egotism, wounded vanity, and exultation, he knocked on the door of his friend’s quarters, and receiving no answer went in. Petrovitch was probably patching up the broken parts of a dilapidated shed. What did it matter? He possessed something which Ivan intended to take. He knew where it was and took it. It was the army revolver with which Petrovitch practiced at a target on the beach. Having seen that it was loaded, Ivan slipped it into his pocket, scribbled a note in which he said, “You will get this from the police,” marched all the way back along the promenade, and threw himself into one of the cane chairs in front of the Savoy. There he drank brandy after brandy with the cold weapon lying against his hip, until the light went out of the sky and the long electric necklace outlined that beautiful coast.

Finally, like a man who was about to carry out a patriotic mission, he paid his bill, said good-by to the waiter, and made his way to the familiar restaurant. All his old friends were serving the soup when he dodged into the main entrance and took up his position with his back against the wall. He was in the shadows there, behind a tree at the very edge of the Garden, but not so far away from the last table as to be wholly exiled from the constant buzz of talk.

He heard the opening march, caught the sense of triumph which infected the Grand Duke Boris and his eager helpers, and was to be seen plainly, even from where he stood, on the faces of Irina and the man with the violin. God, how well he played!

Irina’s heart was to be his target, not that of Shakovskaya whose life he considered meant nothing in the scheme of things. It was his intention to join the spirit of Irina as he and she passed over the thin line between two eternities, leaving their bodies lying upon the gravel of the Garden of Delight.

He knew that it was Shakovskaya’s habit to wind up his dinner program with a song. Every night in the old days, with his apron on his arm, he had waited in the middle of the Garden to see Irina come to the edge of the platform and had listened enraptured to her high sweet voice. He had made up his mind to hear her sing once more, and then, as the last echo of what was to be her swan song died among the trees, to send her out of the possibility of belonging to another man and follow after her. And as she came forward with a little smile of thanks at the ripple of applause, happier, it seemed to him, than he had ever seen her look, he drew the revolver from his pocket and put his finger on the trigger.

The orchestra went softly into the opening bars of Le Bon Temps Viendra which Shakovskaya had set to a haunting melody. And as the loyal peasant drew his bow across the strings of his muted violin, saying to himself, still under the deep emotion at the confession of love that he had seen in Irina’s eyes, “Can it be true, oh, God, that the good time will come?” he caught the gleam of Ivan’s weapon and saw under the red glow of a lantern the white face and mad eyes of the man who also loved.

During the last few weeks the sullen enmity of the deserter had been obvious enough, though it had not been understood.  It was now blindingly clear to Shakovskaya that Irina had turned a cold shoulder on her cousin, not because he had gone into the dance market as a hired man, but because she had given her heart to himself.

But as he stood there playing, outwardly calm but with a whirling brain, he saw with horror and amazement that the small circle of steel was not aimed at himself, but at Irina, who was standing, wholly unaware of impending death, two or three feet to his right. With a sort of divine inspiration it came to him that Ivan intended to hold his hand until her last note had risen into the hushed night like a. white bird. Whereupon he flung himself quickly in front of her as a shield.

There was a loud report and he fell with a crash at her feet.

While the startled diners were crowding together in a desire for self-preservation, with screams, another report rang out. Ivan had put the barrel to his head.

Chaos, the crush of running people at the gate, the quick movement of the Grand Duke Boris and his faithful friends to the platform, the lonely crumpled figure of the gigolo lying on his face— and to Shakovskaya the knowledge of a hot sting in his left shoulder and Irina's lips upon his mouth in that Garden of Delight.

____________________

9: At the Belton Arms

Hugh Pendexter

1875–1940

The Argosy 29 Dec 1917

AS I had feared, Amos Camper shook his head and refused my invitation.

“Some other time, Henry,” he said with a weary smile. “ I must go to Washington to-night. Take Batak here in my place.”

Batak was his general superintendent and well liked by both of us.

“You could get back in time for your train,” I persisted, drumming out my disappointment on the window. “Of course, Batak was included in the invitation. But, hang it, Amos; you’re done up. You need a breath of fresh air. We’ll reach Storville in time for lunch, and you two can wait for me to interview Dr. Manning, or you can return without me.”

“Why don’t you go, chief?” Batak urged.

Camper shook his head stubbornly, but his smile was more boyish as he repeated:

“Perhaps in a few days. I’ve just finished my work. Once it’s delivered in Washington— no, no story, Henry. The Washington end must give it out.”

“No one but the chief has all the strings in his hand,” explained Batak. “I know what my committee has done and that’s all. He knows what every committee has done.”

I was glad at least to learn that Camper’s gigantic labors in mobilizing the nation’s industrial resources were ended. He looked worn to the bone, but his eyes, I was pleased to see, shone as brightly as ever.

War stuff had the call, and being assigned to run up the river and interview Dr. Manning for a Sunday special, I had been inspired to drop in on Camper, thinking to take him along for a few hours’ relaxation, including lunch at the historic Belton Arms.

“I suppose you must have your own way,” I grumbled, making for the door and beckoning Batak to follow me.

Camper, who had been washing his hands at the corner lavatory, was still shaking his head good-naturedly, but as Batak handed him a towel from the cabinet he staggered and leaned against the wall, and his face became fearfully distorted.

“Good Heavens, Amos!” I exclaimed, making to assist him.

He motioned Batak and me back and stood erect, panting for breath, and glaring at us wildly.

Then he, tottered to his desk and rested his hands on it, and again I expected him to collapse. The face he turned toward us was livid, and he could not yet control his breathing.

Batak, quicker of wit than I, sprang to the telephone to summon a doctor; but Camper halted him with a harsh:

“Stop! I— I’ve changed my mind. I’ll  be all right in a minute. We’ll all go up to Storville for lunch.”

I eyed him askance, wondering what chances he was taking in not calling a physician.

“I used to know Storville— when a boy,” he mumbled as he waited for us to precede him through the door. “ When I was ten, I went to the Belton Arms with my father —never there since.”

“If you’d only go home and go to bed—” Batak began, but Camper silenced him with a gesture, saying:

“Never been there since, and lived so near all these years. New York takes the sentiment out of some of us— sometimes takes the soul out of a man.”

He had aged ten years since I entered the office. I’m inclined to boast how the newspaper grind burns the life out of a man, but my activities were jokes compared to the terrific grind of hooking up a nation’s resources inside of two months so as to overcome the neglect of years. And only Amos Camper with his iron will could have turned the trick so successfully, I opine. Even Batak, much younger and very virile, showed the strain of his lesser responsibility.

During the run up-river Batak and I stealthily studied the chief. I was fearing he would die before we reached Storville. Once arrived there, Dr. Manning could take him into his private sanatorium and patch him up. A storm was brewing, and the dark heavens banked us in with an unwholesome half-light which accentuated the pallor of his face.

Batak exchanged significant looks with me and pursed his lips dubiously. I tried to rouse my friend with some of my nonsense. Although usually quick to respond, he now refused to hear me, and remained with his chin sunk on his breast, his gaze riveted on the black rack of oily clouds crawling over the eastern horizon.

Once he turned and stared at me, but his gaze must have been fixed on some inner picture; for never had a friend looked at me with that expression. The same terrible intensity, bordering on the malignant, was evident when he suddenly turned his eyes on Batak.

Dr. Manning was a golf friend of the Sunday editor, and had informed him that he had the material for a good feature story. The sanatorium was a short distance back of the Belton Arms. I proposed they wait for me at the inn, lunch to be served as soon as I had covered the assignment. My purpose in reversing my original plan of lunch first and assignment afterward was to enlist Dr. Manning’s services and bring him back with me to prescribe for Camper.

To my consternation, Camper received my proposal with a savage display of heat, and in an ugly tone announced that my “scribbling” could wait till we had eaten.

I was shocked. Had any one intimated that Amos Camper could be capable of roughness toward me, I would have ridiculed the notion. In spite of my realization that he was a sick man, my face burned at the severity of his speech; and, clucking my tongue to keep my mouth shut, I followed as he led the way to the inn.

“How long has he been as bad as this?” I whispered from the corner of my mouth.

Batak cautiously glanced ahead at the bowed form and as secretly replied:

“Been coming on for some time. Never thought he’d crack so quick, though.”

“If he would only lay off for a bit,” I sighed.

“He must. He has finished his work. We subordinates can do the rest now.”

“Wish he’d given me a forecast of his report,” my news instinct prompted me to say.

“Better not ask him, seeing how he snapped you up.” And Batak smiled grimly.

The rain began as we reached the veranda, falling in a dull-gray downpour. The pounding of the water on the veranda roof made conversation difficult. The twilight made it hard to believe it was high noon in May. The dining-hall, long and low of ceiling, would have been as gloomy as a cellar"! f not for the scattered yellow blobs of candles. Colonial atmosphere was everything at the Arms.

Camper strode to the door of the hall and paused to survey the few diners grouped near the opposite wall. Then he turned to a string of empty tables near the door and waited for me to make a choice.

Seeing he was averse to fellowship, and recalling I was the host, I bustled ahead and scared up a waiter from the shadows, and conducted my guests to a side table. The waiter punctuated the gloom with two candles and departed with our orders, my friends refusing a preliminary drink.

We slumped back in the old-fashioned chairs, Camper’s melancholy mood exerting its influence on Batak and me. It was more like a funeral than a friendly luncheon. I heartily wished them both back in town.

For nearly a minute the dismal silence remained unbroken, with Camper staring down at the table, the grayness of death on his face. Just as my nerves began jumping, he jerked up his head and in a hollow voice began:

“I can’t see as it has changed any.”

“A very old place,” murmured Batak, eager to encourage him.

“It was here, serving man and beast, during the Revolutionary War,” muttered Camper, again darting a peculiar glance at Batak and repeating it on me. This time I could have sworn the man was frightened at something.

“It must have seen some history,” I prompted. “Colonials and king’s troopers must have called here frequently. Bully for local color stuff.”

“Legend says something more important than local color was witnessed by the Arms,” Camper ominously replied, the croak in his voice fitting in with the depressing atmosphere.

We waited for him to go on. His head fell forward, and his fingers plucked aimlessly at the table-cover till I feared he was sinking into a stupor. Then he resumed:

“According to ancient gossip, repeated to me by my grandfather when I was a lad, the history of this country was decided here at the Arms. For it was here, so went the story in the old days, that the captors of Major André first learned of his trip to negotiate with Benedict Arnold for the surrender of West Point.”

It is impossible to convey any impression of how these few words were twisted from his lips, as though some agency were dragging them from him against his will. I was positive his manner cast the same sinister spell over Batak. And it may be that the electrical disturbances added to the effect.

“Quite momentous, only history fails to mention it,” said Batak, pushing forward his cigarette-case.

Camper refused to smoke, but gazed steadily at Batak for some moments, as if trying to sense his words. Then he returned to pleating the table-cloth, and deep creases sank into his forehead. And he was laboriously saying:

“My grandfather used to. tell the tale. It made a deep impression on my young mind. That’s why I remember so vividly the day my father brought me here—I peopled the place with ghosts.

“The story consisted of this: A servant served André with refreshments in this very room. He suspected his errand was hostile to the welfare of the colonies. After André departed, the three colonials came along and sat on the veranda and called for food. While serving them, the waiter voiced his suspicions about André, and as a result of that information André was captured— and hung. Worse than death was Arnold’s lot— the eternal condemnation of mankind.”

His vehemence in declaring the last caused me to shiver. His fashion of pausing before pouncing on the word hung, and the hint of exultation or fear in speaking the word made me wince and draw back. Nor did his recital fail to register a strong effect on Batak, for all of his red-blooded buoyancy. To add to our mental discomfort was the physical shrinking from the raw, cold breath of the storm invading the open window. Batak, with a little shudder, said something about an open fire and a hot drink.

In a tone that sounded sickly Camper kept on:

“Some of the old settlers believed this place to be haunted after that. Boys gave it a wide berth at night, even when it was occupied as an inn.”

“Ghost of André or Arnold?” I jested.

Camper eyed me coldly and answered:

“Neither. Ghost of the waiter.”

I pictured the room of a winter’s night, with the white moonlight flooding it. I imagined it on a summer evening, deserted except for the damp shadows. If a man be given to that sort of thing, it possessed rare potentials for lively fancies. Even now I had but to half-close my eyes to behold the servant and the three men who exposed Arnold’s treason, and the shade of the unfortunate André.

“My grandfather often saw the young waiter, grown up to a man, and was fond of describing him as a tall, gaunt chap that would make you think of a death’s-head,” monotonously continued Camper. “It pleased him to think of him as the personification of inevitable justice, or retribution.”

His voice came from far off, for already my nervous brain was reconstructing the dramatic values of that legendary scene. It was at this very table that André sat to break his fast after completing arrangements for Arnold’s betrayal of West Point. The table instantly became repugnant to me. Out on the veranda, probably beside the window nearest the steps, the three colonials had halted to rest their legs and eat and drink.

With shivery satisfaction, I summoned the colonials from the dust to play their part. They formed a homely little group, unkempt, homespun men. I conjured back the shade of the waiter and fancied him placing a warning finger to his thin lips before bowing his head over the three rough polls and whispering the death sentence of the British major.

“God! It’s a dead man!”

This startling exclamation fell from Batak’s lips and capped the climax to my mood. I fairly jumped and met Camper’s gaze burning into my eyes. Turning, I beheld the cause of Batak’s emotion.

A most remarkable figure was moving about the lower end of the hall, but vaguely discernible, and then only when he entered the zone of some candle. The face, surmounting an old-fashioned stock, appeared to be fleshless. The weird-looking creature carried a napkin over his arm like a waiter and moved with a shuffling, noiseless step.

Camper, too, was now observing him, his eyes wide with amazement. Because the thought came to my mind, I knew it was in his— his grandfather’s description of the patriotic waiter, long since dead.

For the moment I was glad the burly Batak sat beside me. Had I been there alone in the shadows, with Camper’s story fresh in my ears, and the cold breath of the storm on my neck, I should have experienced uneasiness. This, especially, had the spectral figure approached me.

We leaned forward and watched. The tables cut off a full view of the strange figure, but his coat, like the stock, was of an ancient style. It was the face, however, that riveted our attention. In the uncertain light it was cadaverous to a disturbing degree. When the deep-set eyes reflected the candle-light they glowed with an unearthly luster. Surely no one could eat a meal served by such an apparition.

The man passed to an empty table and bent over a chair as if taking a patron’s order. It was uncanny to see the bony head bowing respectfully as the waiter glided to the next chair, where the same pantomime of learning a diner’s wishes was gone through with. There were four chairs at the table, and the servitor paused at three. Across the hall flesh-and-blood men were dining, but none noted his presence.

“He’s working toward us,” I commented under my breath, now feeling a hysterical desire to laugh and relieve my nerves.

My friends paid no heed. Camper continued staring spellbound. Batak passed a hand to his forehead and scowled feebly The gloom of the place, the depressing influence of the storm, and Camper’s legend had made us susceptible to the same suggestion. The waiter seemed unreal.

“He acts as if there were just three at each table,” mumbled Batak.

“Probably the three colonials who got André,” I whispered with a foolish snicker.

“And spoiled Arnold’s game,” murmured Camper.

Batak grunted something unintelligible, then said:

“The other waiters don’t seem to see him. I’ve been watching to see if one of them wouldn’t walk right through him.”

