Past Masters Thirty
Author: Various
Date: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00
Description: Issue 30 of the Past Masters series of original anthologies. Short stories which are out of copyright in Life+70 jurisdictions, and which cannot be found in author's own collections, nor in contemporary anthologies. They have mostly been gathered from newspapers and magazines. As usual, original publication data is provided, and the authors' dates. A cumulative index to all 30 issues is provided. 1: Captain Rose and the Bullfrog / H. Bedford-Jones 2: The Big Cast Mystery / Milo Ray Phelps 3: The Nameless Mummy / Arlton Eadie 4: Bride of the Ape / Harold Ward 5: Wongawarra / "Waif Wander" 6: Na

PAST MASTERS

THIRTY

May 2021

Part 3

Produced by Terry Walker ("Pulpmeister")

Contents

1: Captain Rose and the Bullfrog / H. Bedford-Jones

2: The Big Cast Mystery / Milo Ray Phelps

3: The Nameless Mummy / Arlton Eadie

4: Bride of the Ape / Harold Ward

5: Wongawarra / "Waif Wander"

6: Nagasaki Knives / Raoul Whitfield

7: By the Nepean River / "Waif Wander"

8: Much Lost, More Won / H. Bedford-Jones

9: The Gray Brotherhood / Henry Leverage

10: Lady of the Atoms / Miles J. Breuer

11: The Riots at Sanderac / Miles J Breuer

12: The Puzzle Duel / Miles J Breuer

13: The Voice on the Telephone / Arthur Somers Roche

14: Fish Men of Venus / David Wright O'Brien

15: The Case of Beauvais / James Oliver Curwood

16: On a Charge of Forgery / L. T. Meade and Dr Clifford Halifax, M.D

Cumulative Indexs to Past Masters Series

______________

1: Captain Rose and the Bullfrog

H. Bedford-Jones

1887-1949

Adventure, March 1st, 1930.

The penal island in this story, known as Pulo Condore (Condor Island) to the colonial French, is now known as Côn S'on Island. The remains of the prison are now a museum.

THE GOOD SHIP Ayuthia was old and small, and rolled magnificently, and was filled with ants and rats and cockroaches, all of them champions for size. As the rice paddies and the mud flats of Saigon fell behind and merged with the horizon, a great and mournful melody arose from the two-score bullocks crammed into her forward well deck; they knew, those sad Indo-Chinese bullocks, that they were destined to fill the bellies of convicts. For the Ayuthia, bound for Singapore, would stop en route at the penal settlement, Pulo Condore.

Others than the bullocks knew it also.

It was the southwest monsoon, and even the fresh sea wind was very warm. Captain Rose, comfortable enough in his faded pink pajamas, stood on the bridge chewing at his pipestem and plumbing the depths of his single passenger. Captain Rose, pock marked and bulbous nosed, whisky veins in his red cheeks and very strong of breath whenever he came on deck, was no beauty, and no saint either; but he was the proud possessor of a Board of Trade master's ticket, and twenty years of the China coast and parts adjacent, together with their native liquors, had enabled him to handle a ship blindfolded. Also, they had taught him to know a strong fish by the smell; and overnight he had concluded that Monsieur Hermant was a strong fish.

Hermant was a tall, lean, dark man, handsome in a saturnine way with his thin lips and direct, piercing dark eyes; square shouldered, thin in the hips, with the laziness of hidden agility in every move he made. He smoked whitish Dutch cheroots, which Captain Rose detested. And he stood the rolling deck like a seaman, which the skipper distrusted, having a conviction that no bullfrog could be a proper seaman. This, perhaps, because his mate was a pot bellied and sad eyed Frenchman from Bretagne, Kerguelec by name.

"Pulo Condore, eh?" said Hermant. He spoke fluent English. "I did a year there as a fonctionnaire, when I was in the civil service. A rather attractive place, that. But don't you feel a slight sympathy with those poor convicts, doomed to spend long years on that coral reef in the middle of the ocean?"

"Not a bit of it," said Captain Rose, puffing at his briar to down the flavor of the abominated cheroot. "Not a bit of it. Deserve all they get."

Hermant inspected him half amusedly.

"But do they really?" he said, in his drawling voice. "Most of them, you know, are only deputies."

"Eh? Deputies?" queried the skipper.

"Yes. All natives. A rich Tonkinese desires to carve out his neighbor's insides and, say, appropriate his neighbor's wife. He does it scientifically. The police step in, the inspector investigates. Up bobs a poor coolie who confesses to the crime, with appropriate excuses; and twenty professional witnesses appear who saw him commit the crime. He is sentenced, say, to ten years penal servitude. He departs. At the end of ten years or so, if he is still alive, he returns home and the rich man provides the promised sum of money. The singular white man's law is satisfied, the rich man is satisfied, and the poor coolie is satisfied. Of course, should he die before the ten years are up, then he loses. The gambling instinct is strong, and adds flavor to the business. It's really quite sporting."

"Huh!" said Captain Rose. "It's damned foolishness, if you ask me. Dishonest."

"Were you never dishonest?" asked Hermant softly, looking at the horizon.

"No," said Captain Rose flatly, and removed his pipe to spit over the rail. "No! I've pulled a trick now and then, maybe; a bit o' smuggling or worse, but plain crooked. Nothing dishonest; too much like sneakin', if you ask me."

Hermant laughed a little.

"A singular joke, Captain—"

"Joke?" Captain Rose uttered certain foul and emphatic language. "Lookee, now! That there, what you just said, is French law for you. Aye, French!"

"This is not France," said Hermant. "Not all the convicts are deputies, of course; many of them are honest convicts."

"I've a damned sight more respect for 'em," said the skipper.

"Nonsense," and Hermant brushed Captain Rose and his ethics clear aside, as it were, with the one word. "Suppose you had a chance to help one of those deputy convicts escape, get away from the place, and make money doing it; would you assent?"

Captain Rose turned and stared blankly at him.

"Assent? Assent? And what for would I risk my ticket and my ship and my life, maybe, to help a lousy native escape? Wouldn't be worth it."

"Hm! It might be worth it," said Hermant, and paused briefly. "For instance, I know of a man there on Pulo Condore, a typical case. Let us call him Koh Prap. Serving a life term. He got hired to do the job, took a false name, and was sent up for life instead of for two or three years as he figured. He's supposed, in his district, to be working somewhere up in Siam. What happens? A little piece of bare hill land he owned proves to have a vein of rich tin; an open cast mine develops there. The royalties pile up and can't be touched until some years are past and he's legally dead. Only his close relatives know that he's serving a life sentence on Pulo Condore under the name of Koh Prap. So they come along and offer you, maybe, a hundred pounds, English money, to help Koh Prap get away by using your boat."

"And they'd jolly well get a kick in the pants for their pains," said Captain Rose hotly. "The chap gambled and lost. I'm not the man to help him sneak out of it."

There was an emphatic finality about this argument. Hermant frowned faintly.

"Well, the relatives can't touch any of that money until Koh Prap turns up to claim it," he said. "They've tried all sorts of tricks, even to inventing another Koh Prap; but when it comes to letting loose of money, Frenchmen are pretty cautious. Suppose they offered you five hundred pounds?"

"Or a thousand," said Captain Rose. "What's a thousand quid? Too much money to be had honestly in a day or two, that's what. Do you suppose a man like me'd risk his ticket and his ship on a sneakin' job like that. Do you, now?"

"But you'd smuggle," said Hermant.

"That's different," said Captain Rose stoutly.

"How is it different? It's breaking the law."

"Huh! A fool parliament or governor or somebody says, 'Don't you dare do this or that, or we'll clap you in jail if we catch you at it!' That's no law. That's a defiance. Like the liquor law in America. Makes a chap go do it, especially if he clears a bit o' money at it."

"But helping a poor devil get away to freedom, from a life sentence—"

"Is a sneakin' proposition," declared Captain Rose. "And if any chap came to me and made it flat out, I'd kick him in the pants. Yes, sir— and take my fist to him, to boot!"

With such unmistakable emphasis was this said that Hermant sighed, threw up his hands and walked away with a shrug of utter mystification. He could not comprehend this English captain's code in the least. He even doubted strongly whether Captain Rose had sensed the bait dangled before his bulbous nose.

He need not have worried. The skipper was nobody's fool. Captain Rose was the type of man, however, who has a certain odd code and can not be swerved from it by logic or gold; a most unreasonable code, if you like, but one to be fought for stoutly and never denied even under torture, mental or physical, simply because it was part of himself.

And whether you subscribe to the man's code or not, whether you think the man a hero or a damned fool, at least you are bound to admire him. For, when you get right down to bed rock, very few of us have any convictions which we think worth fighting for.

HERMANT did not waste any more words and time with the skipper. He realized that words were useless, and his time was short, since the sea road from Saigon to Pulo Condore is not a long one, even for an old misbegotten tub like the Ayuthia.

The only other pure white man aboard was Kerguelec, a Breton; and being French, Hermant knew that Bretons can make an excellent living and save money, even in Scotland. Kerguelec was lazy and fat and predatory. He had been with the ship only one voyage, and had already conceived a violent dislike of the skipper, which was more than repaid in kind. So Kerguelec did not require any great persuasion to coincide with Hermant's way of thinking as regarded a hypothetical Koh Prap, or anything else. And Hermant had a way with him when it came to inspiring confidence in his abilities.

That afternoon Hermant might have been observed— but was not— in converse with certain coolies of the crew, and with the half-caste second mate, and even with the chief engineer. His conversations had nothing to do with the matter, of course, but instead of making Pulo Condore that same day, the Ayuthia wallowed with helpless engines, and wallowed all night, and wallowed well into the next morning, with the mountain peak of Pulo Condore breaking the horizon, tantalizingly in sight but unreachable.

When her wallow ended and she got under way again, Captain Rose was nearly apoplectic, for now he could not get into the East Bay much before sunset, and since no unloading would be permitted at night, could not hope to get rid of his bullocks and freight before sometime in the following day.

Monsieur Hermant, however, looked very well pleased with himself. And Captain Rose observed it. The skipper went down to his own cabin, locked the door and sat down. He looked at himself in the cracked mirror, rather disgustedly, and got out a bottle, then put the bottle away again.

"Cat that's licked the cream, that's him," he muttered, and stuffed his pipe with well teased plug cut. "Somethin's up; no more drinking just now, Skipper. Hm! I wondered why this bullfrog was takin' passage aboard us."

Captain Rose smoked out his pipe, then shaved and got into clean pajamas and sent the steward to ask Hermant to his cabin. Presently Hermant sauntered in and nodded genially.

"Shut the door, sir," said the skipper, and eyed his passenger steadily. "Now, I've figured this thing out. You used to be stationed at the Island, you know the ropes, and you've been hired to get this what's-his-name away. Is that the ticket?"

Hermant looked astonished.

"What are you talking about, Captain?"

"About this beggar you were wanting me to take off— this Pap chap. None o' your tricks, now!"

A laugh broke from Hermant.

"Why, Captain, you misunderstood! I didn't want you to take any one off. We were just having a talk about the ethics of the thing; the case I laid before you was purely hypothetical."

"Hypo what?" said Captain Rose. He took a big .45 from his drawer and laid it on his desk shelf. "Whatever it is, I think you're a liar, and that's flat. You're slick, and I'm not; but no bullfrog is comin' aboard this ship and running her— not while I'm here. If there's any more talk about gettin' one of these beggars away from Pulo Condore, then you'll run foul of a gun— and the authorities. Is that clear?"

The lean, sardonic features of Hermant remained as impassive as mahogany, but his dark eyes regarded the skipper very steadily.

"Your position is clear, sir," he rejoined, and bowed slightly. "I regret that you took my light words in earnest."

"I took 'em as they were meant," said Captain Rose, "and no mistake about it, neither."

Hermant bowed again and withdrew in silence.

The dignified air of his passenger, and his reception of what was undeniably provocative language, rather took Captain Rose aback. He went up to the bridge and the second officer, who had the deck, said in his sleek half-caste way that they would be at anchor by sunset, whereat the skipper snapped an oath at him and went over to the port rail and stood there staring at Pulo Condore. His faded blue eyes were very bright and clear and hard, which meant that he was in no mood to be spoken to.

As a matter of fact, Captain Rose was trying to reason with himself as he looked at the nine-mile main island, with its heavily timbered peaks mounting into the sky, and its attendant smaller islets. No convict had ever escaped from Pulo Condore, and none ever would, he told himself; it was just impossible. The French had no boats except a rowboat and lighters. There were few natives on the island. The waters around were famous for huge sharks. No one was allowed ashore from visiting ships. And there you were. Even the Ayuthia would be boarded and guarded by black Colonial troops while she discharged cargo. And what could that slick bullfrog hope to do under such circumstances?

Captain Rose scowled at the island, where, in 1705, the sepoys of the East India Company's garrison had murdered all the whites except two, and decamped. He had heard of this massacre, and it occurred to him that Britishers had no luck in these islands anyhow.

"Well, if there's any scheme in that bullfrog's head, I've settled it for him now," thought the skipper, as the cool breeze calmed his choler. "He couldn't do anything without my help, and knows he won't have that; any blasted nigger that hired out as a convict and then comes into money and goes back on his bargain gets none o' my sympathy!"

He did not see the mate, Kerguelec, come up to the bridge, look at him standing there, then turn around and vanish again. He did not see the scowling look directed at him by the second officer; and he would not have cared a tinker's dam if he had seen either one. To him, the Ayuthia was his ship alone, and he alone was accountable for everything she did, and for what was done aboard her; and behind his bulbous nose, his veined cheeks, his hard and clear blue eyes, was a bulldog's stubborn spirit. Captain Rose could be, and was, pretty much of a scoundrel when he so liked, and Holy Joes had called him some stiff names; but he had never been called weak or irresolute or crafty.

The afternoon was waning when the old Ayuthia, chugging in among the islets, headed about for the red roofed rectangular Hon Bai Kan light on its high elevation, seven hundred feet above the sea, and drew in between the light and East Point, taking the northeast channel, since she was bound for the inner anchorage.

The bay opened up. There was the little pier with its rowboat and lighters, and behind it the white, red roofed buildings; back of this, again the native village and the sharply rising mountain, thick grown with small trees and brush. Kerguelec, who was new to this landfall, took the wheel himself while Captain Rose stood beside him as pilot.

"Now, Mister, look out for a three-fathom patch in the fairway," said the skipper, and pointed. "See that rocky elevation on the hill to the south? Keep it bearing 263° until that white marker on the shore yonder is bearing 230°; aye, now you have it rightly, Mister! Bring it ahead, now, bring it ahead; haul around to the nor'west, slow, now— there's a rock awash on the north side! Haul around, you blasted fool— can't you understand English? That's the way. See that radio station on the hill? Anybody'd look fine hauling off some o' them convicts, eh? Her call is FPR, and I'd hate to have her sending out for a gunboat to chase me, I would! Steady, now— need to have that landing pier bearin' 193! Here, give me that wheel and get to your station, blast you!"

So Captain Rose took the wheel, attended to the engine room signals himself, and the Ayuthia came to rest in the sunset glow, with a rattle of chain through the hawse. The sad bullocks, looking off at the shore, bellowed mournfully.

The rowboat was already putting out from the pier with a white uniformed official aboard, and Captain Rose was presently receiving his visitor— who shook hands warmly with Hermant before greeting the skipper. There was a drink down below, a talk about nothing, and the official, with many regrets that the unloading could not be accomplished that day, went ashore, thinking Captain Rose something of a boor.

The skipper went below and had a drink. After all, he reflected, there would be no escape from this place; it was quite impossible. Provided one of the beggars took a chance on the sharks and was hauled aboard, there was the cable to Cap St. Jacques and the radio station besides, so even a fool bullfrog would know it was a hopeless job. Besides, any one who escaped that night would be missed in the morning, and soon collared. With which comfortable, and entirely correct, reflection, Captain Rose retired for the night to a deck chair on the after bridge deck; his own cabin got entirely too much aroma from the bullocks in the forward well deck. And the fixed white light seven hundred feet above the sea shone all night like a blazing star to keep him company.

With morning the outer reefs were lines and eddies of white foaming blue; a cable was borne out by the rowboat and made fast aboard, and along this the two lighters were dragged by laughing, chattering convicts, very cheerful in their simple uniforms, as they pulled themselves out, hand over hand.

A dozen white clad negroes, colonials, with pistols at their belts, came aboard the Ayuthia and stationed themselves at rails and gangways; the winches rattled, the booms were swung out, the hatches taken off. The officer in charge of the detachment mounted to the bridge deck and stretched out comfortably in a chair beside Monsieur Hermant, who was watching proceedings lazily, and the two men chatted.

Aboard swarmed the convicts; to them, poor simple souls, this was a lark, and with gay chatterings in all the tongues of Indo-China they went to work getting the bullocks slung down into the lighters. Some of them scattered through the ship, begging food, offering for sale their coral and balloon fish and shells; there was a good deal of hilarity, and very little supervision. Escape was impossible, and all hands knew it.

So the bullocks were got rid of at last, and it came the turn of the cargo. All this while Captain Rose stood at the break of the bridge, vigilant and alert, clad now in his uniform whites, the jacket pocket bulging ominously. Nothing occurred to reward his keen glances, however, and he soon relaxed, handing out coppers to the convicts who begged from him, and buying a few odds and ends of coral or dried balloon fish.

The work was drawing to a close when a laughable incident took place. A group were scuffling on the forward deck, convicts and crew intermingled, and three or four of them pitched down headlong into the hold. There were screams of mirth in shrill voices, and one by one all emerged, unhurt. The work went on, Captain Rose watching while the second mate and a shore official tallied off the cargo.

It never occurred to any one, naturally, that in the trifling fall of a few men into the hold might lie something much greater; something, in fact, pregnant with life and death to more than one man, and with far reaching consequences.

So the work came to an end, and the convicts were tallied off; counted like cargo or bullocks as they crowded into the lighters; and dragged their way ashore once more, to their lonely island life. The papers were signed and taken care of. The officer shook hands all around and went ashore with his detachment; and the moment the rowboat was clear of the ship, Captain Rose sighed in relief. Then he lifted his voice in a bellow, and the Ayuthia's cable began to come in, and there was all kinds of confusion and noise, with winches rattling and booms being stowed and lashed and hatch quoins being hammered in place.

In five minutes she was standing about for the harbor mouth. Captain Rose, from the port side of the bridge, looked at the idly reclining figure beneath the awning and sniffed in triumphant disdain. Monsieur Hermant, smoking his inevitable cheroot, regarded the skipper with a lazy look and smiled to himself.

THE CREW of the Ayuthia was made up of all sorts of brown men, but they had not been picked at random. Captain Rose had done the work himself, and he had put the best ones into the black gang with intention.

He did not love his chief engineer; indeed, he browbeat and overawed him. And, being an Eurasian, the chief did not have enough backbone to stand up for his rights and make Captain Rose respect and like him. Instead, he hated secretly, after the manner of his breed, and let the skipper boss the engine room as no white chief engineer would have allowed for a minute.

These things had an important bearing upon events.

The Ayuthia had not come out of her way, as the Condore group lies almost in the true Saigon and Singapore route. The rocky group was dropping out of sight over the horizon by noon, for a couple of hours saw her unloading finished; and Captain Rose, blessing the cool sea wind, turned in for a drink and a bit of sleep. Nor did he take the drink alone, for he met his mate, Kerguelec, in the passage; and being a man who sincerely wanted to be friends with all hands, he asked the Breton in with him, and they drank together heartily.

Oddly, perhaps, Captain Rose never forgave the man that drink, for he himself believed firmly that there was no viler sin than hypocrisy in the glass. And he was soon enough in discovering the extent of Kerguelec's friendship for him.

Eight bells, four in the afternoon, saw the skipper climbing on deck after another good drink. He looked things over pretty carefully, to be sure everything was stowed; for as he was wont to say, you never can depend on a bullfrog seaman for very long. He found nothing at which to cavil forward, and went back along the bridge deck for a look aft. He passed Hermant, sprawled lazily beneath the awning, and nodded genially, for he was never a man to cherish a grudge unless he thought he had reason to do so.

When he looked down at the after well deck he saw something that first drew his curious glance, then his scowling attention— and finally his presence.

Engine room watches had changed and the black gang were sluicing themselves off with cool water and capering around with shrill voiced mirth. Now, Captain Rose had not been twenty years in these seas for nothing, and he knew each of his dish faced brown men by sight. His eyes grew hard and bright as he looked. Then he deliberately descended the ladder, and noted grimly how, at sight of him, the men there dived for their clothes, though they were doing nothing forbidden. When he reached the well deck they were struggling with their scanty raiment.

Captain Rose walked up to one of them, who was screwing himself into an unaccustomed coat, and swung him around by the shoulder. He was a meek little chap, meeker even than a Malay— or rather, than a Malay appears to be.

"What's your name, you?" said the skipper, in what he called French.

"Nam Trang, m'soo," came the response.

"You're a liar!" retorted Captain Rose. "Nam Trang had a scar clear across his chin. Come on, now— what's your name?"

The Annamese looked at him fearfully and shrank away. The gaze of Captain Rose widened.

"What's all this!" he exclaimed. "Why, you ain't even one o' my hands! I thought you looked queer to me. Cochin China, or I'm a Dutchman! You're not from Annam, eh?"

"From Kamaut, m'soo," faltered the brown man, after a glance around. All his companions had fled.

"Huh!" exclaimed the skipper. Color came into his face suddenly, until he seemed in the throes of some inner convulsion. "Blast me— what's your name, huh? Is it Pap?"

The mild little man smiled at this.

"Koh Prap, m'soo—"

"Oh, Captain Rose! I say, Captain, would you step up here a minute?"

The skipper turned. Above, at the bridge ladder, he saw Hermant standing. It all came over him then in a flash— all of it. Impossible it was, rankly incredible; yet none the less a fact. The job had been pulled off under his nose, somehow. And there was Hermant intervening, cool, impassive, insolent; the chap must have scented trouble.

Captain Rose walked to the ladder and ascended silently. Hermant smiled in his sardonic way; he saw only a bulbous nosed, somewhat wheezy, rather apoplectic seaman. There was a good deal he did not know about seamen.

"Well?" said the skipper, when he came to the upper deck. There was nothing menacing about him, except that he was breathing a bit hard.

"You have uncovered the ruse," said Hermant, smiling a little.

"I've uncovered the skunk, you mean," said Captain Rose. "Koh Prap— is that the chap you were set on bringing off?"

Hermant nodded.

"Yes. And now that it's all over, Captain, you might as well accept the situation gracefully. You can still profit well by it. Not so well as you might have done, of course, since I had to take your officers and some of the crew in on this. But you'll find everything satisfactory."

The skipper's features slowly purpled, yet he managed to restrain himself.

"And just how," he asked, "did you turn the trick? Those convicts were counted off."

Hermant chuckled.

