Past Masters 29
Author: Various
Date: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00
Description: Headliner Grace Shirley wrote many dime novels, presumably aimed at young adults, many of which appeared in a 5-cent magazine she also edited. This example is one of a series featuring a theatre road show troupe being threatened by a man unknown; C C Waddell contributes a humorous yarn as does William Merriam Rouse; H Bedford-Jones writes of three shipwreck survivors in a lifeboat; while Harold Ward and Artlon Eadie's stories are from "Weird Tales" and involve walking dead, vampires, transmigration, and other hoprror and supernaturalo themes. Eadie wrote almost exclusively for "Weird Tales" ov

PAST MASTERS

TWENTY-NINE

May 2021

Part 2

Produced by Terry Walker ("Pulpmeister")

Contents

1: Marion Marlowe in Cleveland / Grace Shirley

2: It Will Out / C. C. Waddell

3: Trouble / William Merriam Rouse

4: Coastwise Murder / H Bedford-Jones

5: Dead Men Walk / Harold Ward

6: The Vampire Airplane / Arlton Eadie

7: The Scourge of Egypt / Arlton Eadie

8: The Phantom Flight / Arlton Eadie

9: The Planet of Peace / Arlton Eadie

10: Flames of Destiny / Arlton Eadie

11: Son of Satan / Arlton Eadie

12: The Siren of the Snakes / Arlton Eadie

Cumulative Index

________________

1: Marion Marlowe in Cleveland

Or, The Mystery of the Blood-Red Rose

Grace Shirley

(Lurana Sheldon, 1862-1945)

My Queen, Jan 12 1901

Author, poet, editor; she produced several full-length novels and over 100 short stories in a variety of genres, under a variety of pen names; including "dime novels" such as her Marion Marlowe series. This is a typical example, running to just 17,000 words.

1: The Mash Note

"OH, Alma!"

"Yes, dear!"

"Will you just listen to this! It is the most extraordinary ‘mash note' I ever re ceived !"

"And you have been the recipient of all sorts and kinds, Marion; but do hurry and read it! I am consumed with impatience!"

"Well, you will be in a worse state than that when you have heard it, Alma! Why, of all the cold-blooded, dastardly threats! It makes my hair stand on end just to see it on paper! Really, I am afraid you'll have to. read it yourself—"

A burst of laughter interrupted the sentence.

"Oh, Marion! Give it to me, quick ! Do you intend to keep me all day in such sus pense? Do let me see for myself how your new adorer expresses his tender passion!"

Marion Marlowe, the beautiful star of the Temple Theatrical Company, was sitting at a desk in her room at a hotel, looking over her morning mail, when she came upon the as tonishing missive. As she handed it over to her friend, Miss Allyn, she laughed a little nervously, for, in spite of her fun, the letter had really shocked her.

Alma Allyn, a dashing-looking young woman, took the bit of paper eagerly, and, as she seated herself upon an ottoman at her lovely companion's feet, she made rapia com ments upon the writer.

"Hem! Uses tinted paper of a very, poor quality! Writes a sprawling hand that is distinctly feminine. Whew! and indulges in eau de cologne baths when he is writing, Marion! Truly, he is an extraordinary creature; but— great jumping Jerusalem! what a way to begin! Why, the fellow actually addresses you as ‘Miss Marion Marlowe!' "

"Well, what should he call me?" asked the >oung girl, demurely. "I am as yet unmarried, and that is what I was christened."

"Pshaw! You know well enough what I mean! He should have said, ‘My Adored One, or ‘My Angel!' All mash notes begin that way. I ought to know. I've had almost a dozen!"

"A pretty good record in one week, Alma," said Marion, laughing; "especially as you have been playing stepmothers and adventuresses and maiden aunts principally. But do go on, Alma, and read the chap's effusion. If the commencement astonishes you, I want to see what you will say to the ending." Miss Allyn clasped her arms around her knees, so as to keep her balance on the footstool, and then proceeded in a dramatic voice to read the rest of the letter.

" ‘You will doubtless be surprised to receive this letter, but take this word for it, my dear girl, there are greater surprises in store for you!'

"Well, I should hope there were," commented Miss Allyn, as she turned over the page.. "There's nothing in a mash note to make one's heart stop beating; but— hello, what is this? Why, Marion, the man is crazy!"

She half rose from the ottoman, but Marion placed her hand on her shoulder.

"Go on and finish," she begged, eagerly. "Read it all out loud! 1I want to see how it sounds! If it is worse to hear than to read, you'll have to send for a doctor."

"There is a bottle of smelling-salts on the table, and some beef tonic in my bag. Brace up, my dear, and I'll try to finish."

" ‘I shall be at the theatre every night of your stay in this city, and upon each occasion I shall wear a blood-red rose. If you do not smile upon me the third night. I shall blow up the theatre. Believe me, for life or death, a believer in the avenging of unrequited affection!'

"Well, of all things, Marion! Why, the fellow is a loon! I'll give this note to the police at once, and have them look out for his joblots."

"I thought of that," said Marion, holding out her hand for the letter, "only there is a postscript on the back that makes me think it is foolish."

She turned the letter over, and then handed it back. Alma Allyn glanced at it, and read the words slowly.

" ‘I am not the only admirer that you have in town; neither am I your only or your worst enemy, Miss Marlowe.' "

Alma Allyn's brows knit into a deep frown. The postscript was certainly more extraordinary than the letter.

"Well, I hope there is a lunatic asylum near here," she said, finally; "for of all the cranks I ever heard of, he certainly takes the bakery!"

There was a tap on the door as she finished, and Miss Ellis, the ingenue of the company, entered.

"Rehearsal at two o'clock, girls! Are you ready?" she began, and then stopped short, when she saw their faces. "What in the world has happened? You look like a couple of spooks!" she said, hastily. "Have Dr. Brookzs and Mr. Temple decided to fight a duel, or do Miss Marlowe's bones begin to tell her that we arc on the track of more tragedies?"

"Yes; what is it, Miss Allyn?" chimed in another voice from the doorway, as Mrs. Burnside, another member of the cast, came in. leading little Ruby, her pretty daughter.

Miss Allyn passed over the letter for them both to read.

"Pshaw! It's a fake of some kind!" exclaimed Miss Ellis, laughing. "As like as not it is some one that knows you! Just take my advice, and smile on every fellow in the audience who sports a red rose. It is the safest way, apparently, to save the roof of the theatre."

Mrs. Burnside was still scanning the letter attentively, and, as Miss Ellis spoke, she drew an envelope from her pocket.

"It's the same writing, exactly," she said, as she handed the two letters to Miss Allyn: "only my anonymous friend signs himself a ‘Saver of the Innocent.' "

Miss Allyn opened Mrs. Burnside's letter, and read the contents aloud.

BE WARNED! KEEP LITTLE RUBY AWAY FROM THE ARCANUM THE THIRD NIGHT. IF  RED ROSE FAILS, ALL WILL BE DESOLATION!

The words were in capitals and underscored. There was no mistaking the fact that they were both by the same writer. Even Miss Ellis looked concerned at this double warning, but Marion recovered herself promptly, as she thrust both letters into her pocket.

"I'll keep them a while, if you don't mind, Mrs. Burnside," she said. "I can't say that I have any premonition of evil, but I am free to confess that those letters sound ominous."

"Oh, Marion! I have an inspiration," cried Miss Allyn, suddenly. "I haven't been in the newspaper business for nothing. Let me take those letters and have them published! It will be a splendid ‘ad,' and, perhaps, will boom business!"

"As if any one would come— especially on the ‘third night,' " laughed Miss Ellis. "Surely, no one would care to go to heaven by such rapid transit."

"We'll leave it to Bert Jackson!" cried Miss Allyn, as she heard a familiar knock on the door. "Let Bert in, Miss Ellis, and we'll put the matter before him. The question is: Shall we annihilate the crank who wrote the mash note, or shall we use his effusions to enhance the halo of Marion's glory?"

Before any one could answer, a young man entered. He bad a handsome, manly face, and was carrying in his hand a bunch of roses for Marion.

"Gee whiz I What's up? Is this a star chamber session?" he began, as he laid the roses on the desk in front of the beautiful young girl.

"Yes, that's what it is, Bert, and we need your advice badly," retorted Miss Ellis. "There's a loon in this town who has gone daft over Marion—"

"He's no loon, then! That's sure proof of his sanity!" broke in Bert, good-naturedly.

"But he says he will be at the theatre every night with a red rose in his buttonhole, and, if she doesn't smile at him, he's going to wreck the theatre!"

"Great Caesar's ghost! He's got it bad! Sorry for the poor devil!" remarked Bert, with great gravity.

"But you don't seem to understand that he is serious," went on Miss Allyn. "Why, listen, Bert, he has even warned Mrs. Burnside. She is not to take Ruby to the theatre the night upon which he wreaks his vengeance upon Marion and her coldness."

A look of bewilderment passed over the young man's features.

"Is that straight, Miss Allyn?" he asked, in an altered voice: "for, if it is, I believe we are up against a tragedy— a thing that I devoutly hoped we would escape in this city."

"Oh, Bert! What do you know ?' gasped Marion, breathlessly. "I see in your face that you have heard something of this matter! Do hurry and tell us?"

Bert was thoroughly serious now, and his manner was convincing. Without a word, he went over and picked up the bunch of roses. After a moment's searching in the foil about their stems, he discovered a tiny note, which he handed to Marion.

2: The New Soubrette

AN HOUR LATER there was a consultation in Marion's dressing-room at the theatre. The company was booked at the Arcanum for just three nights, and, of course, they were anxious to play to good houses.

"If this thing had happened in Chicago or at any point farther west, I might be nervous," Mr. Temple, the proprietor and manager remarked, thoughtfully; "but in Cleveland, Miss Marlowe, it is altogether different. I doubt if any such bloodthirsty creature would be allowed in the theatre."

"Oh, but he is coming first as a lover! The role of avenger and assassin is only for the third night!" cried Miss Allyn, nervously; "and that is as good as saying that the deed will be done; for there's not power enough beneath the heavens to make Marion smile at him."

She looked at the young girl admiringly as she spoke, for there was no one on earth whom she loved as she did Marion.

"I would smile if it was necessary," said Marion, laughingly; "only, of course, I don't know what the term implies. Our mashers are not usually content with a smile over the footlights."

"No; they want suppers, with cold bottles, after the show," spoke up Muss Ellis, promptly. "I've seen other girls have them in the companies that I have belonged to. but, thank goodness, I was never an object of admiration. I was always too slow for the average Johnny!"

"A good recommendation, dear, said Marion, sweetly. "I hope you'll always be that way as long as you are on the stage. A girl is so foolish to be any different."

"Oh, but you certainly don't object to a broiled lobster and some beer after the performance, do you, Miss Marlowe?" asked a new member of the cast.

"I certainly do," said Marion, quietly. "Lobster gives me bad dreams, and beer makes me bilious. But we were speaking of eating with strangers after the show, Miss Chester. You surely do not approve of going out with the ‘Johnnies?' "

"Oh, I wouldn't object, if they were nice," was the reply; and Miss Chester tossed her blonde head in a disdainful manner. "When a girl is on the stage, she belongs to the public, and it is part of her duty to be nice to the ‘Johnnies.' "

"I am very sorry you think so," said Marion, soberly. "I am not a prude myself, but I do not think it proper to make promiscuous acquaintances. It is my art, if I have any, that belongs to the public, not my personality, my character or my conscience. These are mine, to have and to hold! I should not care to tarnish any one of them with any unladylike conduct."

The look of reproof upon her face nettled the vivacious blonde, and she tossed her head more airily than ever.

"The greatest actresses in the world are the most immoral," she said, stoutly. "A woman cannot be a saint and succeed in this profession."

"Some of our great actresses have been immoral, I admit," answered Marion, soberly, "but I do not believe that their actions added anything to their genius. As for being a saint, that is a difficult tiling to be in any profession; but I trust that, whatever my walk in life, I shall always be a true, upright and self respecting woman!"

Her eyes shone like stars as she said the words, and Miss Chester's cheeks flushed and her glance wavered a little.

"It would not do for any of my girls to conduct themselves unbecomingly, Miss Chester," said Mr. Temple, sternly. "And as you are new to the company, I may as well warn you to be careful."

"Oh, there's no danger of my disgracing myself," retorted the young girl, snappishly; "but I wouldn't be so prim that I made every if one uncomfortable!"

She looked at Marion as she spoke, but the star answered, sweetly: "I hope I am not that, I am sure, Miss Chester. Perhaps, when you know me better, you will not think so."

"It doesn't matter what she thinks! We all know you are just as good as you can be," spoke up the soubrette, quickly. "The person who dislikes you, Miss Marlowe, is my sworn enemy!"

She glared at Miss Chester as she spoke, and the blonde returned the look with interest. It was evident that in future there would be anything but friendship between them.

"Go put on the gloves, you two, and have it out," advised Bert, good-naturedly. "We've got something to think of that is very important. The question on the docket now is, how to dispose of his job lots—he of the red, red rose and the unrequited affection."

"I have thought of a scheme," said Dr. Brookes, the leading man. smiling. "As soon as we identify him. we will put a detective on his track. He can come to the theatre every night, if he chooses, but our detective must see that there are no bombs in his pocket."

"I can't make anything out of this note," said the manager, as he held out a bit of paper. "You say, Bert, that it was hidden in a bouquet of red roses that were sent to Miss Marlowe. Now, what I want to know is, how were they sent? Did a messenger boy bring them?"

Bert glanced around the room before he answered. He was looking for some one who was not in the dressing-room, and, not finding him, he stepped to the door and peered cautiously into the space between the dressing rooms that was half filled with baggage and piles of scenery.

"The chap has gone," he said, coming back from the tour of investigation. "He was here when I came in, talking to Olcott, the new ‘villain.' He must have vamoosed when we called our consultation."

"Was he a tall, slim fellow, with blue eyes and a sandy beard?" asked Miss Ellis, quickly. "If he was, he is the chap that I saw at the station. I noticed him because he was watching us in such a curious manner."

"That's the chap." remarked Bert. "He looked as if he was hungry. He handed me the flowers as I was standing in the lobby; then he went straight out on the sidewalk and bought a bag of peanuts, and I took the flowers over to Marion."

"Eating peanuts is not a very compromising act," said Marion, laughing. "Yet, strange as it seems, the roses were from the masher, and the note is marked ‘Number One,' and is too affectionate for anything."

"Oh, he evidently intends to give you every opportunity to love him," said Miss Allyn. "He's going to spoon for two nights, but on the third things will be different. It's a case of one lover not taking ‘No' for an answer."

"I guess we can manage the affair without the aid of the police," said Mr. Temple, smiling. "I'll have the ushers look out for him, as well as the man in the box office. They can find some way to detain anv suspicious-looking fellow, and there's always an officer or two hanging around the lobby."

"I don't feel nervous at all! Please don't mind me," said Marion, calmly. "Of course, it isn't pleasant to be made love to that way, but as the poor fellow is probably a lunatic! I really can't blame him."

The others all laughed, and Mr. Temple started for the door. It was two o'clock, and the stage-manager was waiting to direct a rehearsal.

"There's a fellow down here who is inclined to be curious, Mr. Temple," said one of the scene shifters, as he suddenly appeared at the doorway. "Would you believe it, he's been asking what Miss Marlowe wears in the third act, and he's so impudent I'm afraid I'll have to kick him out of the theatre!"

"How the deuce did he get in?" asked Mr. Temple, hotly.

"On a pass of yours, sir," was the astonishing reply. "The doorman wouldn't have passed him if he hadn't had it. The pass says, ‘Admit Tom Urder to the Arcanum Theatre, in front or behind the scenes,' and it was signed by you, Mr. Temple."

The manager stood perfectly still and stared at the man. "The follow is an imposter! Let me see him!" he began. "I have never given a pass to any man to come in—not for any reason whatever-"

Bert Jackson gave a yell as he finished the sentence.

"Especially to murder! Do you catch on, old man? Gee whillikens! let me out— I want to see that fellow!"

Marion's cheeks turned pale as she caught the play of words.

"I must see him, too." she said, in her decided voice. "Something tells me he is the one who wrote me that note! What a horrible signature for a man— Tom Urder!'

3: Miss Elms Grows Suspicious

BUT THE MAN who had brought the flowers was not to be found. Me had vanished at the very moment his name was mentioned in the dressing-room. Mr Temple questioned the doorkeeper, but he only corroborated Hinton's statement, that the fellow bore a pass which was signed by Mr. Temple.

"Well, be sure and let him in the next time he presents it, and then send for me," said the manager. "I want to see that pass. It is an out-and-out forgery."

"Time to call the rehearsal, sir," said the stage-manager, as he walked over toward the dressing-rooms, where the girls were still chatting.

"I'm too nervous to rehearse! I wish Deering would let me off," said Miss Ellis, suddenly. "That impudent Miss Chester has got me all stirred up. She's a treacherous girl— I am almost sure of it!"

"Oh, don't be hasty in forming an opinion, Miss Ellis," said Marion, quickly. "She may only be thoughtless or ignorant, you know. Wait a little while, dear; she may turn out very nicely."

"You are always so charitable," said Miss Ellis, sweetly. "Really, I don't wonder a bit that the men all love you. We women love you, too, which is something remarkable."

She went over and kissed Marion as she spoke, and just then the call for rehearsal sounded.

"I don't see why that should be so remarkable," Marion had time to say, as she caught up her gloves and started for the stage. "I love my sister women, and I want them to love me. I should feel very much ashamed of myself if other women did not love me."

"And I wouldn't give a cent for the affection of any woman,'' said Miss Chester, who heard her. "They're all a lot of cats, that are always spitting and scratching at each other."

"Gracious! but you must have been used to a tough lot!" cried Miss Ellis, spitefully. "Thank goodness, there are no spitters or scratchers in this company I We are a happy family, aren't we, Miss Marlowe?"

"I'm sure I hope so," began Marion, in a grieved voice.

"And I'm the grandmother," chimed in Mrs. Burnside, passing her arm about the young girl's waist. "Mr. Temple is our father, and you are the oldest sister, Miss Marlowe. Just wait until I mention that to Bert and Dr. Brookes!"

"Oh, I haven't a doubt that Marion has promised to be a sister to them both," laughed Miss Allyn, as she hurried after them. "The only wonder is that they take it so calmly ! Not much like Archie Ray or Ed. Gordon, eh, Marion?"

She had caught up with her friend, and was pinching her arm as she spoke, but Marion faced her with her eyes shining brightly.

"It is true that Mr. Ray went away for a long time, but, oh, Alma, it wasn't altogether because he was disappointed. Really, his health .was very bad— he was almost forced to travel!"

"Yes; he had heart disease— a very bad attack. I understand," said Miss Allyn, slyly; "and the strange thing about it was that it was always aggravated by the sight of you. Oh, well, I don't wonder! I'm only sorrv for the poor fellow!"

"Then you will be glad to hear my news," said Marion, softly. "Mr. Ray is coming to Cleveland to-day, and will be at the theatre this evening!"

Miss Allyn clasped her hands to her brow and struck a tragic attitude.

"Poor Mr. Temple! Poor doctor! Poor Bert!" she sighed, pathetically. "The plot thickens, Marion! Really, I tremble for the outcome!"

"You'll tremble for other reasons, if you don't hurry, Miss Allyn!" called out Miss Ellis. "We are five minutes late now, and the manager is getting angry. Oh, I just know I'll make a mess of it! I don't know a thing about my ‘business.' "

"I have to keep walking back and forth and wringing my hands," said Miss Allyn, hurrying. "I only hope I shall not wring them off in the excess of my agony. As if I should really care because a lover had deserted me!"

"Well, I'd have a fit to own one and lose him," admitted Miss Ellis, honestly. "I am sure I could do that part to perfection, Miss Allyn; so, if you'd rather be the naughty little opera comique fairy, who dazzles all the men with her ‘twinkling toes,' I haven't the slightest objection. You can ask Mr. Temple!"

"Good gracious! I'm obliged to you, but I won't change," cried Miss Allyn. "I may depend upon my face to make my fortune, but upon my toes— never!"

There was an impatient call from the stage-manager, which ended the conversation, and the next moment the rehearsal was "on" in a vigorous manner.

"Isn't she just glorious?" whispered Miss Ellis to Bert, as the two stood peering from one of the wings. "Oh, I wish I were a man! How I would make love to Miss Marlowe!"

"Well, here's a pointer for you, girlie!" said Bert, very candidly. "It wouldn't do you a bit of good, so you are just as well off. The man who makes love to Marion Marlowe has got a proposition on his hands. He has to keep continually reminding himself that he isn't ‘the only pebble on the beach';  and it keeps him continually on the anxiousseat, guessing the outcome. You see, I've been in love with Marion all my life," he went on, calmly, "so there isn't an aspect of the case that I haven't studied!"

"Oh, but you are only a boy! You don't expect her to love you, do you?" asked Miss Ellis, loftily. Bert drew his five feet, eleven inches of height to as great an elevation as possible. I may be a boy in years, but I'm a man in some things," he said, proudly. "But, of course, you can't understand."

He dodged just in time to escape a good, sound box on the ear; and, as his cue came just then, he was glad enough of the chance to leave her.

"I'll get square with you, yet," she called out, with a jolly laugh, and just then the girl she disliked so thoroughly came and stood beside her.

"He's a beast of a boy! I detest him!" remarked Miss Chester. "If I was Temple, I wouldn't have him in the company!"

"And if I was Bert Jackson, I wouldn't have Temple in the company," spoke up a masculine voice, as Orrin Olcott, the new "villain," came up behind them. Both girls turned around and looked at him inquiringly, and the actor lowered his voice as he imparted a bit of information.

"Bert Jackson is as rich as Croesus!" he said, mysteriously. "Why, he's the ‘angel' of the company! Temple hasn't got a penny. And, what's more, young Jackson is so blind he can't see what every one else has discovered— that is, that Temple is fast cutting him out with Marion Marlowe!"

Miss Ellis was about to reply, but Miss Chester interrupted her.

"Is that true, is he rich?" she asked, in an anxious voice. "Why, the fellow is only a kid— a perfect little innocent!"

"He's rich, all right, and going to be richer," said the other, cautiously. "If I was a girl, I'd set my cap for Bert Jackson, he may be a little fresh, but—"

Miss Ellis heard her cue, and had to leave just then. She would have been glad to have heard the balance of the sentence. As she glanced back from the stage a minute later, she saw that they were still talking together, and, although she was not usually very quick at jumping at conclusions, she seemed to feel that their conversation was still about Bert Jackson.

"If I see her making up to him, I'll warn him, she muttered. "I won't have her fooling such a good fellow as Bert! He may be a boy, but he's a noble fellow!"

She was standing at the left of the stage, close to the exit, and Dr. Brookes was holding the "center" with an impassioned address.

"What in the world are you blushing so about, Miss Ellis?" whispered some one in her ear. The ingenue turned a little, and saw Marion behind her, half hidden by the scenery, where she had been listening to the doctor.

"I am sure I don't know; I guess it was my thoughts," she began, lamely.

Marion reached around the scenery and pinched her arm gently.

"Own up! You're in love! I'm sure of it, Miss Ellis! When girls blush at their thoughts, they must be thinking of their lovers."

"Oh, but they must first have the lover!" whispered Miss Ellis, promptly; "and I never had one yet! I'm living in hopes, Miss Marlowe!"

"I expect they are very nice things to have," said Marion, wistfully. "I've always longed to love some one, but, somehow. I seem very cold. I have seen such lovable men, and yet I couldn't love them!"

"Mr. Ray is coming to-night! I heard you say so, Miss Marlowe! Perhaps, when he comes, it will be different. You know be loves you dearly."

"I am afraid it will not be different," murmured Marion, softly.

Then she glided out upon the stage to finish the act with Dr. Brookes. Miss Ellis glanced over her shoulder for another look at Miss Chester, and her eyes snapped ominously as she saw her fairly beaming on Bert Jackson.

4: A Mysterious Parcel

LONG BEFORE the curtain rose on the evening performance, every attache of the theatre had been posted in regard to the "masher," who was to make his appearance with a red rose in his button-hole. Every person who had seen the mysterious fellow with the pass during the afternoon was warned to look out for him again that evening.

With these precautions, both Marion and Mr. Temple were satisfied. If the "crank" appeared, he would be watched as carefully as possible.

"They seem to be having hot times in the city nowadays," Bert remarked to Mr. Temple, as the manager met him behind the scenes just before the orchestra started.

"They are having street-car strikes galore, and half the lines are tied up. I was two hours and a half getting out to Garfield's monument!"

"And I took chances with my life trying to call on some acquaintances out on Woodlawn avenue," chimed in Mrs. Burnside. "I got on a car that I was mighty glad to leave, and I hear that it was blown off the track not ten minutes after I left it!"

"Well, I went out to the work-house," broke in Dick Hinton, with a laugh. "If I've got any friends in town, I knew I'd find 'em out there; and, say, there wasn't a spare berth for a fellow, for so much as a night! They are taking in culprits at the rate of forty a minute!"

"Come off, Hinton! Don't stretch it; the truth is bad enough," laughed Bert. "The town is chock full of fire-eaters, or anarchists, or something! They can't tell me these riots are made by honest laborers!"

"Well, I hope they do their rioting at the extreme ends of the city while we are here," said Mr. Temple. "I don't want to lose a penny of our three days' business! We have done all right, so far, and I hope to keep up the record."

"And we've been up against snags ever since we started, too," said Bert, soberly. "First, Marion got thrown from a train, and barely escaped with her life. Then we nearly lost her at Niagara through the rascality of our rivals! Yes; I hope nothing happens to upset us here! I'll succumb to nervous prostration if we strike many more such adventures !"

"Well, so far, we seem threatened by nothing worse than an anonymous letter," said Mr. Temple, smiling; "and if this car strike doesn't extend to the Euclid avenue lines, I guess we ll leave Cleveland better off than we reached it."

"Oh, Mifter Temple!" called out a child's voice at that moment, and little Ruby came running across the scene-room toward the manager.

"Mifter Temple, mamma wants you! Please come quick!" lisped the child, as she ran straight into his arms and was lifted to his shoulder.

"What's the matter with mamma?" asked the manager, starting off promptly. He was walking straight toward the dressing-rooms, but the little one stopped him.

"She's down at the stage door," she said, trying to turn the manager about by pulling on his mustache; "and there's a big man wif her, wot she's awful 'fraid of! She whispered to me to wun and get Mifter Temple."

The manager scowled as he hurried to the stage door. There was something in the child's news that made him a little nervous. When he reached the door, he found Mrs. Burnside confronting an ugly-looking fellow. He was big and black, with coarse, vulgar features.

Mr. Temple glanced around, but there was no doorkeeper in sight, and his first thought was one of admiration for Mrs. Burnside. She had pluckily kept this fellow until she could send for the manager.

The actress breathed a sigh of relief as Mr. Temple appeared with her beautiful little daughter still perched on his shoulder. "This— er— gentleman wishes to see Miss Marlowe," she began, quickly. "The doorkeeper was out, but I happened to see him as he entered. He says his business with our star is very important, Mr. Temple."

The fellow scowled fiercely as Mr. Temple set little Ruby in her mother's arms, and then calmly confronted him.

"I am Miss Marlowe's manager. I attend to her business," he said, curtly. "Have you a note or verbal message for her?"

There was another scowl and a sharp glance from a pair of beady eyes; then the fellow drew a dirty-looking parcel from his inside vest pocket.

"A leetle gift for ze lady from an admirer," he stammered, with a strong French accent. "Ze givaire inclose his card. Bon jour, monsieur et madame!"

With an astonishingly quick movement, he placed the parcel in the manager's hand, and the next second was gone through the doorway into the darkness.

Mrs. Burnside and Mr. Temple stared at each other, then both were brought to their senses by the sound of a scuffle. The doorkeeper had come back just as the fellow darted out, and in a second he had thought of the manager's orders. He grap pled with the fellow, and a violent scuffle ensued. As Mr. Temple pushed open the stage door, there was a flash of light and the report of a pistol.

"Quick! Call help! He has shot him!" shouted Mr. Temple, rushing outside. Mrs. Burnside rushed back into the scene room, shrieking, and, at her first cry, every member of the company came flocking to the sidewalk.

"He's only winged him! Poor John! He was trying to do his duty," said Mr. Temple, as he helped his doorkeeper inside. "Fortunately, an officer saw him, and is on his track. I can't go after him myself— it is time to start the orchestra."

"I'm all right! It's only a scratch," murmured the doorkeeper, gamely. "Just let Jim here go home with me and get a doctor to fix me up. I'll be on deck again by this time to-morrow."

Dr. Brookes took him by the hand and led him under a light. He had a surgical case in his hands that looked decidedly business-like.

"I'll fix you up in a jiffy, and then you can go home," he said. "I'm not on for twenty minutes yet, and I have Jim to assist me. The rest of you go on. You are not needed in this operation."

"But I can stay, surely. You know I don't go on until you do, doctor," said a thrilling voice.

Marion had come with the rest when she heard Mrs. Burnside, and she was eager to assist in making the injured man comfortable. Dr. Brookes turned and looked at her with a smile upon his face.

"My little nurse is always welcome. I cannot refuse her," he said, softly. "You shall bandage the arm, Marion, just as soon as I have bathed it."

The rest of the company went hack to their dressing-rooms, but Mr. Temple bit his lips as he turned his hack upon Marion and the doctor. He had been trying for a long time to conquer his jealousy for the doctor, but such scenes as this, where the young physician's affection fairly blazed from his eyes, made it difficult to keep his good resolution.

Over and over again he had tried to declare his love for his star, but some way at each attempt, the young girl's manner baffled him. He could feel intuitively that such a declaration would pain her, and, perhaps, it would even raise a barrier that could never be removed.

The orchestra was sending its strains to every corner of the auditorium now; and as he hurried to the front of the house, he suddenly remembered the parcel. What had he done with it in the excitement of the moment? He searched his pockets carefully, but could not find it.

Suddenly, a hideous suspicion took possession of him. Suppose the fellow was the "loon" masher, who had written the various notes!  That parcel might contain anything from a trinket to a bomb! Mr. Temple retraced his steps— he must find it immediately.

5: Suspicions

AS EACH member of the company went out upon the stage, they gave a sharp glance over the footlights at the sea of faces. Every boutonniere was scanned carefully, but there was not a single red rose in sight, and as the play went on they all began to breathe easier.

"Guess he's changed his mind," whispered Bert to Miss Ellis, as they stood together in the rear of the stage, while little Ruby and Marion had a short scene together; "or perhaps that chap that shot poor John was the very fellow! I do hope the police have caught him."

"There's a man in the fourth row who is staring awfully hard at Miss Marlowe! Tust , look at him, Bert— first seat on the aisle; there's a lady with him."

"Then he's safe," said Bert, as his eyes followed her glance. The next instant he had all he could do to keep from hurrahing. "It's Archie Ray, as true as I live! Looking splendidly, too; and that's his sister with him!"

Marion turned to him just then, and the comedian went forward. He had some few words to speak and a little scene to enact with Ruby, but he managed cleverly to point out Mr. Ray, and Marion blushed with pleasure as she finally discovered him.

"Now I expect there'll be war to the knife," Bert whispered, as Dr. Brookes came on, and he could again retire to the background.

Miss Ellis was still upon the stage, but she had very little to say; and, as Bert had to pass her several times, they managed to keep up a running conversation.

"Do you think she loves him?" Miss Ellis asked, with a glance at the audience.

"Of course not! How could she, when I'm on deck?" was the answer. "Don't flatter yourself, Bert!"

"Miss Chester says I'm the sweetest thing that ever happened! Thank goodness, we've got a soubrette, at least, that appreciates my value!"

Miss Ellis blushed, but it was a blush of indignation. "She's a treacherous girl! Look out for her, Bert! I wouldn't take her word if she swore on forty Bibles!"

"You're jealous," said Bert, teasingly. "Well, don't worry, my dear; I may not be handsome, but I am always faithful."

"Pooh! She'll make you forget your best friends, Bert! She's a shrewd one, I tell you! If you come to grief, remember I warned you!"

"I will, thanks; but there's a better way, if you want to protect me. Fall in love with me yourself, and I won't look at Miss Chester. While I am waiting for Marion. T miglu spoon with you, just for practice'"

"You impudent boy! I'd like to see myself!'' retorted Miss Ellis, scornfully; then she was obliged to leave him, and the conversation ended.

"Well, so far all is well! There's not a sign of the masher with the red, red rose in the house," said the stage-manager to Marion, as the curtain fell upon the third act. "There are chaps with chrysanthemums and all sorts of posies in their button-holes; but I've looked the house over carefully, and there's not a rose of any sort or description."

"I guess he's changed his mind or transferred his affection," laughed Olcott. "Those cranks are always uncertain in their doings. Perhaps he bas even forgotten that Miss Marlowe was the object of his passion, and has gone to some other theatre to spend the evening."

"I hope to goodness he has! One crank in a night is enough," said Mrs. Burnside, nervously. "I feel almost sure that that fellow was the one. He asked for Miss Marlowe and left a parcel for her. By the way, did you get it?" she asked, suddenly, turning to Marion.

The young girl was on her way to her dressing-room, but she turned her head to answer:

"I have not seen any parcel, Mrs. Burnside. Are you sure he left one?"

"Certain! He gave it to Mr. Temple just as he darted out. Ten chances to one he has it in his pocket."

"I'll ask him. I've got to go to the front," said Olcott, obligingly. "I'm not on again until the last act. It won't take me a minute to wash off my makeup."

"I'm very curious to know what it could be," said Marion, seriously.

"Well, according to the bearer's appear ance, I should judge it might be a box of spaghetti," laughed Mrs. Burnside. "He was the most dagoish-looking Frenchman I ever set eyes on!"

"And a cold-blooded murderer, probably, at that," chimed in Bert: "but that sort of thing seems to be the proper caper in Cleveland just now. There were several people shot on the street-cars to-day, according to tin evening paper."

"And no end of accidents from brickbats and stones," remarked Dick Hinton. "It is very apparent that King Riot reigns. The mayor seems helpless to protect his people."

"Well, we will try to protect ours a little better than we have," said Mr. Temple, coming up. "I blame myself for that affair, this evening. With the city in such a turmoil I should have been more careful."

"Have they caught him, Mr. Temple?" asked a dozen voices.

"Not yet, although I've been hoping to hear to the contrary. He must have run like a deer. The policeman lost him completely."

"Flow about that parcel— the one he left for Miss Marlowe?" asked Mrs. Burnside, eagerly. Marion had just reached the door of her dressing-room, but she turned back to hear the answer.

"I am sorry to say that I have lost it," said Mr. Temple, soberly. "I remember that the fellow almost forced it into my hand, but the scuffle and the pistol shot rattled me completely. I haven't the remotest idea what I did with the parcel."

"Have you searched your pockets?"

"Yes, and everything else ! I've had every employee of the theatre searching for it," was the answer.

"I am almost sure you put it in your pocket," said Mrs. Burnside, thoughtfully.

"Then my pocket must have been picked while I was on the sidewalk," was the answer; "and there was not a soul around, except the members of my company."

"Oh, well, then, I must be mistaken," said Mrs. Burnside, slowly. As she spoke she glanced up and saw Marion near her. The young actress had come back to hear what Mr. Temple was saying; and, as she listened, her glance rested unconsciously upon the face of Miss Chester.

Mrs. Burnside's eyes turned immediately in the same direction. Neither had the slightest significance in their glance, but as Miss Chester saw it, her face flushed crimson. In an instant she turned on her heel and rushed toward her dressing-room.

Marion and Mrs. Burnside looked at each other, but there was nothing said. They were neither of them inclined to jump at rapid conclusions.

Mr. Temple was still trying to recall what he had done with the package, when the first bars of the orchestra sent the cast flying to their dressing-rooms.

Just as Marion was hurriedly donning her costume for the fourth act, a note was brought to her, which she tore open, eagerly. It was from Archie Ray, one of her dearest friends. As there was no one to see her, she kissed it tenderly.

The next moment Miss Allyn came in and saw it lying on the dressing-table.

"Didn't it make your heart beat any faster when you saw him, dearie?" she asked, merrily.

"Oh, I really believe it did!'' replied Marion, laughing. "I am so eager to see them that I can hardly wait until the performance is over, but I have a confession to make to you, dear Alma! I am quite as anxious to see Adele as I am to see Archie!"

"You are safe!" laughed her friend. "You are not in love yet, Marion. If his sister is as dear to you as the young man himself, there is nothing to fear in that direction."

The last act passed off with the actors still on the lookout for the crank with the red rose, but the curtain fell without his having been discovered.

Marion was just changing to her street dress when the stage-manager tapped on the door of her room.

"Here's a bunch of roses for you. Miss Marlowe, and a parcel," he called out. "They were brought by a brother of Christopher Columbus!"

Marion opened the door and found the whole company standing in the space between the dressing-rooms, with the gravest of expressions upon their features.

"What in the world do you mean?" she asked, in bewilderment.

Mr. Temple stepped forward and took a bouquet of red roses and a small, dirty-looking package from the stage-manager's hands.

"Another of those fellows came to the stage door with these, Miss Marlowe," he said, anxiously. "The man on the door says he was perfectly respectful, but he was clever enough to send one of his friends to shadow him. Now, with your consent, I'll throw these roses out of the window and put the parcel in soak in a pail of water.

"Oh, are you really as suspicious as that?" asked Marion, anxiously.

"Do it, by all means, Mr. Temple, spoke up Dr. Brookes. "Don't take a chance with that crazy masher!"

"Here, let me do it, old man! You are more valuable to the company than l am, chimed in Bert, at the same time stepping forward and holding out his hand for the parcel.

"Here, put it in here!" laughed Marion, bringing a large wash bowl of water.

Bert took the parcel gingerly and put it in the water, then Mr. Temple carried the bowl and locked it in a closet.

"I'll inspect it to-morrow morning," he said, decidedly. "I'm not taking any chances on that fellow. Miss Marlowe!"

6: A Red Rose

AT TEN O'CLOCK the next morning, Marion, accompanied by Miss Allyn, Dr. Brookes and Bert, met Mr. Temple at the theatre. Marion had enjoyed a delightful chat with Archie Ray and his sister at an early hour, besides having had supper with them after the performance the evening before.

It was with considerable difficulty that she could bring her spirits down to the necessary gravity when she stood with her friends around the now thoroughly water-soaked package.

"Oh, I feel just too happy to believe anything evil of any one this morning," she said, with a merry smile. "It was so delightful to see my old friends, and everything is so lovely this beautiful morning! It will cloud my happiness all day if we find anything wrong in that package."

"Treachery and crime are not pleasant things to face. I wish we could spare you, Marion," said the doctor, tenderly.

"But Miss Marlowe insisted on being here and seeing the package opened," said Mr. Temple, quickly. "It isn't too late now for you to change your mind. Still, I know vou will insist upon our telling you of the contents."

Marion calmed herself instantly.

"Oh, I am not so weak or so childish as all that," she said, quickly; "I did feel almost too happy for anything this morning; but go on and open it, Bert; it will not make any difference!"

Dr. Brookes glanced at her keenly. He could guess the cause of her happiness. It gave him a dull sense of pain, but he tried to stifle it manfully. Archie Ray had been his rival in days gone by; he was wondering now if his suit would be successful, if Marion had learned to love him during his months of absence. The doctor studied the young girl's face, but it told him nothing. As his eyes were bent upon her, she suddenly burst out laughing.

"A bracelet! Who would have believed it? Oh, I am so glad, Mr. Temple! To think, after all our nervousness, that it is only a bracelet, a beauty, too. Do let me see it!"

"Well, it's been ‘in soak' once, if no more!" said Bert, hilariously; "but it won't hurt it a bit; the stones are diamonds!"

Marion took the trinket and dried it with her handkerchief; then held it up so that they all could see it. It was a handsome bracelet and a costly one, too. There were several large stones, and the setting was unique and very tasteful. As she was admiring it, Bert fished out a water-soaked note; but it fell to pieces as he touched it, so he could not decipher it.

"Do you know, I believe this is the note to the other parcel. It looks exactly like it," said Mr. Temple, thoughtfully; "and if it is, then I have lost a valuable trinket."

"Which some one may have found," said Miss Allyn, thoughtfully. "Well, I admit I feel relieved. I was sure it was an infernal machine, or something on that order."

"What shall I do with it. Mr. Temple?" asked Marion. "Of course, I can't give it back, as I don't know the sender. Can you suggest any wav of ridding me of it."

"I think I had better keep it and await developments," said Mr. Temple, slowly. "If they catch the fellow that brought the other parcel, I may be able to discover the donor. And, anyway, I advise you all to keep silent about the contents of this package. Don't tell even the other members of the company until I think it safe to do so."

"A good idea," said the doctor, quickly. "We'll keep as mum as oysters, and, perhaps, we'll find the culprit."

"I hope you are not nervous over your unknown admirer. Miss Marlowe," said the manager, softly, as he put the bracelet in his pocket. "I feel sure that the fellow was not in the house last night, and he'll not be there to-night, if I can prevent it."

"These fellows that bring these parcels must be his friends," remarked Bert; "and pretty desperate fellows they are, or they would not be carrying pistols."

"I admit I am puzzled by the whole thing," said the manager. "In my career in the theatrical business I have met all sorts of cranks, but this fellow has ways that are peculiarly his own. I am going to speak to the police to-day; I think it would be safer."

"Then I can put a hint of it in the paper," broke in Miss Allyn, delightedly. "It's high time we got the benefit of the ‘ad,' Mr. Temple! I can word it so that it will not scare the people away, but, on the contrary, make the public more eager to come and see Marion!"

"All right, Miss Allyn ! You have my consent," was the answer. "I am sure you know how to do it to make the best impression."

They were just leaving the office, and, as he spoke, Mr. Temple managed to move closer to Marion.

"Will you take luncheon with me this noon. Miss Marlowe?" he asked, softly. Marion's cheeks flushed a little, but she looked up honestly.

"Too late, Mr. Temple! I have already promised to lunch with Mr. Ray, an old friend, you know, who is just passing through Cleveland."

Mr. Temple bit his lips.

"I seem to be always ‘too late,' " he murmured ; then as he looked away, his glance fell upon the doctor. Somehow, the sight of his leading man's face made him ashamed of his temper. If the doctor could endure his disappointment so heroically, it behooved him also to act the part of a gentleman.

"Mr. Ray is fortunate," he tried to say, smilingly; then, a moment later, he put the young ladies on a car and went to lunch with Bert and Dr. Brookes.

"How that man does worship you, said Alma Allyn, as they watched the three retreating forms from the car window; "Mr. Temple, I mean. He is two-thirds crazy, Marion! Not such a philosophical person as our friend, the doctor."

"No, his temperament is different," said Marion, thoughtfully; then, as the car stopped suddenly, she half rose to discover the reason. "Sit down, quick, ladies!" called out the conductor, excitedly. "Keep your heads as low possible; there's a mob on the corner! We're likely to get stoned if we go any farther!"

"Then we'll leave you right here," spoke up Miss Allyn, promptly. "They'll never be so crazy as to stone two ladies!"

"I wouldn't get out yet! The police willbe here in a minute!" said a gentleman on the car.

"They would not dare to hurt us!" said Marion, rising. "I am in a hurry to keep an engagement, so I shall not wait a minute longer!"

They started to leave the car and, as Miss Allyn reached the door, Marion stepped calmly before her. The gripman was still at his post, although the mob that was coming from all directions looked decidedly threatening. Marion stood a moment upon the steps and then faced them calmly; she descended to the street and held out her hand to Miss Allyn.

"Shame on you for riding in those cars!" yelled a bare-headed, haggard woman in the crowd. "Ye give yer nickels to thieves, while honest people are starving!"

Marion paid no heed, but walked slowly to the sidewalk.

"I'd slap their faces for a dime!" screeched the voice again, and the wretched-looking creature crowded in front of Marion Without the slightest hesitation, Marion put her hand on the woman's shoulder. There was a smile on her face that made it gloriously beautiful.

"I am sorry you are being robbed, but we are strangers in the city," she said, sweetly. "Really, we know nothing of your troubles, but you have our sympathy, madam."

The woman drew back with a shame-faced look, and the next second another wretched-looking creature Appeared before Marion. She had only one look at his face, when Miss Allyn took her by the arm and almost dragged her through the crowd; but in that brief glance she saw that the man had wild, hollow, blue eyes, and that there was a monstrous red rose in the buttonhole of his shabby coat.

The rose was of the variety which she had reason to remember. It was exactly like the bunch which Mr. Temple had thrown out of the window at the theatre.

7: Bert's Philosophy

AN HOUR LATER Marion was eating luncheon with Archie Ray and his sister, and, of course, she told them of all her experiences on the road, from the time of leaving New York until the present minute. More than once Archie Ray's handsome face paled at her recital, and Adele put her hand on Marion's in a mute expression of sympathy.

"And now I am pursued by a crazy ‘masher,' " finished Marion, laughingly. "A fellow that looks like a ghost, with his hollow eyes and haggard face! I only caught one glimpse of him. but I shall never forget him!"

"Can you sketch from memory?" asked Mr. Ray, suddenly. "If you can, I want you to draw a picture of that fellow! Just a rough outline, of course, showing his general appearance."

He handed Marion a paper and pencil as he spoke, and the young girl closed her eyes for a moment; then she took the paper and made a few rapid strokes.

"There! He had a queer-shaped face! Something like that," she said, pointing to her picture; "and he was tall and thin, with narrow, stooping shoulders!"

Mr. Ray put the sketch in his pocket, after a careful look at it.

"I shall be at the theatre again to-night, and I'll keep my eyes open for him," he said, as he helped her to some of the viands on the table.

"Yes, and so shall I,'' said his sister, promptly. "I am pretty clever at reading character, so I shall study all the faces, and if I see one that shows a mixture of love and diabolical intent, I shall promptly set Archie to searching his pockets."

"Then, with so many protectors, I am sure I am safe!" laughed the young actress; "although, to tell the truth, I never dreamed of being frightened until poor John, the door-keeper, was shot last evening."

"Is he all right to-day?" asked Miss Ray, interestedly.

"Not well enough to be on duty, Dr. Brookes says; but he'll be out to-morrow, in all probability."

At the mention of his rival's name, Archie Ray frowned a little, but a moment later his brow had cleared and a look of honest admiration lighted his face, as he spoke of the doctor.

"Such an extraordinary notion for him to turn actor!" he said, laughing. "And, really, he is great! I was astonished at him last evening. His performance in that part made me almost ambitious to go and do likewise."

"I believe you could act, dear," said his sister, fondly; "and I wish you would try it, if it is only to keep you from being so downhearted and melancholy."

Marion glanced up at the words and saw Archie looking at her. His face was scarlet, and his eyes wavered a little. Marion understood only too well, but even if she had not, Ray's reproachful glance at his sister would have settled any doubts as to the cause of his melancholy. For a moment Marion herself was not a little confused.

After a pause, Adele remarked: "When is your rehearsal, Marion; we must not keep you. Archie will drive you to the theatre, while I do a little shopping, and you can be sure that we will both he on hand at the theatre this evening."

Marion kissed her tenderly, and a few minutes later she was in a carriage, with Mr. Ray at her side, driving rapidly toward the theatre. Ray talked merrily on a host of topics, but never once referred to his sister's remark, nor did Marion show by word or sign that it was still uppermost in her mind.

Several times on their way they saw scenes of turmoil at the street corners; but, although Marion looked sharply for the wearer of the red rose, she was not able to discover him. As they reached the theatre, Bert and Dr, Brookes stood on the sidewalk before the entrance, and both came forward at once to shake hands with Archie Ray, after which they escorted Marion to the stage door and stopped for a chat when they reached the scene-room.

Miss Chester passed them on her way to the dressing-room, and as she caught Bert's eye, she smiled upon him sweetly, and beckoned him to follow her.

"Hello! Are you two getting spoony?" asked the doctor, softly. "Why, Bert, I thought Miss Ellis came first in your young affection. And after her should come Miss Leslie, the dark-haired mimic; that is, if you are keeping your affections in order."

"A thing which has never been done by gods or mortals," said Bert, laughingly. "Miss Ellis is all right, but she's a bit too— well, too plain spoken, I guess, you'd call it. Miss Leslie is too snippy and snubby for me, while Miss Chester is really growing more amiable every minuter She began like a Tartar, but now she's almost an angel!"

"For a very good reason, Bert! She thinks you are one!" called out Miss Ellis. She had come up behind him just in time to hear the last of his sentence.

"There are no wings on my back, are there?" asked Bert, trying to feel of his shoulders. "I didn't mean that kind," said Miss Ellis, winking at the doctor; "but I won't say anything more! A word to the wise ought to be sufficient."

"I'm going to ask her what you mean," said Bert, starting toward the dressing-rooms. "If she really thinks I am an angel, it's time I undeceived her."

"Better let her think so, Bert." said the doctor, gravely. "I would not rile her just now; she's been uppish all the morning. I met her an hour ago and she would hardly look at me."

"Where was she?" asked Miss Ellis, with a little mischief in her voice.

The doctor laughed and shrugged his shoulders. "I don't tell secrets, Miss Ellis," he said, gayly; "and if Miss Chester has won Bert's affections away from you, I can't help admiring her. You are awfully foolish, my dear, to let him escape you."

"Pshaw! What do I care for him!" cried Miss Ellis, jokingly. "When I have a lover, I want a man ; not a kid like Bert. Why, he's nothing but an infant!"

"Miss Chester likes infants of my kind," retorted Bert. The next minute he was rapping on the door of the soubrette's dressing-room.

Miss Ellis hesitated for a moment and then, as the doctor and Marion became engaged in conversation, she went slowly to her own dressing-room, which adjoined that of Miss Chester. She had no motive in mind further than to prepare for the rehearsal, but as Bert's voice came to her over the partition, she listened involuntarily and then smiled delightedly.

"Oh, you are the sweetest thing that ever happened, no doubt about it," Bert was saying, enthusiastically; "but really, Miss Chester, I am hopelessly mashed on another. It's one of those sad things that you read about; the ‘irony of fate,' or something on that order. Don't you think you can brace up a little, if I get you a glass of seltzer?"

8: A Discovery

THE CURTAIN was just rising on the first act of the evening performance when Mr. Temple met Marion and Miss Allyn half-way across the scene-room.

"No trace of the masher yet, Miss Marlowe," he said, softly. "I've looked over the house, and so have my men. There's not a man or boy with a red rose in his buttonhole."

"Which makes it look more and more certain that the fellow who shot John was really the masher, doesn't it?" asked Miss Allyn.

Mr. Temple spoke quickly, as he answered her question.

"I forgot to tell you, that fellow has been arrested. He is only a dupe of the guilty person, apparently. He just broke down and wept when they took him to the cell. The authorities think he was scared into delivering that parcel, and the scare was still on him when he fired the pistol."

"It's a bad plan for nervous men to be carrying pistols," said Miss Allyn, dryly. "Poor John is the sufferer in this particular instance."

"But did he not divulge a word by which you could trace the sender of the parcel?" asked Marion, eagerly.

Mr. Temple shook his head.

"It was given him by a man with a full beard, he says, and all that he can remember is that the man threatened to annihilate both him and his family if he did not do the errand, and he flourished some sort of a badge before the fellow's eyes, which had the effect of scaring him half out of his senses."

"And the second messenger, the one that brought the bracelet?" whispered Miss Allyn, cautiously.

"Has not even been scented since," was the manager's reply. "The fellow who shadowed him lost him completely."

"Well, perhaps the real culprit has become discouraged by this time," said Marion, and then she told Mr. Temple of the fellow on the street corner, who had appeared so suddenly before her, wearing a red rose in his button-hole.

"I'll go out and have another look," was the serious answer. "If he does really exist, we must be very careful."

"Bert and Miss Chester act like lovers. Quick! Look at them, Marion," whispered Miss Allyn, as the manager turned away.

Marion glanced over her shoulder in the direction indicated by her friend, and saw Bert and the soubrette whispering together in a dark corner of the scene-room.

"A couple of spoons, aren't they?" whispered a jovial voice, as Miss Leslie, the mimic that Marion had engaged at Buffalo, walked slowly past them. Marion did not answer; she was a little puzzled by Bert's actions. It had been her firm belief that he really liked Miss Ellis.

"She's not the kind of a girl for him to fall in love with," said Miss Allyn, with another sharp look. "I don't wish to misjudge her, but I'm afraid she's treacherous."

"I hate to think so," said Marion, sadly. "She's a very pretty girl, and quite clever, also. Perhaps it is only her way, and we haven't become used to it!"

"Well, I hope I never shall," said Miss Allyn promptly. "Do you know, Marion, the doctor saw her coming out of a pawnshop to-day? He wouldn't have told me if he hadn't been afraid that the girl was hard up and needed money. He wanted me to find out, if I possibly could, so that we could find some way of helping her, if she was really needy."

"And did you find out?" asked Marion, eagerly, as Miss Allyn paused for breath.

"No, indeed! She denied that she had been there!" was the surprising answer. "And to think the doctor says he actually saw her!"

"Did you tell her—?" began Marion, but her friend interrupted her. "Not much! I merely said that some one saw her coming out, and that, if she was in need of money, I would let her have some. The minute I spoke she went into a tantrum. She swore she had never been inside of a pawnshop, and called the whole community liars! That settled me, girlie. I am done with Miss Chester!"

"Oh, Miss Marlowe! Des see my pitty dwess!" called out little Ruby, at that minute. She was running across the dimly lighted room, dodging the piles of rubbish and scene ropes to get to Marion.

"It is just too sweet for anything, darling," said Marion, kissing her. "I expect mamma has made it for you to wear in the fourth act, when my little Ruby and I are sitting in the twilight." Ruby patted Marion's cheek and nestled a little closer.

"It's a wonder Bert and Miss Chester don't apply for the role of lovers on the stage; they seem to be practicing over there in the corner," whispered Miss Allyn. There was an amused look in her eyes, but her voice was serious. She hated to see Bert doing anything that was beneath his dignity, and Miss Chester had taken advantage of the semi-darkness to almost lean on his shoulder.

"I tell you, she is a designing creature! She is trying her best to inveigle Bert into a flirtation," she went on, softly; "and, honestly, I believe she is accomplishing her purpose. Bert looks for all the world as if he was about to kiss her."

"Go to mamma, dear," said Marion, sweetly, as she set little Ruby down on the floor. As the child ran away she turned deliberately towards Bert and just for a moment stood watching him closely.

Marion was more disturbed by Bert's actions than she would have cared to acknowledge.

"They haven't the remotest idea that we can see them," she said, nervously. "Please do me a favor, Alma. Go up to the dressingroom. I'm going over there this minute to interrupt that scene, and it will be less mortifying for them both if they think I am the only one who has seen them."

"I'm agreeable," laughed Miss Allyn. "I'm willing to let them down easy. If it was only Miss Ellis, now, I'd be perfectly satisfied."

She walked quietly in the opposite direction, while Marion started across the sceneroom. She had almost reached the darkened corner, when something astonished her.

With a deliberate movement. Miss Chester put her arm on Bert's shoulder and attempted to draw his face down so that he might kiss her. The next second Bert had slipped his hand up the loose sleeve of the soubrette's dress and grasped a bracelet that fairly scintillated with light, even in that semi-darkness.

There was a startled cry from the girl, and Marion darted forward. The soubrette was struggling frantically, but Bert held both her wrists in a firm grasp.

"You had better send for Mr. Temple, Marion," he said, in a calm voice; "Miss Chester has got on the mate to your bracelet."

9: Another Note

FOR JUST a second Marion hesitated; then she went swiftly forward.

"Let her go, Bert,'' she said, decidedly. "Don't try to hold her. Just take the bracelet away from her, and put it in your pocket."

"Shall we let her go scot-free?" asked Bert, in astonishment.

"I think so, yes," said Marion, after a minute. "We can easily replace her, and I don't wish to make her any trouble."

"But the girl is a thief," said Bert, plainly, as he let go of the soubrette's wrists. "You can see by her actions that she is guilty, Marion."

Miss Chester glared at them both, but did not speak. She was caught in a trap that she could not get out of.

"I could perhaps forgive her for stealing the bracelet," said Marion, soberly; "but her methods for winning a man's affection are inexcusable. No right-minded woman could overlook her deception in that direction."

"She wasn't deceiving me any," said Bert, in great amusement. "Thanks to my friend, Miss Ellis, I was on to her game, but I had a little one of my own to play."

"Here comes Mr. Temple now," said Marion, as she heard the manager's voice.

The next moment she had called him and was explaining the situation. Mr. Temple looked at Miss Chester as Marion talked. The girl was growing more defiant and ugly every instant.

"I picked the thing up while the scuffle was going on," she said, carelessly; "and when I saw what it was, I kept it, of course. Miss Marlowe isn't the only girl in the world who is entitled to wear diamonds."

"Miss Marlowe would never have dreamed of wearing them; not these, at any rate," said Mr. Temple, severely. "In the first place, she is too much of a lady to accept gifts from strangers, and, further, there is no doubt in the world that these bracelets were stolen."

"That's why they wouldn't take it at the pawnshop; they guessed as much," went on the girl, recklessly. "Well, what are you going to do with me for keeping my findings? You'll have a beautiful job to get me punished!"

"We don't wish to punish you, Miss Chester," said Marion, gravely. "We shall be perfectly satisfied when we are rid of your society."

"Yes; you can go at once," said Mr. Temple, decidedly. "Miss Leslie can do your part and her own this evening. As for the ‘two-weeks' clause in your contract, I will give you that much salary."

"Then I'm suited," said the girl, with a disdainful glance at Bert. "I'll be as glad as you are to part company, I can tell you!"

Mr. Temple waited until she was gone before he went back to the front of the house; but after the news was once told, no one spoke further on the subject. Miss Ellis looked happy when she appeared in the wings, and Marion noticed with great pleasure that she and Bert seemed very friendly.

The evening passed without any trouble, but with the audience as enthusiastic as ever over the genius of the actors. Archie Ray and his sister were seated in a box, and Archie scanned the audience repeatedly, on the lookout for the masher, but the curtain fell without a sign of his presence.

"I guess he's given it up," said Bert, as he removed his eye from the peep-hole in the curtain, through which he had been watching the dispersing audience.

"Hello! There's something up!" called out Orrin Olcott, as he took Bert's place. "One of the ushers is having trouble with an ugly-looking fellow, and, yes, there's going to be a scrap! Come on through the boxes; I'm going, Jackson!"

He started on, with Bert at his heels; but before they reached the front of the house, the commotion was over.

Mr. Temple and two of the ushers, with a detective at their backs, were standing guard over their vanquished prisoner, a fellow who looked like anything from a red-handed rioter to a harmless peanut vender.

"He was determined to speak to Miss Marlowe," said one of the ushers. "Of course he didn't have on any red rose, so we didn't arrest him. If he had gone out quietly with the rest, there would not have been any trouble."