The words were scarcely uttered before the figure straightened and the ghastly countenance turned in our direction. For a moment we looked into the sunken eyes, where sparks of ancient fire slumbered. Then the emaciated figure returned to bow over another empty chair, the impossible head being cocked to one side as if heeding a fantom’s order.

“Only three at that table apparently,” muttered Batak, this phase of the pantomime seeming to obsess him.

He started to light a cigarette, abruptly changed his mind, and reverted to his former thought, saying:

“I’m still waiting to see a waiter walk through him. Unless they bump, I won’t believe he’s real.”

I sought to encourage his touch of levity by declaring:

“Amos, it must be your friend, the waiter, who tipped off the colonials about André.”

Camper frowned at my jocularity, warning:

“He’s coming this way.”

“He only tends empty tables,” reminded Batak, drawing his feet under his chair.

Unnoticed by the waiters flitting back and forth across his path, the man glided to the line of tables paralleling ours by the wall and began working up the ball. His halt at each table was marked by the same deportment. In fact, so identically did he deport himself at each empty chair, I was impelled to think of a grotesque automaton, capable of certain motions only.

As he drew abreast of us, I could detect no sound of a footfall. A nearer view increased the likeliness of Batak’s first utterance—that he was a dead man. For the yellow skin was drawn as tight as parchment over the bones of the face, and the hands appeared to consist of bones only.

“Coming for our order,” I whispered. “Let's order drinks.”

I was mistaken. Instead of approaching our table he passed to the window, and for a moment bent over the sash and gazed out on the storm-drenched veranda. When he faced about and glided back to the center line of tables, Batak, with a touch of relief in his voice, said:

“He’s going back to his grave. Management must be crazy for allowing such a spectacle in the room.”

“No one seems to have seen him but us,” said Camper thoughtfully.

“I’ll bet he went to the window to tip off the colonials about Arnold’s treachery,” I joked.

My voice must have carried farther than I had intended, for the man faced our table and for nearly a minute stood motionless, his sunken eyes fixed on us like eyes peering through a bone mask.

I, for one, did not move under that steady scrutiny, and when he took a step forward I think we all had the same thought, that we were the only living men he had deigned to notice. Camper’s feet scuffed staccato under the table.

The attenuated form drew nearer. I was seated so as to face him. To gain my side he must pass one of my companions who held the ends of the table. We remained quite rigid as he came to a halt behind the fourth chair, waiting for something to happen. But in an anticlimax his mechanical figure turned aside, and he would have departed down the hall had not Batak’s jangling nerves prompted him to cry out:

“By God! I’m going to see if it’s real!”

And leaning from his chair, he grabbed for the long, thin arm.

As he exclaimed this, the man stopped and one bony hand met Batak’s clawing digits for a second. Then the man glided away. Camper and I gaped after him. When we sifted our questioning gaze, it was to behold Batak sitting bolt-upright and rigid, and glaring at something he was clutching in his right hand. Not till he slowly withdrew his hand into the candlelight did we make out what he was grasping. It was a small American flag.

Before we could give voice to our amazement at this unexpected finale, Batak staggered to his feet, holding the flag high above his head, his left hand pressing against his side.

“Fingers of ice! The flag! God!”

With this astounding outcry he swerved and would have fallen headlong had I not caught him under the arms and eased him into his chair.

He lay there, sprawling back, his head tilted up, his eyes rolling. Then he commenced hiccuping. Camper sprang up and tried to force water between his lips, but the hiccups only increased in violence. Once, while on the court-house beat, I had seen a witness on the stand taken like this and die of heart disease. When the heart runs down in that fashion it is hideous to behold. Releasing him to Camper’s care, I frantically called for the waiters to bring stimulants.

When I turned back, Camper was resting his hand inside Batak’s coat, testing his heart.

The hiccups were dwindling away.

“He’s dying!” I choked.

With a shrill cry that distressed me, Camper withdrew his hand; distressed me because of the insane thought shooting through my mind that Camper was exulting.

“The man’s dead,” he announced.

As I gazed down into the immobile features of my friend, overwhelmed by the tragedy, my mind persisted in resenting Camper’s behavior. He had known Batak longer than I. He-had given him employment and promoted him to a position of trust in a mighty industry. When volunteering to head the general committee on industrial mobilization, Batak had been his choice for chairman of the most important subcommittee.

And yet, with Batak dead, he failed to express the degree of grief I would have expected. Rather, he seemed to be checking some unnatural display. I knew he was worn and played out by his arduous labors and was willing to plead it as his excuse, but when with a brusque, rough motion he snatched the flag from the dead hand, I found it hard to forgive him.

“Business is business,” I sadly remarked as we stepped from the wet veranda into a patch of sunshine. “I must see Dr. Manning. Suppose you’ll return home at once.”

“I’ll go with you,” Camper replied.

He clapped my shoulder affectionately, and his voice had the old ring. I preferred to be alone, but could not well refuse his company. So we set forth for the sanatorium; he talking rapidly and with a fierce zest; I was morosely silent.

Dr. Manning shook his head regretfully when I explained my errand.

“It was Mr. Pachard I mentioned to your editor as having a human interest story. But he is in no condition to be interviewed. I wish I had known you were coming to-day. I would have saved you the trip.”

“We’re not supposed to report failures,” I reminded. “Can’t you help me out? I must take something back.”

“I can’t revive the mentality of a man in his hundredth year,” he answered. “He is the most interesting character I ever met, but to-day he is under a cloud. I could take you in to him, but he would not sense our presence. Had you come yesterday, he would have talked.”

“I’ve got to take something back,” I repeated. “He’s talked with you a lot. Suppose you talk for him.”

He hesitated, then agreed, saying:

“If that is permissible, all right. I can also furnish you with his latest photograph.

“To begin with, Mr. Pachard is more of an institution than the sanatorium. He was born at the Belton Arms in 1817, his father being the proprietor. His father worked there as a youth during the Revolutionary War, and took over the business in 1800. Our Mr. Pachard succeeded his father in the late 30’s and ran the inn for many years. What isn’t generally known is that he owns the Arms to-day. It’s never been out of the family since 1860.”

“Pachard!” softly exclaimed Camper. “I remember now.”

Dr. Manning continued:

“Mr. Pachard came to live here during the management of my predecessor, who gave me his life history. It has been his daily custom to visit the Arms for a few hours. During the last few months he has had spells of imagining he was running the place. The proprietor, has humored him, the regular patrons admire and respect him, and, like the employees, never pretend to see him when his mind is clouded. Unfortunately, he had one of his spells to-day. Possibly to-morrow he may be normal.”

Camper squeezed my arm. I was beginning to anticipate the rest of the doctor’s recital.

“He is very patriotic,” interposed Camper.

“Extremely so, as was his father before him. Understand me; he is not unbalanced in any sense of senility. His mind has merely turned back some fifty-odd years. To-day he had the illusion he was proprietor of the inn and that Lincoln was calling for volunteers. During the Civil War it was his custom to refuse to serve a guest who did not wear the national colors. If such came to the inn, he was presented with a small flag by his host. If he hesitated in accepting it, he was shown out.”

“His father— strange yarns when I was a boy— did his father figure in the capture Of André?” cried Camper, tripping over his words in his eagerness.

“I don’t recall his mentioning anything like that,” slowly responded Manning. “He may have to my predecessor, however.”

If the two said more along this line, I did not hear them, for now my eyes were fixed on a photograph on the doctor’s desk.

“I must take that picture. I’ll see you get it back, all right,” I said, pointing to the likeness of the waiter who had thrust the flag into poor Batak’s hand.

“A remarkable story, only it’s cruel the death of a friend must figure in it,” I said as we were returning to the city.

“A miracle instead of a story,” impressively corrected Camper. “I now humbly beg your pardon and ask your forgiveness.”

I believed he had cracked in earnest. My expression betrayed this fear.

“I mean it,” he assured, resting his hand on my shoulder and glancing back to make sure we were isolated from the other passengers. “When you entered my office today there was a thin package of papers on my desk which contained my summary of the industrial mobilization committee’s work for the last two months.

“I was the only person who possessed all that vital information. Should it fall into the hands of a spy or a traitor the result might be disastrous to the nation. Yet those papers disappeared shortly after you arrived in the office. Batak and I were the only other persons in the room when they vanished. Only one hypothesis was possible— either you or Batak took them.”

“Good Heavens!” I choked. “Me! A spy!”

“Softly," he warned, pressing my shoulder. “The papers were on my desk when I rose to greet you. You passed dose to the desk when you went to the window. Batak walked by the desk when he procured me a towel. I discovered the theft while wiping my hands. I had two courses open to me: to summon help and have you both searched, or accompany the two of you to Storville and perhaps learn which was guilty before taking any action.

“Each of you had been my trusted friend. I had no reason for suspecting one more than the other. So I came up the river to fight it out with the two of you. I will confess my mind began turning against you when you seemed so eager to leave us before lunch. I had been waiting for one of you to make excuses for breaking away long enough to conceal the papers.

“I regretted then I had not had you both searched, although that would subject an innocent man to a terrible humiliation. So I insist Mr. Pachard is a miracle rather than an interesting special for your Sunday edition.”

“Batak— André?” I faintly whispered.

“No— an Arnold,” Camper grimly replied. “ He was an American citizen and he was a traitor. When I placed my hand over his heart to see if he lived, I found the papers inside his waistcoat.”

___________________

10: A Scriptural Quotation

H Bedford-Jones

1887-1949

Adventure, 15 Jan 1933

McTAVISH, heavy jawed and heavy browed, sat at the desk in his private office and scowled at his immaculately clad visitor.

“And what’s your business with me, Mr. Killacky?” he demanded.

“It’s about those pearls stolen from your wife last night when your car was held up.”

The broker’s gaze narrowed.

“What d’you mean?”

“Why, I have them!” said Killacky with a cheerful smile. His lean, high boned features were almost jaunty when he smiled, and his dark eyes had a most irresponsible twinkle.

“I know exactly what happened, you see,” he went on with a wave of his cigaret. “The pearl necklace was stolen— true. I have it now. And wouldn’t you be a wild man if I turned them in to the police? You’ve got about a hundred thousand coming, provided those pearls stay lost or are destroyed. In today’s market you couldn’t sell ’em for a fraction of that. A hundred thousand would save your business, eh? Insurance is a grand thing, McTavish, a grand thing!”

As he listened to these words, which must have beat upon his brain like so many hammers, McTavish slowly lost his ruddy hue, becoming paler and paler.

“Who the devil are you?” he rasped.

“An expert in gems, if you like.” Killacky rose, took out his handkerchief and from it held up a shimmering string of pearls; then he put the necklace away again. “You see?” he asked gaily. “Ocular proof. I have them. I’ll be back here at ten in the morning, McTavish, after the banks open. If you want to give a thousand cash for the pearls we may make a deal.”

McTavish growled an oath.

“This is blackmail!”

“Tut, tut!” said Killacky. “I might turn over the pearls to the insurance people. I think they were insured with Harrison, Limited? Yes, I might do that at once—”

“No!” exclaimed McTavish, who was watching him intently. “No.”

Killacky smiled.

“I thought you’d hardly desire that. Shall we say ten in the morning?”

“Yes,” growled the broker.

Killacky nodded.

“Right. You’re smart enough to play the game squarely. There’s no possible way you can beat me out and get clear. Doublecross me, and you’ll feel like the devil with a drop of holy water on his tail! It’s to your advantage to play square.”

McTavish looked grim.

“Suppose you doublecross me?”

“Why?” demanded Killacky. “I don’t want the insurance people on my heels any more than you want ’em on yours, do I?”

“That’s true,” said McTavish, and his face cleared. “I’ll have the cash ready.”

Mr. Killacky waved his hand jauntily and departed through the outer offices of the brokerage firm to the elevators and the eddying winds of La Salle Street, in Chicago’s Loop.

AT TEN on the following morning he sent in his name to McTavish. He was ushered into the broker’s private office, a large and airy corner room. McTavish sat at the desk by the window. He leaned back and surveyed his visitor grimly.

“I’ve thought over your remarks; they were sound,” he said abruptly. “As a straight business deal, we both profit by this transaction.”

“So it seems,” agreed Killacky, lighting a cigaret. “Once the pearls are destroyed the only evidence is gone.”

McTavish nodded. He opened the top drawer of his desk and left it open. From it he took a sheaf of notes which he shoved across the desk.

“A thousand in centuries. Suit you?”

Killacky smiled and placed them in an inner pocket. The dark gaze of McTavish leaped with quick darting flame, but he veiled his feelings instantly.

“Ah!” he exclaimed, as Killacky hauled forth the necklace, “a shame to destroy it, eh?”

“Precisely my thought.” Killacky looked down at the shimmering globules, pouring them from one hand to the other, watching them glimmer with soft radiance in the morning sunlight. “Matched pearls like these are devilish rare. I should have asked you ten thousand, eh?”

He smiled a little, ignoring the broker’s outstretched hand and eager eyes.

“By the way,” he went on, “be careful how you destroy them, if you do so. Acid won’t do it. Every layer of nacre contains a thin membrane which acid doesn’t digest. You must remove every trace. Those insurance people are hell on crooks, you know.”

McTavish laughed harshly and motioned impatiently with his hand.

“Simple ways are best,” he said. “I’ll show you.”

With a shrug Killacky dropped the string of pearls into the broker’s hand.

McTavish grunted, swept from the desk a large sheet of hard bond paper and stooped. He laid the paper on the strip of cement between the wall and the desk. On the paper he heaped the string of shimmering pearls, then smashed down his heel, again and again, with savage energy.

Killacky leaned back and puffed negligently at his cigaret.

The broker did not pause until the beautiful things had been crushed into a heap of glinting dust and tiny fragments. From this heap came a faint radiance, as if in mournful memory of the beauty and luster that was no more.

McTavish carefully picked up the sheet of paper and folded it once, into a little trough. He laid aside the knotted string and fastener, then rose. In the next instant he had emptied the contents of the paper out of the open window; they disappeared instantly.

Closing the window and moving rapidly, McTavish put the string and attached catch on the paper, rolled it up into a ball and struck a match. He held the flame to the paper, which was lying on the windowsill. In silence, careless of scorched varnish, he watched it consume. When it was nearly gone, he suddenly shoved it out of the window.

“There!” He slammed the window, turned, resumed his seat. His face was alight with a blazing triumph which he made no attempt to hid. “Suits you, does it?”

“Admirably done,” said Killacky. “Even if the insurance people heard all about it, they could not possibly find an atom of conviction.”

“So I thought,” said McTavish.

His hand slipped into the open drawer and came up with a pistol. He covered Killacky and spoke sharply.

“Hands in your lap! One move, and I’ll kill you! What’s more, it’d be justifiable homicide!”

He meant the words. He would do exactly as he said. Killacky spat the cigaret from his lips and sat motionless.

“What do you mean by this?” he demanded calmly.

“I mean, damn you, that no cheap crook can put anything over on me!” snapped McTavish, and he dipped his free hand into the desk drawer. Out on the mahogany he dropped a necklace of pearls, then he surveyed Killacky with grim exultation. “Two detectives are outside now, awaiting my summons.”

“Really?” asked Killacky, his brows lifting. “And what has that necklace got to do with all this rigmarole?”

“It’s a duplicate, a replica of the real necklace. It was known that you called here yesterday afternoon. You came, demanded cash, returned this morning and gave me this replica. You have the thousand dollars in your pocket.”

“Oh! Marked money, eh?”

“Precisely.” McTavish sneered. “But I’m an honest man; you’re a crook. You thought you’d palm off these replicas on me and keep the real pearls, eh?”