"How else? The same old way, Captain. A chap hired out to take Koh Prap's place ashore. He's one of the men you hired at Saigon. His family get the money, he stays on the island for a time, then confesses; he won't get a long sentence. They won't discover the error for quite a bit, if they ever do before he confesses. Clever, eh?"

"I said you were a slick 'un," returned Captain Rose. "Come on for'ard."

Amused, curious at this reception of the news, Hermant sauntered along. The Ayuthia did not boast of a bridge proper— merely a pilot house at the forward end of the bridge deck. Captain Rose stepped to the starboard ladder, then turned.

"I warned you what you'd get if you put this job over," he said, almost calmly. "There's the ladder, and you stay off this bridge in future."

Hermant got his promised reward.

It was no mere kick, no polite Gallic kick; it was not even a vicious kick; it was just such a strong, sturdy, unexpected lift of the boot as Captain Rose would have applied to any insolent foremast hand— and calculated for effect, not for looks. Hermant staggered under the impact, caught at the ladder rail, then whirled. Captain Rose kicked him again— and abruptly had a fight on his hands.

As a fight, it was neither long nor spectacular; though this was not the fault of Hermant. He drove in with sudden savagery— his features were contorted into a vicious and frightful mask of fury— and in this flashing instant of attack the skipper sensed swift and deadly peril, for the Frenchman had fallen into a fighting crouch and meant business. Captain Rose meant business too, and was more direct in his methods. Hermant ran into an upthrust knee and something smashed under his long jaw, and as he staggered, a heavy fist took him squarely amidships and knocked him down the ladder to the deck below like a sack of meal. For all his age and looks, Captain Rose was entirely ready and able to take on any bullfrog going.

With a satisfied grunt the skipper turned about and strode into the pilot house, where Kerguelec and a brown man gaped at him. He gave one curt order.

"Eh?" Kerguelec, a slow man to get into action, had not comprehended yet what it was all about. "But the course—"

"The course be damned!" said Captain Rose. "Back for Pulo Condore and land that blasted convict and get Nam Trang aboard. Look alive, now!"

Kerguelec started to speak, then dissembled his scowl, nodded and gave the order. The sun was just touching the western horizon.

Captain Rose ate a very hearty dinner, quite oblivious to the atmosphere around.

The last thing he expected was trouble. Hermant, not particularly damaged by his fall, was keeping to his own cabin; and the skipper did not know that the man had already taken care of every one in sight. In fact, all hands from chief officer to coolie were getting their large or small split of Hermant's money, and the officers did not like Captain Rose anyway, so that it was quickly known to all aboard that they were putting back to the island. The skipper did not order the luckless Koh Prap confined, for the chap could not escape from the ship, and was only a little brown beggar anyhow.

Captain Rose went to his cabin after supper and entered up matters in the rough log, so as to have everything shipshape. His eyes were open now— when those men fell into the hold, Koh Prap had exchanged clothes with Nam Trang, and that was all. Incredibly simple, and it had worked like a charm.

A knock on the door, and Kerguelec entered, leaving the door open. He came around to one side of the desk so that the skipper, in facing him, had his back to the door.

"Well, Mister," said Captain Rose, sitting back in his chair and reaching for his pipe, "and what's on your mind, eh?"

"I want to ask you about that man, Koh Prap," said the Breton stolidly. "Are you going to take him back?"

"Surest thing you know," answered the skipper.

"Why, Cap'n?" asked Kerguelec, wrinkling up his brow. "Because it is not right to take him away?"

"Huh! No," said the skipper. "He's just a poor sport, and I ain't risking my ticket and my ship to help him out, that's why. See here, Mister," he added suddenly, looking up with his keen glance, "why are you so blasted—"

A cloth fell over his head. His arms went up to it and were seized, drawn together, and lashed fast, all in an instant. His feet were caught and made fast to his chair. It was all done swiftly and without a false move, and next moment the skipper was blaspheming in choking darkness, until he had to stop for lack of air.

Then, presently, he heard the soft laugh of Hermant, and squirmed at the sound.

"Now enjoy yourself, Captain," said the Frenchman, with insolent triumph. "You're not hurt, and you'll not interfere. Later on you can set the police after me and be damned to you. Good-by!"

The door slammed.

Captain Rose relaxed and became quiet; he could breathe, and not much more. To sit there with a stifling, dirty cloth flung loosely over his head, wrists lashed together, feet lashed to his chair, was chastening medicine to any apoplectic soul. Fortunately, the cloth was not tied about his neck, or he might well have stifled. He could even tell that the cabin lights were still left burning; and from the squeaking rattle of the chains, knew the Ayuthia was changing course. Then she began to wallow and roll, and Captain Rose whistled softly. This wallow meant that she was heading westward. With this realization, he understood everything— even Hermant's plans.

His chair tipped a little with the wallow and instinctively he tried to brace himself, but of course could not. If it went over, no help for it— he would go as well!

Mutiny? He was not so sure. Hermant was a sly bullfrog and no mistake. Kerguelec was in on it, of course, and every one else aboard, probably. Thought of the mate brought a swirl of fury into the skipper's brain. Another bullfrog, damn him! Kerguelec had been talking to him, had left the door open, had got his back to it. Then some of them had sneaked in and bagged him, quite literally. Who had done it? He had not the least idea.

Not that it would matter particularly. As Hermant's story had more than hinted, there was big money involved, and the bullfrog could afford to grease every palm liberally. Beyond any doubt, Kerguelec was heading the Ayuthia west for Point Obi; Hermant and Koh Prap and anybody else who might run foul of Admiralty law would skip ashore, and then Captain Rose might have his ship again. Nobody would be hurt, and the story would be a laughing matter rather than an outrage.

"That's his scheme, and it's good," muttered the irate skipper. "Devilish, blasted good! That is to say, from his point o' view. It ain't so good from—"

The Ayuthia executed a truly beautiful wallow as though imitating a movement from a dance. Captain Rose felt his chair tip up on one side, hesitate— then he and the chair went down together in a crash that hurt his shoulder and head and drew a muffled blast of profanity from him.

With the fall, the cloth over his head fell away. His profanity ceased.

Yes, his cabin was lighted, and the telltale on the ceiling showed the ship was heading west by a half north, as he had figured. He lay there blinking, on his side; the old chair had collapsed in the fall, but enough of it remained together to keep the skipper quite helpless for the moment; also, he was badly jarred. With another roll, he slid in the opposite direction; then came a nice, smooth, apparently unending wallow, and Captain Rose went cursing down the floor to fetch up with another crash against the bulkhead.

"Blast an' damn it!" he said, with emphasis. Then, "Hullo, now! What's this?"

This second jarring crash had pretty well finished the chair, which was no William Morris product at best. The top of it came clear out of the seat, which naturally loosened the bit of line fastening the skipper's right arm, and the left arm came free a moment afterward.

With both his arms free, thirty seconds sufficed to free his ankles, and Captain Rose stood up. He was so overcome that he could not find words; he stood blinking, rubbing his wrists, looking around. With the next roll he gravitated toward his locker, took a good stiff drink straight from the bottle, and looked for his old revolver. It was missing.

"Ah!" said he, and smacked his lips.

He never felt quite right without his after dinner pipe, which he had not yet lighted. He went over to the table, picked it up, struck a match, and braced himself against the ship's roll as he puffed.

"Now, let's see. That blighted bullfrog didn't lock the door— or did he?"

The door was unlocked.

Kerguelec would have his gun, of course; but no matter. The skipper went grimly into his trunk and presently found what he sought— a slingshot he had taken away from a thug on the Rangoon waterfront one night. It was no ordinary slingshot, but a bit of devil's artistry, the weight being slung at either end of a length of stiff, springy rhinoceros hide sewn about a strip of whalebone. Captain Rose had often wondered just what a man could accomplish with this weapon, and now he grunted with satisfaction as he hefted it.

He paused, reflecting. Everything was probably topsy-turvy now; no telling who would have the bridge, or what. So, as minutes counted, he delayed only long enough to get into his uniform whites and pull down his cap; then he pulled open the cabin door and stepped out into the passage, the implement of destruction peeping from his jacket pocket.

The first person he saw was the second officer, just emerging from his own cabin. Captain Rose wasted no talk. The unfortunate half-caste gaped at him with fallen jaw and stood there paralyzed with astonishment until the skipper's fist knocked him backward, and the skipper followed him into the cabin and stood over him as he lay, not daring to move.

"You this-and-that," said Captain Rose, without mincing words in the least, "so you've taken Hermant's money, huh? Where's your gun?"

"In— in the locker there, sir," stammered the second officer.

The skipper took it, found it to be a loaded automatic, and pocketed it with a grunt of satisfaction.

"You stay here and keep your jaw closed until I send for you," he said, and stalked out of the cabin, turning the key on the outside of the door before departing.

Then he stamped off, making for the bridge, knowing Kerguelec would be there. He felt an exasperated desire to use his fists on that man, but regretfully concluded the slingshot would be safer, at least at the first.

Kerguelec was indeed on the bridge; so was the Eurasian chief, and a Tonkin seaman was at the helm, since the Ayuthia far antedated steam controls. The mate and the chief were conferring as to the best place to leave the ship and reach Siamese territory, when a frightened squawk broke from the Tonkinese. He had seen the figure of the skipper rise in the darkness from the starboard ladder. Kerguelec caught the warning and rose, jerking out his gun.

Both doors of the pilot house were open. Captain Rose came in the port door, and came in fast, just as the gun jerked up in Kerguelec's hand. The slingshot struck the mate's wrist, and his bullet went up through the ceiling, and the gun fell from his hand. The chief was whipping out a knife, but he did not use it, for the skipper whirled on him and clipped him twice over the head. The wretched chief engineer collapsed like a limp sack on the cushions of the locker.

"Well, Mister," said the skipper to Kerguelec, "I'm going to learn you a few things."

And, dropping his weapon, he waded into the Breton.

Kerguelec knew his business. He got in two smashing drives over the heart that staggered the skipper, then cracked in a beauty for the jaw, with full weight behind it. Captain Rose ducked, stopped it with his skull, and the mate's wrist snapped. The skipper cracked in a one-two, and Kerguelec, whirling, ducked and dropped to the floor. Captain Rose forgot about the savate until the mate's heel took him under the chin and dropped him like a shot.

As he lay, the skipper reached desperately for the slingshot, came up with it, and met the mate's rush squarely. He had been a fool to let go his weapon, and knew it. Now he drove in mercilessly, spat after spat, the deadly springing thing in his hand landing repeatedly until Kerguelec was weaving on his feet and spitting blood and groggy oaths.

"Take your lesson, you blasted bullfrog!" said the skipper grimly, and went ahead with his work. Nor did he cease until Kerguelec slipped to his knees, a bleeding, incoherent mass, and then the skipper disdainfully booted him behind the ear and let him sprawl out on the deck.

"And a good job," said Captain Rose, as he went to the wheel.

He spun it, glanced into the binnacle, and watched the Ayuthia swing around on the compass. The Tonkinese had long since fled, and various noises were ringing through the ship, which Captain Rose disregarded. He had to guess at a course for Pulo Condore, but he was good at such work; presently he grunted with satisfaction, spun over the wheel, and slipped the loops over the spokes.

"Put up your hands, you fool!"

The crackling voice sounded from the starboard door. Captain Rose looked over his shoulder and saw Hermant standing there, gun in hand. Excited chatterings, dim shapes, showed that with Hermant were some or most of the crew, and there was a flash of steel in the starlight.

"Huh?"

Deliberately the skipper thrust his hands into his jacket pockets. Hermant's gun jerked at him.

"Up, I said!" snapped the man, his face tense, dangerous. He took a step forward.

"What'll you do— shoot me?" queried the skipper, getting the automatic in his fist.

Hermant saw the movement, saw the skipper duck sidewise, and fired. The two shots came almost as one. Captain Rose spun about, then fired again as he straightened. The tall figure of Hermant seemed to fall back from the doorway, a splotch of red spreading over its breast.

Then the skipper found them all around him— brown men, naked, knives glinting.

He groaned as steel ripped into his flank; groaned even as he fired, sending bullets pointblank into the crowding figures. He did not even take the automatic from his pocket; his white drill coat flamed until it burned his hand. Click-click— and his weapon was empty, brown men still around him.

Another knife reached him— some one in the gang banged out with a revolver, the bullet going high. Then Captain Rose got the slingshot in his fist, and with a grunt hurled himself at the lot of them, and his roaring bellow filled the pilot house as the weapon lashed.

The Ayuthia presented a remarkable spectacle as she crawled into the bight of Pulo Condore toward sunset of the following day.

Captain Rose stood on the bridge. He was not handsome, for he was quite naked except for numerous iodine stained bandages that encompassed shoulder and ribs and thighs. His mate— the former second officer— had a bandaged jaw, and Kerguelec lay on a mattress under the awning, much more completely bandaged than was the skipper, and with more need. His chief engineer had a head swathed in cloths, and a number of the crew were obviously patched. Up in the bow, out of the way, lay the white figure of Hermant, and the brown figure of Koh Prap, equally dead; and several hurt men were groaning in the forward well deck.

The chain rattled out. Captain Rose saw the rowboat setting off from shore, and with a grunt went into the pilot house and sat down. He had better log this thing in the rough log before he went any farther. He got out the book and pencil, and chewed the latter for an instant, then set down his entry:

This day and date weather fair. Crew mutinied last night, led by passenger and mate and escaped convict. Am landing passenger and convict for burial. Mate going to Singapore for trial. Two ton coal wasted.

He read over his entry, approved it, and thrust away the log.

"That ought to satisfy 'em," said Captain Rose. "And now I reckon that bullfrog coming off can stand a drink with me, huh? All goes to show that Hermant should ha' picked another ship to try his tricks on. But I never did see a bullfrog that had good sense. Huh!"

_____________________

2: The Big Cast Mystery

Milo Ray Phelps

?-1937

Detective Fiction Weekly, 12 Dec 1936

THEY tell me every department has got one— some blunderin' blockhead with more luck than brains; I mean— but I'll back Murray Magimple against the field any day, and give you odds. The way this big balloon has risen to fame in the short time he's been on the force is a kick. I might even say a kick in the pants— and my pants— at that! I Not only must I work with this guy but he's moved in on me, and— well, take that affair last week.

It's the openin' night of a big musical show entitled "The Isle of Hotcha," and me and Murray are occupyin' aisle seats, on havin' been honored by the City Manager to pass judgment on the piece. All through the first act, the gags get thicker and the costumes thinner, and as the curtain glides down to thunderous applause from the gallery, I turns to Magimple.

"Well, come on."

"Where to?" he grunts. " I'm comfortable."

"Why to call a riot squad," says I. "Have you forgot we're here to censor this?"

"But there's two more, acts yet," he protests. "If we're gonna censure it, we oughta censure the whole thing, oughtn't we ?"

My retort is blocked by the arrival of Dave Wenzel, the house manager.

"Well boys, how do you like it?" He leans in from the aisle.

"Great!" beams Magimple.

"Good." He leans closer. "Say, after the. show, Sol Goodman, the show manager, is givin' a big party back stage. All the newspaper men will be there, and he wants you boys to come along. You know, to sorta meet the cast, and—"

"Sorry," I coughs. "We can't make it."

"Eh? Why not ?" pops Magimple. "I'd enjoy meetin' some of that cast."

"Because we can't close up the man's  show and then drink his liquor," I snaps.

"Close up the show!" echoes Wenzel. "Oh, see here now, Pepper, you can't be lookin' at this right."

But at this junction, we're interrupted by Goodman. He's a squat, worried little party with gold teeth and a bald pate, and he joins us all outa breath.

"That's all right. Let 'em close us," he pants. "Have 'em close us right now. You go announce it."

"What!" gapes Wenzel.

"Go announce it, I tell you!" He shoves him, protestin', down the aisle, and turns to us. "You gents is inspectors, ain't you? From headquarters?"

"Right," nods Magimple.

"Then follow me. We've had a— a accident."

Me and Murray rises in surprise and trails him back stage. We walk into a dead silence.

A dozen wide-eyed chorus girls line the rail of the iron stairway leadin' to the dressin' rooms. With hushed whispers they fall in behind us, follow us down to a door marked with a large gilt star.

Here stands Rex Mulford, the leadin' man, pale clear through his make-up, guardin' the door. Goodman braces himself; then pushes inside. One look tells the story.

Face upon the floor lies Lola Gay, star of the show, a dark purple stain spreadin' down her left side through the folds of her blue silk dressing gown.

"My gosh!" gulps Magimple.

"Yeah," chokes Goodman. " We ain't had nothin' but trouble since we left New York."

He sags onto a gilt chair and mops his brow. "Her maid discovered her and come at once after me. She's just as we found her— we ain't touched a thing."

My mind leaps to that crowded auditorium. " What about that door we come through? Is that always guarded?"

"All durin' the show," he nods. "Nobody passed but me and the mail."

"Good." I'm relieved. "Empty the house and put some one you can trust on both doorways. None of your company is to leave. Do you understand?"

"Sure. I know." He rises wearily and shuffles out.

Grabbin' the phone, I wakes up headquarters; then turns to Murray:

"Well, here's where you get to meet that cast after all."

Recoverin' from this shock, he's pulled out one his inevitable, black cigars, and now cocks his derby over one eye, and blusters:

"Yeah. But you can see it's a inside job, and I know these actors like a book. Have an answer for you in no time."

"I've heard that before," I sniffs, takin' in the room. "See anything of the weapon?"

"Not yet," he admits. "But it'll turn up."

"I've 'known 'em not to. May be under the body— won't know kill the doc 'comes. What's out this window?"

I hooks a boudoir lamp and pokes it out the window to the end of the cord. This illumines a light well, walled on three sides by the theater buildin' and open on the alley. The bottom, formed by the roof of the first floor, is ten feet below the window, and covered with earth and a few neglected shrubs and grass blades.

"Ah! A roof-garden," pipes Magimple, shoulderin' me aside. "There's probably footprints down there. So call up our expert on the preservation of physical evidence, and—"

"Aw, come down to earth," I growls.  "We got no such party, and you know it."

"That's the trouble workin' with a dinky little department. No staff, no equipment!"

He throws up his hands in disgust and starts for the door. Very well. I'll do it myself."

That's Magimple— everything high class and scientific. We don't do nothin' right around here.

"Nix!" I barks. " You stay right here till the wagon shows, while I see if I can get things lined up a little. When it's time for you to get scientific. I'll let you know."

He don't' like that, and hands me a dark frown as I pass out the door. But I know what I'm doin'. This is a hot settin' for a murder investigation, and it's gonna be a problem keepin' order. It's no time for Murray to go off on one of them tangents of his.

I find Goodman and Wenzel guardin' the doors, beatin' off the newspaper men. These guys claim they was invited to a party, and try and keep 'em out.

The show people are pretty well outa sight. This is a double blow to them, I discover, because it probably means the end of the tour. It seems the show was bein' kept alive by one of the late star's admirers, and the house looks dark for everybody. Accordin' to the door man, no one has left the buildin' since the shot, so that's that.

I get a list of the entire company from Goodman. Then the wagon shows up, with Smoot and Taylor, a handful of cops, and  a matron to handle the chorus.

Leadin' the way into the fatal dressin' room, I find Magimple nowhere in evidence; which is beyond me, because I didn't see him go out.

The doc eyes the unguarded body reproachfully. I recall Murray's roof-garden, poke my head out the window, and there he is herdin' over a lit match.

"Hey! What's the idea?" I demand.

"Say," he calls hack, "I don't find no gun, but there's footprints down here, just like I told 'you."

"Okay. Leave 'em there," I bawls. "Get along in here now, and gimme a hand."

"Be right with you," he mumbles.

Well, the doc can't give us much except she was shot at close range and died instantly. The bullet's lodged in the body, so he'll have to tell us about that later, and there's no gun.

The whole troupe lines the doorways and the balcony as the wicker basket makes its way down and out. Most of 'em are still in costume— an awestruck bunch of half-clad, grease-painted, South Sea islanders.

As the body goes out the door, you can feel the tension break. I hands my list over to Smoot and Taylor, with orders to run everybody into their dressin' rooms. Then me and Murray retires to the scene of the murder and sends for the star's maid.

ii

MRS. MCCARTHY is an old hoofer which gin and swollen ankles has put off the boards. She collapsed after the discovery of the body, and is only abroad now by grace of a pint of restorative which she's clutchin' with one hand under her apron. She left the dressin' room five minutes before the act closed, says she, and stood in the wings with Miss Gay's wrap. The actress took this; then sent her around the corner for a bromo. She heard the shot as she was mountin' the. stairway on her return.

"See any one leave this room?"

"She shakes Her head.

"See anything of a gun?"

"No, sor. I just took one look and then run after Mr. Goodman."

"See Here;" fires Magimple, brandishin' his cigar. "Looks to me like this gal got rid of you so she could entertain some visitor between acts."

"Between acts she dressed, sor."

"But why didn't she send the callboy for that bromo?"

"Because he was busy rushin' beer," she hands him.

"Say, you can't tell me she didn't have affairs," insists Murray.

"Only one at a time," says the loyal servant, noddin' toward a framed photo on the dressin' table. "I know of no affairs that should've caused any one to do 'er ill. She had a heart of gold. Look at 'er totin' an old shoe like me along for a maid!  She was the spirit of goodness, rest 'er soul."

She swallows hard and nervously fingers the gin bottle. We lets her go.

Murray turns belligerently on the framed photo.

"Who is this mug?"

"Eddie Cooke, the millionaire who was backin' the show," I supplies. "Lives in New York, so he's out."

"All right." He hunches his fat shoulders. "But we'll soon get to the bottom of this. I know these people; they're always willin' to talk."

"They talk too good," if you ask me," I sniffs. " The old lady made monkeys outa you."

"Oh yeah?" Full of indignation, he follows me next door.

This is occupied by Fritzie Cooper, the nifty blonde co-star. With her is Rex Mulford, and one Betsy Pringle who steps outa the chorus for a few specialty numbers. These two are clad for the street, but Fritzie is still in her island plumage— a cocktail in one hand, a sandwich in the other— A big blowout, you recall, was scheduled for back stage to celebrate the openin'.

Well, all the ingredients bein' on hand— and everybody feelin' in need of 'em— they have somehow filtered around. I don't like the look of this, but I guess the boys couldn't stop it.

Magimple strikes an imposin' posture while I go through for the missin' weapon. Then he opens up on Fritzie.

"What was you doin' when you heard the shot?"

"Powderin' my armpits, since you ask."

I was afraid of this. Magimple winces and tries again

"What did' you think it was?"

"A shot."

"Then why didn't you investigate?"

"Because I don't rate a maid like the illustrious star. Maybe you don't know it, but the less you wear the more careful you gotta be putting it on."

"But didn't you poke your head out the door or nothin?"

"Not till I was fully clad. By that time Goodman was there."

"Did you hear any noises? Anything to suggest that Miss Gay wasn't alone?"