"What do you want with Miss Marlowe?" asked Mr. Temple, curiously. "State your message at once, or it will be the worse for you."

The fellow mumbled something in an unintelligible language, but finally succeeded in extracting a note from his pocket. Mr. Temple read it, and gave a whistle of surprise.

"Jerusalem! The fellow says he has been here two evenings, but, because he knew he was being watched, he did not wear the red rose. He trusted to Miss Marlowe's heart to pick him out among the audience."

"Then this is not the fellow?" said the detective; "this is only another of his dupes, like the one we captured!"

"I give it up! You had better take him along, anyway, to be on the safe side," said Mr. Temple. "I'll make a complaint against him for disorderly conduct."

He handed the note to the detective, for him to study the handwriting, and, in a few minutes, the fellow was led away and the theatre was in darkness.

Mr. Temple went to his hotel, feeling greatly disturbed. It was evident to him that the masher had not given up his project, and, just now, when the city was so filled with the blood-thirsty element, it was more than possible that he would carry out his intentions.

He glanced over the papers the next morning, to see if any fresh horrors had been committed, and found that there had been rioting all night, and that many people had been injured.

"We must be extra vigilant to-night," he said, as Dr. Brookes called upon him. "I am thankful it is our last night, and I mean that nothing shall happen. We've had good business so far, in spite of the disturbances in the city."

"We'll have a good house to-night, all right," said the doctor, as he opened his morning paper. "Miss Allyn's pen has done some good work. She's a daisy. I tell you, at writing catchy advertisements. He folded the paper as he spoke, and pointed to a half column, with a scare-head above it, that would have done credit to any printer.

"She's let it be known that Miss Marlowe's life has been threatened, but she hasn't lisped a word of any danger to the theatre!"

"And the people will all flock to see the beautiful girl whose fate rests in the hands of ‘loon mashers,' " laughed Mr. Temple. "They are sufficiently morbid to wish to gaze upon her face, knowing that there is a bare possibility of her being blown to atoms to-morrow !"

The doctor shuddered at his companion's words, although he understood perfectly the spirit in which they were spoken.

"It is a clever ‘ad.,' but it gives me cold shivers," he said, honestly. "Miss Marlowe has been through so many hairbreadth escapes! God forbid that there is so much as a possibility of her going through another!"

"Amen to that!" murmured Mr. Temple, growing serious in a minute. "If there is anything dreadful to happen to Miss Marlowe, I hope that I may not live to see it."

Both men turned involuntarily, and a warm handclasp followed. They were united, heart and soul, in their regard for Marion.

10: A Confession

WHEN THE ACTORS assembled behind the scenes on the third night of their stay in Cleveland, there was not one of their number who was not a little nervous. Extra detectives had been hired, and every attache was on his guard; yet there was a feeling among them all that something still might happen.

"Why, all that fellow has to do is change his clothes every night and omit the rose," said Miss Ellis, excitedly. "There's no one in the house that could pick him out. Oh, it gives me chills just to think about it."

"Well, I'm glad John is back on the door," broke in Miss Leslie, "lies on the warpath for those fellows now, and Mr. Temple tells me that one of the other men is to stay with him."

"Yes; his arm is not well yet," said Marion, softly. "Poor John, it will be a week or more before that wound stops paining him."

"Well, we're lucky to get off as we did," said Bert. "When a man with a pistol gets scared or rattled, it's the greatest wonder in the world that he don't shoot everything around him. By the way, Hinton, have you fixed the red light?" he asked, suddenly. "You know Deering decided to have a play of lights to-night. Miss Marlowe and little Ruby are to bask, during the fourth act, in a perfect rainbow of glory!"

"I've got all the colors," said Hinton, goodnaturedly; "and the effect is bound to be beautiful, Jackson!"

"It couldn't help being! Isn't it going to shine on two beautiful stars! Why, it will be glorious, Hinton, if it only reflects back their lustre!"

"You're as bad off as ever, I believe," laughed Hinton. "You are still as true as steel to your first love, Jackson!"

Bert drew himself up proudly and shrugged his shoulders.

"Well, I should hope so," he said, quietly. "I'd have no respect for myself if I wasn't. The other girls are all right, but there's only one Marion Marlowe!"

"Do you really love her so much, Bert?" asked a soft voice at his shoulder.

Bert turned around quickly, and saw Miss Ellis. He was about to reply jokingly, but a look at her face stopped him. If ever he saw misery, Bert saw it there.

In an instant the realization came to him that this girl really loved him. It was a revelation to the young man, and for a moment it confused him; then his sense of honor rose uppermost, and his voice was firm as he answered:  "I have loved Marion all my life! I shall always love her," he said, softly. "Of course, I expect to make many dear friends, but, as I said before, there can be only one Marion Marlowe."

Miss Ellis turned away with the tears in her eyes. Bert looked after her sadly, but did not follow. A moment later he was taking himself to task severely. He felt that unconsciously he had wronged the girl, yet never for a moment had he intended to deceive her.

"My first love affair," he muttered to himself, as he went toward his dressing-room. "Well, may the Saints preserve me from having another! A man can love and be disappointed and still bear it, but such an experience must be awful to a girl or a woman!"

"What are you mooning about, Bert?" asked a merry voice.

Bert had his hand on his door, but he turned quickly and answered:

"Marion, do women suffer more than men when they are in love? That's a serious question, and I want an honest answer."

"No, Bert, I don't think they do," said the young girl, with a blush, as a mental picture of Dr. Brookes rose suddenly before her. "Of course, it is all a matter of temperament. Some men and some women bear their sorrows bravely, hiding them from the world and even smiling, while others have no strength to conquer their grief. Such people pine away and die,  and, oh, I do pity them!"

"Which would you do, Marion?" asked the youth, as he put his hand on her shoulder.

"I am sure I don't know," began the girl, still seriously. "I hope I would be brave and bear it nobly, but it is-one of those things that no one can say. I must wait, Bert, until I am forced to the experiment!"

"Which I am sure you never will be," said Bert, decidedly; "every one loves you, Marion, and you love no one; ergo, every one will suffer, except yourself, and, to tell you the truth, that suits me perfectly!"

"Why, Bert! How unchristian!" began Marion, merrily.

Bert gave a quick glance around to see that no one was looking, then he drew her toward him and pressed a kiss on her temple.

"Not an hour should you suffer, if I could help it, dearie," he said, quietly; "but there's the first call! I had no idea it was so late!"

The young girl ran away, with something suspiciously like tears upon her lashes. Her old friend's tender words had stirred her very deeply.

"Second call!" cried the stage-manager, before she was half dressed. Marion hurried into her tasteful costume, while she rattled off a part of her dialogue.

"Dead letter perfect, as usual, Miss Marlowe," said Miss Ellis, putting her head in at the door.

"What a memory you have! And a good memory is so essential to a suc cessful actress!"

Marion looked up quickly. The young girl's manner puzzled her. In a second she saw that Miss Ellis had been crying. "What is it, dear? You must tell me," she said, softly, with her arm around the ingenue's waist. Miss Ellis put her handkerchief to her face and burst out crying.

"Oh, I can't! I can't! I'd be ashamed to tell you!" she said, brokenly. "You'd de¬ spise me, Miss Marlowe, for being so weak and childish!"

"You know me better than that, girlie!" said Marion, soberly. "Do, please, tell me your trouble, and, perhaps, I can comfort you!"

To the young girl's intense astonishment, Miss Ellis burst out laughing. It was a hysterical laugh, in which tears were freely intermingled.

"It's too funny for anything, to think of your comforting me, Miss Marlowe! Why, I ought to hate you! We ought to hate each other! You see, Bert is dead in love with you, and— and— I love him, Miss Marlowe!"

Marion caught her breath with an astonished gasp, but at the same time the arm that was about her friend was drawn a little cioser.

"It is funny, dear," she said, with a weak smile; "and I'm awfully, awfully sorry that I stand in the way of your happiness! But Bert is only a boy. Have patience, Miss Ellis.  When he sees what a dear girl you are, I am sure he will love you!"

"Nonsense! He'd be a ninny to love me as long as you are around!" cried Miss Ellis, stoutly; then she turned to Marion and kissed her ardently. "You are the noblest girl in the whole world, Marion Marlowe!" she cried, earnestly. "Why, I verily believe you would give up the man you loved rather than give any other woman the pain of seeing you marry him!"

"No, I wouldn't !" said Marion, stoutly. "No fear of my doing that! When I love a man truly, and he loves me. there is no woman or body of women who will keep me from marrying!"

They were interrupted by some one exclaiming: "Great Caesar's ghost! Do my ears deceive me? Or, were those really the words of Marion Marlowe?"

Miss Allyn stood in the doorway, all costumed for the stage. As she stared at Marion, she held up both hands in wonder.

"Last call! Quick, girls!' cried Mrs. Burnside, from her dressing-room. The next second there was a rush to the wings by all hands, and the dreary dressingrooms were temporarily deserted.

11: The Explosion

AS SOON AS Marion reached the stage she scanned the audience carefully. In the sea of faces she almost expected to discover a pair of hollow eyes glaring at her threateningly from over a red rose, and it was quite a relief to find that there was none. Archie Ray and his sister smiled at her from a box, and, in a very few minutes, she had conquered her nervousness.

As she walked up the centre of the stage during the last half of the fourth act, Bert Jackson had occasion to pass her and offer her a parcel. Marion could not quite restrain her sense of humor, and, as she was back to the audience, she whispered, softly:

"Do you guarantee the contents of this parcel, Bert? Can you swear it isn't a bomb or an infernal machine of some sort?"

Bert kept his face straight, and went on with his speech, while Marion handed the parcel to little Ruby, who was beside her.

"A few sweetmeats, darling," she was obliged to remark, and then once more she came down to the footlights to continue the dialogue. Little Ruby sat down on the floor, with the parcel in her lap. She was not to open it until a few minutes later.

As Bert left the stage, Marion went on with a short monologue; then a ray of calcium light shot across the stage, giving just a hint of what was coming. The last scene was one in which a wronged but loving wife waited patiently for her husband, holding her child in her arms, in a most pathetic manner. It was a balcony scene, depicting twilight first, then both the moon and the Aurora Borealis suddenly lit the evening skies, their rays spreading and deepening in intensity, until the whole sky was luminous.

Marion moved a low rocker to the center of the balcony; then stepped to the edge, and stood gazing at the sky, with the first glimmer of the moonlight falling softly about her. The effecf was charming, and the audience sat breathless. In her peerless beauty, the young girl looked almost angelic, and her white, filmy garments only enhanced the illusion.

Suddenly she turned half around and began humming a low tune; then, as her eye wandered to her child, she burst out into a strain of melody that held her hearers spellbound.

It was Marion's first song since she left the opera company, and no one had even guessed that she was such a marvelous singer. As the notes rippled from her white throat, every opera-glass was turned upon her, and even the employees behind the scenes left their posts and crowded in the wings to listen.

When the song finally ended, there was a murmur of applause, but another display of calcium made them stare in wonder. Marion walked slowly toward the rocking-chair, intending to seat herself; but, as she stood with one hand on the low chair, gazing out over the audience, she suddenly shivered with fear in every fibre of her being.

The colored lights were playing hide-and seek in the sky above her head, and little Ruby was still sitting on the balcony floor, waiting for her cue, but Marion stood speechless, staring straight before her. Suddenly Archie Ray leaned forward and followed the glance of her eyes.

A man, hollow-eyed and haggard, was seated in the front row of the orchestra. He was neatly dressed, and not especially conspicuous, but he was staring wildly at Marion, and there was a red rose in his button-hole!

As the actress saw Mr. Ray leave the box with his sister, she came back to her senses. She must go on with the scene, no matter what it might cost her. There was no smile on her face as she looked at this fellow, for Marion had recognized him instantly as the one she had seen on the street corner, and she knew instinctively that he was the threatener.

She tried to seat herself naturally, but every movement was forced. As she turned to speak to little Ruby, her tongue almost refused to obey her. At last, with a mighty effort, she found her voice. It was merely to say to the child:

"Come to mamma, darling!"

Little Ruby sprang to her feet, holding the parcel carelessly. The next instant it slipped from her grasp. At that moment Marion leaped from her chair with a shriek that echoed through the building. The parcel would have fallen from the balcony to the stage if Marion had not caught it in the nick of time.

Simultaneously with the shriek, however, there was a dull report from somewhere behind the scenes. Crash after crash followed, and the stage and all about it were enveloped in darkness. The audience arose as one man, all shrieking and screaming, and for a moment it seemed that a panic was inevitable.

"The rioters! They have blown up the theatre!"

"Miss Marlowe has been killed!" yelled some one in the crowd, frantically.

"Be quiet, every one! There's no danger!" roared Mr. Temple's voice from the blackness of the stage.

"Sit still and avoid a panic! We'll light up in a second!" bawled Bert Jackson, from one of the boxes.

The crowd hesitated a moment, and the ushers made use of the time to crowd them hack into their seats, while the detectives and extra policemen who were in the house made heroic efforts to quiet the audience.

No one could tell just what had happened, but all knew that it was an explosion of some kind. In that first fearful second they had caught a glimpse of the scenery as it came toppling over, then the dust and smoke and darkness obscured the stage completely.

Suddenly a beautiful voice rang out of the darkness before them.

Marion Marlowe was still upon the stage, and had little Ruby in her arms; and, as they looked, a glow from the calcium outlined her face and form distinctly. In an instant the house was quiet, and Marion's glorious voice rolled out in a song. It was all that was needed to quiet her audience.

Throwing her head back bravely and holding little Ruby close to her breast, the heroic girl finished the pathetic scene grandly. She had chosen "Home, Sweet Home," as the best possible song; and, as the last note died away the people sank into their seats, quieted.

The stage was not lighted again for fear that what might be disclosed would alarm the people; but the spot upon which Marion stood was as bright as day, and as she finished she smiled and kissed her hand to them.

A roar of applause shook the monstrous building. That some dreadful deed had been done was plain to them all, but by her coolness the brave girl had helped to evade a panic; and, as the audience filed out quietly, there were many cheers for the beautiful heroine.

12: The Mystery

"WELL, OF ALL THE scenes of desolation that I ever beheld!" Bert Jackson spoke solemnly as he uttered the exclamation. The drop-curtain, or what was left of it, had been safely lowered, and with every light turned on, the Temple Theatrical Company was investigating the extent of the damage.

"It might have been worse! Thank God no one was killed!" said Mr. Temple, gratefully. "But, oh, what a narrow escape for Miss Marlowe and little Ruby! Why, the stage is literally wrecked, and the scenery is in atoms!"

"The worst damage is out by the stage door, Mr. Temple," said an officer, coming up "We've decided that the door was opened and the cartridge thrown in. We have found the fragments of the shell and fuse behind a pile of old timber."

"Yes, and the stage door is in splinters," cried Bob Hinton, excitedly; "there isn't a pane of glass left in any rear window of the building."

"But I don't understand John not being at his post," said Mr. Temple, looking around for the doorkeeper.

"It was the singing, Mr. Temple! I heard Miss Marlowe singing and left the door for a minute! I ought not to have done it, but it was a great temptation!"

"I don't blame you much, if that was it," said Mr. Temple, glancing at Marion, who was standing with Dr. Brookes at a little distance.

There was a commotion in the street, and Bert darted outside. In a minute he was back with some welcome information.

"They've got him! They've got him!" he shouted. "Come, quick, Mr. Temple! They want you to have a look at him!"

"Oh, I want to see him, too!'' cried Marion, starting after them. "I want to be very sure that they have caught the right one!"

In an instant the whole company were grouped around two stalwart officers, who were standing just outside of the stage door with their prisoner between them.

"That's the fellow that brought the bouquet of roses!— the one who came in on your pass, Mr. Temple!" said Hinton, the moment he saw him.

"He's the fellow that threw the bomb, all right," said one of the officers. "We caught him a block away, just after the explosion "

"Hold on, gentlemen! Take a look at this chap, please!" called a voice in the darkness. Archie Ray was coming toward them with his hand on a man's shoulder, and a score or more of small boys following at his heels and shouting derisively.

"I am sure that is the one," said Marion, to the doctor; "oh, don't let him escape! I am positive he is guilty!"

"But he was in the theatre at the time! I saw him," said Bert, who had overheard her.

"I know he was— I saw him, too! Nevertheless, I am sure he is the one!" repeated Marion.

Archie Ray had been explaining to the officers and the crowd; and, as neither of the culprits made the slightest resistance, they were both led away to the station-house.

"It will be a week before the repairs can be made here," said the owner of the theatre, as he came out with one of the firemen. "A lucky thing that that cartridge spent most of its force on those iron stairs. If it had not struck just where it did there would have been lives lost, I reckon."

"Gee! It did damage enough!" cried Bert, who had been on a short tour of inspection. "It blew the moon out of the sky and tore up a whole forest on canvas, to say nothing of a big hole in the floor of the scene-room and a whole ocean of green waves ripped into a million pieces!"

"I thought the world had come to an end," said Miss Ellis, who had been both laughing and crying. "I was in my dressing-room, and of course I knew in a minute that it must be an explosion! I was sure Miss Marlowe was killed, and I nearly went crazy."

"I was at the head of the stairs, just coming down," began Miss Allyn, who was limping painfully. In an instant all eyes were turned upon her positively ghastly features.

"What in the world did you do?" gasped Marion, anxiously.

"I went back, to be sure, and I went with a vengeance," replied Miss Allyn, with a brave effort to smile. "Something hit me in my back and knocked me up against the dressing-room door, and, of course, that flew open and I landed in the corner!"

"Oh, Alma! You poor dear!" cried Marion, running over to her; "and to think I was on the stage and wasn't hurt an atom!"

"What made you shriek when Ruby let that box fall?" asked Mrs. Burnside, suddenly. "I was watching from the wings, and I couldn't understand it."

Marion's face turned a shade whiter as she recalled her emotion.

"Why, I had just discovered that fellow in the audience, and as I glanced at the parcel in her hands I seemed to forget what it really was! Instead of a fake property parcel, I seemed to think that it was something dangerous, and the next instant I screamed I could not help it!"

"And then the explosion occurred! There is something strange about it!" said Dr. Brookes, thoughtfully. "Has anybody seen that parcel since, or was it lost in the confusion?"

"I have it here," said the property-man, coming forward. "I've been picking up the ‘props' wherever I have seen them, but— hello! That isn't the property parcel at all! Here, Jackson, where the deuce is the parcel I gave you?"

"That's it," said Bert, taking a sharp look at the package. "I found it on the box just in reach of the left exit, exactly where it's been every night of our engagement."

The property man looked it over carefully. "Some one has changed the parcel, or I'll eat my hat! Just hold on a minute till I see what's in it."

"Great Scott! Not here! Put it in soak, man!" yelled Bert. "Don't take any chances of another blow-up this evening!"

But the man had already untied the string. The next second he disclosed a tiny bottle containing some liquid. Dr. Brookes took it instantly and scrutinized it carefully.

"Well, what is it, doc?" asked Bert, who was beginning to turn pale. "I handed it to Marion, so for Heaven's sake, don't say it is an explosive!"

"That's exactly what it is! It is nitroglycerine," said the doctor, grimly. "Here, officer, you had better take possession of it; but look sharp, man, and don't drop it!"

"Here's a note for you, Miss Marlowe. The prisoner begged me to give it to you," cried Olcott, coming in. "I went to the station-house with the gang, and they let him write it there. He's the right chap, all right! He admits it in his letter!" Dr. Brookes opened the letter and read it aloud. The handwriting was familiar to al¬ most the entire company.

"The Red Rose has failed— dynamite has failed; but vengeance goes on, on, on forever."

There was no signature to the missive, but none was needed. The note had been written by the crazy masher.

THE NEXT DAY there was less rioting and bloodshed in the city, and the police attributed this in great degree to the fact that they now had three dangerous malefactors safely in their clutches. No threats were needed to get the matter straight, for the real culprit promptly confessed his plot and identified his accomplices. They were all half-witted foreigners, whose brains had been turned by the conditions existing in the city of Cleveland; but one, the fellow with the hollow eyes and the red rose in his buttonhole, had complicated matters by mixing love affairs with bloodshed.

Why he selected Miss Marlowe no one ever knew, but it was probable that he saw her and was smitten by her beauty.

Before the Temple Theatrical Company left the city they found the owners of the bracelets. They had been stolen a month before and all trace of them lost.

Every member of the company was glad to leave the scene of so much excitement, but it was days before they quite recovered from the horror of the explosion.

Everything had been explained except the changing of the package; but, although a hundred theories were put forward, not one was conclusive— there were no proofs forthcoming to explain how it was done, so this detail of the tragedy remained a mystery.

At the depot Marion Marlowe was cheered by an enthusiastic throng. She had gained their admiration by her sweetness and genius, but her heroic conduct at that thrilling moment of that awful night had won their honest affection.

______________________

2: It Will Out

C. C. Waddell

1868-1930

Complete Story Magazine 25 Jan 1925

"SMILER" FOSTER sauntered out of the lunch stand, familiarly known to the chauffeurs of the neighborhood as "Garbage Joe's," where he had been regaling himself with a light midday snack of pigs knuckles and sauerkraut, topped off with two cuts of pie and a cup of coffee.

As he paused at the door to brush the crumbs from the front of his trim Norfolk jacket and exchange a word or two of playful badinage with Tessie, the black-eyed cashier, never had Smiler felt more at peace with the world.

His stomach was full, his mind easy. Another chauffeur had just imparted to him the secret of a new method of temporarily disconnecting the speedometer, so that not even the most vigilant employer could suspect the unauthorized use of his bus. Furthermore, his boss, Doctor Herschel Sprague, a crusty surgical specialist, had yielded that morning to his demand for a new battery and an improved style of bumper, and Smiler saw in prospect a distinctly fruity ccmmission in the purchase.

"Nothing to worry about," he hummed cheerily as he crossed the sidewalk to the doctor's limousine standing parked at the curb. "No need to worry at all."

It is not wise, says the Chinese proverb, to provoke the gods by a show of excessive complacency.

As Smiler started to climb into the driver's seat, he observed that one of the robes inside the car had fallen down and lay in a crumpled heap on the floor. He stepped back to fold it up and hang it on the rack.

But he had hardly opened the rear door and reached inside, before he jumped back as if a snake had bitten him, and hurriedly slammed the door shut again.

Thrusting his hand under the robe, his fingers had brushed against the face of a dead man.

For a moment Smiler stood stunned, incapable of either thought or movement. Then as he recovered his wits, he glanced quickly about him, up and down the street, to see if his agitaited behavior had attracted any attention. But, apparently, it had passed unnoticed.

The block was practically given over to garages, and the few loafers about the fronts of them showed no sign of being stirred from their customary torpid calm. The driver of a passing coal truck, the only vehicle in sight, was staring stolidly ahead at his horses. Behind, in the lunch stand, Tessie was perfunctorily joshing another customer.

Everything was so placidly normal— the fact itself so staggeringly improbable— that Smiler began to question if he might not have been the victim of an hallucination.

Nerving himself to the effort, he guardedly opened the door again to make a more convincing survey.

But he had only to turn back the rug and give a single look to satisfy himself that there had been no mistake. Under the rug lay the huddled body of a young man, clad in an old coat and trousers, with a pair of worn-out shoes on his feet. Dead beyond the shadow of a doubt. The marble coldness of the skin was enough to prove that, but, in addition, the whole side of the man's skull had been crushed in by a terrific blow of some sort, and was bound around with a blood-stained strip of burlap.

Smiler flung back the rug over the upturned face, hastily closed the door again, and leaned against the side of the car, white and a little sick.

How had the thing gotten there? In the turmoil of his thoughts, he tried to recall his movements for the day. He had driven Doctor Sprague on his usual morning round of visits to hospitals and private patients, had left him at the college where he was scheduled to deliver a lecture, and then, dismissed for the afternoon, had headed straight for the garage, stopping only at Garbage Joe's across the street to eat his lunch before putting up the bus.

Where, in that tour through the city streets in broad daylight, could a dead body have been smuggled into the car without his knowledge? The thing was obviously impossible. And yet it had happened.

"Without even the aid of the needle," muttered Smiler dazedly. "Cold sober as an unborn babe. How in thunder did they work it?"

But that question, he realized, must for the present yield to a, far more pressing consideration. What was he to do with the grisly encumbrance that, as Smiler put it, had been wished upon him?

Tihe natural step was, of course, to repprt the affair to the police and let them puzzle it out. But the police, Smiler had learned, were singularly lacking in imagination, and would be apt to scoff at so fantastic a story.

From the nature of the victim's injuries— and from Smiler's very spotted record in traffic court— they would simply set it down as a case of reckless driving, in which the man, after being knocked down, had died on Smiler's hands while the latter was trying to get him to a hospital.

And, in fact, Smiler himself was very much inclined to agree with this theory of the tragedy, saving that the culprit chauffeur had meanly shifted the responsibility to him.

"It wouldn't be so hard," he reflected, "For a guy to range alongside while I was feeding my face in the lunch stand, and then, while he pretended to look at his tires or somethin', switch the cut on me."

Still that, he realized, didn't help the weakness of his own alibi. The cops would not go hunting for a problematical offender when they had what looked like a sure thing right at hand.

No, the station house was distinctly not his play. The best that he could get out of it was hours of endless grilling and a detention of several days. Amd, if a manslaughter charge was pressed, he stood a chance of going up he river for twenty years.

At this grim suggestion, Smiler paled and looked nervously about him, as if already feeling himself an object of suspicion. The sudden shouting of his name caused him to jump as if he had been shot.

It was the garage keeper hailing him from across the street.

"Hey there, dopey!" he called. "What 'smiatter with you? Must he in a trance, the way I had to yell my head off to rouse you."

Ordinarily Smiler would have come back with a suitable retort and would probably have crossed the street to pursue the verbal contention. But he did not dare now to leave the side of the car.

"Whatcha want ?" he stammered uncertainly. "If it's to set in a poker game, tell 'em I— I got a engagement."

"You said it." The garage keeper grinned. "But 'tain't to go joy riding with no dame like you're planning. Doc just phoned over that he's changed his mind about not using the car this afternoon. He say s for you to wait here at the garage, and he'll be right along."

Smiler dutched at the side of fender to keep himself from collapsing. Doctor Sprague wanted to use the car and -was coming right over to the garage! Could anything have happened more inopportunely? Impossible now to keep concealed the ghastly secret that lay underneath the rug.

For a moment, the world heaved and whirled around him. Then, with a couple of swift leaps, he was across the Street and feverishly beseeching the garage keeper.

"Jerry, you're a friend of mine, ain't you?" he gulped. "Then, for God's Sake, tell doc I wasn't here when he called. Tell him, I had to go down to the service station for some little thing Pr other, and I'll be right back. You see, Jerry"— he caught at the suggestion the other had offered— "I gotta explain to the lady. I can't go off and leave her flat, without a word, can I? Do that for me, Jerry, and I'll never forget it," he pleaded. "You will, won't you?"

"Aw, you love birds give me a pain," growled the garage keeper. "Nothin' counts with you but some jane what, week after next, you'H be hard put to remember her name. On your way, though, if you must," he consented. "But take a tip from me, buddy, and make it short and sweet. Doc ain't one to be stalled indefinite."

His final warning, however, was addressed only to the circumambient air, for Smiler was already aboard the car and scooting down the street, fearful that the doctor might heave in sight before he could make his get-away.

Turning the comer, he whirled madly around three or four blocks, until at last feeling safe from immediate peril, he settled down to a more sober pace and gave himself a chance to think.

It was idle to deny that he was in an ugly jam. With a whole afternoon and night at his disposal, he had been staggered to conceive of any feasible way of ridding himself of his incriminating burden. And now the time in which to act had been whittled down to minutes. Doctor Sprague, as the garage keeper had indicated, was not a patient waiter. Unless Smiler showed up pretty promptly, he would be kissing his job good-by. And in the event of a prolonged absence, the doctor was quite capable of ordering him apprehended on sight—no very difficult job, for, even in New York, Bolls-Joyce limousines ane not so plentiful but that they are easily spotted.

In short, It was a case where, if anything was done, 'twere better done quickly.

Yet the very desperation of his predicament seemed to benumb Smiler's usually agile wits. Try as he would, he could think of nothing more original than to duplicate the trick that had been played upon himself by transferring the dead man to another car.

Simple enough in conception. In execution, anything but.

Smiler cruised around at least a dozen blocks before he found conditions and a ear to his liking. Then he had no sooner dismounted and started on the strategy of pretending that something was wrong with his chassis, than a group of curious kids gathered to watch him, and refused to be either driven or cajoled away.

On a second attempt a few blocks farther on, everything seemed to be going swimmingly, until juist as he had the doors of the two cans open and was about to effect the transfer, he happened to look up and saw a woman interestedly regarding his movements from a third-story window above him.

"I bet her sink's full of dirty dishes, too," railed Smiler bitterly, as he scrambled back into his seat and got away from there. "Housework don't mean nothing to that kind, when they can plant their dhows on a winder sill and get a eye full on somethin' what ain't none of their business."

But it was the third trial that caused his heart to somersault and set the cold sweat to trickling down his spine. As he was sliding into position beside a car parked on, a slope leading down into Riverside Drive, a policeman suddenly sprang from concealment out into the roadway ahead, and threw up his hand.

"Wh-what you after?" Smiler could not keep his Ups from trembling.

"Just taking a test of your brakes," said the cop. He eyed Smiler shrewdly. "But you seem to be pretty hard hit by it, Jack. I guess I'd better take a look, and see if you haven't got a case of hooch stuck back there in the tonneau."

He started toward the side of the car. But, under the stress of emergency, Smiler dicked back into poise.

"You must have a nose like a bloodhound, cap," he laughed. "Hooch is there all right— a case of it, too, I should say— but it's all inside a pal of mine that's snuggled down back there somewheres. I was taking him home, but you can have him if you want him."

The officer, peering through the window, saw the huddled figure under the rug which seemed to substantiate Smiler's bold fiction, and hastily sprang down from tihe running board.

"Thanks." He backed away. "He's your friend, not mine."

As Smiler had cleverly surmised, the cop had no desire to lose his next morning's sleep and appear in court for nothing more sensational than a drunk.

"Beat it." He gave a peremptory wave off the hand, and Smiler lost no time in obeying the injunction.

Coasting down into the Drive, he stepped on the gas, and kept stepping until at least twenty blocks separated him from the scene of his late narrow escape.

"Gee!" he murmured, as he finally eased up and mopped his perspiring brow. "Another shave like that and there'd he two corpses in this blooming old hearse 'stead of only one. Them guys that played the game on me must have cast-iron nerves. No more of it for this mamma's boy. I gotta dope out something that's less strain on the arteries."

One Hundred and Sixteenth Street loomed ahead of him as he spoke, with its wide curve leading up from the Drive and its tall, gray apartment houses fronting the river. The sight of it gave Smiler an inspiration.

"That's the ticket!" he exclaimed.  "What I need is to consult a specialist."

Turning up the hill and passing the broad front of Columbia University, he drove briskly across town until be came jbo the neighborhood of Lenox Avenue, where, after a litfeie search, he discovered wtet he was seeking— a chunky young man, modishly attired, who, at the moment, was having an extra high polish buffered on his nails by the manicure of a barber slhop.

This was "Mutton" Rosen, head of the Harlem Hummers, and the reputfed hero of at least a dozen killings. Murder and assault was Mr. Rosen's profession, with a definite schedule of fees for services rendered— so much for merely beating a guy up, an increased tariff for crippling or maiming him, and a maximum for giving him the "works."

As one who, from the nature of his calling, lived under the constant hazard of reprisals, Mutton, as Smiler approached, gave him a quick, sidewise glance of scrutiny and, sliding his hand but of the manicure's clasp, dropped it swiftly toward his coat pocket.

Recognizing the intruder, however, as a mere sap who worked for a living, and by no chance the emissary of a rival gang, he relaxed slightly and, in response to Smiler's greeting, bestowed a condescending nod.

"You got the best of me, young feller," he said dabbling his fingers in the bowl of soapy water, although his heavy-lidded eyes never lost their guarded watchfulness. "Kind o' off your beat, ain't you? Don't recall seeing you round this end of town before."

"Not much lately," admitted Smiler. "But I used to hang around here some when I was driving a taxi. You ought to remember me, Mr. Rosen. I took you and a bunch out to that Casey-Stenger fight at White Plains about a year ago."

"Oh, sure. I got you now. Knew that map of yours was sorta familiar."

The gangster with an affectation of indifference held up his short, stubby fingers and inspected the row of gleaming nails which the manicure girl had just finished

"Some little polisher, ‘Babe,' " he complimented her. "I'll say you are. Might almost have them claws set, and wear 'em for a di'mond necklace."

He was evidently waiting for Smiler to make the next move, but the latter's attention was temporarily distracted. Nervously keeping an eye on the limousine which he had been compelled to leave unguarded out in front of the barber shop, he was on tenterhooks every time a passer-by paused casually in its vicinity.

"Well, what's on your mind, kid?" Mr. Rosen spoke a bit sharply. "You didn't drop in just to pass the time of day, did you?"

"No. Oh, no." Smiler came back to himself with a start. "What I wanted was to talk over—well, a matter of business with you. But it's— it's sort of private. Couldn't you step outsider minute?"

The killer's hard eyes studied him; Mutton had not failed to notice the other's perturbed manner, nor was he oblivibus to those uneasy glances cast in the direction of the waiting car. For all he knew, that big, strange limousine might be filled with armed enemies ready to riddle him the moment he presented himself as a target. It would not be the first time that a seemingly innocent decoy had lured one of his stripe into ambush.

"We'll wait until Miss Babe bare gets through with this other mitt of mine," he said curtly. Then, as Smiler, murmuring something about meeting him outside, started for the door, his voice took on a menacing ring.

"Sit down," he ordered. "When we go out of here, bo, we go together. Get me?"

So while the clock ticked away the precious minutes, Smiler had to sit there, nursing his impatience, and not knowing at what instant some prying youngster or inquisitive stroller looking the car over might discover and proclaim the secret it contained.

But at last, with nails polished to his fancy, Mr. Rosen got up from the table, lingered to exchange some parting banter with Miss Babe, and, with maddening slowniess, readjusted his tie, donned his hat, and submitted to being brushed off. Then, when he had distributed largesse about the shop, he moved over close to Smiler.

As their shoulders touched, Smiler felt the poke of something hard against his side where the gangster's hand rested in his convenient coat pocket.

"Listen, you!" Rosen muttered out of the comer of his mouth. '"You walk right in front of me, when we go out of that door, see. And don't try to duck or pull off any funny business, either. If you're on the level, nothing's going to hurt you. But if you're steering me against a plant, I've got my gat right up against your ribs, and at the first sign of trouble, I blow you wide open. So now go ahead, and watch your step."

Smiler of course knew that his intentions were perfectly honorable, but, even so, he could hot help quaking as he made that lock-step exit from the barber shop. Suppose some person on the sidewalk should take an impulsive step toward them or make some other unexpected move of which the suspicious Mutton might mistake the purpose? Explanations, Smiler was sure, would come too late for him.

Fortunately, however, the street, when they emerged into it, pursued the even tenor of its way, and Rosen, satisfied finally that he wais not being led into a trap, eased ujp on his precautions.

"All right, kiddo!" He slapped Smiler on the shoulder. "Guess I can take a chance with you. Come along and spill what's troubling you," piloting the way as he spoke into the entrance of an office building near by. "We can talk here, without no chance of somebody snooping up, and getting an ear full on us."

But Smiler, now that the opportunity was his, found himself a little stumped just how to broach the subject on which he desired to interview Mr. Rosen. It is a rather delicate business to inquire of a comparative stranger the methods whereby he disposes of his murdered dead— especially when the comparative stranger has already shown evidences of a touchy temper and is so extremely facile with an automatic.

"Well," he hesitated, "you see, I wanted to ask a kind of favor of you. Suppose, f'r instance, you—that is, I mean—well, suppose a guy had bumped off another guy—by accident, y' understand, but that prob'ly wouldn't help him none if 'twas found out—and suppose nobody didn't know nothing about it yet? Well, whatdya suppose is the best thing the guy can do with the—the deceased ?"

Mr. Rosen, who had been lighting a cigarette as Smiler made his stammering explanation, flipped away subterfuge with the match.

"Look here," he said, "if you want any help, you gotta come clean with me. Who is this bird you bumped off?"

"No! No!" protested Smiler in a panic. " 'Tiwasn't me that bumped nobody off. The— the deceased was shoved onto me."

Then, seeing no other way out, he told the whole story.

Its reception by the gangster convinced him more than ever that he had done wisely in not reporting it to the police, for Mutton was openly skeptical.

"That's just plain apple sauce, bo," he jeered. "You crashed this baby with your old boat. 'At's what happened. Don't tell me it wasn't.

"Still, at that," he admitted, squinting his eyes reflectively, " 'tain't such a bad stunt, if a feller was looking for a way to get rid of somebody he'd croaked. You have gave me a new idea, pardner.

"Howsomever," he returned to the point at issue, "don't make no pertickler difference whether you swatted the guy, or somebody else did it. You got him on your hands, and what's bothering you is how to get shut of him. Is that it?"

Smiler indicated that it was. Also, that speed in attaining results was a prime element in the problem confronting him.

He glanced at the clock over the doorway of a bank across the street and was horrified to see that almost three quarters of an hour had elapsed since he had left the garage. Doctor Sprague would not bide much longer without starting something.

"What? sort of a looking guy is this bozo you put out?" asked Rosen. "Any class to him? Somebody that the papers'd kick up a row about?"

"Oh, no." Smiler shook his head, thinking of the worn-out shoes and shabby clothing. "A down-and-outer, I would say. Prob'ly just a bum."

"Well, then, that makes it easy. I'll take on the job for you, kiddo. All we gotta do is drive up into Westchester County, and dump him out along one of the bootlegging routes When they run across him, they'll put him down for a hijacker -that's been bumped off, and not bother no more about him. Birds like that is picked up every week or so round there. It'll cost you only a hundred smackers. I'm doing it cheap because I sorta like you."

"How far up into Westchester would we have to go?" Smiler hesitated.

"Oh, quite a piece. We might have to cross the Connecticut line, before we found a likely spot."

Smiler made a rapid calculation. It would certainly be late in the afternoon, possibly well into the evening before he returned, and by that time Doctor Sprague would be beyond listening to either argument or excuse.

"I tell you," he suggested. "I can't be of no special use to you, and this here bus of mine is pretty noticeable. Wouldn't it be better if you took a flivver sedan or something of that kind, and let me shift the— the body over to you, and be done with it?"

"Well, of course it could be handled that way," granted Mutton with a pitying smile at what he evidently regarded as a manifestation of cold feet. "But not for no hundred berries. I'd have to hire a felller to help me, and what with using my own car and all, I'd have to charge you at least an extra century."

Smiler emptied his pockets, and counted up his available cash resources. Pay day, fortunately, had been only the Saturday before and, in addition, he had been lucky in the poker and crap games at the garage. Yet, even so, the sum total reckoned only one hundred and sixty-five dollars. He counted it over bill by bill, and reluctantly tendered, it to the gangster.

But Rosen backed obdurately away.

"Two hundred or nothing," he declared. "If you're hunting for cut rates, you'll have to go to another shop. That's my price, and you'‘ll either pay it or keep on carting your old stiff around until the bulls land you, which" there was a covert threat in his tone— "according to my way of thinking, won't be long."

"All right. All right," agreed Smiler hastily, remembering in his necessity the new battery and bumpers which the doctor had empowered him to purchase. "No need to get shirty about it. I'll dig up the money for you. Where can I meet you in, say, about twenty minutes ?"

"You'd better come up to my private garage." Muitton gave the number and location of it. "I'll pick up a pal to go along with me and be there waiting for you, and then we can shift your freight easy and comfortable, without nobody piping us off. 'Sides," he added more interestedly, "I've got a new Radillac up there— sweet a little boat as you ever seen— that I'd like to have you look at."

Smiler had stipulated for twenty minutes, but it was not more than half that time— so energetically did he push the collection of his commissions— before he arrived at the rendezvous, and found Rosen awaiting him with another of the Harlem Hummers, known as "Dead-eye."

"Got the kale?" Mutton greeted him.

Smiler handed it over.

"K. O." The gangster verified the amount and stuffed the money in his pocket. "Come on, then, Dead-eye, and bear a hand here with 'little Percy."

He opened the door of the limousine as he spoke, and, with callous indifference, jesting and laughing the while, the two reached in and laid hold of the still form inside.

But no sooner was the rug thrown back from it, than Rosen started back with a gasp of mingled amazement and terror.

"Look, Dead-eye! Look!" He pointed. "How did he get here?"

And Dead-eye, as his gaze followed the pointing finger, betrayed no less consternation.

For a moment, the two hardened ruffians stared at the dead man, their teeth chattering, their faces blanched in a superstitious awe. Then, seized by a common impulse, they turned and dashed from the garage. The last Smiler saw of them, they were rounding the corner bdlow, still traveling at top speed.

He could not understand it, could not puzzle out what it meant. But it was borne forcibly in upon him that they were gone for good. They had no intention of coming back. And with them, also, was gone his two hundred dollars, while he was left no better off than before, his problem still unsolved.

Or was it still unsolved? The sudden idea came to him. He knew, at least, what Rosen and people of that sort would do in such a predicament. And there was nothing to prevent him from carrying out their formula.

True, by the time that he had driven up into Westchester County and back again, Doctor Sprague would be fit to be tied. But he had already been absent long enough completely to shatter the doctor's patience, and he might as iwell be killed for a sheep as for a lamb. Besides, there was nothing the doctor could say or do that would equal the chill finality of a judge's "twenty years!"

That last reflection decided him. Stepping over to the limousine, he laid back the rug to cover the figure inside, mounted to his seat, and, with a set, resolute face, drove away.

Choosing the less frequented routes of travel, he tooled carefully along, sedulous so long as he was within the city limits to obey every traffic regulation, so as to avoid any possibility of being held up and questioned. But as soon as he reached the country roads, he hit up a freer pace, and presently was well out beyond the suburbs.

And now as he drove through fields and past estates, he began to keep an eye ouit for some spot to serve his purpose.

At last he found it along a narrow, woodland lane between Tarrytown and Kensico Reservoir— a marshy, overgrown copse which looked as if nobody ever invaded it.

Smiler got out and, pushing aside the tangle of briers and underbrush, investigated. It would be no very difficult task, he decided. The man was light and slender. He could probably be lifted out of the car and held above the weeds and bushes that fringed the road so as to leave no suspicious trail. Then, once inside the copse, he could be carried a short distance to a sort of hollow that offered a natural concealment, and be covered over with dead leaves.

It was all very simple, and yet, for some reason, Smiler's step was slow as he returned toward the car, and his face wore a troubled frown. Now that he was about to do it, it seemed a brutal thing to leave that poor clay there, unclaimed, unhallowed by sepulture, as one might leave a dead dog.

Mastering a natural repugnance, he turned back the rug and took another look at the dead man.

He was a fellow of not more than his own age, and evidently, in spite of the shabby clothes, not a bum. The features were clear cut, showing no traces of hardship or dissipation—the hands were well tended.

"He looks like a regular guy," Smiler muttered unhappily. "It might be me, or anybody else. How'd I like it to be bumped off that way, 'thout nobody ever knowing what had become of me? Mebbe he's got a old mother somewheres what's wondering why he don't show up, and what'll keep putting a lamp in the window for him."

The sentimental picture thus evoked gave Smiler a distinct jolt. Hard boiled in a way, he was yet strong for what movie directors term "soft stuff." He closed the limousine again.

"Oh, damn!" he groaned. "Here's something if I do it, that's going to haunt me all my days. And, if I don't do it, it'll have me saying, ‘Yes, warden,' and wearing a number 'stead of a name."

But the vision that his words called up of stone walls and iron bars served to wipe out in great measure that of the old lady placing the lamp in the window. Smiler shivered, and steeled his wavering resolution.

He stepped purposefully toward the limousine, but, as he laid his hand on the door latch, his ear caught the approaching chug-chug of a motor cycle, and he paused until it had passed.

In a moment or two, the rider appeared around a bend in the road ahead, and Smiler recognized with a qualm of trepidation that he wore the slouch hat and conspicuous gun of a State trooper.

With seeming inadvertence, Smiler moved to the side of the car so as to screen the inferior from observation, and stood there, pretending to hunt for a match to light his cigarette.

The trooper came up.

"Are you shy of matches, Jack?" he asked. "I guess I can help you out."

"No. No, thank you." Smiler hastily produced a card of them.

But the other still lingered.

"What's stopping you?" he inquired.

"Waitin' for a party," said Smiler aloofly.

"Queer place for that." The officer's glance swept the lonely, secluded hollow. "Only people you ever see around here is from the old Delpit mansion, back yonder on the hill. 'Tain't any of them, is it?"

"This is— is a party from town."

"So? Well, it struck me that maybe you was waiting for somebody from the Delpit place. Folks in this end of the county are kind of interested in them since the disappearance of young Julian Delpit last week.

"Well, he's the heir to all this land around here and considerable other property— close to half a mjillion altogether, they say— but for the last six years he's been over in France getting educated, and his uncle, Louis Delpit, has been managing the estate as guardeen. Then about ten days ago he lands in New York unexpected-like, and notifies bis uncle that, being now of age, he's ready to run the show hisself, and when will it be convenient to pass over the jack?

"He didn't come out to the old place here—melbbe he had his reasons for that, and also for not sending no advance notice of his arrival— but he made an appointment with uncle dear to meet him at a trust company.

"Come the time, and Uncle Louis was on hand with his books and papers, but young Julian fails to show up. They waits about an hour, and then a messenger boy blows in with a note from him, saying that he was starting off on a hunting trip up into Canada with a friend he'd met on the boat coming over, and that his uncle was just to let everything ride until he got back."

"Huh!" Smiler sniffed impatiently. "There's nothin' very funny about that 't I can see. It's just the sort o' thing a fool kid like that'd go and do."

"Sure," agreed the trooper. "That's what anybody would say, ain't it? But along in the afternoon a lady calls u'p the trust company, sayin' she's Mrs. Julian Delpit, and she wants to know what's keeping her husband so long. Yes, sir. The boy, it turned out, had got married as soon as he was twenty-one, and just the day before he sailed for this country. No mistake about it. She had her marriage certificate.

"Furthermore, when she heard about that note to Uncle Louis, she was sure that something must be wrong. How, she asked, could Julian have gone hunting with a man he met on the boat, when he was seasick all the way over, and hadn't never poked his nose out of the stateroom? And was it likely, she says, that Julian would break up a-perfectly good honeymoon?

"Well, the trust company advised her to consult a lawyer, and then some more things come out. Uncle Louis claimed to have torn up the note from Julian, but them he'd showed it to said the handwriting in it wasn't nothing like that in a bunch of Julian's letters that young Mrs. Delpit had with her.

Strangely, though, it was the same as the signature to a lot of vouchers and receipts for big sums of money that Louis claimed he paid to Julian."

"Oh, I see!" Smiler gave a quick nod. "The old geezer had been gypping the boy right along and forging his name to cover it up. Then when the lad suddenly turned up and called for a show-down, he— why, he musta bumped him off."

"It looks that way, don't it?" agreed the trooper. "But how are you going to hang it onto him, without a corpus delicti?"

"A which?"

"Corpus delicti. That means positive proof the party's been croaked. Granted that everything points to murder, you still gotta remember that it had to be done in broad daylight, and on the way from the hotel where Julian was stopping to the office of the trust company. Why didn't nobody see it? Also, what was done with the remains? 'Tain't no such easy thing as you might imagine to get rid of a dead body.

"Likewise," continued the trooper, " 'tain't beyond a reasonable doubt that this note was on the level, and that Julian has really gone off on a hunting trip like he says. Anyhow, until a corpus delicti shows up, Uncle Louis is sitting pretty. Course, the appearance of a wife probably throwed a monkey wrench into his plans. It makes her Julian's legal heir instead of him. Still, biding the five years that it'll take for the courts to decide the boy is dead— and you can get away with a lot of things in five years— Uncle Louis stays in control of the estate. That is," he added, "unless we get something on him.

"And it's on that chance"— he eyed Smiler speculatively— "that I'm scouting around here. I've got a sort of hunch, you see, that if Julian's been done for, this old place is where Uncle Louis'd most likely try to dispose of the body. So, naturally, when I see you monkeying around here—"

"I'm waiting for my boss, Doctor Herschel Sprague," Smiler lied quickly. "Easy enough for you to take my number and satisfy yourself that this is his car. He wanted to stretch his legs, and he told me to jog ahead until he came up."

The trooper was obviously impressed with the plausibility, yet hesitated.

"Well, I guess I'll be moving on."

The trooper, chugging leisurely down the road, was squinting back over his shoulder at him. Smiler could stand it no longer.

"Hi!"

The trooper, halting, waited for him.

"I give up!" Smiler half sobbed.

Then he blurted out the whole story.

The trooper, trundling his machine beside him, walked back with Smiler to the car. One look inside sufficed him.

"It's Julian Delpit all right," he said with a touch of awe. "We've got the corpus delicti at last." Then, with rising excitement: "And you say, Mutton Rosen and Dead-eye threw a fit when they saw him? Get in there"— he gave a jerk of his head toward the driver's seat— "and come over with me to White Plains as fast as you can make it."

At eight o'clock that evening, the trooper with a subdued and shuffling Smiler in tow presented himfself at Doctor Sprague's office.

"You don't want to be too hard on this poor dub, doctor," he said as he concluded his narration of events. "Bonehead as he was, it was through him that we got the tip on Mutton Rosen and Dead-eye what cleared up the whole thing. All unnerved from stumbling onto a victim which they thought was safe at the bottom of New York bay, 'twasn't no trouble to make them come clean. They told how they'd been hired for the job, how they crowded young Delpit into a cellarway, where they slugged him with a section of lead pipe, and then dressed him in old clothes and dumped him that night into the East River. It's all complete and, on the strength of their confession, we've also got old Louis Delpit under arrest.

"Only thing we can't figure"— he shook his head— "is how, over a week later, the body came to be planted in your car."

Doctor Sprague's lips took on a slightly grimmer twist.

"Not so difficult of explanation as you might think," he said reluctantly. "Shortly after my return from the medical college at noon, it was reported to me that a group of students in the attempt to perpetrate a gruesome joke had stolen a body from the dissecting room and, while part of them diverted the attention of my chauffeur, had smuggled it into my machine. With a desire to secure the immediate return of the body and avoid unpleasant notoriety for the college, I telephoned at once to have Foster here await me, and I started for the garage."

"But how on earth did the body get into the dissecting room?" puzzled the officer.

The doctor shrugged his shoulders.

"It was picked up out of the river, I suppose, and taken to the morgue, where it failed of identification, and, in due time, was turned over to the medical college.

"No," he repeated reflectively, "there is nothing especially surprising in that. The incredible thing to me is the amazing chapter of coincidences that led to the unraveling of the crime."

Smiler broke in.

"And what do them rah-rah lads draw out of it?" he inquired sharply.

"The students?" Doctor Sprague pursed up his lips. "Oh, they will probably be expelled."

"Huh!" growled Smiler vindictively, as he thought of his nightmare afternoon.

___________________

3: Trouble

William Merriam Rouse

1884-1937

Complete Story Magazine 25 Jan 1925

"HUNGRY JACK" Barclay lived in the only house on Barn Rock Island, half a mile offshore, but he was never allowed to be lonesome. His place either was or was not a den of iniquity, according to the point of view. Two things were certain: A thirsty man seldom needed to go dry, and there had never been a crooked game of poker played under that roof, not since Hungry Jack had owned it. But it was sometimes rough at Jack's place— so rough that the very air was like sandpaper to a timid soul.

On a fall night when the wind was blowing up Lake Champlain with a roar like a bootlegger's truck there was a good-sized game going on the big table in the front room. It was the beginning of the hard-cider season and some of the best and worst-known citizens of Bildad Road had come out to the island with money to lose. One fight had been quelled by the heavy hand of Jack, and all in all it was a fine evening. Jack himself was eating 'em up, which most favored expression of his own had earned his nickname, and he devoutly attributed his good luck to the horse-chestnut that he carried only for big games because he did not want to wear out its virtues. "Squire" Bill Potter had given it to him to keep off rheumatism, but he had held four aces on the night of the gift and thereafter he firmly believed that this particular horse-chestnut leaned to poker instead of rheumatism.

Except for some anxiety about his buddy, long-legged, good-natured, careless Jimmy Dane, the spirit of Hungry Jack was untroubled. Although Barclay pretended to himself that he didn't know anything about it he had a pretty clear idea that Dane's sloop, loaded with Scotch, was anchored in a cove. Jimmy ought to be on his way instead of playing poker, as he was already under suspicion.

Otherwise all was well. A dozen men sat around the table. Petey Bumps, a small, round man with a round face and a round head, was losing enough to keep him interested. Squire Potter, who sometimes forgot his dignity as justice of the peace and horse doctor, was breaking even. "Slush" Gargan, a bad character with a rust-colored mustache and a slithering eye, was winning something to the regret of all present. The principal interest was being furnished by two outlanders who had come across the lake from Vermont looking for excitement. They were getting it.

Hungry Jack shifted his weight— two hundred and four pounds by the scales at the Corners general store— and drew a deuce and a pair of queens. He already held two deuces, and he allowed a grin to widen his generous mouth and crinkle around his warm-gray eyes. The Vermonters would think he was grinning because he hadn't caught anything and wanted to make them think he had.

The room grew still, except for an occasional wail from the wind. The blue haze of smoke thinned a little as men forgot their pipes for the moment. The fourteen-quart pail of cider remained undisturbed. It became evident that everybody had drawn something. There was a lot of confidence in that hand.

It was at the peak of the strain that the sound of a knock went reverberating through the house from the back door. To tense nerves it seemed as though the knuckles of fate were pounding brazenly. The sound jerked chins up and sent eyes glancing toward windows and doors.

"Prohibitioners!" Whispered Petey Bumps.

At the word Squire Potter faded, like a hoary wraith, into a bedroom. Chairs scraped but the rest sat tight. It was distinctly up to the host and master of ceremonies.

Without perceptible effort Barclay left his seat and started for the kitchen. His compact shoulders swung easily, with a lithe movement not often found in a man of his size. The hand would have to be dealt over. He was most certainly annoyed and he was willing to show it.

As he opened the door he took those precautions which a wise man takes in opening a door at night. He stepped back lightly with one arm swinging, ready to strike or jump aside as the case might require.

Hungry Jack Barclay had been surprised by many things in his thirty years, from a club over the head to a royal flush, but he had never met with quite the shock he received when the owner of the hand that had sent that fateful knock resounding through his entire house stepped boldly into the kitchen.

It was a girl, as dazzling as the night was dark. Jack blinked and drew in a hoarse breath. Her hair was a dark flame and her skin was milk-white, even under the light of the smoky oil lamps. She smiled, and the smile was bright with the gleam of little white teeth, and a dimple. Her eyes were the deep blue of the lake in summer, and just now filled with a look of exceeding caution in spite of the smile. A hundred pounds of girl with the self-confidence of a champion boxer.

"Good evening," she said, as she pulled off a rubber coat that flapped from her shoulders.

"Well," chuckled Barclay, "you can call it that if you want to! It's pretty heavy going on the lake, I guess!"

"Yes!" She smiled again, while her glance went appraisingly about the room. "Is your wife home? Or the womenfolks?"

A stranger, thought Barclay, or she would have known that his was the only place on Barn Rock Island.

"No womenfolks," he replied, willing to pass over that lightly. "Who's with you?"

"Nobody."

"Nobody?" he gasped. "You don't mean to say that youYe running a boat alone in this blow?"

"I blew in!" she laughed. "I'm Annette Croy, the lighthouse keeper's daughter, off Chimney Point. I started to row out to the lighthouse just at dark and lost an oar. I've been blowing up the lake in a skiff ever since."

That was an experience to try a man of stout heart and she was taking it with a laugh. Either she had more nerve than any woman Hungry Jack had ever seen or else she was romancing. Why? Was she a spy for the prohibition officers? He had heard of such things.

"Have a chair, anyway," he invited. He tried to steel his soul but it was not easy to look at her and work up a grouch. Hungry Jack Barclay felt it his duty to stand against all minions of the law except the county sheriff and old-fashioned officers like Squire Potter, who would arrest a man in a neighborly spirit if they had to do it at all.

"No womenfolks," repeated the visitor as she sat down, with the blue eyes meditating upon him. "What do you do out here all alone?"

"Do for womenfolks? Don't need 'em!"

"For a living!" she said emphatically.

"Oh, yes!" Jack scratched his head and wondered whether she were trying to make fun of him. Everybody except the totally deaf had heard of his place. "This is Barn Rock Island. I'm Jack Barclay."

"Well!" she exclaimed. "Those are names, not a living! I don't think our conversation fits very well, do you?"

Barclay grinned amiably. He was willing to be playful, although he was getting a little anxious about the poker game. He had to do something with her pretty soon.

"I keep a health resort," he told her. "The boys come out to rest, from Bildad Road, and all around,this section."

"Oh!" Her gaze became speculative, and in a measure enlightened.

Suddenly she started, with a quick intake of breath. The unlovely and, seen without an accompanying human body, almost grotesque face of Petey Bumps had peeked around the edge of a door. He ducked out of sight as Barclay turned.

"Just one of the boys— patients," explained Jack, soothingly. "He won't hurt you."

"Do you think I'm foolish?" demanded Annette Croy, in a low and somewhat anxious voice. "I know now! You're the one they call Hungry Jack!"

"That's me!" he admitted, and not without a touch of pride.

She looked him up and down with a long and peculiar stare. He felt a warmth increasing about his heart although he wished most fervently that she were somewhere else. If he could have got acquainted with her under other circumstances! It was no place for her here on the island with a poker game running and Jimmy Dane to be looked after.

"My boat's stove in on the rocks," she said, out of the silence.

"I wouldn't take you ashore in a skiff, anyway," said Jack. "Some of the boys'll be going in a motor boat after a while. I'll send you as soon as I can. Meantime, make yourself comfortable here."

She nodded with that slow, searching look still upon his face as he backed out of the room. He hoped she wasn't afraid. He couldn't leave the boys, and Jimmy, now. Darn it! How was he going to get her ashore in the right kind of company?

They had started to play without him. Petey Bumps grinned knowingly as he entered the room, and Slush Gargan looked up with a leer. Squire Potter had come back from retirement and resumed his normal peace and dignity, but he looked at Jack over his spectacles with a grave and disapproving stare.

"Hadn't ought to have no women mixed up with poker!" he said decidedly.

"I don't blame him none," said Petey. "I seen her."

"She's a girl from down the lake,"

explained Barclay, with a profound inward objection to the look upon the face of Gargan. "Her small boat stove in. I got to get her ashore some way to-night."