“That’s your story, eh?” Killacky whistled softly. “Faith, I knew you were a smart man, but devil take me if I thought you were this smart!’’

“No, your cheap brain wouldn’t jump that far,” returned the other acidly. “Either you’re the bandit who held up me and my wife, or an accomplice.”

It was clever, devilish clever, thought Killacky. The broker, having destroyed the real pearls, now had nothing to fear. Killacky’s story would not be credited for a moment.

“With the real pearls gone, your scheme is airtight,” said Killacky quietly. “Suppose I give in. What do you want to let me off?”

“You don’t get off,” snapped McTavish. “I’m going to teach you to monkey with my type of man, understand? I’ve explained matters so you’ll comprehend just how you’ve ridden to a fall. All you cheap crooks can see in a deal is to get your money and blow it.”

“And you, being honest, see farther?”

“You bet.”

Killacky sighed.

“You know good and well that with the real pearls gone, they’ll never be produced. You’re sure of the insurance. You get me put away—”

“Come to think of it, you look like that bandit,” put in McTavish with a grim smile.

“You won’t consider anything? If I paid—”

“I’ll consider nothing except to see you behind the bars!”

The broker put out a hand to the buzzer on his desk. The office door opened and a secretary appeared.

“Send in those two men,” snapped McTavish,

A moment later two men, obviously detectives, entered the room.

“Arrest this man. Officers,” exclaimed McTavish firmly. “He’s either the bandit who held up me and my wife the other night, or an accomplice. He was here yesterday, as I told you, and demanded money for the return of my wife’s pearls. He came today, took a thousand dollars in marked bills— you men marked the bills yourselves— and then had the impudence to give me this!”

McTavish held up the replica of the necklace.

“A fake. Imitation pearls,” he added.

“Just as you figured it out, huh?” said one of the two detectives, advancing. “Stand up, you! Why—”

He paused, as did his companion. Killacky rose with a slight smile and nodded.

“Hello, boys,” he said. “Better search me at once. I’ll save you the trouble. Here’s the money.” He drew it out, extending the sheaf of notes.

“Here!” cried McTavish, staring at the three. “What’s all this? Arrest him, you two!”

One of the two men grinned.

“Not yet, sir! There must be some mistake. This is Mr. Killacky, of Harrison, Limited— their chief investigator, sir.”

McTavish took a step back, sank into his chair, and the blood went out of his face. Killacky turned to him with a smile.

“Quite so, McTavish,” he observed lightly. “You see, we nabbed the actual bandit; but his remarkable story of having been put up to the job by you had not an atom of proof. We wanted proof in order to prosecute you. Now I fancy we have it in this marked money which you so kindly furnished.”

“What? What?” stammered the broker. “It’s all a damned lie! You gave me this replica of the necklace— there are no real pearls—”

Killacky grinned.

“As a matter of fact, I did give you a replica,” he said. “You were so damned anxious to destroy the pearls that you never examined them or the fragments. If you had, you’d have seen that they were glass and fishskin, not nacre! And here,” he added, putting his hand in his pocket and drawing out another necklace, “are the real pearls.”

McTavish stood as if frozen. His eyes were incredulous, staring, horrified. Killacky strode to the door and turned.

“By the way,” he observed cheerfully. “you may recall the literary allusion which links pearls and swine? An interesting volume, McTavish. I’ll send you a copy to while away your hours behind the bars. Take good care of him, Officers. See you in court, Mac! So long.”

McTavish made no response.

_____________________

11: The Poet’s Ghost

Henry Pettitt

1848-1893

Seaside Library Issue No 355 Feb 13 1889?

Volume title "That Terrible Man".

Henry Pettitt was a British actor and playwright; he wrote several very successful plays, and two popular Gaiety Theatre burlesques, "Faust up to Date", 1888,  and "Carmen up to Date", 1890. It is possible that this story is a scenario for a burlesque,  not produced, of  "Hamlet up to Date", or part of a program note for one of the burlesques. The Internet Archive pdf file cuts off the lower right hand corner of the cover, including the final digit of the year of publication. The Seaside Library (New York) was a dime paperback series published tri-weekly, being reprints of previously published literature.

Issue No 355 contained two novelettes and three short stories:

That Terrible Man: W E Norris (novelette)

The Princess Dagomar of Poland: Heinrich Felberman (novelette)

The Devil's Ward: William Mackay

Not Dead: William Gross

The Poet's Ghost: Henry Pettitt

THE POET’S GHOST

IN TAKING UP my pen to write the details of the following strange adventure, I am actuated by feelings of considerable doubt and perplexity. The event itself is of so unusual, I may say so marvelous a nature, that I am aware I snail run considerable risk of being disbelieved, and I am therefore rather unwilling to announce my personal identity, lest I should bring an avalanche of accusations of mendacity upon my devoted head, while to wrap myself in the impenetrable mystery of an anonymous nonentity, or the doubtful personality of a nom-de-plume would only give certainty to a very natural suspicion that I had not the courage to hold myself responsible for a story that I had the temerity to tell.

Shall I, then, conceal my identity, or shall I proclaim it? Shall I, from a peaceful and irresponsible security, hurl my narration into the reading world, or shall I stand boldly forth in the light of day prepared to meet my judges in propria persona, and say— I am the man ?

Let chance decide. On one of these two slips of paper lying on my desk, I will write a nom-de-plume, and upon the other my real name. If I draw the former, I will give such local coloring as will serve to hide my personality without interfering with the main details of my narration. If I draw the latter, I will give a whole true, and particular account of myself, avow my real name, and tell an unvarnished story.

I roll up the papers, I place them in a hat, and shake it. I draw forth one, open it and read. The die is cast, you shall now know my name, and you shall now learn the full details of the strange adventure that is probably designed to exercise considerable influence upon my future career.

My name, though a popular, is not a distinguished one; indeed, to give it any semblance of dignity at all, it requires a kind of shoring, or propping up with a baptismal prefix carefully culled from Burke’s Peerage, or the index of towns in “ Bradshaw’s Railway Guide. ” I almost blush as I write letters that compose the wretched syllabic name of ” Brown,” though my feelings are slightly relieved as I preface it with the gift of my godfathers and godmothers in my baptism, “ Howard,” and thus stand revealed to you as Howard Brown, the prolific and popular dramatist, with whose plays (it you are a play-goer) you cannot but be acquainted.

The importance of the revelations I am about to make is the best excuse (I might say reason) I can offer for giving some account of myself, so that the individuality of the man shall be strongly impressed on the mental vision of the reader. Picture to yourself, then, a young man of some thirty-five years of age, with what is generally called a strongly marked countenance, hair worn rather longer than is the usual fashion—a weakness that may be accounted for by my poetic temperament, and with a nasal organ the beak like proportions of which are slightly out of drawing with the rest of my countenance; but then my shaggy eyebrows and dome like expanse of forehead lend a dignity to my features, the architecture of which may be generally described as miscellaneous, with a slight tendency toward the Gothic. My voice is clear and distinct, and its melody by no means impaired by an occasional suggestion of an Irish brogue slightly dashed with Welsh I am of German extraction, was born in Wales, and educated in Dublin My father was in business in the city of London, and I was intended for the law, but directly I was able to spread my wings I fled from the parental nest and became an actor. Unfortunately however, in the humble position I was forced to accept, I was not permitted to exercise my literary faculty in any channel except occasionally making out the bill, and was, therefore, unable either to write up or adapt my parts to my personal peculiarities, a misfortune that very soon resulted in the manager presenting me with a fortnight’s salary in lieu of notice, and informing me that he would be blanked if he knew in what line of life I might ultimately be worth my salt, but it would certainly never be as an actor; unless, he added as I was sadly leaving, you do as many another bad actor has done, become a manager and engage yourself to play the leading parts, or buy a bundle of old plays, get a pair of scissors, and set up as a dramatic author

This practical advice I ultimately acted upon, as will be seen in the sequel, but in the meanwhile my father—whose prejudices against play-actors and penny-a-liners, as he was pleased to call them, it was impossible to overcome—stopped my allowance until I returned to what he considered some respectable occupation.

I was therefore compelled to relinquish my hopes for a time, and earn my bread and gain experience as a commercial traveler, and afterward in my father’s counting house, where, no doubt, I imbibed those commercial principles which have been of such service to me in my business transactions with managers and publishers, and enabled me to conquer that unfortunate tendency of most other authors to make bad bargains for themselves—a weakness that, whatever my other faults may be, has never yet, I believe, been laid to my charge.

While still young, however, nay restless disposition impelled me to follow various other occupations, and enabled me to gain a varied experience of life. At one time I was a schoolmaster in a well-known London college; at another, the dramatic critic of a paper, which I left to become the acting manager of a very popular theater, and I also played character parts in a very fashionable one.

It was at this period of my life that I commenced writing those sensational stories whose dramatic force first led theatrical managers to notice me; and some charming little comediettas, whose simplicity and freshness recommended them to the kindly notice of the press and the public, and gave me my first footing on the theatrical ladder. My progress was rapid beyond all my expectations. In the theatrical world there is a singular appositeness in the old aphorism that “nothing succeeds like success,” and one morning I awoke to find myself famous and at the proud summit of my ambition, a successful dramatist.

For some years I worked steadily on, play after play flowed from my prolific pen, success after success enhanced my reputation and increased my banker’s balance, but, alas! I soon found success did not bring happiness, and that the sweet feeling of hope that had buoyed me up when I was striving for success was changed to never-ending anxiety when I had attained it. Every reader of these lines who has made a reputation for himself in any branch of literature or art will, I am convinced, agree with me when I say that the difficulties of making that reputation are child’s play compared to the ceaseless labor necessary to keep it up; and at last the time came when, with a heavy sinking at the heart, the bitter consciousness slowly dawned-upon me that I was in the deplorable condition of the author who has written himself out. A great French philosopher has said; “ Ideas are like beards; men seldom have them, women never.” I can only confess that I was in the baldest possible condition, and though I raked my brains tore and aft I could find nothing approaching an original idea.

Invention is the most difficult operation of the human mind, and my mind resolutely refused to invent. I had a play to write, and the apparent impossibility of finding a new subject sent the iron into my soul. What was to be done? Should I hide my diminished head, and let the world pass on before me, or should I make one supreme effort to oil my mental machinery and start the manufactory again?

I resolved upon the latter course, and on enjoying a week’s rest and change of scene previous td wrestling with my difficulty. Where should I go? Brighton was near, but it was a marine Strand, and Paris was too close to the blandishments of the Press Club. I had no time to waste in indecision. I took up the Railway ABC, opened it at hazard, and read where my thumb rested. “Stratford-on-Avon—the birthplace of the greatest of all dramatists!” I exclaimed, "I will go there!” My bag was packed, the train was caught, and the dull sun of a wintery afternoon shed its parting rays upon my figure as I stood outside the house where the godlike genius of the greatest poet the world has known first awakened into human life.

When a lad, I was once told by my grandmother that I had a hole in my head where the bump of veneration should have been; but I think if her spirit had been hovering anywhere about as I gently pulled the quaint old bell that hung over the door of the poet’s house, she might have considerably modified her uncomplimentary opinions; and it was with feelings very much akin to those with which a devout person enters a church that I passed through the opened door, and, in the lading light, actuated by an unconscious impulse, took off my hat as I walked over the broken and uneven stone floor, and seated myself in the chimney-corner where Shakespeare in the earlier years of his life had sat, and, perhaps felt the first dawning of his divine genius as he gazed at the faces in the fire, and watched the long shadows dancing and playing on the wood-ribbed, plastered walls.

Judging by my own feelings, I am not at all surprised at the extravagances of some of Shakespeare’s admirers, w ho shed tears, fall on their knees and kiss the floor, and even go into hysterics when they visit the little house in Henley Street. It is, as many of my readers are aware, in the charge of two maiden sisters, the Misses Chattaway, daughters of a banker, whom vicissitude of fortune compelled to accept a position the duties of which they fulfill with a grace and courtesy that make these charming gentlewomen one of the pleasantest memories you take away with you.

I will not attempt to describe the pleasure I felt while being conducted over the house and through the museum of Shakespearean relics. A more interesting and sympathetic guide it is impossible to conceive; and when at Iasi I stood in the little room and, in the fast-fading light, looked up at the famous picture of William Shakespeare, bound in its iron case, I. could not resist telling my friendly cicerone that I was one of the humblest followers of the same craft as the great master, whose genial, handsome face looked down upon us, and that I would give worlds if he would but open his lips and inspire me with one single happy thought.

“Sit here for a few minutes, rest yourself, and perhaps he will,” answered my kindly guide, as she placed me a quaint old Elizabethan chair before the picture. ”I must not leave you alone, it is against the rules, but I will wait at the door. You can forget that I am there, and while the spirit and influence of William Shakespeare are around you yield yourself up to reverie and contemplation.”

She left me, at least I neither saw nor heard her, and I w r as alone. Header, I do not ask you to believe what follows. If you know me and are not my friend throw this down and read no" more, but if you are a kindred spirit read on with sympathetic interest, remembering only my mental state when I entered the room, and my strange surroundings.

I was harassed and worn out with my last play. I was dejected and nervous about the one I had to write. Depressed and unhappy; painfully, miserably, aware of my own mental deficiencies, I sat opposite the lifelike picture of the Great Thinker, ready, like a literary Faust, to sell my soul for an idea. A jaundiced sun had hidden himself behind the leaden curtains of the December clouds, the last rays of light were fading in the dusky gloom, an intense silence pervaded the chamber, in whose solitude an overwrought mind sought inspiration from the dead semblance of a great poet.

Was it the working of a glorious spirit of that grand craft which, since the days of the building of the Temple of Solomon, has knit together the souls of men, whatsoever their state of life may be, and brought the lofty intellect of the creative architect into sympathy with the simple mind and struggling intelligence of the hewer of wood and drawer of water, I know not. I only know that the great, unspoken wish of my heart was realized; that I closed my eyes in dreamy slumber, that the world I lived in, with its hard-hearted managers, dissatisfied actors, Utopian critics, and exacting public, seemed to float away in the far distance , and leave me nearly three centuries behind in company with William Shakespeare, who, in the dusky silence, stepped from the picture to the floor and welcomed me.

ii

I have had the privilege and pleasure of meeting some of our greatest modern poets, painters, and philosophers, but Shakespeare’s face was the noblest and handsomest I have ever seen: a pair of large hazel eyes, whose bright and sparkling intelligence was only equaled by their kindly humor; a noble forehead, on which the chestnut hair lay in careless curls; a graceful mustache and beard that did not hide the small, sensitive mouth and white teeth; a countenance altogether noble as a prophet's and kindly as a saint’s. He had a voice rich, full, and deep, and the carriage of a king.

It is impossible to describe the kindness of his voice as he invited me to follow him down the narrow, gloomy stairs, and the stately grace with which he took my arm, and led me down Henley Street.

And here the strangest marvel of all occurred; for, as we stepped into the open air, our relative conditions underwent a mutual change, the spiritual form of the poet became corporeal and real, and by a sudden, strange, and inexplicable feeling of lightness I became aware that I had left my body behind me in the chair, and that only my ethereal form was walking beside the stately figure of my companion. Shakespeare had become human, and I had become the ghost.

The scene, too, was changed. The Great Spirit of Time had put back the clock two centuries and a half, and I found myself walking through Stratford-on-Avon in the reign of King James the First with Master William Shakespeare, who, exchanging salutations with the honest townspeople as we passed them, pointed out to me the principal characteristics of the quaint old Warwickshire town in the days of the Stuarts.