"Didn't have to. I knew she wasn't alone."

Murray's eyes, pop wide, and Betsy Pringle springs up with a cry of protest: Fritzie!"

"Well, she wasn't," flares Fritzie. "He flew out to Boise, and he flew out to Denver. Why wouldn't he fly out here? I followed her, bow legs all along the balcony. She turned in her door just ahead of me. I heard her just as plain as day: 'Eddie! You here?' "

Pringle turns a dumb appeal to Mulford, and them two have a drink.

"You mean Eddie Cooke?" Magimple perks.

"That's right; the Biscuit King, and Lola's sugar daddy."

"For heck's sake, Fritzie," cries Pringle. "Think of yer job!"

"Aw, l ain't got arthritis." The co-star curls her lip with disdain. "I can get a job any time."

Blushin' scarlet, Pringle springs forward and clutches Murray by lapels.

"Listen," she cries; "she's just half off her nut, with the show closin' and all. What did McCarthy tell you? Just answer me that."

"That's my business," splutters Murray, backin' up.

"But it was a lotta slush, wasn't it?"

She hangs right on.

"Well, don't believe it. Gay wasn't packin' McCarthy for love. It was to keep her quiet about Fred, that's what. McCarthy had a son she thought the world of.  Two years ago Gay done him dirty and he jumped off a East River pier. Ask the. old girl about that and you'll start getting somewhere!" She flings away and grabs for the bottle.

Murray gulps, and beads of perspiration start wellin' out on his forehead. I tackle Mulford, and get the fastest one yet. He don't know nothin' says he, except that if we run out of suspects he can give us two or three. To which Fritzie adds that he mighta done it himself, and how th' deuce long are we gonna keep 'em cooped up like this?

"Stick around!" barks Magimple, and makes for the door.

"Whew!" he emits, moppin' his brow. "Didn't I tell you this would be a cinch? Look't, we got three suspects already. Do you think Mrs. McCarthy coulda jumped out that window ?"

"Aw, don't be a simp!"

"Well, somebody did. Anyhow, she had a motive, and she's gotta be held on suspicion. And Mulford oughta be held. And now I'm gonna check up. on this guy Cooke. Look over that list, Shorty, and see if there's any other Eddies in this screwy outfit."

I hunt up the list while he's callin' headquarters, and then take a sour look around.

All is not well. This gang is bred in the tradition that the show must go on regardless; and likewise it seems, so must the party. Our men are doin' the best they can, but the whole company is now playin' hide-an'- go-seek, with the cops "it."

On both floors, doors are openin' and closin', and the corridors are full of laughter.

Magimple rejoins me. "The cap'n says swell," he beams.

"Yeah. You probably give him the idea," I snorts. "Listen, we've gotta move through this bunch fast before they get out of hand. You take Smoot and work half this list while I take Taylor and cover the other half."

So we start, and, no reflection on the profession in general, this is the toughest bunch of guys and dolls I've ever seen assembled on one bill. The outfit is rotten to the core with intrigues and jealousies. Everybody's tongue is loosened by liquor and the common calamity, and do they talk!

A few minutes later I pass Magimple in the hall.

"Zowie!" he elates, rubbin' his hands.  "I got two more. Fritizie coulda done it; she threatened to cut the Gay's tuneless windpipe while they was playin' Salt Lake. And Betsy Pringle had a swell motive. They tell me Cooke was her lumpa sugar before Lola lit on 'im."

Smoot, standin' patiently behind him, taps a finger on his forehead.

"I'm hearin' the' same line, Murray," I warns. "Don't let it addle ya. What we need is facts, and that missin' revolver."

"I know," he rattles. "But there's five arrests I can make already!"

He. bustles off down the corridor. I shakes my head and turns to Taylor.

"What do you think?"

"I think they're ten up on us," he snorts, "and we're listenin' to a lotta belch."

"Me too," says I. "We'll try a couple more, and then chuck it. In the meantime here's somethin' that occurs to me. You phone the office and have 'em check on the suicide of one Fred McCarthy in New York two years ago."

He departs, and I walk in on comedian. He's alone— not even a bottle— and he, eyes me darkly through his burnt cork as I frisks him and combs the joint. But when I'm through, he opens up complete in one issue.

"I had nothin' against the star but her salary. I was down havin' a smoke in the wash room and didn't even hear the shot. I only know one thing; that it'd be smart of you to find out who ditched a revolver in the life-boat."

"The which ?"

"The life-boat. One of the props for act two."

"Oh! Thanks."

Outside I bumps into Magimple again.

"Got another!" he pipes. "And this one's got teeth in it."

"Yeah. Hen's teeth," husks Smoot. He follows him in next door, and I makes for the balcony.

iii

THE scene that greets me from below is a bedlam. The party has refused to remain confined to the dressin' rooms, and has overflowed to the stage. About twenty of the cast have— improvised— a night club outa sundry props, and are takin' turns about as patrons and entertainers. At present, Fritzie Cooper is doin' the rumba. And the music for this classic is bein' furnished by two chorus men beatin' on the bottom of that upturned life-boat.

At sight of this I leap for the stairs. When I'm halfway down, th e place blinks into total darkness. Whoever hid that gun has pulled the main light switch.

A composite scream issues from the stage and the upper rooms.

I miss my footin', and go headlong.

"Lights!" I howls, scramblin' to my feet. The Taylor, back on the job, shoves me his torch. I pick up the boat and we both dash toward the figure crouched beside it. The dislodged gun is clutched in the man's hand as we drag him upright.

"Sol Goodman!" I exclaims:

"But I ain't got a thing to do with it!" he squeals in-terror. "Simply I seen my gun up there and knew it wouldn't do me no good to have it found by the body,  and—"

"Find the janitor and get these lights on," I orders.

Somebody shoves this guy forward and the restores the lights. We clap bracelets on Goodman and lock him up, and a momentary hush is shocked into the assemblage. But only momentary.

That three minutes of darkness has dislodged everybody aloft, and now we're in for it. Down the stairs they come floodin', chorus and all, past two helpless cops and the frantic matron. In their wake is Magimple, wildly wavin' his arms.

"What's the idea dousin' them lights?" he blusters. "I was just gettin' another lead from the soprano when she walked out on me in the dark."

"Never mind that now," I snaps, and tells him what I've got on Goodman.

"But his name ain't Eddie," he objects.

"I know, but maybe Fritzie was hearin' things. Anyhow he's our best bet so far, and if we can dig up a motive on him—"

"I got a motive," he pops, and starts pawin' through his notes.

"Get a load of this; Lola Gay got Goodman his job. Ever since then she's not only been managin' the company, but nickin' him for a quarter of his salary!"

"Gosh! That fits."

"Sure," he beams. "I got motives for everybody. Wait a minute now,' and, I'll  tell you if he done it." He hunches his fat shoulders and plunges off through, the millin' crowd.

I looks around  in despair. The whole company is now on the stage, and mixed with 'em is half a dozen hawks of the press.

"Who let them guys in?" I explodes.

"I cannot tell a lie," grunts Smoot. "Magimple done it."

"He would!" I chokes, and dives for a phone. Because a press account this melee ain't gonna do the department no good. If we confiscated the liquor in the beginnin', we mighta stood a chance, but we couldn't do nothin' now without startin' a riot. You can handle a bunch of men, but not a lotta women, and the boys have got all they can do to keep the curtain down and the doors guarded.

"Just gonna call you," says the sergeant. "Your bullet was a thirty-two."

"Good," says I, this bein' the bore of Goodman's gun.

"And here's a definite due: There was half of a plain gold cuff link caught in the sleeve of the dead gal's dressin' gown,"

"Okay. Is the cap'n there? Put me through to him."

Allen's voice is full of anxiety:

"Well, how's it shapin' up?"

"Yes and no."

"But Magimple phoned it was in the bag," he complains.

"It's a difficult situation," says I, steppin' careful. "In fact, if it would be anyways possible, I think the whole gang should be dumped right in the cooler."

"I'll make it possible!" barks the old boy, " They can't bill an indecent show in this town, stage a murder, and then top it off with a brawl! Line 'em up. I'll have some wagons sent right over."

WELL, you could as easy line up a swarm of bees, but we do the best we can. Alt the bums in the jug is turned out in their night-shirts; our two Marias, both city ambulances, and a dump truck backs up to the stage door and we pour out the works. Includin' the press!

Hopefully I examine all the cuffs. Goodman is the last out— wearin' a button shirt. Oh well, he coulda changed it somewhere, thinks I.

As the last echo dies away down the alley, I survey the empty stage— now a wreck of torn scenery, broken flasks, and shreds of blue uniform— and breathe a hearty sigh. Then here comes Magimple through the back doorway, totin' a long ladder, and smeared with white from the chin down.

"What'n heck you been into ?" I blinks.

"Plaster Paris, which the janitor uses to kill rats. He mixes it with corn meal, and—"

"Omit that. What you been doin' with it?'

"Makin' a cast of them footprints," he states proudly.

"Oh. Well, give us a hand now; we've got a busted cuff link to locate."

"Go right ahead," he shrugs, dustin' his broad front. "I never been no hand for set routine. It's always scientific deduction which solves these cases in the end, and as soon as that plaster sets—"

"Sure. I know," I sighs. " Come on, boys."

Well, we turned the theater inside out and don't locate that cuff link. I stagger home about dawn and find Magimple snorin' peaceful in the security of his plaster cast. And of course, I hope he's right.

I hit the squad room bright and early, open the mornin' paper and scan the heads. Eighty arrests have been made, and a statement is expected.

"So they wouldn't talk, eh?" cracks the sergeant. I just grins. It looks like for once a case is treatin' me right. But did you ever know me to have any luck?

The phone rings. The sergeant thumbs significantly toward the sanctum, and I straightens my tie and marches in.

Cap'n Allen is in conference with our consultin' criminologist. He greets me with a troubled frown and comes right to the point.

"Your bullet don't match your gun barrel."

"You mean she wasn't killed with Goodman's gun?" I blinks.

"That's what I mean," says he, tappin' the expert's photos. "You've got to dig deeper there, or you've got no case. Er— what's Magimple doin'?"

"Him! Oh, I think he's cleanin' up some tag ends down at the theater."

"Good. Valuable man— thorough scientific. Well that's all, Pepper. Get goin'."

I ducks back into the squad room much deflated. And there stands Magimple depositin' a newspaper parcel on the sergeant's desk. Bulgin' with importance he undoes this, revealin' a hunk of dirty plaster about the size of a shoe box.

I takes a long squint at it and explodes:

"What's that? A bust of Napoleon?"

"That's the cast I made last night."

"Aw nerts! And here I thought maybe you had somethin'."

"I've got the footprint of the murderer," he splutters indignantly, " and as soon as I match it up with one of Goodman's shoes—"

"You've lost a chapter. Goodman is out," I informs, and spills him the bad news. right— all right!"

He lifts, a soothin' hand. "We've got plenty more suspects; ain't we? You don't see me tearin' my hair. Just gimme a little time, and—"

The phone rings. It's his reply from New York. Mr. Edward Cooke cannot be located, and it's rumored that he departed by plane for the west.

"See?" Murray spreads his palms bountifully. "There's another one. When you locate him, Shorty, just bring me one of his shoes, and—"

"Aw more nerts!" I bawls, hunts up Smoot and Taylor and goes stormin' out.

iv

WELL, to cut a long mornin' short, we picks up that photo at the theater— figurin' if Cooke's here he's incognito— and about noon I nabs him boardin' a plane at the airport. I books him quietly under his misnomer, and then hustles down to report.

What I walk into is plenty.

Allen is cloistered with the coroner, the D. A., and the City Manager, and the air is blue.

"You! Do you know what you've handed in here?" he explodes, poundin' the reports piled on his desk. "When we started on these people, to shape up the coroner's, investigation, every last one of 'em went back on his story!"

"No foolin'?" I gulps.

"I have just said so," he snaps. "You were listenin' to a lot of drunken drivel and stored up venom and didn't have sense enough to know it! Here the case is fourteen hours old and hasn't progressed an inch. What am I to tell the papers?"

"I just pulled in Eddie Cooke," I mentions modestly.

"You did! Why didn't you say so?"

The room rises with one accord, and I leads the way.

But where to? Lola Gay was murdered at 9:30, and damned if Cooke don't produce four witnesses to prove that his plane didn't arrive till midnight! They let him outa there so fast it burns the hinges, but the damage's done. The papers have smelled a rat and matched him up with their morgue photos, and by two o'clock the streets is full of extras on the arrest, with a broad hint at the collapse of all existin' evidence.

Allen nearly chokes tellin' me about it.

"In all my life I never seen the like of this!" he raves. "You were right there at the scene of the crime, and you've bungled it from first to last: We'll be lucky if we aren't sued for false arrest. And say, what do you know about these people's shoes?"

"Shoes?" I explodes.

"That's what I said. They claim they all woke up this mornin' without any footwear."'

"Nothin'!''

"Very well. Get goin'. I can only hold 'em forty-eight hours, you know. Start back at the beginnin' and see if you can't work up a case."

I get goin'. If Magimple thinks I'm gonna run interference for him all his life he's crazy. What do I know about these people's shoes! Somethin' tells me I know plenty!

Arrived at our apartment I finds Bosco, our colored manservant, seated in the livin' room behind a ugly frown.

"Is Magimple here?"

He protrudes his thick lips toward the kitchen, and I kicks open the swing door. There stands Murray in a kitchen apron stirrin' a batch of plaster in a mixin' bowl with seventy-nine pairs of shoes piled up on the kitchen table!

"So here you are!" I cries.'"Listen. I found Cooke, but he got sprung in no time and the rest of the case has fallen apart like a dime watch."

"You mean out of eighty arrests and all them motives we've got no case?" he demands, incredulous.

"That's what I mean. We've got to start right at the beginnin' 'nd build up again.  Now here's somethin' that occurs to me: I've checked on the McCarthy suicide, and it was two weeks before they fished his body outa the drink. Now if you've ever seen a floater after two weeks—"

He's payin' me no heed at all, and now he cuts in:

"The shoe is yer positive— see?— leavin' a imprint which is negative. Now what you want is a split negative to compare with yer sample negatives. So you shellac yer positive, like this—" Here he picks up that malformed hunk of plaster and I howls;

"But, Murray, how many times must I tell you that ain't a footprint?"

"Eh? Since when ain't a print made by a foot a footprint?" he demands.

"I mean it ain't good for nothin'. It coulda been made by an ox, or a grompus, or a fallin' brickbat!"

"I say this is the murderer's foot-print, and the key to this whole business." Stubbornly he sets his triple chin, wavin the plaster under my nose, and suddenly I sees red.

"Gimme that!" Snatchin' it from him I heaves it at the wall, and it tinkles to the floor in a hundred pieces.

"Now bundle up 'them shoes," I barks, "and take 'em back to the jail before we get sued for 'em. Then you come along with me. Understand?"

But he's dropped to his knees beside the fragments and now he rises with a whoop.

"Look't! What'd I tell ya?" And there in his fat fingers is half of a gold cufflink.

"'Well blow me fer a whistle!" I explodes. "Except it don't tell you nothin', because you don't know whose footprint that was."

He ain't listenin' He's back on the floor examinin' them fragments. And now he scrambles up and starts strugglin' outa the apron.

"Follow me!" he pipes, grabs his coat and hat on the way out, and don't even wait for the elevator.

"But see here now, Murray," I protests as we careens across town. "We got no time for any more hokus-pokus."

"Shut 'up!" he bellers. "I know what I'm doin'!"

He zooms down the alley in back of the theater, and sails through the stage door with his coat-tails flyin'. Inside all is dark and silent.

He pauses in the middle of the deserted stage; then makes for a crack of light showin' through a door at the rear.

We enter a small storeroom, and there on a box we find the janitor— a tired-lookin' young fella with a sad mustache— solemnly tapin' a busted broom handle.

"Hello." He looks up with surprise. "Somethin' I can do for ya?"

"Yeah," fires Murray, clutchin' him by  the collar.  "You can come along to headquarters for that murder last night."

"Me!" cries the guy, goin' white: "You musta made a mistake. I'm not with the show. My name is Wilson, and—"

" Your name is Mud," blustered Magimple. "And you done it all right." Snappin' the cuffs on him, he boosts him out to the car and then turns to me:

"I'll take him in. You go search his room and see what you find."

Well, what I find is a soiled shirt with a gold cuff link in one sleeve and the other empty, a thirty-two revolver, and half a dozen letters signed "Your loving mother."

These we check against Mrs. McCarthy's scribble, and have a full confession, in no time.

You see, Fred McCarthy was never dead at all, and his mother knew it. And she knew of his plan to confront Lola Gay with himself in person, hopin' for a reconciliation. But she didn't know of his determination to plug her if she turned him down. What Fritzie Cooper heard was the name "Freddie" not "Eddie."

He was waitin' in Lola's dressin' room at the end of the act, for her to rush into his arms. But she called him a bum instead. So he let her have it, dropped, down the wall, and into the window of the storeroom.

The shot was a big surprise to the old lady, but she covered for him the best she could by plantin' Goodman's gun. In fact it was the very angle I was startin' to work on, but how Magimple tumbled to it is a mystery to me.

Which it remains so till the next mornin', because I can't get near him the rest of the day, he's so busy gettin' his picture took. And you should see the mornin' papers:

STAR'S MURDERER TRAPPED

BY DEPARTMENT ACE!

INSPECTOR MAGIMPLE SCORES AGAIN!

"Hey!" I barks across the breakfast board. "What do they mean, '— guardian of our high moral standards as well as our law and order?' "

"Oh, that's about me closin' up the show." And another spoonful of oatmeal disappears.

"You closin' it up! Why, you was the most appreciative customer in the house!"

No answer. I reads on and strikes that plaster cast— 'to which he doggedly  held while all the rest of the force was being misled by the drunken testimony of the revelin' company.'

"Hey! What d'ya mean; you followed a straight line of testimony from the murderer's footprint to his door? That guy told us in his confession that he walked the brick cornice, and never once that evening set foot on that roof garden."

"Did he?" he coughs. "I didn't happen to notice."

"Yeah. There's times when you ain't very noticeable," I cries. "Listen here. How did you get onto that roof when you first went ploughin' around there?"

"Jumped outa the window."

"I knew it!" I howls. "Then what you done was to make a print of your own big foot !"

Slowly he lowers the paper and scowls at me reproachfully:

"What's the difference? It solved the case, didn't it?"

"Yeah," I splutters, beside myself. "But if you picked up that cuff link in yer own footprint, how did you know who dropped it there?"

"Simple," he munches, disappearin' again behind the news. "It wasn't picked up in the footprint. It was in the cast itself. So when you busted it, and I discovered that, I knew right away the janitor had dropped it in the plaster when he dished it out for me last night."

"What!" I collapses. "Of all the cockeyed luck! Honest t'gosh, Murray, you'd fall down a well and light in a rowboat!"

__________________

3: The Nameless Mummy

Arlton Eadie

1886-1935

Weird Tales May 1932

IN SPITE OF the fact that it was still within the hours of public admission, the lofty galleries of the Helmstone Museum were, save for an occasional uniformed attendant, absolutely deserted; and Peter Venn, the curator, rejoiced accordingly. Usually he was only too pleased to show visitors round the large and well-stocked museum over which he had charge, waxing especially eloquent over the treasures of the Egyptian section, in which it was particularly rich, but today he had work on hand which would monopolise his attention for many hours. By the bequest of a recently deceased collector, the museum had come into possession of a great number of Egyptian antiques, and it was to the examination and Classification of these that his labours were being directed.

The room in which he worked was situated at the extreme end of the Egyptian Gallery, being separated from it by a partition, the upper part of which was glass. By simply raising his head he could obtain an uninterrupted view of the long vista of decorated mummy-cases, carved sphinxes, and monuments which went to make up the more bulky contents, and it was owing to this fact that it was not thought necessary to have an attendant stationed in that particular room.

The task before Peter Venn was no light one. The objects with which his little room was crowded seemed to have been garnered promiscuously by their late owner and to have lain neglected for many years. One of the great mummy-cases had not even been opened, and it was only natural that this should first engage Peter Venn's attention. The study of Egyptology is notoriously full of surprises, and every unexamined relic of that long-dead civilisation may hold a secret that will startle the world.

It must be admitted that the appearance of the casket was such as to arouse his curiosity. It was of unpainted cedarwood, its sole ornamentation a figure of the Goddess Nout carved on the lid in an attitude as though she were shielding the body within with her protecting wings. But what puzzled Peter Venn most was the small bronze tablet fixed to the lid. This had been covered with a thick coating of bitumen, apparently with the object of concealing the identity of the mummy which lay within, and it was only after having expended two hours in removing this that he was able to see the inscription it bore. This, greatly to his amazement, proved to be written in Latin.

'Regna, honores, div tiae, caduca et incerta sunt,' he was able to read at last, and as he uttered the words he felt a thrill of exultation tingling his veins. 'He must have been an important, if not a royal, personage to have such an epitaph inscribed on his coffin,' he muttered to himself. 'There would be no point in writing of a poor and obscure man that "Kingdoms, honours, riches, are frail and fickle things". He was evidently a Roman— maybe one of the higher officers of the legions: that Julius Caesar sent to Egypt. Or perhaps it is even—'

Whilst he had been speculating on the identity of the body which lay within, Peter Venn had taken up his chisel and inserted it beneath the lid. His hand was already on paused, overcome with a strange feeling of helplessness that he could neither define or explain.

Peter was not an imaginative man, neither was he a novice in his profession. Years of constant association had blunted that feeling of involuntary awe with which the average person would regard the exposure of a body in its two-thousand-year-old resting-place; to him a mummy was just an interesting antiquity, to be examined, classified and ticketed before being placed in its glass case. But now, to his surprise and annoyance, he found himself suddenly overcome with a feeling very much like physical terror. And yet, strangely enough, the actual reason for his fear did not appear to be the mummy-case itself; it needed something more potent, more vital, more human to account for the sensation which possessed him. Slowly, unconsciously, as though actuated by a compelling volition alien to himself, Peter straightened up and looked through the glass partition, and a slight gasp came from between his parted lips as his eyes fell upon the figure of the woman who stood outside.

She was rather under medium height, slim and dark-haired, with small, delicately chiseled features and long, slightly almond-shaped eyes. Her dress was ordinary enough; a tailored costume of amber-coloured cloth with a small, close-fitting hat to match; but that was the last detail . of her appearance that Peter noticed. All his interest was centred on her face, and particularly her eyes, which. drew his own and held them with a compelling, hypnotic force.

Peter Venn was forty and a bachelor, and up to then women had played but a small part in his life. But now, as he looked into the eyes of this strange woman he seemed to see reflected in those almond-shaped pools of darkness a vision of his youthful hopes and dreams; once more he was filled with vague, romantic longings which he had thought he had long since outgrown. A slight flush crept into his pale cheeks and his eyes began to shine behind their double glasses. Almost without thinking what he did, Peter Venn opened the door of the partition.