"Want to get rid of her?" chortled Bumps. "You must be crazy in the head."

"Shut up!" replied Jack. "Deal me a hand."

"Of course he wants to get rid of her!" snorted Squire Potter. "He's running a respectable place."

"Like hell he is!" growled one of the Vermonters. "I'm losing my shirt!"

"I'll take her ashore," volunteered Gargan, as though that settled the matter.

"The Squire'll take her," said Barclay frowning.

"Hey? No, sir! No women in my boat!"

Hungry Jack grunted, being deep in consideration of whether to draw to a bobtail flush, but in the back of his mind he determined that Slush Gargan and Annette Croy were not going ashore in the same boat. He would wait until he got Jimmy off and then take her himself if need be. It wouldn't be so unpleasant.

With the next hand Gargan and one of the Vermonters pulled out of the game. The outlander had a good excuse for pulling out, and for his grouch, because he had lost not only his shirt but the collar buttons with it. Gargan, however, stood about even. Barclay became uneasy when Slush left the room, ostensibly to draw a fresh pail of cider.

The game needed all of his attention but Hungry Jack could not give it although he was helping to run up one of the best jack pots of the evening. As time passed and Gargan did not come back he grew worried, and it was just as he was pulling in an armful of chips and a brace of black looks from the heaviest losers that a cry, ringing with urgency, came out of the kitchen.

"Jack Barclay!"

That the girl had called him by name gave wings to his feet. His chair spun backward as he leaped up. Silence and immobility descended upon the players as Hungry Jack charged through the doorway.

She was in a corner of the kitchen with the stove poker swinging in front of her. Slush Gargan stood beyond the arc of the poker, pulled by two minds. He glanced over his shoulder, scowling. Barclay felt proud of the girl. Not for nothing was her hair that rich, dark red. Instead of hysterics she had taken to the poker.

"Let her alone, Slush," he warned, advancing.

"Blah!" snarled Gargan. "If you don't want her yourself what do you care?"

"She don't want to be bothered," Barclay told him. "And that's quite enough!"

"A girl that comes to a joint like this—"

The muscle-padded hand of Barclay moved with that quickness which had deceived the eye of the enemy many a time before. It took Slush Gargan by the coat collar and jerked him backward, over a tripping foot. He piled up in the wood box, with his feet higher than his head.

"I'm running this joint, if it is a joint!" said Hungry Jack. "There's different kinds of joints!"

Slush Gargan pulled himself out of the wood box and in a silence discreet but far from loving took himself out of the kitchen.

"Neat!" exclaimed Annette Croy, in a small and slightly shaky voice. But she managed a laugh.

"Keep your nerve," chuckled Barclay approvingly. "I'm having a little extra trouble to-night, that's all."

"That's what my father calls me," she said. "He calls me Trouble'— and I guess he's right."

"I'd like to have that kind of trouble," blurted Jack, somewhat to his own astonishment. With silent fury he realized that he was blushing and, just to show that he wasn't as simple as he must look, he decided that it was necessary for him to try to kiss her. He took three tenative steps. The poker raised itself.

"Shucks!" he said, stopping. "You needn't be afraid. I wouldn't hurt you!"

"I know you wouldn't!" Her mouth quirked. "You're a nice man!"

"I'm a roughneck!" protested Hungry Jack stoutly. If he were a nice man he might as well join the sewing circle at the Corners. If that was all the impression lie had made upon her he was discouraged with himself.

"Why don't you quit?" she asked irrelevantly.

"Quit what?"

"Whatever you're doing!"

"Now look here!" he exclaimed firmly. "I'm busting up my luck in a poker game to take care of you, and I'll get you ashore safe and sound, but I'll be cussed if I'll be reformed! That goes as it lays!"

"Nobody wants to reform you!" she flared. "I don't think you're worth it, anyhow!"

Hungry Jack plunged to the depths of contrition. It was awful to have her look as mad as that when she looked at him; it was all right for her to look that way at Slush Gargan but not at Jack Barclay.

"I guess I was scared of being reformed," he admitted, "and that's what made me bark at you! Don't get mad!"

He stood grinning his most doglike grin. Slowly a smile curved her lips again as the lightnings faded.

"You ought to be spanked! A man like you running a poker game— bootlegging, probably! Heaven knows what else you're up to!"

"I'll bet I get more of a kick out of life than you do!" chuckled Barclay. It was a long time since he had enjoyed anything so much as this evening.

"Don't be too sure about that!" she told him darkly. "I've a good mind to take you in hand and make you behave yourself!"

The heart of Hungry Jack leaped and cavorted. More and more he liked this girl. He approved of her. He admired her. While reform was far from his thoughts he knew that he would enjoy having her try to reform him, and yet something whispered to him that her methods might not be as gentle as a man would like. Of course he didn't want to get married but he couldn't help wondering if a girl like that would marry him, all steeped in iniquity as some of the people at the Corners said he was. Probably not; so that was all right.

"If you'll let me come to see you some time I'll let you preach to me," he told her. "I could listen a long time to most anything you wanted to say."

"I'd do more than preach! I'd—"

It was written that what she would do to him was not to be told Hungry Jack Barclay at that moment. Her words were clipped off by the swooping passage through the room of Squire Bill Potter. Barclay had never seen him in quite such a hurry but he hung fluttering for an instant in the kitchen, like a white-haired humming bird, to fling at them one word.

"Prohibitioners!"

Then he was gone through the back doorway. From the front room came the crash of glass. Some guest had carried away a window in his eagerness to depart. The sound of a shot came from outside. Suddenly Jimmy Dane was in the kitchen, his face stamped with a look of hurt bewilderment.

"They've jumped me!" he cried hoarsely. "Slush Gargan signaled 'em with a lantern! I caught the skunk at it myself!"

Jack Barclay had three things to think of at once— the girl, the safety of his buddy,, and his own fate. There was only one way to save the other two.

"Beat it, Jimmy!" he cried. "I'll hold 'em some way long enough for the sloop to make a get-away!"

He pushed Dane bodily out of the room and turned to the girl. He noticed that she still held the poker. She was a little pale, but even in that crowded moment he was conscious, with a thrill of admiration that she showed no signs of panic.

"Get into the pantry!" he commanded. "Stay there! You don't want to be found here!"

She hesitated but she went. He saw that she left the door open a matter of two or three inches. Then came a rush of heavy feet in the front room. Towering into the kitchen, a six-foot stranger with an ugly look in his eyes swung an automatic pistol. Barclay remained motionless. The stranger flung back his coat and showed a gleaming badge. Behind him crowded two other men with pistols, and then Slush Gargan. Gargan laughed.

"Well!" snapped Barclay; "What's it all about?"

"Where's the hooch?" demanded the leader.

Evidently Gargan had not known that Dane's load was on board his sloop. So much the better. By the time they got through looking for something that wasn't there Jimmy would have run a long way before the wind.

"What hooch?"

"Cut it out, you bum! Come through and save yourself trouble!"

"Find it yourself!" grinned Jack.

"Watch that guy!" growled the leader to one of his men. "Come on, Gargan! You know the place!"

Slush Gargan started toward the pantry and the complacency of Barclay went like a puff of smoke. No matter what happened he would not let that girl be brought forth to the shame of being found hiding at Hungry Jack's place on Barn Rock Island. No, and if Slush should lay his hand upon her Barclay rather thought he would get himself shot.

"Keep out of there, Gargan!" he roared. "There's no hooch in' the pantry!"

"Shut up!" commanded the big leader.

"And keep shut up!" added Gargan with a sneer. "We're running this show, you big stiff."

Slush reached out and curled his fingers around the knob of the door, pushing slowly as he glanced back in triumph at Barclay. A glance that endured for an instant only. Then his rusty mustache lifted to a howl of utter woe. He danced, and shook frantically, the hand that had been on the door-knob. He thrust that hand into his mouth, still dancing. Barclay understood that he had seen something lick out of the darkness of the pantry, like the tongue of a snake, and he knew that Annette Croy had not taken the poker with her in vain.

To the others in the room there was no such explanation of the phenomenon. To see a man dance upon the air without visible cause is enough, for a moment, to take one's mind even from a prisoner held at the muzzle of a pistol. The three invaders had turned as one toward the strange antics of Slush Gargan.

Up to this point Hungry Jack Barclay had not been in danger of jail— at least not so far as he knew. But now, for the sake of that girl, he threw away the hope of that liberty which was to him more precious than life. He leaped and kicked, and the pistol that had wavered slightly from its pointing at him during the past three seconds rapped up against the ceiling. Before it struck the floor Barclay had driven his mighty fist, wrist-deep, into the stomach of the leader.

One down, and three more to go. The room filled with the heavy roar of an automatic but as it spoke Hungry Jack was lifting the still helpless Gargan by shirt collar and belt. The shot brought down only a sparkle of plaster from the wall. Barclay sent Slush crashing against the man who had fired and turned to meet the enemy from whose hand he had kicked the pistol.

The man was bending down for the gun. It spoke as he straightened up and Barclay felt a red-hot line drawn across his thigh. For the first time in years he was really angry from the soles of his feet to his bristling hair. With a grunt of rage he twisted the pistol away and drove the man the length of the room with a single blow. He wished there were forty of them instead of four.

He'd take them all prisoner and hang their hides on the barn in the morning! That is, he would tell them that was what he was going to do. Pick on a poor, innocent girl, would they? He remembered the cellar as a nice place to keep people who got too fresh and with a swooping paw he grabbed the man who was just struggling out from under Gargan.

He dragged him to the cellar door and cast down into the blackness there. Slush Gargan went next, and then the big leader of the raiding party. When the last one had gone thumping down the stairs Barclay shot the bolt on the door and stepped away lightly, glaring and breathing hard through his nose. He was almost sorry that it was over.

Annette! He ran to the pantry and burst in. Empty darkness met him. He was bewildered until a gust from the wind-blown night came through an open window. He told himself that she had fled in terror from the crash of battle in the kitchen. He went back and gathered up a pistol. He would need that when they began to try to break out of the cellar. He wanted to look for the girl but he hesitated whether to leave the guarding of that door.

Then without warning the outside door burst open and Annette Croy dashed into the room, bronze hair flying and the light of battle in her blue eyes. Her glance swept the kitchen and came to rest upon the face of Barclay. The doorway behind her filled with what seemed to him like an army of men, bearing rifles. She lifted a small hand and laid a finger upon her lips.

"It's all right!" she cried over her shoulder, with a warning glance at Hungry Jack. "Come in, gentlemen! What have you done with those fellows, Mr. Barclay?"

"Huh ?" he gurgled, staring from her to the half dozen grim faces which looked at him.

"Oh, they've shot you!" She nipped the pistol from his grasp and thrust him limply into a chair. Sure enough, one leg of his trousers had been slashed by the bullet. Probably this second army of prohibitioners would fix the other leg for him. He felt himself growing red, like a fool. Why couldn't he get shot somewhere else when there was a girl around

"Where you got 'em?" demanded a square-jawed man who came and stood over him. This one also had a badge upon his waistcoat. Hungry Jack waved a discouraged hand toward the cellar door. It was too much to have two raids in one night, and now he'd go up for a hundred thousand years and never see the red head of Annette Croy any more.

He saw the streaking white shafts from flash lights and heard harsh commands issued upon the ce'llar stairs. Annette Croy was fussing at his wound, while he squirmed with embarrassment. She bent close to his ear and whispered fiercely.

"Wake up, you dumb-bell! You're a hero! You've captured a lot of bootleggers, or something, for the government! Those other fellows are faking! These officers are the real thing! I know Tom Blanchard, the chief, and everything's all right! I looked out of the pantry window and saw Tom's face with a flash light on it while they were sneaking up on the house, and the rest was easy! I got out and told him that I was stranded here and that you were saving me from a gang of roughnecks !"

"Hijackers!" gasped Barclay. "I don't care if they do get pinched!"

Up the cellar stairs came a procession led by Slush Gargan, from whom the triumph had gone utterly. It limped across the kitchen, under the guns of the officers, and out into the night, Blanchard remained behind for a moment.

"You sure are a bird, Barclay!" he said. "That big fellow is a chink smuggler and a man-killer! You're all right!

Only— Say— I'll forget that I came here for something else— this time. I won't remember that I thought I had something on you. Get me? You're a good guy. But keep out of trouble after this! Want us to take you along, Miss Croy?"

"Oh, no!" she said sweetly. "Mr. Barclay was just going to run me over to the mainland when all this happened."

When the door had closed behind Officer Tom Blanchard the honeyed quality left the voice and face of Annette Croy. She considered Hungry Jack Barclay with three straight lines running up and down between her arched and delicate eyebrows.

"Now!" she cried. "What are you going to do about it?"

"About what?" asked Barclay feebly. He rubbed his leg and became intent upon the slash in his trousers.

"Look me in the eye," she commanded. "You know what! You're all respectable now— and everything! Are you going to stay that way or not?"

"I—" began Barclay. His head whirled. A change of heart might be worth while but he didn't want it to come on him too suddenly. He swallowed. "Maybe—I'll—"

"Oh!" She flung up her head. "I don't think I'll bother with you any more."

He saw the copper sheen of her hair, the soft curve of her cheek, and visioned them as lost. The man-eating roughneck trembled.

"I'd made up my mind to quit!" he cried hastily. "Only I didn't want to call it reform!"

"Ah!" Her eyes suddenly became lakes of smiles. "I knew you were a nice man from the first minute I saw you."

"Trouble," said Hungry Jack, with perfect resignation to his fate, "is the right name for you!"

______________________

4: Coastwise Murder

H Bedford-Jones

1887-1949

Adventure, 1 April 1930

GROWING daylight slowly disclosed the occupants of the boat to one another, as though to mitigate the unpleasant surprise of the situation by giving every one a chance for adjustment. All the surprise, however, was on the part of Carson. He had expected to wake up in heaven or hell; not in an open boat.

His last memory was of getting a nasty crack on the head and pitching off the bridge into the black waters. He had just taken over the bridge from the second officer— who was, as usual when leaving Hongkong, drunk— when the old Feng Shan ripped out her bottom and went down in no time. There had been an ungodly squabble on the upper deck; officers and Sikh guards shooting, Chinese rushing the boats, lights out and the devil to pay. Carson, the mate, had been try- ing to get his own boat lowered when they jumped him.

"First time I ever heard of a senseless man swimming and hauling himself into a boat!" he muttered. "But nobody else hauled me aboard, that's sure."

True enough. The sea was empty, showing neither boats nor wreckage; since the Feng Shan had gone down about midnight, there was no telling whether this one boat had drifted.The mountains of the China coast showed vaguely against the western sky, so things were not half bad. Satisfied, Carson shifted his attention to the occupants of the boat.

These numbered four. Carson lay slumped up in the bow. Lying on a for ward thwart facing him was a Chinese gentleman, eyes wide open, blood coagulated beneath his arm— quite dead. A knife thrust under the shoulder blade, as Carson later discovered, had done the business; probably during the melee on deck. Only, the gentleman's embroidered silk garments were much disarranged, as though he had been well rifled. Curious, that.

On the next thwart aft sat a woman— a Chinese woman— looking straight at Carson as he drew himself up on stiffened knees. He remembered having seen her aboard when they left Hongkong; first class, too, therefore probably a Hongkong lady and a British subject. Her garments were of finest silk, heavily embroidered. Her face was like old and beautiful ivory, but she was by no means old; her black hair was brushed back from her forehead and fastened in balls on either side of her head with jeweled pins. Except for the lack of the usual paint on her face, she might have been sitting quietly at home. On her right arm was a bracelet of brown Han jade, which compared favorably in value with fine diamonds. Her earrings were of large pink pearls, and her necklace of graduated pearls was probably real.

Carson blinked at her, found no expression, no life, in her face, except for its delicate flush; an exquisite face in its way, like a flower. He looked past her. In the stern was a huddled figure, snoring, sound asleep—a man, probably a passenger, by his clothes.

"Huh," said Carson, feeling his head and discovering nothing worse than a bump. "If you don't object, I'll get rid of this."

He touched the body before him. The Chinese lady said nothing, made no sign.

With an effort Carson heaved up the body and slid it across the gunwale. He noticed that it was not set in rigor mortis, except at the extremities, and wondered, somewhat; the man could not have been dead very long. With the heave, with the slight rippling splash, the boat rocked. The man in the stern sat up, rubbing his eyes.

Then Carson recollected him— he had met tha chap at dinner. Some sort of business man going to Kwangchow.

"Hello, King," he said. "Feeling fit?"

"Uh-huh." King stared at him and the lady in surprise, then looked around. King was well dressed. His jaw was heavy, his face angular and powerful, his eyes resolute. He shoved black hair back from his sloping forehead and his eyes came to rest on Carson.

"You're the mate, eh? Where's every one else?"

Carson merely gestured for answer. He was looking now at the Chinese lady, whose eyes were following the bobbing corpse with an odd expression. Along the hem of her gaily broidered coat skirt he noticed a red smear— it could by no means have got there had she been sitting on the thwart all the while. Was it possible, then, that—

"Oh, well, what of it? Not my funeral," said Carson to himself. Then, aloud, "All right, King? Then come along and lend a hand. We'll get the mast stepped. This is one time we can thank the Lord for Board of Trade regulations! Water, grub, mast, sail— all shipshape."

King made his way forward, the lady drawing aside for him; evidently she un derstood English— probably spoke it perfectly. As indeed she did.

When King came closer, Carson comprehended the reason for that snoring slumber, saw it in the bloodshot eyes, sniffed it in the evil breath. King had not even flung the cog- nac bottle overboard, but had left it in the stern sheets. Carson shrugged and directed the work.

THE MORNING was clear as a bell, with a light breeze that heeled the boat gently and sent her slipping through the water toward the blue mountains. Carson de cided that they must have struck one of the shoals off the Flies, and that the boat had drifted farther out to sea before dawn. The Old Man had warned the second officer about those shoals, too.

Well, things were not so bad, reflected Carson philosophically. Good weather, plenty of grub and water and the coast within sight. Funny about that dead Chinese, though!

He had broken out food and water and tried to be polite to the Chinese lady, but she was like a graven image of old ivory. She would not speak a word, but Carson had an idea that she knew everything that was said. She sat there looking out across the horizon. It was different with King, who lent a hand with alacrity, then pottered around the impassive lady, talked a bit with Carson and finally went back to sleep on the thwart between them. Carson decided that he was no gentleman; he had lost a good deal of surface veneer since the previous evening, had twice addressed the lady in Mandarin, and behind her back had winked suggestively at Carson in a way the mate did not fancy at all.

And there was something else. A look or two had passed— just a glance, between King and the Chinese lady; but they had set Carson wondering. He knew when there was a hidden meaning in looks.

At noon the breeze fell to nothing, with the coast seven or eight miles away. The Chinese lady had realized that she was being sunburned; she refused food, edged down beneath the thwart and lay with her silken jacket half over her head. Carson slipped out of his own white jacket, long since dried, and passed it to King, who had now wakened.

"Put it over her, poor woman!" King obeyed; and Carson was certain that he whispered something to her as he spread the jacket over her head and shoulders. Then King came clawing aft again, hungry. He and Carson opened a tin of bully beef and got out the biscuit. Refreshed by his sleep, King was voluble.

"How'd you get off?" asked Carson as he munched.

"Happened to be on the upper deck," said King. "This boat was put over and the crowd rushed me over toward it. To tell the truth, I'd been drinking a bit and I'm not sure just what did happen— it was a hell of a muss. When I came around a bit, I was floating in what looked. to be an empty boat and I was cold. Had a bottle of cognac and hit it up. After awhile I went to sleep and didn't wake up again until daylight."

Carson squinted at the distant blue hills. His angular features, his slightly faded blue eyes, gave no hint of his thoughts; as a matter of fact he did not believe a word of King's story. It was not likely— any of it.

"How'd a dead chink get aboard?" asked Carson reflectively.

"Didn't see any!" said King in surprise. "She ain't dead."

"The man."

Carson looked at him calmly. "You didn't wake up in time. I put him over."

"First I'd heard of it," and King shook his head. "What man was he?"

"How in hell would I know that?" de manded Carson. "She never said a word. Who is she?"

King glanced over his shoulder at the covered figure.

"Some rich John's wife," he said, low voiced. "High caste. By the way, there'll be some big insurance paid over what happened last night! Some important chaps aboard. One of 'em was Quong, the Macao pearl merchant. I'd met him two or three times; fine man, too."

Carson's eyes lingered on King.

"Macao?"

"Uh-huh. I've done business with him there. Saw him last week'— he said he was taking this boat. I had dinner with him, in fact." King was almost boasting now, oddly enough. "I expect he had a fist full o' pearls along. He goes up to Shanghai twice a year to peddle 'em around. Well, he won't go any more!"

Carson nodded and handed over a pannikin of water, taking one for himself.

The wind came up again; half an hour later the brazen sky was half veiled by a wrack of rising clouds that covered the sun. King, who had plenty of cigars and cigarets, shared them with Carson and then went forward and roused up the woman. She had been asleep.

When Carson beckoned her aft she obeyed, King helping her.

"Better sit here in front of me," said Carson. "King, stay for'ard there and handle the sheet. An hour of this and we'll make the land—just in time, too. It'll blow a bit tonight."

"Where are we?" King turned, scrutinizing the coast. "Anywhere near shelter?"

Carson shook his head.

"No, but it might be worse. We can land on one of the islands; all islands along here. When the blow's past we can haul up for Macao— ought to make it by to- morrow night, unless we speak a ship first. We sailed on the tide yesterday afternoon and hadn't gone a great ways by midnight— not above fifty knots. We can haul up for the north tonight, unless weather comes. Looks like squalls, but they may pass over by night."

King bit at a cigar and relapsed into silence. The Chinese lady sat leaning against the weather gunwale of the boat as it heeled, and she must have felt that Carson was scrutinizing her, for she turned and met his eyes.

"Feeling all right?" he asked.

"Yes, thanks," she returned in English.

He smiled.

"So you haven't lost your tongue, eh? What's your name?"

"Lady Ming," she said, and Carson read in her eyes that she lied. Carson was nobody's fool.

"That dead man was your husband?"

"No," she said. "I never saw him before."

"Oh, hell," said Carson disgustedly.

He was glad when presently she turned away again; somehow, he felt better with her back toward him. There was some white blood in her, he decided. Certainly she was beautiful in her way; at the same time, he felt uncomfortable with her looking at him. He was no saint, and he had been in many ports. He could imagine what a blazing creature she would be with passion stirring in her and all that statuesque poise departed.

"Hell!" he reflected. "Let them as likes 'em have 'em! King, for instance. Something between the two of them, all right."

The weather wrinkles deepened about his eyes as he squinted ahead, and his thin lips became set in a line. It was none of his business, of course; yet he began to think about that Chinese gentleman with the knife wound in his back, lying dead on the thwart, eyes wide open. Perhaps the knife thrust had been given in the jam aboard the sinking coaster, perhaps the yellow man had quietly bled to death—perhaps not. Hard to say.

"Wish I had the pilot here now— I'd know all about these islands in a minute," muttered Carson. He was thinking about his job; but the subconscious part of his brain was still thinking about the three others who had been in the boat.

And, even before he realized it, even while he watched the first burst of rain sweeping down across the water, the thing was getting all straightened out in his mind. Guesswork, of course. He forgot he had given Lady Ming the lie direct.

THE DRENCHING downpour had passed them over, soaking them to the skin, happily filling the water breaker, leaving ankle deep water sloshing around in the bottom of the boat. She heeled over a little more as she turned to the tiller, rounding the point of the island, making for the sheltered patch of sandy beach.

King crouched, eyes all for the shore. Lady Ming had not moved; the thin drenched silks clung tightly to her supple body, outlining every curve and contour of its slim length. Carson looked from her to the water and back again to her. When her coat blew back for an instant, he was looking at the bulge by her hip, and had a clear glimpse of it; he knew sharkskin when he saw it. He smiled thinly and bided his time. He had conceived a mounting dislike for Lady Ming.

They were safe enough now; there would be squall after squall, perhaps until sunset, but there was no hurry. Sunset would bring peace, and they could embark again without danger of rain and waves filling the boat. King, oddly enough, had removed his coat when the first burst of rain came and had rolled it up into a tight bundle below the thwart, as though to preserve something from the water. Carson saw that, too, and shrugged. None of his business, of course, yet it was in keeping.

These islands here were all slabs and spikes of rock, some bare and sandy, some overgrown with grass, some merging with the inland hills. This one was small, grassy, uninhabited. The strip of beach gave no shelter from great combers rolling in over the sea, but there were no combers now, with these squalls. The rain kept the waves down, and all the wild trouble lay up above in the sky, not in the water. So, with no surf to hinder, the boat's nose ran in and touched the sand with a jar, but she was still a few feet out from shore.

"Over, King, and haul her up!" rose Carson's voice. "I'll bring the lady. Here, Lady Ming, take my hand, now—"

She rose obediently, when King had jumped awkwardly over. Carson rose also. Something happened— a boat lurches quickly, beyond any warning. Without a sound or a cry Lady Ming pitched into the water. Carson was after her instantly, waist deep. She was struggling now; he gripped for her, seemed to have difficulty in locating her. His right hand slid something into his hip pocket, and then he had her in his left arm, holding her up as she choked, lifting her well above the water.

"Sorry," he said, but with a smile in his eyes. "No great harm done. There you are!"

He set her on the sand and turned back to help King with the boat, unshipping the tiller, unstepping the mast, laying aside everything not lashed down. Be- tween them they got the boat up sufficiently and tipped her over.

"Better carry those stores up to the rocks," said King. "We'll have a fire, eh?" "Good idea," approved Carson. "The smoke will draw native boats, but we'll be gone before they venture out to us."

Lady Ming followed them up to where great rocks jutted from the sand, giving shelter from wind and rain. The two men carried up the stores, load by load; she sat down in the sand and watched them, her face placid as the dawn in which her glowing jewels of eyes were set. Once, and once only, her hand went to her thigh and slipped along the silk, and her eyes widened a little and then fastened upon Carson. She said nothing, however.

King had fetched up his coat, still wrapped in a ball, and set it by a rock aside.

"Got a knife?" asked Carson idly. "I'd better look about and shred up some dry sticks. Not many matches to waste in that waterproof box. Must have a knife, though—any kind."

King hung fire for an instant, then fumbled in his wet pocket.

"Sure, I've got my old faithful here," he said. "There y'are. I'll be getting after some dry wood, too. Better have a drink all around, with this soaking?"

Carson pocketed the large knife and nodded. He went to the stores; the brandy was intact, and he measured out a stiff drink all around. Then he went off up among the jutting rocks, out of sight. When he was gone, Lady Ming abruptly lost her statesque silence, her calm poise. She came to her feet, color leaping in her cheeks, and caught at the wrist of King.

"He knows!" she said, a species of gasping utterance behind her words. "He knows! He— he took them; he tipped the boat purposely! He took them while I was under water—"

King started, staring at her. His eyes widened in a moment of fright, then his face altered and hardened suddenly; the hot blood ebbed out of his cheeks and his hands clenched into two hard knots.

"No!" he said thickly. "You— you're wrong. He couldn't know; you said when he came aboard he slumped down and was unconscious!"

She nodded.

"I thought so. Perhaps I was wrong. He says I'm a liar, Charley. He knows who I am after all. He's been playing with us— and he took them." Her ivory face was gray now, her eyes wide and luminous. King shook himself, freed his wrist from her grip.

"All right," he said harshly. "Leave it to me." He went to the pile of stores and gulped at the brandy. Then he strode over to the ball beside the rock and lifted his coat, shook it out, took something from within the folds and shoved it into the pocket. He put the coat on, smoothed it out carefully and waved his hand to Lady Ming.

"My job," he said. "You've done your part. Be back soon."

He strode away, walking with swift, resolute strides, in the direction which Carson had taken. Another squall was sweeping down, the wind whistling among the rocks that jutted from the sand and merged with the backbone of the island.

THERE was no lack of small stuff among the upper rocks, all sorts of dry stuff in nooks and crannies, but Carson was in no hurry to garner it. Once well away to himself, he took out the knife King had given him and examined it with a slight grimace, as though the touch of it were keenly distasteful. It was a large, heavy knife of peculiar pattern; Carson had seen this pattern before. The main blade worked on a spring, and shot out suddenly under his pressure; a three-inch shaft of steel, worked to a razor edge on both sides— a knife, perhaps, but also a poniard.

Holding it up, Carson examined it closely and grimaced again. All the blade was clean and shining; but at its base, and in the notch of the haft that had enclosed the blade, was a minute discoloration that flaked away under his finger nail. Carson closed the knife and put it in his pocket.

"Hm!" he said, looking up at the sky. "Hard to wipe a knife clean in the dark. eh? And Chinaman's blood is just the same as mine, I guess. Blood's blood, when it comes to that."

He reached around to his hip pocket. Now there came into his hand a case, not unlike a cigar case in shape, but longer. It was a rather beautiful thing of sharkskin— not coarse shagreen at all, but worked into fine and lissom shape, yet so stout as to protect whatever lay inside. It was in two parts, so made that one fitted over the other, not too tightly, yet just tight enough. Carson pulled them apart and inspected the one which was the cover. As he had thought, Chinese characters were brushed on the lining of one side; and on the other, in English, was written, "Quong Li, Macao".

"So!" muttered Carson musingly, and his eyes darkened. "Pretty good guesser, eh? None of my business, of course; just the same, that fool had to blab. Smart! They have to prove how smart they are, eh? Let's see, now— "

He prodded the cotton which filled the inner part of the case, prodded it with his finger, felt harder globules within the cotton. He did not examine to see what they were, however; there was no need. He reflectively telescoped the shagreen case together again and then, after a moment, glanced up. He saw King coming toward him, but the contempt and anger which filled his salt rimmed eyes quite blinded him to the fact that King was now wearing his coat. Otherwise, Carson would have observed it. He made no effort to hide the case, but stood with it in his hand as the other man approached.

"Well?" said King, with assumed geniality. "Finding much?"

"Yes," said Carson. "A good deal."

King stopped short, looking at this thin featured, inflexible man whose eyes burned out at him so contemptuously. Danger here, acute danger; King wet his lips, hesitated.

"Let me tell you something," said Carson, quite without any heat, in a dispas- sionate way. "None o' my business, of course, but I'd like you to know what a ratty little brute you are, King. I want to tell you what happened last night— I've remembered about that gun going off so damned fast by the No. 3 boat. It goes back beyond that, back to Macao— quite a good friend of Quong, weren't you? Visited in his home, met his No. 1 wife and so forth. Yeah. Took the same boat with him for Kwangchow."

A mortal pallor had stolen into King's features.

"What you talking about?" he growled. "You," said Carson calmly. "Luck helped you no end last night, didn't it? You got Quong and his wife into that boat— drunk, my eye! You had the liquor, but you were cursed sober. Whatever you had framed up with her, luck played into your hand, eh? You bet. And you got away with the boat, the three of you, drifting there. And Quong went to sleep on the for'ard thwart— and then you bit him like the rats you are. She took him by the neck and held him there and you put the knife into him; right place, too. That's why his eyes stayed open and his hands were so queer. Held him till you pulled it out, and smeared blood on her coat to boot. Then you guzzled the brandy and fell asleep, while she looted him."

"You're crazy!" said King, in a shrill, thin voice. His hands were shaking. "You're stark mad—mad!"

"Not a bit of it," said Carson. "None o' my business, but— "

"You damned sneak!" cried out King. The voice, the cry, seemed to come from him like an explosion. His right hand fumbled in his pocket. "You sneak— "

The automatic pistol leaped out and vomited a jet of flame, even as Carson realized his peril and leaped forward. Again came the crash, and a third staccato report echoed up among the jutting rocks. Carson was jerked around as by an invisible hand and plunged down head first, and lay there.

"You damned fool!" said King, panting, looking down wide eyed at his victim. "None of your business—no, I guess not!" He dabbed sweat from his eyes, thrust the pistol into his pocket, then stooped and caught up the shagreen case, which had fallen at his feet. Then he turned and hurried away, broke into a run and was gone.

Lady Ming— a much more decorative name than the commonplace Mrs. Quong Li, and related to more aristocratic families— had regained her usual composure and was sitting in the lee of an overhanging mass of rock when King approached. The sky had blackened, and another burst of rain was threatening down the shrieking wind.

She watched him draw near, only the suggestion of an inquiry in her liquid dark eyes. He too had mastered his emotions; he came striding up vigorously, with the resolute air of one who has trampled down all fears and menaces, and there was a gay swagger in his manner as he halted and chucked the shagreen case plump into her lap.

"There you are!" he exclaimed, and laughed. "And now we don't have to be so damned careful any more— What do I get, eh?"

She lifted her face and smiled— the curiously transforming smile which was like a flame breaking through those delicate features of old ivory. King stooped and pressed his lips to hers; but a patter of rain swept down—it was no time for romance.

"Did you—" she hesitated. King laughed again, confidently. "Sure. We had a talk. He knew, all right. Blessed if I can see how! But he had the whole thing laid out as though he'd seen it. You were right—he was a deep 'un. Well, he's safe now, and so are we. I plumped three bullets into him, took the pearls and everything's jake."

"You are wonderful!" she said, in smilingly drawled accents. King snig gered and got out a cigar and crowded into the shelter beside her.

"I'll light a fire as soon as this rain lets up," he said. "Then we can be comfortable. Look at the sky! It's clearing."

The sky to west and north was, indeed, turning into a vivid blue; but the squalls would not cease for a long while. Lady Ming looked at her protector and smiled again. "You are wonderful!" she said for the second time.

"The boat—can you manage it?"

"Sure, sure," he said confidently, but his eyes were not confident as they shifted toward the shore. The boat was out of sight; they were in among the jutting masses of rock, and the strip of beach could not be seen from this point. With the downpour of rain, in fact, one could not see fifty feet away. "No trouble about that," said King.

"We ain't fifty mile from Macao. He said so himself. Nothing to do but follow the coast north, see? I'll manage it, all right. You've done your part, little lady, and I'll do mine."

"You are wonderful!" she said again, and her ivory face touched his unshaven cheek.

THE FIGURE of Carson lay motionless among the rocks, the left side of his shirt all crimsoned. The downpouring rain soon washed away the crimson, however, until it was only a faint reddish stain. Blue sky showed in the west and north, and the cloud wrack slowly scattered and drove out of the sky; another and an- other squall beat down, but they were only final efforts of the elements. The wind would be puffy, uneven, dangerous, all through the evening; but by morning it would be back to normal monsoon. Later in the afternoon the sun was blazing forth as though nothing had happened at all.

It fell upon the drenched, bloodless figure of Carson and dried it, enveloped it in a mantle of warmth and wakened it into life; for there was still life in the lean body. In fact, Carson was snoring as he lay there, until the warmth brought him out of his slumber.

He stirred, opened his eyes, came to one elbow— and groaned. His face, a bloodless mask, contorted in agony; but he sat up and took stock of himself; he still had King's knife in his pocket, and he got this out and opened it, cutting at his shirt.

Presently he was naked to the waist, except for grotesque patches where his shirt was fastened to his body. He left these alone, after exploring them gingerly. Two bullets had struck him; one had missed. Of the two, one leaden pellet had hit high up, raking a nasty gash across his neck and shoulder, but doing no great damage. The other had struck lower down, tearing through the tissues of his side. He was not certain, but thought one rib at least was broken. Fortunately, the bullet had ripped clear of him, leaving a gash as though made by a butcher's cleaver.

Rain had cleansed the wounds and washed away the blood; the later bleeding had coagulated so that the shirt was stuck hard and fast. The wounds were now well stopped by the patches of shirt Carson left in place.

With what remained of the shirt he contrived a bandage about his body to hold the lower and more dangerous wound as it was. The scrape across his shoulder he disdained to bandage. When this was done he came to his feet— and staggered.

Only then did he realize his stiffness, his weakness. Blood had drained out of him. His whole left side was so stiff that any arm movement was torture— yet he could use his arm if necessary. He looked up at the sun, which was close to the western hills.

"Half an hour of daylight, eh?" he reflected. "Question is, do I want to find that ruddy blighter or not? I'm in no shape to jump him, even if he didn't have his gun. However, must do it— the only hope I have is that boat."

He did not waste any breath or energy on curses, but he thought a good deal. A hollow among the rocks held a little pool of rain water. He staggered to it, painfully lowered himself and drank his fill. Then he got to his feet again and headed for the beach.

His progress was slow, for it hurt him even to walk; but he forged doggedly ahead, now and again pausing to lean against a rock. The boat meant escape; its stores and water meant existence. Even without the food and drink, the boat would do— he could last for a day or two on the resources of his body. Dragging himself along, he came at last to where he had left King and Lady Ming, and the stores. Nothing was here except the still warm ashes of a fire, and foot- prints that had been made when the sand was wet.

Carson compressed his lips and went on, heading now for the beach. After a time he got glimpses of it between the jutting rock masses. He plodded on until at length it came clearly into his sight.

And it was empty.

Calm, complete calm had fallen; in the glory of sunset everything, rocks and mountains and water, was bathed in dazzling golden light. Carson leaned back against a rock and squinted at the water. There was no boat, no sail in sight.

Sudden puffs of wind struck across the water in sharply edged catspaws, then were gone again. Carson, recovering from the shock of this emptiness, glanced at the promontory to his right.

"She's probably out there, heading for the north. I could see her if I got across to that sand spit," he muttered. "But what's the use? I don't want to see her. Better make sure, though— they left good tracks— must ha' got off as soon as things cleared up. Currents like mill races all along here, too."

He followed the tracks toward where the boat had been at high tide; the tide was out now. The sun died out as he came to the tracked up sand at high water mark. Day was almost done. A pair of oars lay on the sand; the others had been lashed beneath the thwarts, probably were still there— King had no knife now.

Carson smiled grimly at the thought as he studied the sand and its marks. They had worked together, King and the Chinese lady, getting the boat over and shoved down to the water—no light job for them, either. He could see their heel marks, proving how they had tugged and shoved. Making up the coast, probably; and Carson's grim, ironic smile came out again at the notion of it.

He had discovered during the morning that King knew less than nothing about handling a boat. Much less a boat under sail.So they had put out together, had they— out where the wind puffs were still flicking down from the hills? Well, King would have a sweet time of it with those currents that set in around the island!

"And me— huh! Looks like I'll have a sweet time of it, all right," thought Carson, as he stared out across the darkling waters. "Blazing sun tomorrow; no grub, no shirt, no water, no matches to make a signal smoke, no nothing. The damned lousy murderer! He'll go away with his woman and his pearls and tell a fancy story and be a blasted hero with money in his pocket—" He laughed bitterly and turned away.

His foot struck against something, lying near the discarded oars, that he had not previously observed; sand had been dashed over it, so that one would not readily notice it. He kicked at it, stared down, and a long, slow whistle came from his lips. This object was the tiller of the boat, which he himself had unshipped.

Carson uttered a laugh which racked his body— a low and terrible laugh that rose into a shrill spasm of ironic mirth. King had put off without this tiller, doubtless had never seen it lying there. He might steer with an oar, except that he had left his knife ashore and the oars were lashed fast. Besides, it takes a seaman to handle a boat with an oar for rudder. There were any number of things King might do, but small probability that he would do any of them.

"Ho-ho!" cried out Carson, holding his sides, tears upon his cheeks. "Ho-ho! This a rich one, this is— the two of 'em— the owl and the pussycat goin' to sea—"

He felt his knees weakening and cared not a whit. Exhaustion, shock, weakness, all at once claimed him, as though with the daylight his strength had ebbed also. He quietly dropped in the sand and lay there, above high water mark, as the night drew down; and his coma passed into a natural and deep slumber.

Dawn came again, and daylight, with the spears of sunrise threatening the eastern sky. Carson sat up and rubbed his eyes, until twinges of pain in his side recalled him to reality. It was the day he had dreaded to see break; another hour, and the merciless sun would be high enough to smite him down. He must hunt shelter among the rocks, perhaps a pool of rain water remaining—

He stiffened, staring amazedly at the water, then rose to his feet. Something was floating there, swinging slowly along at the edge of the current— something like a dead porpoise.

But it was no porpoise, nor any other fish. Carson rubbed the sleep from his eyes, blinking out at the water, a scant twenty yards from shore, where the thing floated. He visualized it abruptly— a boat, capsized, floating bottom up, a half submerged tangle of gear alongside betraying where mast and dragging canvas were adrift.

A boat? No, by the gods! His boat!

Not hesitating, Carson walked down to the water, walked into it, threw himself forward and began to swim. Half an hour afterward he had the boat on the sand. For all the effort, for all the pain it caused, he presently got her turned over. And now he saw something else. The plug was clear gone out of her bot- tom, and the hole was stoppered in an agonized sort of way with the fragments of an embroidered silk coat. Carson looked out at the water. Nothing there. Nothing here in or about the boat to tell of what had happened; but what more did he need?

The rudderless craft, the puffs of wind, the plug somehow knocked out and lost in the darkness—

"Well," he observed, recovering from his stupefaction, "maybe Providence does know its way around after all! Now, if the fool had sense enough to put the grub and brandy into the locker—"

He opened the watertight compartment. Yes, King had had sense enough for that— and an abrupt oath fell from Carson's lips as his fingers touched something else and drew it forth.

It was the shagreen case, with contents intact— and a pearl necklace added.

LATER the following appeared in the Hong-Kong Daily Press:

The sole survivor of the ill fated Feng Shan arrived in port last night aboard the Tenyo Maru. James Carson, first officer of the luckless craft, was picked up in an otherwise empty boat; he was badly knocked about, and had incurred two bullet wounds in the course of the scrimmage following the striking of the ship. His full story, which has been secured exclusively for the Daily Press, will be found upon another page.

The story related by Carson, to the press and the underwriters and the owners and the admiralty court alike, was absolutely true in every detail. Human nature being what it is, however, one is not certain whether to regret or to rejoice that there was no mention whatever in this story of Lady Ming or of the man named King— and above all, no mention of the shagreen case. No inquiries were ever made about it, however, or about its content.

____________________

5: Dead Men Walk

Harold Ward

1879–1950

Weird Tales August 1933

1. Black Magic

"I AM at Sinister Lake," the letter read. "From a distance— for the grounds are patrolled both night and day— I have witnessed through my field-glasses many strange and unbelievable things. I have seen corpses— men who from their appearance have been dead for many days— walking in a weed grown garden filled with loathsome reptiles and poisonous plants. Rumor has it that this old dark house— once a tumble-down monastery on the edge of the lake— has a room which is entirely filled with the bodies of men and women filched from near-by cemeteries and that in this room hellish revelries are held in the darkness of the night.

"I feel certain that this place is the source of that for which we have been searching. But, chief, it is so weird, so horrible, so unbelievable that I can hardly bring myself to a realization of the truth. Can the dead walk? No, you will say. Yet I have seen them. And, too, I have seen Deucaleus— rumor has it that he is a sorcerer and a priest of the devil— from a distance, also. He is a cold, cunning, cruel man, as venomous, I believe, as the snakes in his garden and a thousand times more dangerous. He has a servant, Ah Foon, a pock-marked Chinaman with a death's head for a face and a skeleton-like body. I have resolved to take the bull by the horns and tonight I will learn the truth of these strange tales—"

I stopped the reader with a gesture, my face betrayed the anger I felt. "Did you bring me half-way across the continent to listen to the insane ravings of an out-patient of Bedlam?" I demanded.

David Burnham, chief of the United States Secret Service, looked up with a tired smile. "It does sound like nonsense, doesn't it?" he answered calmly. "Yet, Blake, that which I have read to you is the report of one of the best operatives I have ever had the good fortune to command— a man absolutely fearless and strictly on the square. None other, in fact, than your old partner and co-worker, Jerry Lyons."

"Jerry Lyons?" I exclaimed. "Jerry Lyons gibbering of walking dead men and priests of the devil? Jerry Lyons writing of rooms filled with cadavers and—"

Burnham shrugged his broad shoulders. "It does sound far-fetched, I'll admit," he said again. "Yet Jerry Lyons has proved the truth of his deductions— proved it with his life. For Jerry, my boy, has joined the ranks of the living dead. Now do you understand why I sent for you instead of assigning some one closer to the scene of operations?"

I nodded. My eyes were filled with tears— tears of which I was not ashamed. Jerry Lyons dead? Jerry Lyons, my pal, my comrade, my friend. The chief and his assistant sat in silence until my grief had burned itself out. Finally I pulled myself together.

"Tell me about it, please," I snapped. "Then assign me to carry on where Jerry left off. I'll get the man that killed him even though I lose my own life in the attempt."

For a moment he made no reply. Then:

"Have you ever dabbled in the occult?" he asked. "No? Well, I have been reading up on the subject. You've heard, no doubt, of Black Magic?" Then, as I looked at him inquiringly: "Oh, I don't blame you for wondering whether the heads of the United States Secret Service are going crazy, talking, as we are, of magical practises and mysteries, Black Masses and Black Magic. Sometimes I wonder myself whether the whole thing isn't a freak of my imagination. And yet—"

He leaned forward, his keen eyes glittering, his voice tense and earnest.

"And yet," he went on, "literature teems with tales of necromancy and witchcraft, of sorcery and pacts with the devil. We of this hurly-burly age have long since ceased to believe in such things. Yet do we actually know that they have no existence? Our forefathers believed in them implicitly and were constantly guarding against them. A million methods have been devised to exorcise the powers of evil."

Again he stopped, his voice dropping to a husky whisper.

"Metempsychosis— the transmigration of the soul after death into the body of another—has long been the secret ambition of every man in the medical fraternity and many of the priesthood as well. What certainty have we, Blake, that some one has not succeeded after all these years— that somewhere lives a man with power to raise the dead?

"We know that there is a religious sect who call themselves Satanists. We know that they still hold Sabbats, or witch's conventions, in practically all of the larger cities, although the police have never been able to trace them to their source. We know that they practise the Black Mass and all of the other hellish things that go with it and that the headquarters of the damned outfit is somewhere in China or Mongolia. So long as they remained within the law there was no necessity for the government to interfere. But now—"

For a long time he sat there as if collecting his thoughts. Finally he went on.

"A few weeks ago a flood of new bills suddenly appeared throughout the country—splendid counterfeits—tens, twenties, fifties—all excellent-appearing stuff hardly to be distinguished from the genuine. The engraving and printing equal anything the government puts out. Only the paper is inferior.

"I assigned Jerry to the job of running it to its source. A month ago his last report, a portion of which I have just read to you, came in. Then he ceased writing. I sent Kilroy up to Sinister Lake after ten days had elapsed and there was still no word from Jerry. Kilroy, too, has not returned."

For an instant he fumbled among the papers with which his desk was littered. Then he continued.

"Day before yesterday a man was arrested by the Chicago police for shoving the queer. The detective bureau of that city immediately wired us his description, Bertillon measurements, fingerprints, etc. And, Blake, there is not a doubt in the world. The man who was arrested was —Jerry Lyons!"

"Never!" I exclaimed, half rising from my chair. "You don't realize what you are saying, chief. Jerry Lyons is square and you know it."

"Wait," he interrupted, holding up a restraining hand. "Hear me out, Blake. Cameron, our Chicago agent in charge, was out of town for the day. When I finally got him on the 'phone and told him to go down to the station it was midnight. I wanted him to go in person because, as you well remember, he worked with you and Jerry on the Lombard case and knows Lyons as well as he knows himself.

"I might say that from the time the prisoner was arrested he absolutely refused to utter a word. In his report, telephoned to me, Cameron says that he acted like a man in a trance or under the influence of some powerful narcotic. As a result, the Chicago police left him alone until Cameron's arrival, thinking that he would sleep off the stuff that was holding him in its power. But when Cameron arrived he found that the prisoner was dead. His body was cold, and rigor mortis had set in.

"And, Blake, Cameron swears that a medical examination shows that he had been dead for days— possibly weeks!"

I looked at the old man, thinking that he was attempting a grim jest, but he was in deadly earnest.

"Oh, it was Jerry all right," he went on. "Cameron identified him, even to the little scar on his left thumb caused by the cut he got the time you two arrested Dago Murphy and he tried to stick a knife into you. Jerry saved your life and got wounded in the hand. Remember? There's no question about the identification, Blake."

My head dropped to my breast.

"Jerry Lyons gone wrong? Jerry Lyons betraying the service?" I whispered the words half to myself. Then, "But, God, chief! You don't— you can not— understand what this means to me. Jerry and I were more than pals— we were like brothers. And now you say that he turned crook before he was blotted out—"

"I didn't say that he went crooked," Burnham interposed. "I was trying to intimate that some one— some one possessed of the devil's own power— some one who has caused the dead to walk— used Jerry for his own sinister purpose. And there have been others, Blake, others besides Jerry. God, but it's hellish! And we don't know how to contend with the accursed thing."

He leaped to his feet and paced the floor nervously. Finally he pulled himself together and dropped into his chair again.

"Last week three men were arrested for shoving the queer in as many different cities," he resumed. "Philadelphia, Boston and Peoria, Illinois. In all three instances they were found dead in their cells next morning."

"A gigantic counterfeiting ring working in collusion with the police officials," I remarked.

The old man shook his head negatively. "Nothing would please me better than to think so," he answered grimly. "But hear me out, Blake. Naturally we investigated. And the investigation shows— and here comes the unbelievable part of the story— that the dead men had all died before. By that I mean that the body found in the cell the morning after the arrest was always that of some one who had died some time previous. When they were identified, we had the graves opened and found the bodies gone. Naturally, we've kept the thing out of the papers, but it's the truth just the same."

I looked at him questioningly. "I don't mean to doubt your word, chief," I said quickly. "But I can't— well, I just can't believe it."

John Anning, the assistant chief, who had been a patient listener, leaped to his feet, his thin, esthetic face grim and pale.

"Keep out of the case, Blake!" he almost shouted. "I like you too well to see you go to your death as Lyons and Kilroy have done. You don't understand it. Neither does the chief. But I have studied the damnable thing. I've gone into it from every detail. Let it run its course, both of you. Eventually this thing— call it what you will— will return to the place whence it came. Until then no human power can prevail against it."

He was an earnest man, was John Anning. A student, an analyst, he had that which few of us in the service possess— piety and religion. It was currently reported that he had once studied for holy orders; so that now his readiness to believe the weird tale the chief had told me was far from understandable.

"You both know that I'm not superstitious," he went on. "Burnham and I have argued the thing for two days, Blake. I've begged him not to send any more men to their death. I understand theology— Black Magic— a lot of things that the ordinary layman does not know. And I am as certain as I am that I am in this room, that whoever it is that is pulling this trick is possessed."

"Meaning—?"

"That the devil has come up out of hell and taken possession of the body of some poor creature and is using it to further his own hellish plans. Oh, it might be you, or I, or any of us. The devil plays no favorites. Luckily it isn't. But can we— mere humans—fight the devil? No. Again I say, refuse to carry on. Quit the service if you must, but keep out of the whole hellish affair."

Burnham ran his fingers through his mop of hair until it stood awry in a thousand different directions. Suddenly he arose and, standing with his hands resting on the edge of his desk, he leaned forward until his rough-hewn face was within a foot of my own.

"I half believe that Anning is right in his deductions," he said hoarsely. "And I don't want to attach any blame to you if you refuse to take the assignment. But devil or no devil, possession or no possession, I'm going to lay low the man who killed Jerry Lyons if it takes every man in the service, including myself.

"Jerry Lyons was murdered!" he went on. "There wasn't a mark on his clothes to show how he had met death. But when they stripped him they found a bullet hole in his chest. He had been shot squarely in the heart.

"In plain words, Jerry Lyons was killed and then resurrected. Attired in a different suit of clothes, he was sent to do the bidding of this master criminal— this man who, Anning says, is possessed of a devil. His work accomplished, the strange power over him was withdrawn.

"Until this menace is removed from the earth, civilization will not be safe. Think of it, boy— think of it! A man with power to raise the dead; only this man uses the bodies for his own hellish purposes. He has only started. Who can say where his lust for power will lead him?"

I got up, my face showing the emotion under which I was laboring. "I care not a fig for the rest of the world!" I snapped. "It's Jerry Lyons I'm thinking of— Jerry, the best pal a man ever had. The squarest guy that ever wore the shield of the service. A man who would rather die than do a crooked deed. I'll get the man who committed this crime, chief— I'll get him for Jerry's sake."

"That's why I sent for you—took you off from the other job against Anning's wishes," Burnham said proudly. "I knew that you would take the assignment. I've got to put some one on the case and I want it to be some one who knew Jerry and loved him. You are the best man for the job. I'm sending you to your death, perhaps. But, as I said before, the devilish thing must be stamped out, if it takes every man in the service. Prison bars will not avail. You can not imprison thought. This man— this Deucaleus, as Jerry called him— must die."

"Leave him to me," I said grimly.

"Deucaleus," Anning interposed. "Deucaleus, one of the trinity of infernal spirits mentioned in ancient lore— Lucifer, Deucaleus and Satan— into whose hands the magi of old committed the spirits of those they wished to punish. Better take my advice, Blake, and refuse the assignment. You can't fight the devil—"

"Even though they are all three rolled into one, I'll get him," I snarled.

Burnham nodded, a look of happiness in his tired eyes. "Then you—"

"I volunteer."

2. The Dead Lives Again

FOR A LONG time we sat in silence, as men are prone to do when wrestling with a weighty problem, each of us busy with his own thoughts. It was the chief who spoke first.

"I presume that you will start where Jerry left off?"

I nodded. "At Sinister Lake," I responded. "And with your permission, chief, I will commence work immediately."

Anning shrugged his shoulders. "You're a fool," he said quickly. "It means your death, boy. I'm fey— I have hunches. This is one of them."

"This is a matter in which you have free rein," Burnham said quietly. "I'm not the one to ask a man to volunteer— practically to attend to his own funeral— and then try to give him instructions. Use your own judgment."

I got up, ready to take my leave, when the sudden jangle of the telephone broke into the conversation. Burnham held up a restraining hand as he drew the instrument closer to him.

"Wait a minute," he commanded, picking the receiver off from the hook. For an instant he listened in silence. Yet the expression creeping across his weather-beaten face told us that he was hearing news of importance. Finally he banged up the receiver and turned to us with a smile.

"The Lord is with us," he exclaimed. "That was Carthage, cashier of the First Trust and Central. Their house, detective, Vickers— used to be with us, remember, until he retired— has just arrested Flash Peters. He was changing small bills for a big one— good ones— fives and tens— but Vickers pinched him on suspicion. When they searched him they found his pockets lined with the queer that we've been talking about. So, instead of turning him in to the regular police, Vickers is holding him for us."

"What a break!" I exclaimed as my two companions reached for their hats. "We may get a lead that will take us somewhere."

We started toward the door when I stopped suddenly, a look of consternation creeping over my face in spite of myself.

"Did you say Flash Peters?" I demanded. Burnham nodded.

"Yeah; the fellow you and Jerry arrested in the Housenga case," he answered. "Why?"

"Because," I said slowly, hesitating for want of words with which to express myself, "Flash Peters died two weeks ago. It's not generally known, but it's a fact, nevertheless."

David Burnham's face aged ten years in as many seconds. He leaned against the desk for support, and for an instant I thought that he was going to pitch forward upon his face.

"The same thing over again," he said slowly, half to himself. "But, notwithstanding, it gives us the break that we've been looking for. With Peters still at the bank and not yet in the custody of the police, we will put a guard over him and keep a watch on him night and day."

The three of us raced for the elevator side by side. Burnham's car was waiting at the curb. A moment later we were picking our way through the congestion of traffic toward the world's greatest financial center. Leaning back against the cushions, his eyes half closed, the old man listened while I told of how a clue on the case I was interested in had accidentally led to Flash Peters.

At the door of the Peters' home— for Flash, when not carrying on his counterfeiting activities, led a strictly domestic life in a peaceful suburban bungalow— I had noted the wreath upon the door. Inquiry had brought forth the fact that the man I sought had departed this life only the day before as a result of a heart attack. I had even entered the house and gazed down upon his cold, dead face. It was not until I had completed my story that Burnham bestirred himself.

"It's beyond me," he growled. "Far, far beyond me. Maybe you or Anning can figure it out. I'm damned if I can."

The assistant chief spat like an angry cat.

"It's the devil, I tell you," he roared. "The devil in possession of some poor creature's body. We'll get nowhere until he sees fit to pull in his horns and take himself back to the hell from whence he came."

Burnham grunted, but made no reply.

GEORGE CARTHAGE, cashier of the First Trust and Central, sat at his big, flat-topped desk. Close to him, yet so located as to be between the third figure in the room and the door, was Patrick Vickers, late of the United States Secret Service and now bank detective.

He and Carthage looked up as we entered, and Vickers indicated with a quick nod of his head the man slumped down in a chair across the desk from the cashier.

We halted just inside the door. Then, as Burnham closed it behind us, we moved forward in order to obtain a closer view of the prisoner.

Tall, smooth-shaven, neatly attired, his wavy black hair slightly tinged with gray, Flash Peters had little of the appearance of the rogue. Yet there could be no mistake. The man who sprawled listlessly in the big, leather-stuffed chair was Flash Peters.

But Flash Peters was dead. I had seen him in his coffin with my own eyes.

Strolling forward as nonchalantly as possible under the circumstances, my eyes never leaving his face, I extended my hand.

"How are you, Flash?" I asked. "When did you come back from the tomb?"

He made no reply. His eyes stared straight ahead. They were dull, glassy— the eyes of a man under the influence of some powerful drug. They were lifeless.

I took him by the shoulder as if to shake him. In doing so my fingers touched the flesh of his neck just above the collar. I took a step backward with an exclamation of horror. The flesh was that of a dead man. It was cold— as cold as the grave itself.

The others were watching me. I turned to Vickers.

"Has he made any statement?" I asked, to cover my confusion.

The bank detective shook his head.

"He has not uttered a word since he entered the bank," he answered. "I spotted him the minute he came in. He walked up to one of the assistant tellers like a man doped to the gills and shoved a handful of bills through the wicket with a note asking that he be given hundreds for them. The teller thought that he was deaf and dumb; but not I. I was at his elbow when he turned, and I brought him here to Mr. Carthage and searched him. He just slumped down in the chair like that and said nothing."

The roll of counterfeit money was on Carthage's desk. Burnham picked it up and inspected it, then passed it back again. Turning to the prisoner, he asked him a number of questions. To none of them did Peters make reply, merely gazing dumbly ahead as if bored with the whole affair.

I was seized with a sudden inspiration. True, I had seen Flash in his coffin. But that proved little or nothing. Other men were known to have feigned death. And his attitude now? Might it not be that he was just recovering from the influence of some powerful drug?

Reaching across the desk for the telephone, I called the registrar of vital statistics and asked him whether he had the death certificate of one Charles L. Peters, giving him the date as well as I could recall it. Inside of two minutes the answer came back.