“The house you have just left,” he said, “was where I lived until I was old enough to think for myself, and bold enough to run away from home to be an actor. This,” he added, as he stopped at a gate and opened it, “is New Place, the freehold of which I bought, and where I settled down to end my days.”

He took me through the hall and into the library, and after giving me a seat by a blazing wood fire, seated himself opposite to me, folded his hands and said, “ And now, Mr. Brown, what can I do for you?”

Strange to say, I felt no nervousness, and no fear. I knew intuitively, that I was with one whose nobility of mind and goodness of heart would shield me from all danger, and help me by all means that lay in his power. I told him my story plainly and frankly, and he listened with grave attention.

“Why don’t you collaborate?” he said, thoughtfully. “Beaumout and Fletcher did it very successfully.”

“Yes! but Beaumont and Fletcher were loyal to each other, and understood not only the true meaning of the old maxim that ‘Two heads are better than one,’ but the art of running in double harness. Besides, they had brains enough to believe that all the literary talent in the world was not locked up in one head.”

“True,” answered Shakespeare, “ when two men write a successful play, they both want all the credit, and it generally ends in making them enemies for life. Fortunately,” he added, with a quiet smile, ” I never had a collaborated, but I have had commentators and editors, and when I think of the idiotic things they’ve written and said about me and my plays, it makes me furious.”

“Of whom do you principally complain, Mr. Shakespeare?” I asked.

“The whole regiment of them,” he replied, emphatically. “But the fellow who annoyed me most was that concentration of conceit, David Garrick. Why, he almost believed the plays were his, and they have hung up a picture in my birthplace yonder with Garrick embracing my bust, in a manner very strongly suggesting that he had just dug me out of oblivion. But there, all these tragedians are alike. They all believe they have created Shakespeare.”

"You surely do not include our modern tragedians?”

“Not to such an extent. Henry Irving has too much brains in his head to be misled by his success; and Wilson Barrett’s collaboration with his authors has taught him to respect the labors of the dramatist and to give him his due. A capital fellow, Wilson Barrett, by the way; he is the material great men are made of, and I liked him excessively after he had told that story of the oath to play Hamlet, when he spent his last sixpence to see Charles Kean in a play of mine. But, ye gods! how I laughed when it turned out it was a pantomime he saw.”

“Do you like Wilson Barrett’s Hamlet?” I asked.

“Very much indeed,” replied Shakespeare. “ It is a correct reading, and it’s full of life. By the way, is he going to produce any new pieces?”

‘‘Not yet. When an actor-manager has a severe attack of Shakespearean fever, there’s not much chance for the modern dramatist.”

“And the epidemic is spreading,” said the poet, “ and is breaking out in fresh theaters. I’m afraid you fellows are going to have a bad time of it,” he continued, as he rose and stood with his back to the fire. “ You see there are no authors’ fees to pay, and that must be a consideration with a manager. Why, look at this young American lady, Mary Anderson, she had to pay enormous sums to Mr. Gilbert for Pygmalion and Galatea, but she does not have to pay a halfpenny to me for Romeo and Juliet. ”

“In fact, she pays nothing, and gets a better play,” I ventured to suggest.

“The admirers of Mr. Gilbert do not think so. I hear that they believe him to be my superior.” And Shakespeare laughed, as he turned to me with a chuckle and a wink, and added, “ But you know he isn’t.”

I felt very much inclined to ask him what he thought of Mary Anderson, but refrained, as I was anxious to get his views on my own affairs, and the same thought must have presented itself to the poet also, for he suddenly threw himself back into his chair, find said—  "But we are not here to discuss Mary Anderson—her youth. beauty, and genius are beyond question—but to help you, my dear boy. While we have been chatting, I have turned the matter over in my mind, and I have a capital idea.”

I looked at him with an earnestness that too truly bespoke my anxiety, and he continued.

“You want a plot for a strong modern drama?”

“Yes.”

“Why not use one of mine?”

“Yours! Mr. Shakespeare?” I exclaimed in astonishment.

“Certainly. They are strong, they are full of interest, and where could you find better?”

“But your stories are known to every reader of my time.”

“And so they were to every reader of my time. Human nature has been the same since the world began, and the complication of incident has altered very little. Modernize my dramas to contemporary life and its surroundings, and you have a wide and glorious field of fiction before you.”

The magnitude of the proposition startled me beyond expression, and my agitation was such that I could scarcely command my voice, as I asked him how it was to be done.

“It is simple enough. Take my plays one by one, use the same dramatic motives, the same incidents, the same characters (with different names of course), the same plot, and adapt them to modern life. Write fresh dialogue, and bring them out as new and original dramas. Come, Mr. Brown,” he said, with a smile, "do not look so amazed, but listen, and I will give you a lessen in dramatic construction.”

And William Shakespeare, the poet, stood up by the fireside, on that dull December afternoon, as the deepening shadows closed around the room, and the flames from the wood-fire flickered and danced around him, now lighting up his sparkling eyes, and then, as the embers sunk into a red glow throwing their rich and ruddy rays round his graceful figure and kind earnest face, he told me the story of Hamlet as a modern drama.

“This,” he said with a smile, “ is an entirely new and original drama of modern life entitled:

THE HIDDEN CRIME

CHARACTERS.

Claude Henley— A Devonshire Squire.

Harry— His Nephew.

John Poland— The Steward.

Horace— A Friend of Harry.

Lawrence— the Son of Poland.

Rosenberg and Goldstein— Two Country Gentlemen

Oscar— A Sportsman

Mark and Bernard— Gamekeepers.

Irving Warner— An Actor.

Gwendoline Henley— Mother of Harry.

Olivia Poland— The Steward’s Daughter.

Gamekeepers, Sportsmen, Country Gentlemen, Guests, Visitors, etc.

Act the First

“The scene opens in Devonshire, on the lawn of Elsinore Hall, the country seat of the Henley family. At the opening of the story, the late John Henley, who was the owner of the estate, has died suddenly within the last few months, and left by a will, which was found a few days after his death, the whole of the property to his only brother, Claude Henley, to the exclusion of his son, Harry Henley, the hero. Harry Henley is very naturally surprised that his father should not have allowed him to succeed to the paternal estates, and is also in deep grief at the sudden and unexpected death of his father, whom he loved with a peculiarly deep and reverent affection. This grief is only the more intensified when his mother, to the scandal of the neighborhood, and in defiance of the law, marries her deceased husband’s brother (thus at a time when the Deceased Wife’s Sister Marriage Bill is before Parliament, giving a peculiar and immediate interest to a popular question of the day). At this point of the story is introduced an old and faithful steward of the estate, and confidential servant of the Henley Family, named Poland, who has a son Lawrence, and a daughter Olivia. The son Lawrence, is going to Paris, and receives some excellent parting advice from his father—not to make strange acquaintances, to avoid quarreling, always to dress well, and above all, not to lend money. When Lawrence has gone, the old steward questions Olivia, and discovers that she is in love with Harry Henley, and that he has avowed his affection for her; but Poland, who is afraid be might got into trouble and lose his situation it he allowed his daughter to encourage his young master, warns her that Harry's intentions may not be strictly honorable.

“Claude Henley is giving a party to celebrate his return from the honeymoon, and in vain joins with his wife (Harry’s mother) in entreaties to Hairy not to give way to useless grief, but to dress and join the party. Harry replies that the clothes are but the outward signs of his sorrow.

“Claude evidently thinks that his step-son is an intolerable nuisance in the house, but does not like to offend his mother by turning him out; he therefore leaves him to what he thinks is a sulky fit, and Harry, when left alone, bitterly reflects upon the fact that his mother has married his uncle, and given a party within two months of her husband’s death, even before the shoes were old with which she had followed his poor father’s body, like Niobe, all tears.

“Harry has been educated at Oxford, and is anxious to return and take his degree. He has a young college chum staying with him, Horace, to whom he confides his sorrows, who, in return, suggests to him that his father might possibly have met with foul play, and tells him of an interview he has had with two gamekeepers, Mark and Bernard, who told him that they saw the late Squire Henley asleep in the rustic summer-house, in "the orchard, a short time before his sudden death, and that they, too, suspect there is something wrong.

“Harry immediately cautions Horace to keep his suspicions to himself, and neither by innuendoes nor suggestions to allow his thoughts to become known, and, above all, not to be surprised at anything he (Hairy) might do in order to arrive at the truth, and if there has been foul play, to fathom it out. He adds that it may be necessary to put on an antic disposition, and to pretend to have lost his reason, in order to gain his object; and after having sworn Horace to secrecy, sends him away.

"It is now night, and Harry is left alone to his meditations. He rests himself upon a rustic seat upon the lawn, as the moon slowly rises above the high, thick-set hedge at the back of the garden. Through the long, open French-windows of the Manor House at the side, the bright and gleaming lights may be seen, and the laughter of the merry-makers is wafted away on the evening breeze, together, with the music of the Soldaten Lieder  Waltz. As Harry, overcome with emotion and fatigue, sinks into a dreamy slumber, the voices of the revelers slowly die away. The strains of the  Soldaten Lieder slowly change to weird and mystic music; a thick, black, heavy cloud overcasts the moon, and, as Harry sleeps, he dreams that the wood at the hack opens, he sees his father sleeping in the orchard, and, in the vision that opens to his dreamy gaze, learns how his father met his death by poison, administered by his brother.

“As the vision fades, Claude Henley comes on to the lawn, followed by his wife and the guests; as Harry simultaneously awakens from his dream, rises, sees him, and exclaims—“ Great God—the murderer of my father!”

"Act the Second—

—takes place in the morning-room at the Manor House. Poland, the steward, feels it is his duty to acquaint Mr. and Mrs. Henley with the behavior of young Henley to his daughter, Olivia, which, to a certain extent, he believes accounts tor the recent eccentricities of his conduct, and, in support of his theory, shows them some verses that Harry had formerly written to Olivia. To find out if it be so, they agree to send Olivia to Harry, to try and discover what has caused his eccentric behavior, and to conceal themselves and overhear the conversation. They then retire upon seeing Harry coming, who enters the room reading a book, and who, after evading Poland’s attempts to question and draw him out by his badinage, and by willfully mistaking him for a fishmonger, makes the old gentleman look extremely foolish, and sends him off.

“Claude Henley has also commissioned two young friends of his, named Rosenberg and Goldstein, to find out what makes Harry behave so strangely and what is upon his mind. But Harry, penetrating their object, tells them plainly that he thinks they were sent to pump him, and refuses to be pumped. Poland, the steward, now returns and informs Harry that the manager of a traveling company, who are performing at the theater in the neighboring town, has called to solicit his patronage for the benefit that is to take place on the Friday night. Harry, who knows the manager himself, sees him; and after taking a box for the benefit, asks him if he would like to come up to the Manor House, and give a morning performance to the family and the guests on a “fit-up” stage erected in the grounds, in the same way that a fashionable performance of  As You Like It  had recently been given by certain aristocratic amateurs, at Coombe Wood.

"The manager who, as usual in the provinces, is also the leading actor, is delighted at the proposal, and after receiving some excellent suggestions as to the style of fashionable acting required, it is agreed that they shall play certain scenes specially adapted to the occasion by Harry himself, and written up by him. He then dismisses the manager, and in a soliloquy resolves that the play shall be a representation of the mode by which he believes his father was murdered. He will narrowly watch while it is being performed, and thus by means of the play awaken the conscience of his uncle.

“Olivia now comes to him (watched by her father and Claude Henley) and after speaking of their past love, and his strange forgetfulness and unkindness, returns him his presents, saying that gifts are of no value when the givers are unkind. Harry is at first much moved at the tenderness and Jove she shows, and is almost relenting when he accidentally sees the curtains move, and discovers that he is being watched. He then bitterly reproaches her for her treachery, and after a powerful scene finally breaks off the engagement and rushes off, leaving her tainting, despairing, and broken-hearted. Upon this effective dramatic picture the second act ends.

Act the Third.

“The scene represents a charming sylvan spot in the grounds of the Manor House, with a “fit-up” stage, and all the necessary scenic accessories on one side. Upon the other, seated under the umbrageous shade of a wide spreading chestnut-tree, a gaily-dressed assemblage of the youth, fashion, and beauty of the neighborhood, headed by the host and hostess, Mr. and Mrs. Henley, near whom are seated Rosenberg, Goldstein, Horace, Poland, and his daughter, Olivia, at whose feet Harry is lying on the grass. An orchestra in a rustic summer-house discourses sweet music, as the servants, in bright-colored liveries, band round the iced champagne. The hum of gay conversation, interspersed with rippling peals of merry laughter, rises as the music sinus into piano, and the whole scene is one of brilliance and animation.

“After some badinage and half playful questions as to whether Harry is sure there is nothing offensive in the piece about to be performed, and whether it has been duly licensed by the lord chamberlain, the orchestra plays the opening music, and the curtain of the little theater rises upon the performance of the play, which consists of certain scenes carefully adapted to the occasion from my tragedy of Hamlet.

“At first Claude Henley listens to the piece with comparative indifference, but as the play progresses his interest becomes profound; and when at last the crime is committed that so closely resembles his own, unable to control his feelings, he rises in a paroxysm of despair and rage, and, amid the amazement of his guests, rushes from the scene, while Harry, who has watched him with absorbing interest, mounts upon the stage in frenzied triumph, and ends the scene with an impassioned speech to the startled and astonished guests.

“The next scene is in the boudoir of Mrs. Henley, Harry’s mother, who has sent for him to reason with him upon his extraordinary conduct to his uncle. In case he should be violent, she asks Poland to watch on the balcony outside the window, and to be ready in case she should require protection. Harry is then admitted, and wrings his mother’s heart with his reproaches for having so soon forgotten his father, of whose noble nature he draws a picture, strongly in contrast to the base disposition of her present husband. She tries to escape from him, but Hairy forces her into a chair with such violence that Poland calls out for help, and Harry, crying out that there is a thief in the house, seizes a gun, fires and shoots him. Claude Henley and the rest of the characters rush on, and upon the arrest of Harry for the murder, the act ends.

Act the Fourth

“Here it will be necessary,” said Shakespeare, “to make a slight alteration in the story, as an English audience would never tolerate in a modern drama the tragical ending of the original, and the spectacle at the end of a play of four dead bodies lying on the stage. I will, however, preserve for you the same sequence of scenes and incidents, with only one alteration. To continue—

“At the opening of the next act, the old steward is dead, an inquest has been held, and the jury, taking into consideration the well-known unsettled state of Harry Henley’s mind, the fact that the steward had no right to be upon the balcony at night, and that consequently Harry had reasonable cause to believe it was a burglar, have returned a verdict of ‘death by misadventure,’ and recommended that Harry should be placed under some kind of restraint. He has, therefore, been sent to a private lunatic asylum. Olivia, heart-broken at the death of her father at the hands of her former lover, has had an attack of brain fever, and wanders from her chamber into the hall, where she decorates herself with flowers. Lawrence, her brother, having been apprised of his father’s death, returns, and, forcing his way into the house to demand justice, takes his delirious, half dying sister into his arms, and in powerful language registers an oath to be revenged upon the man who, though he has evaded the law, shall yet be punished for having killed his father and broken his sister’s heart, and as he kneels and registers his vow over the senseless form of his apparent!}' dying sister, the curtain falls.