'Good afternoon.' Even as he uttered it, the commonplace greeting sounded utterly banal, but it was the only opening he could think of. 'If you are interested in Egyptian antiquities I shall be most happy. to show you round.'

A slight smile hovered round the full, rich lips as she glanced at the long rows of glass cases.

'I am certainly interested, as you say,' she answered in a full, musical voice, 'but whether the information you are able to impart will be anything new is another matter.'

In spite of the smile which accompanied her words, their implied contempt for his knowledge caused a frown to gather on his forehead.

'I'm sure I beg your pardon.' His tone was slightly sarcastic. 'I was not aware that I was addressing one well versed in ancient lore. Perhaps it is I who should be the listener and you the expounder of the meaning of the relics around us?'

Her slender shoulders lifted in a tiny shrug.

'Perhaps,' she agreed, with such composure that Venn felt as though he were being laughed at. His reputation as an Egyptologist was no small one, and it was intolerable to think this slip of a girl should set her knowledge on an equal with his. There was a somewhat grim smile on his lips as he drew the sun-blind off one of the centre cases and pointed to a roll of papyrus which lay spread out beneath.

'This is written in the hieratic characters of the Thirteenth Dynasty,' he explained gravely. 'I should be very grateful for a little assistance in translating it.'

He paused, waiting for the look of confusion to expose the shallowness of her boasted learning. To his unbounded amazement, however, the girl stepped up to the case, and, with a mere casual glance at the queer-looking writing, at once began to translate:

' "This is the record of Manenka-Ra, High Priest of Horus, son of Isis, He who presents the souls of the departed to Osiris, after Thoth, having weighed their hearts in the balance and found if they be righteous and true—' "

She broke off and looked up with a little smile. 'Need I read further? This is so elementary, you know."

For a full minute Peter Venn remained staring at her. Who was this entrancing young lady who so glibly ran off the complicated script that had taken him, professor money he was, months to decipher?

'Who are you?' he asked curiously. 'And how is it that one so young as you is able to read a language that requires many years of study even to grasp the rudiments?'

Again her shoulders lifted in that enigmatical shrug. 'What does it signify where I gained my knowledge? The only fact that matters is that I do possess knowledge so deep and far-reaching that your mind can not do more than enter on the outermost fringe of its boundless, unexplored territory.'

Venn looked puzzled, as well he might. 'I'm afraid I do not understand,' he murmured.

Again that little shrug that he was beginning to know so well. 'Naturally.' The air of complacence with which she assumed her superiority almost took his breath away. 'Some time— soon, perhaps— you shall know who and what I am. In the meantime I should be very glad to see those objects which have recently been bequeathed to your museum.'

Venn's forehead creased in perplexity. Here was another mystery. Scarcely anybody outside the staff had been 'informed of the bequest, yet here was a complete stranger apparently in possession of the full details. But he seemed to recognise the futility of seeking an explanation. After all, it was only another extraordinary circumstance connected with this most extraordinary young lady. He shrugged and pointed towards his room behind the glass partition.

'You are quite at liberty to examine them,' he told her. 'They are in there, and—'

He broke off short and started forward with outstretched arms. For no sooner had she reached the threshold of the. room which contained the unnamed mummy than she uttered a low, strangled cry and staggered back, limp and nerveless. Half leading, half carrying, he got her to the nearest chair and prepared to go in search of a glass of water. But she stopped him with a sudden gesture.

'It is nothing,' she said, though her trembling lips and ashen features belied her. words. 'A sudden faintness, that is all. I shall be better— soon.'

He looked from her to the unopened mummy-case. Deep down in his mind a suspicion was beginning to form that the coming of this strange girl was intimately connected with the mummy that he was on the point of exposing. Moreover, he could have sworn that it was the sight of the case which had called forth the display of emotion he had just witnessed.

'It seems as if this mummy-case is not entirely unknown to you," he said slowly.

She inclined her dark head with a gesture of assent.

'I have seen it... once... many years ago,' she answered hesitatingly. 'And... that is the reason of my presence here.'

'I knew it!' cried Peter Venn triumphantly.

With a quick movement that somehow reminded him of the sinuous glide of a panther, the girl rose to her feet and came towards him. Beautiful though her face was, there was now a look on it that filled him. with vague alarm. The red lips were set and determined; the eyes held in their starry depths the blaze of an indomitable will. She glided so close to him that he could feel her warm breath fanning his cheek.

'You will open that mummy-case tonight, after the 'museum is closed,' she said, speaking in low, hurried tones. I will be present, and after we have seen— what we shall see— I will tell you such a story as human ears have never listened. to before.'

Peter Venn drew back, aghast. 'What you ask is impossible!' he cried. 'My position— my reputation—"

She raised her dark eyes to his, and once again he was conscious of the same mental numbness that had preceded her first coming. It seemed as though her will was fighting for ascendency with his own— fighting and slowly but surely

'At ten o'clock tonight.'

The words were a command rather than a question. Hidden fires seemed to glow in. her eyes as she uttered them. Peter Venn threw out his hands with the gesture of one who leaves the future in the hands of fate.

'Very well— at ten,' he said hoarsely.

A moment later he was alone.

During the ensuing hours Peter Venn did nothing but consider his extraordinary interview with the strange girl, and the more he considered it the uglier the whole business seemed. That he, a responsible and respectable official, having in his charge objects whose value was literally beyond all price, had consented to admit an utter stranger to the museum at the dead of night seemed almost beyond belief. Yet he undoubtedly had consented. Why? He asked himself the question a thousand times as he made his way through the darkened streets to his bachelor home; it dinned itself in his ears as he sat over his solitary supper; the very ticking of the tall grandfather clock seemed to reiterate the maddening query as it recorded the passing of the sounds which brought him nearer the appointed time. Why? ...why... why?

Although she was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen, he was not, he told himself angrily, in love with her; fascinated, dominated, maybe, but no more in love with her than the fluttering bird is in love with the serpent whose glittering eyes lure it to its destruction. Oh, why had he not asserted himself, told her that the thing she asked was impossible to grant, and firmly but gently dismissed her? Yes, that was what he must do. He would keep the appointment, but only to tell her that he had changed his mind and any request to view the new exhibits must be made through the directors of the museum.

And yet—

Peter Venn found his newly formed resolution wavering as he remembered those compelling yet adorable eyes. After all, what was it that she asked of him? Merely that she should be present when he examined the strange mummy.

Surely there would be no great harm in humouring her whim, or curiosity, or superstition, or whatever was at the back of her unusual desire. And, to confess the truth, he himself was conscious of no small curiosity to see the outcome of the affair.

Who was this amazingly persuasive young lady who was able to read the hieratic script of two thousand years ago as readily as he could read the evening paper? Was she aware of the contents of that Roman-Egyptian mummy-case? Was she—?

The mellow chimes of the clock announcing half-past ten brought his speculations to an abrupt close. Rising hastily, he hurried on his hat and coat and, telling his housekeeper that he had an engagement that would probably keep him very late indeed, issued forth to keep his tryst.

IT WAS just on the hour when Peter Venn turned into the street in which the private door of the museum was situated, 'only to find it lying silent and deserted. The fair unknown had not kept the appointment— he had been fooled!

He was surprised at the mingled emotions which this discovery called forth in his mind. He should, he told himself, have felt relieved at the respite, and possibly a little angry at the trick which had been played on him. But actually these feelings were swamped by the pang of acute disappointment that shot through his heart at the sight of the empty street. He paused irresolutely; then, with a shrug and a sigh, he turned to go.

Without warning, as though it had suddenly materialised out of the shadows, a hand touched his arm, and a voice, clear, musical, but intensely low, spoke to him.

'Did you think that I should fail to come, my friend?' A slight smile rose to the girl's lips as she noted the amazement depicted on his face as he swung round. 'I have been hiding in the shadows, awaiting your arrival. Our task has risks: enough without adding to them by courting the observation. of chance passers-by. But time presses. We must do what we came to do before the watchman makes his rounds at midnight.'

Peter paused in the act of inserting his pass-key in the door. 'How do you know of that?' he asked, but she gave: an impatient shake of her head.

"What matter how I know? Proceed, my Peter, and cease to puzzle over trifles. There will be other, far deeper, mysteries to occupy your thoughts before morning.'

So sinister was the tone in which she uttered the words that Peter Venn found his early suspicions returning with redoubled force.

'Indeed?' he began. 'In that case—'

'Be silent— and open that door!'

Such was the imperious command of that quick sibilant order that Venn, actuated by an impulse which overruled both caution and fear, inserted the key and opened the door.

It was not the first occasion on which Peter Venn had been in the museum at night. An ardent delver into the lore of the past, he had often remained poring over some fragile roll of papyrus or musty black-leather tome until the early hours of the morning, but never had those shadowy halls and galleries seemed so full of eerie mystery as they did that night. The faint echoes, which their stealthy foot-steps sent floating along the silent corridors, sounded like ghostly whisperings; the beam of the electric pocket-lamp which the girl had switched on sent uncouth, grotesque shadows dancing on the walls; heavy odours, sickly sweet, yet death-like, clung about the hall where the still, linen-swathed mummies lay in their long sleep. It was with a feeling of positive relief that he at last entered his private room and knew that the time for action had arrived.

Pausing only to remove his hat and overcoat, Peter Venn immediately set to work to prise up the coffin-lid of the unnamed mummy. But the task was long and tedious; for, eager and excited though he undoubtedly was, he did not 'neglect the precautions which long years of handling frail and precious objects had ingrained in him. Cloth pads had to be placed beneath the fulcrum of the tool which he was using as a lever, in order to prevent the metal splintering the aged. wood; numerous wedges had to be inserted into the gradually widening space to prevent the heavy lid slipping back as soon as he withdrew the point of the tool. But at last the lid was clear of numerous tongues of wood that had held it in position, and, exerting all his strength, he lifted it off and placed it out of the way in a corner of the room.

Inside the coffin, filling it to within a few inches of the top, was a quantity of withered flowers, amongst which the lotus could still be recognised, and these completely hid the body from view. But as soon as he had swept aside the first layer he caught the gleam of yellow metal among the withered petals. His heart gave a sudden bound at the sight. Only one metal could have retained its lustre undimmed through the ages which had elapsed since the casket was sealed, and that was gold. Had he stumbled on a treasure unawares?

A cloud of fine dust rose from the shrivelled leaves and blossoms as he scooped them up with trembling hands and tumbled them on the floor. Coughing, half blinded, consumed with that frantic excitement which the true antiquarian feels when on the brink of a unique discovery, Peter Venn worked on until the body was completely revealed. Hitherto he had worked by the light of the little electric pocket-lamp; but now, regardless of the risk of discovery, he switched on the lights and stood regarding his find with glistening eyes.

'Well, I've certainly never seen a mummy like this before!' he muttered. 'But what a find! Ye gods! What an unprecedented find!'

The body was that of a tall, heavily built man, clad from head to foot in the richly wrought accoutrements of a Roman officer of the highest rank. His helmet, cuirass, greaves and armlets were elaborately decorated with figures taken from the mythology of ancient Rome, and had either been heavily plated with gold or else were composed of the solid metal. Contrary to the usual Egyptian custom, the body was not encased in linen swathings, but whatever method of embalming had been used, it had fulfilled its purpose well. The flesh was firm and not discoloured; the features composed and life-like. The countenance was bold. and remarkably handsome, though the mouth betrayed a slight weakness which the dark beard failed quite to conceal. Although both the beard and the short, curling hair were shot with grey, it was clear that he had been still in the full vigour of manhood when death had overtaken him — suddenly, it seemed, for his features showed no trace of the ravages of a long illness.

All these things Venn noted in a few seconds. Then he saw something else — a robe of Imperial purple caught on the left shoulder with a jewelled clasp.

'An Emperor— a Roman Caesar!' he gasped, and looked closer at the marble-like countenance. 'Can it be Julius Caesar? Impossible— he was a shorter man and much older when he died. Who then? What Roman ruler died in Egypt? What, is it possible that this is—'

He bent forward and snatched up an object that lay upon the shining corselet. It was a small square of wood, thickly coated with wax — one of the 'tablets' which took the place of notebooks in ancient times. Upon it a few words had been scratched in a trembling hand.

'Aut Caesar aut nullus— Either Caesar or nothing,'  Peter Venn read with staring eyes, and then the almost illegible signature beneath: 'Marcus Antonius.'

For a moment he stood like a man turned to stone as he strove to realise the stupendous importance of his discovery.

'Mark Antony?' he muttered.

'The friend of Julius Caesar, the conqueror of Brutus and Cassius— the man who won the whole world and then threw it away for the love Queen Cleopatra—  myself!' said a low, sad voice at his elbow.

So absorbed had Venn been that he had quite forgotten the presence of the girl. At the sound of her voice he raised his eyes, stared for an instant at the vision that confronted him across the body of the dead Emperor, then recoiled with a cry.

She had thrown off the long evening wrap and now appeared in what seemed to him like a fancy-dress costume of an elaborate and rather daring nature, consisting as it did almost entirely of flashing jewels. Jewelled was the fringed girdle which encircled her slender waist, also the deep golden collar round her neck. Rubies gleamed in the eyes of the royal asp upon her brow; sapphires and emeralds flashed from the ground as she moved her sandalled feet. She seemed less like a woman than a flame of living fire.

'Are you mad?' he cried. 'Cleopatra lived two thousand years ago and committed suicide over her lover's body after his defeat by Octavianus at Alexandria.'

'Are you so certain of this?' she asked slowly.

'Of course. She died by the bite of an asp—'

The eyes of the golden serpent on her brow flashed red fire as she shook her head, a mocking smile playing about her lips the while.

'The old fable! Started by the Queen from the motives of policy, spread by common report, garnered by the ancient historian, Plutarch, and recorded in his Lives; woven into undying poetry by Shakespeare in his famous play; repeated blindly by the smaller fry of the modern literary world— truly the story has many godfathers. Yet it is a fable. nevertheless. Cleopatra did not die at Alexandria. 'She stands before you now!'

Peter Venn attempted to signify his opinion of her assertion by uttering a derisive laugh. But somehow the laugh refused to come. Wild though her words were, there was something so tragic in her-manner that, fiercely though his reason might fight against it, he found his scepticism wavering. Surely, he argued, it must be something more than a mere coincidence that brought her to him on the very night that the coffin was opened.

'I promised you a mystery, did I not, my professor?' she went on. 'Listen, and you shall hear one— aye, and behold a picture of ancient Egypt more vivid and moving than a lifetime of poring over musty records could bring to your mind. Know then, Cleopatra— Plutarch notwithstanding— did not slay herself when Octavianus Caesar and his centurions came to drag her in chains to grace his triumph in Rome. Long years before, she had penetrated the Great Pyramid and wrested from its most secret place, in its most secret chamber deep down in the living rock, the most wonderful secret in the world. There, from the finger-tips of the statue of Isis, the Great Mother of All, fall the blood-red drops which well up from the very vitals of this planet, the mystic life-giving and life-preserving essence to which all nature owes its-existence. And whosoever drinks of that draught shall never taste mortal death. I drank of it long before the great Julius fell beneath the daggers of Brutus and the. rest and behold! I am living yet!

'Of the priest of Isis who revealed this wondrous secret tome, and of what befell him later, I do not intend to speak. Suffice to say that no sooner did I feel that immortal vitality coursing through my veins like growing fire than I resolved that-I alone should hold the secret of its hidden source until I could find a fitting mate, who, after I had given to him this precious gift, should rule the world with me. I emerged from the Pyramid— alone and from that hour began my task of bringing the world to my feet. You must read the history of that period to judge how far I succeeded in that aim. Kings and rulers became pawns in the game whose stake was supremacy— provinces the squares of the chessboard on which it was played— the whole known world was the board itself. I played and— for a time— won. For with the fuller, richer life bestowed by the mystic draught there had come a deeper, wiser perception of my fellow-creatures; a power to read their hidden thoughts, a knowledge how to use their wisdom and their folly, their virtues and their failings, for my own ends. But of all those whom I used and flung aside there was not one who had the power to light the flame of love within my heart. It seemed as if the power I had stolen from the Gods was a two-edged sword, wounding its Wielder with its backward stroke. While investing my body with immortality, it seemed to have killed the power of love in my soul. My triumphs and conquests turned to Dead Sea fruit in my mouth; it seemed as if I were destined to be the richest yet poorest of womankind. I was even beginning to consider taking the alternant which the dead priest had entrusted to me; a pinch of greenish powder, enclosed in a hollow emerald set in a ring, which would counteract the life-giving draught and render me again mortal. My resolution was almost taken, when there came into my life the man whose body lies before you.'

She stretched out her hand and laid it on the pallid brow with a gesture of infinite tenderness. Venn, his mind a tumult in which sanity fought to overcome a belief in the impossible, waited in silence for her to continue.

'Long before we met I had heard reports of Marcus Antonius, the Triumvir who with Octavianus and Lepidus ruled the Roman Empire. A brave, vain, handsome and fickle-minded soldier was the character that common rumour gave him. When I received his summons to appear before him in Cilicia to answer for having assisted Cassius in the recent war against the Triumvirs, I thought the task of changing my judge into my suppliant would be an easy one. I sailed down the River Cydnus to meet him, in a barge with gilded hull and sails of royal purple, rowed by silver oars which beat time to the music of flutes and harps, He stood to receive me on the shore in a golden chariot drawn by milk-white steeds, a wreath of ivy upon his proud head, and snowy mantle over his armour of dazzling gold. There were no words of recrimination or defence uttered now. Instead, a feast was spread and the multitude rejoiced, crying out that Bacchus was come to feast with Venus, for the common good of Asia. The sword was buried in the wine-cup, and softly-voiced lovers' vows took the place of the clash of contending legions. Nor was it pretence on my part. The sacred fire of love had kindled in my heart; I had found the man who was to sit by my side, god-like and immortal in very truth, ruling the world with me.'

Peter Venn started and a dull red flush appeared on his sallow cheeks. So small a part had women played in his life that it needed the pangs of jealousy to reveal the fact that he loved this strange, beautiful being who had drifted across his path. He forgot the tale she was telling, with its manifold impossibilities; forgot that her own words proclaimed her either as an immortal being or else a lunatic; forgot that she was young and beautiful, he middle-aged and bent with study. All he knew was that he loved her. Mad or sane, mortal or undying, every fibre in his body impelled him to crush her slender form to his and shower kisses on those red, red lips until the light of love awoke in her long, slumberous eyes. She was incomparable, divine! Were her story true, small wonder that she had swayed the destinies of nations as a hurricane shakes a clump of reeds!

Controlling himself with an effort, he realised that she was speaking again.

'For a space our lives were one long series of fêtes and banquets, throughout which I narrowly observed the behaviour of my chosen consort, weighing his soul's worth in a balance as fine as a jeweller's scales; ageing, considering, and at last doubting. Handsome he was, and of a noble carriage, fearless in battle and generous to a fault; but this heart was fickle as the spring winds. I hesitated while Octavianus' fleet and legions mustered against my beloved, nor did his defeat at Actium spur me to the deed. Only after Antony's troops had deserted and he himself was a hunted fugitive did I form my resolve.

'But I had tarried too long. Antony, hearing a false report of my death, had already fallen on his sword. He died before I could reach him, and Olympus, my physician, a man whose skill exceeded that of the greatest masters of the craft, caused him to be embalmed and buried in a secret place. Poor Olympus! He was a faithful servant, faithful unto death. He was captured by the victorious troops of Octavianus the following day, and died under torture rather than reveal the tomb of Antony.

'But I was allowed but little time for lamentation. News was brought that the enemy was advancing. I did not fear death— indeed I would rather have welcomed it— but I would never adorn the triumphant progress of the man who  had torn my loved one from me. My preparations were quickly made. One of my female slaves, who resembled me somewhat in face and figure, was dressed in my crown and robes, laid upon the royal couch, and slain by the bite of an asp. Her violently contorted features easily passed for mine. The Romans proclaimed my death. I was safe.'

A tone of infinite weariness had crept into her voice, but when she resumed her tale it was in livelier accents. She was like a jaded traveller who quickens his pace in a last effort to reach the long-desired goal.

'Aye, I was safe, and yet I longed for death. All the pomp and power which I could still grasp by stretching out my hand seemed as nothing now that Antony was dead— less than nothing, for now my immortality meant nothing but a long, empty pilgrimage through the world. I longed and prayed for the death I had defied. Then I thought of the green powder which would bring oblivion. I eagerly searched my belongings. It was not there. Then I remembered. I had given the ring to Antony at one of our feasts, laughingly telling him it was the most precious thing in the world. In my grief and distraction I had allowed. him to be. interred with the ring still on his finger.

'Night and day I searched for the tomb— I searched far more diligently for the secret of Death than I had for that of Life. But Olympus had done his work too well; the tomb could not be found. And he himself had died with his secret untold.

'From that hour my boasted immortality was but a living death. All my thoughts and energy were now directed, not to the shaping of nations and the dominating of men, but to search for those few grains of green powder which would buy my freedom from the life that had become a burden and a punishment. I shudder now as I recall those dreary, dreary years. I searched, I explored, I bribed, I cajoled— aye, I tortured and slew that I might find the hidden tomb. But it seemed as if I should never again have possession of the drug I craved— until today.'

'Today?' echoed Peter Venn, raising his eyebrows.

'Yes.' She lifted the dead hand and slipped an emerald ring from one of the fingers. 'Here is my order of release!'

She raised it to her lips— to kiss it, Venn thought. Too late he saw her real intention. The bezel of the ring had flown open as her finger pressed a hidden spring, releasing a tiny pinch of green powder between her eager lips. Venn dashed forward and caught her as she swayed .

Shock— horror— apprehension— the three emotions beat upon his brain, numbing it as though with physical blows. Everything before his eyes went blurred and indistinct, and when his vision cleared he found he was holding a withered, jewel-clad corpse.

At twelve o'clock, when the old night-watchman made his usual round, he found Peter Venn apparently hard at work at his accustomed task.

'So there were two o' them there mummies in that box, sir?' he said, as he came forward and looked curiously into the open case. 'A soldier and his missus, maybe, buried together. Touching, ain't it, to see them lying there after all these years?'

Peter Venn nodded silently and, unseen by the other, a tear rolled down his cheek and fell upon the brow of the woman who, by devious paths, had now reached her appointed place.

______________________

4: Bride Of The Ape

Harold Ward

1879-1950

Mystery Novels and Short Stories, Sept 1939

IT WAS dark— abysmally dark. There was not even a star in the heavens to relieve the fathomless blackness that surrounded us on all sides— a blackness intensified a thousandfold by the fierce wind howling down from the mountains. It bit into the very marrow of our bones chilling the blood in our veins, benumbing us, making every step a torture.

And behind us, its stealthy movements hidden by the ebony curtain of the night, was the thing. For the past hour it had dogged us, spying on our every motion, stopping when we stopped, always keeping just outside our range of vision. Yet we could hear its soft padding; it was always in our rear regardless of what way we turned.