"He was interred a week ago Thursday in the public mausoleum at Lakeview Cemetery," was the reply. "The certificate of death from heart disease was filled out in proper form and signed by Doctor Samuel Abelson, a physician of ability and excellent reputation."

I thumbed hastily through the telephone book and found the number of the Lakeview Cemetery office. Calling it, I was soon in conversation with the custodian.

"Milton Blake of the United States Secret Service talking," I told him. "I want some information and I want it in a hurry. A week ago Thursday a man named Charles L. Peters was laid away in one of the crypts in your institution. How soon can you ascertain whether the body is still there?"

I heard an exclamation come over the wire. Then: "It is possible, but decidedly unusual, to open a vault without the proper papers," he answered. "Our master key unlocks any crypt in the building. But on the other hand, I—"

"To hell with the papers!" I exclaimed. "We want speed. This is a federal case, so govern yourself accordingly. Should any trouble come to you as a result of assisting me, my chief, Mr. Burnham, is here with me and will straighten the matter out. Call me back at the First Trust and Central— they will vouch for me— and ask to be connected with the office of Mr. Carthage, the cashier."

I hung up the receiver and turned to the prisoner. He had not changed position. His eyes still gazed straight ahead as if he peered into the great unknown.

The sudden jangle of the telephone brought us to our feet. Somehow the room seemed charged with electricity; we were expectant, waiting, we knew not what.

Carthage answered, then passed the instrument over to me. The excited voice of the Lakeview custodian came drifting over the wire.

"The crypt is empty!" he shouted. "The coffin was pried open and the body removed. And that's not all. He was insured for fifty thousand dollars; his wife collected it yesterday. The superintendent told me about it just now when I broke the news to him of the removal of the body."

I cut him off with a promise to run out and see him later. Turning to the others, I told them what I had learned.

"That seems to be the solution to the puzzle," I said thoughtfully. "Some gang has gotten hold of a powerful drug which puts them down and out for the time being— something which gives a man every appearance of death, but in reality only throws them into a trance. Suspended animation—"

"Jerry Lyons was shot in the heart," Burnham answered grimly. "There was no suspended animation in his case. Yet he walked. How can you explain that away?"

"I— I had almost forgotten poor Jerry," I answered. "Because the other hypothesis seemed so far-fetched—"

A startled cry from Carthage stopped me in the middle of the sentence.

"Look! Look!" he shouted, his face twisted with fear. He pointed dramatically at the man on the opposite side of the desk.

The face of Flash Peters was changing color. There before our eyes the skin was turning a dark, purplish blue-black. It was the color of flesh that has long been consigned to the grave— flesh that has commenced to rot. Over it was a white mold— the mold that goes with death and decay. His jaw had dropped. His teeth, drawn back in a wolfish grin, showed white between the shriveled lips. It was ghastly— horrible.

Over the body danced an unholy light— a weird, phosphorescent glow. It seemed to cover the man like a thin, transparent cloak. Then it slowly changed color— changed to a bright, bloody red.

For a moment it ran jerkily from the lower limbs to the shoulders; then, gathering itself suddenly, it seemed to assume the proportions of a human being. It towered above us like a giant— a tall, vaporish, smoke-like thing of blood. It was formless, faceless. Yet it had a face and it had a form. Its long arms writhed like snakes. They extended themselves toward us as if beckoning.

Vickers was on his knees, his rosary in his hand.

"Holy Mary, Mother of Christ!" I heard him exclaim. Then: "Hail, Mary, Mother of God...

Burnham leaped forward and, tearing the beads from the kneeling man's neck, hurled the crucifix at the red menace that towered above us.

There was a wild, shrieking wail... the wail of a soul in hell....

The awful thing receded. The figure of the bleeding Christ lay upon the breast of the dead man. From it the bloody vapor drew away as if afraid. An instant later it was gone.

And as God is my witness, the face of Flash Peters had changed. His lips had closed and he was smiling now. It was the smile of a man who had commenced the ascent out of purgatory.

I turned to the others. Burnham stood, his arm still extended, gazing at the spot where the thing had been.

Carthage was standing, his fingers gripping the edge of his desk, his eyes bulging, his face white and drawn. Vickers still knelt beside the chair.

Anning had not moved. He was still gazing straight ahead, his thin face expressionless. Suddenly he leaped to his feet and turned to me.

"God, Blake! God! Can't you see, now? Again I say to you, keep out of the infernal case. Let the devil finish his work here on earth. Then he will return to hell. Until then no human power can stop him...."

3. Ah Foon

IT was close to noon when I reached my destination— a tiny hamlet located on both sides of a dried-up creek which wound through a range of wooded hills and rocky crags. A fog hovered over the lowlands. From the top of the hills the place looked like a fairy picture, the spires and roofs of the buildings projecting above the white haze of the vapor. The road was not paved. My car coasted, however; as I struck the fog bank I applied the brakes and slowed up at the curve, only to find myself an instant later at the end of the main thoroughfare.

That the town had once been more populous than at the present time was apparent. Half of the buildings were empty and deserted, the windows broken, the roofs fallen in. There was not a soul in sight.

I slowly negotiated the narrow defile until I glimpsed a board sign overhanging the sidewalk on which was painted in faded letters: "Sinister Lake House."

I drew up alongside the curb and, climbing out of the car, entered. The so-called office was as deserted as the street. Upon the table that passed for a desk was a bell; over it was a sign on which was inscribed the legend: "Punch bell for clerk."

I followed instructions. No one answered. I rang the bell again. To my right I heard a shuffling noise. Then through a door a man entered — an ancient graybeard attired in overalls and sloppy carpet slippers. He shuffled into the room and looked at me inquiringly.

"Fifty cents a day without meals; dollar a day with meals," he vouchsafed.

For a moment I hesitated. "I will probably be in town only a short time," I responded. "I am in search of a friend of mine. He was here several weeks ago. His name is Jerry Lyons. He—"

"Guests ain't so numerous but what I can remember 'em," the old man interrupted. "I recall this chap." He thumbed over the dog-eared register for an instant, then looked up with a sage wag of his head.

"Yep. Had room eighteen at the head of the stairs. Only here a few days. Left one night and never did come back. Sent a stranger here next morning to pay his bill and get his grip."

"This man— this stranger?" I inquired as casually as possible. "Can you tell me anything about him?"

The ancient polished his glasses speculatively. Then, adjusting them to his high-bridged nose, he peered through them at me again.

"Just why are you asking all these questions?" he demanded.

"This friend— this Mr. Lyons— suffered from dementia," I lied on the spur of the moment. "He was injured during the war. Has a wandering complex. Often leaves home and is gone for days. This is the longest he has ever been away. He has a delusion that he is a detective and is on a case. Sometimes he returns; often he does not. This is one of the times that he didn't. I am employed by his people in an effort to locate him."

The old man nodded again. Stepping cautiously from behind the battered desk, he sidled toward me.

"I didn't see the man who got the grips," he said, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. "Hank Binks, who helps me here, was on duty at the time. But His voice dropped lower and he bent his mouth a bit closer to my ear. "Hank says that he's as certain as death and taxes that the car was from the old monastery."

"Meaning— what?" I demanded.

He hesitated again. Then he turned away with another sage shake of his head.

"I'm an old man and sometimes I talk too danged much," he whispered back. "Maybe I've said too much already. Maybe you're one of them trying to trap me."

He walked hesitatingly toward the door through which he had entered. I attempted to stop him, but in vain. Just outside he turned and peered at me again.

"If you are one of 'em, then I ain't told you a darned thing," he chuckled wheezily. "If you are not, then keep what I've already said under your hat."

He disappeared through the swinging door, leaving me alone again. Just across the street the word Post-Office was painted on the window of a tumbledown store.

Leaving my car where it was, I crossed over, waiting just inside the door until the paunchy, red-faced man in denim apron and rolled-up sleeves had completed the sale of a package of soda to a loquacious woman who seemed inclined to haggle over the price. The sale finally completed, he turned to me.

"The postmaster?" I inquired.

He grinned. "When there's any post to be mastered," he chuckled. "I'm it because the government couldn't get nobody else to take it after Lou Rencher died. I'm a Democrat, but they shoved it onto me, anyway. It's a damned nuisance. My name's Conover. Are you one of them inspectors?"

I shook my head and, stepping closer, exhibited the leather-covered case in which were my credentials. He inspected them critically, insisting that I remove my hat that he might compare the photograph pasted on the sheet with my face. Satisfied, he handed the case back to me.

"Well, I'm danged!" he exclaimed. "All my life I've been reading about Secret Service men, but you're the first one I've ever seen. What brings you to Sinister Lake?"

Judging from his appearance that he was a man who might be trusted, I told him as much of the story as I deemed advisable, which was to the effect that Jerry Lyons had last reported from this town, but saying nothing of his death nor of the other events of the past few weeks.

He listened intently until I had finished.

"So old Judd Raymer over at the hotel says that the car that called for his stuff was from the old monastery, eh?" he ruminated. "Huh. This man, Lyons— seems to me that I remember him mailing that letter. It was addressed to a box number in the city instead of to any one person. He was a tall, good-looking fellow, wasn't he? Sandy hair? Letters ain't so frequent that I can't take notice of them."

I stepped a bit closer. "There was another— a man named Kilroy— who followed him. He, too, has not reported lately. Have you noticed him? He was short and broad-shouldered and dark."

Conover shook his head. "Twice this morning I have heard reference made to an old monastery," I went on casually, striving hard not to betray my interest. "What sort of place is it? Where is it located?" The postmaster hesitated just as the hotel man had done. Then his sense of duty mastering his natural caution, he decided to answer my question.

"This place takes its name from a lake located a matter of three or four miles from here," he said finally. "It's a small body of water little more than a quarter of a mile across and maybe twice that long, but because of its extreme depth the waters are black. There's a lot of trees growing right up to the shore, too. They throw the waters into a shadow. These things combined with the fact that tradition says that a party of men were drowned in it in Colonial days caused it to be named Sinister Lake. When the government changed the name of the post-office here, they named it after the lake.

"To make a long story short, years ago this used to be quite a populous village. Lot of lead mining around here. An old man named Keatley was the big gun of the lead mines. He built himself a big mansion at the upper edge of the lake— built it of native stone quarried from the hills back of the house. His wife died and he and his only son, a boy named Lemuel, lived there alone with a pack of servants. Then came the War of 1812 and Lemuel went and never came back. As a result, old man Keatley lost his mind. The lead mines went bad and he finally killed himself. The old house went to wrack and ruin. Nobody around here had money enough to buy it and put it in repair."

Again he hesitated as if for want of words.

"Folks said that it was haunted," he finally went on, his red face turning a shade more crimson. "They said that old man Keatley used to wander about the grounds on dark nights wringing his hands and crying out for his dead son and that a spectral boat containing the ghosts of the drowned men used to push in to the shore and meet him. Be that as it may, the place laid idle for years. Then some sort of monkish orders— Trappists, I think they called themselves—bought it and built an addition to it. It flourished for thirty or forty years. Then something went wrong and they abandoned it.

"It went to ruin again. The grounds grew up to weeds and underbrush. The windows dropped out and the doors fell in and vines and creepers clambered up over the broken walls. Then a year or so ago it was given out that it had been sold again— this time to a man named Deucaleus— a dark, swarthy foreigner of some kind. I've never seen him but once and that was from a distance. He brought a crew out from the city and put it in repair and moved into it one night. Nobody ever sees him. Practically everything he buys comes from the city. Sometimes they haul it out by car; sometimes it comes by freight. It is called for by a big Chinaman who works for this Deucaleus. There seems to be a lot of people up there, but they never mingle with anybody. Whenever they come or go, it is always by night and by auto and they never come to town."

He lowered his voice again.

"There's something peculiar going on up there," he whispered. "Nobody knows what it is, but there's a lot of talk; but nobody dares speak out and voice his suspicions. They've surrounded the place with a barbed-wire fence— a regular war-time entanglement— inside of which they've dug a ditch which is filled with water. The only way to get in or out is by means of a bridge which is lowered from inside the house. There are signs posted up saying that the grounds are filled with poisonous snakes; they say this man, Deucaleus, raises them for their poison. Personally, I don't know. I've got sense enough to stay away from where I'm not wanted."

He stopped suddenly, his face turning a shade paler.

A car had drawn up to the curb and a man was getting out. An instant later the door opened.

The man who entered was a Chinaman. That much was apparent, despite his American attire. Tall, his beady little almond eyes were set far back in their sockets. His pock-marked skin was drawn so tightly over his high cheekbones as to give him the appearance of a walking skeleton. His cheeks were sunken, his body was thin almost to emaciation. There was something so sinister, so repellent about the man that I shuddered in spite of myself.

The part of the store where I was standing was in the shadow. For an instant he failed to notice me as he glided toward my companion, a crooked smile upon his pitted face.

"Joe son, Conover," he murmured in Chinese. His glance suddenly fell upon me. He gave me a fleeting glance, then turned to the grocer again.

"I forgot that you can not understand my language," he apologized in excellent English. "I am a bit absent-minded at times. A pound of your best tea, please. We are all out over at the big house."

He waited until Conover had tied up the package. Then, depositing the money on the counter, he walked out.

4. The Cabin by the Lake

CONOVER WAITED until he heard the automobile pull away from the curb before he ventured another remark.

"Peculiar— doggoned peculiar," he said gravely. "That's the second time any one from the lake has ever been inside this store. Suppose that it was a coincidence, or has he heard that you are here and came to look you over?"

I shrugged my shoulders, my mind already made up.

"This lake?" I inquired. "Is there any sort of habitation thereabouts that I can rent— some place to use as a sort of headquarters? You have campers around here, I presume?"

Conover scratched his chin reflectively.

"Occasionally," he answered. "I've got an old shack just across the lake from the place I've been telling you about. Used to use it for duck-hunting until this bunch moved in. Since then I've kept away. Not that I'm scared— me, a free-born American citizen— but I— well, I just don't care about being too neighborly with 'em. You're welcome to it if you want it."

Two hours later, my dinner completed at a little restaurant in the middle of the block, I loaded my machine with blankets and supplies purchased at the postmaster's store and, waving him a good-bye, turned in the direction of the cabin on the lake.

It was nearly dark by the time I had cleaned the place out. Yet it was not as dirty as it should have been had it been unoccupied as long as Conover had stated.

Then, cooking myself a makeshift supper, I lighted my pipe and leaned back in my chair to think things out. The glint of light from my lantern struck a bit of metal hidden away in a chink in the log wall. For a moment I sat there staring at it lazily, my mind occupied with the problem on which I was engaged.

Then something about its shape prompted me to get up and walk across the room for a closer look at it. An instant later I was staring down at Jimmy Kilroy's shield. There was no mistaking it. There was the number on it— seventy-nine— the number with which the missing operative was supposed to sign all official communications.

I turned it over. His name was engraved upon the back. In spite of what Conover had told me, Jimmy Kilroy had occupied that cabin within a few weeks. It was easy to vision what he had done. Resolved to take no chances of being identified as a Secret Service man, he had hidden the shield away between the two logs, expecting to return for it later.

Why, then, had Conover lied to me? Why had he said that he knew nothing of the second operative's appearance at Sinister Lake? Why had he said that the cabin had not been occupied for a year or more? Was he, too, mixed up in the strange goings-on at the old monastery?

The problem was growing deeper and deeper. I wanted to think it out before taking another step. Hastily extinguishing my lantern, I moved my camp chair out onto the little porch overlooking the lake and, my feet atop the rail, gazed in the direction of the huge pile of masonry across the somber waters. Not a window was lighted.

It showed up against the bleak hills like some great feudal castle. My inspection completed, I knocked the ashes from my pipe and was about to turn in for a short nap before commencing my investigation when the snapping of a twig in the rear of the cabin brought me to my feet.

For a moment I stood there listening, every faculty alert. Then, dropping to all fours and keeping in the shadow lest I offer a target for some hidden marksman, I drew my revolver and crept around the building.

Behind the cabin was a small clearing which had grown up to weeds and brambles. Through the opening thus made the moon shone with a silvery radiance, bringing out in bold relief the figure of a man walking toward me. He was naked save for the pair of swimming-trunks about his middle. From where I crouched, I could see him plainly. His eyes, glassy and dull, stared straight ahead like those of a sleep-walker. In his hand was a small, metallic box. He held it stiffly ahead of him. In fact, every movement was stiff and ungainly. He walked with the action of a wooden soldier.

The clearing was, as I have remarked, filled with weeds and brambles. From them the thorns protruded. He made no effort to avoid them, tramping through the clumps as if they did not exist. I saw the cruel thorns tear through the flesh of his legs. And yet he did not bleed.

Sudden realization swept over me. The man was dead.

I leaped to my feet with a shout of alarm, my revolver ready for action. Had he been alive he could have seen me plainly there in the moonlight. But he made no motion to turn about. On he came. Turning, I swung around the cabin and raced toward the lake. A hundred feet away I leaped behind a tree and peered out. He was almost to the cabin now. Raising his arm, he hurled the box toward the building.

There was a terrific explosion. The ground shook beneath, my feet. The cabin seemed to leap into the air, then drop back to earth again in little pieces.

Where it had been only a hole now remained.

The man, too, had disappeared, blown up, no doubt, with the building.

Where he had stood there was now a red vapor. Slowly it mounted in a thin spiral until it almost touched the lower branches of the trees. For a moment it whirled and gyrated. Then it commenced to gather itself into the semblance of a human form.

The odor of sulfur filled the air. It assailed my nostrils until I panted for breath.

The great red thing floated toward me. Its arms were reaching for me.

I turned. Then fear got the better of me. I ran— ran as I had never run before— until I had placed half a mile of forest between the ghastly thing and myself.

5. The Face of a Dead Man

IN time of danger the human brain works rapidly. So it was that by the time I pulled myself to a halt and gave my tortured lungs a respite I had already worked out a plan of action.

Deucaleus believed me dead. That was almost a certainty. Gazing out across the lake, knowing that I was in the cabin, he had probably seen the light go out and imagined that I had retired just as I had intended doing had the discovery of Kilroy's shield not kept me awake. Then, allowing me sufficient time to fall asleep, he had sent one of his animated corpses to blow me into eternity.

In spite of what I had already seen— Flash Peters first and now this walking dead man— in spite of what Burnham and Anning had told me— I had not fully realized what I was up against until now. There, alone in the woods with the darkness of night around me and, perhaps, an enemy lurking in every shadow, the thought swept over me that we were battling with our puny intellects the powers of another world— the powers of hell. And I— I was only a pawn in the game, probably to be sacrificed just as Lyons and Kilroy had been.

Up to that minute I had not really believed the hellish plot to be anything but something devised by a human mind. Something more outlandish and horrible than the usual—more bizarre, it is true— but, at the same time, easily explained when once the key was found. But, as I have said, alone there in the night things looked different to me. Dead men— walking cadavers! Deucaleus— a man with the power to raise men from the tomb and force them to obey his will.

There was only one thing for me to do. I must attack the devil in his own lair before he learned that his plans had gone astray. I stopped suddenly, my thoughts flashing backward. How had he learned of my presence there at Sinister Lake? How did he know that I was an enemy— a member of an organization sworn to track him down? Had the Chinaman guessed my secret? Was Conover, the postmaster, a member of the nefarious crew? Had he drawn me out and then sent me to the cabin on the lake, knowing that he was sending me to my doom just as he had possibly sent Lyons and Kilroy? Or was it the ancient graybeard at the hotel? I shook my head as each surmise filtered through my mind. There was only one possible solution. A man with such hellish powers as Deucaleus possessed would have no trouble in divining what was going on about him. And, such being the case, he would know, then, that I had missed death by a split second back in the cabin.

The problem was too deep for me. There was nothing for me to do but keep going on until I had either solved it or, like the two men who had preceded me, joined the ranks of the walking dead. So, squaring my shoulders and drawing back the safety catch of my revolver, I plunged on through the blackness of the forest in the direction of the old monastery at the other side of the lake.

Not a light greeted my eyes as I finally emerged from the tangle of trees and underbrush and gazed across the clearing which surrounded the grim old pile of masonry on three sides. On the fourth was the lake, dark and sinister even in the moonlight. Originally built on top of a little knoll which sloped gradually down to the water's edge, the present owner had, as Conover had said, added to its inaccessibility by constructing a moat some twenty feet in width entirely around it in the form of the letter "U," the lake filling in the open side.

Outside the water-filled ditch was a high, barbed-wire fence. There was but one gate; it opened onto a drawbridge only wide enough for a car to cross. Just now it was down, for what purpose I did not know. I was soon to learn, however, for within a few minutes two men— Chinamen from their appearance and attire— emerged from the woods close to where I was hiding and entered the enclosure. I waited until the door set in the big, stone front had closed behind them. Then, leaping forward, I ran across the plank structure and found cover behind one of the huge boulders with which the yard was strewn.

I was not an instant too soon. Hardly had I dodged into the shadows when the creaking of a windlass warned me that the bridge was being raised. Peering out from my hiding-place I saw it drawn up until it stood almost on end.

I was a prisoner inside the moat.

SUDDENLY I was wide awake, and yet I seemed to have been sleeping. How long I had been lying there, my body propped against the big rock, I shall never know. Probably not as long as it seemed to me. Something was touching my hand— something that felt cold and slimy.

I was drowsy. I felt as if I had been drugged. My eyes were heavy. It seemed as if nothing mattered but sleep. Sleep I must have. I knew that I must not give way again.... Yet my body refused to function when my brain commanded.

Across the face of the rock grew some sort of creeping vine. My face was half buried in its tendrils. I knew that it was the plant that was overpowering me— that eventually I must succumb again to its noxious fumes. Yet I was sleepy... so sleepy....

Again the cold thing touched my hand. Involuntarily I turned my eyes. In front of my face a snake was coiled. Its flat, arrow-shaped head, raised some six or eight inches above the coil, wove backward and forward as it gathered momentum for the stroke. Its thin, forked tongue was extended angrily as it gazed at me with its cruel, beady eyes.

I have always had a horror of snakes. The reptile hissed. With a mighty effort I tore myself from the power of the narcotic plant. The darting head missed my cheek by the fraction of an inch. I leaped to my feet. At the same time something struck against my leather puttee. I gazed downward. A second reptile had struck. Another was coiled about my foot. I stamped it angrily into the ground with an exclamation of horror. The moonlight, filtering through the trees, showed the ground covered with them. They surrounded me, a hissing, writhing, crawling mass of loathsomeness.

I darted forward, all thought of the other danger that lurked behind the darkened windows of the old monastery forgotten. With the removal of my face from the proximity of the plant its influence over me ceased. My head cleared rapidly.

Again I wondered how long I had been lying there. Unluckily a mass of clouds floated across the face of the moon, obscuring it. There were few stars in the sky; even if there had been I was not versed in astronomy well enough to gage the time by them. But one thing kept hammering away at my consciousness. I must get to a place of safety before I was noticed by those inside the house.

I dodged from shadow to shadow until I was close to the vine-covered brick wall by the front entrance. The door loomed up before me. I halted, my ear attuned for even the slightest noise. Then I leaped into the friendly shelter of a clump of bushes growing close to the wall as the door opened and two men armed with rifles made their appearance. They, like those I had seen before, were Orientals. They separated, one going around to the rear, the other pacing up and down in front of the entrance like a sentinel. But it was only for an instant. He must have heard something. For he stopped suddenly and listened. Then he stepped into the shadow of the bush so close to me that I could have touched him with my outstretched hand.

I gathered myself for a spring. Some sixth sense warned him. He turned suddenly. But too late. My clubbed gun crashed against his head with force enough to kill an ox. I heard the bones of his skull crack. I caught his rifle as it fell from his nerveless hands and he pitched forward in a crumpled heap. Reversing the weapon, I smashed it against his head again and again. My exploring fingers found not a flutter of pulse when they touched his wrist. A second later I had dragged him back deeper into the shadows.

My eyes, accustomed by this time to the darkness, glimpsed a basement window close to my feet. It was open. I negotiated it and felt my feet upon a hard floor. Drawing my flashlight, I pressed the button and took a hurried look about me. I was in an empty room. At the farther end was a door. I groped my way forward and opened it. Forgetting myself for a moment, I closed it, and heard the lock click. The door had fastened itself behind me. I was locked inside the old monastery.

Alone in that dark room I waited for something to happen— I knew not what. Every nerve tingled. The hair stood up on my head and the goose-flesh chased itself up and down my spinal column. The silence was nerve-racking and agonizing. I wanted to shriek.

An overpowering stench assailed my nostrils. I recognized it. It was the unmistakable odor of death. I leaned forward, every faculty alert. My flashlight was in one hand; in the other was my revolver. Finally I mustered up courage enough to press the button again.

The thin beam of light fell full upon a face—a cold, dead face. It was the face of Jimmy Kilroy.

6. The Devil's Mass

MY FLASHLIGHT beam darted away. It struck another face. And then another and another. There they lay, row after row of them— bodies by the score. Attired in their grave clothes, they stared up at me glassily. Some of them were still in their coffins, some of them in rough pine boxes, and some were sprawled upon the cold, flagstone floor.

I threw caution to the winds and allowed the beam of the light to hover over everything, so badly terrified was I. I was in a huge, basement room. The walls were of stone. So, too, was the ceiling. Low though it was, it was arched; the stones showed the marks of age. In the farther end was an altar draped in black upon which stood half a dozen black candles. That I was inside some sort of chapel was apparent. Then the story Conover told me came back— the tale of the Trappist monks. This, from all indications, had been their hall of worship. Now it had been turned into something vastly different—the worshipping-place of some hellish sect engaged in unspeakable practises. I recalled a story I had once read—an article on devil-worship and Satanic masses. I had thrown it aside at the time as folderol. It had stated that such people always seized upon abandoned churches if possible, the better to carry on their diabolical rites.

The atmosphere seemed surcharged with danger. I was insane— crazed with fear. I wanted to escape from the awful charnel house— to get back to Burnham— to tell him that I was through with the service and all that it stood for. Anning's advice flashed over me. "The thing must run its course," he had said. "Leave it alone; refuse the assignment, even though it costs you your job. Sooner or later the devil— and it is the devil who is back of this— will return to the hell whence he came. Until then no human power can prevail against him."

I knew, now, that he had been right. I had rushed in heedlessly, only one thought in my mind— revenge for the wanton murder of Jerry Lyons. And now I was in too far to get out.

A noise just outside one of the doors attracted my attention. Then came the sound of voices. I looked about for a hiding-place. The room was bare save for the altar at the end and the rows of dead.

The door was opening. I leaped behind the altar, determined to sell my life as dearly as possible. There I found an opening and crawled inside.

I was not an instant too soon. One of the doors opened and two black-robed men with goat's-head masks entered. Others followed them. Through a hole in the front of the altar I watched them. In the ceiling a number of electric lamps sprang into life. The candles upon the altar were lighted. Then the electric lights were extinguished again and the hellish rites commenced.

"Nobis Miserere mundi.... Domine adduua nos!... Domine adduua nos semper!..."

The leader of the two men was kneeling before the altar as he chanted the unholy mass of St. Sécaire. Slightly in the rear stood the other black-robed man in the door of what appeared to be a little sacristy. The vessels and paraphernalia for the Satanic ritual were on the table by his side. At a signal from the other he moved forward. In one hand was a gigantic toad, its green eyes blinking solemnly in the dim light; in the other was a great crucifix. I noted with a shudder that he held the tragic figure of the bleeding Christ head downward. He placed them on the somber covering of the altar, the squat toad taking precedence, among the black tapers, over the cross.

In the background, their pasty faces only blotches in the semi-darkness, knelt five men and one woman, their heads bent forward as they watched the proceedings. Behind them, on the floor, were coffins and rough pine boxes— some of them smeared with the yellow clay of the grave— row upon row of them. In each was a grim, ghastly figure gazing through the darkness toward the ceiling with glazed, unseeing eyes.

"Sanctus... dominus... sanctus... gloria tibi..."

The black-robed man in the sacristy door glided forward, a golden chalice in his hand. From the altar the kneeling man selected a triangular bit of black bread. Making the sign of the cross on his bosom with his left hand, he dipped the bit of bread into the contents of the holy vessel. Then, seizing a knife from his girdle— a curved, triangular dagger— he plunged it into the sopping Host. Hurling it to the floor, he stamped upon it, at the same time making the sign of the cross with his left foot.

The candles guttered and fluttered as from a sudden draft. Then they slowly faded until the place was filled with the darkness of the tomb.

IN front of the altar was appearing a ball of red. It almost blinded me with its intensity as it floated in the air before my eyes. Slowly it increased in size until the whole room was filled with its glare. Dissolving, it separated itself into a thousand fragments. They bounded, cavorted and spun like tops. They fastened themselves to the walls of the room and festooned themselves like great ropes of blood from the ceiling, and were covered with a peculiar phosphorescent glow that baffled explanation.

The masked priest stood in front of the altar and adjured them. A dozen times they seemed about to obey his command as they drifted together, sometimes gathering themselves together in semi-human shapes, then dissolving again. He extended his long arms. They floated around him, caressing him; they swept over the floor, upon the altar. His eyes gleamed through his goat-like mask as he watched their antics.

Slowly, as if reluctant to depart, they gathered themselves into a compact mass again and faded away into nothingness. The candles sprang suddenly into life. The man in front of the altar cursed— cursed with a fluency that was horrible to hear.

"Fresh blood! I must have fresh, red blood!" he cried. "Otherwise the incantation will not work."

He stopped suddenly, his goat-like head turned sideways, his every faculty alert. The man in the doorway slid forward. The priest's arm darted upward and he pointed in the direction of the five men and one woman. The long, claw-like, yellow fingers of the other wrapped themselves around the handle of the dagger in his girdle. His eyes glittered as he sought to peer through the gloom at the row of strained, white faces gazing back at him.

The priest's finger indicated one of the watching figures. The other leaped forward like a caged panther. The dagger was raised. There was a shriek. A struggle. Another shriek. The horrible sound of keen steel penetrating human flesh. Then the fresh, pungent odor of new, red blood.

A dull, throaty moan.

"Blood, master! The fresh blood you require!"

The devil in human form stepped back within the circle of light, a ghastly, struggling human burden in his arms. He hurled it to the floor in front of the altar. It was a Chinaman clad in the conventional costume of his native land, his braided queue tied in a knot atop his shaven head.

The group in the darkness stirred, then sank back again in the attitude of devotion.

The mask of the assassin had fallen off during the struggle. He stood revealed now as a Chinaman— a tall, thin, emaciated man with pock-marked face. The skin was drawn back tightly over his cheek-bones. This and his deeply sunken eyes gave him the appearance of a man at the point of death; yet the light of fanaticism gleamed in his amber orbs as he stooped down and lifted the dying man into a kneeling position.

The poor wretch gazed up at him piteously, but made no sound.

"Blood!" the yellow devil shrieked again. He seized his victim by his long queue and, pulling his head back, plunged the knife into the jugular vein. The blood spurted like a fountain.

The priest hastily picked the chalice from the floor and held it beneath the crimson tide until it was filled to overflowing. Satisfied, he nodded to his assistant.

The Chinaman dragged the twitching body of his victim to one side.

The priest dropped to his knees before the altar again and once more dipped a bit of the triangular bread into the chalice. Again he muttered the mass backward and hurled the blood-soaked Host upon the floor.

Once more the ball of red appeared in the air before the altar as the black candles fluttered and dimmed. Again it rotated and leaped, increasing in size until the entire room was filled with its reddish phosphorescence.

Then, slowly, reluctantly, the thing divided and subdivided until the room was filled with the fragments as before; only this time they took form— bloody, ghostly, vaporish caricatures of men. They grew until they were veritable giants of ghastly vapor with long, snaky arms that waved and whirled like the tentacles of devil-fish.

Again and again the black-robed priest at the altar scratched the figure of the  cross upon the floor with his left foot. The air was filled with an awful stench—  the smell of decaying, putrid flesh. The blood-colored figures hovered around him, stretching forth their arms as if to caress him.

He seized the crucifix from the altar. Holding it head downward, he took a step forward. The figures fell back before him. He extended it toward them, his lips making mock of the Holy Mass.

Slowly the grim, red figures sought the coffins. They seemed to dissolve themselves within the bodies. The lid of one of the caskets fell to the floor with a clatter as the cold, dead form stood erect. A second followed. Then another and another until the space in front of the altar was filled with the dead. Their un¬ seeing eyes gleamed in the spectral light as they turned their heads toward the man who had caused them to rise.

Only one of the grotesque creatures of bloody vapor remained. The priest pointed toward it with the crucifix. For an instant the vaporish shape whirled and danced; then it dissolved itself within the body of the murdered man. He jerked himself suddenly erect. Then he, too, joined the group around the altar.

The air was filled with an eerie sound— a wailing cry that seemed to come from nowhere and to lose itself in the vast unknown. The priest commenced a weird, unearthly chant. The four remaining men and one woman threw themselves upon the floor.

For a minute longer the black-robed man chanted. Then they, too, as his voice rose higher and higher, leaped to their feet and joined in the hellish celebration. They shrieked and leaped in a frenzy of insane revelry. They were wild, abandoned. The black-robed Chinaman seized the blood-filled chalice and, taking the lead, marched around the darkened room, the others, howling like demons from hell, dancing in his wake.

Behind them marched the dead, attempting in a stiff, clumsy manner, to imitate them in their gyrations. They moved automatically, with stiff little jerks, their arms held stiffly by their sides.

In the rear the murdered man, the blood still dripping from the gaping wound in his neck, followed.

The priest with the goat's head suddenly turned. He held up his hand for silence. The chanting stopped. He waved his hand again. The five worshippers glided out of the room. Like wooden soldiers on parade, the dead continued their march, the frenzied Oriental, the blood-filled chalice held before him, in the lead.

He stopped in front of the altar. The priest took a step forward, the inverted crucifix extended before him. The dead slunk back from it. He took another step forward. They crept back into their coffins, disposing themselves as they had lain before.

Only the murdered man was left. The priest made a sudden movement toward him, the crucifix pointed. He dropped to his knees before the altar, his rapidly stiffening arms extended in an attitude of devotion.

The room was suddenly filled with light as the Chinaman pressed the electric switch. The man with the goat's head stepped to his side.

"We win!" he exclaimed exultingly. "We win again, Ah Foon. We must rest now. For tomorrow is our big coup— the last one. The government is beginning to outguess us. And Blake will soon be here."

The Chinaman made no reply. Dropping to his knees before the altar by the side of the man he had killed, he bowed his head as in prayer, a look of fanatical glee on his saturnine face.

"Kuei will come into his own!" he whispered, half to himself. "Kuei will come into his own. Money— much money— American money— will fill our coffers, my master— money that the faith of my forefathers may be perpetuated."

The masked man removed the covering from his face and tossed it onto the altar as he wiped the perspiration from his brow. He turned his face in my direction.

I shrank back as from a blow. I knew him. God in Heaven! Disguised though he was, I knew him.

He pressed the switch and the lights went out again. In the distance I heard them pass through the door. I was left alone— with the darkness and the dead.

7. Deucaleus

IT seemed an eternity that I lay there after they had gone, not daring to move. The darkness was overpowering; it surrounded me like a wet blanket. Gradually, too, the silence settled down until the room was quiet. It was eerie. Then, at the farther end, came a phosphorescent glow. It twisted and wriggled, seeming to crawl like a great mass of worms. It filled the entire end of the cavern. It puzzled me. Then I remembered what it was. It was the glow that always emanates from bodies that have long been dead— it was the phosphorescence of the grave.

Without warning, a door opened. A man entered. I could barely discern his black shadow against the glow of the dead. For what seemed an eternity he stood there peering into the darkness, listening. Finally, satisfied, he glided across the room and seated himself upon one of the coffins, his head bowed in an attitude of prayer.

"Oh God!" I heard him mutter. "Oh, merciful, merciful God! Have pity on me. First it was Lyons, then Kilroy. Now, must it be Blake?"

It was the voice of a man suffering the torments of hell. Suddenly he bestirred himself. I saw the shadow raise itself to its full height.

"God help me!" he wailed again as if in prayer. "God help me to carry this thing through."

He glided toward my hiding-place. I raised the gun, the barrel protruding through the hole in the front of the altar. The hammer was raised. My finger pressed against the trigger.

"Blake!" he called softly. "Blake!"

I fired. The cavern reverberated with the terrific explosion. I saw the dark figure in front of me totter, then crumple and fall. I leaped to my feet and plunged forward, gun in one hand, flashlight in the other. It was Deucaleus— the man who had officiated at the hellish mass— whom I had shot. I had recognized him by his voice. And, too, I had thought that I had recognized him earlier— and yet I was not prepared for what I saw.

The beam of my flashlight played across the face of my assistant chief, John Anning.

He opened his eyes as I bent over him. Upon his face was the pallor of death. He was disguised, his skin covered with some sort of dark stain. Yet I knew him as I had known him before when he wiped his brow after completing his hellish rites at the altar.

The blood was gushing from a wound in his chest where my bullet had found its mark. Yet there was a look of happiness in his eyes as he raised himself to a sitting posture, then dropped back upon his elbow as if the effort had been too great a one.

"Thanks, Blake," he muttered. "But it will take more than the leaden slug to do the work. Give me the crucifix." There was something about the way he said it that caused me to obey his command. Seizing the cross, he pressed it to his lips. The very presence of the holy thing seemed to revive him. He sat up and the film of death left his eyes.

"I must talk fast," he whispered hoarsely. "No, Blake, it is not death that I fear. It is something worse— far worse. Listen to me closely, boy. In a moment they will be here— Ah Foon and his hellish crew. See, the bottom of the crucifix is pointed. It was made that way that we might plant it in the dirt. But now it will serve another purpose. It must be driven into Ah Foon's chest just as it must be driven into my own heart."

He was breathing heavily. Yet he went on.

"I told you not to come. I warned you as best I could. Now that you have gotten into it, you must see it through to the end. Perhaps it is you who can save us. Obey my every command to the letter if you would escape this thing and, at the same time, kill it for ever. I have tried— oh, so hard— to beat it. But in vain... Again and again he pressed the tragic figure of the bleeding Christ against his lips. The act of devotion seemed to revive him. He turned to me again.

"Remember Yip See Foon?" he demanded. "We caught him — you and Burnham and Lyons and Kilroy and I— caught him and saw to it that he was electrocuted for killing poor Tommy Phillips ten years ago. He was in that narcotic raid when we broke up the gang. We caught him red-handed and sent him to his doom.

"He was a devil-worshipper, Blake— the high priest of the cult of Kuei which has its foundations in the mountains of Ho-Nan. Ah Foon is his brother. He swore then—swore by the gods of his forefathers — that he would return and punish us. And Blake"—his voice was lowered until I could barely hear it— "Blake, those gods were the gods of hell —the trio of devils—Lucifer, Deucaleus and Satan!

"You know how truly he has kept his word. I have been his instrument. Lyons is gone. Kilroy is gone. You—you and Burnham will follow unless you obey me implicitly.

"Listen!" His voice was wailing and sad, gaining strength, it seemed, each minute. "Again I say, Blake, that I am the instrument through which he worked. I am possessed of the devil! Deucaleus has taken possession of my body. Do you understand? I have tried— oh God, how I have tried!— to throw it off. But in vain. He is always within me, sometimes to a lesser degree and sometimes to a greater. At his command I have done these many, many things. It was his plan, working through me— because I would be the last to be suspected and the first to learn of what was going on— to flood the country with counterfeits— to stage a fast coup— to raise enough money to carry on the propagation of his faith for many, many years to come. Here in this old monastery he has set up his plant. From here he has caused me to raise the bodies of the dead— dead filched from many burying-grounds— and has forced them to do his bidding. Think how easy it has been, Blake. For how can the officials punish a dead man? And the instant this hellish power was withdrawn the body became what it was before— a putrid mass of flesh."

Above us we could hear the patter of - many feet. The sound of the gun had attracted the attention of Ah Foon and the others, or else they had found the body of the guard I had killed and were investigating.

Anning was talking fast now— talking as he gasped for breath. His life was fading fast away.

"They are coming.... Get Ah Foon.... Shoot him!... The others do not matter. They will disappear when he and I are gone.... But you must— must, I say— do what I tell you."

The door burst open. Ah Foon, his pock-marked face white and strained, plunged into the room at the head of a yellow horde. He snapped on the lights.

"Shoot!" Anning screamed.

I was spellbound—hypnotized. I tried to raise the gun. My arm hung motionless by my side. It seemed paralyzed. The gun dropped from my fingers.

The dying man made a mighty effort and grasped it. The pock-marked Chinaman was almost upon us now, the others a pace behind. He screamed as Anning pulled the trigger— screeched and then landed in a sprawling heap close beside the body of the man who had shot him. The others halted, too terrified to move.

"The cross! The cross!" Anning shrieked. And still I could not move. Like the horde of yellow men huddled in the doorway, I was spellbound— chained to the floor by a will stronger than my own. The eyes of Ah Foon glared up at me. They seemed to sear into my very brain. His hideous face was twisted into a sardonic grin.

"You are tied fast!" he snarled. "You can not raise your arm. I, with the power of Kuei behind me, decree it."

Anning raised himself to his elbow with his last ounce of strength.

"Quick, Blake! Quick!" he screamed. "He is coming back. The devil is seizing me again!"

He hurled himself forward, the crucifix held between his outstretched hands. He plunged it into the breast of the yellow man. Ah Foon shrieked. God, how he screamed as the sharp point pierced his breast! He writhed like a frog upon a spit. Then his limbs drew up spasmodically. He seemed to shrivel. Little spirals of smoke came from his mouth and nose. He seemed to be burning— to be falling away. His body was aglow with the flames that were eating at his vitals.

Anning dragged the crucifix from the Chinaman's heart. "Now into my heart!" he screamed.

"Quick, Blake—can't you see that in another second it will be too late?"

His face was changing. As true as there is a God in Heaven, he was changing before my eyes. His ears were becoming sharp and pointed. His chin was peaked. His eyes were turning to malevolent little slits while his lips drew back over fangs— fangs of a wolf.

And from his forehead two horns seemed to protrude.

Within the body of the man two forces were struggling. He was writhing, twisting, squealing. Froth dropped from his mouth. But still the best that was in his make-up fought for the mastery over the horrible thing that had his soul within its grasp.

Slowly, jerkily, inch by inch as if another hand was holding it back, he brought the crucifix up to a level with his eyes. The sharpened point was finally pressed against his breast.

"Strike! For Christ's sake, Blake, strike!" he screamed. I could not move. The cross was being drawn away again— dragged back by the terrible unseen power that was mastering him.

The human brain could stand no more. My head became a black, empty void. I pitched forward. My body fell across that of the struggling, writhing man upon the floor. I felt the cross plunge into the flesh. My weight drove it in— in until only the extended arms and head of the bleeding Christ showed above the wound.

He screamed. Then his struggles ceased.

The air was filled with a weird, whistling, howling wail. It assailed my ears until the drums throbbed and my brain rattled like a pea in an empty basket. Over everything was a bloody, reddish glare. The acrid smell of sulfur seared my nostrils.

I rolled to one side. Instinctively my fingers sought the cross and grasped it. Like a man in a dream I saw the bodies of the dead rise from their coffins and disappear in a flood of blinding light. Then came oblivion.

WHEN I awoke the room was bare. Even the altar was gone. Beside me lay my gun. My outstretched fingers still grasped the crucifix. Beneath it lay a little pile of ashes. Close by, where Ah Foon had met his doom, was another pile. It was morning. Outside the sun was shining.

A puff of vagrant wind blew in through the open door. The ashes disappeared.

___________________

6: The Vampire Airplane

Arlton Eadie

(Leopold Eady, 1886-1935)

Weird Tales August 1933

"WHATS that?"

Brander Cardwell paused in the act of raising his wine-glass to his lips, and his short, thick-set figure stiffened into an attitude of listening tension. From somewhere in the distance a low sustained droning sound had floated to his ears during a sudden lull in the heavy gusts of wind which beat against the leaded casements of Chelhurst Grange.

"Sounds like an airplane," Brander Cardwell went on, his gray brows bunched in a puzzled frown as his eyes searched the faces of the two men seated at the great oak table. Roderick Merton, the somewhat good-looking private secretary, looked up and met the old man's glance with a careless smile.

"If the night were calmer I should say that you were right, Mr. Cardwell," Merton said with the air of one discussing a familiar topic. "But it would be a bold and skilful pilot who would venture up in weather like this. It's blowing a full gale outside, and the sky is black as pitch. Probably the sound you heard was made by a high-powered car crossing the Downs to the seacoast."

The third man present slowly drained his glass before he turned to the speaker. The Honorable Eric Chalmers had great ideas about keeping paid servants in their proper places, and now there was the suspicion of a covert sneer on his thin lips as he asked: "Bit too breezy for your liking, eh?" His voice was a languid drawl. "Maybe you wouldn't care to venture up on a night like this?"

"I'll allow right now that I would not— and when I say that you can cut out the 'maybe'!" Rod Merton answered emphatically, a frank but not very friendly expression in his keen gray eyes.

"Really?" The Honorable Eric refilled his glass and gazed critically at its amber contents as he held it to the light of the shaded table lamp. "I always thought you wonderful flying fellers from the other side of the Atlantic weren't scared of a bit of wind like this."

"I've flown in worse gales than this, Mr. Chalmers, and on occasions when the wind was not the only or the greatest, danger," Rod returned quietly. "But that was during the war, and life was cheaper then than it is now."

"Really? Ah, yes, I was forgetting your jolly little stunts when you were a wing commander in the American air force." Chalmers' carefully cultivated drawl was always irritating to the ex-air-man, but just then it had the quality of being intentionally offensive as he went on: "By Jove, it must be a frightful come-down for a famous flying ace to have his wings clipped and hop about on the ground as a tame private secretary."

The insult was too gross to be misunderstood or overlooked. A sudden flush of anger mounted to the face of the young American and his brows lowered into an ominous straight line.

But before he could voice the stinging retort which rose to his lips, Brander Cardwell caused a diversion by dashing to the window and drawing back the heavy tapestry curtain.

"Look!" he cried, pointing excitedly upward. "It's a plane, and it's circling almost directly over this house! I can see the lights— they're flickering. His engine must be failing."

"I guess not, sir." Rod Merton had crossed the room with rapid strides and was now looking over the old man's shoulder. "I can tell by the regular humming that the engine is running smooth as velvet. But the pilot's in trouble of some sort— the intermittent flashing of the navigation lights which you see is the recognized signal that a pilot is compelled to land. It's up to us to show him a safe place."

The Honorable Eric came sauntering across to the window and, carefully adjusting his single eyeglass, stared up at the red and green lights which were winking high up in the gusty darkness.

"Show him a safe place?" he repeated blankly. "Oh, I say, how the deuce can we show him anything on a night like this?"

"Yes— how?" echoed Brander, glancing round. Rod's finger was already on the bell push. "Light up every window to show the position of the house," he jerked out crisply. "Flood the largest lawn with the light of the head-lamps of the cars in the garage. I'll tell him that there's a safe landing-ground due south of the lights."

"Tell him?" Chalmers gave a fatuous laugh. "He'll never hear your voice."

"But he'll see the Morse signal that I'm going to flash," the airman broke in impatiently. "Shall I order the cars to be brought round on the lawn? Every second may be precious if that plane has developed trouble."

"Yes, yes— of course. Do whatever you think necessary." The old man's voice was jerky with suppressed excitement. "Please give your orders without consulting me, Mr. Merton. You know best what is to be done in an emergency like this."

IN A flash the American airman had dropped his status of a private secretary and become the dominant figure of the situation. In crisp accents of authority that brooked no argument, he rapped out orders to the startled servants who came flocking into the room in response to the continued whirring of the bell. The next few minutes saw liveried and powdered footmen careering through the corridors of the ancient grange at a speed much in excess of their customary dignified progress; while the portly butler, much to his surprise, found himself hurriedly performing tasks which he usually delegated to his underlings.

Without waiting for the chauffeur to be brought from his quarters, Rod steered the big Daimler to the edge of the lawn and switched on the head-lamps. Then, while willing hands were bringing the other cars into position by its side, he took a large mirror from the entrance hall and, adjusting it so as to deflect the vivid glare upward, quickly sent a succession of long and short flashes to the plane hovering overhead.

Almost immediately the droning of the tractor ceased as the pilot cut out his engine for the downward glide. The green and red navigation lights widened and grew brighter as the unknown machine planed toward the square of level grass lawn that was now flooded with the white glare from the head-lamps of every available car, and presently an answering glare lit up the low-lying clouds as the pilot made electrical contact with a white pyrotechnical light fastened to the wing-tip of the descending plane.

"Is there any danger, Mr. Merton?"

The low-voiced, anxious question caused the ex-airman to turn quickly. Outlined against the dim reflected light was the slender girlish figure of Hetty Cardwell, the daughter of his employer. She had thrown a fur-trimmed wrap over her light evening frock, but her head was bare, and the unchecked wind was tossing the swathes of her corn-gold hair in an unstudied but strangely fascinating confusion. Merton caught the faint shimmer of a row of priceless pearls about the perfect curve of her throat, and he sensed rather than actually saw the tense expression on her upturned face as she watched the downward sweep of the wind-tossed plane.

"Danger, Miss Cardwell?" Rod Merton shrugged. "Well, I can't exactly say without knowing what his trouble is. But he seems to have his machine well in hand, and I reckon he'll make his landing all right, now that we've shown him a stretch as level as a billiard table. It might have been a different story if he had been forced to take his chance on the rough ground of the open downs, or had been swept out to sea. It's lucky for him that some one was handy who was able to read his signals."

"Can't we do anything to help them?" cried the girl as a violent gust of wind sent the plane soaring at what seemed a perilous angle. "It's maddening to stand here helpless knowing that lives are in danger."

Rod shook his head.

"That's a single-seater plane, Miss Cardwell, and you can rest assured that there are no passengers aboard. Anyway, we've done everything it's possible to do from the ground. It's up to the pilot to do the rest. But he'll make it all right if he's worth his salt at the game— and I guess he's no novice to be up on a night like this."

"Maybe he's an Air Force officer?" she suggested.

"I guess not," the American answered with swift decision. "When he touched off his wing-flare just now I saw the machine had no red-and-blue rings on its planes or rudder. It's a privately owned foreign machine."

"How can you tell that?" Hetty asked, lowering her gaze and looking full at Merton for the first time since they had been speaking.

"I caught a glimpse of the letters on the fuselage; they are H-MKCF. The first letter is the nationality mark, and the other four are the registration. The initial letter, taken with the first letter of the registration combination, together forms a sort of code which indicates the nationality of any aircraft. In the present instance the letters are H and M, showing that it is a Hungarian plane."

The girl's shining eyes widened slightly as she regarded the speaker with what seemed a new and deeper interest. "Just fancy you knowing all those things, Mr. Merton," she cried in mingled surprise and admiration.

The young ex-aviator's shoulders lifted in a slight shrug as he turned away.

"The time is not far distant when it was my duty to know all about those things," he answered, and there was a note of suppressed bitterness in his voice.

The renewed zooming overhead told that the pilot was running his engine full out in an endeavor to regain his former position in the teeth of the gale. Yet for a few breathless moments it seemed that the machine was making no headway. It was now directly facing the patch of illuminated lawn, its only safe landing-place, and from where Merton stood he could see its three navigation lights poised almost motionless in the black, windy void.

Then, with the swiftness of a falling stone, it dived downward and forward. The noise of its tractor swelled rapidly to a deafening roar, and another white flare burst into blinding radiance from the extremity of its wing. The machine was rushing earthward like a sheet of metal skimming through the air. It seemed as if nothing could prevent it from being hurled, a mass of twisted and crumpled wreckage, at his very feet.

A sudden clutch of horror assailed Merton's heart as he watched that mad, headlong sweep. The pilot was about to take the ground at full speed!

"Either he's a reckless fool or the bravest man I've ever met!" Rod muttered between his set teeth. "He must imagine he bears a charmed life!"

Now Merton could see the pilot clearly, a motionless figure in goggles and black leather helmet, crouching in his cockpit. But, for all his apparent inaction, his hands must have been busy at the controls, for he steered his machine straight as an arrow toward the section of smooth lawn.

Rod Merton set his teeth and waited in an agony of helpless suspense for the crash that seemed inevitable. He had seen high-speed racing-planes— machines heavily loaded and with proportionately small wing area, which will bear their weight only so long as high speed is maintained— he had seen such alight at ninety miles an hour, but only on specially prepared grounds and in perfect flying weather. No pilot in his right senses would take the ground from deliberate choice with his engine running full throttle. Heavens! was the man never going to shut off and flatten out?

Down— down— down rushed the flying monster in a crazy dive which threatened destruction to the knot of onlookers gathered by the edge of the lawn.

"Take cover! Run for your lives!" Merton shouted to the group of gaping servants. At the same moment he caught the girl round the waist and with a quick movement swung her behind the trunk of one of the ancient elms.

"That madman's heading for a crash," he raised his voice above the increasing din; "I reckon one funeral is enough at a time."

But even as he shouted the words, the savage roar of the propellers sank to a complacent purr; the downward nose-dive flattened out at the last possible moment into a leisurely hovering flight; the wheels of the under-carriage made contact with the smooth-shaven grass with scarcely a jar, and a few moments later the strange plane had come to a standstill and the pilot had vaulted lightly to the ground. Rod Merton crossed the lawn at a run.

"Excuse me, stranger," he said in a voice that was still a trifle unsteady. "Was that just a lucky fluke, or do you always make stunt landings like that? If so, then I reckon you must hold your life pretty cheap!"

The unknown pilot removed his goggles and helmet with an elaborate sweep that was almost a ceremonious bow.

He was tall above the average, and made a somewhat imposing figure in his tight fitting suit of black leather. His features were regular and might have been accounted handsome had it not been for their death-like pallor and the curious, indefinable expression which lurked in his dark, deep-set eyes. A slight smile twitched the comers of his marble lips at the young American's unceremonious greeting, and his leather-clad shoulders lifted in a little shrug.

"Believe me, sir," he answered in excellent English, "of all my possessions my life is the thing that I value least."

"So it seems!" Rod returned with a grim laugh. "When I'm tired of life I'll ask you to give me a trip in your suicide plane. If I had known that you were hankering after a crash I wouldn't have gone to such trouble to show you a safe landing-place."

The stranger stepped forward and with a quick, impulsive movement grasped the hand of the American. In spite of himself Rod felt a shudder of unreasoning repulsion pass through him at the touch of the other's fingers. The flesh felt unnaturally damp and icy cold, like that of a man on the very point of death.

"Are you hurt?—ill?" he asked, but the stranger shook his head and withdrew his hand quickly.

"No, no— that is— a little shaken maybe," the man's disjointed utterances betrayed some confusion. He fixed his dark eyes earnestly on the secretary's face as he went on: "Please forget what I said just now. I have had a rough journey, and I must ask you to make allowances."

Rod's answering nod was ready and unsuspicious.

"Sure," he agreed. "It's a bad night for flying, and I take it you've come a long journey?"

The stranger nodded silently.

"From Hungary?" Rod went on.

Again the stranger nodded, but this time his piercing eyes shot a swift, suspicious glance.

"How did you guess that?" he asked with an indifference that was slightly overdone.

"I wasn't guessing," answered Merton. "The letters on your machine told me all I wanted to know about your nationality."

"Ah! So you understand aircraft?"

"I'll say I do," smiled Rod. "I used to be a pilot in the regular air force."

The unknown bowed. "I am honored to make your acquaintance. I have encountered a fair number of your comrades in the past, but"—he paused and again his lips curved in that slow, strange smile— "I regret to say that the only compliments we were permitted to exchange were nickel-coated ones."

"I see." Rod gave a nod of understanding. "You flew an enemy plane during the war. In that case we might have met before?"

"Possibly," shrugged the foreigner, "but at any rate we don't seem to have done each other much harm. Happily we can approach each other on a friendlier footing now, and I have no hesitation in throwing myself on the hospitality of my former foe. If you will kindly permit me to rest a while in your house before continuing my journey, and lend me a few gallons of petrol, you will add two more debts of gratitude to the one which I already owe you for assisting me to land in safety."

For a moment the young American was taken aback by this elaborate and stilted expression of gratitude.

"That's all right, sir," he replied somewhat awkwardly. "You're more than welcome to the little assistance I was able to give. But you seem to have got things a bit wrong. This house doesn't belong to me; I only act as private secretary to its owner."

"His name?"

A subtle change seemed to have affected the stranger's manner as he jerked out the question in the tone of one accustomed to command.

"Mr. Brander Cardwell."

"Please be good enough to take me to him."

With a curt, "Follow me," Rod Merton turned on his heel and led the way toward the house.

Close behind him, his lithe, sable-clad figure held with stiff, military erectness, his piercing eyes darting quick glances right and left, a faint, inscrutable smile on his pallid lips, the unknown airman entered the castellated gates of Chelhurst Grange.

ii

ALTHOUGH Brander Cardwell made no secret of his humble origin, and openly boasted that he had made his pile by the combined exertion of muscle and brain, he was not entirely lacking in those social aspirations which so frequently intrigue the nouveau riche. Nothing would have pleased him better than to crash into the best and most exclusive circles in the same manner as he had crashed into wealth.

He had wit enough to see that the same methods would not suffice, but he brought the same perseverance to the task. He paid a fabulous sum for Chelhurst Grange simply because it was the show-place of the county, and because its ownership conferred some degree of reflected fame. With infinite pains and the employment of a noted master of elocution he managed to eliminate his North-country accent in his ordinary conversation, though strange-sounding words would occasionally slip out in moments of excitement. He had lavished a small fortune on the education of his only child, Hetty, even going as far as engaging the services of a real duchess (who had fallen on evil days) in order that the girl should do naturally the things which he accomplished only by playing a part.

"A real lady" was what he had desired to make her, and he honestly thought he had succeeded. His dearest wish of all was that she should marry a titled aristocrat; but so far the girl herself had not evinced any yearnings in that direction.

The old man was leaning his broad shoulders against the carved chimneypiece in the Great Hall, his short, sturdy legs set wide apart and his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his dinner jacket, when Rod Merton conducted the stranded airman into his presence. No one seeing the old man in that attitude could possibly mistake him for anything else than the owner of the house. Without hesitation the stranger advanced to Brander, came to a halt before him with a smart click of his heels and bowed from the waist in a stiff, foreign fashion.

"Permit me to introduce myself, sir," he said, and held out a visiting-card in his gauntleted hand. A subtle change came over the old man's expression as his eyes fell on the neatly engraved coat of arms, surmounted by a tiny coronet, which decorated one corner of the slip of white pasteboard.

GRAF FEDOR VON FELHAGEN

SCHLOSS FELHAGEN

TORZBURG, HUNGARY

Brander read the copperplate lettering with shining eyes. A nobleman!—a count!— a titled aristocrat! Clearly he must lose no time in improving his acquaintance with this lordly airman who had dropped on his doorstep from the skies.