"Act the Fifth—

—opens upon a realistic and beautiful picture of an old English churchyard. Two rustic laborers are at work as Harry enters with Horace, and explains that he has escaped from the custody of the keeper, he then learns that Mr. Poland, the steward, is to be buried that morning, and then comes an effect never yet seen upon the stage in a modern melodrama, namely, a rustic funeral procession with all its quaint and characteristic details. Harry and Lawrence meet, a violent scene ensues, in which Lawrence seizes Harry as the slayer of his father and strikes him. A scene of wild excitement follows as the whole of the characters on the stage take either the one side or the other, and a riot seems imminent as Lawrence and Harry are with difficulty separated and held back from each other, and the scene closes in.

“The next scene is a chamber at the Manor House, where Claude Henley enters with Lawrence and shows him how utterly hopeless it is for him to bring Harry to justice, and suggests that the only way to obtain revenge is by more subtle means. He then unfolds his plan. Both Harry and Lawrence are officers in the Yeomanry, both have taken prizes at previous assaults-at-arms, and at the last meeting they were matched against each other for a wager. It will be easy for Lawrence to have a reconciliation with Harry, who is naturally of a frank and forgiving disposition, and Mien, at the field sports that are to take place" in the afternoon, it can be incidentally suggested that they should settle the long-standing wager. Harry, under such circumstances, will find it almost impossible to decline, and then, during the bout, Lawrence can strike Harry, apparently by accident, a foul blow—and thus requite him for his father’s death. Lawrence, seeing no other means, consents to Claude’s proposal, and then takes off his sister Olivia, who has evaded her nurse and entered from the curtained door of her chamber in a manner that almost leads him to suspect that she may have overheard their plot. Claude, then left alone, says that to make doubly sure of Harry’s death, he will take a ring he bought in Italy, the stone of which contains in its hollow a deadly poison, and drop it into the wine which Harry will probably drink at luncheon. The scene then changes to another effective stage picture— “ The Village Festival and Field Sports,” a bright and bustling scene of country life and gayety. Squire Henley, Mrs. Henley, and their party are seated under a marquee. After a representation of Old English Games, Harry and Lawrence appear, and the betting runs high. Claude, dropping his poisoned ring into the prize drinking-cup which Harry had won last year, invites him to drink. He, however, refuses to touch anything until the sports are over, but his mother, taking up the cup before she can be stopped by her husband, drinks to her son’s success. The two competitors then take their weapons and commence their bout, when Olivia, almost mad with excitement, rushes in between them, and crying out that she has overheard the plot of Lawrence and the Squire, warns Harry of his danger. Lawrence is overcome with shame and remorse as Mrs. Henley rises, staggers forward, and, falling, declares she has been poisoned by her husband, and then dying, accuses him of having, by the same means, killed Harry’s father. ‘The proofs at last,’ cries Harry; ‘arrest that double murderer!’ Claude Henley is then handcuffed, and Harry, taking Olivia in his arms, says justice has at last overtaken the guilty, and that there is now peace and happiness for the innocent. The estates will, of course, revert to Harry, as the rightful heir, and the curtain descends upon the picture so dear to every generous-hearted audience and every right-minded playwright— of the villain brought to justice and the hero and heroine made happy.

“THERE,” said Shakespeare, “is the story of a melodrama that ought to run for three hundred nights.”

“Is it not rather improbable?” I asked, doubtfully.

“It is not more improbable than Hamlet. They are the same people in the same relative positions, and actuated by the same motives. Go home, begin it at once, and it you only write the dialogue with sufficient, literary skill you will have quite as good a drama as any one that has been produced for the last twenty-five years. Besides, reflect what a wide field is now open to you, and what a range of subjects. You can treat Othello, Macbeth, The Merchant of Venice, Romeo and Juliet, and, in fact, the whole of my plays in the same manner, and never need be worried again for a plot while you have a shilling volume of my works to choose from and modernize.”

“There is one question I should like to ask you, Mr. Shakespeare,” I said, diffidently.

“And what is that?”

“When there are so many abler dramatists than myself, gentlemen far better qualified to do justice to such powerful subjects, why have you chosen me as the recipient of such unbounded favor?”

“Because I think you are the most in warn of assistance,” replied the poet, “ and I like to help the weaker vessel.”

I cannot honestly say that this reply altogether pleased me.

"I don’t think you'll have any reason to be dissatisfied with your visit to Stratford-on-Avon.” he continued with a smile; “ but, before leaving, I must caution you not to believe all you hear about me and my relics. I give you my word that half the objects they show you as having belonged to me. I never saw in my life. I must now wish you good-by. I am not fond of quoting from my own works, I think it egotistical, and in bad taste, but, in the words of the Ghost, ‘Adieu, remember me.’ ”

As he uttered the last words, his voice seemed to float away in the far distance, the room itself and its solid surroundings seemed to melt and dissolve like the changing pictures of a diorama, and in another moment I awakened into consciousness, and found myself seated in the quaint old high-backed Elizabethan chair, opposite the portrait of the poet, and heard the gentle voice of my kind cicerone say:

“I am afraid you have been asleep, sir?”

“I am afraid I have,” I replied, as I rose to my feet, and looked round in a bewildered manner.

"Have you been dreaming?”

“Yes, I have been in the company of William Shakespeare, and I have had a lesson in the art of play-writing I shall not readily forget from—

—the Poet’s Ghost."

___________________________

12: The White Wolf of Kostopchin

Sir Gilbert Campbell, Bt

1838-1899

Wild and Weird Tales of Imagination and Mystery (1889).

As well as being a successful writer and magazine editor, mostly in the horror and mystery genres, Campbell was also a con man, convicted of fraud through  his "literary agency" and sale of bogus diplomas. It is likely that this story was first published in his magazine Lambert's Monthly.

A werewolf story

A WIDE SANDY expanse of country, flat and uninteresting in appearance, with a great staring whitewashed house standing in the midst of wide fields of cultivated land; whilst far away were the low sand hills and pine forests to be met with in the district of Lithuania, in Russian Poland. Not far from the great white house was the village in which the serfs dwelt, with the large bakehouse and the public bath which are invariably to be found in all Russian villages, however humble. The fields were negligently cultivated, the hedges broken down and the fences in bad repair, shattered agricultural implements had been carelessly flung aside in remote corners, and the whole estate showed the want of the superintending eye of an energetic master. The great white house was no better looked after, the garden was an utter wilderness, great patches of plaster had fallen from the walls, and many of the Venetian shutters were almost off the hinges. Over all was the dark lowering sky of a Russian autumn, and there were no signs of life to be seen, save a few peasants lounging idly towards the vodki ship, and a gaunt halt-starved cat creeping stealthily abroad in quest of a meal.

The estate, which was known by the name of Kostopchin, was the property of Paul Sergevitch, a gentleman of means, and the most discontented man in Russian Poland. Like most wealthy Muscovites, he had traveled much, and had spent the gold which had been amassed by serf labor, like water, in all the dissolute revelries of the capitals of Europe. Paul’s figure was as well known in the boudoirs of the demi mondaines as his face was familiar at the public gaming tables. He appeared to have no thought for the future, but only to live in the excitement of the mad career of dissipation which he was pursuing. His means, enormous as they were, were all forestalled, and he was continually sending to his intendant for fresh supplies of money. His fortune would not have long held out against the constant inroads that were being made upon it, when an unexpected circumstance took place which stopped his career like a flash of lightning. This was a fatal duel, in which a young man of great promise, the son of the prime minister of the country in which he then resided, fell by his hand. Representatives were made to the Tsar, and Paul Sergevitch was recalled, and, after receiving a severe reprimand was ordered to return to his estates in Lithuania. Horribly discontented, yet not daring to disobey the Imperial mandate, Paul buried himself at Kostopchin, a place he had not visited since his boyhood. At first he endeavored to interest himself in the workings of the vast estate; but agriculture had no charm for him, and the only result was that he quarreled with and dismissed his German intendant, replacing him by an old serf, Michal Vassilitch, who had been his father’s valet. Then he took to wandering about the country, gun in hand, and upon his return home would sit moodily drinking brandy and smoking innumerable cigarettes, as he cursed his lord and master, the emperor, for consigning him to such a course of dullness and ennui. For a couple of years he led this aimless life, and at last, hardly knowing the reason for so doing, he married the daughter of a neighboring landed proprietor. The marriage was a most unhappy one; the girl had really never cared for Paul, but had married him in obedience to her father’s mandates, and the man, whose temper was always brutal and violent, treated her, after a brief interval of contemptuous indifference, with savage cruelty. After three years the unhappy woman expired, leaving behind her two children—a boy, Alexis, and a girl, Katrina. Paul treated his wife’s death with the most perfect indifference; but he did not put any one in her place. He was very fond of the little Katrina, but did not take much notice of the boy, and resumed his lonely wanderings about the country with dog and gun. Five years had passed since the death of his wife. Alexis was a fine, healthy boy of seven, whilst Katrina was some eighteen months younger. Paul was lighting one of his eternal cigarettes at the door of his house, when the little girl came running up to him.

“You bad, wicked papa,” said she. “How is it that you have never brought me the pretty gray squirrels that you promised I should have the next time you went to the forest?”

“Because I have never yet been able to find any, my treasure,” returned her father, taking up his child in his arms and half smothering her with kisses. “Because I have not found them yet, my golden queen; but I am bound to find Ivanovitch, the poacher, smoking about the woods, and if he can’t show me where they are, no one can.”

“Ah, little father,” broke in old Michal, using the term of address with which a Russian of humble position usually accosts his superior; “Ah, little father, take care; you will go to those woods once too often.”

“Do you think I am afraid of Ivanovitch?” returned his master, with a coarse laugh. “Why, he and I are the best of friends; at any rate, if he robs me, he does so openly, and keeps other poachers away from my woods.”

“It is not of Ivanovitch that I am thinking,” answered the old man. “But oh! Gospodin, do not go into these dark solitudes; there are terrible tales told about them, of witches that dance in the moonlight, of strange, shadowy forms that are seen amongst the trunks of the tall pines, and of whispered voices that tempt the listeners to eternal perdition.”

Again the rude laugh of the lord of the manor rang out, as Paul observed, “If you go on addling your brain, old man, with these nearly half-forgotten legends, I shall have to look out for a new intendant.”

“But I was not thinking of these fearful creatures only,” returned Michal, crossing himself piously. “It was against the wolves that I meant to warn you.”

“Oh, father, dear, I am frightened now,” whimpered little Katrina, hiding her head on her father’s shoulder. “Wolves are such cruel, wicked things.”

“See there, graybearded dotard,” cried Paul, furiously, “you have terrified this sweet angel by your farrago of lies; besides, who ever heard of wolves so early as this? You are dreaming, Michal Vassilitch, or have taken your morning dram of vodki too strong.”

“AS I hope for future happiness,” answered the old man, solemnly, “as I came through the marsh last night from Kosma the herdsman’s cottage— you know, my lord, that he has been bitten by a viper, and is seriously ill— as I came through the marsh, I repeat, I saw something like sparks of fire in the clump of alders on the right-hand side. I was anxious to know what they could be, and cautiously moved a little nearer, recommending my soul to the protection of Saint Vladimir. I had not gone a couple of paces when a wild howl came that chilled the very marrow of my bones, and a pack of some ten or a dozen wolves, gaunt and famished as you see them, my lord, in the winter, rushed out. At their head was a white she-wolf, as big as any of the male ones, with gleaming tusks and a pair of yellow eyes that blazed with lurid fire. I had round my neck a crucifix that had been given me by the priest of Streletza, and the savage beasts knew this and broke away across the marsh, sending up the mud and water in showers in the air; but the white she-wolf, little father, circled round me three times, as though endeavoring to find some place from which to attack me. Three times she did this, and then, with a snap of her teeth and a howl of impotent malice, she galloped away some fifty yards and sat down, watching my every movement with her fiery eyes. I did not delay any longer in so dangerous a spot, as you may well imagine, Gospodin, but walked hurriedly home, crossing myself at every step; but, as I am a living man, that white devil followed me the whole distance, keeping fifty paces in the rear, and every now and then licking her lips with a sound that made my flesh creep. When I got to the last fence before you come to the house I raised up my voice and shouted for the dogs, and soon I heard the deep bay of Troska and Bransköe as they came bounding towards me. The white devil heard it, too, and, giving a high bound into the air, she uttered a loud howl of disappointment, and trotted back leisurely towards the marsh.”

“But why did you not set the dogs after her?” asked Paul, interested, in spite of himself, at the old man’s narrative. “In the open Troska and Bransköe would run down any wolf that ever set foot to the ground in Lithuania.”

“I tried to do so, little father,” answered the old man, solemnly; “but directly they got up to the spot where the beast had executed her last devilish gambol, they put their tails between their legs and ran back to the house as fast as their legs could carry them.”

“Strange,” muttered Paul, thoughtfully, “that is, if it is truth and not vodki that is speaking.”

“My lord,” returned the old man, reproachfully, “man and boy, I have served you and my lord your father for fifty years, and no one can say that they ever saw Michal Vassilitch the worse for liquor.”

‘No one doubts that you are a sly old thief, Michal,” returned his master, with his coarse, jarring laugh; “but for all that, your long stories of having been followed by white wolves won’t prevent me from going to the forest to-day. A couple of good buckshot cartridges will break any spell, though I don’t think that the she-wolf, if she existed anywhere than in your own imagination, has anything to do with magic. Don’t be frightened, Katrina, my pet; you shall have a fine white wolf skin to put your feet on, if what this old fool says is right.”

“Michal is not a fool,” pouted the child, “and it is very wicked of you to call him so. I don’t want any nasty wolf skins, I want the gray squirrels.”

And you shall have them, my precious,” returned her father, setting her down upon the ground. “Be a good girl, and I will not be long away.”

“Father,” said the little Alexis, suddenly, “let me go with you. I should like to see you kill a wolf, and then I should know how to do so, when I grow older and taller.”

“Pshaw,” returned his father, irritably. “Boys are always in the way. Take the lad away, Michal; don’t you see that he is worrying his sweet little sister?”

“No, no, he does not worry me at all,” answered the impetuous little lady, as she flew to her brother and covered him with kisses. “Michal, you shan’t take him away, do you hear?”

“There, there, leave the children together,” returned Paul, as he shouldered his gun, and kissing the tips of his fingers to Katrina, stepped away rapidly in the direction of the dark pine woods. Paul walked on, humming the fragment of an air that he had heard in a very different place many years ago. A strange feeling of elation crept over him, very different to the false excitement which his solitary drinking bouts were wont to produce. A change seemed to have come over his whole life, the skies looked brighter, the spiculæ of the pine trees of a more vivid green, and the landscape seemed to have lost that dull cloud of depression which had for years appeared to hang over it. And beneath all this exaltation of the mind, beneath all this unlooked-for promise of a more happy future, lurked a heavy, inexplicable feeling of a power to come, a something without form or shape, and yet the more terrible because it was shrouded by that thick veil which conceals from the eyes of the soul the strange fantastic designs of the dwellers beyond the line of earthly influences.