Once it coughed hackingly. I whirled on my heel, my gorge rising, for the sound seemed right at my elbow. My swinging fist touched only empty space. I caught a momentary gleam of its phosphorescent eyes as it leaped back into the darkness. My cigarette lighter was in my pocket; I held it in my benumbed fingers and snapped the flint. The flame was only for a second; then the raging wind extinguished it, but it brought a low, menacing snarl from the thing behind us— a bestial, half-human growl of anger.

It was our wedding journey. Married only the day before, we had started by automobile for the home of Betty's uncle in the mountains. Either the attendant at the filling station back in the little village through which we had passed had given us the wrong direction or we had misinterpreted what he had said. The coming of nightfall had found us in a narrow, tree-bordered lane apparently far from any human habitation.

Then, to make matters worse, a spring had broken, rendering the car completely useless.

We had not passed a house since turning into the side road five or ten miles back; by the law of averages, there should be one ahead. Averse to leaving Betty while I sought for help, I had allowed her to accompany me.

Since then we had wandered miles, it seemed, without sighting a sign of life. Meanwhile the weather had changed; the wind was howling down through the canyons of the foothills in a perfect hurricane, freezing us to the very bone. We had lost all idea of direction, for even our senses were becoming deadened under the strain; only the fact that the trees and underbrush had been cleared away kept us on the road.

Then, from behind, came the soft pad of feet heralding the approach of the accursed thing that was now following us. The constant menace acted as a tonic to our jaded nerves, quickening our muscles, putting us on the qui vive.

Along the long, bleak trail, I stumbled across a rough club. Picking it up, I brandished it in my hands. The feel of it strengthened me and gave me renewed courage.

Dimly, through the swaying trees, we saw a light. Taking Betty more firmly by the arm, I quickened my footsteps. The narrow lane brought us to a fence. Skirting it, we approached the house from the side.

There was nothing eerie or particularly forbidding about the rambling old structure that loomed like an uncouth spot of blackness in the frame of the starless night a hundred yards away. The light gleamed from a single window on the lower floor, casting a sickly beam through the heavy foliage. Yet a chill of apprehension swept over me that left me colder than the mountain wind. Betty shuddered, too. Involuntarily my arm sought her waist and I drew her closer. Some subtle sixth sense told me to flee; I fought it back, for to remain outside exposed to the constantly increasing cold for the remainder of the night meant but one thing— death. Had it been the howl of a ghoul in the midst of a graveyard, I would have welcomed it on Betty's account.

It was the fence, I told myself, that was bothering me. Yet I could see but little of it by the light shining through the single window. Fully twenty feet in height, it was made of tightly meshed wire fastened to high posts from the top of which extended cross pieces overhanging the interior and also tightly wired. It reminded me of a prison enclosure I had once seen.

BETTY'S HOLD on my arm suddenly tightened. "Listen!"she whispered hysterically.

At the same moment my toe struck something and I sprawled forward on all fours, my hands extended to break my fall. For an instant my fingers touched dead flesh.

I leaped to my feet with an exclamation of horror, groping in my pocket for the cigarette lighter. I snapped the flint. The flame flared up for a second, flickered in the howling wind… died.

Yet in that heart-stopping flash I saw what caused me to reel backward, a shriek of terror on my lips. The naked body of a woman lay before me— a weird, misshapen creature, her form twisted and warped, her lips drawn back over her fangs in a grimace of horrible malignancy. Her throat was torn— ripped as by some wild beast in a frenzy of demoniacal anger. Even her breasts, huge, pendulous— were slashed and smeared with gore.

For a moment horror robbed me of the power to move. I heard Betty's breath come in a scream— a shriek that was cut off in the middle as a huge shape plunged out of the darkness and seized her in its powerful arms.

Again she gave voice to her terror as the diabolical thing pulled her away from me back into the darkness. I caught a momentary glimpse of a bloated, spiderish body with short, stubby legs and long muscular arms, its enormous shoulders surmounted by a shaggy head, the matted hair of which hung over glittering, bloodshot eyes.

For an instant I was paralyzed with fear— unable to stir hand or foot. It lifted Betty bodily, holding her with one arm against its barrel-like chest; with the other it tore at her clothes. She shrieked wildly. Her voice galvanized me into action and I leaped forward. The accursed thing appeared to have the power to see in the dark, for it struck me a stinging blow on the head that sent me to my knees, my faculties benumbed.

It leaped backward into the pocket of blackness, chuckling harshly. Betty screamed again and again in a frenzy of fear. I gained control of my shattered senses and charged once more. Hampered as it was by Betty's dragging weight, I caught up with it and crashed the stout hickory club down upon its shaggy head with all my strength. The beast roared with rage and flung its huge bulk forward, my loved one still fighting futilely against its nauseating embrace. I dodged its mad rush and struck again. The stick broke across the monster's skull. Wild with anger, it hurled Betty aside and leaped at me, its teeth grinding together in a paroxysm of madness. Again I managed to dodge it.

"Run… Betty!"I gasped. "The house… !"

The accursed thing was upon me. I sprang away from it… but too late. Its club-like arm struck me a wild, swinging blow that sent me crashing to the ground a dozen feet away. It was upon me before I could pull myself to my feet. I felt its stubby fingers twisting themselves about my throat. Its face was close to my own, its fetid breath fanning my cheek as it snapped at me with its gnashing fangs. I threw my arm upward in a futile gesture of self-preservation. The movement was a lucky one, for the jagged end of the broken club crashed into the bestial face. The beast's own weight, rather than my puny strength, drove the sharp point to the bone.

It leaped away from me squealing with pain. Through the darkness I could see it clawing at its face as it strove to pull the weapon from its flesh. I dragged myself to my feet and, turning, raced after Betty. She was already on the tumbledown porch, her tiny fists pounding a frenzied tattoo on the wooden panels of the door.

"Help! Help!"she shouted.

The door was jerked open and a man stared out at us; the rays of the lamp suspended from the ceiling brought out his tall, gaunt figure in bold relief. Despite my excitement, I noted that he was wearing a tattered dressing gown, the front of which was stained as from acid or chemicals.

"What is wanted?"he demanded.

I halted him with a gesture. Leaping inside, I dragged Betty after me and, hastily slamming the door, I plunged home the bolt.

"Attacked by… wild beast!"I managed to ejaculate pantingly. "Drove it off… may be following us… "

He turned and looked at us curiously. His eyes were sunken, his face so emaciated as to give his countenance a skull-like appearance.

"Beast?"he exclaimed. "You say that you were attacked by some sort of animal? What do you mean? There have been stories…"

He led the way into a small study. It was the room, through the window of which we had glimpsed the light, for the shade was partly raised. The walls were lined with built-in bookcases, filled to overflowing. In the center of the room was a large table upon which were piled other books and manuscripts over which he had evidently been working when we made our precipitate entrance.

He motioned us to chairs and turned to us wonderingly.

"I do not understand… ?"he mused. "There have been strange tales, as I say. I have discounted them as silly rumors. You are certain…?"

I pointed to Betty's torn garments— to my coat ripped by the creature's sharp nails as if by a knife.

"Our appearance bears out my statement," I snapped. Then, as he seated himself at the desk, I hastily sketched what had happened— the breaking down of the automobile, our long tramp through the chilling cold and darkness, of the thing that had trailed us for hours, the discovery of the dead woman among the underbrush and the sudden attack of the fur-coated monster a moment later.

The old man stared at us questioningly, his glance shifting from one to the other. Taking a huge pipe from the desk, he stuffed it with tobacco and, lighting it, took a short turn about the room.

"It seems fantastic… unbelievable," he said finally, stopping his restless pacing for a moment. "Yet, as you have said, your appearance bears out your statement. If you will pardon the assertion, I have been wondering if the cold… and your privations… have not…"

He stopped in the middle of the sentence, allowing the remainder to go unsaid.

"But we will not quibble now," he smiled. "The young woman is almost spent. Let me offer you some refreshment. My name is Bixby— Professor Bixby— a poor scholar come to this old place to work out certain theories. I wanted a place where I might have solitude. I can offer you but little, yet I do not want to appear unhospitable. I—"

Betty screamed.

"The window!"she gasped. "The… thing!"

She leaned forward, her face twitching with excitement, her eyes filled with terror.

Bixby whirled as I leaped to my feet. Pressed against the glass was a flat, hairy face, the thick lips drawn back over fang-like teeth, the matted hair hanging down over a tiny forehead. The creature's eye— bloodshot, flashing with anger— glared at us malevolently. Bixby gave a sudden exclamation and took a step forward. The diabolical creature leaped backward; we heard the crash of its body as it dashed through the underbrush.

For an instant the old scholar appeared petrified. Then he rushed to the door opening into the hall and clapped his hands together in a sort of signal.

"Jarbo!"he rasped excitedly. "Come… quickly!"

The summons was answered by a huge black— a powerful, broad-shouldered creature with a tiny head and a face almost as evil as the accursed thing that had glared at us through the window. For an instant his glance hovered over us appraisingly, shifted to Betty's slender form— then turned reluctantly again to the old man. Bixby was addressing him rapidly in some foreign jargon. At the finish of the speech the black nodded and, with another glance at Betty, shuffled out of sight.

"Jarbo is an Algerian and speaks but little English," our host explained. "He is absolutely fearless. I have told him to go after the creature— he will be armed, of course. Meanwhile I have sent him for refreshment."

He resumed his restless pacing, stopping again and again to glance at us. A question seemed on the point of his tongue— a question he seemed averse to giving voice to. The big black came back into the room carrying a tray on which was a decanter of wine, some bread and cold meat, thinly sliced.

Bixby apologized.

"We eat sparingly, Jarbo and I," he said as the black deposited the tray on the table. "When a man reaches my age, he is apt to overstuff himself."

Again I noted the quick glance of the black man rest on Betty's slender loveliness. Bixby muttered something to him. He grunted an unintelligible reply and shuffled out. A moment later we heard the front door slam. Bixby scowled, then waved his hand toward the meager fare.

"Help yourselves, my friends," he said. "I dined hours ago."

We lost no time in accepting his offer. Despite our weariness, we were very hungry, for we had not eaten since noon and our strength had been sapped by the hardships we had gone through. The wine dissipated the chill that had permeated to our bones, racing through our veins like molten metal, filling us with a delicious warmth that was succeeded by a feeling of lassitude.

In spite of my efforts to control myself, I caught myself yawning and a great desire for sleep swept over me. I glanced at Betty; her curly blond head was pressed against the cushion of the chair and her eyes were closed. From the rise and fall of her breast, I knew that she had given way to the stupor I was fighting against. Bixby was watching us, his saturnine face twisted into a grin of triumph. I tried to speak to him; my tongue clove to the roof of my mouth…

Then consciousness left me.

I WAS IN a great pit from which I was struggling to escape. Time after time I almost reached the top; my fingers reached up to pull myself out, but I always slipped back again… down… down… never reaching the bottom. Sometimes I floated on thin air— a gossamer, wraith-like thing of feathery lightness; again I was stone-heavy, sinking like a plummet.

Someone was screaming— shrieking wildly for help. I knew subconsciously that it was Betty calling to me— that I was fruitlessly trying to get to her. I tried to open my eyes. The lids seemed glued down. Again and again I almost succeeded, only to sink back again into that bottomless pit of abysmal blackness from which I was struggling to escape. I was unable to move hand or foot; I wondered in a hazy, impersonal sort of way if I was paralyzed.

Something within my brain suddenly snapped and I was awake, pulling at the bonds which held me. Somewhere in the distance Betty was screaming. This time there was no hallucination— it was real. As consciousness swept over me I realized that I was bound; I was lying in the darkness, trussed like a fowl for the market.

And Betty— my wife of a day— was appealing to me, begging me to come to her assistance.

"Bob! Help me, Bob! Please… please help me!"

The inertia was dragging me down again. I fought it off and struggled to collect my scattered faculties. A tiny buzzer in my brain kept telling me to wake up— to go to her rescue. Yet I was unable to move a muscle. It was an effort to even think. She screamed again as if in pain. I jerked at my thongs with a desperation born of despair. Something gave way and I felt myself dropping.…

I BROUGHT up with a thud, my head crashing against some solid object that stunned me for a second. The realization swept over me that my bindings were a bit looser. I twisted my body; every movement sent a twinge of pain racing through my muscles, but each jerk added to my freedom. Finally I managed to get one hand free. I reached out exploringly. My groping fingers told me that I had been tied to an ancient iron bedstead, the rope was looped around the head posts. In my struggles I had pulled the rickety affair apart.

It took me but an instant to untwist the thongs with which I had been bound. I dragged myself out of the wreck and stood swaying in the darkness, my head spinning like a gyroscope. A feeling of horrible nausea swept over me and I toppled forward. My outstretched hand brought up against the wooden panels of a door. I slid to my knees, my fingers twisted around the knob. The door opened at the touch; I stumbled, face downward, into a dimly lighted hallway.

For an instant I lay there, too sick and weak to move. Then, as my breath came back to me, I dragged myself to a sitting position.

Betty was shrieking madly.

"Please… oh, please!"she sobbed. "Please… for the love of God, have mercy!… Oh, Bob… come!"

The sound came from a room a short distance down the hall. The terror-stricken voice of my wife pleading for mercy went through me like an electric shock, galvanizing me into action. I shook off the nausea and, pulling myself to my feet, charged like an angry bull.

The door of the room was open, the light streaming out into the hallway. I halted at the threshold, my faculties paralyzed for an instant at the unholy sight which met my horrified eyes.

It was a huge room into which I gazed, made, it appeared, by tearing the partition from between two smaller rooms. Fitted as a laboratory, painted a spotless white, the walls were lined with shelves overflowing with bottles, beakers and test tubes.

In the center was a low divan. Upon it Betty was stretched. She had been nearly divested of her garments. Her slender white arms were drawn above her head. There was scant concealment of any secret of her slim body. Beside her, fastened by a long rope attached to a leather girdle about its middle, was the creature that had attacked us in the darkness. I saw now that it was a monster gorilla.

The rope, attached to a ring in the wall, held it away from her. Its hair-covered, stubby fingers reached out for her— tried to caress her smooth, satiny flesh— tried to fondle her in a diabolical and unholy embrace. It whimpered appealingly, its tiny, bloodshot eyes gloating over her youthful beauty as it strove with all its gigantic strength to stretch the rope which held it from her.

At a table close beside them stood Bixby, a long white smock clothing his emaciated form. He hovered over the delicate apparatus, his long, skinny fingers darting here and there, his cavernous eyes glancing gloatingly at the terrible scene that was being enacted before him.

"In a moment," he crooned soothingly to the whining monstrosity at the end of the rope. "In a moment, my pet. Then I will wield the knife. Her blood will be in your veins and your rich, red corpuscles will go charging through her slim, white body, mixing with her blood. Then… then she will be yours… "

The accursed thing whimpered understandingly. It turned its shaggy head to him for an instant and whined like a dog.

Bixby selected a slender knife from the glittering array on the table. For an instant he held it aloft, examining its razor-sharpness. Nodding with satisfaction, he took a step forward and bent over the nude form on the divan, his sunken eyes searching for the vein he was about to open.

Betty screamed again. In her agony, she turned her head. Her eyes met mine. In them was a look of pathetic appeal. She sensed my weakness— knew that there was but little I could do to save her. Yet her movement broke the spell that seemed to have been cast over me and I charged forward with an angry bellow. Bixby turned as my hands reached for his scrawny throat The blade dropped from his fingers and he lunged for the revolver that lay in an open drawer beside him.

Betty screamed.

"Bob! Watch out!"she shrieked.

I whirled. But too late. I caught an indistinct glimpse of the huge black as he struck. His great fist crashed against my head and I went down like an ox.

I WAS OUT only for a second. Yet the single blow paralyzed my nerve centers, making it impossible for me to move. Things happened with kaleidoscopic rapidity. As in a trance, I saw the big black leap forward and claw with feverish rapidity at the bindings which held Betty to the couch. "Jarbo's… she is Jarbo's!"he snarled. "No give to ape-man this time."

Bixby's saturnine face was flushed with anger. "Leave her alone, damn you!"he roared. "She is the first that he really seemed to care for. Do you think, you fool, that you are going to spoil my great experiment… now?"

He leaped forward, his talon-like fingers grasped around the butt of the gun.

The crazed black pushed him back with a sweep of his huge arm. The old man crashed against the table, upsetting it; the apparatus tumbled over the floor in wild disarray. He dropped to a crouching position, the gun raised, his thin lips drawn back over his teeth in a snarl of anger.

"Leave her alone!"he snapped.

The big black took a step forward, his huge fists doubled.

"Jarbo's!"he growled.

Bixby fired. The black staggered back as the leaden slug sunk into his vitals. Then he gathered his huge body together and hurled himself forward. His fist crashed against the old man's jaw, bringing the head back with a sudden jerk. Then his great fingers closed around the scrawny throat. There was a snap of breaking bones.

Raising the form of his victim above his head, the burly black threw the old man across the room. Then, turning, he leaped back to Betty.

The ape-man gave vent to a wild, insane roar. He lunged forward, maddened at the sight of blood and the death of his master. Its terrific lunge broke the rope. Jarbo turned to meet the mad rush. They went down together, the ape and the black, clawing, biting, in a battle to the death. The sinewy fingers of the gorilla sought the other's throat— found it. I saw the black's eyes bulge from their sockets under the terrific pressure.

All this, I say, transpired in less time than it takes for me to tell it. Dazed though I was, Betty's frightened scream brought me to my senses. The revolver had fallen almost beside me. I seized it and, jamming it against the hairy head of the horrific monstrosity, pulled the trigger. The ape-man's death grip on the black's throat relaxed. He kicked spasmodically, then rolled over… dead.

There was a crash as the front door was forced open. Then a squad of state policemen charged into the room, guns drawn. With them was the attendant at the oil station.

"One of my men found your abandoned car an hour ago," the sergeant in command told me as he assisted me to my feet. "When the attendant at the filling station identified it, we lost no time in getting here. There have been several women missing of late and all clews have centered on this locality. We were just outside when we heard the shots… "

I picked up the surgeons' knife from the floor and cut Betty's bonds. Then, wrapping a cover about her trembling form, I assisted her to a chair. It took me but a moment to tell the officer what had happened.

"That explains the disappearance of the women— up to a certain point," he said thoughtfully. "On the other hand, there are a lot of things I don't understand."

"The black's still alive, sergeant," one of the men who had been prowling through the room, interrupted.

The sergeant bent over the wounded Algerian and called for a first aid kit. As it was brought, he poured a bit of liquor between the thick mutilated lips. Jarbo stirred… opened his eyes.

"Master dead… ape dead," he gasped, his eyes turning on me. "Pretty soon Jarbo die. You keep woman… "

DYING, the big black wheezed out his story to the officers while Betty and I sat in the background shuddering at our narrow escape.

Bixby, a scientist of renown, had been dismissed from his post at one of the great universities because of his fantastic theories and radical experiments.

An anthropologist and biological chemist, Bixby had been obsessed by the idea of fusing blood of powerful lower animals with that of white women— to build up the racial stamina, weakened by the artificialities of modern life.

If there'd been any basis of fact for this obsession, the secret had died with him. But it was known that if the transfusions had proved successful, Bixby had intended selling the discovery to one of Europe's madmen, so that the blood of the jungle would aid the mothers of a dictator nation to produce more cannon fodder.

Finding the old house in the foothills, he had purchased it and, by means of advertisements in metropolitan newspapers, had attracted several girls to the isolated spot under the guise of housekeepers. Once they were in his power, he had gone ahead with his diabolical schemes. All had died under his experiments save one— a half-witted creature little above the animals herself. It was she the gorilla had killed; then escaped from the enclosure with the body, throwing it in the woods where Betty and I had found it.

Bixby had given up all hope of recapturing the ape when our sudden arrival and its unholy desire for Betty had drawn the creature back to the house, where Bixby had trapped it Our wine had been drugged and Bixby, fired by the thought that we might be trailed, had decided to rush the experiment that very night.

Only the sudden lust for Betty on the part of the black himself had halted the diabolical crime.

SEVERAL YEARS have passed. Betty and I are very happy. But the horror of what we went through on our wedding night is still implanted in our minds. At night, when the wind howls, I note that my wife draws a bit closer to me, although she says that she is not frightened. Her uncle writes us that people still talk in whispers of the insane scientist who lived in the old mansion in the foothills. Betty and I never discuss our adventure.

We want to forget.

__________________

5: Wongawarra

"Waif Wander"

(Mary Helena Fortune) 1833-1911

Alexandra Times (Vic) 23 Dec 1876

AROUND THE wide-stretching station of Wongawarra, soft and lovely Spring was spreading her green beauty. Across the miles of undulating pasture, up among the blossom laden branches of grand old box trees, along the trellised vines of the stately homestead, fresh Australian-tinted verdure was bursting into leaf. The sunny haze of October floated on the distant line of blue, purple hills. The bosom of the beautiful Goulburn river glittered in the sun like a broad ribbon of watered silver, and along its banks clustering eucalypti— young and fresh and green as the freshness of Spring could make them— mirrored each soft outline in the sparkling water. Down from the blue hills, among the mossy boulders of sparkling granite, a more brilliant and feathery bolt of verdure marked the winding and tortuous course of Wongawarra Creek. Patches of the richest golden-colored bloom nestled here and there in the soft full sprays along its banks, marking the spots whore the spring sun lingered most lovingly, and caressed the opening wattle buds into their full beauty of golden down. Rippling and singing sweetly, full of the yet unwasted floods of winter, widening into broad pools where its waters lay quiet and deep, and at length flowing gently over the grassy plain, where broad flocks of grey sheep slaked their gentle thirst in its bosom, Wongawarra Creek at last rippled into the Goulburn and was lost.

The homestead of Wongawarra was a pattern Australian home. Wide verandahs, vine-wreathed and cool when the hottest sun of summer vainly sought admittance, made a pleasant draught through the spacious hall. Lofty rooms opened out to the verandah through deep French windows, that, on every side of the stone building, commanded a view of a most pleasant landscape.

The sun of October, then, was inclining toward the west when we enter upon our story. Standing on the front verandah of Wongawarra, under the sprays of passion flower, and leaning forward anxiously to gaze on the distant white track that wound over the grassy plain, was a young girl of some nineteen years.

We have a good opportunity of observing her as she stands there, for the hand with which she shades her eyes from the too piercing rays of the declining sun does not hide her features and the uplifted arm exposes a plump and well laced figure to easy scrutiny.

Jane Beveridge was under the middle size, and her form could not, by any stretch of imagination, be called an attractive one. It had none of the piquant litheness of those petit figures at once graceful and well proportioned ; but her movements were fussy and obtrusive. She had dark brown hair, elaborately dressed over a low and not broad forehead ; dark, bold eyes; and very commonplace features. But there were many who believed Janie Beveridge, as she was called familiarly, a very pretty girl indeed, for she was the only child of John Beveridge, and heiress presumptive of the broad station of Wongawarra.