"I trust you are none the worse for your rough experience, Count?" he beamed. "We thought your machine was going to conk when we saw your S. O. S. Engine trouble, I suppose? Tricky things— petrol engines. Don't understand 'em myself. Give me steam every time. You've had a tidy hop if you've come straight from your home town."

Count Fedor shrugged slightly.

"I've come fifteen hundred miles altogether, but I flew by easy stages. My last halt was at Mayence, on the Rhine. I only came down for an hour or so, to make some slight adjustment to my engine, and I did not wait to refuel. I thought I had sufficient petrol to carry me the remainder of my journey, but this unexpected gale delayed me and ran things very close. My tanks were running dangerously low when I crossed the Sussex coast line— they would have been dry long before I reached the Croydon Aerodrome. I thought it best to risk a blind landing in the dark. Luckily for me there was an experienced aviator in the neighborhood."

He inclined his dark head toward Rod.

"Thanks to his prompt action, I am here safe and sound to tender my thanks in person and to apologize for my enforced intrusion. However, a few gallons of petrol will take me on my way and—"

Brander Cardwell held up a swift protesting hand.

"But, my dear Count, I really can hot allow you to leave us so soon," the old man cried with hearty, if somewhat self-conscious, hospitality. "You must be dead-tired by your long flight— and half famished, too, I'll wager. Coming from Hungary, it's only natural that you should be hungry. Ha, ha!— my little joke, you know— Hungary— hungry."

The count's pale lips drew back in the smile that was evidently expected of him.

Rod Merton, standing in silence with his eyes fixed on the newcomer's features, caught the gleam of two rows of white, sharp-pointed teeth. To him the count's facial contortion appeared less like a polite society smile than the grin of a famished wolf.

"My house is at your disposal, Count," Brander resumed, apparently gratified by his new-found guest's ready appreciation of the elephantine humor of the jest. "I simply refuse to hear of your taking the air again until you've had a good meal and a good night's rest. Of course you can't get your usual meals when you're in the air?"

A curious light flashed momentarily in the count's somber eyes.

"No," he answered with a strange deliberation. "I can not obtain my accustomed food while I'm on the wing, as you say. I could not eat when I halted at Mayence, either; there was nothing there that suited my taste. Here, however, it seems that I shall be more fortunate."

Rod glanced sharply at the speaker's face and a wave of blind, unreasoning repulsion chilled his soul.

The eyes of Count Fedor von Felhagen were filled with an avid glare— and they were staring fixedly at the ivory-white throat of Hetty Cardwell.

iii

"EXCUSE MY ASKING, Count, but had you any definite purpose in visiting this country? Were you going to see your friends, for instance?"

It was some two hours later, and dinner was nearing its end, when the owner of Chelhurst Grange put the tentative query to his distinguished guest. There was a sad and almost wistful look on Count Fedor's face as he shook his head.

"I fear that I'm but a lone bird of passage, Mr. Cardwell. I have few friends in the whole world, and none whatever in England."

"Oh, come, come, Count Fedor. Isn't that remark rather a slur on the present company? I'm sure you have found some good friends at Chelhurst Grange."

There was breeding and personality in the low, clear voice which spoke the words. Norma Fane was Hetty's cousin; the two girls were about the same age, and fast friends; although envious people had been heard to declare that they only went about together because their strongly contrasting types of beauty showed each to her best advantage. Hetty was fair, but Norma's hair was raven-like in more than its hue; where the light caught its waves they glinted with the rich metallic sheen of that bird's jet plumage. Black was the color of her wondrous eyes, alive with the mirrored thoughts which animated the quick mind behind. Black, too, were the long lashes which shadowed them and at times hid their secrets from a too inquisitive world.

But just then, as Norma spoke the impulsive words of half-serious reproach, her telltale eyes betrayed an interest deep enough to arrest the attention of a man much less alert than the Hungarian count. Fedor von Felhagen had described himself as a "lone bird of passage," but it was evident that he belonged to a species not lacking in fine feathers. He had discarded his flying-kit and now appeared in evening clothes that fully deserved the much-abused adjective "immaculate," for they showed not the slightest crease to indicate their lengthy sojourn in one of the numerous leather cases which had been taken from the luggage-boot of the plane, soon after its arrival, and carried to the best guest-room, which alone was deemed worthy of so distinguished a visitor.

The count turned his eyes on Norma and the jewels of the unfamiliar foreign order flashed many-colored fire as it swung on its crimson ribbon in response to his characteristic shrug.

"Ah, Miss Fane, even the most delightful acquaintances do not become friends in a single hour."

His voice was low and sad, and its deep vibrations strangely stirred the heart of the girl to whom the words were addressed.

"After all, what am I but a stranger in your midst? For all you know I may be a vulgar impostor— a fugitive from the law even. A foreign title is the usual stock-in-trade of the chevalier d'Industrie, you know."

"Oh I say, for heaven's sake don't talk like that, dear boy," interposed the Honorable Eric. "We don't doubt your word for a minute."

He had been careful to look up and verify the count's title in the Almanach de Gotha within a few minutes of learning the stranger's identity, but this was a detail he thought it unnecessary to mention.

There was a murmur of approval from Brander and the others as Eric made his confession of faith, but Rod Merton did not join in it. Ever since the count's arrival he had been racking his brain to recall an elusive memory, and at that moment the thing he sought had flashed unbidden to his mind. Abruptly he glanced up and looked von Felhagen full in the face.

"You are too modest. Count," he said quietly. "You underrate your own reputation when you say that you are unknown in this country. I, for one, know who you are."

"Indeed?"

The word itself was coldly indifferent, but the lips which framed it belonged to a mask of fear. Only the man himself knew the effort it cost to smooth those twitching features into the semblance of a smile. "I am not averse to having my vanity flattered by a recitation of my own fame. Pray who do you think I am?"

In the silence that followed, Rod's chair slid over the polished floor with a harsh grating sound as he pushed it back and rose to his feet. "You are the same Kapitanleutnant Graf von Felhagen who led the Number 3 Bombengeschwader when the Gotha Squadron made their first daylight raid on London!"

"Truly, I am having greatness thrust upon me with both hands!"

The count tried to summon a laugh to accompany his words and succeeded in producing a contortion of his lips which revealed the rows of pointed teeth. "I fear, however, that your very flattering estimate of my identity is self-contradictory. It is a matter of history that the leader of that squadron was shot down as his machine passed over the mouth of the Thames after having unloaded its bombs on the city."

"I have good reason to be aware of that fact." Rod Merton spoke quietly, but there was a note in his voice which suggested finely edged steel. "On that particular seventh of July, I was serving with the American Seaplane Patrol in the Channel. Orders were broadcast by wireless for every available machine to concentrate over the Thames estuary to bar the path of the returning raiders. I joined the seventeen seaplanes which the Naval Air Service sent up from Dunkirk. We quickly sighted the retreating enemy— twenty-two machines in a single V-shaped formation, flying at about ten thousand feet directly over the Isle of Thanet, with a single straggler low down and far behind the others. By this time two more ferry patrols had joined us, winging in from the blue like sea-vultures eager for the kill, making up our strength to a round score of Allies to twenty-two Gothas and a cripple. We had no time to formulate a plan of attack, and even if we had it would have been useless. The Huns scattered in all directions the moment they saw their line of retreat threatened. It was machine against machine, and after the first burst of firing, every pilot was busy with his own particular dog-fight.

"One of the enemy three-seaters dived between me and the next plane, its twin air-screws zooming like a cyclone, its three machine-guns in full blast. As his ugly, red-painted snout came abreast, the stream of lead began to crackle about our ears. The vicious stutter of our Lewis in the rear cockpit told me that my gunner had already got to work. I swung my own gun round with open sights and waited till the great black Maltese crosses on the Gotha's seventy-two-feet span of wing were dead level. Then I let off a full drum and saw the tracer bullets smoke and crumple through the thin fabric and through the plyboard of the fuselage beyond. Abruptly the red snout dipped downward out of sight, leaving a thin trail of smoke behind it as it went. At that moment our engine gave a few groggy splutters and stopped. I found later that a dozen Hun bullets had passed through the fuel-tank, but at the time I spent precious minutes fussing about to find out what was wrong. Meanwhile our plane was gliding lower and lower, and when at last I switched over to the emergency gravity tank and got the engine to pick up, I found myself alongside the crippled Hun that was staggering along at the rear.

"Cripple or not, I at once saw that here was a prize worth bagging. I recognized that plane the moment we came to close quarters. It bore the usual crimson snout, but there was no sign of the huge black-painted crosses marked on its white fabric. Instead, great black death's-heads grinned at me from planes, fuselage and rudder. It was the famous Jagdstaffel—the expert and daring air-fighter whom we called the Death Ace because of the grim symbol which he insisted on carrying in place of the regulation identity mark. And the Death Ace was living up to his reputation.

"His present low altitude kept him well within range of the anti-aircraft barrage which thundered and screamed as the quick-firing batteries along the coast spat their shells aloft. Every few yards of its limping progress was punctuated by a sudden mushroom burst of white smoke, followed by an ear-splitting khan-n-nag! and the whine of flying shrapnel. His lower right-hand wing was a trailing tangle of canvas shreds; and the after part of his fuselage a mere mass of splintered, yellow-stained woodwork where a small H. E. projectile had scored a direct hit; the only signs of the mishap's gunner were a few blotches of crimson amid the wreckage. The head of the other gunner was canted stiffly up¬ ward, his goggled eyes staring unseeingly at the sky, his thumbs still pressing die trigger of his silent gun.

"But if his comrades were dead, the Death Ace himself was still very much alive. He greeted our appearance with a lively burst from his forward gun, spraying forth a stream of bullets which sent the white splinters licking up from our woodwork, and neatly sliced one of our steel stays with a loud musical twang. I kicked on the rudder-bar and shoved the controls hard over in a skidding turn. We came round behind him, missing his rudder by less than the half-width of our planes, and as each gun came to bear we raked his fuselage from end to end. For a moment the stricken machine hung as though her pilot were trying to stall. Then its nose went down and it rolled slowly over, zigzagging earthward with that helpless, sickening spin which tells of a machine out of control.

" 'That's fixed him!' yelled my gunner, but even as the words left his lips, a burst of our own shrapnel exploded right underneath us. I heard the zip-zip of the bullets as they tore through the flooring of the cockpit. Our frail machine pranced and curveted like a frightened horse. The tail seemed to drop off and float away of its own accord. Then our machine dropped a hundred feet like a stone— stalled— glided for about a minute— dropped again and finally came to earth with its floats embedded in about ten feet of soft Thames mud.

"We managed to scramble ashore, unhurt physically but with every nerve flabby as wet catgut. I saw that we had come down on the Isle of Thanet. About a hundred yards from the shore was a group of men, some with lanterns. Stumbling in their direction, we found that they were examining the remains of the wrecked Gotha.

"At any other time I would have left them to carry on; the fortune of war had smiled on me that night, and I was in no mood to gloat over a dead or wounded enemy. But some unaccountable feeling, some instinct of morbid curiosity, prompted me to go across and look upon the face of the man who had fought his Deathshead Plane so gallantly. They had just cut the straps which secured him to his seat as I came up.

" 'He's quite dead,' said a gray-haired officer who wore the badge of the Army Medical Corps.

"I glanced through the opened tunic and saw the bullet-wound; then I looked long at the livid face. Line for line, feature for feature, the face of that dead man was as your own, Count von Felhagen, and the bullet that killed him had entered there!"

And Rod Merton, leaning quickly across the table, pointed with his outstretched finger to the left center of the count's immaculate shirt-front.

iv

THE COMPANY around the table had followed the American's vivid narrative with breathless interest; during the deep silence which followed the unexpected and dramatic conclusion, every eye was turned on the man who was the central figure in the story. The long recital had given Count von Felhagen time in which to regain his composure. His face was impassive as a marble mask; his only sign of emotion was the long, shuddering sigh which he allowed to escape his lips. For a few seconds he sat in thoughtful silence; then:

"Ah, so that was how my brother met his death?" he said so softly that it seemed as if he were unconsciously voicing his thoughts. Rod Merton started as if he had been stung.

"Your brother?" he cried incredulously.

"My elder brother, whom I succeeded to the title," the count explained in a smooth voice which now betrayed not the slightest trace of emotion.

"It was he who commanded the bombing squadron which raided London on the date you mentioned, Mr. Merton, and it was he who crashed to earth under your hail of bullets."

"But— his name was Fedor—"

"The same as my own," interrupted Felhagen with curt indifference. "It is a family name, assumed with the title of Graf as a matter of hereditary custom. Though it may lead to confusion of identity, we still retain the custom as one of the traditions of our ancient race."

"Your brother bore a very strong resemblance to you," Rod muttered dubiously. "Naturally," came the reply, after the slightest hesitant pause.

"To all intents and purposes we were twins, born at a single birth; a mere matter of minutes decided which of us should be the heir and which the cadet. Is it then so wonderful that we should be alike? Your story has been most interesting to me."

Slumbering fires seemed to awaken in the count's cold eyes as he gazed fixedly at the ex-airman.

"It has long been my desire to meet the man who killed my brother. Not that I bear malice," he added quickly. "C'est la guerre, as our neighbors were in the habit of saying. War is war— not a game of chess. A cook, however skilful, can not make an omelet without breaking eggs, and a general, however humane, can not fight a battle without loss of life. Happily, all that is over now."

"You're right, Count," Brander Cardwell interposed heartily. "All that sort of thing is over and done with. A wise nation buries its hatred with its fallen sons."

"Hear! hear!" drawled the Honorable Eric from the other end of the table. "It always gives me a beastly headache to talk about the war. For heaven's sake let the dead rest quietly in the place where they belong. We don't want them fooling around here, do we, Hetty?"

He turned with a wink and a smirk to the girl at his side.

"The housing problem is quite difficult enough in this country, without having a few million homeless spooks to add to the congestion!"

Hetty Cardwell's face was very serious as she made a little gesture of remonstrance.

"I am not unduly superstitious, but I do not care to jest on such a subject," she answered gravely. "To my mind there are no more beautiful and comforting words in our language than those which ask, 'Eternal rest give unto them, O Lord—' " She broke off abruptly, the long golden lashes which framed her eyes like the rays of a star widening in dismay as she saw the effect of her words on the Hungarian airman. The man seemed to crumple and shrink into his chair as one recoils from a physical blow; his livid features were writhing in a grimace all the more ghastly because of his obvious efforts to control them; a terrible, nameless expression flamed in his staring eyes. She started to her feet with a little cry of compassion.

"You are ill, Countvon Felhagen—" He shook his head almost fiercely.

"No. A little faint, that's all." He passed his shaking hand across his glistening forehead. "Yes—a little faint."

"No wonder!" cried his host. "You said you were famished, yet you've scarcely eaten a thing. Come, my dear Count, a glass of wine— or brandy—"

"I thank you, but no." Count Fedor rose unsteadily to his feet. "I crave for none of those things. With your permission I will retire to the room you have so kindly placed at my disposal. I am unfortunately subject to these attacks of— of faintness. But I shall be better soon— yes, very soon. In the morning I hope to have regained my usual strength. Permit me to bid you all good-night."

His restless eyes swept the room as he inclined his head in a ceremonious bow, and Hetty was conscious of a sudden chill of unreasoning foreboding as for an instant her eyes met his direct gaze. The next moment he turned and, with stiff and curiously mechanical steps, slowly quitted the room.

As the door closed behind him, a faint, l long-drawn sound swelled in the distance, rising and falling, and at last dying with a mournful cadence into silence. The Honorable Eric's eyeglass clattered into his plate as his brows shot upward in surprise.

"Merciful Moses!" he gasped. "What a horrible noise!"

"What can it be?" Norma Fane whispered as the distant wail rose again.

"It's the dogs, sir," Soames, the old butler, informed his master in a husky whisper as he bent over his chair. "They've been restless the whole of the evening. They seem afeared of something— the men down at the kennels can't pacify 'em nohow. The noise of that there hairyplane must have sent them near crazy, sir."

Rod Merton looked up quickly. "They were all right before the plane arrived?"

Soames nodded. "So the grooms inform me, sir. The dogs have never carried on like that before, leastways"— the old man hesitated and sank his voice— "not since the night before the last Lord Chelhurst was buried from here, sir."

The Honorable Eric frowned.

"That's just dam' silly superstition," he said loftily. "Go and find out what's the matter with them."

"I know what's the matter with 'em." A sullen look came into the butler's lined features as he muttered the words. "They scent death in the air."

"Don't be a fool!" said Brander sharply. "Let the brutes loose and see if that quiets them."

"Or lock them in the cellars," suggested Eric Chalmers. "We can't have that beastly row going on all night— any one would think we had a corpse in the house!"

"Very good, sir."

Soames departed on his errand, and a few minutes later Rod Merton quietly followed him.

As the young American emerged from the door leading into the old stable yard, one of the servants came out of the kennel-shed, with a large mastiff on a leash. The dog was strangely excited and seemed reluctant to leave its usual quarters. Almost in the center of the yard it came to a halt and drew back on its haunches, throwing up its muzzle and sending forth a long, mournful howl.

Drawing nearer, Rod saw that its large, expressive eyes were fixed on the illuminated window of the guest-room. Following the direction of the hound's unwavering gaze, Rod saw the shadowy outline of the count's tall figure pass across the blind.

"I wonder—" he muttered softly.

Then, turning swiftly, he crossed the yard and entered the large, disused coach house in which the airplane had been placed for the night. Climbing into the fuselage, he looked at the indicator-level of the fuel tanks. The lines about his mouth hardened as he saw that the tanks were still half full.

Count Fedor had lied when he said that shortage of petrol had forced him to descend. Then why had he made that excuse? Why had he risked a night-landing on strange ground when it was not really necessary? Why had he told the improbable story of the twin brother bearing the same name? Why had he, though declaring that he was half famished, deliberately refrained from taking food? Why had he so cunningly contrived that he should spend the night beneath the roof of Chelhurst Grange?

The questions were still hammering at Rod Merton's brain as he retraced his steps and entered the house. And in his heart was the steadily growing conviction that the arrival of the plane was not due to a chance accident of fate, but to an elaborate and sinister plan on the part of Count Fedor von Felhagen.

And he was not less certain that in some inscrutable manner that plan meant peril to Hetty Cardwell, the girl he loved.

v

THE HOUSEHOLD at Chelhurst Grange kept early hours, and as Rod Merton entered the stone-flagged hall he encountered the butler going his rounds in the process of locking up for the night.

"I shall not be turning in yet awhile, Soames," he said to the old man. "You need not switch off the lights in the library; I shall be working there for an hour or so."

"Indeed, sir?" The servant looked at him curiously. "Then you won't be lonesome, for Father Fabian was there when I passed through just now, with his nose buried in a book nearly as; big as himself. One of the old 'uns with the colored pitchers, sir."

Merton nodded. He knew that the old man referred to the ancient illuminated manuscript-books, of which the library of Chelhurst Grange contained a large and valuable collection. They had had been handed down from generation to generation of the noble family that formerly owned the grange, and now it was rare indeed to find any of the unwieldy volumes taken from the locked glass cases in which they usually reposed. The secretary could not help feeling some surprise that another had taken it into his head to examine them at the very moment he intended to do the same thing.

"All right, Soames. I'll lock up carefully when I'm through. You need not wait up."

"Thank you, sir. Good-night."

The library was a large, lofty room, one of the least modernized in the whole house. Situated in the south wing, it was well lighted by the two large oriel windows during the hours of daylight; but as Merton now saw it, lit only by the dying glow of the embers on the hearth and the dimly reflected light of the single shaded reading-lamp, the place seemed haunted with a forbidding gloom.

Great dusky tongues of shadow crawled on the sad-colored, faded tapestry and hung in opaque masses in the angles of the book-lined walls as if drawing back in affright from the pool of brilliant light which bathed the head and shoulders of the solitary figure who sat bent over a huge leather-bound tome.

"Good evening, Father Fabian," Rod advanced into the room as he spoke. "You seem to be well on the way to burning the midnight oil— or rather current. And it doesn't seem to be any very light literature that's keeping you from your bed," he added with a humorous glance at the formidable proportions of the ancient volume.

The priest looked up with a smile at the sound of the voice. He was old and very frail; his thin, ascetic features were deeply lined and his blue-veined hands betrayed the tremulous weakness of extreme age as he slowly removed his reading-glasses from his shrewd yet kindly eyes. His tall figure was attired in a long black cassock; a small round skull-cap crowned his somewhat untidy mass of silvery white hair.

In view of the fact that the new owner of Chelhurst Grange had never made any pretension to being a pious, or even a normally religious man, and had certainly not shown the slightest leaning to the Roman Catholic faith, the presence of Father Fabian in his household was likely to occasion some surprise to strangers.

The explanation, however, was simple enough. After Brander Cardwell had set his heart on acquiring the property, his lawyers had discovered a curious clause in the will of the last Lord Chelhurst wherein he stipulated that in the event of the grange passing into other hands, the aged priest, last of a long succession of chaplains who had served the private oratory of Chelhurst Grange, should be allowed to stay on for the few remaining years of his lifetime.

Brander had been compelled to take Father Fabian "with the fixtures," as he pithily termed it; but, to his credit, the materialistic millionaire had never by word or action betrayed that he resented his obligation. On the contrary, he had increased the former somewhat meager stipend to a degree which brought tears of protesting gratitude to the old priest's eyes. In the end it was the poor and needy of the neighboring village who mainly benefited by Brander's generosity, and the donor was shrewd enough to recognize the fact.

Though more than skeptical that his expenditure would ensure bliss in the problematical world to come, he had no doubt that it brought him a certain degree of popularity in this mundane sphere. So, taken on the whole, Brander was satisfied that the credit and debit sides of that particular item were about evenly balanced.

"You are right, Mr. Merton." A whimsical smile deepened the lines of the old priest's features as he made answer. "This certainly is not a modern bestseller, though it is not entirely undeserving of the name of thriller. It is Dissertatio de Vampyris, written by a certain Venerable Gustav Gogh, Bishop of Prague, somewhere about the year 1550."

"I know," nodded the secretary. "I came here tonight solely for the purpose of consulting that book."

The eyes of the two men met across the ivory-yellow parchment pages, each striving to read in the other's the answer to the question which he scarcely dared to put into words.

It was the priest who spoke first.

"You, too?" His whisper was no louder than a long-drawn breath. "You suspect that this stranger is... not as other men?"

Rod Merton shrugged with a somewhat shamefaced air. "A few hours ago I should have thought myself crazy if I had taken your question seriously, Father Fabian. But now I'm not so sure. I should like to refresh my memory by reading a certain passage from that book before I answer your question."

"You are able to translate mediaeval Latin?" the priest asked in surprise.

"There is no need," replied the secretary. "One of my predecessors, who evidently had a lot of time on his hands, has made translations of every book in the library."

He stooped to one of the oak presses beneath the book-shelves, took out a thin, marble-covered exercise-book, twirled the pages rapidly, and laid it open on the desk.

"Here is the passage," he said, pointing. Father Fabian adjusted his spectacles and read aloud:

"It is not meet that I should soil this fair vellum with a particular recital of the vile misdeeds of Ulrich, the third Graf von Felhagen. Those unfortunates who lived under his iron and merciless rule were brought to such dire straits of misery and despair that they were constrained to cry aloud that God had forgotten their unhappy land, leaving them to be the sport of men who were devils in human form. Schloss Felhagen, the counts feudal stronghold, perched proudly on an impregnable spur of the Southern Carpathians, was filled with men who lusted only to plunder, to harry, and to slay. They rode from its gates with laughter and fair music, like those who fare to a merry feast; they returned at nightfall leaving behind them a trail naked and bleeding, and lit withal by the flames of burning homesteads. But the Great Judge was but biding His hour of judgment; the cup of Count Ulrich von Felhagen's iniquity was not yet full."

"It seems pretty clear that this Ulrich was an ancestor of the man who arrived here tonight," Merton remarked as the other paused. "Undoubtedly that is so," the priest agreed, and resumed his reading:

"About four leagues from the castle was a deep and dangerous ford across the Aluta, which is a tributary of the Danube. In a cave among the rocks of the south bank an aged hermit had made his home, serving God daily and expiating his sins by guiding across the swift-running stream such travellers as wished to reach Hermannstadt, a prosperous but unfortified town, a league and a half distant on the further bank. One day in early spring, when the first thaw of the mountain snows had swollen the river beyond its wonted height, Count Ulrich came to the ford, riding at the head of a war-like train of archers, spearmen, and steel-clad robber-knights.

" 'Ho there, Sir Hermit!' quoth the count as he reined in his horse before the door of the lonely cell. Bestir thyself, and guide us across, that we may straight¬ way rouse the hunt on yonder bank.' "The hermit shaded his dim eyes with his hand and gazed long and searchingly at the resplendent figure of his feuded lord. 'Methinks you go to strange hunting, Count Ulrich, armed cap-a-pie, with arbalest and mangonel, and war-arrows in your archers' sheaves. Perchance you seek your quarry in the streets of Hermannstadt?'

" 'Perchance I do,' Ulrich shrugged with haughty disdain. 'What's that to thee, thou mangy water-rat? Lead the way —or die!'

"The bright blade flashed in Ulrich's hand as he threw himself from the saddle. " 'Mercy, great Duke,' begged the hermit, falling on his knees in supplication. 'Mercy—not for myself, for I am old and already the grave beckons me to rest. The mercy I crave is for those in yonder town—the wives, the mothers, the children, the little babes who smile in their sleep or peek shyly up at their new¬ found world. Spare these, great lord, spare these! Turn back the way you came, and so earn that greater mercy which otherwise thou shalt one day ask in vain. For there is a ghostly archer who laughs at plate of proof, one whose dart will find thee through thy barred gates and unbreached walls. Great as thou art, Count Ulrich, one day thou must die—'

" 'Hell's blight upon thy tongue!' Count Ulrich's sword again flashed in the sunlight; then its brightness became dimmed with red. The hermit sank groundward, his life's blood staining his tattered robe. For a space he lay all quiet save for heavy, gasping breaths. Then slowly he lifted his death-dewed face and gazed on his destroyer, eye to eye.

" 'Harken!' he cried in a voice which rang out like that of an inspired prophet. 'In a vision I have seen the Cup of thy Transgressions, and it is brimmed with blood until it overflows. Thine insensate crimes have wearied God and man; the hour of thy punishment draws nigh, and it shall be such as to make hardened sinners tremble when they learn thy fate. Thou hast lived thy life in blood— thy race shall live on blood for evermore, in life and beyond the grave. Mark well my words as with my dying breath I set this dread curse upon the House of Felhagen. Even as thou hast shed torrents of thy subjects' blood during thy one evil life, so shall the sons of thy house glut their appetite after death. Each of thy descendants who dies unrepentant and unshriven, with his hands stained with innocent blood, shall become a foul, repulsive vampire! The peace of God shall be withheld from him. Dying, he shall still be one of the accursed Undead who find repose neither in heaven nor in earth. The grave shall reject him; in the tomb he shall not hide himself. He shall go forth into the world like a ravening beast preying on mankind, until mankind, showing compassion to the offspring of a race which knew none, shall release him from his awful bondage. Then shall the curse be lifted; then shall the long-desired 'peace of the grave descend upon his tortured soul. But not till then!'

"The proud Count started forward, wild words of entreaty on his lips. But the hermit was dead."

There was a short pause of silence as Father Fabian came to the end of the grim chronicle.

Then Rod Merton started to his feet.

"I see it all now," he exclaimed. "The curse of his race has fallen on Count Fedor."

"But why should it?" asked the priest. "Don't you understand? Women and children were killed in the raid from which he was returning when his plane crashed. He died with innocent blood on his hands— died before he could make his peace with heaven. Count Fedor von Felhagen is a vampire!"

The priest lay back in his chair, his frail form shaken by silent thunderblasts of horror.

"Merciful heaven!" he gasped. "He has come here thirsting for vengeance on you— the man who killed him—"

"He thirsts for something more terrible than vengeance!" cried the other. "He has gained entry into this house like a fierce, famished beast, seeking-"

A shrill scream cut through his words; a wild note of inarticulate terror which throbbed and echoed through the empty corridors of the great house and died into a silence loaded with nameless possibilities. Father Fabian turned a haggard face to Rod.

"It came from above— from the west wing, where Hetty—"

But the young American was already at the door. Wrenching it open, he dashed into the hall and up the wide staircase, and as he ran he fumbled at his hip and drew out something which reflected the glint of plated metal as he passed the moonlit window at the head of the stairs.

He had called himself a fool when he had thrust that weapon into his pocket earlier in the evening, but now he was conscious of a fierce joy as he gripped the butt and thumbed the safety-catch forward for immediate action.

The corridor was in darkness, but the moonlight slanted through the mullioned windows, splashing the polished floor with pools of diapered silver and casting ghostly reflections on the trophies of ancient arms and armor which decorated the panelled walls.

The door of the guest-chamber stood ajar, but Rod did not pause to glance inside. His eyes were fixed on the farther end of the corridor, where stood the door leading into the room usually occupied by Hetty Cardwell. He breathed a prayer of thankfulness as the door yielded to his touch.

Thrusting it wide without ceremony, Rod Merton entered. The heavy curtains had been drawn across the windows, but a shaded lamp glowed dimly near the head of the bed. By its light he saw the girl lying with her glorious hair tumbled wildly across the pillow, one hand outflung as if to ward off the apparition which had brought merciful unconsciousness after her first terrified cry; and by its dim light he sensed rather than actually saw the ominous black shape poised above her like some great bird about to descend on its prey.

Rod paused in the doorway, his right hand holding the revolver, his left sweeping the wall. His groping fingers found the switch and the next instant the room was flooded with light.

Count Fedor straightened up with a jerk and swung round, his eyes glittering with a greenish lambent fire. He was dressed in his black leather flying kit, and the tight-fitting helmet gave him the aspect of a malignant gnome.

"Throw 'em up!" Rod ordered crisply, taking steady aim at the grinning face. "I'm taking no chances, Count Fedor. I know you for what you are. I know the race from which you sprang; I know its secret— and I know its doom!"

Fedor von Felhagen threw back his head and laughed.

"Fire!" he mocked. "Do your worst! Do you think that I would be enduring this living death if mortal weapons could bring release? You know part of my secret, so know this, too: never was there one more ready to yield his life than I, and never was there one more proof against death by the hands of men!"

There was no arrogance in the vampire's manner now. Through his words echoed the accents of blank, hopeless despair. The steady muzzle of Merton's weapon wavered and then dropped. He came a pace nearer.

"You would welcome death?" he asked curiously.

"Welcome it?" The pallid features writhed like those of a tortured fiend. "Need you ask that? Never did an unhappy wretch stretched on the rack in the ancient dungeons of Felhagen Castle long for blessed oblivion more earnestly than I. But such release is not for me. I must follow my dread destiny to the end, leaving death and desolation in my trail. As a man I shudder at the evil that I do; as a vampire I gloat in foul anticipation over the unhallowed meal that is to come."

"But the legend spoke of release," cried his horrified hearer. "There must be a way?"

Count Fedor nodded somberly. "There is," he answered in an agonized voice, "but I am forbidden to tell it to mortal ears. You pity me now, but soon your pity will be turned to loathing, for it is my doom to reap only the fairest flowers of the daughters of men. Stand aside, Captain Merton, if you love your life!"

With a light, sinuous swoop that was like the fluttering of a great bird of prey, Fedor gained the side of the bed and lifted the unconscious girl in his arms. As he faced about, Rod raised his automatic.

"Stand!" he cried. A wild laugh was the only reply as the vampire made toward the door. Aiming coolly so as to avoid hitting the precious burden in the count's arms, Rod pressed the trigger. The crash of the discharge was answered by the tinkle of falling glass as the bullet shattered the window-pane immediately behind the vampire's head. Shot after shot leapt from the flaming muzzle as Merton held the trigger back, and mingling with the reports came unearthly peals of mocking laughter as the count, unscathed by the hail of lead, thrust him aside with superhuman strength and approached the open door.

"Not so easy to stop me this time, eh?" came from his sneering, livid lips. "You waste your ammunition on the empty air. Nothing can stop me now, and in a few minutes I will be in my plane, heading for—"

He broke off with a cry of shuddering terror and shrank back, his burden slipping to the floor as he raised his hands to shield his staring eyeballs from the sight which confronted him.

Father Fabian stood in the open doorway, and in his upraised hand he held the symbol of his faith. The priest slowly advanced into the room, and step by step Count Fedor retreated backward before him, until he was crouching against the farther wall.

"Put up your weapon," the priest addressed Merton quietly, but without turning his head. "Carry that poor child into another room. Happily she does not know the peril through which she has passed. She must never know."

Rod stopped mechanically and lifted Hetty's unconscious form. He took a few steps, then hesitated.

"But I can not leave you here— with that—" he began to protest; but Father Fabian shook his silvery head.

"Fear not for me, my son. The powers of evil are as so many idle winds, wasting their fury against the imperishable rock on which I stand. Leave me alone with this unhappy man. Go, not in fear but in rejoicing; for this night shall an uneasy spirit be released from bondage."

Glancing at the vampire's face, Merton marvelled at the change that had come over it. The bloodless features were calm and composed; the light of returning hope shone tranquilly in the tortured eyes. Raising his hand and solemnly making the sign of a cross in the air, the old priest began to declaim in measured accents: "Misereatur vestri omnipotens Deus, et dismissis peccatis vestris, perducat vos ad vitam aternam. Libera nos, quasumus Domine, ab omnibus malis…"

The sonorous Latin of the ancient invocation was still ringing through the room as Rod Merton passed through the door and gently closed it behind him. It took him some little time to carry the still senseless girl into one of the bedrooms on the upper floor and hand her over to the maids who had been aroused by the shots. When he again descended he found Father Fabian kneeling in the room, alone. But, far away in the direction of the English Channel, the deep thrumming note of a plane in full flight was gradually growing fainter. The priest slowly rose to his feet and looked long and earnestly into the young man's face.

"Yes, the end draws nigh," he said, answering the unspoken question that he read there. "Count Fedor von Felhagen has set forth on his last lone flight. Soon, very soon, his troubled soul shall know that peace which passeth understanding."

Even as he spoke the distant humming ceased, and Merton, looking from the window, saw the dark outline of the vampire plane glide downward and plunge beneath the surface of the moonlit sea like a weary, broad-pinioned bird seeking rest.

_____________________

7: The Scourge of Egypt

Arlton Eadie

Weird Tales, Oct 1929

"WELL, and what do you think of it?" asked Noel Drayle.

The object upon which I was thus invited to pass an opinion was a large and very battered wooden mummy-case resting in the middle of the floor of his study. The lid was carved in low relief with a representation of a life-sized human figure, and the sides daubed with crude hieroglyphs in red and green paint. These were so plainly the work of a modern hand that I had no difficulty in making up my mind.

"A palpable fake," I said with a shrug. "I'm surprised at a man of your experience being taken in with a thing like that. Why, the signs seem to have been painted in haphazard— they do not even make sense."

Noel Drayle merely laughed. "Oh, I quite agree that the hieroglyphic writing is a forgery— it was added by an ignorant showman to whose ‘Exhibition of Freaks and Curiosities' the mummy formerly belonged. It is quite evident that they have been painted by someone who did not know their meaning, just to make the thing look interesting. The fraud is so bare-faced that not a single bid — other than my own, of course — was forthcoming when it was put up for sale last week. It was knocked down to me for five pounds, and I think I've got a bargain."

"Mummy and all?" I cried; for he had removed the lid as he spoke, revealing the still, linen-wrapped-figure within.

"Yes, and I think it's rather an unusual type of mummy at that," was my friend's reply.

I drew near and looked into the great wooden case.

Even to one whose daily task is to lecture on the antiquities of ancient Egypt there comes a feeling of mystery and awe at the sight of the embalmed remains of the men and women who once formed part of that remote and long-vanished civilization. Looking upon their silent, stiff-lying forms, one is tempted to ask oneself what strange sights have greeted those now lusterless eyes; what deeds have been accomplished by those rigid hands; what thoughts and emotions have surged within those handfuls of brownish dust which were their brains. Could they but speak, what a tale those lips could tell of the dim, far-off ages when the history of our own land had yet to emerge from the mists of savagery which then enshrouded it.

"A little bit out of the usual, eh?" Noel's question roused me from the train of thought into which I had unconsciously fallen. Dismissing my romantic speculations, I applied myself to the practical task of examining the mummy.

Yes, it certainly did seem to differ from the common run. The general style of the interlaced swathings led me to assign it to the early part of the Nineteenth Dynasty, probably between the reigns of Rameses I and Menephtah II, though the absence of any inscription made this a mere guess on my part. This absence, in itself, was unusual. The method of embalming was a costly one, only used for wealthy and influential persons, and such were in the habit of having their names and titles fully displayed.

"There seems to be some metal object beneath the wrappings," said

Noel, gently prodding the breast of the mummy, "and the shape of the head seems to suggest there is a sort of diadem on it. I've a jolly good mind to unroll the wrappings and see what's underneath."

"Just as you please," I answered, adding, with an attempt at a rather grim jest, "I reckon it's your funeral— not mine."

"Let's carry him into the surgery— we 're not likely to be disturbed there. It would be deuced awkward if Esther happened to walk in here while we were in the middle of our post-mortem!"

We gently lifted the ancient relic of humanity and carried it into the tiny, white-painted room where Noel was accustomed to perform his minor operations.

"Up with him," said Noel, and an instant later his long-defunct "subject" was lying on the silver-plated top of the long iron table.

For a while the young surgeon looked at it reflectively.

"It has just struck me," he said suddenly, "what a splendid idea it would be for an up-to-date murderer to get rid of his victim by embalming the corpse and passing it off as an ancient Egyptian mummy."

I started and drew back slightly. His casually uttered surmise had sent an ice-cold shiver down my spine.

"You— you surely don't think that this—"

He interrupted me with a laugh.

"Of course not, old chap. The thought merely crossed my mind, that's all, and I wondered why these writers of sensational fiction have never hit upon so novel, yet obvious, a method of getting rid of the corpus delicti. But let's get to work."

Removing our coats and rolling up our shirt-sleeves, we began our ghoulish task. Taking a pair of scissors from his instrument-case, he cut the knot at the back of the neck; then, I lifting the shoulders while he unrolled, we began to remove the endless bandages with which the mummy was swathed. We worked in silence, the only sounds to be heard within that tiny, brilliantly lighted room being the pattering of the dried spices on to the metal table and the whir of the electric fan which Noel had set in motion to dissipate the heavy aromatic odor arising from the mummy.

"I was right. Look!" said Noel suddenly, pointing to a gleam of bronze which showed dully between the swathings on the breast. Then he resumed his task with feverish energy.

But it almost seemed as if the mummy were reluctant to give up its secret. With tantalizing deviation the wrappings led down to the feet, then upward to the shoulders— everywhere, in fact, except where their unrolling would reveal the hidden object. What could it be? I asked myself the question time and again as I breathlessly waited. Was it an amulet?— the usual ushabti image?— a sword?— a regal scepter?

But it was none of those things that Noel at last drew forth.

"Why, it's a flail!" he cried, holding it up.

"It looks to me more like a scourge," I answered, as I took the strange object from him and closely examined it.

Whatever name one chose to call it by, it was a terrible instrument. The stock was of bronze, elaborately ornamented and engraved with an inscription in hieroglyphic writing. The butt was fashioned into a beautifully carved head of a Sphinx; from the other end there sprang three thin, pliant bronze wires, loaded at their tips with many small, sharp pieces of the same metal, placed there, presumably, for the purpose of lacerating the flesh of the unfortunate slaves or criminals whose fate it had been to come under its deadly stroke; for it seemed as though the thing had formed an instrument of execution rather than a mere means of punishment. The same thought seemed to occur to my friend.

"Pretty little toy, isn't it?" he said, making the loaded triple tails whistle through the air. "I should imagine that a couple of dozen with this was about equivalent to a sentence of death."

"It looks as though you've got good value for your fiver," I told him. "Although I've had a fairly wide experience of Egyptian antiquities, I've never seen such an article before. There's an inscription on it, too. Would you mind if I have a shot at deciphering it?"

"By no means. Go ahead."

It did not take me many minutes to realize the importance of the engraved signs.

"Hullo! here's a royal cartouche!" I cried, pointing to an oval near the end of the inscription; " 'Seti Menephtah, beloved of the Gods'— that's the king usually known as Seti the First—"

"Let's have it in its proper order," said Noel, burning with impatience.

I again applied myself to the study of the writing.

" ‘This is the Scourge of Kephra-Ophis, Lord of the Lash, Keeper of the bond-slaves of Yuteh-Melk, those who labor for their divine master, King Seti Menephtah, beloved of the Gods, ruler of the Upper and Lower Nile-lands' — why, Noel, my boy, you've struck a gold mine this time. You can sell this relic for a thousand times the sum you gave for it."

He looked at me as though he thought I had taken leave of my senses.

"What's the excitement?" he said. "I can't see anything extraordinary in the thing. Is it made of gold?"

I shook my head.

"Better than that," I answered impressively. "That scourge has made history— and big, world-famed history! Seti was the Pharaoh of the Oppression, the bond-slaves of Yateh-Melk were the Israelites, and this scourge was wielded by the chief of their Egyptian taskmasters, and that ornament"— I pointed to the circlet of bronze which he had at that moment freed from the head-wrappings— "was probably Kephra-Ophis' badge of office!"

Noel Drayle gave a little gasp.

"You're joking— you must be!" he cried incredulously.

"I'm quite prepared to offer you a hundred pounds for your purchase, right now. But I warn you that it is not a tenth of its real value."

"I don't intend to sell, anyway," Noel returned decisively. "If what you say is true, I think I'll make a little experiment with our defunct slave-driver—"

"What kind of an experiment?" I asked quickly.

"I'll tell you that when my arrangements are complete," he countered, with a cryptic smile. "And now, if you don't mind, we'll return Kephra-Ophis to his little wooden dugout. I've had about enough research for one night. I want to do a bit of thinking."

I intend no disrespect to the man who was my friend when I say that Noel Drayle was possessed of a strange and unusual mentality. He had not been content with making the physical properties of the human brain his special study; he went farther, delving into the much-debated questions of the psychological functions of that organ, with the result that his undoubted success in the first-named sphere was more than counterbalanced by the coldness with which the medical world received his startling, semi-occult theories in the latter. During the last few years, I knew, his investigations had been centered on the phenomena of hypnotism. It occasioned no surprise, therefore, when I called on him a few days later, to find him in the company of Dr Harland. the man whose open practise of mesmerism had been the subject of a recent inquiry of the British Medical Society.

Harland was a tall, commanding, hawk-faced man with an almost Oriental swarthiness of hair and complexion. It needed but one glance into his dark, magnetic eyes to understand the secret of his successful treatment of obscure nervous disorders. He was one of those strange freaks of nature that one occasionally meets with, a man possessed of a natural power to sway the thoughts and emotions of his fellow-creatures.

The surprise with which Noel Drayle greeted me seemed rather greater than the occasion called for.

"So it is you, after all?" he cried. Then he turned to the other man. "Pray accept my apology, Dr. Harland; you were quite right."

I gazed from one to the other in surprise. Noticing my look, Harland stepped forward with a smile.

"I think we are needlessly mystifying you, sir," he said, fixing his bright, black eyes on me. "As a matter of fact, we expected your coming— at least I did, though Mr. Drayle was somewhat skeptical!"

I shook my head.

"I fear you have made a mistake," I answered. "My visit here was quite on the impulse of the moment."

"Quite so," Harland's tone was quite unruffled by my denial. "And I do not think I am far out when I say that this sudden impulse— as you quite honestly thought it to be— came to yon exactly ten minutes since."

I thought for a moment, then was compelled to admit that he was right. I had started out with the intention of going somewhere else; it was only when I was passing the top of the street that I turned aside to seek out Drayle.

"You'll probably be surprised to know that you're here because Dr. Harland willed you to come," interposed Noel Drayle at this point. "I particularly wished to see you, and suggested 'phoning you to call, round. Dr. Harland, however, asserted that he could bring you here by exerting his will and implanting the unconscious impulse in your mind. I agreed to allow him to make a test of his power— and within ten minutes you were ringing at the bell!"

It was certainly a strange explanation of my unpremeditated visit, but I possessed too open a mind on such matters either to affirm or deny its truth. I ventured to hint, however, that I should be glad to witness another and more convincing demonstration of the hypnotic doctor's skill.

"And you have come at just the right time to do so," declared Noel. "Come into my study, and we shall

"What we shall see," broke in Harland with a smiling shrug. "It is best not to dogmatize on the success of any incursion into the occult. It is only tricksters and charlatans who claim the power of entering the unseen world at any and every séance."

As soon as I entered the study I saw that some preparations had already been made. Two couches had been drawn up side by side in the center of the room, immediately beneath the electrolier; the heavy curtains were drawn across the windows so as to exclude every ray of daylight. Upon one couch lay the mummy of Kephra-Ophis, still partly unrolled as we had left it after the finding of the scourge and head-fillet. These latter objects had been placed in their original positions, one resting on the head of the mummy, the other lying between its clasped hands.

"Mr. Drayle informs me that you are able to write shorthand," said Harland, turning to me. "Are you able to do so in the dark?"

"Well, as a matter of fact, I've never had occasion to attempt that feat," I answered, smiling.

Harland looked disappointed. "In that case we will have to have a little light during the séance, though I should have preferred the room to be in complete darkness. I am about to place your friend in an hypnotic trance, and I wish you to take down anything he may say while under its influence. But first we must reduce the light."

He mounted on a chair and, after one or two attempts, succeeded in fixing a piece of brown paper over the single illuminated globe in such a manner as to throw a narrow funnel of light on to the two couches, the rest of the room being in semi-darkness.

"Is there enough light for you to write by?" he inquired of me when he had finished.

"Oh, yes," I assured him, glancing at his notebook which I had placed before me in readiness. There was just sufficient light for me to see the point of my pencil against the paper.

"Then let us begin," said Harland.

As he spoke, the door was thrown open and Esther Drayle entered.

On the few occasions on which I had met Noel's wife I had been impressed by her unusual, if somewhat statuesque, beauty. With her dark, thickly curling hair, her large somber eyes, her slightly aquiline, pallid features and full red lips, she had always struck me as being more of an Oriental than a European type. I knew that Noel had met her while traveling in the East, but exactly where, and under what circumstances, he had not thought it necessary to explain. Now, as she entered the room, I could see that she was laboring under some strong emotion.

"Noel!" She ignored our presence and advanced straight to her husband. "What is this thing that you intend to do?"

The young surgeon laughed reassuringly as he laid a hand on her arm.

"A little experiment, Esther; that is all."

"With that?" An expression of loathing mounted on the beautiful face as she pointed to the mummy of Kephra-Ophis.

Noel flushed and fidgeted like a guilty schoolboy.

"Tell me exactly what you are about to do," she went on in a tone of quiet insistence.

"Well, I know it may sound very foolish to a professed skeptic in occult matters, such as you, my dear, but we— or rather I— was about to attempt a little tentative journey into the Past."

"I'm afraid I do not understand, Noel." She looked around as she spoke and for the first time seemed to become aware of the presence of Harland and me.

"There is really no occasion for alarm, my dear Mrs. Drayle," said Dr. Harland as he stepped forward. "These little— ah— investigations are quite trifling little affairs, interesting only to those eccentric people who, like myself, look upon the unseen world as being no less real than the one around us. They are so foolish and trifling as to be quite unworthy of the notice of such an enlightened skeptic as yourself!" And he made a slow, ironical inclination of his head.

Esther Drayle shrugged slightly and a hard look came into her eyes.

"I must ask you for a more detailed explanation of your ‘little investigation,' Doctor," she said firmly.

The great hypnotist gave a tolerant smile.

"I will do my best to make things clear, my dear madam." He spoke m the patient tone of one who humors the caprice of a wayward child. "I fear I may seem to be talking in a foreign language if I attempt to explain the theories of the great Freud, so I will confine myself to elementary matters. Of course you, in common with the rest of the human race, occasionally have dreams. When the conscious mind has lost its own individuality in that periodical oblivion which we call sleep, a series of impressions will sometimes be recorded by the sensorium— that part of the nervous system which is the first recipient of the impressions of the senses— which causes images to appear before the mental eye. Sometimes the visions thus called up are reasonable and coherent; sometimes they are fragmentary and fantastic. But invariably the sleeper has no conception of Time or Space. For his soaring senses the barriers which beset our petty, earthly lives do not exist. Without astonishment he re-enacts the events that have happened long ago; without fear he holds converse with those who have passed away. But these are the mere chance impressions impinging on the sleeping brain. When such visions are controlled—"

"How can they be controlled?" demanded the girl.

"By the exercise of hypnotic influence, aided by the propinquity of some object that will help to fix the subconscious impression. This mummy"— Harland pointed to the motionless form on the couch— "is that of a man who lived in the reign of Seti the First, about 3,300 years ago. By virtue of the time-annihilating power of sleep, I am confident that I will be able to so merge the individuality of your husband— the ka, or twin-soul, as the ancient Egyptians called it— with that of this Kephra-Ophis, as to cause him to recall the memories of that long-dead officer of Pharaoh, to be swayed by his thoughts, to experience his loves and hatreds. All this, of course, only so long as he remains in the hypnotic sleep."

Esther Drayle turned to her husband and held out her hands in appeal.

"Do not consent, Noel," she cried. "Do not allow him to carry out this experiment. Remember that if it is successful you will assume the individuality of this Egyptian slave- driver, reverencing what he reverenced and hating what he hated."

"Of course," returned Noel, surprised at the vehemence of her opposition to his project. "That is the whole point of the experiment."

"Then do not allow it to be made!" she burst out, her voice vibrant with entreaty. "If you do, your love for me will turn to bitter hatred. The bond-slaves of Yuteh-Melk, whom this Kephra-Ophis scourged and flayed, were the Children of Israel."

Noel Drayle looked puzzled.

"I know that, Esther, but I fail to see how that fact can affect my love for you."

"Have you not read of the barbarities which he practiced on the Jewish slaves? If you allow your soul to enter into his body, you will loathe me as he loathed them— treat me as he treated them. For, although I have never confessed it before, I am of Jewish race."

He stared at her for a moment in bewildered surprise, then laid his hand on her arm with a reassuring laugh.

"That can not possibly make the slightest difference in my love for you," he answered gently. "Come, come, Esther. You are exciting yourself needlessly."

Dr. Harland stepped forward with a smile.

"Since Mrs. Drayle objects to the experiment, there is nothing more to be said—"

"No, no, Doctor," Noel interrupted quickly. "I should never forgive myself if I allowed a foolish scruple to stand in the way of my great adventure. Come with me, Esther. You will laugh at your hysterical fears when it is all over."

He took her arm gently and led her from the room, returning in a few moments.

"I have administered a sedative," he said briefly. "And now, gentlemen, I am ready for the experiment."

HE laid himself on the couch by the side of the mummy and Harland took up his stand before him and began to make slow passes in the air. In a few seconds Noel's eyes grew fixed and vacant; the muscles of his body relaxed; his breathing became slow and regular.

Harland ceased his passes and folded his arms across his breast.

"Sleep!" he commanded in a deep, sonorous voice. "Let your soul wing its way back through the mists of Time, seeing, and revealing what it sees. Do you hear me ? "

"Yes," came from Noel's slightly parted lips.

"What do you behold?"

There was a slight pause; then:

"I see two narrow belts of verdure set in a waste of golden sand, with a broad river running through the green. It is the Land of Khem."

"Approach nearer," ordered the hypnotist. "What do you see now?"

"I see a mighty, many-pillared temple, with sun-kissed pylons rising into the blue sky. It is the Temple of Chensu at Karnak. An avenue of Sphinxes guards the approach, all fresh-hewn and gleaming white. There are six on one side and five on the other."

"Seek out the missing Sphinx.... Have you found it?"

"Yes. A fourfold line of toiling captives is Strung along the desert road which leads from the quarries of On. They are harnessed together like cattle— old men, young men, boys— all straining at the chains by which they drag the massive, sculptured monster to its appointed place. Tall, fierce-looking men walk up and down the line of toilers, cracking their long whips and shouting threats and curses. On the statue's base there stands a man clad in rich vesture, with a coronet of bright bronze upon his head and a three-thonged scourge of metal in his hand. It is Kephra-Ophis, Lord of the Lash, Keeper of the bond-slaves of Yuteh-Melk. "

"That man is yourself!" said Harland, and made a peculiar motion with his hands.

Instantly the voice of the hypnotized man changed from his usual cultured accents to a raucous bellow so pregnant with cruelty and blood-lust that I felt my heart go cold.

"Yes, I am Kephra-Ophis!" he roared. "Lord of the Lash— Keeper of the Slaves! Ho-ho! Faster there— faster, you dogs! Ho-ho! Faster!"

The voice went on, but I was no longer listening. My attention had been attracted by a slight movement of the wrappings of the mummy. At first it was so slight that for a moment I thought my eyes were deceiving me. I looked again. No, I was not mistaken. The mummy was bathed in the narrow stream of white light that fell from the electric globe overhead; every detail was clear and distinct. And the bands of discolored linen which swathed the body of Kephra-Ophis were, slowly but surely, moving!

A sudden rigidity seemed to descend upon my limbs as I thought I realized the meaning of what I saw— that the hideous, dried-up caricature of humanity was about to wake to life. I could not move, or even cry out. I could only stare with distended, horrified eyes at the gentle movement which agitated the mummy's breast.

Presently I was aware that a thin gap had appeared where the edge of one of the bands was lifted. Then, with slow and horrible deliberation there crawled from beneath a small scarabeus beetle. Its color was silvery white, and it seemed to be semitransparent, Whether it was its color or the apparent- feebleness of its movements I know not, but the impression it gave to my mind was one of almost incredible age.

Slowly, warily, as though it were testing its power of movement after awakening from centuries of inaction, it crawled toward the mummy's shoulder, then to the padded rail of the couch on which Noel Drayle lay.

It was not the aimless running to and fro of an ordinary insect, but a steady, purposeful progress, and I could see that it was making its way toward the face of the sleeping man. As though I, too, were hypnotized, I watched it mount his shoulder. I could even distinguish its tiny shadow on the stiff linen as it passed across his collar, then upward over his throat toward the parted lips....

A strangled scream from the doorway made me swing round. Esther Drayle had entered and was pointing a shaking finger at her unconscious husband.

"Look! the scarabeus— the Sacred Beetle of Egypt! Can't you see it? Shake it off— kill it! "

I looked in the direction of her pointing finger. The beetle had vanished.

How it had disappeared, or where it was now, I did not have time even to consider, for at that moment Noel Drayle rose to his feet.

But it was a transformed Noel. His features were convulsed with hatred; a ferocious glare was in his eyes. From his lips came harsh, guttural sounds— the voice of Kephra-Ophis.

"Noel! Noel, dearest— don't you know me?"

The man paid not the slightest heed to her trembling question. Stooping swiftly, he lifted the bronze diadem from the mummy's brow and placed it on his own. Snatching up the Scourge of Egypt, he aimed a savage blow at Esther.

"He's mad!" she shrieked, and fled from the room, closely pursued by the frenzied man.

For a few seconds the unexpected outcome of our experiment seemed to deprive both Harland and me of the power of coherent thought. Then he leapt toward the door.

"After him— quick! He'll mur—"

A sudden outburst of agonized screams guided our steps as we dashed up the stairs. They came from a room on our right. The door was locked.

"Force it," gasped Harland, white to the lips.

Not once but many times did we throw ourselves against the panels before the lock gave way; and all the time the screams continued, broken now and again by a wild demoniacal laugh.

As we entered the room a terrible sight met our eyes. Esther, her dainty dressing-wrapper torn to ribbons and soaked with blood, was crouching in the farther corner. Over her towered Noel Drayle, swinging the bronze scourge in his hand.

"Noel!" I cried as I ran forward. "What are you about—"

He shook off my grasp and turned with a snarl. I heard the swish of the loaded thongs as the whip descended within an inch of my face.

Desperately I closed with him, endeavoring to hold his hands. But he broke my grip with a madman's strength and again raised his flail-like weapon. Lucky it was for me that the commotion by this time attracted the attention of the servants. Harland and a burly chauffeur threw themselves on him; a very distressed-looking butler hung grimly to his feet. In a few seconds he was being held down on the bed, while Harland rendered first aid to the girl and I telephoned for more effective means of restraint.

FOR THREE days and nights Noel Drayle's life hung in the balance. For the most part his hours of consciousness were spent in a stony silence, which he broke only to utter strange words, seeming to urge on gangs of slaves to the building of pyramids and temples which existed only in his own imagination. The doctors could only shake their heads and offer their opinion that his mental lapse had been caused by too deep a study of the history of ancient Egypt. But Esther Drayle had another theory.

"Why do you not remove the mesmeric influence?" she demanded of Dr. Harland when we called together to inquire after her husband.

But he gave a helpless shrug.

"I would willingly give all I possess to undo the mischief I have unwittingly done," he answered sadly. "But I fear that the soul of Kephra-Ophis will never quit the body of your husband."

"What makes you so positive on that point?" she asked, with, it seemed, a sudden suspicion.

Instead of answering, he turned to me with another question.

"Did you notice a strange, transparent beetle emerge from the wrappings of the mummy?"

I told him that I had seen it.

"Did you see where it went to?" was his next query.

I shook my head, and he went on impressively.

"It entered the parted lips of the sleeping man, and I verily believe that by doing so it has prevented me from recalling Noel to his own self. Strange as it may seem, I am forced to the theory that the white scarabeus was the soul of Kephra-Ophis."

A loud and mocking laugh from Esther greeted his words.

"A very pretty little fairy-tale, but it does not deceive me!" she cried, stepping close to him and speaking rapidly. "I know your reason for not allowing Noel to return to his normal state of mind. A cheek, drawn in your favor and purporting to be signed by him, was presented at his bank on the morning following your so-called experiment. The signature is very much like Noel's writing, but I know for a fact that he would never give away such a huge sum without telling me. That cheek is a forgery, Dr. Harland, and you are keeping him under your influence to prevent his denouncing you!"

The mesmerist gave a tolerant shrug.

"A wild and fantastic tale, and one the police will laugh at," he sneered. "The check was in settlement of a long-standing loan. As for your unfortunate husband, it grieves me to have to tell you that he will never utter another sane word."

Esther's dark eyes hardened until they resembled two points of steel.

"I have asked— humbly asked— you to remove the influence which is clouding Noel's mind," she said slowly. "But what I have asked in vain I must now compel."

Harland's deep-set eyes flickered with amusement.

"How?" he asked mockingly.

"With this!"

Her hand flashed forward, and I saw it held a small revolver aimed directly at his heart. One delicate finger was crooked over the trigger, and I could tell by the depression of the sinews of her wrist that the slightest additional pressure would launch the bullet on its deadly errand.