There were no signs of the poacher, and wearied with searching for him, Paul made the woods re-echo with his name. The great dog, Troska, which had followed his master, looked up wistfully into his face, and at a second repetition of the name “Ivanovitch,” uttered a long plaintive howl, and then, looking round at Paul as though entreating him to follow, moved slowly ahead towards a denser portion of the forest. A little mystified at the hound’s unusual proceedings, Paul followed, keeping his gun ready to fire at the least sign of danger. He thought that he knew the forest well, but the dog led the way to a portion which he never remembered to have visited before. He had got away from the pine trees now, and had entered a dense thicket formed of stunted oaks and hollies. The great dog kept only a yard or so ahead; his lips were drawn back, showing the strong white fangs, the hair upon his neck and back was bristling, and his tail firmly pressed between his hind legs. Evidently the animal was in a state of the most extreme terror, and yet it proceeded bravely forward. Struggling through the dense thicket, Paul suddenly found himself in an open space of some ten or twenty yards in diameter. At one end of it was a slimy pool, into the waters of which several strange-looking reptiles glided as the man and dog made their appearance. Almost in the center of the opening was a shattered stone cross, and at its base lay a dark heap, close to which Troska stopped, and again raising his head, uttered a long melancholy howl. For an instant or two, Paul gazed hesitatingly at the shapeless heap that lay beneath the cross, and then, mustering up all his courage, he stepped forwards and bent anxiously over it. Once glance was enough, for he recognized the body of Ivanovitch the poacher, hideously mangled. With a cry of surprise, he turned over the body and shuddered as he gazed upon the terrible injuries that had been inflicted. The unfortunate man had evidently been attacked by some savage beast, for there were marks of teeth upon the throat, and the jugular vein had been almost torn out. The breast of the corpse had been torn open, evidently by long sharp claws, and there was a gaping orifice upon the left side, round which the blood had formed in a thick coagulated patch. The only animals to be found in the forests of Russia capable of inflicting such wounds are the bear or the wolf, and the question as to the class of the assailant was easily settled by a glance at the dank ground, which showed the prints of a wolf so entirely different from the plantegrade traces of the bear.

“Savage brutes,” muttered Paul. “So, after all, there may have been some truth in Michal’s story, and the old idiot may for once in his life have spoken the truth. Well, it is no concern of mine, and if a fellow chooses to wander about the woods at night to kill my game, instead of remaining in his own hovel, he must take his chance. The strange thing is that the brutes have not eaten him, though they have mauled him so terribly.”

He turned away as he spoke, intending to return home and send out some of the serfs to bring in the body of the unhappy man, when his eye was caught by a small white object, hanging from a bramble bush near the pond. He made towards the spot, and taking up the object, examined it curiously. It was a tuft of coarse white hair, evidently belonging to some animal.”

“A wolf’s hair, or I am much mistaken,” muttered Paul, pressing the hair between his fingers, and then applying it to his nose. “And from its color, I should think that it belonged to the white lady who so terribly alarmed old Michal on the occasion of his night walk through the marsh.”

Paul found it no easy task to retrace his steps towards those parts of the forest with which he was acquainted, and Troska seemed unable to render him the slightest assistance, but followed moodily behind. Many times Paul found his way blocked by impenetrable thicket or dangerous quagmire, and during his many wanderings he had the ever-present sensation that there was a something close to him, an invisible something, a noiseless something, but for all that a presence which moved as he advanced, and halted as he stopped in vain to listen. The certainty that an impalpable thing of some shape or other was close at hand grew so strong, that as the short autumn day began to close, and darker shadows to fall between the trunks of the lofty trees, it made him hurry on at his utmost speed. At length, when he had grown almost mad with terror, he suddenly came upon a path he knew, and with a feeling of intense relief, he stepped briskly forward in the direction of Kostopchin. As he left the forest and came into the open country, a faint wail seemed to ring through the darkness; but Paul’s nerves had been so much shaken that he did not know whether this was an actual fact or only the offspring of his own excited fancy. As he crossed the neglected lawn that lay in front of the house, old Michal came rushing out of the house with terror convulsing every feature.

“Oh, my lord, my lord!” gasped he, “is not this too terrible?”

“Nothing has happened to my Katrina?” cried the father, a sudden sickly feeling of terror passing through his heart.

“No, no, the little lady is quite safe, thanks to the Blessed Virgin and Saint Alexander of Nevskoi,” returned Michal; “but oh, my lord, poor Marta, the herd’s daughter—”

“Well, what of the slut?” demanded Paul, for now that his momentary fear for the safety of his daughter had passed away, he had but little sympathy to spare for so insignificant a creature as a serf girl.

“I told you that Kosma was dying,” answered Michal. “Well, Marta went across the marsh this afternoon to fetch the priest, but alas! she never came back.”

“What detained her, then?” asked his master.

“One of the neighbors, going in to see how Kosma was getting on, found the poor old man dead; his face was terribly contorted, and he was half in the bed, and half out, as though he had striven to reach the door. The man ran to the village to give the alarm, and as the men returned to the herdsman’s hut, they found the body of Marta in a thicket by the clump of alders on the marsh.”

“Her body— she was dead then?” asked Paul.

“Dead, my lord; killed by wolves,” answered the old man. “And oh, my lord, it is too horrible, her breast was horribly lacerated, and her heart had been taken out and eaten, for it was nowhere to be found.”

Paul started, for the horrible mutilation of the body of Ivanovitch the poacher occurred to his recollection.

“And, my lord,” continued the old man, “this is not all; on a bush close by was this tuft of hair,” and, as he spoke, he took it from a piece of paper in which it was wrapped and handed it to his master.

Paul took it and recognized a similar tuft of hair to that which he had seen upon the bramble bush beside the shattered cross.

“Surely, my lord,” continued Michal, not heeding his master’s look of surprise, “you will have out men and dogs to hunt down this terrible creature, or, better still, send for the priest and holy water, for I have my doubts whether the creature belongs to this earth.”

Paul shuddered, and, after a short pause, he told Michal of the ghastly end of Ivanovitch the poacher.

The old man listened with the utmost excitement, crossing himself repeatedly, and muttering invocations to the Blessed Virgin and the saints every instant; but his master would no longer listen to him, and, ordering him to place brandy on the table, sat drinking moodily until daylight.

THE NEXT DAY a fresh horror awaited the inhabitants of Kostopchin. An old man, a confirmed drunkard, had staggered out of the vodki shop with the intention of returning home; three hours later he was found at a turn of the road, horribly scratched and mutilated, with the same gaping orifice in the left side of the breast, from which the heart had been forcibly torn out. Three several times in the course of the week the same ghastly tragedy occurred— a little child, an able-bodied laborer, and an old woman, were all found with the same terrible marks of mutilation upon them, and in every case the same tuft of white hair was found in the immediate vicinity of the bodies. A frightful panic ensued, and an excited crowd of serfs surrounded the house at Kostopchin, calling upon their master, Paul Sergevitch, to save them from the fiend that had been let loose upon them, and shouting out various remedies, which they insisted upon being carried into effect at once.

Paul felt a strange disinclination to adopt any active measures. A certain feeling which he could not account for urged him to remain quiescent; but the Russian serf when suffering under an access of superstitious terror is a dangerous person to deal with, and, with extreme reluctance, Paul Sergevitch issued instructions for a thorough search through the estate, and a general battue of the pine woods.

The army of beaters convened by Michal was ready with the first dawn of sunrise, and formed a strange and almost grotesque-looking assemblage, armed with rusty old firelocks, heavy bludgeons, and scythes fastened on to the end of long poles. Paul, with his double-barreled gun thrown across his shoulder and a keen hunting knife thrust into his belt, marched at the head of the serfs, accompanied by the two great hounds, Troska and Bransköe. Every nook and corner of the hedgerows were examined, and the little outlying clumps were thoroughly searched, but without success; and at last a circle was formed round the larger portion of the forest, and with loud shouts, blowing of horns, and beating of copper cooking utensils, the crowd of eager serfs pushed their way through the brushwood. Frightened birds flew up, whirring through the pine branches; hares and rabbits darted from their hiding places behind tufts and hummocks of grass, and skurried away in the utmost terror. Occasionally a roe deer rushed through the thicket, or a wild boar burst through the thin lines of beaters, but no signs of wolves were to be seen. The circle grew narrower and yet more narrow, when all at once a wild shriek and a confused murmur of voices echoed through the pine trees. All rushed to the spot, and a young lad was discovered weltering in his blood and terribly mutilated, though life still lingered in the mangled frame. A few drops of vodki were poured down the throat, and he managed to gasp out that the white wolf had sprung upon him suddenly, and, throwing him to the ground, had commenced tearing at the flesh over his heart. He would inevitably have been killed, had not the animal quitted him, alarmed by the approach of the other beaters.

“The beast ran into that thicket,” gasped the boy, and then once more relapsed into a state on insensibility.

But the words of the wounded boy had been eagerly passed round, and a hundred different propositions were made.

“Set fire to the thicket,” exclaimed one.

“Fire a volley into it,” suggested another.

“A bold dash in, and trample the beast’s life out,” shouted a third.

The first proposal was agreed to, and a hundred eager hands collected dried sticks and leaves, and then a light was kindled. Just as the fire was about to be applied, a soft, sweet voice issued from the center of the thicket.

“Do not set fire to the forest, my dear friends; give me time to come out. Is it not enough for me to have been frightened to death by that awful creature?”

All started back in amazement, and Paul felt a strange, sudden thrill pass through his heart as those soft musical accents fell upon his ear.

There was a light rustling in the brushwood, and then a vision suddenly appeared, which filled the souls of the beholders with surprise. As the bushes divided, a fair woman, wrapped in a mantle of soft white fur, with a fantastically shaped traveling cap of green velvet upon her head, stood before them. She was exquisitely fair, and her long Titian red hair hung in disheveled masses over her shoulders.

“My good man,” began she, with a certain tinge of aristocratic hauteur in her voice, “is your master here?”

As moved by a spring, Paul stepped forward and mechanically raised his cap.

“I am Paul Sergevitch,” said he, “and these woods are on my estate of Kostopchin. A fearful wolf has been committing a series of terrible devastations upon my people, and we have been endeavoring to hunt it down. A boy whom he has just wounded says that he ran into the thicket from which you have just emerged, to the surprise of us all.”

“I know,” answered the lady, fixing her clear, steel-blue eyes keenly upon Paul’s face. “The terrible beast rushed past me, and dived into a large cavity in the earth in the very center of the thicket. It was a huge white wolf, and I greatly feared that it would devour me.”

“Ho, my men,” cried Paul, “take spade and mattock, and dig out the monster, for she has come to the end of her tether at last. Madam, I do not know what chance has conducted you to this wild solitude, but the hospitality of Kostopchin is at your disposal, and I will, with your permission, conduct you there as soon as this scourge of the countryside has been dispatched.”

He offered his hand with some remains of his former courtesy, but started back with an expression of horror on his face.

“Blood,” cried he; “why, madam, your hand and fingers are stained with blood.”

A faint color rose to the lady’s cheek, but it died away in an instant as she answered, with a faint smile:—

“The dreadful creature was all covered with blood, and I suppose I must have stained my hands against the bushes through which it had passed, when I parted them in order to escape from the fiery death with which you threatened me.”

There was a ring of suppressed irony in her voice, and Paul felt his eyes drop before the glance of those cold steel-blue eyes. Meanwhile, urged to the utmost exertion by their fears, the serfs plied spade and mattock with the utmost vigor. The cavity was speedily enlarged, but, when a depth of eight feet had been attained, it was found to terminate in a little burrow not large enough to admit a rabbit, much less a creature of the white wolf’s size. There were none of the tufts of white hair which had hitherto been always found beside the bodies of the victims, nor did that peculiar rank odor which always indicates the presence of wild animals hang about the spot.

The superstitious Muscovites crossed themselves, and scrambled out of the hole with grotesque alacrity. The mysterious disappearance of the monster which had committed such frightful ravages had cast a chill over the hearts of the ignorant peasants, and, unheeding the shouts of their master, they left the forest, which seemed to be overcast with the gloom of some impending calamity.

“Forgive the ignorance of these boors, madam,” said Paul, when he found himself alone with the strange lady, “and permit me to escort you to my poor house, for you must have need of rest and refreshment, and—”

Here Paul checked himself abruptly, and a dark flush of embarrassment passed over his face.

“And,” said the lady, with the same faint smile, “and you are dying with curiosity to know how I suddenly made my appearance from a thicket in your forest. You say that you are the lord of Kostopchin; then you are Paul Sergevitch, and should surely know how the ruler of Holy Russia takes upon himself to interfere with the doings of his children?”

“You know me, then?” exclaimed Paul, in some surprise.

“Yes, I have lived in foreign lands, as you have, and have heard your name often. Did you not break the bank at Blankburg? Did you not carry off Isola Menuti, the dancer, from a host of competitors; and, as a last instance of my knowledge, shall I recall to your memory a certain morning, on a sandy shore, with two men facing each other pistol in hand, the one young, fair, and boyish-looking, hardly twenty-two years of age, the other—”

“Hush!” exclaimed Paul, hoarsely; “you evidently know me, but who in the fiend’s name are you?”

“Simply a woman who once moved in society and read the papers, and who is now a hunted fugitive.”

“A fugitive!” returned Paul, hotly; “who dares to persecute you?”

The lady moved a little closer to him, and then whispered in his ear:—

“The police!”

“The police!” repeated Paul, stepping back a pace or two. “The police!”

“Yes, Paul Sergevitch, the police,” returned the lady, “that body at the mention of which it is said the very Emperor trembles as he sits in his gilded chambers in the Winter Palace. Yes, I have had the imprudence to speak my mind too freely, and—well, you know what women have to dread who fall into the hands of the police in Holy Russia. To avoid such infamous degradations I fled, accompanied by a faithful domestic. I fled in hopes of gaining the frontier, but a few versts from here a body of mounted police rode up. My poor old servant had the imprudence to resist, and was shot dead. Half wild with terror I fled into the forest, and wandered about until I heard the noise your serfs made in the beating of the woods. I thought it was the police, who had organized a search for me, and I crept into the thicket for the purpose of concealment. The rest you know. And now, Paul Sergevitch, tell me whether you dare give shelter to a proscribed fugitive such as I am.”

“Madam,” returned Paul, gazing into the clear-cut features before him, glowing with the animation of the recital, “Kostopchin is ever open to misfortune—and beauty,” added he, with a bow.

“Ah!” cried the lady, with a laugh in which there was something sinister; “I expect that misfortune would knock at your door for a long time, if it was unaccompanied by beauty. However, I thank you, and will accept your hospitality; but if evil come upon you, remember that I am not to be blamed.”

“You will be safe enough at Kostopchin,” returned Paul. “The police won’t trouble their heads about me; they know that since the Emperor drove me to lead this hideous existence, politics have no charm for me, and that the brandy bottle is the only charm of my life.”

“Dear me,” answered the lady, eyeing him uneasily, “a morbid drunkard, are you? Well, as I am half perished with cold, suppose you take me to Kostopchin; you will be conferring a favor on me, and will get back all the sooner to your favorite brandy.”

She placed her hand upon Paul’s arm as she spoke, and mechanically he led the way to the great solitary white house. The few servants betrayed no astonishment at the appearance of the lady, for some of the serfs on their way back to the village had spread the report of the sudden appearance of the mysterious stranger; besides, they were not accustomed to question the acts of their somewhat arbitrary master.

Alexis and Katrina had gone to bed, and Paul and his guest sat down to a hastily improvised meal.

“I am no great eater,” remarked the lady, as she played with the food before her; and Paul noticed with surprise that scarcely a morsel passed her lips, though she more than once filled and emptied a goblet of the champagne which had been opened in honor of her arrival.

“So it seems,” remarked he; “and I do not wonder, for the food in this benighted hole is not what either you or I have been accustomed to.”

“Oh, it does well enough,” returned the lady, carelessly. “And now, if you have such a thing as a woman in the establishment, you can let her show me to my room, for I am nearly dead for want of sleep.”