The watcher had waited nearly an hour most impatiently, passing to and fro on the verandah, and fidgeting in and out of the house, ere the figure of a horseman was seen emerging from the forest that bordered the plain ; and the impatience of the young lady during the short time that elapsed before the rider dismounted in front of the house might have amused an uninterested observer.

There was, however, an observer who it might he concluded was anything but an uninterested one, at least if one might judge from the angry light of his dark eye and the scowl that corrugated his brows as he watched her. This was a young man of twenty-four years; a tall, handsome, and well-made figure, with a face almost beautiful, as far as regularity of features went. But there was a haughty air in the pose of his figure that ill became it, and an expression of ill-temper in his face that utterly destroyed the effect of his otherwise faultless appearance. Nothing could be glossier than his wavy, black hair; nothing deeper than the expression of his dark, large eyes; but it was the depth of a tideless pool that hides unpleasant secrets far down below its calm surface. This young gentleman, then, who was leaning against one of the pillars of a side verandah, when we open our story, was known an George Larkins, Mr Beveridge's manager on Wongawarra Station.

We must now make you acquainted with the third of our dramatis personae—the horseman who is approaching Wongawarra at a smart canter. As he reaches it and dismounts we see a gentlemanly figure of the middle size, compactly and strongly built, with a deep chest and well-formed limbs. His riding dress is well calculated to show off the latter to the greatest advantage, and the well fitting riding boots do not hide a small and shapely foot. This gentleman had seen thirty-six years, and silvery streaks were beginning to show among his dark brown hair and abundant beard; but the bright, grey eye was as youthful looking as it had been ten years before; his delicately chiselled aquiline nose and thin nostril gave a beauty of feature that time would never destroy; and a strength of intellect that no wealth could purchase had stamped its impress boldly on the broad, white forehead, and pure, blue-lined temple of Frederick Howard, adding to the effect of almost perfect features an air of intelligent manliness that was the principal characteristic of his appearance. Such, then was the visitor whom Miss Janie Beveridge had awaited so impatiently.

"Oh, Mr Fred, you're come at last," she exclaimed, running down the steps and seizing his arm as he alighted. "I thought you'd never come; my eyes are crooked from staring across that plain!"

A half smile curled Mr Howard's lip as he looked down toward the little speaker, and coolly lifted the arm which she had appropriated and held firmly with both her hands. is eyes too met hers as she looked up with evident admiration in his face; but although the gaze flattered him, Mr Howard was too manly to prize an unsought affection.

"If you please, Janie, my horse must be attended to," and he quietly withdrew his arm from her grasp.

"Oh, bother the horse. Mr Larkins, please to send somebody for Mr Fred's horse. There, leave him there ; he won't run away. Oh, do come in, Mr Fred; I have so much to tell you."

There was something eminently disgusting to Mr Larkins not only in the order he had received from his employer's heiress, but in her openly bestowed admiration of Mr Howard. The manager looked after their retreating figures as they entered the house, Miss Janie hanging on her favourite's arm, and looking up into his face with eyes brimful of meaning, while Mr Howard walked firmly onward, seeming to bestow neither attention nor neglect upon his companion; he simply permitted himself to be appropriated, that was all, although his conscience had often assured him that he had already permitted it too long.

"Well, I'm blowed!" soliloquised the handsome Larkins, when they had entirely disappeared, "what a blessed fool he must be to stand it. He cares no more for her than a staghound cares for a chattering jay. I wonder girls are not ashamed of themselves who go and hang on a man that way; it is enough to disgust any man who has the feelings of one, faugh!" and the unamiable Larkins turned on his heel with a sneer and walked round to the offices.

"I've been like a hen on a hot griddle ever since yesterday, Mr Fred. Why to gracious didn't you come last night? Oh, I've had such a letter from papa; such news, and I was dying to tell you all about it, dear Mr. Fred."

Dear Mr Fred threw himself into a comfortable chair to enable him to do which he was obliged to draw his arm once more from Miss Janie's embrace. He did not look very ardent, I must confess, nor very eager to hear the young lady's wonderful news; and a little cloud, just a very little one, passed over the self-satisfied features of the squatter's daughter.

"Upon my word, you don't care a bit!" she cried pettishly, as she seated herself close beside Mr Howard. "Well, if you don't, I don't see why I should ! At any rate, all our comfort is over; we shall not be all in all to each other any more, nor spend these delightful long evenings together, and no one to listen or carry stories."

"All in all to each other? What do you mean, Janie?" inquired Fred, sitting up, rather uneasily in his chair, and feeling that much tried conscience of his knocking very loudly at the door of his judgment. "And what is all this about listening and carrying stories?"

Miss Janie chose to shirk the first question and reply to the last.

"Because papa has sent me word that he is going to bring home an old frump of a thing with him, as a companion, or gouvernante, or something. In short, I'm too young, he says, to be entrusted with the management of an establishment, such as Wongawarra, now that poor mamma's gone; and he thinks that no young girl ought to be permitted to live so entirely alone and unrestricted as I do."

"Is that all?" was Mr Howard's careless phrase, as he resumed once again his easy posture on the conch.

"All! and is it not enough? Upon my word, Mr Fred, I thought you cared more for me than to feel so little as that! I don't care a straw about an old companion, or whatever she is, I'm sure, for I can soon put her in her own place; but I did think that you'd be sorry that— that— that we couldn't be so much together and so comfortable."

And a red flush of anger mounted into the girl's disappointed looking face.

Frederick Howard rose up from his seat, and walked uneasily toward one of the open windows. It was impossible for him any longer to affect blindness toward the sentiments of this demonstrative young lady.

Twenty times since the recent death of Mrs Beveridge had he felt that the forward girl's conduct toward himself had exceeded the bounds of prudence, and that his own most proper course would have been to put a stop to it at once; but Fred Howard was a man, and possessed of all a man's vanity, and it flattered as well as amused him to be the subject of the heiress's openly exhibited regard, little as he reciprocated it.

Besides, he had known Janie Beveridge for seven years. She had grown from a child into a young woman almost imperceptibly during his neighborly intimacy with the family at Wongawarra. She had made him the recipient of all her childish troubles and girlish secrets, and wound up by bestowing her volatile heart upon him, with the full confidence that her unbidden affection was reciprocated. She was his chosen partner at the ball, his companion in many a lonely ride. His escort was ever available at any notice for a visit to the distant town, or a drive to return some neighborly visit. They were ever together, and it is no wonder that the country coupled their names. He was ever obedient to her beck and call, and, until very lately, had never given himself the slightest trouble to analyse from what feeling her favors were so openly bestowed upon him; or, if he had for a moment thought of the matter, it was but to conclude that the silly girl liked to boast of her power over the handsomest man in her circle; and he permitted her to illustrate its apparent strength with a carelessness that had indeed no feeling in the affair.

The too plain words of Janie Beveridge had almost disgusted the sensitive feeling of Fred Howard, and for one moment, as he angrily walked toward the window, he had almost used language as plain as her own; but as he stood there, looking out on the lovely landscape of Wongawarra, and the low sun redly gilding the bosom of the clear Goulburn, better feelings prevailed, and he remembered that he himself was greatly to blame in having permitted her unchecked feelings to have been indulged so freely. He remembered, too, how long Mrs Beveridge had been an invalid, and how entirely without motherly control the girl had grown up.

"Tell me, Janie," he said, controlling his feelings with an effort, and returning to her side, "tell me all about this new arrangement of Mr Beveridge. Whom is he going to bring with him, and when does he return?"

The flighty girl's face brightened up at the question, and nothing more was necessary to encourage all her usual exhibition of familiarity. Gathering his arm in to her with both her hands, a favorite caress of Janie Beveridge's, she commenced her relation anew.

"I'm so glad to see you come back again, Mr Fred! I was afraid you had taken the huff at me. You so often take the huff now. Dear Mr Fred you are not angry with me ?"

The pleading question was enforced by a half embrace; the self deluded girl laying her head on Fred's shoulder and looking up into his eyes with a craving affection. Never had Frederick Howard felt so guilty or so weak. Was it a premonition of approaching events that gave him courage to speak?

"Janie, you must remember that you are no longer a child," he said, lifting her gently from her reclining posture on his shoulder ; "If any person were to see you now, what would he think ?"

"Think ! what do I care what they think? Indeed, Mr Fred, what people think is the last thing that troubles me, How you do talk, to be sure, as it everybody doesn't know that we've always been like—"

"Everybody knows that we are and always have been good friends, Janie," interrupted Howard. He didn't add— "and no more," as he felt that he ought to have done; but he was weak, and knew it. "But you have not yet explained to me any of the particulars of your father's note, Janie."

"Oh, I will show the note to you, Mr Fred; it is here in my pocket ;" and the girl felt for it among a host of miscellaneous articles in an untidy pocket.

"No ; it is gone. I must have drawn it out with my handkerchief. But never mind, I can tell you all about it. It is a Miss Alston— a Miss Ellinor Alston— who comes home with papa to correct poor Miss Janie, and remodel her manners."

"Miss Ellinor Alston!" The face of Frederick Howard grew deathly white. His very lips would have shown their ashy hue had it not been for the dark silky moustache that shaded them. It was no longer necessary for Miss Janie to suppose that he had no interest in her story, for the generally cool man of the world rambled like a child.

"Did you say Alston, Janie?— Ellinor Alston?" he enquired, holding the back of an arm chair with a firm grasp. "Are you sure you are not mistaken?"

"Quite certain, Mr Fred; but whatever is the matter with you? Dear Mr Fred, you are ill."

"I am, Janie. I must go home. I have not b:een well all day, Good night— good evening Janie ; I'll come back again soon and be introduced to your gouvernante;" and with a forced smile Frederick Howard hastily wrung the staring girl's hand, and went out.

Jane Beveridge was too well accustomed to the brusque ways of Mr Howard to be very much astonished at this termination to the interview to which she had looked forward with such a craving; but she was more astonished than under similar circumstances, she had ever been before. Hitherto, when her appropriated cavalier had left her side in such a hurried way she had generally offended his nice sense of propriety in some outrageous manner, or ruffled his not very even temper with some of her pert speeches. Nor had he been wont hitherto to part with her in so friendly a manner after one of her escapades. How firm was the pressure of his hand! Dear fellow, how agitated he looked.

The silly girl stood at the window and watched his figure fast fading away on the darkening plain. The disappointment of her hopes of an uninterrupted evening of delicious chat with her favourite would have filled her eyes with tears, had not her strong self-love found a balm in even the behaviour that had so disappointed her.

"Dear fellow!" she soliloquised in a sentimental mood; "he tried to hide his feelings, but he cannot from me; I know them too well. He was as much put out about this miserable old woman coming as I am myself. He loves me dearly, I know he does; and it won't be my fault if Miss Alston stops long at Wongawarra."

ii

A WEEK had passed since Frederick Howard had parted so abruptly from Miss Beveridge, and three days since Mr Beveridge had arrived at Wongawarra, bringing with him the Miss Alston of whom he had written; yet Mr Howard had not again visited the station. Things were going on badly for Miss Janie, who had found in Ellinor Alston a beautiful and strong-minded woman, who was evidently determined to hold the trust reposed in her by Mr Beveridge with a firm hand.

At first Miss Janie had tried to patronise Miss Alston, but the attempt was met by a cool, calm smile, that overwhelmed the silly girl with ridicule. Then she had tried to make a confidante of the housekeeper, as she persisted in calling Miss Alston behind her back, and here she was more successful.

Ellinor Alston listened to Janie's minauderies, with the smiling attentiveness that she would have bestowed upon a silly child, until she spoke of Frederick Howard, and then the changing of colour and trembling hand might have told an acute observer that the subject was a deeply affecting one to the listener. But, fortunately for Miss Alston, the prattling Janie was not an acute observer, and she did not notice the deep feeling aroused in the bosom of Ellinor Alston by the sound of Fred Howard's name.

A week, then, had passed, and Miss Alston was sitting, one lovely morning, at the open window of the breakfast room at Wongawarra. Ellinor Alston was a picture of almost perfect womanliness as she sat there and gazed out on the (to her) strange beauty of an Australian Spring morning. Her work, some household sewing that had occupied her fingers, had fallen on to her lap, and her large dark, lustrous eyes were full of melancholy enjoyment as they drank In the full of beauty of hill and creek, rock and river.

Ellinor Alston was more than thirty years old, but she was far more beautiful than an ordinary girl in the first flush of womanhood. She was tall and erect, and of a beautifully moulded figure, whose chief characteristics were dignity and grace. Hair of the darkest brown, glossy and wavy, swept from a I forehead full of thought but not unlined with care. Indeed, care had walked hand in hand with fair Ellinor Alston for so many long years that it was no wonder he had placed his seal upon her soft cheeks, and filled those dark eyes with melancholy sweetness.

At a little distance from her lounged Janie Beveridge in an armchair, idly drawing the chain of her watch through her fingers. There was an expression of petulance on her pert features that foreshadowed a storm, and even in the tone of her voice as she addressed Miss Alston— "I'm sure I don't know what you see out there to stare at, Miss Alston. Goodness knows, the station and all upon it are eyesores to me."

"You are not complimentary this morning," replied Ellinor, turning toward her with a bright smile; "but I am not tired yet of Wongawarra. I never saw a more lovely scene in my life than the one I look upon at this moment!"

The enthusiasm of Miss Alston was lost on the matter-of-fact Miss Janie.

"I wonder what on earth has become of Mr Fred !" she exclaimed ; giving her chain an angry tug that nearly snapped it. "I do believe you have frightened him away, Miss Alston. We have never been separated so long before! never!"

There was no reply. Ellinor still gazed out of the open window, and her face was averted from the speaker.

"I don't know what else it can be that keeps him away. I'm sure he is too fond of me to remain away willingly."

"Does Mr Howard know that there is a Miss Ellinor Alston here?" at length asked the silent listener. "Did you mention my name to him?"

"Of course I did. I tell Mr Fred everything. Mr Fred and I are—are—"

"Engaged, Janie?" The half smile that accompanied this question, which was uttered by Miss Alston with her dark eyes fixed keenly on Miss Beveridge's face irritated the already angry girl, and, with flashing eyes and a red face, she burst into a passion of words at Miss Alston.

"What business is that of yours Miss Alston? Presently you'll presume to prevent me from being engaged, I suppose. A pretty to-do, indeed. Is my father to bring home a woman to interfere with me and my— my—" and here Miss Janie stopped suddenly in the most utter confusion.

Standing on the verandah, close to Miss Alston, were Mr Beveridge and Frederick Howard. The latter she could perceive trying to draw back from an unwelcome scene of recrimination, while on her father's usually kind face was impressed an anger she had never witnessed before.

"What is this?" he asked sharply, stepping into the room; "what impertinent language is this that you are permitting yourself to use to Miss Alston, girl?"

"And pray who is Miss Alston, that she should not listen to anything I chose to say to her?— who is she, that your daughter must be treated like a whipped child by her? I have not so long been the heiress of Wongawarra to be controlled to-day by the first adventuress you choose to bring into it!"

The squatter's face grew dark with emotion. Ellinor had arisen from her seat, and in her beautiful features a more than natural pallor had overspread itself. She sustained herself by holding the back of the chair, with her face averted from the window and her eyes bent upon the floor, her trembling limbs almost refusing to support her.

"Come here, Ellinor, my love," said Mr Beveridge, in a tone strangely calm; "this romantic notion of yours will not do. This petulant girl needs the humility that the knowledge you would withhold from her will, it is to be hoped, bring to her. You ask who this lady is, Janie; you would have known before had she not wished to spare you. Her name is Ellinor Alston, it is true, but it is also Ellinor Alston Beveridge, and she is my daughter, Janie, and your elder sister. I had a wife before I married your mother, my girl, and a wife whom I deservedly loved. Mr Howard, let me introduce you to Miss Beveridge, the heiress of Wongawarra."

Frederick Howard lifted his eyes from the floor, and they met those of Ellinor fixed on him with a sad meaning. His face grew white, and all the pained blood surged into his heart, to throb there as if each throb would the last. One short look was alone exchanged— a look in which might have been read the gathered hopes and fears of years; and then Fred Howard, the easy and the debonnaire, bowed distantly and hurried from the verandah.

There was another pair of dark eyes fixed on Frederick as he hurried towards the river to sit down and think painfully beside the quiet water— eyes that brightened up strangely as the owner turned from the vicinity of the open window. They belonged to George Larkins, who had been an unsuspected observer, as well as listener, during the scene.

"Ho, ho!" he muttered, as he walked away; "so there's a new heiress to Wongawarra, and Mr Fred is cut up about it. I'm afraid Miss Janie will be disappointed in her hopes now, as her chief attraction is gone. By—" he cried, suddenly turning and clenching his raised hand in the direction of Howard's disappearing figure, "he'd better let her go, for I'll have her in spite of a thousand devils."

Surely, Miss Janie's humiliation would have been salved considerably if she had known the high value set upon her by George Larkins; and she was fated to know it sooner than even Mr Larkins himself intended. As he was turning from the front verandah, with the intention of going toward the office, Janie herself, flooded in tears, hurried from another window of the breakfast room. Ignorant of his presence she was hastening away in the bitterness of her disappointment to hide her grief in the garden, leaving her father and Ellinor to think of her as they would.

A sudden impulse stayed the steps of the young man.

Seizing the hand of the agitated girl as she tried to pass him, he burst into a passionate declaration of the affection that devoured him. "

"I have heard it all, Jane," he said, a how they have choused you out of your birthright, and turned your fine sweetheart's mind against you. What did he care for you? Any one could see that it was Wongawarra station he coveted. Look at him now, flying to hide among the wattles! But he'll come back soon and talk love in the ears of our new heiress! Janie, give me your hand, and we'll ask this old fool of a father of yours to show is the certificate of his marriage with Miss Alston's mother."

Scarcely had the hissing words left the speaker's lips, and Janie was still staring in his face with undisguised astonishment, when a shadow seemed to flash between them and George Larkins was felled to the floor.

"Scoundrel," shouted the voice of Mr Beveridge, who, with features inflamed with passion, stood over the prostrate coward, "is it so you requite the man whose folly saved you from prison? Got up and leave my sight. Should it ever encounter your form again I will lash you blind with your own whip."

iii

UP ON the spur of the Wongawarra ranges where the huge granite rocks were piled like toys of a giant's children, the morning sun was warm and wooing, flooded the green wattles with glory. Grey old trees, drooping and lonely, gathered together to shield sparkling boulders, or spread gaunt arms down toward the dark gorge that guarded Wongawarra Creek, ere it stole out into the sunshine on the grassy plain. Birds rang out such rippling music through the peppermint foliage no must have assured even a blind man that Spring had found the ranges; and on the patches of living grass that fell the sun rays all so fondly, stately magpies stalked proudly, and gurgled out music in the solitudes of Wongawarra such as no words can describe.

Let those who say that Australia has no songbird go to Wongawarra, and listen to the flood of melody that pours from the throat of our Australian nightingale. He who can listen to the full, thrilling, gushing, gurgling notes of our proud magpie, without feeling his heart swell with sweet pain, and a rush of home thoughts gather into his bosom and fill his eyes with tears, has no ear for the music of nature. Let him pass onward and mingle with the crowds that seek for wealth in crowded streets; he has no part in the lonely beauty of Wongawarra.

As the sun climbed higher and higher above the ranges until it topped the trees that grew up on the highest ridge, a horseman reached the foot of the acclivity, and dismounted to permit his steed to walk quietly up the rocky and rough channelled track. The horseman was Frederick Howard, and he walked on beside the animal with his eyes fixed on the road over which he passed as one in deep thought. And melancholy thoughts, if one might judge from the sad expression that lay hid in those drooped eyes.

With a mechanical hand he held the bridle, moving onward, step by step, with his head bent down so low that the brim of his hat hid the deep shadow on his forehead. About half way down the Range a tiny stream— a stray from the gathered waters of the Wongawarra Creek— crossed the track, and, after widening into a little pool, under a sparkling rock, fell down into a deep gorge that rent the hill.

Here Fred's horse paused to drink, and lifting up his dreamy eyes, Fred himself saw something that first gathered all his hot blood into his heart, and then sent it surging painfully into his face.

Seated on a piece of granite, under a large boulder, was Ellinor Beveridge. She was gazing down the steep gorge which lay at her feet, and wondering much at the strange beauty of the scene, when the sound of the horse's feet startled her, and she turned suddenly to meet the eyes of Frederick Howard. Involuntarily she started to her feet, while face and neck became one vivid flush, only to fade out again with a breath, and leave the fair, statuesque features as white as a lily.

Where had they met last, those two that looked Into each other's souls through dark inquiring eyes? One might have thought that worlds depended on the look, while the unconscious horse drank patiently of the limpid waters of Wongawarra.

"And Is it thus we meet, Ellinor?" said Frederick, in deep, sad tones, " thus, after years— years?"

"Even thus," she answered quietly, letting her eyes drop from those of Howard, "and so we must part," she added, with a smile that was an agony. "I have strayed far to familiarise myself with Australian nature, and must return," and with that painful smile and a gentle bow, the graceful woman turned to go.

"No!" cried Frederick, with fierce and sudden passion; "no, Ellinor, we will pot part thus!  My God, are you stone— hard, cold, unfeeling as stone? Ellinor, Ellinor, you dare not leave me, without sign or a sigh!" and he laid his fingers on her arm, to stay her progress.

"What would you have?" she asked, uplifting her dark arched brows, with a smile that had become half scornful. "What is it that you would have?"

"The past," he cried vehemently; "I would have the past, with its rich treasure! Give me back the past and your love, my Ellinor— my Ellinor!"

The beautiful woman's lip trembled even under its scornful curve; but she shook her head sadly, and tried to draw her arm from the grasp of Frederick.

"Let me go," she said, "the past is dead."

"And your love? Oh, Ellinor! do not say that! Those long, lost years! Ellinor, speak to me— you will kill me! Why have you hidden from me, only to turn from me at last?"

"Ask Janie," she replied, turning on him her full gaze— a gaze full of reproach and pain, "ask my young sister Janie why I have hidden from you while you took my love away to bestow it upon her. Go to Wongawarra, and comfort my sister Janie; she is very sad without her lover."

Ellinor drew her splendid form up to its full height as she spoke these bitter words, but their effect upon Fred Howard was a different one to that which she had anticipated. Throwing the bridle of his patient horse from him, as it were indeed a thing of little moment—

"Oh, Ellinor, is that all?" he cried. "I swear to you that my heart has never wandered from you for one moment, during all those parted years. Oh, my darling, my darling, am I then indeed so foolish in your eyes, that you judge me so harshly? Foolish and imprudent I may have been— vain of a silly child's preference, perhaps— but false to your love, never! my love! my Ellinor!" and the deeply agitated man leaned against the hard stone near him and burst into a passion of sobs.