Apparently Harland saw it, too, for he bowed his head with a slow, submissive gesture which was in itself a confession that his deep-laid plot had failed.

"You win."

As he made the curt admission, Harland waved his hand several times above the face of the unconscious man. Then he turned and passed from the room, a defeated and a ruined man.

And Esther Drayle, with a sob of thanksgiving, threw herself into the eagerly outstretched arms of the man who had, all unknowingly, once wielded the dreaded Scourge of Egypt.

________________

8: The Phantom Flight

Arlton Eadie

Weird Tales, April-May 1931

IT WAS on the Folkestone-Dover road, a few miles beyond the ancient cathedral city of Canterbury, that I first met the man who called himself John Delaney. The encounter was of his own seeking, for, as I trudged wearily along, my head bent against the chill wind that was sweeping in from the sea, I entirely failed to notice his crouching figure amid the bracken of the little wayside thicket, until his shrill whistle caused me to glance round.

For a few moments I stood hesitating whether to turn back or go on. I was not yet sufficiently hardened to the wandering vagabond life into which Fate had thrust me to relish the companionship of one of the more experienced members of the tramping fraternity; and such I naturally assumed the man to be. Yet, as I stood regarding him, I was gradually conscious of a subtle difference between him and the homeless outcasts whom I had hitherto met. It was certainly not his clothes which gave me that impression, for they were even more ragged than my own; moreover, his face was unwashed, his hair long and unkempt, while a beard of several weeks’ growth covered his chin. But there was a look of refinement about his features which the overlying grime failed entirely to conceal, and when he spoke his voice was that of an educated man.

’Whither away so fast, brother?" he cried, lifting his battered hat with the travesty of a ceremonious bow. "Are you hastening to the bedside of a rich uncle with a reminder of the fat legacy he has promised you? Or is it the less ambitious hope of securing accommodation in the nearest casual ward that quickens your footsteps?"

High-flown and bantering though the greeting seemed, it was uttered with an air of such infectious, daredevil gayety that I found myself smiling in response.

'With regard to the first part of your kind inquiry," I said, adopting his own tone, 'I'm sorry to say that all my rich relations are at the moment such distant ones as to be far below the financial horizon. And up to now I’ve been able to get along without seeking the hospitality of a casual ward. I prefer to trust to luck for my board and lodging."

"In that case your supper is likely to be light, and your bedroom devilishly well-ventilated!" laughed the man. "Still, I’m prepared to agree with you— up to a point. Sleeping with the grass for a mattress and the stars for your nightlights is no bad thing when the weather is as hot as it has been lately. But how about when it pours with rain— as it’s likely to tonight if this wind holds?"

I glanced at the lowering sky, and felt less assured.

"One can find some sort of shelter, somewhere," I said rather dubiously.

He shook his head slowly.

"Speaking from painful experience, I can assure you that sometimes one can’t!" he said grimly. "Farmers don’t look kindly on tramps, and they have a nasty habit of leaving their watch-dogs roaming loose at night. However, as it happens, I know of a splendid place where we can spend the night— all the comforts of a home without any of the expense or responsibility. It’s only a couple of miles or so from here— I was only waiting till it got dark to take possession. Be my guest for tonight— there’s plenty of room to spare!"

The prospect of having my night’s shelter thus provided for gave me no little satisfaction; yet there was something in the manner of the unknown tramp that made me vaguely uneasy.

"What is this place you speak of?" I asked suddenly.

He rose to his feet and swept his hand toward the darkening countryside that lay seaward.

"The deserted aerodrome on the chalk downs overlooking the sea," he said, with a strange laugh. "I’ll show you the way. Come!"

I made no move to follow him, but stood pondering over his words. Something within my brain, a mere vague instinct of coming disaster, urged me to decline his offer and to shift for myself. But even as I opened my lips to refuse, a sudden spatter of raindrops came on the dying wind. Most certainly the night would be both wet and cold.

"All right," I said briefly, as, falling into step with my unknown guide, I suffered him to lead me into the gathering dusk.

Ten minutes’ sharp walking brought us to a tiny village, a mere sprinkling of cottages— mostly belonging to poultry farms— with a square-towered church on one side of the road and a small ale-house on the other. At the door of this latter my companion came to an unexpected halt.

"I’m good for a couple of pints," he said, jingling some coins in his trousers pocket. "Let’s drink to our better acquaintance; that is"— he added as I demurred— "if you’re not too proud."

Embarrassed as I was by the offer, I could not help admiring the clever manner in which he made a refusal almost impossible.

"Since you put it that way," I returned with a shrug, "I shall be happy to join you. It’s certainly good of you to ask me."

"Not at all," he laughed, pushing open the door of the public bar. "Are we not Arcades ambo— fellow-travelers in Arcady— brethren of the broad highway."

'There were two groups of men— farm laborers, apparently, by their clothes— in the little low-pitched room as we entered; some gathered round the counter, the rest interested in a dartboard at the farther end. Many curious glances were cast in our direction as we took our seats on an old-fashioned oak settle and proceeded to consume our modest refreshment. It was clear that they recognized us for the homeless tramps we were, and the opportunity for the display of a little rustic wit was too good to be missed.

"I’ve often wunnered wot becum o’ the two old scarecrows as used to be in Three-acre Field," said one joker, with a wink and a grin. "But I knaws naw!"

There was a series of loud guffaws at this exquisite sally, and when they had subsided another spoke;

"Better lock the doors o’ yer roosts tonight, mates, or mebbe we’ll find the scarecrows ’ave skeered away a few o’ our chickens!"

My companion must have seen the look which mounted to my face, for he plucked my sleeve as I was about to rise.

"Sit down and take no notice," he whispered. "We should stand no chance in a rough-and-tumble scrap. Best say nothing."

'That his advice was sensible was proved a few seconds later, for the men at the bar soon forgot our presence and resumed a discussion which, it would seem, our entrance had interrupted.

"I says it afore and I’ll say it agin— those fools up at Eastley dunno wot they’re talking about," said a man with a very red face. "I says ’taint nat’ral for such a place to be harnted."

"Why not?" asked one of his companions.

The red-faced man took a long draft from his pewter pot and shook his head wisely.

" ’Taint nat’ral, nohow," he declared with even greater vigor than before. "I can un’erstand ghosts and such-like a-harnting graveyards, or ruinated castles, or a ’ouse where a murder had been done years and years agone. But when folks tell o’ harntings going on in a nearly brand-new place like that theer hairydrome— well, I don’t believe a word o’ it, and that’s flat!"

I had been listening to the talk in a desultory manner, but as he uttered the word "hairydrome" I was conscious of a suddenly stimulated interest. Was it possible that the fool was alluding to the deserted aerodrome where we purposed to spend the night?

"Anyway, there be plenty o’ folk up at Eastley as have seed it," declared the man they called Garge.

"Seed wot?" demanded the skeptic with the red face.

"Seed the whole place lit up like a theayter in the dead o’ night, with lights in every window—"

"Lights?" interrupted the other in a tone of withering contempt. "Wot siggerfies a few lights? You said place were harnted, and now you says lights. Lights baint ghosts, nohow."

"Who said they were?" retorted his friend.

"Any fool could make lights; mebbe it weer a tramp or two as got into the old place for a doss. I see wot is it, Garge," he went on, regarding the other with drunken gravity as he slowly shook his head. "You’ve been the victim o’ wot they calls a hallucillumination. You seed somebody a-lighting of his pipe, and you thought it weer a ghost. Lights ain’t ghosts, nohow."

"I never said as how I saw it—" began the indignant Garge.

"Lights ain’t ghosts, nohow, and all the argyment in the world won’t make ’em so."

"Look ’ere—"

"Lights ain’t ghosts—"

"You dunno wot you’re talking about," said Garge, triumphantly clinching the argument. "You be drunk."

"Me?" shouted the red-faced man in a tone of indignant repudiation. "Just coom outside, and I’ll show ’ee if I be drunk! It’s you as be drunk, Garge Withers, with yer lights and ghosts. For two pins I’d knock yer silly ’ead off!"

At this point the red-faced man made a sudden dash toward the rash critic of his sobriety and hit him accurately on the nose. The next instant the little room was filled with struggling men. We did not wait to see the result of this novel trial by battle of the material against the supernatural, but quietly finished our drinks and came away. The last thing I heard as we passed through the village was the voice of the red-faced man triumphantly raised above the uproar as he proclaimed to the world at large:

"Lights baint ghosts, nohow!"

INSTEAD of continuing on the main road, my companion struck off into a steep and narrow lane running by the side of the church. For the greater part of a mile the lane led steadily uphill, turning and twisting after the manner of its kind, and when we gained the brow of the chalk ridge the full force of the ram-laden wind met us with all its fury. Here, for the first time, I caught sight of the steadily winking light which marked the entrance to Folkestone Harbor; to the west shone the more distant gleam from Dover.

As we paused to regain our breath after the stiff climb, my companion spoke for the first time since quitting the inn.

"Queer yam that fellow has got hold of," he commented thoughtfully.

"You mean about the haunted aerodrome?"

He nodded and turned to resume his journey.

"Strangely enough. I’ve heard some rumors before about the same thing," he told me as we tramped along the muddy road. "Of course there’s no truth in the tale, but it’s curious how these things start."

This gave me an opportunity of putting into words the thought that had been simmering in my brain for the past hour.

"Is this reputedly haunted aerodrome the place where you intend to spend the night?"

"Yes." He peered through the darkness into my face as he added with a laugh, "Why, you’re not scared, are you?"

"Of course not," I hastened to say. "Still, I should be glad to have some idea where we’re bound for."

"'There is not far to go now; if it wasn’t so dark we could see the place from here."

"Is it a derelict Air Force depot?" I asked curiously.

"No. It was built by a private aviation company which came into existence since the war. The promoters hoped to do great things, and when the company was formed any amount of influential people put their money into it. At first everything went well; they had the finest and most up-to-date machines; they secured the first air-mail contract to the Continent that was ever granted to a private company; in short, it seemed as if the speculators who had come in on the ground floor were well on the way to making their fortunes. Then came a streak of the vilest bad luck. Three bad crashes followed each other in the course of as many weeks. There was no question of foul play, or anything like that; it was just bad luck, and nothing else. One machine struck a tree in the fog; another came down in the Channel; the third crashed in flames within a few miles of the spot where we stand— and there was a heavy death-roll on each occasion— the last was the worst, for not a soul was saved. It was that disaster that broke the company for good."

As he spoke the words, something in his tone arrested my attention. There was a note of bitterness which seemed strange in one recounting the tale of an accident in which he had no particular concern.

"You appear to know this company very well," I remarked on a sudden impulse.

He uttered a short bark of a laugh.

"Yes, I know it!" Then he added, in a voice so low and indistinct that he might have been muttering to himself: "My God! I guess I know it all right!"

For a long time after that we strode on in silence. Although my curiosity had been provoked by his words, there was something about the man which made me refrain from questioning him. I found myself wondering if he had been ruined by putting his money into the unlucky aviation company; or if he were the pilot who was in charge when one of the disasters occurred. But presently the object of my speculations brought them to an end by referring to the matter of his own accord.

"It was only by the merest fluke that I was not on board the Paris air-mail when it came down in flames that night."

"Is that so?" I cried in surprise. "Then you were indeed fortunate."

"Fortunate?" He repeated the word in a voice that made me stare. "Fortunate, you say? Well, as to that, you shall judge for yourself...."

He began to speak in a dull, listless voice as we battled our way across the dark wind-swept moor. And this is the story he told:

"HAVING regard for the position in which you now see me, it may require some little effort for you to believe me when I say that two years after the war came to an end I was looked upon as one of the most brilliant surgeons in London. I was still young, it is true, but in those days one gained a lot of experience in a short space of time. When I resigned my commission and took over my father’s extensive West End practise, I came straight from a sphere of action where lightning diagnosis and the fearless adoption of novel methods were matters of daily— occasionally hourly— necessity. For, needless to say, there is no time for leisurely consultations in a first-dressing-station when a big push is on.

"Plodding practitioners looked upon me with envy, and with good reason. Whilst still far short of middle age, I had reached a position which many a man has striven for in vain for a whole lifetime. I was famous, honored, with far more money than I needed, and to crown all I had won the love of the most adorable girl in all the world. The day that I married Irene I felt that the cup of my happiness was filled to the brim. True—it was! But it was soon to be dashed from my lips, before I could quaff a single drop of its satisfying draft.

"Considering my position, the wedding was a fairly quiet affair. We had arranged to spend a few days of our honeymoon in Paris, on the way to our real destination, which was Switzerland, and it was more for the novelty of the experience than for any desire to save time that Irene begged me to cross to the French capital by air. At first I was reluctant to agree. Of late Dame Fortune had been so lavish with her gifts to me that I had a vague and— as it seemed to me at the time— a foolishly unreasonable dread that the smiles of the fickle goddess would give place to frowns. Still it was the very first thing that Irene had asked of me, and she seemed so disappointed and hurt at my refusal that at last I gave way. After the usual reception, we slipped away and drove down through Kent by car, timing our arrival at the aerodrome a few minutes before the Paris mail was due to take off.

"I shall always treasure the memory of that drive down; it was our first journey together as man and wife— and it was destined to be our last! The purple-gray dusk of evening merged into night as we sped along the quiet toads, through busy towns and past sleepy villages where the cheery beams of lamplight shone beneath the thatched eaves; through somber woods and bush-grown lanes, across open moors lying stark and bare beneath the jeweled immensity of the night....

"Well, we got to the aerodrome in good time. The great triple-engined plane had already been taken out of its hangar, and stood, ready to start, on the stretch of level ground. Some of the passengers had taken their seats in the brilliantly illuminated saloon; others were chatting gaily to friends who had come down to see them off. The pilot, a weird figure in his leather flying-suit and goggles, was standing by the mechanic as he tested one of the engines, and at intervals the intermittent roar of its tractor filled the air.

"I assisted Irene into the cabin, and was about to enter myself, when I felt a touch on my arm. Turning, I saw one of the officials of the aerodrome.

" 'Excuse me, sir,’ he said. 'Are you Dr. John Delaney?’ I admitted my identity, and the man went on: 'This telegram arrived for you a few minutes ago.'

"I took the orange envelope indifferently and tore it open. Doubtless, thought I, it was yet another message of congratulation and well-wishing, similar to the dozens I had already received during the day. But as I cast my eye on the flimsy sheet inside I saw that this was a message of a totally different kind.

"My feelings must have reflected themselves on my face, for Irene hurried to my side.

" 'What is it, John?’ she asked anxiously. 'Not bad news, I hope?’

"I reassured her with a laugh.

" 'Oh, it’s nothing very terrible,’ I said lightly, 'but, at the same time, it is news which is not likely to cause rejoicing to a newly married man.’ I drew her a little aside and hurriedly explained the situation.

"The telegram had been sent by Sir Charles Anstruther, the well-known surgeon, who had kindly consented to act as my locum tenens during my absence from England. One of my patients, a prominent public man whose name is— or was at that time— almost a household word, was lying in a critical condition. He was suffering from an obscure organic disease of which I had made an exhaustive study, and on which I was an acknowledged authority. An immediate operation was vitally necessary— an operation which I alone could perform with any chance of its proving successful. He hated to recall me from my honeymoon, but felt it his duty to place the facts before me. Time was precious; would I wire an immediate reply?

"Irene was regarding me wistfully when I reached the end of my hurried explanation.

" 'Is it absolutely necessary that you go back?’ she asked.

" 'It is a matter of life and death,’ I told her gently.

" 'Then you must not let our great happiness keep you from your duty,’ she said firmly. 'We will return to London together.’

"But this I would not hear of. Why should she forego the trip that she had looked forward to so eagerly, and remain alone during the night while I was away at the hospital? I would follow her the next morning— by special plane if necessary— and then we could carry out our plans as arranged. In the end my arguments prevailed, and she returned to her seat. Almost immediately the huge air-liner took off, and rose with a magnificent sweep in the direction of the Channel. Then, without even waiting till it had disappeared out of sight, I entered my waiting car and ordered the amazed chauffeur to return to town as quickly as possible.

SLIGHTLY over an hour later we entered the suburbs of London, where I stopped the car at a telephone call-box and rang up Sir Charles, asking him, in turn, to apprise two eminent surgeons, whom I named, to meet me at the hospital, so that there might be no delay. When I reached my house in Harley

Street he was awaiting my arrival and came forward eagerly to greet me.

" 'You have come, then?’ he cried, with more surprise than I felt was called for. 'It will be a terrible ordeal for you, Delaney. Who would have anticipated such a terrible tragedy!’

"I stared at him, uncomprehending.

" 'Why, is the patient worse?’ I asked.

" 'The patient?’ he repeated. Suddenly his face changed. 'Is it possible that you have not heard?’

" 'Heard what?’ I demanded roughly. 'What has happened to make you look at me like that?’

By way of answer he picked up a late edition of an evening paper which lay upon the table and pointed to a small paragraph in the Stop-press News. It told, with a brevity that was almost brutal, that the air-liner in which my wife had traveled had crashed in flames within a few minutes of leaving the ground, and that every one of the passengers and crew had perished!

"I dropped the paper with a smothered groan. My mind, in those first stunning seconds, seemed benumbed— incapable of action. I could not speak— could not even arrange my thoughts coherently. Moving like a man in a dream, I crossed to the sideboard, filled a glass from the decanter standing upon it, and tossed it off as though it had been so much water. As the fiery spirit coursed through my veins, grief gave place to a burning wave of anger against the fate which had snatched my loved one from me. I burst into a torrent of words, wild, half-intelligible ravings which made Sir Charles stare and shake his head.

" 'Calm yourself, calm yourself,’ he said soothingly. 'I can quite understand your feelings. Go to your room and lie down while I mix you a composing draft.’

"His words and manner pulled me up short. With a tremendous effort of will I managed to control my voice.

" 'I am quite all right,’ I told him. 'Come, they will be waiting for us at the hospital.’

" 'You’re surely not going to perform that operation— now— after what has occurred?’ he cried, staring at me harder than ever.

" 'Why not?’ I answered, with forced coolness. 'That is what I returned for.'

"Still he hesitated. 'You are quite sure that you feel equal to the strain? Hadn’t you better take a little rest before—"

"I cut short his remonstrances by moving to the door, and he followed me, shaking his gray head and feebly protesting. Arrived at the hospital, we found everything in readiness, and a few minutes served for me to wash, don my white overalls, gauze mask, and rubber gloves. I nodded to the sister, the patient was wheeled in, the anesthetic administered, and the operation commenced.

"Never had I felt cooler, more confident, more certain of a successful outcome. A curious sense of aloofness and detachment pervaded me. I could almost persuade myself that I was watching someone else perform the operation; that the hands which were making the preliminary incisions with deft, practised skill had no connection with my own busy brain, filled as it was with the vision of Irene’s parting smile. Instinctively, almost I may say unconsciously, yet with no hesitation and no mistake, I went on with my work; yet all the while I felt that I was but witnessing something with which I had no particular concern.

"Afterward the surgeons present bore witness that they had never seen a more masterly demonstration of surgical skill. They watched me, fascinated, entranced, as the operation swiftly drew toward its dose. It was almost over— another few seconds and I would have relinquished my post to the dressers— when of a sudden a thick mist appeared to intervene between my eyes and the brilliantly lit operating-table. I hesitated— fumbled— then did a thing which no sane surgeon would have done.

"I heard the horrified exclamations from my colleagues and saw Sir Charles snatch up a swab and dart forward, while another hastily called for the oxygen cylinder in a vain effort to revive the patient. My mind reeled as I shrank back, gazing with distended eyes at the ruin I had wrought. Like a spoken accusation the full heinousness of my conduct came to me— I had undertaken a major operation whilst my mind was befuddled with brandy! Within two minutes the man on the operating-table was dead.

'"There was no open scandal; my colleagues, remembering the nerve-racking trial I had undergone, gave me every consideration. My action was ascribed to a sudden mental breakdown— something that could not have been avoided. But all the same, from that moment my professional career was at an end. I was a marked man— a ruined man. Gradually I sank lower and lower, until, friendless and almost penniless, I reached the stage where you see me now.’’

The voice died away and for a space the only sounds were our muffled footsteps and the mournful soughing of the night wind. I murmured a few words of condolence, but what are mere words, however heartfelt, in the face of a tragedy such as I had just heard? It was mainly with the object of diverting his thoughts into another channel that I asked:

"How long is it since the events you have just related took place?"

"They happened on the thirteenth of September, 1920."

"That will make it just nine years ago," I said, adding suddenly, "and almost to the very minute, too!"

"What do you mean?" he asked with a puzzled frown.

"Tonight is the thirteenth of September."

He stopped dead in his stride as though he had been shot.

"By heaven, you’re right!" he muttered hoarsely. "Strange that I should have forgotten that date of all others!"

A FEW minutes after we had resumed our tramp we came into sight of a long range of white stone buildings which glimmered wanly in the faint starlight, against their background of rolling downs. Here Delaney quitted the road and struck off across the grass, making for a structure whose general outline bore a vague resemblance to a grandstand on a race-course.

Even in the faint light I could see that the whole aerodrome had an air of dilapidation and neglect. The paint was peeling from the woodwork of the great doors of the hangars as they hung askew on their rusted hinges; some of the windows of the waiting-room were boarded up; others, with broken panes and shattered frames, allowed the wind to sweep unchecked through the bare, dismantled rooms within. We made our entry through an open door, and the sounds of our footsteps echoed hollowly on the uncarpeted boards.

Dog-tired by my long tramp, I wasted but little time in an examination of my somewhat eerie sleeping-quarters. Pausing only to collect in the least drafty corner some pieces of tattered canvas that were lying about, I threw myself down on them and in a few minutes was sound asleep.

I can not say whether I slept a minute, or an hour, or several hours; all I know is that I was awakened by a hand gripping my shoulder, and sat up, wondering and still half dazed.

"What’s the matter?" I demanded of Delaney, who was bending over me. He silenced me with a warning gesture.

"Hush!" he said in a fierce whisper. "Listen!"

In a moment I was on my feet, fully awake now. Outside, in place of the former silence and darkness, were the glare of many lights, the sounds of voices, the noise of busy movements. I gained the window at a bound and stared forth, incredulous, aghast. Every window of the spacious building opposite blazed with lights; a little group of people, clad in overcoats and wraps, were standing on a kind of veranda before the waiting-room, watching a giant biplane being hauled out of the hangar by a squad of overalled mechanics. Officials in uniform hurried to and fro; porters were busy unloading mail-bags and luggage from a covered lorry which seemed to have just driven up. The derelict aerodrome had awakened to-life!

Scarcely had I taken in the first general impression of the scene before my attention was attracted by a young, slender girl standing a little apart from the other passengers. She was pacing restlessly to and fro, her eyes glancing from side to side as she scanned each batch of new arrivals as though in search of a familiar face among them. She seemed indifferent to the other passengers; even when they had taken their seats in the plane she remained below, looking about her with ever-increasing anxiety. At last she turned her face in our direction, and simultaneously a great cry burst from the lips of John Delaney.

"Merciful God! it’s Irene!" he shouted excitedly. "It’s Irene— my wife— and she’s waiting for me!"

Before I could realize the full meaning of his words he had dashed across the room, out of the door, and was speeding across the grass toward the waiting plane. Scarcely heeding what I did, I followed him more slowly.

I saw him run toward the girl and fold her in his arms; then, hand in hand, the two moved to the steps which led up to the cabin of the air-liner.

"You have come at last. Jack!" I heard her say as I hurried up. "You have come to me, and I am glad. I have been waiting for you so long... so long, darling. But I knew that you would be waiting here for me sooner or later, to come with me on the journey we planned so long, long ago."

Delaney made no answer, but his eyes were fixed on the beautiful face of the girl in a wide-eyed, hypnotized stare. Like a man who walks in his sleep, he began to mount the steps. With a warning cry I lurched forward and grasped his arm.

"What are you about to do?" I whispered urgently. "Are you mad?"

He turned on me with a snarl of fury.

"Hands off!" he cried roughly. "Can’t you see the plane is ready to start, and that my bride is waiting? Hands off, I say!"

He tried to break my grip, but the desperation of terror gave me strength to hold him fast.

"You fool!" I cried. "Can’t you realize that the thing you are about to enter is a phantom plane, manned by a ghostly crew, and carrying the shades of the men and women who perished when the Paris air-mail crashed in flames? Can’t you see that you are being lured to your death? Turn back before it is too late!"

My frenzied appeal seemed to pierce his clouded brain. He passed his hand dazedly across his forehead and half turned away. At the sight, a low wail broke from the girl.

"Will you desert me yet again, Jack? I have waited so patiently for you, and I want you so, so much! Come with me, my love, for I want you so very much in my loneliness. Come with me!... Come!"

For a moment she stood, her slender figure framed in the cabin door, a wistful smile upon her lips, her two hands held down to him in tender appeal. With the strength of a madman, Delaney threw off my detaining grasp. When I again essayed to seize him he struck me full in the face, sending me prone upon the ground.

"I am coming, Irene— my own!" I heard him cry, as I lay half stunned. "I am here— here by your side! Kiss me, my lost bride whom I have found again. Come what may, I am yours this night and for ever!"

I heard the slamming of the cabin door, the thunder of the mighty engines, the drone of the propellers. I felt the rush of the backward wash of wind as the outspread wings passed over me, and pressed my body against the ground to avoid being struck; nor did I venture to raise my head until the noise had died away in the distance.

When at length I rose unsteadily to my feet and looked around, the great aerodrome was silent, ruinous and deserted, as I had first beheld it.

But seaward, high up in the southern sky, a tiny fiery star had burst forth and was swerving downward, leaving behind it a trail of blazing wreckage, as it plunged to its last resting-place beneath the waters of the distant Channel.

The Phantom Plane had made its last flight, and the living and the dead were one.

____________________________

9: The Planet of Peace

Arlton Eadie

Weird Tales, July 1932

TELL a man that there is a region, a bare fifty miles from London’s teeming millions, where it is possible to tramp from dawn to dusk of a long summer day without coming face to face with a single human being, and if your hearer refuses to credit the statement you may be sure that he doesn’t know the great Chalk Downs of Sussex.

From Petersfield on the west to Beachy Head on the east, a distance of more than seventy miles, the skyline of these vast rolling uplands is unbroken by human habitation of any kind; for even the smallest farmhouse requires a supply of water, and this huge escarpment, reared like a rampart between the lower lands bordering the sea, and the plain of the Weald, has been carved by nature’s chisel from one massive block of chalk as dry as the proverbial bone. There are no springs; wells would need to be sunk fully eight hundred feet before they reached even the surface of the plain below. Such villages and scattered farmsteads as exist nestle amid the foothills, near the streams, leaving the summits to the gulls and curlews, and— in the case of one lofty crest— to me.

I had taken up my residence in a house that had evidently been built by some optimist who was a stranger to the district. Situated but a score of yards below the windswept ridge, its windows commanded a view that was superb.

But the water supply was, in sober, literal truth, prehistoric. It consisted of a "dew-pond" or "dew-pan" such as the ancient Britons used to slake their thirsts ages before Caesar’s legions first sighted the white cliffs of Albion. It was simply a large, shallow, circular depression scooped in the chalk. In theory it was supposed to collect all the rain, dew and other moisture that might be in the air. In actual practise it collected other things as well. Any naturalist interested in pond-life would have been delighted with a glassful of that water before it had been boiled and filtered.

I had come to the Downs in search of solitude and inspiration for a novel that I contemplated writing. I got the solitude all right. It was five miles by the shortest practicable path to the nearest village, though only about three as the crow flies; and, save for an obviously new bungalow at the end of the straggling High Street and the tip of the church spire, the village lay as if it were shrinking coyly out of sight behind a fold in the lower slopes.

When the first novelty of my Crusoe-like existence had worn off I began to take a great interest in that little bungalow. I had a pair of very excellent field-glasses that had once formed part of the equipment of a German infantry officer (now deceased), and by their aid I was able to get a mild form of diversion by observing the activities of a man who sat for the greater part of the day at a kind of worktable set in the bay window.

His appearance was such as might have attracted notice even in a crowd. His figure was short and inclined to stoutness— decidedly not the type of figure that is seen to its best advantage when attired in a pair of very baggy "plus-fours" and a woolen "pull-over" bearing a startling thunder-and-lightning pattern in red and green on a cinnamon-brown ground. Yet that was the fashion of his raiment, and never subsequently did I see him dressed otherwise.

His features were more difficult to make out at that distance; but I could see that he was clean-shaven, with a large, pale face surmounted by the shining dome of a head entirely bald except for a fringe of black hair which began and ended about level with his ears.

The windows of the bungalow were destitute of curtains, and from my post of vantage I could see a segment of the room in which he was accustomed to work. It appeared to be a kind of compromise between a chemical laboratory and an optical instrument-maker’s workshop. Ranged on shelves against the one wall visible to me were enough bottles to stock a chemist’s shop; a lathe stood near the center of the room; a large vise was clamped to the bench in the window; and the bench itself was usually littered with a bewildering assortment of brass tubes, wheels, levers and other pieces of mechanism. But, try as I might, I could not divine the nature of the machine that he was constructing. But I was soon enlightened on that point in a startlingly dramatic manner.

Toward sundown one evening, while waiting for the "inspiration" that stubbornly refused to materialize, I idly took up the glasses and focused them on my unknown distant friend. At the first glance it was apparent that he was as interested in me as I was in him. But his curiosity had gone to greater lengths— literally as well as figuratively— for he had his eyes glued to what looked like a large brass telescope pointing straight in my direction.

For a moment I felt rather rattled at being caught snooping; but, realizing that he could probably see me better than I could see him, I did not lower the field-glasses until I had carelessly swept my gaze round the landscape and stared for a good minute at the faint, blue-gray rim of the distant sea. Having, I hoped, thus given the impression that I was merely engaged in admiring the beauties of nature, I laid down the glasses, lighted a cigarette with as detached an air as I could assume, and again waited for my "inspiration."

Something else came instead. Into my thoughts there obtruded the sound of a faint, deep-toned humming note; a chair behind me was suddenly and violently overturned, and a voice, apparently charged with the explosive force of intense exasperation, uttered one low but unmistakable word:

"Damn!"

I started to my feet and swung round. With a shock of stupefied amazement I saw, standing less than a yard from me, the figure of the little bald-headed man whom I had seen five minutes since sitting at the window of the distant bungalow!

There could be not the slightest doubt as to his identity. He wore the same baggy plus-fours, the same outrageous pull-over with the red-and-green design; he had the same high, bald head; the same fat, pallid features— which, I noticed, now bore an expression of mingled bewilderment and annoyance. Yet, even as my eyes noted these details, my reason was telling me that it could not be the same man. Even with the aid of an airplane it would have been smart work for him to take off, fly three miles, land, and enter my house unseen all within five minutes.

"How on earth—" I began, and at the sound of my voice he stopped rubbing his shin, which had evidently come into forcible contact with the overturned chair, and glanced round, as if for the first time aware of my presence.

"Oh," he said in a tone of apology. "Sorry ... I didn’t know... had no idea... a little miscalculation on my part…"

And forthwith his figure became hazy and indistinct, shimmered unsteadily for an instant like an object viewed through heated air—then vanished completely!

IT is useless for me to try to record my sensations at that moment. Fully awake, dead sober, and in complete possession of my faculties, I had witnessed the impossible. A living man, substantial enough to talk and to bark his shins against a chair, had dissolved like a puff of smoke before my eyes.

The appearance and behavior of the man had been so commonplace, not to say absurd, that it never even occurred to me to set him down as being a ghostly apparition. If I regarded his arrival and departure as supernatural, it was only in the sense that it was something entirely outside the usual course of natural happenings. I simply could not imagine a ghost wearing tweed plus-fours and red-and-green pull-over, and my common sense jibbed at the idea of a wandering disembodied spirit barging into a piece of furniture and afterward murmuring apologies after the manner of a too-festive reveller who had strayed into the wrong house by mistake. Dimly, and without any logical sequence of thought, the words "fourth dimension" intruded themselves into my bewildered brain. It was by no means clear to me how a fourth dimension— or even a fifth— could explain the transportation of a living man over three miles of hilly country at a speed of something like a mile a minute; but the words had a sane, scientific ring about them that was rather comforting to my then state of mind. No man likes to admit, even to himself, that he has been "seeing things."

Moved by a sudden impulse, I caught up the field-glasses and focused them on the window of the distant bungalow. By the faint light of the dying sun I saw the little bald-headed man fiddling about with his brass telescope as unconcernedly as ever, apparently in no way affected by his rapid double transit through space.

"I flatter myself that I am not unduly inquisitive," I muttered aloud as I laid down the glasses and caught up my hat and walking-stick, "but I think I am justified in looking into this matter a little deeper."

Five minutes later I was picking my way through the gathering dusk down the steep hillside path which led to the village.

IT was quite dark long before I reached my destination. The night was clear and moonless, with myriad stars twinkling with steely brightness against the velvety sky above the wide sweep of the roiling hills. Most of the houses in the village were in darkness, but I noted with satisfaction that a light burned in the window of the bungalow, and as I drew nearer I could see the shadow of my mysterious visitor pass and repass as he busied himself at some task.

The absence of bell or knocker on the front door seemed to hint that callers were not encouraged, but without hesitation I raised my stick and tapped sharply on the panel. For a few minutes there was no response, and I was just on the point of repeating the summons more violently, when the door suddenly opened.

My attitude, with upraised stick, must have appeared threatening, for the little bald-headed man shrank back and raised his hands as though to ward off a blow.

"I know what you’ve come for," he cried, without giving me time to put in a word. "My unwarrantable intrusion this afternoon ... all a mistake ... I can explain everything. I never intended to frighten you."

"You didn’t frighten me," I answered, "but you made me mighty curious to know how the trick was done."

"Trick?" he blinked his little round eyes as he repeated the word. "You think that what you witnessed was just a conjuring trick?"

"What else could it have been?" I shrugged.

For a moment he continued to blink at me in silence.

"Come inside," he said suddenly, and almost dragged me into the room that I had already partly examined by the aid of my field-glasses.

I immediately saw that the object I had thought to be a telescope was in reality something much more complicated. Instead of the usual single eyepiece, it had no less than three smaller brass tubes converging into the main focal cylinder. Two were fitted with lenses, but the third terminated in a narrow adjustable metal band which, by its size and position, seemed intended to be fastened to the forehead of the observer. From various points of this strange instrument numerous insulated wires ran to an intricate and elaborate machine situated immediately behind the observer’s chair. It was evident that this machine had but recently emerged from the experimental stage, for some of its component parts were held in position merely by huge blobs of red sealing-wax and others by common tin-tacks driven into the top of the table on which it stood. The only details that my non-scientific mind could recognize were several powerful storage batteries and what appeared to be an ordinary "magic lantern" of oxidized metal.

"You see, my little 'conjuring trick,’ as you call it, requires quite a lot of apparatus," smiled the bald-headed man as he waved his hand toward the maze of gleaming brass. "I may as well confess that when I constructed all this I had a very different object in view from emulating the exploits of a stage magician. My — er— little intrusion into your privacy was quite accidental, I assure you. I was aiming for the hilltop above your house; but the tube must have shifted slightly, and I was as much surprised as you were to find myself in your study. But it might have happened worse," he went on, thoughtfully stroking his plump chin. "It would have been distinctly embarrassing, for instance, if I had found myself in the presence of a highly-strung, nervous female."

His casual, almost apologetic manner robbed his explanation of much of its impressiveness; it was only by marshaling the facts in my own mind that I could grasp the staggering significance of what I had heard and seen.

"Do you mean to say that you are able to transport yourself bodily through space?" I cried, my voice jerky with excitement.

"Bodily?" he emphasized the word as he repeated it, shaking his head dubiously the while. "Ah, there you place me in a difficulty. You must understand that I live and work entirely alone, and I have no one to observe what takes place in this room when I project my conscious ego elsewhere. Tell me, did I seem to be a solid, physical body when I appeared to you?"

"You were solid enough to knock over a chair and swear when you barked your shin." I laughed as an idea occurred to me. "You had better let me test that point for you. Waft me into the strong room of the nearest bank, and I’ll see if my fingers are material enough to grab a few souvenirs!"

He shook his head quite seriously at my joking suggestion.

"Quite apart from the questionable honesty of such an experiment, I fear it would be foredoomed to failure. My Ego-Projector has its limits. The rays of energy which emanate from it are powerless to penetrate any solid obstacle which lies between the point of departure and the point desired to be attained. If you will take your mind back, you will remember that the large French window of your room was wide open when I arrived this afternoon. If I could find means of endowing my Ray with the same penetrative power as the ordinary wireless waves, my invention would be perfect."

"It’s marvelous enough as it is," I cried with enthusiasm. "Imagine our country at war— with one of your machines in the front line, every detail at the bade of the enemy’s positions could be reported by ghostly spies!"

To my disappointment this eccentric inventor appeared to be annoyed at this suggestion.

"I have no intention of devoting my invention to the purposes of war," he returned curtly.

"No, no, of course not," I hastened to add. "But think of its possibilities in times of peace. Think of how it will cheapen and speed up travelling. With a few relays of your machines a party of hustling tourists could be wafted round Europe in less time than it takes to cross the Channel. And you need not confine your scope to this old world of ours. Think of the sensation that would be caused by an advertisement something like this: "Five Minutes on the Moon — heating apparatus and supply of oxygen provided."

"Doubtless it would greatly interest the Lunacy Commissioners!" he returned dryly. "But why pick on a dead, sterile satellite like the Moon? Why not the planet Mars, which possesses water, an atmosphere, and—if the astronomers have rightly interpreted its periodic change of color—a vegetation that flourishes and decays at the Martian seasons corresponding to our earthly spring and autumn?"

"You think that there is life on Mars?" I queried.

"It would indeed be surprising if there were not," he answered emphatically. "When you consider the abundance of vitality which exists on our own planet, and realize that there is scarcely a single square yard, from the parched deserts of the Saharas to the eternal ice of the poles —including the abysmal depths of the ocean, where the pressure reaches the enormous total of three and three-quarters tons to the square inch—that is not without some form of life, however lowly, it would be more logical to doubt the absence of life on our sister-planet than its presence! What reasoning man doubts that the whole of our solar system had a common origin? And, having a common origin, it naturally follows that all the planets must be composed of the same elements, and this conclusion is supported by the evidence of the spectroscope. Now, it may surprise you to know that living protoplasm, the basic molecule of all life, is made up of six simple elements— oxygen, hydrogen, nitrogen, carbon, phosphorus and sulfur. If Mars has these elements, it has all the fundamentals that on Earth resulted in the generation of what we call life."

"But intelligent life is another matter," I objected. "Your hypothetical Martians are scarcely likely to be highly developed creatures like ourselves."

"On the contrary, my dogmatic young friend, the dominant type there may be higher than it is here. On Earth the lowest forms of living organisms are found in the ocean; the highest, culminating in man, on land. Mars is nearly all land. It is an older planet, too, inasmuch as, being smaller, it has cooled much more rapidly. Probably it was habitable when our own planet was yet a molten mass, as giant Jupiter is at the present time, and thus the Martians may be millions of years ahead of us in the evolutionary race."

"But surely they would not be of a human type?" I cried.

"Why not, pray?" he returned, with a smiling shrug. "Have you ever paused to consider how nature is content to keep to broad generic lines when fashioning the most diverse animals? Disregarding the highly specialized order of reptiles commonly called 'snakes,’ can you name a single air-breathing vertebrate that possesses more or less limbs than four? more or less eyes than two? more nostrils than a single pair? more mouths than one? From the smallest lizard to the largest elephant, the vital processes of life are identical. If creatures of such widely different habitat have so many points in common, why should not the dominant creature of another planet have developed along similar lines to the dominant creature on Earth? Judging by the evidences of their handiwork, we can at least be sure that their mental processes are the same as ours."

"How?" I demanded incredulously.

Instead of answering immediately, my self-appointed mentor sat down at the desk and drew a rough circle on the blotting-pad.

"Let this represent the planet Mars, and let us assume that the more progressive and intelligent nations of the human race had been transported there en masse and, in order to survive, were forced to contend with the conditions which prevail. They would find themselves on a globe very different from the one they had quitted. On Earth, deep oceans cover nearly three-quarters of the surface; on Mars the only water is found at the north and south poles, the remainder of the surface being a flat, waterless desert. Throughout the Martian winter, which lasts twice as long as ours, this water is useless as an irrigating agent, for it is frozen into a solid mass of ice which is plainly visible through our telescopes. But in the spring this water melts, and the problem which would confront our hypothetical human pioneers would be to conduct this life-giving fluid to the more temperate zones, where it could be used to water the crops necessary for the support of animal life. If you were in their place, how would you solve that problem?"

"By a system of pipes and pumping-machinery," I answered promptly.

He shook his head almost sadly. "Allow me to remind you that a water-pipe does not irrigate the soil through which it passes, nor is it easy to conceive pipes large enough to supply the needs of a parched hemisphere. Nothing but the construction of canals would meet the situation. Broad, straight, lined on either bank with a belt of cultivated land, and spread like a network over the whole surface of the planet—only thus could the problem of continued existence under Martian conditions be solved. And when this gigantic irrigation scheme had been perfected, how would its operation appear to an observer on the Earth? At the approach of the Martian spring he would see the polar caps gradually shrink in size as the frozen water melted. Then a narrow band of faint blue would appear at the edges of the dwindling patch of white —a visible result of the thaw. Then, after a pause long enough to allow for sprouting, he would see, starting from the border of the polar cap and slowly creeping down toward the equator, a network of faint dark lines—the vegetation of the field-bordered canals, which has been quickened into life by the released water. And that is precisely what our astronomers see every year. They can not see the inhabitants of Mars, it is true, but they can, and do, observe the results of their intelligent handiwork."

I could not help smiling at the deadly earnestness with which he aired his theory. "As you’re so keen on the matter," I said flippantly, "why don’t you take a trip to Mars and have a look round?"

"Such is my intention," came his answer, swift as an echo. "Unfortunately, however, I have no one capable of controlling my Ego-Projector and thus ensuring my safe return."

"Can I be of any assistance?" I asked, and to my surprise he nodded eagerly.

"You can, by undertaking the journey for me."

I’ve often wondered since what my face must have looked like when he made this cool proposal, but if my thoughts were reflected on my features I must have worn a pretty complicated expression. For a moment or two my mind was in a whirl. I did not know whether to laugh or be angry.

"Thanks," I said, finally deciding to fall in with the humor of what must be a joke on his part. "But I didn’t intend taking quite such a long stroll when I set out this evening. A matter of thirty or forty millions of miles, is it not?"

"At the present time Mars is about 40,500,000 miles distant from the Earth."

"Is that so?" I queried with a laugh. "Well, a few hundreds of thousands of miles don’t matter much one way or the other in a little jump like that!"

But my satire was entirely wasted on him.

"Of course not," he agreed quite seriously. "If my theory is correct you will arrive at your objective almost instantly."

"But if your theory does not happen to be correct, I suppose I shall spend the next few centuries wandering about in the inky black nowheres of outer space!" I cried with some show of indignation. "Life is too short for trial trips into the ether."

He looked quite disappointed at my refusal to avail myself of his highly scientific mode of suicide.

"Sure you wouldn’t care for a little trip to the moon?" he asked coaxingly. "It’s a mere hop by comparison, only 240,000 miles or so—"

I shook my head firmly and reached for my hat, more than half convinced that I was in the presence of a lunatic.

"The only hop that I am going to do tonight will be in the direction of home," I said hastily, and began to edge toward the door.

"What about a little drink before you go?"

His suggestion made me pause and glance back at him. At that moment he appeared eminently sane and normal.

"All right," I said, little suspecting the treachery that lay behind his hospitable offer. "Mix me a Martian cocktail."

He took me at my word. The instant I had swallowed the stuff I knew that something was wrong. A deadly mist seemed to swirl up and envelop my brain, rendering it dazed and numb.

"You perfidious devil!" I tried to shout. "You’ve drugged me!"

Rallying my failing strength, I staggered to my feet and lurched toward him. But the floor of the room seemed to reel and sway like the deck of a storm-tossed ship. I stumbled— fell— and as I touched the floor the last vestiges of consciousness slipped from me.

OUT OF an oblivion that might have lasted seconds or centuries, dawning consciousness stole back to my brain. I was seated in a chair which I instinctively knew to be the seat connected with the Ego-Projector, although the main portion of the machinery of the devilish contrivance was out of sight behind me. My arms were firmly lashed to the side-rests of the chair; my ankles were similarly fastened to the chair-legs; around my neck was a metal band which, while loose enough to allow me to breathe freely, was yet sufficiently tight to prevent my moving my head more than a fraction of an inch on either side. Before me, poised at an angle on its heavy iron tripod, was the gleaming tube of the huge telescope. With a heart-chilling sense of helplessness I realized I was a passive plaything in the hands of a man who could not be otherwise than insane.

"I am sorry I had to resort to drastic measures," said a smooth voice at my elbow, "but I can assure you that the unique experience you are about to undergo will amply compensate you for any little temporary inconvenience."

Slewing my eyes round, I saw the pallid face of my captor creased in a satisfied smile. But what interested me most at that moment was the fact that he held an open razor in his hand. He must have seen my expression of horror, for his smile broadened and he patted me reassuringly on the shoulder.

"Have no fear, my young friend. I have not inveigled you here in order to obtain a human subject for dissection. I have already done all I intend to do with this razor." He wiped it carefully and slipped it into its case as he continued coolly. "The trifling and bloodless capillary amputation that I have just performed on you will leave no traces after a week or two has elapsed. I have merely taken the liberty of shaving the top of your head."

I had been vaguely conscious of an unusual sensation of draftiness about the region of my occiput, but I had thought it due to my excited imagination. Now I realized that the crown of my head was as bare as his own.

"Perhaps it was not absolutely necessary to remove the hair," he went on thoughtfully. "In my own case nature has done that very effectively for me already; but now that you are about to test my invention, I did not wish to leave the slightest obstacle that might mar the successful working of my Ray, for it is just possible that the experiment may not be repeated. You have, of course, heard of the Pineal Gland?"

"Yes," I answered promptly, hoping to switch the conversation into something less personal than my own anatomy. "But I had mine removed seven years ago, so it’s no earthly use your trying to interfere with something that isn’t there. Let’s talk about politics. What is your candid opinion of the present government?"

Ninety-nine men out of a hundred would have forgotten all about glands when invited to air their views on how a country should be run, but this lunatic refused to be side-tracked.

"Don’t be foolish," he said indulgently. "The Pineal Gland is a small and obscure organ imbedded deep in the human brain. In many respects it resembles a primitive, undeveloped eye, and its position and general characteristics closely correspond with the so-called 'third eye’ of a few living—and of many extinct— species of lizards. Now it is a curious fact that, in spite of the progress of modern science, no pathologist has succeeded in determining the exact function of this Pineal Gland."

"Then why worry about it?" I murmured soothingly, for I feared that his next announcement would be to the effect that he intended to gain the desired knowledge by an immediate experiment. "Perhaps the wretched thing hasn’t got a function."

"On the contrary, my young friend, I have already proved it to be capable of exercising a most wonderful influence over the brain of which it forms a part. Although destined never to see the light of day, this primitive eye, when stimulated by a certain type of invisible yet penetrating ray, becomes endowed with the power of transporting the mental ego—the 'soul,’ in the strictly non-religious sense of the word— to the point where that ray is directed. If you will glance through that telescope while I adjust the focus, you will see the sphere to which you are about to be transported."

IT was not wholly because I knew that resistance would be futile that I allowed him to adjust the metal band round my forehead. I was filled with an expectant curiosity that mastered my fear. If the man was crazed, he had at least some glimmering of method in his madness; if he was sane, I was about to undergo an experience such as had fallen to the lot of no man before.

Eagerly I gazed through the double eyepiece of the telescope, but for some seconds I could see only a confused blur of light. Soon, under the influence of the adjusted focus, this resolved itself into a tiny globe glowing with soft radiance as it hung poised amid the unfathomable blue of space. Its general color was pale yellow, slightly tinged with rose, but there were irregular darker areas where the tint approached the delicate blue of a bird’s egg; at top and bottom were the dazzling white segments of the polar ice-caps.

"That is the planet which the ancients named after the God of War, but you may find it to be the Planet of Peace." He chuckled softly as he went on. "You may even find it to be the Planet of Too Much Peace!"

"How can a world have too much peace?" I asked. "Is war such a desirable thing that you should speak slightingly of peace?"

Again he chuckled softly, and this time there was an underlying note of grimness.

"War played its part— and no minor part, either— in shaping both the mental outlook and the bodily frame of the animal that we call man," he answered with quiet conviction. "I do not mean the war of modern trained armies, nor even the war of nation against nation, or of tribe against tribe. I mean the war of individual against individual, such as was once waged by primitive man and is even now being waged by the beasts of the jungle. Do you imagine that mankind would have developed along the lines it actually has if each individual man had but to lie on his back all day with an abundance of the necessities and luxuries of life within easy reach? No, my impractical young theorist, man became what he is because he had to fight! He fought for the food he ate, for the cave that sheltered him, for possession of his mate; in short, he fought for his very existence. Those who were too mild or too weak to fight died very young, leaving it to their fiercer and more combative brothers to carry on the race and transmit their war-like instincts to the next generation. And men still fight one against the other, though now the battlefield has been transferred from the jungle to the town or city, and he uses his wits instead of a spear or ax of flint. And until recently the man who could not or would not fight (or 'work,' as we now call it) was exterminated as surely, though not as swiftly, as in ancient times. But during the last few years I have noted a growing tendency among the citizens of one powerful nation to prevent this natural process of elimination by protecting and succoring its individual members who either can not or will not take part in the modern struggle for existence. Forgetful of, or maybe ignorant of the prehistoric development of their own race, these tender-hearted dreamers seek to promote universal brotherhood and equality by doing away with the competition that is the mainspring of human progress. They proclaim an artificial peace where peace has never reigned since this Earth became habitable. If such a doctrine became universal it would be interesting to note its effect on the human race. You and I will be dust long before such a state of things can come into operation on this Earth of ours; but possibly you may see the ultimate result of such a system in the place you are going to."

"On Mars?" I cried, vastly interested in the strange and bizarre theory that had just been expounded. "You think that universal peace reigns on Mars?"

He nodded his head slowly.

"Probably every species of dangerous animals has been exterminated there ages ago, and the mere existence of its worldwide system of water-bearing canals implies a united effort on the part of its inhabitants in which all racial and national differences would need to be sunk for the common good. I am convinced that the present state of Mars is closely analogous to the state of our Earth in ages yet to come, and it is your proud privilege to witness the dying phase of a once-powerful race before its final extinction."

He paused and laid his hand on a small vulcanite lever connected with the mechanism of the Projector.

"Are you ready?" he asked.

"Rather!" I exclaimed, moved by an enthusiasm that has since surprised me. "You have interested me to such an extent that I would go, even if I were not compelled."

He leaned over and patted my hand.

"Good lad," he said in a tone that at any rate sounded sincere. "I will give you six hours before I reverse this lever and bring your conscious Ego back to Earth. And I would give much to behold what you will behold during that space of time. But that is impossible, so it only remains for me to wish you a pleasant journey— and a safe return. For six hours, au revoir!"

There was a sharp click as the lever slid home— a faint humming noise— then darkness came like the shutting of an eye.

I HAVE often tried to analyze my sensations during the time which followed immediately after the pressing of the lever that sent my subjective Ego hurtling through space, but on every occasion I have failed. Physically I must have been as inert as if I had inhaled a dose of chloroform, and as oblivious of the passage of time. Indeed, I feel inclined to doubt if my journey through space did actually take any measurable amount of time at all. A ray of light, which travels at a velocity of 186,000 miles a second, could leap the intervening distance in something like five minutes, and at the most modest estimate I can not conceive the Projector-ray travelling more slowly.

I might have settled the point definitely if I had thought to glance at my watch on my arrival, but when I next became conscious of my surroundings I found my attention fully occupied with the strange scene which greeted my eyes.

Forgetful of the fact that my flight had been directed toward the portion of the Martian disk that was reflecting the rays of the sun, and remembering only that I had departed from the Earth at night-time, I was for a moment astounded to find myself in broad daylight, with brilliant sunshine streaming from a point so high in the heavens that it could not have been far from its noonday zenith.

I was lying on the slope of a hillside of bare, yellowish rock which, had I encountered it on the Earth, I should have judged to be sandstone. Below me, and separated from my point of observation by a series of fantastic, swelling curves utterly destitute of trees or shrubs, or even the humblest form of vegetation, was a flat desert of what appeared to be sand, stretching unbroken to the furthermost horizon. The sun appeared smaller than when we view it from the Earth, but its rays, undimmed by even the faintest film of cloud in the crystal-dear sky, illuminated every detail of the desolate scene with merciless distinctness.

Keyed up as I was with the expectation of beholding prodigies, I felt my heart sink as I gazed round that stark, forbidding waste of sand. My feelings were something like those of an earthly aviator who, heading for London or Paris, suddenly finds himself stranded in the midst of the Sahara.

"The Sahara!" My voice sounded thin and weak in the rarefied atmosphere as I repeated the words aloud. "The Earth has its deserts, but it has also its populous cities. May not Mars have its cities, too?"

Catching hope at the rebound, I turned and began to clamber up toward the rocky crest of the hill. The going was rough, but I seemed to make remarkably good progress. Leaping to clear a fissure about a yard wide, I found that I had overshot the farther edge by a good three yards. It was only then that I remembered that the pull that held me to the ground was much less than the terrestrial gravity to which I had been hitherto subject. But I soon accustomed my muscles to this novel state of affairs, and presently I was performing feats of agility that would turn an earthly champion high-jumper green with envy.

In an incredibly short time I reached the summit, and how different was the scene that burst on my view as I cleared the last rocky ridge! The desert was still there, it is true, but on this side it was reduced to a mere strip of barrenness three miles, at the most, in width. Beyond that were orderly fields of luxuriant crops, interlaced with narrow silver streams of water whose straightness and symmetry proclaimed their artificial origin. Beyond this belt of vegetation two broader bands of silver converged as they neared the farther horizon. They were twin canals, spanned at intervals by mighty bridges and lined on either bank with wide roads of gleaming white on which strangely shaped vehicles passed and repassed with amazing swiftness.

But for me all these evidences of intelligent handiwork paled into insignificance before the mass of building which rose tier on tier at a spot where a third, single canal intersected the other two. It was a Martian city— and one of some importance, judging by its size and the splendor of its buildings. Its general shape was that of a flattened pyramid, but such a bald geometrical comparison conveys no adequate idea of its actual aspect; for the severe outline was broken and diversified by swelling domes, lofty towers, and intricately beautiful lace-like structures which soared into the sky like symmetrical cascades of water suddenly frozen into stone. Viewed from my pinnacle of sun-scorched barren rock, it seemed more like the fairy city of a dream than a structure planned and reared by material beings.

"If that is the dwelling-place of those who live in perpetual peace," I found myself murmuring, "what an object-lesson that beautiful city would be to the rival nations of the Earth!"

Pausing only long enough to take my bearings by the position of the sun, I set off down the hillside in a series of nightmare leaps and bounds. There may be an excess of oxygen in the Martian atmosphere, or perhaps it was due merely to the diminished force of gravity, but I seemed like a man suddenly endowed with superhuman strength and energy. Nor was the change confined to my physical sensations. A sense of wild elation filled my brain. I have a dim memory of laughing aloud and singing senseless songs. Had I encountered any one at that moment I fear I should have conveyed to his mind a very sorry estimate of the mental equilibrium of the inhabitants of the Earth. It is fortunate that I let myself go just when I did, for my first outburst of exuberance had exhausted itself by the time I had crossed the stretch of sand and reached the cultivated fields.

I call them "fields" only because of their vast extent. "Gardens" would be a more fitting term, for they seemed to produce nothing but attractive-looking though unfamiliar fruit trees, arranged in a manner similar to our ornamental flower-beds. Paved walks, with stone seats set at regular intervals, completed its resemblance to a great public park.

At first I thought it had been raining, for the air felt delightfully cool and moist after the parched heat of the desert; but presently I saw a thin jet of water spring from the ornamental border of one of the "fruit-beds," rising high in the air and falling on the trees in a thin artificial rain.

Slight as the detail was in itself, it gave me my first real insight into the Martian mind. I could not help admiring the ingenious manner in which they had converted an apparently insurmountable climatic drawback into a positive advantage. By applying a regulated amount of moisture just when and where it was needed, they had placed themselves in a far better condition than that of depending on the erratic movements of wind-driven rain-clouds which discharge their contents on field and dry indiscriminately. I thought of the devastating droughts and the floods that bring death and destruction to whole regions of our earth, and I decided that the Martians were to be envied, rather than pitied, for the physical conditions which prevail on their planet.

Meditating thus, I turned a sharp angle of the path and found myself face to face with one of the inhabitants of Mars.

IN spite of the professor’s words, I had fully expected to find the Martians strange creatures of fearsome aspect. But the individual before me was very human-looking indeed, and not an uncomely specimen, either.

Of medium height, with a smooth, delicately tinted face and a slender figure elegantly draped in a saffron-colored garment cut on lines strongly reminiscent of the costume of the ancient Greeks, it might equally well have been a girl or a good-looking boy in his teens. The single, very abbreviated garment left legs and arms completely bare, and its general effect made me wonder if I had encountered a Martian swimming enthusiast on the way to an afternoon dip.

For a moment we stared at each other in silence. I put up my hand to raise my hat, but finding that I had come away bareheaded, I executed what was intended for a graceful bow.

"Good afternoon," I said politely.

Of course I didn’t expect to be understood, but I trusted to my tone of voice and facial expression to convey that my intentions were peaceable. I must have appeared harmless enough, for the Martian smiled bade at me and said something which sounded like a friendly greeting.

"I am a messenger from the planet Earth," I went on impressively.

I didn’t expect that to be understood, either, but to my amazement the pretty creature seemed to catch my drift.

"Earth— world," it said in very tolerable English, and pointed to the sky with much the same gesture that we should use in drawing attention to a familiar star.

To say that I was puzzled would be to describe my actual feelings very faintly. I knew that in uttering the word "Earth" the Martian might have merely repeated parrot-like the word I had just used. But I had certainly not mentioned "world," yet the two words had been correlated as naturally as if the fellow had been familiar with the English language all his life.

"Do you understand English?" I asked hopefully, and my bewilderment increased when I got a string of friendly but totally incomprehensible words in reply.

"Earth," I prompted, pointing to the sky.

"Earth— world— globe," said the Martian, with an air of a child proudly displaying its knowledge.

Here was another English word that I had not imported into Mars. Evidently my young friend was well acquainted with the usual synonyms for "Earth" and at the same time quite ignorant of colloquial English. This was interesting, but it did not seem likely to prove very instructive. I felt as a tourist in Paris would feel if he asked a Frenchman the way to the railway station and was treated to a quotation from Shakespeare instead. I gave up the problem with a shrug and turned with the intention of proceeding on my way to the city. It was then that I discovered we were not alone.