Paul struck a hand bell that stood on the table beside him, and the stranger rose from her seat, and with a brief “Good night,” was moving towards the door, when the old man Michal suddenly made his appearance on the threshold. The aged intendant started backwards as though to avoid a heavy blow, and his fingers at once sought for the crucifix which he wore suspended round his neck, and on whose protection he relied to shield him from the powers of darkness.

“Blessed Virgin!” he exclaimed. “Holy Saint Radislas protect me, where have I seen her before?”

The lady took no notice of the old man’s evident terror, but passed away down the echoing corridor.

The old man now timidly approached his master, who, after swallowing a glass of brandy, had drawn his chair up to the stove, and was gazing moodily at its polished surface.

“My lord,” said Michal, venturing to touch his master’s shoulder, “is that the lady that you found in the forest?”

“Yes,” returned Paul, a smile breaking out over his face; “she is very beautiful, is she not?”

“Beautiful!” repeated Michal, crossing himself, “she may have beauty, but it is that of a demon. Where have I seen her before?—where have I seen those shining teeth and those cold eyes? She is not like any one here, and I have never been ten versts from Kostopchin in my life. I am utterly bewildered. Ah, I have it, the dying herdsman— save the mark! Gospodin, have a care. I tell you that the strange lady is the image of the white wolf.”

“You old fool,” returned his master, savagely, “let me ever hear you repeat such nonsense again, and I will have you skinned alive. The lady is highborn, and of good family; beware how you insult her. Nay, I give you further commands: see that during her sojourn here she is treated with the utmost respect. And communicate this to all the servants. Mind, no more tales about the vision that your addled brain conjured up of wolves in the marsh, and above all do not let me hear that you have been alarming little Katrina with your senseless babble.”

The old man bowed humbly, and, after a short pause, remarked:—

“The lad that was injured at the hunt to-day is dead, my lord.”

“Oh, dead is he, poor wretch!” returned Paul, to whom the death of a serf lad was not a matter of overweening importance. “But look here, Michal, remember that if any inquiries are made about the lady, that no one knows anything about her; that, in fact, no one has seen her at all.”

“Your lordship shall be obeyed,” answered the old man; and then, seeing that his master had relapsed into his former moody reverie, he left the room, crossing himself at every step he took.

Late into the night Paul sat up thinking over the occurrences of the day. He had told Michal that his guest was of noble family, but in reality he knew nothing more of her than she had condescended to tell him.”

“Why, I don’t even know her name,” muttered he; “and yet somehow or other it seems as if a new feature of my life was opening before me. However, I have made one step in advance by getting her here, and if she talks about leaving, why, all that I have to do is threaten her with the police.”

After his usual custom he smoked cigarette after cigarette, and poured out copious tumblers of brandy. The attendant serf replenished the stove from a small den which opened into the corridor, and after a time Paul slumbered heavily in his armchair. He was aroused by a light touch upon the shoulder, and, starting up, saw the stranger of the forest standing by his side.

“This is indeed kind of you,” said she, with her usual mocking smile. “You felt that I should be strange here, and you got up early to see to the horses, or can it really be, those ends of cigarettes, that empty bottle of brandy? Paul Sergevitch, you have not been to bed at all.”

Paul muttered a few indistinct words in reply, and then, ringing the bell furiously, ordered the servant to clear away the débris of last night’s orgy, and lay the table for breakfast; then, with a hasty apology, he left the room to make a fresh toilet, and in about half an hour returned with his appearance sensibly improved by his ablutions and change of dress.

“I dare say,” remarked the lady, as they were seated at the morning meal, for which she manifested the same indifference that she had for the dinner of the previous evening, “that you would like to know my name and who I am. Well, I don’t mind telling you my name. It is Ravina, but as to my family and who I am, it will perhaps be best for you to remain in ignorance. A matter of policy, my dear Paul Sergevitch, a mere matter of policy, you see. I leave you to judge from my manners and appearance whether I am of sufficiently good form to be invited to the honor of your table—”

“None more worthy,” broke in Paul, whose bemuddled brain was fast succumbing to the charms of his guest; “and surely that is a question upon which I may be deemed a competent judge.”

“I do not know about that,” returned Ravina, “for from all accounts the company that you used to keep was not of the most select character.”

“No, but hear me,” began Paul, seizing her hand and endeavoring to carry it to his lips. But as he did so an unpleasant chill passed over him, for those slender fingers were icy cold.

“Do not be foolish,” said Ravina, drawing away her hand, after she had permitted it to rest for an instant in Paul’s grasp, “do you not hear someone coming?”

As she spoke the sound of tiny pattering feet was heard in the corridor, then the door was flung violently open, and with a shrill cry of delight, Katrina rushed into the room, followed more slowly by her brother Alexis.

“And are these your children?” asked Ravina, as Paul took up the little girl and placed her fondly upon his knee, whilst the boy stood a few paces from the door gazing with eyes of wonder upon the strange woman, for whose appearance he was utterly unable to account. “Come here, my little man,” continued she; “I suppose you are the heir of Kostopchin, though you do not resemble your father much.”

“He takes after his mother, I think,” returned Paul carelessly; “and how has my darling Katrina been?” he added, addressing his daughter.

“Quite well, papa dear,” answered the child; “but where is the fine white wolf skin that you promised me?”

“Your father did not find her,” answered Ravina, with a little laugh; “the white wolf was not so easy to catch as he fancied.”

Alexis had moved a few steps nearer to the lady, and was listening with grave attention to every word she uttered.

“Are white wolves so difficult to kill, then?” asked he.

“It seems so, my little man,” returned the lady, “since your father and all the serfs of Kostopchin were unable to do so.”

“I have got a pistol, that good old Michal has taught me to fire, and I am sure I could kill her if ever I got sight of her,” observed Alexis, boldly.

“There is a brave boy,” returned Ravina, with one of her shrill laughs; “and now, won’t you come and sit on my knee, for I am very fond of little boy?”

“No, I don’t like you,” answered Alexis, after a moment’s consideration, “for Michal says—”

“Go to your room, you insolent young brat,” broke in the father, in a voice of thunder. “You spend so much of your time with Michal and the serfs that you have learned all their boorish habits.”

Two tiny tears rolled down the boy’s cheeks as in obedience to his father’s orders he turned about and quitted the room, whilst Ravina darted a strange look of dislike after him. As soon, however, as the door had closed, the fair woman addressed Katrina.

“Well, perhaps you will not be so unkind to me as your brother,” said she. “Come to me,” and as she spoke she held out her arms.

The little girl came to her without hesitation, and began to smooth the silken tresses which were coiled and wreathed around Ravina’s head.

“Pretty, pretty,” she murmured, “beautiful lady.”

“You see, Paul Sergevitch, that your little daughter has taken to me at once,” remarked Ravina.

“She takes after her father, who was always noted for his good taste,” returned Paul, with a bow; “but take care, madam, or the little puss will have your necklace off.”

The child had indeed succeeded in unclasping the glittering ornament, and was now inspecting it in high glee.

“That is a curious ornament,” said Paul, stepping up to the child and taking the circlet from her hand.

It was indeed a quaintly fashioned ornament, consisting as it did of a number of what were apparently curved pieces of sharp-pointed horn set in gold, and depending from a snake of the same precious metal.

“Why, these are claws,” continued he, as he looked at them more carefully.

“Yes, wolves’ claws,” answered Ravina, taking the necklet from the child and reclasping it round her neck. “It is a family relic which I have always worn.”

Katrina at first seemed inclined to cry at her new plaything being taken from her, but by caresses and endearments Ravina soon contrived to lull her once more into a good temper.

“My daughter has certainly taken to you in a most wonderful manner,” remarked Paul, with a pleased smile. “You have quite obtained possession of her heart.”

“Not yet, whatever I may do later on,” answered the woman, with her strange cold smile, as she pressed the child closer towards her and shot a glance at Paul which made him quiver with an emotion that he had never felt before. Presently, however, the child grew tired of her new acquaintance, and sliding down from her knee, crept from the room in search of her brother Alexis.

Paul and Ravina remained silent for a few instants, and then the woman broke the silence.

“All that remains for me now, Paul Sergevitch, is to trespass on your hospitality, and to ask you to lend me some disguise, and assist me to gain the nearest post town, which, I think, is Vitroski.”

“And why should you wish to leave this at all,” demanded Paul, a deep flush rising to his cheek. “You are perfectly safe in my house, and if you attempt to pursue your journey there is every chance of your being recognized and captured.”

“Why do I wish to leave this house?” answered Ravina, rising to her feet and casting a look of surprise upon her interrogator. “Can you ask me such a question? How is it possible for me to remain here?”

“It is perfectly impossible for you to leave; of that I am quite certain,” answered the man, doggedly. “All I know is, that if you leave Kostopchin, you will inevitably fall into the hands of the police.”

“And Paul Sergevitch will tell them where they can find me?” questioned Ravina, with an ironical inflection in the tone of her voice.

“I never said so,” returned Paul.

“Perhaps not,” answered the woman, quickly, “but I am not slow in reading thoughts; they are sometimes plainer to read than words. You are saying to yourself, ‘Kostopchin is but a dull hole after all; chance has thrown into my hands a woman whose beauty pleases me; she is utterly friendless, and is in fear of the pursuit of the police; why should I not bend her to my will?’ That is what you have been thinking—is it not so, Paul Sergevitch?”

“I never thought, that is—” stammered the man.

“No, you never thought that I could read you so plainly,” pursued the woman, pitilessly; “but it is the truth that I have told you, and sooner than remain an inmate of your house, I would leave it, even if all the police of Russia stood ready to arrest me on its very threshold.”

“Stay, Ravina,” exclaimed Paul, as the woman made a step towards the door. “I do not say whether your reading of my thoughts is right or wrong, but before you leave, listen to me. I do not speak to you in the usual strain of a pleading lover—you, who know my past, would laugh at me should I do so; but I tell you plainly that from the first moment that I set eyes upon you, a strange new feeling has risen up in my heart, not the cold thing that society calls love, but a burning resistless flood which flows down like molten lava from the volcano’s crater. Stay, Ravina, stay, I implore you, for if you go from here you will take my heart with you.”

“You may be speaking more truthfully than you think,” returned the fair woman, as, turning back, she came close up to Paul, and placing both her hands upon his shoulders, shot a glance of lurid fire from her eyes. “Still, you have but given me a selfish reason for my staying, only your own self-gratification. Give me one that more nearly affects myself.”

Ravina’s touch sent a tremor through Paul’s whole frame which caused every nerve and sinew to vibrate. Gaze as boldly as he might into those steel-blue eyes, he could not sustain their intensity.

“Be my wife, Ravina,” faltered he. “Be my wife. You are safe enough from all pursuit here, and if that does not suit you I can easily convert my estate into a large sum of money, and we can fly to other lands, where you can have nothing to fear from the Russian police.”

“And does Paul Sergevitch actually mean to offer his hand to a woman whose name he does not even know, and of whose feelings towards him he is entirely ignorant?” asked the woman, with her customary mocking laugh.

“What do I care for name or birth,” returned he, hotly, “I have enough for both, and as for love, my passion would soon kindle some sparks of it in your breast, cold and frozen as it may now be.”

“Let me think a little,” said Ravina; and throwing herself into an armchair she buried her face in her hands and seemed plunged in deep reflection, whilst Paul paced impatiently up and down the room like a prisoner awaiting the verdict that would restore him to life or doom him to a shameful death.

At length Ravina removed her hands from her face and spoke.

“Listen,” said she. “I have thought over your proposal seriously, and upon certain conditions, I will consent to become your wife.”

“They are granted in advance,” broke in Paul, eagerly.

“Make no bargains blindfold,” answered she, “but listen. At the present moment I have no inclination for you, but on the other hand I feel no repugnance for you. I will remain here for a month, and during that time I shall remain in a suite of apartments which you will have prepared for me. Every evening I will visit you here, and upon your making yourself agreeable my ultimate decision will depend.”

“And suppose that decision should be an unfavorable one?” asked Paul.

“Then,” answered Ravina, with a ringing laugh, “I shall, as you say, leave this and take your heart with me.”

“These are hard conditions,” remarked Paul. “Why not shorten the time of probation?”

“My conditions are unalterable,” answered Ravina, with a little stamp of the foot. “Do you agree to them or not?”

“I have no alternative,” answered he, sullenly; “but remember that I am to see you every evening.”

“For two hours,” said the woman, “so you must try and make yourself as agreeable as you can in that time; and now, if you will give orders regarding my rooms, I will settle myself in them with as little delay as possible.”

Paul obeyed her, and in a couple of hours three handsome chambers were got ready for their fair occupant in a distant part of the great rambling house.

THE DAYS SLIPPED slowly and wearily away, but Ravina showed no signs of relenting. Every evening, according to her bond, she spent two hours with Paul and made herself most agreeable, listening to his far-fetched compliments and asseverations of love and tenderness either with a cold smile or with one of her mocking laughs. She refused to allow Paul to visit her in her own apartments, and the only intruder she permitted there, save the servants, was little Katrina, who had taken a strange fancy to the fair woman. Alexis, on the contrary, avoided her as much as he possibly could, and the pair hardly ever met. Paul, to while away the time, wandered about the farm and the village, the inhabitants of which had recovered from their panic as the white wolf appeared to have entirely desisted from her murderous attacks upon belated peasants. The shades of evening had closed in as Paul was one day returning from his customary round, rejoiced with the idea that the hour for Ravina’s visit was drawing near, when he was startled by a gentle touch upon the shoulder, and turning round, saw the old man Michal standing just behind him. The intendant’s face was perfectly livid, his eyes gleamed with the luster of terror, and his fingers kept convulsively clasping and unclasping.

“My lord,” exclaimed he, in faltering accents; “oh, my lord, listen to me, for I have terrible news to narrate to you.”

“What is the matter?” asked Paul, more impressed than he would have liked to confess by the old man’s evident terror.

“The wolf, the white wolf! I have seen it again,” whispered Michal.

“You are dreaming,” retorted his master, angrily. “You have got the creature on the brain, and have mistaken a white calf or one of the dogs for it.”

“I am not mistaken,” answered the old man, firmly. “And oh, my lord, do not go into the house, for she is there.”

“She— who— what do you mean?” cried Paul.

“The white wolf, my lord. I saw her go in. You know the strange lady’s apartments are on the ground floor on the west side of the house. I saw the monster cantering across the lawn, and, as if it knew its way perfectly well, make for the center window of the reception room; it yielded to a touch of the fore paw, and the beast sprang through. Oh, my lord, do not go in; I tell you that it will never harm the strange woman. Ah! let me—”

But Paul cast off the detaining arm with a force that made the old man reel and fall, and then, catching up an ax, dashed into the house, calling upon the servants to follow him to the strange lady’s rooms. He tried the handle, but the door was securely fastened, and then, in all the frenzy of terror, he attacked the panels with heavy blows of his ax. For a few seconds no sound was heard save the ring of metal and the shivering of panels, but then the clear tones of Ravina were heard asking the reason for this outrageous disturbance.

“The wolf, the white wolf,” shouted half a dozen voices.

“Stand back and I will open the door,” answered the fair woman. “You must be mad, for there is no wolf here.”

The door flew open and the crowd rushed tumultuously in; every nook and corner were searched, but no signs of the intruder could be discovered, and with many shamefaced glances Paul and his servants were about to return, when the voice of Ravina arrested their steps.”

“Paul Sergevitch,” sad she, coldly, “explain the meaning of this daring intrusion on my privacy.”