The tears of manhood!— how painful they are to witness, and how painful they must be to shed! Frederick— the cold-seeming, calm, and careless Fred Howard— wept there with far more bitterness than a woman weeps in her greatest troubles. Every sob seemed to rend his heart to pieces, although he dashed the tears away angrily as they would burst from his eyes in floods and hide from his longing vision the woman for whom he wept. And she was worth weeping for— the proud-looking woman that stood looking there so coldly on the grief of Frederick Howard.

But when he saw through his tears only that cold scorn on the lips of the woman he loved, and turned his face away that he might not see it again, the scorn died away from around the beautiful mouth, the erect form relaxed, and the dark eyes filled with loving tears. She was no woman to witness unmoved the distress of the man she loved, and the dark hair tossed so carelessly over the white forehead she had so often kissed— the dark glossy, hair amid which her fingers even now craved to wander, as of old— that dark brown hair, tossed against the cold rock upon which Frederick leaned, conquered, and she was a loving woman once more.

"Fred," she gasped, clasping her hands over his shoulder, and bending down her proud head to look into his averted face. There was magic in the tone, and in a moment the joyous arms of Frederick were clasped around Ellinor, and the shaded of Wongawarra Ranges bore witness to the renewed vows of husband and wife long parted.

How gladly he poured into Ellinor's ear the story of his intimacy with Jane Beveridge; how, since her childhood she had appropriated his attention, and how he had lately begun to feel that she had mistaken his feelings.

iv

CHRISTMAS MORNING at Wongawarra. On the bosom of the glad Goulburn, silver ripples gave back merrily the brilliant sun's rays that greeted the waters; and, as if in emulation, Wongawarra Creek spread its broadest belt to catch the glitter-like sheets of polished glass. The green foliage on the banks looked greener, the blue of a summer sky bluer and brighter, and the very song of the magpie, as he walked proudly over his dominion at Wongawarra, sounded more sweetly than usual in the influence of that glorious sunlit morning.

Even Ellinor Beveridge, as she stopped to the verandah to gather into her eyes the beauty of her first Australian Christmas, looked more beautiful than was even her wont. The soft muslin robe that added additional grace to her form, the dark perfumed bands of shining hair, the soft happy smile that enriched her lips, were all worthy of a woman who loves and is loved. We had almost said worthy of a bride, but long years had flown since Ellinor Alston had become a bride.

Ellinor was as full of happiness that it scarcely needed the sweet beauty of the landscape to increase it; yet she looked lovingly on the sweeping plains and the scattered sheep. Her eyes ranged over blue bill and bright river, down the winding creek, and far away where the dark forest line hid the horizon; but lovingly they lingered on the road that wound up Wongawarra Ranges, for down that track Frederick would soon come to keep Christmas at the station.

While she yet stood gazing abroad, her head almost wreathed with the leaves of the vine that hung on the trellis of the verandah, a groom brought a saddled horse round to the front door, and Mr Beveridge came out hastily and prepared to mount.

"Going away on Christmas morning, papa! Surely it is not necessary."

"I must, Ellinor, my love, and I am very sorry for it. I have just received a letter which obliges me to go to Camperdown. Nay, my girl," he added, as he saw the cloud that fell upon her bright face, "do not fret. When I tell you that it is necessary to save a friend from much suffering this pleasant Christmas morning, you will no longer wish me to stay. I hope to be home in two hours, Ellinor; so kiss me, and let me go." And the father pressed his lips to those of his oldest daughter for the very last time.

Yes, for the last time. How glad was Ellinor, in after days, that her poor father had not forgotten that last embrace; and that she watched him until his form had disappeared up the winding road, Janie sat moodily in the front parlor on this beautiful Christmas morning, her plump figure carelessly attired, and an expression of bitterness on her face, when Ellinor entered the room from the verandah.

"Why, Janie, is it here you are this lovely morning? No dress to prepare for our evening, Janie; no pretty ribbons to twine into rosettes?"

"Ribbon! Who cares for those stupid people who are coming to-night? There is not a single decent fellow in the lot," she pouted.

"Not Young Ellis, sister mine?" asked Ellinor, archly. "I thought he used to be a favorite. Have I not heard you say so?"

"Is Harry come back? and is he coming? Oh, I am so glad; he's the very best dancer in the district, and used to be so fond of me. But that is four years ago," she added, with a half sigh.

"When you were a child, Janie. If he was fond of you then, you have now a greater certainty of his affection than ever. Go, Janie, and make up your prettiest rosettes for Harry Ellis," said Ellinor, with a smile; "I am going to take a stroll up the Ranges."

And so she passed out, a woman in the full perfection of mature beauty— a woman whose every movement was grace and dignity. Very beautiful she looked, with the broad leaved hat casting its shadow over her bright eyes, as she crossed the plain and climbed enjoyingly up the shaded road that crossed Wongawarra Range.

You know she was going to meet her husband, Frederick Howard, and each happy moment deepened the smile on her lips, for she knew that it brought her nearer to his embrace.

She had intended to go as far as the spot where the little stream widened, and where she and her beloved had first met alone after nearly sixteen long years of separation. But she thought she was early, and a cluster of scarlet flowers hanging from the sprays of a creeper, on one of the grey rocks above her tempted her footsteps, and she turned from the path and climbed up the steep until she had reached the flowers and gathered them.

Once, there, however, the beauty of the scene stretched beneath her wooed her stay. Wongawarra was so beautiful!— beautiful in the early morning, with the dew lying thickly upon every blade of verdure, and the foe rolling densely over the hidden Goulburn— beautiful it noon, when the burning rays of a summer sun shot down goldenly to sparkle on the waters and filter through the peppermint branches, under the shade of which lay the flocks of grey sheep for their noonday rest— beautiful in the evening, while the shadows grow long and lay upon the river, and when the laughing-jackass sounded his notice of night hoarsely in the old gum branches. Beautiful Wongawarra on the Goulburn!

Ellinor sat down upon a fragment of rock to rest and to gaze. He face was toward the homestead away in the middle of the plain, with the grey lines of smoke ascending from its chimneys straight up into the pure heaven and her back was toward the range over which she would watch the coming of Frederick.

A distant sound caught her ear. Was it the sound of his horse's feet ? She rose and peeped over the ledge of granite that lay between her and the lower level at which the road crossed. Yes, there was a horseman coming quietly over the spur, but it was not her husband; it was Mr Beveridge. She watched him with a happy smile on her lips, and a girlish inclination to call out to him as he so unconsciously passed.

She wondered how that strange Australian "cooee" would sound among the rocks and from her unaccustomed lips, but she checked the inclination, and remembered that she was no longer a girl. Ah, if she had only called at that eventful moment! If she had only awakened the echoes of Wongawarra Ranges to the sound of a human voice, all might have been well!

For at the very instant she was about to draw back and descend the rock, a noise immediately beneath the crag over which she had looked made her once more bend over, and there she saw a sight that engraved itself on her memory until death.

There was a man beneath the rock standing in the shade of a clump of trees, and hiding cautiously behind one of their trunks. Almost as she saw and recognised him, he raised his arm and discharged a revolver that rang out a sharp, short report in the stillness of the ranges. One terrified glance at the beloved figure of her father, now fast disappearing from view behind a tree assured her of a terrible truth; he had fallen from his horse, and was lying prone on his face on the grassy earth.

It seemed like a dream to the bewildered woman. Were these trees and rocks that she looked on real?— was she herself Ellinor Beveridge, who so lately left home in the perfect enjoyment of loving life— was she really the same Ellinor, and was that her dear father lying there so quietly, while the hoofs of his terrified steed rang out down the distant road as it wildly galloped homeward? And the murder! my God, the murderer!

She neither screamed nor fainted, but a dreadful determination to secure this man for man's justice filled her bosom. Once more she looked over the rock, and she saw him steal away through the trees, while the echoes of another horse's feet came quickly down the range. Ellinor scarce waited to think if this was her lover's approach, so full of fear was she that the murderer would escape. She never thought of her father or of flying to his assistance; for she felt that he was dead; that in a bewildered madness, that was but the precursor of insensibility, she commenced to rapidly descend to the spot from whence had been fired the fatal shot.

At the foot of the tree where the assassin had stood lay a bit of white paper. Picking it up hurriedly, she was about to hasten on the track of the flying man; but it had been more than Ellinor could bear, and she sank to the ground in a swoon, her last sight being a view of her dead father, lying quiet on the grass.

v

ELLINOR BEVERIDGE never know how long she had lain there in the quiet shadow of the rocks that had witnessed a fearful crime, but when she arose weakly from the ground and tried to steady her trembling limbs by holding on to the rough tree where the murderer had leaned, her dizzy eyes refused to second her efforts to discover the body of her murdered father. A few moments, however, brought a little strength, and then she saw that there was no longer a stilly form lying on the grass; it had disappeared.

Terrified and astonished, but recalling rapidly that she must have lain there long, Ellinor hastened to the spot where Mr Beveridge had fallen to the sward. It wad not hard to discover, for on the soft grass a broad patch of red had changed the pleasant hue of verdure into a painfully, a fearfully suggestive one of blood.

A shudder ran through the frame of the distracted Ellinor, and for the first time she realised that she had lost the dear parent whom she had only lately recovered after a separation of years. She must return to the homestead instantly, and ere the thought had well germinated, she was flying from the terrible place like one in delirium.

Doubtless they had taken her poor father to the home he had so long made happy by his love to the dead and to the living.

Her rapid feet soon made the distance less between her and the homestead of grey stone embowered in its rich surrounding of foliage, and she was scarcely conscious of time ere she stood once more on the verandah from which she had looked out on Wongawarra with such a happy heart but a few short hours agone.

What was this? There was a buzz of voices in the dining room— voices strangely loud in the vicinity of death; and on the verandah, peering Into the room through the open French windows stood two or three servants, their faces expressive of the utmost astonishment and terror.

Pushing them aside with an impetuous movement, Ellinor stepped into the apartment, and stood gazing with extended eyes on the fearful scene before her for one pitiful moment of inaction. Upon the long table in the centre of the chamber lay what Ellinor's heart told her was the body of her parent, a stiff, immovable form, covered hastily with a heavy shawl that belonged to poor Ellinor, and which she herself had thrown upon the arm of a couch on the previous evening.

At a little distance from the body stood George Larkins, with his arms folded, and a sneer of triumph on his handsome face. He was gazing at another figure, who, directly opposite to Ellinor Beveridge, was indignantly trying to free himself from the grasp of two troopers. Picture to yourself the feelings of the loving and faithful woman when she recognised in this struggling figure her lover, Frederick Howard.

The face of Frederick was scarlet with passion, and the veins on his temples were swollen up like whipcord.

"Unhand me, villains!" he was saying in deep concentrated accents, as if not even in such an extremity could he forget the pretence of death; "on the word of a worthless wretch such as he dare you arrest me for the murder of my best and oldest friend!"

As soon, however, as Ellinor's shadow darkened the floor, and his passionate eyes fell upon that white, terrified face, as she stood like one petrified opposite to him, his efforts ceased at once, and an expression of the deepest despair fell upon his burning face.

"What!" she cried, as his last words fell upon her bursting ear, "what is that yon have said, Frederick? Arrest you— you for the murder of my father! Stand back, police!" she exclaimed, darting to the side of the prisoner, and passing her protecting arms around him; "stand back, and touch my husband at your peril I Look at me, darling: look at your wife! Fear not!  they shall not touch a hair of your dear head!"

Involuntarily, perhaps, the grasp of the policemen relaxed as the devoted wife threw herself upon her husband's breast; and Frederick's arms gathered up the precious burden to his heart as if he would never part with it again.

"Some fearful misunderstanding, my own darling," he whispered; "but be strong, it will soon be cleared up."

The words recalled Ellinor to a sense of her position, and she withdrew herself from her husband's embrace. Like an incarnation of justice and retribution, she turned toward George Larkins, who, in glad enjoyment of the scone, smiled sarcastically as his eye met that of Ellinor.

"You had better look out," he said sneeringly to the policemen; "your prisoner will escape."

"No, he will not!" she said. "Troopers, arrest this man, I saw him fire the shot that killed my father! Oh, no," she cried, as the miserable assassin tried to bound past her and escape the fate which was now overtaking him, "even a weak woman can hold a murderer!" and she clung to him until the handcuffs were clasped upon his wrists, and rendered his further efforts at escape futile.

vi

LARKIN'S plan of revenge and murder had been well laid, and nothing but the providential digression of Ellinor from the track, to pluck the scarlet flowers of the Range, had prevented it from being fatal to Fred. Howard, as well as to poor Mr Beveridge.

It was his forged letter, a copy of which Ellinor had picked up under the tree, that had drawn the charitable squatter from his home on that lovely Christmas morning, and the villain had timed his work well so that his revenge should be a double one.

He hated Frederick Howard as a mean spirit must hate all that is noble, and good, and opposite to itself— hated him with the hatred of envy which even demons must feel if they discover a virtue which they can envy but are incapable of feeling. And, besides, Frederick had stepped between him and his early affection for Janie Beveridge, and the humiliation of his supposed rival would at least be a balm to his disappointment.

For he had no chance with the petted child of Wongawarra. She considered him so entirely beneath her that his expressed feelings were an insult; and so, with every bitterness of heart of which bad humanity is capable, George Larkins set about revenging, at one stroke, the insult put upon him by Mr Beveridge at the moment of his disgraced dismissal, and the proud bearing of Fred Howard.

He had found out the hour at which Frederick was expected to join the party at the station, and laid his plans accordingly. It was Fred's horses' feet that Ellinor had heard coming over the range, and Fred was the first who passed the road after Larkins had fired the fatal shot, and, with natural horror, had dismounted and tried to lift up the dead man, and turn him to a more easy position.

Finding that he was really gone past all help, Fred stood beside the corpse in a maze of horror and wonder, when Larkins appeared, and, with passionate insult, accused him of the murder.

And so, while Ellinor was lying insensible under the tree, George Larkins had gathered assistance from the station, and the corpse was carried home to Wongawarra— a solemn sight that sorry Christmas morning. Frederick Howard followed on like a man in a bewildering dream, guarded, however, by the demonstrative Larkins. It was he too who had despatched a messenger to the nearest police station, and who arranged the tableau that had nearly killed Ellinor Beveridge when she stepped from the verandah and witnessed it.

It was days after, when the first pain of a great desolation had passed from Wongawarra— when the dead father had been carried away, and laid to sleep beside his last wife— that Ellinor sat beside her beloved husband under the vine-shaded verandah, and told the subdued Janie the story of her life.

Dusk was falling down mistily on the Goulburn, and the soft moonlight was beginning to spread faintly over the grassy plain, and glimmer on Wongawarra Creek. The lonely curlew was screaming down the river, and the monotone of the strange mopoke sounded far away in the forest, when Ellinor, holding her husband's hand in hers, told Janie how she had won and lost him.

How, long ago, their widowed father left an only child at a quiet school in fair England; and how Frederick Howard had stolen and kept for sixteen long years a heart that had never strayed from him. How they were married by stealth, and she returned to her school while he went to the far away land of gold to win a home for his bride. How she chafed at her father's second marriage and refused to share a roof with his new wife, and then how she went out in the world and taught those accomplishments for a living that she had learned at school.

And then she told, with falling tears, that Frederick Howard proudly kissed away, how rumor had severed her from her distant husband-how she had heard that another love had driven her memory out of his heart— how she hid from his letters and refused to be comforted— until at length her step- mother's death brought her to Wongawarra, to lose her good father and find a  long lost husband.

"An entirely your own, my darling Ellinor, as when we parted on our bridal day! Never for one moment, my beloved wife, has my heart strayed from you to the side of any woman— never, never!"

And Janie rose quietly from the side of the wedded lovers, and stole from the shadowed verandah unnoticed; while night, full of the music of nature— full of breeze, rustled sounds, and the far cries of birds, and the ripple of flowing water closed around Wongawarra.

_______________

6: Nagasaki Knives

Raoul Whitfield

1896-1945

Black Mask, Oct 1930

THERE WERE no other persons on the iron-railed porch of the Oriental Hotel; the air was chilly and there was no moon in the sky. Jo Gar stood with his short arms at his sides and shivered slightly. He was not accustomed to the coolness of Japan, but he liked it. In the afternoon he had walked through the streets of Nagasaki; he had sipped saké and had dined well. Now he stood on the ancient porch of the rambling hotel and watched the little lights that flickered in the hills beyond the city— lights in small houses built on the terraced rice fields.

The hotel was in a noisy section of the town— it was not the sort of place tourists visited. But Jo Gar felt more at home among the natives of a town or city; he did not particularly care for English or American food. And he felt that Toyen, the expert on pearls, would be more at ease when visiting him at the Oriental.

The Island detective lighted one of his brown-paper cigarettes and smiled a little. He was thinking of a yacht aboard which there had been a murder— and of the yacht's captain, Howker. He was thinking of the second officer, Deming.

From the street below the porch there came the shrilling voice of a rickshaw man. It was raised in the peculiar cry of warning common to Nagasaki. Jo Gar half closed his almond-shaped eyes. Captain Howker and Deming were under a special guard, aboard the Eastern Star. The yacht was anchored off the docks, less than a half mile from the Oriental Hotel, and the first officer was aboard, waiting to hear what was to be done with the murderer and his accomplice.

Jo Gar shook his head slowly. He turned slightly as the sound of pattering feet reached him. A short, slant-eyed Japanese came towards him. He smiled, showing even, white teeth. He spoke in stilted English. "Señor Gar— I am the servant of Ichito Toyen. My master is ill— he wishes you come to his home. I have come to guide you."

The Island detective made a clicking sound with his lips. The servant bowed a little.

"It is too bad— I am so sorry," Jo said softly. "Your master— does he live far from this hotel?"

The servant shook his head. He grinned. He gestured towards the street that wound below the porch.

"It is very little to go," he said. "There is the rickshaw—I will go beside it."

Jo Gar nodded slowly. "Your master is not very ill?"he said anxiously.

The servant continued to grin. "It is the little fish he has eaten," he said. "I think that they were not good."

The Island detective smiled. "Go to the rickshaw— I am chilly," he said. "I will obtain a coat and come down in a short time."

The servant bowed and moved to the steps that led down from the porch to the narrow street. He went lightly, very quickly. Jo Gar stood watching him, a small smile playing about his thin lips. He ran browned fingers lazily through his graying hair.

"It is very strange," he observed softly, as he moved towards the dark-wooded doors that led into the hotel. "In Manila there is much fish. Yet when Toyen was there he preferred meats and rice. He did not once dine upon crawfish. It is very strange."

When he reached the first floor of the hotel, ascending wide stairs with ceiling fans hanging motionless above them, he went directly towards his small room. It was at the end of a corridor, and there was a figure standing near the door. Jo Gar halted a few feet from the figure, then said in a pleased tone:

"Toyen! It is good to see you again."

The Japanese came towards him— they clasped hands. Toyen's little black eyes were shining brightly. He said in good English:

"Señor Gar— and you look splendid!"

Jo Gar nodded "I do well," he returned. "And you, too, appear in fine health."

Toyen chuckled happily. "I eat and drink— and feel nicely," he stated. "You have had a difficult journey here. Murder— on the yacht."The Island detective nodded. He opened the door of his room and gestured for the pearl expert to enter. When they were inside, Jo said:

"Tell me— you have not been made ill by eating little fish?"

Toyen chuckled again. "I do not eat fish," he stated. "There has been sickness in Nagasaki because of that. But one does not suffer from what one does not do."

Jo Gar gestured towards a chair and stood frowning at the shuttered windows of the room. From the city came many sounds— among them the sound of gongs. The Island detective nodded his head slowly. "That is a truth— one does not," he agreed. "A man has just come to me on the porch. He stated he was your servant, and that you were ill— from eating little fish. I was requested to come to you."

Toyen rose from the chair in which he had seated himself and widened his dark eyes on those of the Island detective.

"It is a matter for the police," he said slowly. "I have been absent— and just returned to my house. I was given your note. My servant is in the hospital— a woman is taking his place."

Jo Gar shrugged. "I was returning for my coat," he stated. "I am glad you arrived— to give me warning."

The pearl expert said: "It would be wise to descend and have the man who posed as my servant arrested. In that way—"

The Island detective shook his head very slowly from side to side.

He spoke in a toneless voice.

"Sanford Randonn was murdered, aboard his yacht, Toyen. I was bringing him to you, because he had purchased six very fine pearls. I had told him that you could imitate them splendidly. He was murdered for the pearls, by the yacht captain— Howker. The second officer aided the captain. Fortunately, I was able to trick them— they are prisoners aboard the yacht for the present. But there are the six pearls—"

In the corridor beyond the door that Jo Gar had closed behind him there was the sound of footfalls— heavy footfalls. Toyen stared towards the door as they died suddenly. There was a loud tapping— a voice called:

"Señor Gar!"

The Island detective sighed a little. He called in a low voice: "Yes, Mr. Vandeer— come in!"

The door opened. The man who entered had a ruddy complexion, broad shoulders and eyes over which he wore shell-rimmed glasses. He looked at Toyen, the Japanese— said jerkily:

"Can I talk—"

Jo Gar interrupted. "You are excited," he said quietly. "You may talk— what has happened?"

The Hollander said: "Howker and Deming— they've escaped. They must have bribed someone in the crew— they got overboard. They're gone!"

The Island detective let his diminutive body relax. Toyen muttered something in his own tongue. Jo Gar said tonelessly.

"Ichito Toyen, Mr. Vandeer. An expert on pearls, Vandeer. A detective employed by the late Sanford Randonn, Toyen."

The two men bowed. Vandeer muttered. "I'd been ashore— the first officer gave me the news when I returned to the yacht. They've been gone about an hour. Nagasaki police officials have been notified."

Jo Gar turned his eyes towards those of the Japanese. He smiled coldly.

"It is very fortunate that you reached me, Toyen," he said. "I am doubly warned."

The Japanese said slowly: "You will not go with the one who waits for you—"

The Island detective shrugged. "It would be foolish to go," he stated. "But I think it would be more foolish not to go."

Vandeer stared at Jo, a puzzled expression in his eyes. The Island detective explained briefly, and the Hollander swore beneath his breath.

"It is a trap, of course," he said. "They have moved swiftly. Perhaps it is the pearls they are after, or perhaps—"

Vandeer stopped speaking and narrowed his eyes on the browned face of Jo Gar. The Island detective nodded his head slowly.

"Or perhaps it is Jo Gar they seek," he anticipated. "I shall take my coat— it is chilly outside."

He moved towards the closet at one end of the room. Toyen said protestingly:

"It is very foolish to go with this man. In Nagasaki there are ways of using knives—"

Jo Gar slipped a light coat over his gray suiting.

"In many spots about the world— there are ways of using knives," he agreed. "I have the feeling that if I do not go to them— they will come to me. I would prefer to make it simple— for them."