Five Martians, dressed in garments of various colors but in every other respect similar to that worn by the one with whom I was conversing, had silently approached and were regarding me with much the same excited wonder as a group of village children exhibit at the sight of a dancing bear or a monkey on an organ. My doubts as to the sex of the first Martian were set at rest by the appearance of these newcomers, for their style of dress was the same and they were undoubtedly women. I began to wonder if I had wandered into the grounds of a young ladies’ finishing-school which specialized in physical culture on classical lines.

The girl in the saffron-hued robe said something to the others in which I distinctly caught the word "Earth," whereupon they crowded round me, subjecting my clothes, and finally myself, to a scrutiny that was distinctly embarrassing to a bashful man. I had neglected to shave that morning, and my stubbly beard was the star turn of the show. One after the other, and sometimes two at the same time, they insisted on stroking my cheeks and chin with their hands in a manner not usually indulged in— at least not in public— on the planet I had recently quitted. The shaven patch on the top of my head came in for its share of attention, though it did not appear to excite the same degree of wonder as my beard. I began to feel like a pet poodle at a dog show, and when another dozen or so Martian maidens came running up, evidently no less eager with curiosity, I thought it was time I made a move.

Frowning a dignified and majestic disapproval of further investigations into my physical aspect, I pointed to the distant city and intimated by signs that it was my intention to make my way there without delay. I must have made my meaning plain, for the girl in saffron, who seemed to have assumed a proprietary interest in me on the childrens’ principle "I found it first," now took me by the hand and conducted me in the desired direction.

I have since gained considerable amusement by trying to picture what I must have looked like stalking at the head of that procession of near-Greek damsels. My solitary mode of life on the Sussex Downs had made me rather careless in the matter of attire. If I had known what was in store for me I would have come arrayed in the most regal vestment that a theatrical costumer could supply. As it was, I wore a pair of flannel trousers, picturesquely bagged at the knees and fringed at the bottoms, and a tweed sports coat that had seen better days— a good many better days— to say the honest truth. Altogether I must have presented a spectacle far more curious than beautiful.

But the Martian populace were easily pleased. They flocked toward me from every side, and by the time I had reached one of the broader thoroughfares my advance had become a sort of triumphal progress along the center of the way, with a densely packed mass of people on either side.

There were several points about that crowd which struck me as being curious. There were no police or other officials to keep order; no one Martian seemed to have any more authority than the others; and, though I scanned their faces and figures as narrowly as I could, I could not detect a single member of that immense throng that belonged to the male sex.

Slowly but surely the staggering conviction was forced on my mind. Mars was a planet inhabited solely by women.

My arrival at what for want of a better name I must call the Headquarters of the City was marked with much excitement but with a total absence of ceremony. Led by the saffron-robed girl, I mounted the steps and entered the open door of the immense central building with as little ceremony as I should have entered a public library on earth.

I caught a fleeting glimpse of a large hall, well proportioned and imposing, though not oppressively so; then my guide steered me along a corridor and up a staircase, and presently we passed beneath a low arch and entered a smaller room. I may here place on record the fact that never once during my stay did I see a door that was capable of being closed.

The room was very sparsely furnished, yet it was so well-proportioned and tastefully decorated that it appeared far from bare. At first I was much puzzled by the fact that, although it had no windows, the light with which it was flooded was almost as strong as in the open air. Presently, however, I perceived that the gleaming white stone of which it was constructed was in itself semi-transparent, so that the sunlight actually penetrated the walls and ceiling.

At the farther end of the room a woman was seated at a bronze desk-like arrangement of fantastic design. On our entry she was engaged in listening attentively to a stream of words in the Martian language that issued from a trumpet-mouth which formed part of the desk. As we came forward she stretched out her hand to a lever and the voice abruptly ceased. I strongly suspect that the voice had been informing her of my advent, for she showed no surprise when she turned and looked at me. I on my part was busy taking in every detail of her dress and appearance.

Judged by earthly standards her age appeared to be about thirty, but maybe it was the tranquil majesty of her expression, rather than any actual indications of the passage of time, that made her seem so old. During my progress through the city I had been struck by the fact that the standard of personal beauty among the Martians was unusually high, but the loveliness of this regal creature easily surpassed any I had hitherto seen. Her height was a little above the medium, and her figure, lightly draped in a robe of shimmering wine-color that deepened to a rich purple in its folds, was slender and exquisitely molded. The only indication of her rank was the narrow fillet of gold which encircled her short, dark hair. But she needed no diadem to proclaim her queenly status, for her carriage and expression betokened one born to command.

For perhaps a minute she stood eyeing me in silence, a slight smile playing about the curves of her full, red lips. Then came a thing so incredible that I hesitate to set it down lest it should impugn the
veracity of this plain statement of facts. "Good afternoon, everybody," she said in the carefully enunciated Oxford accent of a radio announcer. "The Queen of Mars calling the Messenger from Earth. Are you from 2LO or 5XX? I should be glad to hear your News Bulletin-copyright- by- Reuter- Press- Association- and-Central News." She pronounced the final ten words as though they were one.

Now, I’ve met with a few knockdown surprises in my life, but never have I experienced such a shock as when I heard that radiant, queenly creature begin to talk after the manner of a two-valve receiving-set.

"You understand our Earthly language?" I cried in amazement.

The Martian queen nodded her shapely head and laughed.

"I’ll say I do. We’ve been trying to communicate with your planet for years and years, but either your instruments are not sensitive enough to receive our signals, or else you have set them down to some amateur wireless joker trying to pull your leg. But we have listened to your radio broadcasts all the time, and by degrees we have compiled a vocabulary and grammar of your language."

My heart sank and I felt myself going red all over. If this divine creature had based her estimate of earthly intelligence on some wireless programs that I had heard put over, she must inevitably look upon me as belonging to a race of moribund half-wits.

Gently but firmly I explained to her that the apex of human aspirations was not represented by the mentality of the British Broadcasting Company. She appeared to grasp my point with surprising quickness.

"I understand," she said, nodding and regarding me more kindly. "The stuff we have been listening to is merely intended for those of your race who are not sufficiently intelligent to read a book."

I was in no mood for long, involved explanations, so I did not attempt to contradict her. I was more anxious to learn about the conditions of life on Mars than to waste time in trying to gauge the mental make-up of the average radio fan. I put a few pertinent questions, and found her by no means unwilling to talk. Bidding me be seated, she told me many surprising things. Taken on the whole, her English was very clear and concise, but now and again I had to help her out with a word or suggestion, especially toward the end of her explanation.

The recorded history of Mars, I learnt, covered a period of nearly two million years. In some of its earlier phases it formed a striking parallel to the history of our own planet. There were the same alternate periods of warfare and peaceful progress; the same succession of nations dominant for a while, then decaying and sinking into oblivion as each in turn was conquered. At first they fought merely for the sake of plunder; then for aggrandizement and love of power; but in the end their wars were waged for possession of the dwindling water supply as the shallow Martian seas had shrunk and finally disappeared. Gradually the nature of the warfare changed with die changing conditions. Hitherto it had been a struggle of nation against nation, but when the only remaining bodies of water were those locked up for the greater part of the year in the polar ice-fields, it became a life-and-death struggle of the whole population against drought.

Long before the dawn of our own history—maybe long before the first terrestrial man had chipped his first rude implement of flint— the Martian engineers had planned and constructed the gigantic system of canals capable of tapping the polar ice-caps as they melted every year, and conveying the precious fluid to the more temperate regions where, directly and indirectly, it could be turned to account to render the otherwise arid deserts capable of supporting life. This war against natural forces was the greatest, the most prolonged, and the most desperate war that the Martians ever waged.

They were fighting for their very existence as a race, and they knew it. It was indeed "a war to end war" in a much truer sense than was the empty slogan with which our earthly ears have been tickled within recent years. And when in the end they had triumphed, they found to their surprise that the last Martian war had been fought.

The more backward races of the planet had been exterminated in the struggle for continued existence; the more enlightened had co-operated and fused during their exertions for the common good. They had conquered their bitterest, their most implacable enemy, Death; and henceforth they were at peace.

And for untold ages peace reigned on that happy planet. Generation after generation saw the light and passed away not knowing the meaning of the word "struggle," for in that artificial Utopia they had not even to struggle to live. Brain power took the place of brute strength as a deciding factor in the march of progress; the female no longer needed the combative male to provide her with the necessities of life. From a servile slave or a pampered plaything, woman became to all intents and purposes the effective equal of man.

Then indeed did it seem as if the acme of Martian bliss had been reached. The desert blossomed like a rose in literal truth, and there was enough for all with a minimum of effort. The fortunate people of these ages revelled in a paradise of plenty.

But nature, ever patient, ever watchful, was but biding her time for a great crushing revenge on those who flouted her immutable laws. Not for mere caprice had the fighting male been called into existence; not by mere chance is it decreed that his numbers shall increase in proportion to the female population when the need for him is greatest, and dwindle when the community no longer needs his protecting presence. On Earth the birth statistics during the recent Great War led to this fact being dimly recognized, though not completely understood. And the law of gravitation is not more universal or far-reaching than the law of utility. An organism, be it mammoth or microbe, that no longer fulfills its intended purpose is no longer perpetuated or even tolerated in the economy of nature. Fallen from his high estate, man had disappeared from Mars as completely as the mammoth and dinosaur had disappeared from the surface of the Earth.

It was perhaps inevitable that there should occur several baffling and irritating gaps at this stage of the narrative. The stock of words at the disposal of my informant consisted only of those which had been gleaned from radio programs, and the vocabulary thus acquired, though sufficiently varied and flexible for the discussion of ordinary subjects, proved but a poor vehicle in which to convey the explanation of the several vital points that puzzled me. I was, for instance, very curious to know how the continuity of the Martian race had been effected after the last man had become extinct. But here my informant’s vocabulary became tantalizingly meager and limited— which was not to be wondered at, considering that human biology is a subject not usually regarded with favor by the directors of radio programs. I hesitate to place on record a theory that may be due to misunderstanding on my part, but I gained the impression that on Mars synthetic chemistry has reached heights as yet only dimly glimpsed by the most daring of our own scientists.

But, quite apart from details that would be of interest only to professional biologists, the great fact remained that Mars had paid dearly for her state of perpetual peace. Woman had grasped sovereignty only to find her prize turn to ashes in her hands. Undisputed queen though she was, her kingdom was pitifully barren of all save the material needs of life. The Planet of Peace had become a world devoid of human love....

All this the queen of Mars told me, and maybe much more; for in the end my thoughts wandered and I found myself paying more attention to the speaker than to the halting phrases which fell from her lips.

Was it merely my conceited fancy, or was there really a subtle undertone of tenderness in her voice as she spoke of the starved affections, the thwarted yearnings of her loveless people? Hitherto I had been so engrossed in the purely scientific side of her epitome of Martian history that I had quite lost sight of its personal aspect. Now, with a thrill of keenest excitement, I realized for the first time the stupendous possibilities that lay within my grasp. However insignificant a member I might be of the community I had recently quitted, here the crown of an empire— nay, of the whole planet!— was mine for the taking. And as I looked into the beautiful face of the Martian queen, never did kingship seem so desirable a thing.

I spoke no word of love, but something of my emotion must have communicated itself to her; for gradually she fell silent, and sat, her rounded bosom lifting and falling rapidly, her frank eyes mutely questioning mine.

"I came here to seek knowledge of another world," I said, lamely enough, "but I have found something more." And I raised her unresisting hand to my lips.

The poet who extolled the external power of love wrote truer than he knew.

To her the tender passion must have been a thing as remote as were the circling orbs of space. Yet she did not even pretend to misunderstand my meaning. Like the first flush of dawn in a sky that has been shrouded in eternal night, a wave of deep crimson crept up the ivory of her shapely throat until it dyed her cheeks with its glowing color. Like a proud lily bowing before the gale it was not fitted to withstand, her supple body swayed toward me. I felt her arms about me; her warm lips, trembling with an emotion that was not fear, on mine....

Then, like a faulty cinema film which breaks off at the most engrossing part of the drama, the whole scene vanished into dense, impenetrable blackness.

WHEN NEXT I opened my eyes I did not commit the usual solecism by asking "Where am I?" I knew the answer to that question only too well!

I was in the untidy workshop of the little bungalow at the end of the Sussex village street. The bungalow idiot with the bald head was just in the act of returning his watch to his pocket.

"Your six hours are up, my young friend," he said cheerfully. "I took care to switch you back to Earth right on the exact minute. Did you have an interesting experience?"

I fear my immediate reply was not much to the point. Presently I grew calmer. "I want to go back to Mars," I told him bluntly. "And I want to stay there for good."

"Do you?" He eyed me strangely as he stroked his chin. "May I be permitted to ask why you are so eager to take up your permanent abode there?"

Like a simpleton, I related everything that had happened, down to the smallest detail that I could remember.

"You strike me as being a remarkably quick worker, young man," he observed dryly when I had finished. "In six hours you had won— or were on the point of winning— a kingdom and a beautiful bride. It is a destiny that any one might well envy you. King of a planet!— undisputed lord of an entire world!"

For a while he paced the room, softly muttering the last words to himself over and over again. If I had guessed what was in his mind I should have choked the life out of him there and then. But I was too much engrossed in my own rosy dreams to attempt to gage the possible effect that my revelation might have on another man. Even when he at length came to a halt and seated himself in the chair of the Ego-Projector, I had no suspicion of his intended treachery. Blind, doubly blind fool that I was!

"It would certainly seem, my young friend, that between us you and I have stumbled on a great thing," he said, thoughtfully fingering the levers of the machine. "It has always been my idea that the greatest drawback of this world of ours is the lack of scope it offers to a man of real original genius. Yes, my friend, lack of scope," he repeated the phrase, with a kind of savage gusto.

"Alexander, Hannibal, Caesar, Napoleon, Tamerlane— in fact, every talented superman— had to win his way slowly and with infinite toil, through opposing armies before he made himself master of some insignificant part of the earth. Unlike them, the next man who visits Mars will, without striking a single blow, be master of a whole planet! Pray accept my sincere thanks for having demonstrated that fact so clearly, my young friend. And to those thanks it only remains for me to add one single word—" He paused, a grin of sardonic triumph creasing his pallid features; then shouted loudly, "Farewell!"

Then only did I sense his foul purpose. He was about to project himself to Mars and claim the prize that rightly should be mine.

Galvanized into action, I crossed the room at a single lunge.

"You cur!" I yelled in futile rage.

At my first sign of movement he had slid the starting-lever over to its fullest extent. The sound of a mocking laugh mingled with the now familiar humming note of the machine. One instant I caught a fleeting glimpse of his faint, ghost-like figure crouching in the chair. The next, my hands were vainly clutching at empty air.

Enraged almost to madness, I flung myself recklessly on the still faintly droning machine and tore at random at the intricate array of levers and switches, conscious only of a fixed desire to drag the traitor back to Earth and deal with him as he deserved. A voice, which I dimly recognized as my own, was uttering threats and curses.

"Once let me get to grips with him— man to man—"

A flash of vivid purple flame leapt from the mechanism at which I was blindly fumbling. The thud of a mighty concussion smote my ears. Impelled by what felt like a blow administered by the fist of a giant, I staggered back and fell headlong across the chaotic mass of twisted brass and fused and tangled wires which was all that remained of the Ego-Projector.

Slowly I rose to my feet and, steadying myself by grasping a leg of the overturned table, I looked out through the shattered window and groaned aloud in the bitterness of my hopeless disappointment.

Poised high in the heavens, aloof, majestic, and as yet undimmed by the blanching of the coming dawn, but glowing with the soft radiance of a rose-tinted jewel for ever beyond my reach, the Planet of Peace rode serenely on its appointed path, seeming to mock my misery across the now unpassable void of space.

____________________

10: Flames of Destiny

Arlton Eadie

Weird Tales, March, 1928

"A GENTLEMAN to see you, sir," announced the man who combined the offices of waiter-boots-potman at the tiny inn where I had taken up my quarters for the night. At the same time he handed me a card.

"Adrian Dane."

For a full minute I stared at the name in surprise, racking my brain in an effort to remember where I had heard it last. Then, in a flash, remembrance came.

"Please show Mr. Dane up to this room," I told the man.

Left alone, I stood wondering what strange chance had brought my old fellow-student again across my path. Although he had not belonged to my immediate set at Oxford, I had formed with him one of those haphazard friendships which one never seems to keep up later. I remembered that we had both gone down in the same year; afterward I heard he had entered the Indian civil service. After that we had just drifted apart. He had been a shy, retiring sort of fellow, studying erratically and keeping very much to himself. On the rare occasions when I had visited his rooms his talk had been mainly on hypnotism, telepathy, and similar occult subjects.

A queer fellow, undoubtedly, yet somehow likable.

In appearance he had never been what one might call robust, but when I caught sight of his face as he entered the room I uttered an exclamation of concern. He was deadly pale and there were large dark shadows around his eyes. Yet his movements were brisk enough, and the grip of his hand, though naturally cold (it was freezing hard outside), was firm and hearty.

Immediately our first commonplace greetings were over I asked how on earth he had discovered me in that out-of-the-way inn; for it was by the merest accident that I had visited Winchester at all. But he turned the matter off with what I thought at the time to be a somewhat feeble jest.

"My dear Hadleigh," he said with a slow, languid smile, "you forget I have to sustain my reputation as a dabbler in the Black Art! I simply projected my spirit into space— and here I am!"

Something of the irritation I felt at this piece of pointless foolery must have shown itself in my face, for he rose quickly and laid his thin white hand on my shoulder as he went on seriously: "Believe me, my friend, I did not come here without deep reason."

Both his action and tone of voice surprised me. He seemed like a man who wanted to speak frankly, yet dared not.

"Well," I returned with a forced laugh, "the Black Art, as you call it, does not seem to have improved your health. You look like a ghost! Have you been ill?"

Again that wan smile flitted across his features.

"Yes, I have been ill, very ill. But at present I am well. I have no pain or suffering—now."

I murmured the usual congratulations, and then ensued a rather embarrassing silence, during which he sat pensive and motionless, his eyes fixed on the glowing embers of the fire. For want of some better subject of conversation, I plunged into an account of my own doings since quitting college. In the midst of my recital he rose abruptly to his feet. "Yes, Hadleigh, I am quite aware of all that you’re about to tell me," he said. "Don’t ask me where I got my information, for I have no time to go into details. You can, if you like, attribute my knowledge to the Black Art. As a matter of fact I have a rather important engagement to fulfil."

He glanced toward the clock as he spoke. Following the direction of his eyes, I noted it was just seven minutes past 10.

"You’re surely not returning to London tonight?" I exclaimed.

"I fear I must," he answered. "The appointment I have tonight is one that can not be put off. Therefore I must come to the point at once." He fixed his unnaturally bright eyes full upon mine as he asked, "Do you believe in the transmigration of souls?"  For a moment I was struck breathless by the unexpectedness of the question. Then I laughed. "I always imagined that the tenets of Pythagoras went out of fashion with trunk-hose and farthingales!" But, as I noted the strained gravity of his expression, I added: "Do you mean to say that you have sought me out just to ask me that?"

"Yes," came the answer in a tone of quiet intentness.

"Then I may as well set your mind at rest by telling you that I regard the whole theory as a parcel of utter rot! ’’

He nodded his head slowly.

"I thought that would be your answer, Hadleigh. But I wish to ask you another question. Are you willing to submit yourself to a"— he paused for a moment as though seeking a fitting word—"a demonstration that will cause you to change your opinion?"

"A demonstration?" I echoed."Where?"

"Here in this room—at this moment!" he answered. Then, seeing that I hesitated, he went on with feverish eagerness: "I assure you that this is no idle whim on my part."

Now, I rather prided myself on possessing an open and unbiased mind. My attitude toward matters occult had been that of a self-confessed agnostic, unwilling to concede a point without proof, yet always open to examine such evidence as might be forthcoming. The suggestion of Adrian Dane roused my curiosity considerably; moreover, there was an indefinable something in his manner that told me some grave and vital purpose lay behind his seemingly fantastic proposal. I was not long in making up my mind.

"Go ahead," I said cheerfully. Our preparations for the séance were few and simple. In response to his request, I lay down on the couch facing the latticed window looking onto the street. He turned down the gas until the room was in semi-darkness; then took from his pocket a small disk of dull copper and held it before my eyes.

"Fix your attention on this, Hadleigh," he commanded rather than asked. "Banish from your mind all thoughts and surmises. Give your will— your soul— your self— unreservedly into my keeping!"

I endeavored to obey. Minutes passed, but except that the disk grew vague and indistinct before my vacant gaze, nothing happened. I was just on the point of telling him that I must be a bad subject, when with the suddenness of thought he snatched the disk away and substituted his own face. In a moment everything was changed. I seemed to feel my will being dragged from my possession like some tangible thing. His eyes seemed to dominate and command me, holding me in a vise from which there was no escape.

Then they began to grow larger, although this was probably merely the effect of his advancing his face toward my own. Larger and larger they grew, until at last they appeared like the double entrance to some vast cavern gaping wide, dark, unfathomable before me.

Presently a quaint fancy seemed to seize upon my confused brain. What if I were to enter and explore the labyrinth of his mind? No sooner was the thought conceived than I seemed (for I must have been unconscious by this time) to put it into execution. I stepped boldly through the gap...

DARKNESS, opaque and impenetrable, encompassed me on every side as I stumbled onward. Whether I progressed yards or miles I car. not tell, but all at once the ground seemed to give way beneath my feet and I fell, not as an earthly body falls, but swaying from side to side lightly, as though I were composed of some ethereal substance as light as the air itself. Down, down, and ever down I rushed, until it seemed as though I had delved deep into the maw of Eternity, where a thousand years is as the ticking of a clock, and Time does not exist. Then upon my mental vision there burst a line of glowing writing, as though traced by a pencil of living fire:

The Eighth Day of October, 1645.

And I seemed to know that for me the ponderous gates of Time had rolled back, and that I, a phantom with the feelings of a man, was about to step forth into the world of long ago.

Then the writing faded, and I slept....

THE sustained roll of drums in the Market Square outside roused me from my slumber. Instinctively I recognized it as the signal for the mustering of my troop of gallant lads who trailed their pikes under the banner of Lord-General Cromwell.

After a few minutes of groping about in the dark, I found my high buff boots, still harsh with the mud of the trenches we had dug when we stormed the town, and drew them on. Then I adjusted the steel corselet which guarded back and breast, and tightened the buckles with deft, accustomed fingers. The wide belt which carried my straight, cup-hilted rapier was quickly slipped over my right shoulder and held in position by the silken sash which I knotted round my body, at the point where the armor gave place to the long-skirted doublet of stout buff leather. Then, swinging on the broad-brimmed plumed hat and snatching up a pair of leather gloves with high, protecting gauntlets, I made my way down the narrow stairs and out into the street.

Above the twin towers of the great cathedral the bleak night sky was just beginning to pale with the first gray streaks of dawn. Hoarfrost glittered on the uneven cobbles of the road and on the gables and cross-timbers of the ancient Market House. Twenty paces from the inn door my troop was drawn up in double rank, their sixteen-foot pikes— which had ere now brought to naught many a dashing charge of the Royalist horse— sloped at an angle before them. As I approached, a sharp command rang out, and five-score steel-shod butts smote the ground with a clang as they came to attention.

I gave the customary return; then, taking my place at the head, again raised my hilt to the level of my eyes, this time saluting the colors. This done, I lowered my point and waited for what was to happen next.

Anon the ruffle of drums and screaming of pipes sounded on the frosty air, and round the comer of the Square there swung three companies of Pride’s Musketeers, there colonel riding at their head. With colors flying and matches burning, they passed within half a pistol-shot of our ranks, and many a lowering scowl and muttered curse followed them as they marched by.

Although both were fighting under the same standard, the feud between those who tossed a pike and those who fired a musket was a longstanding and bitter one. The pike-men bitterly resented the higher pay and privileges granted to the wielders of the newer and more effective weapon. This was so at the best of times, but recent events had so fanned the smoldering hatred that every moment it threatened to burst forth into flame. When, two days since, the city of Winchester had fallen before our onslaught, a brawl had arisen between the two regiments over the sharing of the booty. Although according to the Articles of War the plundering of a besieged town or fortress was strictly forbidden on pain of death, the practise was in reality covertly winked at by those in command. For one thing, the prospect of spoil was calculated to give an added zest to the assault; for another, it afforded the soldiery an opportunity of making up those arrears of pay which were all too frequently long overdue. But this time the Lord-General had taken a firm hand in the matter (more, methinks, from rage at seeing his troops flying at each other’s throats than from any over-nice scruples in the matter). He had proclaimed, by beat of drum, that all the burghers of the city should be left secure in their possessions, and in addition had hanged a round dozen of the plunderers, choosing the culprits only from the ranks of the pikemen, which fact so roused the feelings of their comrades that they were now on the brink of mutiny. It needed but a spark to light the blaze of open revolt, and that spark, though we knew it not, was now on the point of being struck.

The music ceased and a sudden hush fell upon the Market Square, now lined on all four sides by troops of the various regiments. And as we waited the first pale beams of the wintry sun broke through the clouds, for the first time illuminating the Square and revealing the grim import of the objects which stood in the center—an iron stake set upright in the ground, with a heap of fagots piled about its base.

Then a trumpet blared out, and the cordons of soldiery, who had hitherto held back the eager townsfolk, were withdrawn, allowing the mob to enter and occupy the space between the houses and the troops.

Another trumpet-blast, and as if by magic the ribald jests of the crowd were stilled, and over each face there came a look of dreadful anticipation. From the mouth of the narrow street leading to the castle there emerged a sad procession. First walked two halberdiers of the Town Guard; then a dignitary clad in a furred gown and carrying in his hand a parchment scroll with many dangling seals; following him was a man in a close-fitting suit of stained crimson leather, whose features were completely hidden by a mask; two more halberdiers followed, then a great shout burst from the crowd as they caught sight of the white-robed figure of a girl.

"The White Witch! The White Witch! Burn the sorceress—to the stake with the accursed witch!"

Appalled by the sudden menacing roar, the girl shrank back, raising her chained hands and pressing them to her heart, but a blow from the halberd of one of the guards sent her staggering forward again. At the sight, a wave of hot blood seemed to surge to my head and a throbbing sounded in my ears like the hoofbeats of a troop of galloping horses.

Now, heaven be my witness that I make no pretensions to be regarded as a Paladin. A soldier’s trade is at best a rough and brutal one. Life is liable to be short; death is ever grinning hungrily at his elbows; he must take his pleasures when and where he can—and women and wine were never far away from the baggage-train even of that self-styled Army of the Elect! Yet I can swear that every good impulse in me leaped to life as I looked into the pale, pure face of that witch condemned to die.

With firm and even tread she advanced toward the hideous apparatus of death. An involuntary murmur of admiration rose from our ranks as she passed. Men of iron courage themselves, they were not slow to recognize and admire the same virtue in another.

"Witch or no— the wench is a rare plucked ’un!" I heard my sergeant mutter into his grizzled beard.

A n ominous and expectant silence fell upon the packed Market Place as the sheriff stepped forward, unrolled the parchment scroll, and began to read what was evidently the sentence of the court which had condemned her. The rigmarole was so bedecked with ponderous legal jargon and high-sounding Latin that it was well-nigh impossible to grasp its full meaning. But the frequent repetitions of the words "bewitching by diabolical arts the said Master Nicholas Rowe," "damnable sorceries," "contrary to the law and the Scriptures," together with such scraps of gossip as I had previously picked up, enabled me to make a shrewd guess of its general drift.

The reading finished, the sheriff stepped back and made a sign to the man in crimson. The next moment the girl was being bound to the stake by means of a long iron chain wound several times about her body. This done, one the halberdiers came forward and placed something in her arms. It was a tiny black kitten— her familiar fiend according to the finding of the learned fools who had condemned her. She took it in her arms almost mechanically and gently stroked its soft, sleek fur. The doomed mite ceased its frightened mewing and nestled close to her, settling itself to sleep.

Now, three years of constant campaigning is likely to blunt the edge of a man’s softer feelings. It was no new thing for me to see men slain in hot blood— aye, and in cold blood, too! I had seen Rupert’s Horse ride among the broken ranks of fleeing, unarmed foot, cutting them down at their leisure until their arms grew weary with the slaughter. But the sight of that poor wench fondling the kitten so unconcernedly in the face of a lingering and agonizing death made me turn sick and faint. The feeling passed in a moment and in its place there came a hot and furious anger.

Scarcely realizing what I did, I strode forward and saluted the Lord-General with my drawn sword. In the hushed pause which followed I could feel the thousands of eyes bent upon me from all sides.

"Lord Cromwell," I cried aloud, "I crave a few minutes’ speech with ye ere this maid dies!"

The man raised himself in his stirrups and turned upon me his cold gray eyes.

"How now?" he cried harshly. "Captain Hadleigh, what means it that ye break rank without leave? Back to your troop, sir, and consider yourself under arrest. Tomorrow I will hold speech with ye— over a drumhead!"

"Tomorrow will be too late. So, if it please your lordship, I’ll e’en say my say now. It concerns this poor innocent maid."

Before Cromwell could make answer, a tall, thin man dressed in a suit of rusty black, with broad white cuffs and neckbands, interposed.

"Innocent maid, forsooth!" he drawled in a harsh nasal tone. "She is a witch! She hath been accused and condemned as by law required, and her wretched life is forfeit. Saith not the Scriptures, ‘Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live’?"

I made him a low, ironical bow.

"Granted, most reverend sir," I answered. "But, unless my memory plays me false, they also contain another text, which runs, ‘Let him who is without sin cast the first stone’!"

It was but a clumsy parry and I knew it; but it served its turn, for a loud guffaw of laughter rose from round about. Nothing is so fickle as a mob; its moods leap from murder to mirth in the twinkling of an eye. I had made them laugh—that was something in my favor. But I must arouse other emotions— pity and justice—if I were to save the girl.

"By what token dost thou presume to declare that she is a witch?" I demanded. "Upon whose evidence was she condemned? I will tell ye, men of Winchester! The only testimony against her comes from a man who is a liar, a trickster, and— in spite of his hoary locks— an abandoned profligate to boot!"

The man in black held up his skinny hands.

"A profligate? Godly Master Rowe— the richest man in Winchester—darest thou dub him profligate?"

"Rich he may be," I returned hotly, for the man’s manner angered me. "But it is not from his ledgers and money-bags that I ask ye to seek the truth. Ask rather of those whom his lying, wheedling tongue has brought to ruin. Ask of the tavern idlers; ask of those poor wenches who follow the camp! Then shall ye know of what manner of man is this worthy, upright, wealthy Master Rowe!"

No longer was I the center of interest now; every eye was turned on Master Nicholas Rowe as he stood shouting and gesticulating on the balcony whence he had intended to view that merry morning’s work. He was angrily demanding my immediate arrest and punishment. To my mind, however, there was another emotion visible on his blotched, unhealthy features— it was fear that caused his tongue to stammer and his obese limbs to shake.

Still, he was a man of importance in the city; a man whom, at this hour, Cromwell could ill afford to thwart. I saw the Lord-General bend forward and whisper a few words in the ear of his Colonel of Musketeers, whereupon Pride strode straight toward me, rasping out his sword as he came. At the same moment I heard the clash of steel behind me as my troop came to the ready without word of command.

I smiled to myself as I saw Colonel Pride come to an irresolute halt. Hadleigh and his flaunting pikes were not wholly unknown in the New Army. My rascals loved me to a man, and I knew that, if the matter in hand came to be settled by push of pike, matters would not be all on one side. I ran toward the pile of fagots; then turned toward them.

"Pikes! Pikes!" I roared. "Rally round your captain! Are ye soldiers or wench-slayers? Pikes!"

Scarcely had the words left my lips before my daredevils had advanced and, with a clatter and a cheer, formed themselves about the fatal pile.

I felt my heart glow as I looked upon that steady ring of glittering points. Never did my rascals look so fine as on that wintry morn when making that forlorn stand to save an unknown, condemned wench. But there was little time to be spent in admiration. Cromwell, his face working like a tortured devil’s, was spurring madly to the rear of the Musketeers, shouting orders and pointing his drawn blade toward our little band. But short shrift could we expect from him. The old feud between the pikes and muskets would soon be wiped out with running blood.

"Musketeers…  make ready your pieces!"came the order. "Prime!... Blow your matches. ..."

With one bound I had gained the summit of the pile; another moment, and my sword had proved its temper by severing the links of the chain. Then I caught up the girl and stood with her in my arms.

What joyous madness seized upon me at that moment I know not. But as I clasped her slender body to my steel-clad breast a throb of defiant elation passed through me. The mob, Cromwell, the leveled muskets, were alike forgotten as I pressed my lips to hers.

For a breath her pallid features grew paler still; then a deep rosy flush overspread them. I feared I had affronted her, but in the same instant that I cursed myself beneath my breath for a graceless boor, she raised her face to mine and returned the kiss. No words passed—none were needed—but if ever soul flashed toward soul in a blaze of love, ours did at that moment.

But even in that moment of ecstatic joy I did not forget the tenets of my soldier’s trade. I must wait for the volley which was sure to come; then, with the girl thrown across my shoulder, I must endeavor to escape under cover of the smoke of the discharge. It was a desperate plan; yet there could be no other. It might succeed; if not—

"Musketeers . . . give fire!"

As the thunder of the volley sent the echoes bounding from the four cornel’s of the Square I endeavored to fling myself, with the girl, behind the shelter of the pile of fagots. But even as I leapt, my breastplate rang out like a gong, and a pang, like that of a red-hot iron passing through my body, told me that one of Pride’s bullets had found its mark. Aye, .and more than one! For the figure in my arms had quivered pitifully, and now a large and ever-spreading crimson stain appeared on the bosom of her dress.

"I am hit!" she whispered weakly. "Hold me—everything is growing dark. "

It did not need a second glance into the beautiful face to know that she had received her death-wound. I’d seen enough of warfare to recognize that ominous grayish hue. And I myself was in no better plight as I swayed limply against the tar-soaked pile. A dull roaring sounded in my ears, as dimly, as though through a blood-red mist, I saw the shadowy ranks of Pride’s Musketeers fighting vainly with their clubbed muskets against the line of remorselessly advancing pikes. Then a crackling sound, nearer at hand, drew my attention. Gathering my strength, I raised myself on my elbows—and realized the terrible truth.

The pile, on which we both lay, had been fired!

Whether the mischief had been done deliberately, or by a flaming wad from one of the muskets, I can not say; but the fact remained that flames were now licking in and out among the straw at the base of the pile. I tried to raise her in my arms to bear her hence, but my strength was ebbing fast.

She must have guessed my intention, for her eyes opened and looked into mine as she said faintly, "Let be. What boots it whether we die here or later? At least we are together."

Together! Desperate though our strait was, the word thrilled me. Strange though our meeting and short the seconds before us, I knew full well that her love for me was deeper than the ocean—more enduring than the mountains. And as I looked upon her beauty, my heart rebelled against the irony of destiny. *

"I have gained your love but to lose you forever!" I groaned.

She shook her head slightly and a strange smile hovered about her lips.

"The end is not yet," she whispered. "Though we die, and our ashes be mingled together on a felon’s pyre, our love will not perish. We shall meet hereafter."

"In the realm of spirits?" I asked, amazed at her words.

"Nay, in the world of men."

Wild as her words seemed, I believed them.

"Give me a sign—a token," I cried, "that I may know it be thou, in very sooth, when again we meet."

She lifted her hand toward a slender silver chain around her neck and drew from her bosom a small silver cross.

"Break it in twain." Her voice was so weak that I could scarce catch the words. "Keep one half—until— until—"

Her voice ceased, and I knew that the end had come. Thank God that she had passed ere the flames had reached her!

I clasped her limp form closer to my breast, and on her cold lips imprinted one last kiss.

"Till we meet, my love!" I cried, as with a crackle and a roar the flames surged round about the living and the dead.

Then the shouts, the scattered shots and clash of steel died away as I sank forward—started—and awoke....

I was lying on the sofa in my room in the old Winchester inn. The morning sunlight was streaming through the window. The fire was a heap of gray ashes. Adrian Dane had disappeared.

I arose shakily. So vivid had been the vision that my b r °w still felt clammy with the horror of it. But, after all, it had been but a dream, and I laughed aloud in my relief. Then the laugh froze on my lips as I looked down at the thing I still clutched in my right hand.

It was a broken silver cross, blackened by fire!

THE FOLLOWING DAY I transacted the business which had brought me to Winchester and then returned to town. Such was the impression left on my mind by my uncanny experience that I would have called on Adrian Dane at once; but, strangely enough, he had omitted to furnish me with his address. I had a feeling, however, that I should hear from him before long, and I was not mistaken.

One afternoon, on returning to my rooms, I was met at the door by my man, who informed me that a lady was waiting to see me.

"Who is she, Jephson?" I asked as I removed my hat and overcoat,

"I don’t know, sir. She didn’t give any name, only said her business was important."

The moment I opened the door I stood rooted to the spot with sheer astonishment. Before me, though now dressed in modern costume, was the living image of the witch-girl of Winchester! There were the same delicate features, the same oval face, the same passionate, far-seeing eyes that had last looked into mine through the glare of the blazing pyre.

Mastering my surprise as best I could, I came forward and uttered a commonplace greeting.

"Please forgive my intruding upon you without a previous introduction," she said, "but I came at the earnest request of my brother, Mr. Adrian Dane, who-was, I think, an old friend of yours. I should have called some days since, but I have only just succeeded in discovering your address."

"Surely your brother could have furnished you with that?" I asked in mild surprise.

"My brother is dead," she said in a low voice; and for the first time I noticed that she was dressed in deep mourning.

Remembering how ill he had looked when I saw him last, I was hardly surprised at the news.

"Before he died he asked me to give these papers into your hands," she went on, taking a sealed packet from her hand-bag. "He said they would explain something you would wish to know. "

She handed me the envelope and rose to go.

"Please do not go yet," I said quickly. "I think it just possible that the papers may be of interest to you, too."

"I already know their contents," she answered. "They are documents which have been handed down from generation to generation. They refer to the trial and execution of a member of our family, many years ago."

I broke the seal and rapidly scanned the documents. First came the records of the moot-court held at Winchester on September the twenty-fifth, 1645, setting forth the information, "laid by Master Nicholas Rowe, of this city, against one Althea Dane, who by divers supernatural and damnable arts hath"—I tossed this document, with its rigmarole of absurdities, to one side and took up the next. This was the warrant of execution, dated the eighth day of October.

The third paper was a mere scrawl, penned in a trembling hand. It bore the superscription of "The Confession of Master Nicholas Rowe, given under the persuasion of Hab Jenkins, Sergeant of the Pike Company of Captain Hadleigh, lately slain in the riot in the Market Square." If this sergeant was the same grim-visaged veteran of my dream, I could imagine that his " persuasion" was not-likely to have been over-tender!

As I read the shaky lines, the whole pitiful story became clear. The rejected advances of the old libertine; the simulated cramps and agonies of the "bewitchment"; the false accusation against the helpless girl; the Flames of Destiny whole forming a dreadful story of ignorant superstition and cowardly revenge. When I had read the last word I looked across at my visitor.

"I knew that she was innocent— indeed, what sane person would believe otherwise?" I said. Then I rose to my feet, unlocked a drawer of the bureau and took out the broken cross. "By the way, I have a relic here which, I think, belonged to that poor, misjudged girl."

Wonderingly she took it from me. Then, raising her hand to the slender chain around her neck (how well I remembered that gesture!), she brought forth another broken cross, and placed them together.

The two halves fitted exactly.

LOOKING back over the events which I have here set down, I must confess that there are several points which are by no means clear. Can it be possible that, after all, my experience was nothing but a particularly vivid dream?  Did Adrian Dane, suspecting his imminent death, himself induce the vision of the past by means of his hypnotic suggestion, in order to bring about a meeting between his sister and myself? But whether it was due to dream, trance, or merely my automatic mental reaction to the atmosphere of that old-world inn, I have never regretted the day it happened. For it was the direct cause of my meeting with the lady who is now my wife.

During our brief courtship we often discussed the tragic story of Althea Dane; but it was not until after our wedding that I told her how, clasped in each other’s arms, our twin-souls had passed through the flames of destiny to the paradise of love and happiness which now is ours.

__________________

11: Son of Satan

Arlton Eadie

Weird Tales, April 1936

MASKS— mirth— music! The revels of the famous Carnival of Venice were at their giddy height.

The swelling domes and lofty campaniles of the fairy-like City of the Sea were delicately etched against the faint moonlight which trembled on the pearl-tinted beaches of the distant Lido. The light from thousands of perfumed wax candles, reflected from the mirror-lined walls of great gilded salons, escaped through   the tall arched windows to cast ingots of liquid gold on the rippling waters of the multitude of canals. Strings of lanterns, myriad-hued as the iridescence of fireflies’ wings, danced and quivered on the gondolas that threaded their mazy way along the crowded lagoon, turning its waters to a fairy carpet of ever changing colors.

The whole city reeled with frolic, rocked with merry laughter. Songs and jests were on every lip. Every face was masked, for it was the gayest, maddest holiday of the year 1704, a time when the city that had once been hailed as Queen of the Adriatic was content to become the Mecca of Pleasure for the whole world; and the mask was not only tolerated, but compulsory on those who fared abroad during King Carnival’s reign of revelry.

Night had fallen unheeded on the merry throng. Well it might, for night was being turned into day. For the moment, the stem and inexorable figure of Father Time was thrust from every mind. The sun sank but to make a more effective background for the illuminations and fireworks, the shrouding darkness a more convenient setting for amorous adventure.

On the balcony of the Palazzo Canigiani, overlooking the Grand Canal, yet fat enough above it to be aloof and secluded from the crowd of boats, the Contessa Lisalda reclined on a pile of silken cushions, listening with languid indifference to the flood of fervid eloquence which poured from the lips of the young nobleman who knelt at her feet.

"Donna Lisalda, vissere mie"— even in the depth of his passion Martino di Orselo could not rid his voice of its customary drawl of affectation— "does not your own heart tell you that it is no idle fancy which has drawn me to your side this night?"

There was a slight arching of the finely penciled eyebrows, a sudden widening of the amber eyes. Save for these signs of half-ironical surprise Lisalda’s beautiful features retained the stony, unfeeling immobility of some flawless marble statue.

"Certes, noble Signor," there was a note of mockery in the full, rich voice. "Were I to rely on my heart for the desired information. Holy Week— nay, Christmas itself—might come and find me no wiser. So I fain must remain in ignorance of the reason why you have honored my poor dwelling with your august presence."

It would seem that the meanest intelligence could not fail to perceive the sarcasm, almost amounting to contempt, which lay in her words. But the patrician wits of the foppish Martino were none of the keenest at the best of times, and just at that moment he was so filled with a sense of his own dignity and importance that he would scarcely have credited the fact that anyone— even the proud beauty who had all Venice at her feet— would have the hardihood, not only to reject his suit, but to make fun of him as well.

The maiden was coy— so ran his complacent thoughts— well might she be, with the leader of Venetian fashion at her feet! A little fire and ardor, and the battle would be won; the fairest maid, the richest heiress in Venice would melt gracefully into his arms.

Throwing back the fine lace ruffle at his wrist, the better to display the costly jewel which gleamed on his little finger, Martino di Orselo placed his left hand on his brocaded vest on the spot where he imagined his heart to be situated. His right hand was raised dramatically in a gesture that he had seen used by an actor at the San Cristomo playhouse.

"It is your beauty that has lured me to you, Lisalda, your peerless loveliness and my desire to win you for my wife. Body of Venus, but you are indeed the fairest of your sex!’’

"Indeed? Truly I thank you for your good taste, my Lord of Orselo." Her red lips rippled back in a smile which nevertheless showed but little indication of melting tenderness. "Haply your compliment was well meant— though it may be somewhat lacking in originality." She glanced aside at her reflection in one of the mirrors as she carefully rearranged a straying tendril of the Titian hair which crowned her like a veil of fire. "Surely you have not deserted your friends at the revels simply to assure me that I am not withered and ill-favored? Certes, men tell me that by words and looks a hundred times a day!"

"Cospetto, they were blind else!" he burst out, jerking abruptly to his feet. "But a truce to empty compliments, since whatever my poor tongue can utter must sound stale in the ears of one so accustomed to homage as you. So hear a plain truth, unadorned with flowers of speech. I love you, Lisalda, and desire you for my wife. How say you?"

There was a long silence as he stood gazing down at the perfect profile of her averted face. Floating through the casement came the sounds of distant laughter and the passionate throbbing of guitars from one of the gondolas as it stole past through the glimmering dusk. The melody swelled louder, then began to die in the distance, but still Lisalda della Canigiani spoke no word. Not until the last dying throb had mingled with the myriad noises of the care-free night did she raise her eyes of flecked amber, tiger-like yet strangely alluring, so that they gazed straight into his.

"Think me not unmindful of the great honor that you have done me in asking me to be your wife, Signor Martino. But, alas! it is an honor which I must decline to accept."

"Decline!" He echoed the word vacantly, in the tone of one who sees the impossible happening. In that moment of stunned surprise he found it hard to believe his ears. Decline? Refuse him? him— the richest, the noblest, the most eligible young bachelor in Venice? Surely she could not be in earnest! Her refusal must be some freakish jest, tuned to the mad mood of carnival-time!

Desperately the eyes of the curled and scented dandy searched the face of the girl he loved. And as he looked, he tasted the bitterness of defeat. There was no hint of playful coyness in the proud carriage of her head, no sign of secret mirth in the firm line of her scarlet lips to show that they had but jested when they had dashed his hopes to the ground.

He turned on his heel and caught up his mask and velada —the thin black mantle under which everyone from Doge to beggar concealed his identity during the Carnival. Then, with the ceremonious gallantry of the day, he bowed low and raised Lisalda’s hand to his lips.

"Addio, fair charmer, since you have decreed it must be so," he hid the baffled rage in his heart with a smile and an affected drawl. "May I at least have the satisfaction of learning the name of the lucky swain who has supplanted— or perhaps I should say, forestalled— me in your affections?"

The light glinted on her radiant hair as she shook her head.

"Nay, Signor," she smiled, but her eyes were somber and sincere. "If it be any solace to your wounded heart, you may rest assured that no man has yet awakened love in my own."

"No man?" he asked quickly. "Then I live again, for that means I still have hope?"

Again she shook her head.

"Then abandon your hope, that it may die quicker and more mercifully than if it lingered," she answered coldly. "Never will my heart feel the throb of love until I meet the man who fulfills my idea of a fitting mate for me."

"So you await the coming of the ideal lover?" His voice held a sneer which he did not attempt to conceal. "Your fancy soars far above poor imperfect humanity, that you must needs create a paragon of a creature of your own imagining? But what if this perfect suitor does not materialize?"

"He will come— I feel it— I know it!"

"Corpo di Bacco! May I be there to see him when he does! Right gladly would I learn the type of perfection that is conjured up by the fond day-dreams of a love-sick maiden!"

"I will tell you, Signor Martino." Her head was turned away, her eyes looking dreamily out into the starry splendor of the night. "When he comes— as come he must some day— he will be tall yet graceful, strong yet tender, handsome without vanity, wise but not lacking in witty conversation. But above all he will be constant. His heart will turn to mine with the unswerving allegiance of the compass-needle to the pole."

"By the bones of San’ Marco, Illustrissima, you draw the line devilishly high in the matter of this phantom lover of yours!"

She lifted her white shoulders in a tiny shrug.

"I ask for no better epitaph to be graven on my tomb," she returned proudly. "And it were well that you should bear the fact well in mind. Donna Lisalda d’Canigiani draws tire line high— and draws it fast. And it is far above the head of Signor Martino di Orselo!"

"Then may your quest be fortunate, madonna!" He ground the words out savagely as he caught up his three-cornered hat and settled his mask in position. Then with a curt "Addio!" he was gone.

AS THE masked cavalier emerged from the door of the Palazzo half a dozen gondoliers, all eager to serve so lordly a patron, caused their boats to converge toward the landing-stage as though drawn by invisible strings. Martino thrust aside the black velvet folds of the felze which shrouded the windows of the tiny cabin of the nearest gondola and threw himself upon the cushions.

"Whither, Sior Maschera?" the gondolier asked; for the mask was something more than a mere disguise in Venice. It was an incognito, rigidly to be observed by high and low. Even had the man been aware of the identity of his noble passenger he would not have dared to address him otherwise than by the title "Sir Mask." Name, rank, identity itself, were hidden under the scrap of silk that concealed the erstwhile subjects of King Carnival.

Not until the man had repeated his question did Martino rouse himself from the reverie of his enraged and bitter reflections.

"Whither? Oh, anywhere— to the Devil if you like!" he answered impatiently. "This night I have tried to embrace an iceberg, and my bones are still frozen to their marrow!" He tossed a solido into the fellow’s ready cap. "Ply your oar briskly, and carry me where I can thaw myself in the hottest hell you know of!"

The man, a gray-haired ruffian, wise in his generation, grinned as he pocketed the coin.

"What say you to the festa on the Piazetta of San’ Marco?" he asked with a leer. "’There all feet are ready to dance to Cupid’s tune, and never an iceberg will you find—"

"To it then," the signor interrupted, with a harsh laugh. "Let those embrace phantoms who will— I want to jostle elbows with real flesh and blood!"

The gondolier spat on his horny palms and grasped his long oar. Presently the light craft was threading its way beneath the arch of the Rialto Bridge, toward where the two domes of Santa Maria della Salute marked the end of the Grand Canal, The open paved space on the other side of the waterway was their destination.

Alighting from the gondola, Martino di Orselo found himself in a pandemonium of noise and merriment well calculated to make the saddest mortal forget his troubles. Stretching along the arched facade of the Doge’s Palace, past the five great doors of the Cathedral of St. Mark, a mushroom growth of tents, stalls and booths had sprung up in the Square. The din was incessant; trumpets blared, fiddles squeaked, drums beat, every showman strove with the full force of his leather lungs to attract the attention of the passing throng to the pictured marvels which hung before the various booths as an indication of what might be seen within upon payment of the modest entrance fee.

It seemed as if the whole world had been ransacked to bring such an orgy of freaks and wonders together. Cheek by jowl were Indian jugglers, Ethiopian giants, tame lions, bears that drilled like soldiers with pike and musket, Arabian dancing-girls whose slender, dark-skinned bodies, supple as snakes, performed contortions which awakened more than wonder in the breasts of the beholders. A sleek, glib-tongued rascal pretended to draw teeth painlessly— with a lusty drummer stationed beside him on the platform to drown the victim’s cries. A Spanish quack doctor, in threadbare academic robes and a full-bottomed wig very much out of curl, sold phials of the veritable Elixir of Life at what seemed an absurdly low price. A wrinkled hag in Egyptian dress held up a greasy pack of cards as she offered with shrill insistence to tell the fortunes of the bevy of girls who, half fascinated, half fearful, clustered in a semi-circle round the door of her patched and tattered tent.

"Come on, my pretties, don’t be backward in coming forward," she cried coaxingly. "Who wants to know what the future has in store? Ah, even without cutting the cards I can see there’s rich and handsome husbands waiting for some of you at the crossroads! Wouldn’t you like to know which of you are the lucky ones? Then step inside and let old Mother Vengoldisia tell you. I’m here at your service, dearies, for whatever trifle you like to drop in the box as you go out— it’s written in the stars that you’ll never feel the want of what you give to Mother Vengoldisia. She’s the seventh daughter of a seventh son, and nothing’s hid from her. Forewarned is forearmed, they say, so you’d better know what’s coming to you, so’s you can seize your fortune with both hands as it gallops past on the dark horse. So don’t miss your chance through being shy. Step inside, my pretty maids. One at the time, and first come first served."

Martino di Orselo, hovering in idle curiosity on the fringe of the crowd, smiled skeptically beneath his mask as he listened to the harangue. He lived in a superstitious age, it was true, but the spectacle of this unwashed vagrant claiming to be omniscient evoked only amusement in his educated mind. But, whatever her knowledge of the future might amount to, it was at least clear that she possessed a very comprehensive knowledge of human nature. Her speech, short as it was, had cunningly touched the deepest chords of the human heart: hope of gain— fear of losing it— and above all the prospect of satisfying the craving to know the unknowable, which is as abiding in humanity as life itself.

"A smooth-tongued rogue," was his mental comment as, with a shrug of his cloaked shoulders, he made to turn away.

The glance of Vengoldisia’s beady eyes, darting here and there among the crowd in search of a likely customer, came to rest as they fixed on the masked profile of the young cavalier. She darted toward him, the crowd falling back to give her passage with a respect that was not unmixed with dread.

"One moment, noble signor. A word in your ear, with your gracious permission."

Arrested the urgency of the croaking whisper, Martino swung round. A tolerant laugh came from his lips as he looked down at the bent figure of the self-styled sorceress.

"I fear you’ve brought your wares to the wrong market, dame," he said with a shake of his head. "There is no beautiful heiress hastening to greet me at the crossroads!"

A gap-toothed grin deepened the wrinkles of the dusky face.

"Perchance she goes to meet another— one who is more difficult to find!"

The cryptic words fitted in so deftly with his recent interview that Martino found himself regarding the shrunken features with a new and deeper interest. "You speak strangely confident for a wandering woman of Egypt—" He broke off with another laugh, as though at his own credulity. "Pshaw! perhaps ’tis not so strange that one of your random shots should have found the mark."

The gipsy came closer, sinking her voice to a whisper little louder than a breath.

"It were stranger still that one so well-favored and highly born as you should sue in vain—"

He started violently.

"You know me?" he asked in amazement. "Can those bleared old eyes penetrate a silken mask?"

"Not my eyes— my inner understanding— the that is the only heritage of my despised race." The clutch of her claw-like hand tightened on his arm, "You are the Signor Mart—"

"Hush! no names!" He glanced round, acutely conscious of a listening lull among the bystanders. "If you must address me, call me ’Mask’."

"So be it, Sior Maschera," she answered with what sounded like sardonic emphasis. "After all, is it not a fitting title for all men? Are not all faces— aye, and all tongues!— mere masks to hide their owners’ real feelings and desires? You, Signorino, although you affect to deride my powers, are you not burning with impatience to hear more? Are you not wondering how much I really know— and whence comes my knowledge? I can read your desires even before they form themselves in your own mind."

She drew him farther away from the curious crowd and went on rapidly:

"Rest content, Eccellenze, the desired knowledge shall be yours this very night. But this is no place for such confidences. 'The walls of my tent are thin and tattered, and I would speak of matters which, did but the faintest echo of their import reach the Inquisitors of the Holy Office, would bring us both to the faggot-pile and the stake."

"Where then?" The words seemed to come from his lips without conscious effort.

"Meet me at midnight at the Traghetto della Madonetta. A gondola will be waiting there to bear us to a place where I can safely reveal a plan whereby the proud maid who now spurns your suit shall be compelled to keep meekly to your embrace."

"You are indeed a mighty magician if you can accomplish that!" Martino returned gloomily. "I will hear your plan— but I promise nothing—yet. I have tarried here too long already. Till midnight, addio!"

He drew the folds of his cloak closer round him and plunged into the crowd of noisy revelers.

THE DEEP-TONED chimes of the great bell on the clock-tower of the Piazza San Marco were booming forth under the hammer strokes of the mechanical figures which flanked it, as Martino di Orselo turned into the narrow, unlighted street which, running between the towering walls of two ancient palaces, gave access to the Traghetto della Madonetta.

Usually these traghetti, or landing-stages for the gondolas, are situated in the most frequented parts of the city, but the one that bore the name of "The Little Madonna" was but little used even at the busiest time of day. Now it was utterly deserted and, save for the feeble gleam of the taper which some pious hands had placed before the small statue which gave the landing-place its name, shrouded in complete darkness.

Scarcely had Martino set foot on the creaking wooden steps, before a gondola, its sable hull scarcely visible against the surrounding gloom, glided silently inshore until it grazed the weed-coveted piles.

"Enter!" invited a croaking voice from the impenetrable darkness beneath the felze.

Before complying, Martino cast a quick glance at the gondolier who stood at the stem, resting on the long, single oar with which he propelled the boat. By the dim rays of the votive candle at the shrine, Martino caught a glimpse of a face and figure so deformed, gnarled and repulsive that they might have belonged to the dread ferryman, Charon himself.

"Who is this man?" Martino asked suspiciously.

"Fear not. He will not betray you," Vengoldisia laughed back. "He is dumb."

"Where is our destination?" the young man asked, still hesitating.

"Near at hand, yet far enough distant to be safe from prying eyes," was the cryptic reply. "Time presses! Be pleased to enter."

Shrugging his shoulders, and reflecting that his youth and strength would prove a match for his two aged fellow voyagers if it came to a display of physical violence, Martino stepped over the low gunwale and seated himself by the side of the Egyptian woman. He was careful, however, to place the silver hilt of his small sword in such a position as to make it handy for quick drawing should the occasion warrant it. Venice in the year 1704 was by no means a city where anyone could feel entirely at ease when taking a midnight trip in strange company to an unknown destination. It was an age when mysterious, weighted sacks were thrust from unlighted casements, to fall with a sullen splash into the dark waters of the canal; when the bravo’s dagger and the poison cup were recognized resources of statesmanship.

Nor was the course taken by the gondolier calculated to allay the misgivings of a nervous passenger. Avoiding the main canals, he threaded a devious course through a maze of narrow, evil-smelling waterways, away from the stately palaces and open squares, into the very heart of the oldest part of the city, inhabited by the poorest of the poor.

"You have a strange notion of a secluded rendezvous for the discussion of secrets!" He broke the long silence with the sarcastic observation as the boat passed through a perfect rookery of low class houses.

"Patience, Signor," his guide counseled. "The place for which we are bound is lonely enough to satisfy the solitude of a hermit."

As she spoke, the gondola rounded a sharp bend. The next moment it had glided out into the bright moonlight of the open sea, its fretted prow pointing straight toward a solitary tower which seemed to rise sheer from the silvery water.

Martino gave a cry of mingled surprise and recognition as his eyes fell on the grim, ancient pile,

"The Lupa!" he gasped.

The woman nodded. "Is it not a fitting place where perilous words may be spoken— with naught but the rats and sea-gulls to overhear?"

Martino sat silent, musing. The Lupa, the "Tower of the She-wolf", bore a sinister reputation—was, in fact, said to be the abode of evil spirits. It had been built, when the vigor of the war-like republic was at its height, as part of the outlying fortifications of Venice. But that was in the days when the Winged Lion of Saint Mark had been a lion indeed, ready to meet every attack whether from land or sea. Times had changed since then; the sun of Venice was fast setting in the sea from which it first arose. Long years of peaceful prosperity and luxury had sapped the fighting-spirit of the descendants of the rugged mariners who had made their insignificant island state a power to be feared, whose cannon had thundered at the walls of Byzantium and Constantinople.