She looked very beautiful as she stood before them; her right arm extended and her bosom heaved violently, but this was doubtless caused by her anger at the unlooked-for invasion.

Paul briefly repeated what he had heard from the old serf, and Ravina’s scorn was intense.

“And so,” cried she, fiercely, “it is to the crotchets of this old dotard that I am indebted for this. Paul, if you ever hope to succeed in winning me, forbid that man ever to enter the house again.”

Paul would have sacrificed all his serfs for a whim of the haughty beauty, and Michal was deprived of the office of intendant and exiled to a cabin in the village, with orders never to show his face again near the house. The separation from the children almost broke the old man’s heart, but he ventured on no remonstrance and meekly obeyed the mandate which drove him away from all he loved and cherished.

Meanwhile, curious rumors began to be circulated regarding the strange proceedings of the lady who occupied the suite of apartments which had formerly belonged to the wife of the owner of Kostopchin. The servants declared that the food sent up, though hacked about and cut up, was never tasted, but that the raw meat in the larder was frequently missing. Strange sounds were often heard to issue from the rooms as the panic-stricken serfs hurried past the corridor upon which the doors opened, and dwellers in the house were frequently disturbed by the howlings of wolves, the footprints of which were distinctly visible the next morning, and, curiously enough, invariably in the gardens facing the west side of the house in which the lady dwelt. Little Alexis, who found no encouragement to sit with his father, was naturally thrown a great deal amongst the serfs, and heard the subject discussed with many exaggerations. Weird old tales of folklore were often narrated as the servants discussed their evening meal, and the boy’s hair would bristle as he listened to the wild and fanciful narratives of wolves, witches, and white ladies with which the superstitious serfs filled his ears. One of his most treasured possessions was an old brass-mounted cavalry pistol, a present from Michal; this he has learned to load, and by using both hands to the cumbrous weapon could contrive to fire it off, as many an ill-starred sparrow could attest. With his mind constantly dwelling upon the terrible tales he had so greedily listened to, this pistol became his daily companion, whether he was wandering about the long echoing corridors of the house or wandering through the neglected shrubberies of the garden. For a fortnight matters went on in this manner, Paul becoming more and more infatuated by the charms of his strange guest, and she every now and then letting drop occasional crumbs of hope which led the unhappy man further and further upon the dangerous course that he was pursuing. A mad, soul-absorbing passion for the fair woman and the deep draughts of brandy with which he consoled himself during her hours of absence were telling upon the brain of the master of Kostopchin, and except during the brief space of Ravina’s visit, he would relapse into moods of silent sullenness from which he would occasionally break out into furious bursts of passion for no assignable cause. A shadow seemed to be closing over the house of Kostopchin; it became the abode of grim whispers and undeveloped fears; the men and maid servants went about their work glancing nervously over their shoulders, as though they were apprehensive that some hideous thing was following at their heels.

After three days of exile, poor old Michal could endure the state of suspense regarding the safety of Alexis and Katrina no longer; and, casting aside his superstitious fears, he took to wandering by night about the exterior of the great white house, and peering curiously into such windows as had been left unshuttered. At first he was in continual dread of meeting the terrible white wolf; but his love for the children and his confidence in the crucifix he wore prevailed, and he continued his nocturnal wanderings about Kostopchin and its environs. He kept near the western front of the house, urged on to do so from some vague feeling which he could in no wise account for. One evening as he was making his accustomed tour of inspection, the wail of a child struck upon his ear. He bent down his head and eagerly listened, again he heard the same faint sounds, and in them he fancied he recognized the accents of his dear little Katrina. Hurrying up to one of the ground-floor windows, from which a dim light streamed, he pressed his face against the pane, and looked steadily in. A horrible sight presented itself to his gaze. By the faint light of a shaded lamp, he saw Katrina stretched upon the ground; but her wailing had now ceased, for a shawl had been tied across her little mouth. Over her was bending a hideous shape, which seemed to be clothed in some white and shaggy covering. Katrina lay perfectly motionless, and the hands of the figure were engaged in hastily removing the garments from the child’s breast. The task was soon effected; then there was a bright gleam of steel, and the head of the thing bent closely down to the child’s bosom.

With a yell of apprehension, the old man dashed in the window frame, and, drawing the cross from his breast, sprang boldly into the room. The creature sprang to its feet, and the white fur cloak falling from its had and shoulders disclosed the pallid features of Ravina, a short, broad knife in her hand, and her lips discolored with blood.

“Vile sorceress!” cried Michal, dashing forward and raising Katrina in his arms. “What hellish work are you about?”

Ravina’s eyes gleamed fiercely upon the old man, who had interfered between her and her prey. She raised her dagger, and was about to spring in upon him, when she caught sight of the cross in his extended hand. With a low cry, she dropped the knife, and, staggering back a few paces, wailed out: “I could not help it; I liked the child well enough, but I was so hungry.”

Michal paid but little heed to her words, for he was busily engaged in examining the fainting child, whose head was resting helplessly on his shoulder. There was a wound over the left breast, from which the blood was flowing; but the injury appeared slight, and not likely to prove fatal. As soon as he had satisfied himself on this point, he turned to the woman, who was crouching before the cross as a wild beast shrinks before the whip of the tamer.

“I am going to remove the child,” said he, slowly. “Dare you to mention a word of what I have done or whither she has gone, and I will arouse the village. Do you know what will happen then? Why, every peasant in the place will hurry here with a lighted brand in his hand to consume this accursed house and the unnatural dwellers in it. Keep silence, and I leave you to your unhallowed work. I will no longer seek to preserve Paul Sergevitch, who has given himself over to the powers of darkness by taking a demon to his bosom.”

Ravina listened to him as if she scarcely comprehended him; but, as the old man retreated to the window with his helpless burden, she followed him step by step; and as he turned to cast one last glance at the shattered window, he saw the woman’s pale face and bloodstained lips glued against an unbroken pane, with a wild look of unsatiated appetite in her eyes.

Next morning the house of Kostopchin was filled with terror and surprise, for Katrina, the idol of her father’s heart, had disappeared, and no signs of her could be discovered. Every effort was made, the woods and fields in the neighborhood were thoroughly searched; but it was at last concluded that robbers had carried off the child for the sake of the ransom that they might be able to extract from the father. This seemed the more likely as one of the windows in the fair stranger’s room bore marks of violence, and she declared that, being alarmed by the sound of crashing glass, she had risen and confronted a man who was endeavoring to enter her apartment, but who, on perceiving her, turned and fled away with the utmost precipitation.

Paul Sergevitch did not display as much anxiety as might have been expected from him, considering the devotion which he had ever evinced for the lost Katrina, for his whole soul was wrapped up in one mad, absorbing passion for the fair woman who had so strangely crossed his life. He certainly directed the search, and gave all the necessary orders; but he did so in a listless and half-hearted manner, and hastened back to Kostopchin as speedily as he could as though fearing to be absent for any length of time from the casket in which his new treasure was enshrined. Not so Alexis; he was almost frantic at the loss of his sister, and accompanied the searchers daily until his little legs grew weary, and he had to be carried on the shoulders of a sturdy moujik. His treasured brass-mounted pistol was now more than ever his constant companion; and when he met the fair woman who had cast a spell upon his father, his face would flush, and he would grind his teeth in impotent rage.

The day upon which all search had ceased, Ravina glided into the room where she knew that she would find Paul awaiting her. She was fully an hour before her usual time, and the lord of Kostopchin started to his feet in surprise.

“You are surprised to see me,” said she; “but I have only come to pay you a visit for a few minutes. I am convinced that you love me, and could I but relieve a few of the objections that my heart continues to raise, I might be yours.”

“Tell me what these scruples are,” cried Paul, springing towards her, and seizing her hands in his; “and be sure that I will find means to overcome them.”

Even in the midst of all the glow and fervor of anticipated triumph, he could not avoid noticing how icily cold were the fingers that rested in his palm, and how utterly passionless was the pressure with which she slightly returned his enraptured clasp.

“Listen,” said she, as she withdrew her hand; “I will take two more hours for consideration. By that time the whole of the house of Kostopchin will be cradled in slumber; then meet me at the old sundial near the yew tree at the bottom of the garden, and I will give you my reply. Nay, not a word,” she added, as he seemed about to remonstrate, “for I tell you that I think it will be a favorable one.”

“But why not come back here?” urged he; “there is a hard frost to-night, and—”

“Are you so cold a lover,” broke in Ravina, with her accustomed laugh, “to dread the changes of the weather? But not another word; I have spoken.”

She glided from the room, but uttered a low cry of rage. She had almost fallen over Alexis in the corridor.

“Why is that brat not in his bed?” cried she, angrily; “he gave me quite a turn.”

“Go to your room, boy,” exclaimed his father, harshly; and with a malignant glance at his enemy, the child slunk away.

Paul Sergevitch paced up and down the room for the two hours that he had to pass before the hour of meeting. His heart was very heavy, and a vague feeling of disquietude began to creep over him. Twenty times he made up his mind not to keep his appointment, and as often the fascination of the fair woman compelled him to rescind his resolution. He remember that he had from childhood disliked that spot by the yew tree, and had always looked upon it as a dreary, uncanny place; and he even now disliked the idea of finding himself here after dark, even with such fair companionship as he had been promised. Counting the minutes, he paced backwards and forwards, as though moved by some concealed machinery. Now and again he glanced at the clock, and at last its deep metallic sound, as it struck the quarter, warned him that he had but little time to lose, if he intended to keep his appointment. Throwing on a heavily furred coat and pulling a traveling cap down over his ears, he opened a side door and sallied out into the grounds. The moon was at its full, and shone coldly down upon the leafless trees, which looked white and ghostlike in its beams. The paths and unkept lawns were now covered with hoar frost, and a keen wind every now and then swept by, which, in spite of his wraps, chilled Paul’s blood in his veins. The dark shape of the yew tree soon rose up before him, and in another moment he stood beside its dusky boughs. The old gray sundial stood only a few paces off, and by its side was standing a slender figure, wrapped in a white, fleecy-looking cloak. It was perfectly motionless, and again a terror of undefined dread passed through every nerve and muscle of Paul Sergevitch’s body.

“Ravina!” said he, in faltering accents. “Ravina!”

“Did you take me for a ghost?” answered the fair woman, with her shrill laugh; “no, no, I have not come to that yet. Well, Paul Sergevitch, I have come to give you my answer; are you anxious about it?”

“How can you ask me such a question?” returned he; “do you not know that my whole soul has been aglow with anticipations of what your reply might be? Do not keep me any longer in suspense. Is it yes, or no?”

“Paul Sergevitch,” answered the young woman, coming up to him and laying her hands upon his shoulders, and fixing her eyes upon his with that strange weird expression before which he always quailed; “do you really love me, Paul Sergevitch?” asked she.

“Love you!” repeated the lord of Kostopchin; “have I not told you a thousand times how much my whole soul flows out towards you, how I only live and breathe in your presence, and how death at your feet would be more welcome than life without you?”

“People often talk of death, and yet little know how near it is to them,” answered the fair lady, a grim smile appearing upon her face; “but say, do you give me your whole heart?”

“All I have is yours, Ravina,” returned Paul, “name, wealth, and the devoted love of a lifetime.”

“But your heart,” persisted she; “it is your heart that I want; tell me, Paul, that it is mine and mine only.”

“Yes, my heart is yours, dearest Ravina,” answered Paul, endeavoring to embrace the fair form in his impassioned grasp; but she glided from him, and then with a quick bound sprang upon him and glared in his face with a look that was absolutely appalling. Her eyes gleamed with a lurid fire, her lips were drawn back, showing her sharp, white teeth, whilst her breath came in sharp, quick gasps.

“I am hungry,” she murmured, “oh, so hungry; but now, Paul Sergevitch, your heart is mine.”

Her movement was so sudden and unexpected that he stumbled and fell heavily to the ground, the fair woman clinging to him and falling upon his breast. It was then that the full horror of his position came upon Paul Sergevitch, and he saw his fate clearly before him; but a terrible numbness prevented him from using his hands to free himself from the hideous embrace which was paralyzing all his muscles. The face that was glaring into his seemed to be undergoing some fearful change, and the features to be losing their semblance of humanity. With a sudden, quick movement, she tore open his garments, and in another moment she had perforated his left breast with a ghastly wound, and, plunging in her delicate hands, tore out his heart and bit at it ravenously. Intent upon her hideous banquet she heeded not the convulsive struggles which agitated the dying form of the lord of Kostopchin. She was too much occupied to notice a diminutive form approaching, sheltering itself behind every tree and bush until it had arrived within ten paces of the scene of the terrible tragedy. Then the moonbeams glistened upon the long shining barrel of a pistol, which a boy was leveling with both hands at the murderess. Then quick and sharp rang out the report, and with a wild shriek, in which there was something beastlike, Ravina leaped from the body of the dead man and staggered away to a thick clump of bushes some ten paces distant. The boy Alexis had heard the appointment that had been made, and dogged his father’s footsteps to the trysting place. After firing the fatal shot his courage deserted him, and he fled backwards to the house, uttering loud shrieks for help. The startled servants were soon in the presence of their slaughtered master, but aid was of no avail, for the lord of Kostopchin had passed away. With fear and trembling the superstitious peasants searched the clump of bushes, and started back in horror as they perceived a huge white wolf, lying stark and dead, with a half-devoured human heart clasped between its fore paws.

No signs of the fair lady who had occupied the apartments in the western side of the house were ever again seen. She had passed away from Kostopchin like an ugly dream, and as the moujiks of the village sat around their stoves at night they whispered strange stories regarding the fair woman of the forest and the white wolf of Kostopchin. By order of the Tsar a surtee was placed in charge of the estate of Kostopchin, and Alexis was ordered to be sent to a military school until he should be old enough to join the army. The meeting between the boy and his sister, whom the faithful Michal, when all danger was at an end, had produced from his hiding place, was most affecting; but it was not until Katrina had been for some time resident at the house of a distant relative at Vitepak, that she ceased to wake at night and cry out in terror as she again dreamed that she was in the clutches of the white wolf.

End

Cumulative Index to Past Masters 26

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

A Scriptural Quotation  26

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

Sir Gilbert Campbell, Bt

The White Wolf of Kostopchin  26

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

Lost: An Echo  26

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

The Golden Fleece 26

The Mirror of Nature 12

Proofs of  Guilt 10

The Silent Witness 5

Frances Noyes Hart

"Contact!"  18

Julian Hawthorne

The Golden Fleece  26

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

The Elusive Coronet  26

David Wright O'Brien

The Money Machine M

Rats in the Belfry 9

Rayhouse in Space 25

Till Death Do Us Part 26

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

At the Belton Arms  26

The Dogs of Purgatory 20

Henry Pettitt

The Poet’s Ghost 26

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

R. A. J. Walling

Public Sap-Head Number One 26

"Waif Wander" (Mary Helena Fortune)

Bridget's Locket  26

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

Nagasaki Bound 26

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: Nagasaki Bound / Raoul Whitfield

2: The Elusive Coronet / W. E. Norris

3: Lost: An Echo / George Allan England

4: Bridget's Locket / "Waif Wander"

5: Till Death Do Us Part / David Wright O'Brien

6: The Golden Fleece / Julian Hawthorne (novelette)

7: Public Sap-Head Number One / R. A. J. Walling

8: The Garden of Delight / Cosmo Hamilton

9: At the Belton Arms / Hugh Pendexter

10: A Scriptural Quotation / H Bedford-Jones

11: The Poet’s Ghost / Henry Pettitt

Cumulative Index up to No 26