The Tower of the Lupa had been allowed to fall into ruin. Incredible as it may sound, its guns had been sold by a corrupt general to the very Turks they had formerly defied. And now the ancient fortress stood derelict and forsaken, a fitting monument and symbol of the glory that had passed never to return.

What manner of secret was about to be revealed to him within its sea-girt walls?

The gondolier, in spite of his age, was not lacking in strength and skill. He deftly rounded the shoulder of the great bastion and with a dozen sweeps of his oar brought the light craft neatly alongside a narrow platform of stone, which terminated in a flight of steps leading to a doorway that now gaped wide to every wind of heaven.

VENGOLDISIA sprang lightly ashore with the assured step of one who treads familiar ground. Martino, all eagerness now that he was fairly entered on his adventure, followed hard at her heels. They passed beneath a crumbling arch, along a short vaulted passage, down a flight of stairs which seemed to delve deep into the living heart of the rock on which the Tower was built.

Martino felt the swirl of air as another door, unseen in the inky darkness, swung open at the woman's touch; he heard the rasp of rings on a metal rod as a heavy curtain was drawn aside.

The sudden blaze of brilliant light within almost blinded him for a moment. He blinked, rubbed his eyes and stared, and as the scene before him grew clear in every ghastly detail, a great wave of superstitious dread fastened like an icy hand upon him.

The hall— for its huge proportions made it worthy of that name— was considerably larger than the tower which stood above. Indeed, its loftiness and spacious width, together with the number of steps which he had descended to reach it, made Martino suspect that it must lie well below the bed of the shallow sea which surrounded the lonely rock. His suspicion was fully confirmed when, even as he stood transfixed in that moment of surprise, he heard, muffled and dulled like a far-away drum, the slow beating of the waves on the shore overhead.

The huge room was, naturally, absolutely windowless; but it was plain that some cunning system of ventilation amply made up for the deficiency. The numerous lamps burnt with undimmed flames; the air, though heavy with some subtle perfume, was fresh and cool.

The furnishings were rich, but fantastic to a degree that, in that credulous age, was positively terrifying. The thick-pile carpet was blood-red in color. Crimson tapestries of grotesque design covered the rocky walls; the table and the heavy, throne-like chairs were of red lacquer, their intricate workmanship proclaiming their Chinese origin; even the ceiling had been painted the same ominous hue.

Yet there was one object in that room which did not partake of the vivid and predominating crimson. Stretched upon the table was something white as the driven snow. Its striking contrast drew the young cavalier’s eyes to it before he had time to take another step forward. A thrill of cold fear passed through him as he realized that he was gazing at the figure of a man, rigid, stark and motionless.

He started violently backward, a hoarse cry bursting from his lips.

"A corpse!"

A slow, satirical smile passed over the

Egyptian’s dusky countenance as she watched in evident enjoyment the consternation of her visitor.

"Fear nothing. That form has never drawn the breath of life. Look closer, and you will smile at yourself for thinking it had ever lived."

In spite of the undisguised mockery of the old woman’s assurance, Martino felt his confidence creeping back again. He approached the table, and the next moment he had difficulty in repressing the burst of laughter which rose to his lips in the sudden revulsion of feeling caused by the sight that greeted his eyes.

The thing before him was a mere grotesque travesty of the human form. Composed of some wax-like substance, it had been rudely and unskilfully fashioned without the slightest attempt at anatomical accuracy or artistic beauty. Four elongated rolls of wax represented the limbs, their respective positions alone denoting which were the arms and which the legs. The head was a mere ill-shaped ball, into which two pebbles had been stuck for eyes. Beneath was a blob of wax which was evidently intended for the nose; a wisp of tow did duty for the hair; while a fish-bone, placed across the lower part of the sphere, gave the impression of a grinning mouth to the otherwise vacant countenance.

Martino’s brows contracted in an angry frown as he stood looking down on the grotesque effigy.

"Have you brought me here to amuse yourself with an ill-timed jest?" he demanded. "What is the meaning of this absurd figure?"

The sorceress did not quail before his lowering glance.

"It represents the lover of Lisalda d’Canigiani’s dreams," she returned steadily.

"Diavolo!" he burst out furiously.

"You dare to make a mock of me—"

"Hear me out, and you will see that I am in deadly earnest." There was a dignified, almost arrogant note in the cracked voice. Gone was her former tone of cringing servility; she spoke as to an equal. "This wax figure is a golem. Do you understand what that means?"

He shook a puzzled head, and she went on impressively.

"It is a name well known to those who practise the magic arts. By means of certain rites and incantations, this inert wax can be changed into a living being. Even as Adam, the first man, received the breath of life into his body of clay, so will the rude image that I myself have shaped be endowed with vitality—but not from the same Divine Power! Another, less hallowed, name must be invoked. But, as the first man rose from the dust of the earth, so shall this image rise from that table— not, mark you, ill-shaped and ugly as you see it now, but strong, handsome, flushed with the vigor and desires of hot-blooded youth—the very incarnation of one of the splendid gods of ancient Greece— an Adonis— an Apollo! He will breathe, think, walk and talk like the men that are born of women— nay, say rather like a very god among men! And like a very god he will woo the proud Lisalda as she desires to be wooed!"

"A fair prospect for me, truly!" Martino answered with a bitter laugh. "Even if you can accomplish this amazing thing, how can it profit my suit to the lady? I stand poor enough chance as it is, without the added disadvantage of the rivalry of a demon lover endowed with all the graces of his infernal procreator!"

"Patience, young Signor, and do not rashly condemn a scheme of which you have as yet heard but half." Vengoldisia’s voice was like the purring of a cat that anticipates a tasty feast. "If by my spells I can induce the dread Power whom I serve to endow this figure with life, I can also revoke that gift at any moment that you choose. Picture what will happen if you agree to my plan. This misshapen mass of wax becomes the living ideal on which Lisalda has set her wayward heart. You will take him to your house as an honored guest; provide him with money and rich clothes; introduce him to your friends as a distinguished foreign nobleman, traveling for pleasure. As soon as convenient, present your mysterious protégé to the Contessa. He will be the living counterpart of the mental images he has so fondly treasured. She cannot fail to be enamored— enthralled! For, young as the handsome stranger may appear, he will possess all the experience of the human heart, its passion and its weakness, that his dread Master has accumulated since Eve renounced Paradise by the first sin of all. In a few hours all Venice will know that the fastidious Lisalda has at last met her heart’s desire."

"A pretty picture!" The young man frowned at the vision that the witch’s words conjured up. "And then?"

"Then will be the time to strike!" was the glib response. "In the first flush of her new-found happiness, before her mad passion has had time to feel the first cooling breath of satisfied desire, I break the spell which gives her lover life. In an instant, before her startled eyes, maybe even as he is clasping her unresisting body to his heart, the end of her romance will come. Her god-like lover will crumple, shrink, wither— until she finds that she is embracing a hideous waxen doll!"

Martino di Orselo stroked his chin thoughtfully.

" ’Tis a revenge that might satisfy the hate of the Archfiend himself," he mused slowly. "But I desire more than vengeance— I want the lady herself."

"She will be yours!" was the confident answer. "Make it your business to be near at hand when the golem returns to his native wax. Then will be the time to press your suit and catch her heart on the rebound. Wounded pride, superstitious terror, dread of being denounced to the Holy Office as one tainted with the kisses of lips red-hot from Hell— everything will lure her to your arms at such a soul-shaking moment of revelation. I trow she will have had enough and to spare of ideal lovers! She will be well content to bestow her hand— and fortune— on a husband of honest flesh and blood. A little courage, a little patience, a little tact— and she is yours!"

Martino said nothing; his eyes were veiled in thought. The cold-blooded villainy of the proposal did not repel him. There was nothing heroic or self-sacrificing in his love for the beautiful heiress. The loss of her fortune had balked his greed quite as much as the loss of herself had galled his pride. Though the plan had at first sounded utterly fantastic, it now seemed to offer at least a chance of success. But there was one important item that Vengoldisia had so far omitted to mention.

"I suppose you are not purposing to do all this for me for the sheer fun of the thing," he commented shrewdly. "What reward do you ask?"

"Nothing!"

"Nothing?" he echoed in amazement.

"Surely that is passing strange—" He broke off at a sudden thought. "But perhaps your august Master intends to claim his own fee— later on?"

The sorceress shrugged her shoulders.

"That is as may be," she returned sullenly. "But you may rest assured that he can demand nothing but what is offered to him of your own free will. I do this thing simply because I am constrained to do it by a Power I cannot disobey. You, Signor, are under no such compulsion, and it is for you to decide whether I shall perform the rites or not. Answer quickly. Signor, for the dawn is near at hand and my arts avail not after the sun has risen. Shall I do this thing or not?"

He made a careless gesture, like a gambler staking a trivial coin.

"Then do it— if you can!"

Her answering smile showed that she at least had confidence in her unsanctified art.

"First it is necessary to inscribe the name of the person whom the golem shall represent when it awakes to life," she said, and with the point of a needle she wrote "Adonis" on the breast of the figure.

"That name is one of the designations by which the Archfiend was known in ancient times!" exclaimed Martino.

Vengoldisia’s black brows twitched slightly upward at his words.

"So you are not entirely unversed in the rudiments of thaumaturgy? You are quite right. Adonis is the name by which the Prince of Hell is invoked when he is desired to appear in the guise of a comely youth. Small indeed would be his chance of winning Lisalda’s love were he to woo her under some of the dreadful shapes which he assumes! But be silent, else my spell is of no avail."

She flitted quickly round the room, her loose cloak fluttering behind her like the ragged plumage of some obscene bird, and as she passed each lamp she extinguished the flame with a quick puff of breath which sounded like the hiss of an angry serpent. Presently the great room was in darkness save for the single dim light which she allowed to remain burning immediately above the waxen figure. Placing a tripod brazier within arm’s reach of the white, shapeless head, she fanned the smoldering charcoal until it had assumed a bright red glow.

This accomplished to her satisfaction, she disappeared into the deep shadows which draped the farther end of the apartment. There was the sound of a door being unlocked, and presently she reappeared bearing a small ivory casket, curiously carved, and a crystal phial containing a dark purple liquid.

Repeating her warning that Martino was not to utter a sound, as he valued his life, she took a piece of white chalk and drew a circle completely round the golem and brazier, muttering the while in an unknown but strangely sonorous tongue. Martino noticed that she was careful to make a low obeisance, after the manner of the slaves of the East, before entering the mystic circle, and another, even deeper, the moment she stepped within.

With a shrinking of horror the solitary onlooker realized that the sorceress was paying homage to her dread lord and master!

The rush of fearful thoughts bewildered him. Like a man in the grip of a fantastic dream he watched her take a pinch of powder from the ivory box and cast it into the brazier. A faint spiral of bluish smoke coiled upward from the glowing embers and the air became permeated with the cloying fumes of some drowsy incense. Although he remained perfectly conscious during the scene which followed, Martino had a sense of tenuous veils being drawn across his eyes. His sight became blurred and indistinct; the muttered incantations mingled with the muffled thunder of the waves against the shore overhead, like the sad rise and fall of some unhallowed dirge.

He sensed rather than actually saw the hag moisten a sponge with the contents of the crystal phial and squeeze it, so that the potion fell in great purple drops on the golem's grinning lips.

He stared with all his might; blinked his eyes, rubbed them and stared again. For into the dead whiteness of the wax a faint, flesh-like tinge was beginning to creep. The limbs were altering their shape, growing rounder, smoother, with swelling muscles and articulated joints. The crude stumps became endowed with hands and feet; the misproportioned trunk took upon itself a recognizable semblance to a human torso; the grotesque countenance merged into the lineaments of a youth, perfect in its strength and dear-cut beauty.

"Arise, Adonis!" the woman’s measured voice was now speaking in words that could be understood. "Thou who art not of the dust of the earth nor of the spirit of heaven— Arise! Thou who art not born of woman, but conceived in the womb of Hell— Arise! Let thy nostrils receive the breath of life which is not as the life of mortal men. Let thy heart beat, thy blood course through its channels, thy whole being become an entity complete in itself. Arise, beautiful as the dawn, radiant as the evening star! Arise, Adonis, I beseech thee. Arise and live!— Live!— Live!" Her voice rose to a frenzied shriek at the final word.

A feeling of intense terror came over Martino di Orselo. With wild, distended eyes he saw the shapely limbs twitch and quiver with awakening life. Then, with the casual movements of any sleeper who rises from his couch refreshed, the Thing swung its legs over the edge of the table and stood upright, its face and naked form peerless and splendid as a sculptor’s dream.

The witch’s cackling laugh broke the death-like silence that followed.

"Allow me to present to you Signor Adonis di Luchio," she said with what sounded like a note of triumph, as she bowed to Martino. "Your friend and companion henceforth!"

IT WAS the night of Shrove Tuesday, and the time of carnival was drawing to its close. In a few hours midnight would proclaim the coming of Lent, the season of fasting and prayer, and the mortification of the desires of the flesh. Then all merry-making would cease; the mask would be cast aside for the mass-book, the tuneful lute for the penitent’s scourge.

But a few precious hours of love and laughter yet remained, and Venice was making the most of them. Like mariners on the eve of submitting to the stem discipline and privations of a long voyage, or soldiers trying to cram all the roistering joy into a last debauch before facing a desperate encounter, all Venice was draining the cup of pleasure to the very dregs. Sackcloth and ashes tomorrow— but tonight let Saturnalia reign!

The Palazzo Canigiani was crowded to the doors. A flotilla of gondolas lay before its wide flight of steps, a dozen or more to each gaily-painted mooring-pot. From roof to water’s edge, every window was a blaze of light. For that day the Contessa Lisalda had been formally betrothed to the handsome stranger from across the sea, and a magnificent fete was in progress to mark the event.

At the head of die great banqueting-table, on chairs slightly raised above their guests, the happy pair sat side by side. Lisalda’s face was flushed, her lips smiling, and ever and again her laugh rang out with the joyous abandon of one who sees the apex of her desires within easy reach.

Strangely cold and impassive by contrast was the countenance of Signor Luchio. His half-veiled eyes roamed over the assembled company with an expression of indifferent contempt. He listened to the jests, the toasts, the showered congratulations and neatly turned speeches with an air of bored condescension. It almost seemed that, having accomplished his object in winning Lisalda’s affection, he had no intention of making even the slightest endeavor to gain the good-will of her friends and relations.

Once or twice his insolent gaze rested for a moment on the face of Martino di Orselo, who occupied the place of honor immediately below the chair of the mistress of the house. Wine had flowed freely throughout the feast, and the young cavalier had seldom refused the replenished cup. He had drunk deeply to drown the jealous anger which consumed him at the sight of the girl’s infatuation for the golem lover which he himself had thrust into her eager arms. But the treacherous juice of the grape, far from soothing him, had but added fuel to his smoldering rage. Bitterly he cursed the hour in which he had been induced to become a party to the diabolical plot.

The behavior of his sinister fellow-conspirator gave him cause for uneasiness. Luchio had, it was true, played his part with all the skill and cunning that might be expected of a creature with such infernal tutelage. But, instead of being a mere puppet in Martino’s hands, the golem had shown a disturbing tendency, not only to resent all interference, but actually to impose his will on his human ally. There had been no open rupture between them, but by insensible degrees Luchio had assumed control of the undertaking, until Martino had found himself a mere cipher, a passive onlooker who witnesses a stage play without quite knowing whether it is to end in comedy or tragedy. Like many another rash meddler with unknown powers, Martino had discovered that the Devil was easier to raise than to lay.

His position grew more false every hour. Most of the guests present seemed to be perfectly well aware that he occupied the invidious role of the rejected suitor at the betrothal feast of the woman who had chosen another. He had been conscious of their covert whispers and pitying glances since the moment when the lackey had announced his name at the door. He smiled grimly under cover of his wine-cup as he thought how easily he could turn the tables on his rival. Little did the dignified prelates and portly senators around him dream of the real nature of the handsome cavalier whose health they were drinking. It was a pity that he had not thought of ordering Vengoldisia to revoke her spell at that very moment. What a climax to that merry feast! He could picture the horrified consternation that would take the place of the smiles which now beamed on every face, when they realized they had been clinking glasses with the spawn of the foul fiend himself.

So engrossed was he in these pleasant anticipations of revenge that he failed to notice that the other guests had risen from the table. It was not until one of the servants touched him on the shoulder that he looked up with a start and rose unsteadily to his feet.

"Will you be pleased, Eccellenze, to join the others in the dancing-salon?"

"A murrain on their dancing!" Martino growled thickly. "If one of them had his deserts he’d be dancing at the end of a rope! Hands off, fellow!" he cried, as the servant put out his arm to steady the swaying figure. "I am not drunk!"

This was in a sense true. Martino had taken just enough wine to make him ready for a brisk quarrel. And in those days, when every gentleman wore a sword as an everyday article of attire, a quarrel and a duel meant practically the same thing.

"HEART of my heart, donna mia, how can I endure the time which separates me from the Joy of claiming you as my own? I must perforce count the laggard hours, slowly as a miser counts his gold; yet how gladly would I fling them like a spendthrift into the lap of Time, that my happiness might be crowned this very moment— with thy dear self!"

Sweet as distant music on a summer’s breeze, seductive as the siren’s song, cunningly tuned as the serpent tongue that beguiled the first sin, the creature known as Adonis di Luchio breathed the words into Lisalda’s willing ear as they sat together in the loggetta overlooking the Grand Canal. From the adjacent ballroom came the sound of harps and viols playing a stately minuet They had slipped away almost unnoticed after they had led off the first dance, the handsomest couple that trod the polished floor.

She lifted her shining eyes to his. Her lissome body swayed toward him like some glorious flower seeking the life-giving rays of the sun.

"Soon, my prince," she whispered. "It will be very soon."

He shook his head, frowning as he looked down on the gay panorama of pleasure that passed along the canal.

"Forty days!" he muttered moodily. "You know that no priest will celebrate a marriage during Lent? That condemns me to forty days in the barren wilderness of my thwarted passion. Forty days! How can I endure it? Every minute which keeps me from you will seem a century, every leaden hour an intolerable weight to drag me to despair!" He caught both her hands in his and drew her closer, so that she could feel the fierce throbbing of his heart. "But why should we endure the agony of waiting? Time was made for slaves; let us bid defiance to the hoary tyrant! Is not our love great enough to be a law unto itself? Are we to be harnessed to the narrow circle of convention, like worn-out mules that plod their dull, everlasting round as they work a mill? No, by my father’s kingdom!— a thousand times no!"

She drew back slightly.

"You swear by your father’s kingdom," she said wonderingly. "Are you then a prince in very truth?"

"Aye, and of no mean domain!" he answered, a slight smile playing about his lips. "I have more subjects than any ruler on Earth, and every day adds to their number! But few men deny me their allegiance to my great army— the service is so pleasant, the promises so alluring. Tell me, Lisalda, are you not all eager to behold my dazzling court?"

"I am, dear Luchio," she breathed between her slightly parted lips.

He sprang to his feet and caught her to his breast.

"Then come, my love!" he cried. "Enter with me into my kingdom this very night!"

"This very night!" she echoed in joyous amazement. "Is your kingdom so near at hand?"

He nodded, keeping his burning eyes fixed on hers.

"We will travel fast— on the wings of love," he assured her smoothly, "Say that you will come— now, this very minute! I have a gondola moored at the steps below. With my own hands I will row you beyond the outlying islands of the Lagoon, where my Barge of State, manned by a thousand lusty slaves, will meet us and bear you like an Empress to my domain. But you must come of your own free will, otherwise the pact is of no avail. Do you consent?"

For a moment she hesitated. Perhaps a warning instinct was stirred into life within her foolish heart by the passing breath from the wings of some merciful angel.

"If I come, will you promise never to forsake me?" she asked.

"I swear it!" he cried, turning his face away to hide the dreadful smile which accompanied his seemingly passionate avowal. "Never will I give you up— never, never! You will be mine— body and soul— mine for all eternity!"

He caught her up unresisting in his arms and turned toward the flight of marble steps which led down to the water’s edge. But before he could gain them:

"Halt!" cried a hoarse, menacing voice, and Martino emerged from the shadow of one of the great pillars, his drawn sword held ready in his hand.

"So this is the faith that fiends keep with their dupes?" the young cavalier exclaimed bitterly. "I have heard your specious wooing. I have heard her fascinated consent. Little does she know the nature of the kingdom over which she is to rule! Little does she dream to what hideous, unbaptized image she has given her love!"

"Heed not this drunkard’s mouthing," Luchio whispered to the girl. Aloud he said haughtily: "Stand aside. Signor!"

With a swift movement Martino raised the point of his weapon until it pointed directly at the other’s throat.

"Release that lady, and I will spare the life you have usurped."

A loud, derisive laugh was Luchio’s only answer.

"Be warned— I have you at my mercy," the cavalier went on. "But I am no hired bravo, that I must strike unawares. You wear a sword. Draw, and defend yourself!"

The golem laughed again.

"Then strike. Signor Martino, strike home well and true! You will find that I am well defended already!"

He made a step forward as he spoke and Martino lunged with all his strength at the unprotected throat.

But it was the attacker, not the attacked, who staggered back and fell groaning to the floor. A sensation like the pain of a numbing blow had shot up his right arm, paralyzing it from wrist to shoulder. The finely tempered blade had been shattered into fragments, as though struck by invisible lightning, the instant it had come into contact with the flesh of the demoniacal lover.

The next instant, unheeding the screams of the terrified girl, Luchio ran lightly down the steps to the waiting gondola, leapt aboard with his lovely burden, and launched forth into the stream.

Dazed, and still trembling from the shock of that awful contact, Martino managed to draw himself to his feet and descend to the landing-stage. Luchio’s gondola, easily distinguished by the fact that it was the only boat not decked with gaudy lanterns, had already dwindled to a mere speck far down the vista of the Grand Canal.

Martino beckoned to the group of gondoliers who lounged on the steps.

"Which man of you has the swiftest boat?" he asked breathlessly. "Answer quickly—it is a matter of life and death— and more!"

Two brawny men stepped forward. Martino recognized them as the light fell on their weather-beaten faces, and his heart gave a throb of relief. They were the redoubtable brothers who, piloting their double-oared boat, had carried off the prize three times in succession at the annual regatta.

"A hundred ducats for each of you if you overtake that dark gondola before it reaches the open sea," he promised as he flung himself on board.

The effect of his words was instantaneous, for the sum represented a veritable fortune to the frugal-living gondoliers. The men leapt to their posts, one forward and the other aft of the curtained cabin in which Martino sat. The light craft gathered speed under their powerful, practised strokes. Like an arrow it shot beneath the center arch of the Ponte Accademia, its expert pilots—to whom every current of the canals was as familiar as the lines of their own horny palms— hugging the north shore of the bend in order to get every advantage of the slack water.

"Viva, we gain on them!" shouted

Jacopo, the elder brother, as the boat entered the last straight reach of the Grand Canal where it merges into the broader Canale di San Marco.

From here it was possible to see right down the waterway, past the swelling dome of La Salute, to where the arched facade of the Doge’s palace fronted the lofty campanile on the Isola di San Giorgio Maggiore, about a quarter of a mile distant.

From this spot it is possible to reach the open sea by three routes; by bearing southeast along the Canale di San Marco, by following the Canale della Giudecca in the opposite direction, or by passing through a narrow canal to the south, the Canale della Grazia, which runs between the island of San Giorgio and the larger island of La Giudecca.

A breathless cheer came from Jacopo as the pursued gondola was seen to swerve suddenly and make direct for the entrance of the last-named canal.

"We cannot fail to overtake him now, Signor," he called out in high delight. "The Grazia is shaped like a funnel with its broad end to the sea. At the narrow end he will find the tide running like a mill-race— against him! With our two oars to his one—our knowledge of the stream to his guesswork— only the Devil himself could help him to escape us now!"

Clutching the gunwale to steady himself— for they were cutting diagonally across the current now, and the water is not always placid in Venice— Martino stared ahead at the tiny, swift-moving bark which contained the girl whom he had leagued himself with the powers of darkness to possess.

Yes, they were gaining! The black hull loomed clearer, nearer! The thews and sinews of honest Jacopo and his brother were proving a match for the cunning of the fiend. When Luchio steered under the lee of the island and disappeared from sight into the narrow mouth of the little canal, the pursuing gondola was barely twenty yards in his wake.

"Now ply your best, brothers!" Martino cried as their boat in its turn began to breast the confined, swift-running flood. "Make every ounce of weight tell. Row as you have never rowed before; for this night you are striving for a prize far greater than you have ever won!"

The men needed no urging. Their long oars quivered like reeds under their mighty strokes. The water rose in a high wave on either side, and fell into curling foam as the sharp prow clove through it. Yet, in spite of their efforts, by the time they had urged the boat halfway down the canal, Luchio and his fair prize had already arrived at the farther end.

"Faster!" cried Martino, white to the lips and trembling with impotent rage. "Faster— or he will gain the open sea!"

"Per Bacco!" growled the old gondolier. "I thought we had him safe, but that young spark rows like the very Devil!"

But even as he cried the words the flying craft ahead lurched and staggered, and, as though by a miracle, lay motionless with its prow lifted clear of the water.

"He’s struck a submerged sand-bank!" The oarsmen redoubled their flagging efforts as the elder uttered the glad cry.

"He’s fast aground. He can’t escape us now, even if he were the foul fiend himself!"

Suddenly, as they neared their motionless and apparently helpless quarry, an appalling vision burst upon their sight. Out of the blackness that veiled the Adriatic, they saw a nebulous blur of blood-red haze, rising, taking visible form before their startled eyes.

And what a form! It was a great barge outlined in living fire, driven toward them by hundreds of groaning slaves, who labored at the red-hot oars, under the torturing lash of demons armed with whips of scorpions and hissing serpents. An intense heat radiated from that floating hell of horror, but it was the heat which torments rather than consumes. The waves that dashed against its glowing sides, though they seethed and bubbled, did not burst into steam and hide the apparition in a merciful mantle of vapor. It was the ship of Satan, lit by the infernal fire that is never quenched.

Martino’s boatmen ceased rowing and shrank back in dismay.

"Mother of God defend us!" cried one. "Back!—turn back as you value your immortal soul!"

"Take courage, comrades. I carry an amulet that will protect us from all harm." Martino held out his left hand and pointed to the ring he wore. "This silver ring contains a holy relic— brought by a Crusader from the Holy Land. Take hold of your oars again, if you call yourselves Christian men, and help me save that poor soul yonder. See, the Demon Ship is bearing down on them! Once she is borne aboard, Lisalda will be lost for ever!"

Then ensued a race like some contest of a frenzied nightmare. The dark waters of the Adriatic were churned into eddying foam under the hundred oars of the ghostly galley. Nearer and nearer it swept, swift as a questing albatross.

Three men against the legions of Hell— it seemed that such a hopeless contest could have but one ending.

"My strength is spent!" gasped Jacopo.

The old man staggered, and the oar slipped from his failing grasp. But, stooping quickly, he drew a huge flint-lock pistol from his long sea-boot and leveled it at Luchio as he stood, a derisive smile of triumph on his handsome face, drawn up to his full height on the stern of the stranded gondola.

"If mortal bullet can reach your heart—"he muttered, and his finger tightened on the trigger.

" ’Tis useless!" Martino snatched the weapon. "His hell-given life is proof against fire and steel alike. But this— this holy relic—"

He slipped the silver ring containing the precious fragment into the wide barrel of the pistol, rammed it firmly home against the powder and shot with which it was already loaded, and looked carefully to the priming in the pan.

Cocking the trigger, he raised the strangely charged weapon and took steady aim at the broad chest of the defiant Luchio.

"Merciful Heaven!" he breathed the prayer with trembling lips. "Lend thine aid that I may send this monster back to his native Hell!"

Low as the words were uttered, they reached the ears of the golem across the narrow space of sea which intervened. They caused the smile to vanish from his face as though it had been erased by an invisible hand. Did his devilish instinct tell him what was about to happen. Did the holy talisman within the pistol make its potency felt even before it had been driven into contact with his unhallowed flesh?

The thoughts flashed through Martino’s mind even as he drew the sights into line with his target. He pressed the trigger; then every conscious thought was swamped in the wave of wonder that surged through his bewildered brain at the miracle which followed.

For, hard upon the crash of the explosion, Adonis di Luchio had given voice to a piercing shriek. He reeled blindly and lurched forward as he fell. But before his body touched the gondola’s deck, a silent puff of blood-red flame enveloped it for an instant, causing it to crumple, shrink and dwindle. And when the flames dispersed there sprawled on the deck, in place of the comely youth, a hideous and grotesque figure of roughly molded wax.

At the same moment the demon galley sank hissing beneath the sea, and with the extinction of its spectral fires a great darkness descended on the surface of the waters.

But Martino could see the beautiful pale face looking up into his own as he snatched up the slender form and lifted it on board his own boat. He could hear his name uttered softly in a voice of nervous trembling, yet unmistakably Lisalda’s. He could feel the warm, grateful kisses of the girl whom, at the eleventh hour, he had snatched from the unhallowed embraces of the Son of Satan.

__________________

12: The Siren of the Snakes

Arlton Eadie

Hutchinson’s Mystery Story Magazine Jan 1927

Weird Tales June 1932

"LIVE for ever, O protector of the poor! Salaam, O favored of Allah! Art thou not my father and my mother?"

One does not need to be long in command of a Gurkha battalion, occupying a frontier fort, before discovering that, when a Himalayan hill-man starts addressing you in this strain, he intends to ask you to do him a favor. Knowing that in the absence of the assistant commissioner I was expected by the powers that be to act as judge, law-giver, policeman and general adviser to all and sundry, I resigned myself to the inevitable and summoned the Gurkha havildar to act as interpreter. This man, Ramzan Mar by name, possessed the gift of tongues in no small degree; there was not a hill-dialect throughout the whole of Hindu-Koh of which he did not have at least a working knowledge. He possessed another gift which, in a native, is even more rare and precious—that of brevity. He ruthlessly divested the narrative of all those endless repetitions and flowers of speech so dear to the native heart, and presented me with the gist as follows:

The man was a messenger from a tiny village situated among the foot-hills about six miles to the east, and had "come before the sahib’s face" to solicit aid in putting a stop to the depredations of some denizen of the surrounding jungles.

I can assure you that I grew interested when Ramzan’s translation reached this point. One of the compensations of being quartered amid the somewhat desolate mountains which form the northern bulwarks of Hindustan is that they contain hunting-grounds which may be classed among the finest in the world. Ibex, burrel, gazelles, chamois, and antelopes abound. Nor are the more formidable ferae naturae lacking; with patience —and luck—one might get a shot at a leopard or prowling tiger, and I at once surmised that it was some such animal that was causing the trouble. But it turned out I was wrong.

"It is not a tiger, sahib," Ramzan translated, after the man had replied to my question. "He says it is a gigantic python."

"A python?—a man-eating python?"

I cried in amazement, my interest now at fever-heat. Many were the stories I had heard of the terrible power possessed by these huge reptiles, which, although lacking the poison-fangs common to tire majority of Indian snakes, are nevertheless as much dreaded as any viper or cobra. They rely upon their immense power of muscular contraction to overcome their prey, encircling the victim in their deadly folds and crushing it to a pulp before swallowing it whole. But I had certainly never heard of an instance where one had deliberately attacked a village, and I made no secret of the fact that I was somewhat skeptical.

When Ramzan translated my doubts to the man they evoked a perfect torrent of protestations, accompanied by abundant excited gestures.

"What’s he getting annoyed about?" I inquired.

"He says it is no ordinary snake, Sahib," the Gurkha answered. "It is a fiend—a devil—a beast of Satan—into which the spirit of some long-dead witch has entered. Nobody in the village is safe from it. At first it attacked only the goats and sheep; but now it lies in wait among the terraced rice-fields and springs upon the women as they work. It enters the very huts. It—"

"That will do," I interrupted, as I rose to my feet and made my way toward the quarters occupied by my second in command.

Gordon Meldreuth was in years but little more than a boy, having been drafted to the regiment when he passed out of Sandhurst a couple of years previously. He was a handsome, likable young fellow and, having many tastes in common, we had got on remarkably well together. He was as keen on big-game hunting as I was myself, and his face lit up with pleasure when I explained the situation to him.

"Of course I shall be only too pleased to come with you, sir," he cried, his eyes roaming round the trophies of the chase with which his room was decorated; from the leopard-skin beneath his feet to the magnificent markhor horns above the mantelpiece. "I should like to add a sizable python to the list of my conquests!"

Returning to the orderly-room, I was able to send the messenger away happy with the assurance that on the morrow the two English sahibs would, Allah willing, effectually rid his village of the terror which beset it.

Ramzan Mar accompanied us when we rode down the winding road from the fort at daybreak the following morning, starting thus early in order to get the business over before the heat of the day began.

The Nepalese mountaineers, from whom the Gurkha regiments are recruited, bear the well-deserved reputation of being as good shikarees as they are soldiers— which is saying a good deal for their abilities in the hunting line— and

Ramzan was no exception to the rule. He was a grave, taciturn man, short in stature as are all his race, and his squat brown features would have undoubtedly failed to win any but a consolation prize at a beauty show. But he was a perfect cragsman, an excellent stalker and an adept in woodcraft generally, being as active and wary as a wildcat. On our arrival at the village he at once set about commandeering the services of all the able-bodied inhabitants to assist as beaters in the chase.

One of the villagers, who had been out early gathering wild honey, had seen the python lying in a deep nullah, or gorge, with high, precipitous banks partly clothed in long nurkal-grass. So our forces were at once marshaled for the drive in the manner which Ramzan thought best. While the small army of beaters was proceeding to the head of the nullah, Meldreuth and I set off on foot to take up a position on a rocky promontory at the farther end, overlooking a spot where the python would have to pass. Scarcely had we arrived there, when there broke out a hideous chorus of whoops, yells and whistles as the beaters dashed into the other end of the gorge like a pack of fox-hounds. I well knew, however, that this ostentatious display of zeal resulted more from the prevailing idea that the greater row each man made the less chance there would be of the python coming near him, than from any eagerness in the pursuit.

Nearer and nearer came the din, until it sounded but a hundred yards or so from where we crouched with ready rifles. Then it became apparent that Ramzan’s woodcraft was not at fault. The reed-like nurkal-grass round the edge of the little rocky clearing below was gently parted and through it emerged the flat, wicked-looking head of the python.

"Hold thy fire, sahib," whispered Ramzan, who had appeared as silently as a ghost behind us. "Wait till he is well out in the open."

I nodded my head to show that I heard his advice, and my finger took the "first pressure" on the trigger as the reptile began to emerge. It was in no hurry, however, in spite of the uproar behind it. An age seemed to pass before the entire length of its body became visible; but when it was fully revealed I could not help a slight gasp of astonishment escaping me.

Never in the whole course of my Indian experience had I even so much as heard tell of such a gigantic creature. The girth of the largest part of its body must have been at least three feet and its length at least thirty. By those who have only seen a python in a cage at the Zoological Society’s Gardens, or a stuffed specimen in a museum, it may perhaps be thought that the mosaic-like markings of brilliant orange, brown and blade would render it a conspicuous enough object; but, actually, the very reverse is the case. As the creature wound its sinuous .way among the small boulders and dumps of sun-dried grass, it harmonized admirably with the color of its surroundings. Those seemingly conspicuous black stripes so pearly resembled the shadows cast by the stones and grass-stems that, had the python remained motionless, it would have been extremely difficult to detect its presence.

But I had little time in which to admire this example of nature’s protective coloring. The python was now in the center of the little clearing—it seemed almost impossible to miss. I took careful aim along the sights and gently squeezed the final pressure on my trigger. At the same moment Gordon Meldreuth fired.

That python seemed to bear a charmed life! I saw the flash of my explosive bullet as it impinged on the rocks a few inches from the creature’s head. Meldreuth was using solid, but the sharp thud of his bullet on the stones, instead of the unmistakable dull plop which it makes on striking flesh, told the same tale of an inglorious miss.

"Ne luggai [missed him]," whispered Ramzan in a tone of bitter disappointment; then—"Quick, sahib! Shoot again before he is out of sight."

Once more our rifles spoke. But by this time the now thoroughly alarmed reptile had so changed its position that the sun was shining directly into our eyes, making accurate sighting difficult. Whether it was due to this fact, or to the feedings of exasperation at our first bungling, I know not. The only thing I am certain of is that, so far as injuring the python was concerned, we might have been merely pelting him with pebbles. Fortunately for the chase, however, his progress was now over fairly open ground, so that we could catch an occasional glimpse of his body as it wound in and out amid the boulders. He seemed to be making directly toward a spot on the left bank of the nullah where the sheer limestone cliff rose in a kind of natural dome, at the base of which— in spite of our efforts to head him off— he at length disappeared.

"Shabash! [bravo]," cried Ramzan, pointing to the numerous well-defined tracks among the beaten, grass, showing the trails were frequently used. "We have him now, sahib. This is his lair."

As usual, the shikaree wasted but little time in words. Drawing his kookerie— that heavy curved knife which is a characteristic part of the Gurkhas’ equipment, and which they are in the habit of using as much for domestic as for fighting purposes— he at once set to work hacking away the undergrowth around the place where the python had gone to earth. Presently he paused in his task and beckoned me to approach.

One glance was sufficient to show me that the place where the python had taken refuge was no natural fissure in the rode. The entrance was an arched doorway, richly decorated with native sculptures, the weather-worn appearance of which seemed to indicate an extreme antiquity. Immediately above the lintel was a large statue, which at first glance I thought was supposed to represent a mermaid. Closer inspection, however, convinced me that I was looking upon an idol of a Hindoo goddess, Näga-Kanya, the Snake Princess, who, half snake, half woman, is still worshipped by thousands of devotees.

"Why, this must be one of those old cave-temples dedicated to the snake-goddess, of which I have heard so much," cried Gordon Meldreuth; adding with a laugh, "Well, Mister Python has certainly sought sanctuary in an appropriate spot!"

I noticed Ramzan’s eyes narrow suddenly at the words. As befits a true son of the prophet, he was accustomed to profess a supreme contempt for every brand of superstition not orthodox to his own faith; although later on I had cause to suspect that he was not so indifferent to the gods of the Hindoos as he affected to be. But the villagers themselves made no secret of their feelings. They hung back, gathering into knots and talking eagerly in low, awed tones, occasionally casting terrified glances at the statue over the cave-door. It was clear that the fact of the python seeking refuge in the Temple of Näga-Kanya presented itself as no mere coincidence to their superstitious minds.

By this time the brushwood was entirely cleared away from the entrance, and Ramzan sheathed his kookerie and looked inquiringly at me.

Now, I do not mind admitting that had I been alone I should have given up the hunt there and then; for the prospect of seeking the python in its lair sent a tingling sensation down my spine merely to think of it. But I knew that the eyes of the whole crowd were upon me watching for the least sign of funk in the English sahib. There was nothing for it, therefore, but to unsling my rifle and make toward the cave with such outward appearance of determination as I could assume.

The interior of the place was lit by a dim half-light, which filtered through a creeper-grown aperture high up in one of the walls. Pausing a few seconds to allow my eyes to grow accustomed to the semi-obscurity, I advanced step by step, my rifle held ready in my hands, searching the shadows on either side for some sign of the python. I breathed more freely when I had arrived opposite the gap through which the light entered, for here one could at least see the surrounding objects with tolerable distinctness; and here, to my unbounded surprise, I perceived evidence that at some period or other the cavern must have been occupied by a human being. A kind of rude couch of skins stood in one corner, together with a few earthenware vessels of primitive manufacture.

I had, however, but little time in which to take in the full significance of these details, for at that moment I became aware of two small points of light shining amid the inky blackness of the farther end of the cavern. They were the eyes of the python, intently watching my every movement!

For perhaps a full minute I stood stock-still, gazing at those two specks of greenish fire. Then— it may have been my imagination, or merely the natural effect of the straining of my own eyes in the darkness, but it seemed as if those bright, watching eyes were getting larger— nearer— that the python was silently writhing its way toward me as I stood.

Who has not heard of the hypnotic effect of a snake’s direct gaze? Many were the accounts I had heard of that strange, uncanny power— heard and disbelieved— but at that moment I was on the point of receiving positive and practical proof of the matter. I felt a sense of mental numbness stealing over me; all danger seemed to be forgotten in a dreamy speculation as to what would happen next; all power of making effort seemed to be paralyzed. It appeared that there was no other course open to me but to wait there, silent, motionless, for the inevitable.

Then some flicker of my fast-expiring consciousness warned me of the peril in which I stood— that unless I roused myself and threw off the fatal lethargy, I was lost. Blindly, mechanically— almost, I may say, unconsciously— I raised my rifle and let drive with both barrels.

Fortunately the distance which separated us was so short that a miss was impossible. The two points of fire were extinguished as though they had been snuffed out by an invisible hand, and the next instant the cave was filled with the violent contortions of the reptile’s coils in their last death-throes.

Scarcely had the smoke from the double discharge cleared away, when I saw another pair of eyes gleaming from the opposite corner. Heavens! had I penetrated into a perfect nest of pythons?

Even as the thought crossed my mind I was conscious of something brushing across my cheek. Whether it was some large moth, or dark-loving bat disturbed by the noise of my shots, I did not pause to consider. Without even waiting to reload my rifle, I turned tail and— well, let us call it, "retreated with all speed."

"Two of them?" cried Gordon Meldreuth, when I had explained what had happened.

I nodded. "I have accounted for one."

"And the other is coming out now. Listen!" he interrupted.

A slight, vague noise was approaching toward the mouth of the cavern, and something appeared indistinctly in the gloom. In a flash Meldreuth had thrown his rifle to his shoulder.

"Hold!" cried Ramzan Mar, suddenly knocking up his weapon so that it exploded harmlessly in the air. "That is no python, sahib."

The shikaree's quick sense of hearing had not deceived him. A second later, to our unbounded amazement, there advanced into the sunlight a young girl, slight, graceful and well-formed.

So unexpected was her appearance that for a space in which one might count a hundred nobody moved or spoke. We stood—the beaters, Ramzan, Meldreuth and myself—like men suddenly frozen into stone, staring at the girl as she slowly advanced toward us.

She was not a native— or if she were she belonged to a caste with which I was unacquainted. Her skin was as light as any European’s, and her features, framed in masses of waving black hair flowing loose on her shoulders, were of an almost classical regularity. In their flawless perfection they resembled more the ideal sculptures of ancient Greece than a creature of flesh and blood. Her tall, supple form was draped in the folds of a strange, iridescent garment; formed, I subsequently noted, out of the semi-transparent cast skins of snakes, and over her rounded bosom there fell a long necklace composed of the threaded teeth of the same reptile.

As we stood there, amazed and wondering, there came a yell of terror from the beaters, and with one accord they took to their heels, shouting out some unintelligible gibberish as they disappeared in the jungle.

"What are the fools shouting about?" Meldreuth asked, impatiently addressing Ramzan Mar.

"They say that this maiden is Näga Kanya, the goddess of the snakes— she who crushes the life out of mortal men with her embrace or poisons them with her kiss, O sahib," the Gurkha answered. Although the man endeavored to infuse into his reply some of his customary contempt, I could see by the expression on his usually impassive face that his mind was not entirely at ease.

But Gordon Meldreuth only laughed aloud.

"The fools fear that she will crush them in her embrace, do they?" he cried, his eyes fixed on the graceful figure before him. Then he laughed again. "Well, one might die a far less pleasant death than that!"

They were words spoken light-heartedly and in jest; words which were probably forgotten by him almost as soon as they had left his lips. But they were words which, in the light of after-events, were destined to remain inscribed on my mind with letters of fire, like a warning written by the prophetic finger of fate.

NIGHT— an Indian night.

Not the windless, stifling night of the Plains, which seems but a brief spell of heat-laden darkness between two baking days, but a night amid the upper slopes of the Himalayas; where the wind, cooled over miles of glaciers, fills the lungs with its icy, exhilarating breath.

The moon had just topped the crests of the distant crags rising along the ridge of eternal snow, and was lighting up such a sublimely grand prospect of fell, forest and flood as could hardly be surpassed the world over. Our fort was set on a broad, jutting spur of rock commanding the pass below. On either side the mountains rose in rugged precipices, rocky amphitheaters, and gigantic buttresses toward the naked peaks which stood out in grand yet awful magnificence against the silvery sky. Glaciers lay in the hollows between some of the higher spurs, while broad fields of virgin snow filled the head of the main valley. To the right, so near that the wind drifted the spray across the angles of the narrow, winding path leading up to the gate of the fort, there fell from above a foaming torrent which, roaring sullenly below, filled the valley with its deep, never-ending resonance. Farther down, the steep mountainsides were dark with vast tracks of somber-hued deodar forests tent here and there by long lines of uprooted and splintered trees, masses of earth-soiled snow and debris marking the course of avalanches which had swept from the towering heights above.

Such was the prospect spread out before me as I leaned over the stone parapet of the fort, smoking and musing over the events of the day. We had returned to the fort about nightfall, the mysterious girl accompanying us. I had been desirous of leaving her at the village in the foot-hills; but when we called there on our way back, the inhabitants resolutely refused to allow her to enter, finally backing up their refusal with volleys of stones and curses.

"Take the snake-witch from our doors, O sahib," they had shouted. "Are we weary of our lives that we should give shelter to Näga-Kanya, the daughter of death and destruction? Take her hence, O sahib, or we will surely slay her."

After that there was no alternative but to lodge her in the fort until I could have her sent under escort down the Rotang Pass to Sultanpur, where she would be in safe and kindly hands at the mission-home.

Who was this girl? Where did she come from? By what train of extraordinary circumstances had she been enabled to enter, unharmed, into that python- haunted temple of the snake-goddess? Meldreuth and I had discussed these questions over dinner without arriving at any satisfactory solution. Nor could the Gurkha sergeant Ramzan Mar enlighten us. He had questioned her in every one of the hill dialects without eliciting the least sign of understanding. As to the language which she herself spoke, Ramzan emphatically called upon Allah and the Prophet to witness that he had never before heard it spoken. One word she had repeated many times, "Vasantasena," at the same time pointing to herself. This, we assumed, was her name; for when we uttered the strange sibilant syllables she would nod and smile as though pleased. At the same time I noted that her smiles were sunniest when it was the young and handsome Gordon Meldreuth who spoke her name. She seemed to attach herself to him as a matter of course; for such a grizzled old veteran as myself she had scarcely a second glance.

A quick step on the concrete flagging of the courtyard roused me from my reverie. It was Gordon Meldreuth. As he came toward me, carrying his topee in his hand, as though to let the cool night breeze play on his uncovered head, the moonlight fell full upon his face. Maybe the cold white rays deceived my eyes, but it seemed to me as if his features were as colorless as marble and that his usually bright eyes were dull and troubled.

"I’ve warned the men who are to form the escort tomorrow, sir," he reported. "When do they parade?"

"At daybreak," I answered. "We at least owe it to the girl to get her as soon as possible to a place where she will be well looked after by sympathetic persons of her own sex. Then it may be discovered who she is and where she comes from."

"Yes," Meldreuth said, after a long pause. "Perhaps it will be best. Poor Vasantasena!"

I half turned and, under pretense of knocking the ash from my cigar, flashed a quick look into the young officer’s face. There had been such a wealth of wistful tenderness in his voice as he uttered the sibilant accents of her strange name— a name which somehow vaguely suggested the hissing of a snake— that the suspicion which had been forming in my mind for the past few hours now flashed into sudden certainty. My impressionable young subaltern had fallen in love with this jungle girl!

"Yes," I repeated, this time in a tone of grim conviction. "It certainly is best that she should leave here."

If he noticed the irony of my utterance he gave no sign. For awhile he remained silently gazing at the distant moonlit peaks; then he passed his hand wearily across his forehead and laughed unsteadily.

"I’m not subject to nerves, sir, as you know"— he spoke with that constrained awkwardness of a man imparting a confidence of which he is half ashamed— "but tonight I have an unaccountable foreboding of coming calamity. If we were on the verge of a big push I could understand the feeling. But all is quiet on the frontier— yet death seems to hover in the very air."

I was now staring at the man in genuine astonishment. Had I not seen him dozens of times under heavy fire, and had I not known him for one of the coolest officers under my command, I should have thought he was suffering from funk— which was absurd. Yet here he was talking about "forebodings" like any nervous schoolgirl. He must have guessed what was passing in my mind, for:

"I know it sounds like so much absolute rot, sir," he said with a laughing shrug, "but the feeling is there all the same. I wouldn’t have spoken of it, only we’ve been something more to each other than mere mess-room acquaintances, and— if anything should happen to me— I want you to look after"— again his voice grew softer as he uttered the name— "Vasantasena."

"Of course I’ll do my best for the girl," I rejoined, somewhat impatiently. "But what is likely to happen to you? The hill tribes are quiet. What danger—"

"Hullo! What’s up with the sentry?"

Meldreuth broke in suddenly with the words as he pointed to the Gurkha on guard. The man had come to a halt at the farther angle of the parapet, and although he had not challenged, was looking intently at something directly below. In a moment we had hurried to his side.

"What is it, sentry?" I asked.

The man straightened up, came to the slope, and saluted before he answered:

"A snake, sahib. There—on the path below. And there is another— and another! By Allah! every snake in the mountains hath come at the call of that accursed witch-girl!"

Extraordinary as the assertion sounded, it certainly seemed as if it were true. The rays of the full moon lit up the landscape below until it appeared like a model carved in shimmering silver. By its light, almost as clear as day, we beheld a terrifying sight. From the dark forests of deodar-cedar, from the boulders lining the zigzag path to the fort, from the thickets of grass and reeds bordering the rushing stream — from every scrap of cover, it seemed—there emerged an ever-increasing multitude of creeping things.

Huge pythons, hooded cobras, slender whip-snakes, deadly puff-adders— every poisonous and loathsome thing that crawls was here— all forming one wave of hideous gliding death— all converging to the path which led up to the fort in which we stood.

"Guard, turn out! Bugler, sound ’Fall in’!"

Meldreuth rapped out the orders smartly. There was no hint of nervousness about him now. In spite of his recent talk about premonitions, here, in the face of actual danger, he was ice-cool.

"Machine-gunners—to your emplacements.... Rifles, line the parapet. Bombers, make ready!... Point-blank range— independent firing. Take your own time, men, and let ’em have it hot. Rapid..  load!"

For one brief second there sounded the faint metallic clicking as the cartridge-clips were pressed into the magazines and the breech-bolts thrust home. The next instant the peaceful stillness of the valley gave place to a pandemonium of hell. The fort had only two small guns belonging to a mule battery, but what we lacked in artillery was amply made up for in small arms and bombs. The quick rattle of the rifles; the sustained whirring of the machine-guns; the sharp bade of the little nine-pounders; the dull thudding explosions of die Mills’ bombs—all combined to make up a devil’s harmony difficult indeed to surpass.

Such was the mass of reptiles wedged in the gorge below that every shot must have told. But their numbers seemed endless. As fast as one rank of the mass was blown into writhing fragments, another advanced to take its place. The little white path was now blade with the reptiles, living and dead. But in spite of the appalling hail of lead showered upon k, that nightmare host crept nearer and ever nearer to the gate of the fort.

"Steady, men. Keep cool and fire low. Gunners, concentrate on the head of the column."

And so the conflict went on; and a more fierce or fantastic one was never waged on this planet— and probably never will be.

"Sahib— Meldreuth sahib!"

So engrossed had I been in the scene before me that I had all this time scarcely given a thought to the girl Vasantasena. But as these words fell on my ear, uttered in a soft whisper, the memory of the strange circumstances under which we had found her rushed back to my mind. I remembered the superstitious awe in which the natives held her— her dress of pythons’ skins— her home in the den— and the horde of snakes which now beset us. Small wonder was it that my brain was in a confused whirl as I turned round at the sound of her voice, speaking, for the first time, intelligible words.

The jungle girl was standing immediately in the rear of the firing-line. Her hair was unloosened, flowing about her breast and shoulders and showing up their gleaming whiteness against its raven hue. Her eyes were shining with excitement; her lips parted in a smile— it seemed of triumph. Her lissome form was swaying, undulating, like some graceful palm shaken in the wind—or like some serpent about to strike....

"Meldreuth sahib," again she uttered his name; and yet again: "Meldreuth!"

I saw the boy turn and for a space look into her deep, compelling eyes; standing like a man fascinated— entranced. Then he took a step forward and caught the swaying figure in his arms.

"There is no danger—" he began; but his voice died away and a look of wonder came into his face. For her slender white arms had enfolded themselves about his neck; her lithe body pressed dose to his. Nearer and nearer came the two faces— the boy’s flushed, half puzzled; the girl’s pale, coldly triumphant— her eyes never for an instant quitting his— until at last their lips were pressed together in a lingering, passionate kiss.

"Bismallah! The snakes are at the gate!"

The frenzied shout from the parapet caused me to turn my eyes. It was true. About the one slender barrier which stood between the teeming horde and ourselves there was piled a mass of reptiles— I heard the timbers creak and groan beneath their weight. Bombs were useless now— they would only serve to blow in our own defenses. I shouted the order for the rifles to take up their position on the towers flanking the gate, and began to lead the way. But I had not taken a couple of strides before a terrible cry, coming from behind, caused me to stop dead.

Gordon Meldreuth was still on the same spot where I had last seen him, but instead of being in the embrace of Vasantasena he was now struggling in the coils of an immense python!

Heaven alone knows by what means it had gained access to the fort; nor was there time even to consider such a matter. With the rapidity of a whirling whiplash, the rest of the creature’s body wrapped itself round his legs, throwing him to the ground.

Even in the brief second that I stood fumbling with the flap of my revolver-holster I saw the terrible coils contract, and heard the sound— such as I never wish to hear again— as the bone-crushing pressure was exerted.

Revolver in hand, I dashed forward.

But Ramzan Mar was readier than I. He appeared as if by magic by the side of the pair in that devil’s embrace, and raised his rifle until it almost touched the reptile’s head. Then came a sudden flash of fire— a sharp report— and the hideous head disappeared— blown into space by this near discharge.

Snatching a kookerie from the belt of the nearest man, I assisted Ramzan in hacking asunder the still palpitating coils of the python, until at last we had poor Meldreuth free. But one glance into his face was enough to tell me that he was doomed.

For a few seconds I stood, half dazed, looking down at the pitiful wreck of what, a few minutes before, had been a man full of life and the desire to live. Then a sudden thought came to me.

"Where is Vasantasena?" I asked of Ramzan.

"There, O sahib," the man answered, pointing with his reddened blade to the faintly moving fragments of the python.

"There?" I repeated, aghast, as the sinister import of his words came home to me. "There? Are you mad, havildar?"

Ramzan shrugged grimly.

"At least she is not within the fort, sahib," he declared.

"You talk like a child— not a man!" I cried roughly, trying to fight down the ghastly conviction which was taking hold of my mind. "If the girl is not here she must have contrived to lower herself over the wall of the fort, and so escape."

The grim old shikaree did not answer at once. Instead, he stooped slowly and raised from the ground some tattered fragments of snakeskin, such as composed the dress of Vasantasena. Stooping again, he disentangled a string of bloodstained objects—the necklace which she was accustomed to wear—and held it aloft.

"The snake-girl changed back into her natural form even as she held the captain-sahib in her arms," he asserted solemnly. "Of a truth, sahib, she was indeed— Näga-Kanya, the queen of all the snakes. That is why they attacked the fort. Her subjects came at her command— and at her death they depart! Look, sahib!"

The Gurkha pointed over the parapet as he spoke.

Not a living creature remained in the pass below. But at the farther end of the gorge toward the foot-hills and jungles of the plains, a dark, undulating mass was slowly fading out of sight.

______________________

Cumulative Index to Past Masters 29

May 2021 Part 2

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

A Penny a Word 27

The Walled Chamber  15

The Wehr-Wolf: A Legend of the Limousin 27

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

Coastwise Murder 29

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

Christopher B. Booth

The Deviltry of Dr. Waugh  27

Guy Boothby

The Family Honour 10

The Great Dives Elopement 10

A Strange Goldfield 10

Through Toil and Tribulation 13

"Ben Bowyang" ( Alexander Vindex Vennard )

Lanfranc 28

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

Scott Campbell

The Absconder 28

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

Laugh Maker  27

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

J Allan Dunn

The Man With the Mole 28

Arlton Eadie

Flames of Destiny 29

The Phantom Flight 29

The Planet of Peace 29

The Scourge of Egypt 29

The Siren of the Snakes

Son of Satan  29

The Vampire Airplane 29

William J. Elliott

The Comeback  27

Orville R. Emerson

The Grave  27

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

H Irving Hancock

Li Shoon's Nine Lives  28

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

The Thing of a Thousand Shapes  27

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

Wilbur D. Nesbit

The Tale of the Tangled Telegram 27

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

Justice While You Wait 28

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

Melville Davisson Post

The Laughing Woman  28

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

Arthur Somers Roche

The Club of One-Eyed Men 28

The Dummy-Chucker 28

Legerdemain 28

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

William Merriam Rouse

Trouble 29

Anthony M. Rud

Green for Danger 20

The Place of Hairy Death 27

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

From the Pit  28

Mandrake 20

Osiris 4

Grace Shirley

Marion Marlowe in Cleveland  29

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

Parson Shaw  27

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

John Haslette Vahey (aka "Vernon Loder")

Snake in the Grass  28

E. Charles Vivian

Locked In P

Other Gods 6

C. C. Waddell

It Will Out  29

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

Harold Ward (aka Ward Sterling)

The Dare  27

Dead Men Walk 29

The Devil Takes a Hand 27

The Germs of Death 27

House of the Lizard  27

The Life-Eater  27

The Long Arm of God 27

The Man Who Would Not Die  27

The Skull  27

TheUndelivered Sermon  27

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

An Adventure in the Fourth Dimension  27

The Snake Fiend 25

May Wynne

The Tiara   16

Leroy Yerxa

Through the Asteroids— to Hell! 15

Arthur Leo Zagat

Beyond the Spectrum  M

Deadlock  27

Israel Zangwill

Cheating the Gallows  9

______________

Table of Contents

- 1: Marion Marlowe in Cleveland /
- 2: It Will Out / C. C. Waddell
- 3: Trouble / William Merriam Rouse
- 4: Coastwise Murder / H Bedford-Jones
- 5: Dead Men Walk / Harold Ward
- 6: The Vampire Airplane / Arlton Eadie
- 7: The Scourge of Egypt / Arlton Eadie
- 8: The Phantom Flight / Arlton Eadie
- 9: The Planet of Peace / Arlton Eadie
- 10: Flames of Destiny / Arlton Eadie
- 11: Son of Satan / Arlton Eadie
- 12: The Siren of the Snakes / Arlton Eadie
- Cumulative Index