Vandeer said grimly: "I could accompany you, Señor— as a friend."

Jo Gar shook his head. "I will go alone," he said quietly. "And please do not attempt to follow."

Vandeer was frowning. "The pearls are of great value— and you have them," he reminded. "They belong to Mrs. Randonn, of course. You not only risk your own life, but you—"

Jo Gar smiled slightly. He bowed towards the Hollander.

"I suspected you were more interested in the pearls than in Señor Gar," he said. "I will not take the jewels with me— is that better?"

Vandeer said slowly: "Sanford Randonn trusted me, Señor. I was for several years in his confidence. I should like to accompany you."

Toyen said quietly: "It is dangerous, Jo. I do not like it."

The Island detective smiled a little. "It is dangerous, but it is my business. I am forewarned. I shall go alone. Please do not follow."

He went to the door, said to Toyen: "I will come to your house in an hour or so. I have the address. We will discuss matters then."

Toyen bowed; his face was a mask without expression. Vandeer said nastily:

"You are responsible— for the pearls, Señor Gar."

Jo nodded. He showed his teeth in a lazy smile. He nodded his head very slowly.

"As I was responsible for discovering the murderer of your employer," he agreed, and moved into the corridor, followed by Vandeer and Toyen.

He closed the door of his room, locked it carefully. Vandeer frowned down at the ancient lock. Jo Gar regarded the Hollander with a peculiar smile in his almond-shaped eyes.

"The lock does not matter too much, Mr. Vandeer," he said softly, tonelessly. "The pearls are not in the room."

He bowed and went down the wide stairs ahead of the Hollander and Ichito Toyen.

The slant-eyed Japanese stood beside a rickshaw that was neither new nor comfortable in appearance. The one between the shafts had a scarred face, broad, rounded shoulders and finely muscled legs. He looked at Gar without expression in his small eyes. The one who professed to be Toyen's servant grinned.

"It is five, ten minutes— very short time," he stated. "I will come behind."

The Island detective nodded. He climbed into the rickshaw, seated himself. His eyes went to the porch of the Oriental; he saw in the semi-darkness the figure of Vandeer, near the rail. Jo smiled at the man behind.

"It will be good to see your master again," he stated. "Let us go."The one who had lied to him spoke in a shrill tone to the rickshaw man. They moved down the slope— the street was lighted dimly. The motion of the rickshaw was easy and steady— the one between the shafts held back his strength until they neared the foot of the winding street. Then he cried out, pulled hard and turned sharply to the right. Coolies scattered from his path— the street became darker as they progressed.

Jo Gar shoved his right hand into a pocket of his coat and gripped the weapon within. He turned his head slightly and watched the Japanese who was trotting along behind the rickshaw. The man moved gracefully; he kept his eyes on the store fronts which they were passing. The windows were filled with nuts, foods in variety. Charcoal fires gleamed in the burners; Jo could see the figures of squatted humans around the glowing coals.

The wind whipped down a street that had now become a road. Flaming torches showed ahead and to the right and left. The rickshaw seemed to be moving away from the river and towards the rising rice terraces. They passed what appeared to be a temple. The rickshaw man was moving more slowly now. But his pace was a steady one.

From the water there came the deep toned whistle of a big ship, and almost immediately, from some spot ahead, there were the distant tones of a gong. Jo Gar smiled with his lips pressed together. "Strange city," he murmured. "The old— and the new."His fingers loosened, then tightened on the grip of the automatic in the right pocket of his overcoat. He breathed softly: "The new— and the old."

As he breathed the last word he was thinking of knives. Vandeer was right, of course. And Toyen, also. Captain Howker and Deming— they had escaped from the yacht. They hated him. They wanted the pearls they had killed to procure— and then had not obtained. And they had sent a Japanese to trick him. He was very sure of that.

The rickshaw rolled over a dirt road now. There were bamboo huts along the road, most of them set back a short distance. It was a squalid section, on the outskirts of the city. There was faint light from the stars—and torches along the route. The road swung sharply to the left; Jo Gar twisted in the rickshaw seat.

The Japanese was not trotting along behind the vehicle now. He had vanished!

The Island detective leaned forward, slipped to the spot where his feet had rested. The rickshaw man noticed the change in balance, started to turn. Jo let his body swing ahead of the right wheel, struck the dirt of the road on his feet. He fell forward, went to his knees.

There was a thud from the rickshaw— the faint hiss that preceded it, ended in that sound. It was a sound not unlike that of a knife hilt battering against the cushion. Jo swung to his feet, half turned. He heard the hiss a second time, twisted his body to one side. An object streaked close to his head, struck the dirt beyond him.

The rickshaw was off to one side of the road now, the shafts dragging in the dirt. Jo caught a glimpse of the broad-shouldered Japanese. He was running in bent-over fashion, towards a hut off the road. A torch catapulted flaming through the darkness, struck the road close to the Island detective. His figure was a target in the flames, but only for a second.

He leaped to his right. One knife struck his trailing coat material— the other fell short, clattered over the little stones of the road. Jo Gar moved with his head and shoulders bent low— moved in zig-zag fashion. His right hand held the automatic, but he did not use it. He was breathing heavily.

He kept moving, but his eyes could see only the faint shapes of figures— human figures— across the road. He ran to the left, towards a small house that was set back twenty feet or so. The place was dark; he moved towards the rear. There was a small bamboo structure not far behind the house— he ran towards it.

When he stood with his back against the poles that supported the little house, he sucked in deep breaths of air. His eyes stared towards the rear of the larger house, but no figures came into sight. It had been a very narrow escape. Perhaps he had been a fool. But he had felt that Howker and Deming would try to deal with him. He had thought that they would make a bargain for the pearls.

Instead, knives had been flung. Only the fact that he had noticed the vanishing of the Japanese who had posed as Toyen's servant had saved him. Perhaps they had intended to search him, after the knives had struck into his body.

Jo Gar shook his head slightly. He didn't think that Howker would believe he would bring the pearls to Toyen. And yet, the yacht captain might have thought that. And the man was a killer.

A shape moved faintly in the darkness, near the rear of the larger house. Jo Gar stood motionless; his diminutive body was tense. He held the automatic low in his right hand fingers. For several seconds the figure near the rear of the bamboo shack was motionless. And then it moved, directly towards Jo. A voice said shakily:

"Señor Gar— Señor Gar—"

It was the voice of the Japanese who had run along behind the rickshaw. Jo raised his right hand slightly, spoke in a low tone:

"I am here— I hold a gun in my right hand. Come forward, please."The Japanese sucked in his breath sharply. He moved towards the Island detective. He said softly:

"The rickshaw was attacked— by thieves. I was pulled off the road. You are not hurt?"

Jo Gar smiled a little in the darkness. He said steadily:

"Stop there— do not come closer. I shall kill you— very soon."

The Japanese cried out thickly: "I am the servant of Ichito Toyen— I come to—"

"You are a liar," Jo Gar interrupted very softly. "Keep your voice low, and answer my questions. You have tricked me and I—"

Something rustled behind the little house of bamboo.

The Island detective hesitated, then went on.

"And I shall kill you, unless you talk the truth to me. You understand?"

The Japanese was breathing heavily. There was a faint sound from Jo Gar's right. Someone was moving from the rear of the small house— creeping around towards him. And the Japanese was talking again.

"I did not trick you— it was the thieves. They thought you were a wealthy American, perhaps—"

Jo Gar said: "Do I appear to be an American?"

The Japanese was silent for several seconds. The rustling sound had died. Jo Gar said:

"You have tricked me— I will kill you!"

He squeezed the trigger of the gun. There was a sharp crack!— the Japanese screamed shrilly. Jo whirled around, moved swiftly to the right, close to the bamboo poles of the small house. He saw the figure crouched close to the curve of the rear wall, five feet from him— saw the upraised arm. As he dropped to his knees he fired twice.

The human groaned, leaned against the poles beside him, slipped to the earth. Jo Gar turned his head and looked towards the spot where he had left the Japanese. He could see no dim figure.

He crawled towards the man who lay on the earth, then rose to his feet. A voice said huskily:

"You got me— in the stomach— damn Howker!"

Jo Gar said softly: "Deming— it is you. Where is— Howker?"

The man on the ground groaned. His face showed white in the darkness. He gritted out the words:

"He bribed that red-haired deckhand—to get us loose. We got ashore in a boat. He said we had to get—you. Or we'd go back to Manila—for murder."

Jo Gar stood motionless, looking down at the figure of the second officer. He said slowly:

"You helped him— on the yacht. He murdered Randonn. But he does not care— about you. Where is he— now?"

Deming started to say something, stopped. Jo Gar said softly:

"If you talk— I will send someone here to you. If you do not talk— I will use another bullet—"

The second officer swore thickly. He muttered in a voice that was barely audible:

"He's at— the hotel— the pearls—"

His voice broke. Faint light caught the blade of the knife that lay on the earth beside him. Voices were shrilling, towards the road.

Jo Gar leaned down and lifted the knife. It was long-bladed, with a short hilt. The voices were growing louder. He leaned towards the body of the second officer.

"Help will reach you— do not talk about— the pearls—"

He stopped. The second officer was unconscious. There was faint heart action. Jo straightened, moved towards the terraces beyond the small house, keeping the structure between him and the road. When he reached the first of the rice ditches he turned sharply to his right and moved forward slowly, his body bent low.

He heard voices, raised and borne to him on the wind. One sounded like that of the Jap who had posed as Toyen's servant. He had not fired at the man, but into the earth near the spot where he had stood. He moved on steadily. After a few minutes the voices did not reach him. Once, looking back, he saw the flare of many torches. He guessed that Deming had been discovered.

After a short time he reached a dirt road. It converged with another, a quarter of a mile or so beyond. Jo turned his collar high, bent his head low. The streets were crowded; he came suddenly into a section where there was a celebration. Fire crackers were being set off— there were banners and serpent designs hung and streaming from long poles.

Jo Gar moved through the crowded streets of the section. He found a rickshaw, got into it. The driver grinned at him, showing yellow, broken teeth. Jo smiled wearily at him.

"Hotel Oriental," he instructed, and was forced to repeat the words twice before the man understood.

As the rickshaw moved slowly from the crowded section of the city the Island detective relaxed in the seat and touched the hilt of the knife he had found beside Deming, with his left hand fingers. He murmured to himself:

"Howker— he is not a fool. How difficult it would be for the officials to prove that he or Deming would murder a Filipino with— Nagasaki knives."

The one who pulled the rickshaw was not so young or so strong as the other man had been. It took almost ten minutes to reach the street on which the Oriental Hotel faced. There was a curio shop a half block from the steps that led to the hotel porch. Jo stopped the rickshaw in front of the shop, descended and paid the one with the yellow teeth.

When the man moved off Jo went slowly towards the hotel. He ascended the stairs to the porch and thought to himself: Seven more bullets— in the gun. That is good.

He went inside; the hotel was dimly lighted, though the hour was not late. The Island detective climbed the wide stairs almost silently. His muscles ached; he was tired. His body was not accustomed to such effort. As he approached the door of his room he moved slowly. He reached into his pocket for the key—tried the knob before he inserted it. The door opened under slight pressure.

Jo drew in a deep breath, sighed. He did not use the key, but opened the door cautiously. The room was dark— he snapped the switch near the door, his right hand holding the material of the pocket forward. The one electric bulb glowed not too brightly.

The Island detective moved forward, stared down at the figure lying on the floor, not far from the small bed. He said slowly:

"Toyen!"

The pearl expert was lying face downward, but his dress and clothing identified him. Jo moved rapidly to his side, turned him over. The dark eyes of Ichito Toyen stared at him unseeingly. One glance was sufficient. The Japanese was dead.

Jo Gar narrowed his eyes on the hilt of the knife, the blade of which was buried just below Toyen's heart. The hilt was crimson stained; it was of wood that looked old. The Island detective fingered Toyen's left wrist; he straightened, stared about the room. There was no disorder.

The shutters were drawn; the few chairs were in the same position as when he had left the room, locking the door after him. And yet Ichito Toyen had returned to that room— and was lying dead, knifed through the heart.

The Island detective went to the edge of the bed and seated himself. He faced the window. He said in a whisper:

"There was the Hollander, Vandeer. And there was a man who has murdered once— Howker. Which of the two—"

A voice said very quietly: "You will keep your hands at your sides— and you will not turn! You will make no sound, Gar. It is very important that you obey me— for you!"

Jo's body had tensed— it relaxed now. He narrowed his eyes on the shutters of the windows, listened to the distant crackling of fireworks. He said in a voice that was very soft:

"I am not a fool, Captain Howker—I shall do exactly as—you say."

The closet door closed with a faint clicking sound. There were light footfalls behind the Island detective. In the corridor beyond the room there was the patter of sandaled feet. The murderer, Howker, whistled a little as he moved around to one side. The footfalls beyond the room died away.

After a few seconds Howker moved to a spot near the shutters. He stood with his back to them and smiled down at Jo Gar. His brown-gray eyes held little expression— the smile was on his lips. It was a hard smile. The man's short, thick-set body was relaxed. Howker wore no hat—he was dressed in a cheap suit of dark material. He spoke with little emotion.

"More than ever, now— I need the pearls. You have them. I did not expect you to return here— Deming has failed. That is done. You have returned. I came here to search the room. This Japanese surprised me. I suppose he was— Toyen."

Jo Gar said nothing. Howker narrowed his eyes a little and said:

"I killed Randonn for the pearls— and I'm not a fool. They will take me back to Bilibid, or perhaps to England— and hang me. That, is, they will if I'm caught."

He paused, and Jo Gar said slowly: "You did not have to murder Toyen. He was not involved in this. He was my friend—"

There was a weary tone in the Island detective's voice. Howker smiled with his eyes. He moved his right hand a little and Jo looked at the gun. It was an Army weapon— it looked like one of the Colts that Randonn had kept aboard the yacht.

Howker said grimly: "I turned my back on him for a second— he drew the knife you see there. I knocked it out of his hands, and used it on him. He cut me—"

With a quick movement he pulled back the sleeve of his left arm.

The skin was stained with red. He said bitterly:

"I've got to get away— and I'll need money. The pearls will bring me the money. You have the pearls. I can kill you, Gar. You trapped me, on the yacht. But I will— make a bargain with you."

Jo Gar sat motionless, his eyes on the eyes of the one who had twice murdered. He said slowly:

"I am not a fool— I do not care to die. It was my business to find the murderer of Randonn. It is not my business to find the murderer of Toyen, even though he was my friend."

Howker slitted his brown-gray eyes on Jo's and said grimly:

"You are tricky—and cold. When a man born in the tropics is cold—he's dangerous. I hate to deal with you."

Jo Gar said quietly: "As you say, I have the pearls. There are six of them— and they are worth much money. If you kill me— you will not have them."

The murderer swore softly. "You are cold," he repeated. "Colder than death."

The Island detective said slowly: "I will show you that I am honest with you. My life is worth much to me. You are wasting time. I have shot Deming—and the police will find him. Perhaps there will be a description of me. Deming will not talk, perhaps— but the rickshaw man may. Or the one you sent to pose as Toyen's servant. If the police come here seeking me—"

He broke off, shrugged. Howker moved his gun hand a little and said grimly:

"You brought the pearls ashore— you would not leave them on the yacht. You wanted to get them to Toyen. If they are not on you, or in this room, they are somewhere near. I will give you your life— for them. That is my offer."

Jo said simply: "My life is of more value than the pearls. You have killed twice—"

Howker widened his eyes a little and smiled disagreeably.

"As you know, I am not an expert! You will bring the pearls to a man I know. He is Japanese and his judgment is quite good. For years he lived in the South Seas— I met him down there."

The Island detective said slowly: "There will be risk, for you. On the streets—"

Howker interrupted grimly. "There will be risk for you, too, Gar! They will want you before they want me, perhaps. You have shot Deming. If they have your description—"

Jo Gar nodded. "It is so," he agreed. "They do not care so much about murder that occurred on a yacht at sea. An English yacht. And they do not know as yet that you have killed a Japanese."

Howker swore softly, looking down at the body of Toyen.

"It was self defense," he stated harshly. "I took his own knife from him."

Jo Gar said nothing. Howker took his eyes away from the figure on the floor, lowered his gun arm a little.

"You have the pearls here?"he asked in a voice that was too calm to please the Island detective.

Jo nodded. Howker questioned him with his eyes. After a little silence he said:

"Raise your hands— and get up. Stand very still."

The Island detective obeyed. Howker pressed the muzzle of the gun against his left side and searched him carefully. He grunted as he took the knife and automatic from Jo. Backing towards the shutters of the windows again, he spoke in a steady voice.

"I don't think you'll be foolish. If anything goes wrong I'll use this gun. You know that. Get the pearls, but use your left hand doing it— and keep the right where I can see it."

Jo Gar nodded, lowered his left hand. He went to a small piece of luggage he had brought from the yacht, snapped the bag open. It was not locked. He fumbled among a few objects, lifted out a bottle containing a blue liquid. He said quietly:

"The pearls are here— the liquid is colored water."

Howker smiled grimly. "Yes?"he said. "All right— but let me see the pearls."

There was a small sink at one end of the room. Jo went towards it, with Howker following. The distant cracking of fireworks had ceased; at intervals there were gongs sounding. The interior of the hotel was quiet— very quiet.

The Island detective poured the liquid to a glass— strained the pearls into the palm of his left hand, on which was a towel from a rack, and wiped them. They gleamed dully in the poor light of the room. There were six of them. Back of him he heard Howker's breath sucked in sharply. Jo said slowly:

"They are worth killing for?"

Howker swore at him. He said sharply:

"Set them on the towel on the sink."

Jo did as he was instructed. Howker took up the pearls into a handkerchief, keeping the gun in his right hand, and his eyes on Jo. He said slowly:

"Turn your back."

Jo Gar turned. He stood motionlessly, his body relaxed. Then Howker was speaking again.

"We go out— you lock the door. We go down the stairs, but not out the front entrance. There are steps in the rear— into the tea garden. You will be at my right, and my gun will be ready for action. The place to which I'm taking the pearls is only a few squares. We will walk."

Jo Gar nodded. He moved towards the door, opened it, stepped into the corridor. Howker followed him. He said in a quiet voice:

"Snap the switch off!"

The Island detective obeyed. He closed the door, locked it. They moved towards the wide stairs, went down. A sleepy looking clerk was back of the big, dark-wooded desk. He smiled a little as they turned towards the rear of the hotel. They went down a corridor, reached narrow steps that led to a small tea garden. Howker chuckled a little. His body was pressed close to Jo's— they went through an alley, over an old arched bridge that spanned a bad odored stream.

Suddenly they reached a narrow street that was well lighted. Rickshaws were moving in both directions. Howker got his body close to the wood of a tea house and said sharply:

"Wait— stay here!"

They stood in a dark spot and watched the narrow street. Suddenly Howker's body stiffened at Jo's side. He swore softly. A rickshaw was moving slowly into sight; there was a jam of humans ahead of it. The driver was shouting shrilly. In the rickshaw were two men. One was short and thick-set, brown-faced. He was in the uniform of a police official. The other man was the Hollander, Vandeer. Vandeer was talking, gesturing excitedly.

The humans moved away from the rickshaw— the vehicle went on. Howker said grimly:

"That might have been bad— yes?"

Jo shrugged. "I left Vandeer at the hotel, with Toyen," he said simply. "Toyen must have returned. But I don't see—"

"Perhaps he, too, was after the pearls," Howker said mockingly. "Anyway, he was in the room when I entered."

Jo said quietly: "I do not think he was outside the door—and you forced him to enter. You thought he might have the pearls."

Howker narrowed his eyes on Jo's. He said slowly:

"That doesn't matter— cross the street now. Keep your head low— and don't look in either direction."

They crossed the crowded street; Howker swearing harshly at a coolie who got in his path as they had almost reached the far side. They were in another alley; it wound to the right. The wooden houses on either side were in bad shape— rotted and broken down. Oriental music sounded from them; sharp odors reached the Island detective's nostrils.

Howker said sharply: "Here— to your right!"

They passed through swinging doors. Beyond was a charcoal burner. The place seemed to be a small curio store— near faded, jade curtains stood the squat figure of a Japanese. His face seemed like a mask in the dull light of the evil smelling store.

Howker said quietly: "I have brought a friend, Matu— there is something of value he has given me. Will you look at the objects for me?"

The Japanese made no sound. He bowed his head slightly, spread his hands in a gesture of consent. He turned, moved beyond the faded, jade curtain. Jo could hear his footfalls as he climbed stairs.

Howker said: "Follow him, Señor. And be very careful of the steps."There was mockery in the man's tone. Jo went towards the curtain, passed it, walked slowly up the stairs. There were not many steps— they creaked beneath his weight. Behind him Howker mounted the steps.

At the top Jo paused, looked around. The Japanese was seated back of a small table over which hung a light— a kerosene lamp, from the odor of the room. He gestured towards chairs that were near the table— Jo moved towards one.

Howker came up and walked to the table. With a swift movement of his left hand he let the pearls roll across the surface. The Japanese drew a quick breath. He muttered a word that Jo did not understand. Howker said slowly, mockingly:

"I am told they are good pearls— and of great value. I hope that is true."

He faced the Island detective, his gun made a bulge in the right pocket of his dark coat. His brown-gray eyes glittered in the light of the lamp. The Japanese was bending his head low, touching the pearls with slender nippers, getting his wide eyes close to them. Muffled sounds reached the room from the street.

The Japanese was muttering to himself— Howker kept his eyes narrowed on the figure of Jo Gar. Several minutes passed. Howker said in a husky voice:

"Well, Matu? They are good?"

The Japanese raised his head and his eyes glittered on Jo Gar's momentarily. He turned his head towards Howker, said very quietly: "The pearls— are very fine, Captain. I do not think I have ever— looked upon finer ones."

Howker's body stiffened a little. Surprise showed in his eyes. He swore hoarsely. The Japanese rose from the stool on which he had been seated. He said in broken English:

"If I may point out—"

The knife rested on the edge of the table— near the stool on which the Japanese had been seated. Howker's right hand came from his pocket as the Japanese stepped towards him, the pearls in a tray. Jo Gar moved swiftly— the knife was in his right hand before Howker knew that he had left the chair in which he had been seated.

The Japanese cried out a shrill warning— Howker whirled, dug his right-hand fingers into the pocket of his coat.

The first shot sounded— as the Island detective struck at the murderer. The bullet battered into curtains across the room. Howker screamed as the knife blade ripped his right shoulder. His body swung around, off balance.

Jo Gar struck for the second time. And Howker squeezed the trigger of the gun again. He was aiming blindly— the Japanese drew his breath in with a hissing sound, staggered towards the stairs that led down to the curio store. Beneath the second stroke of Jo's knife the body of the captain slumped forward. As he fell, the Island detective jerked his right hand from the pocket.

Howker's grip relaxed on the gun— Jo twisted it from his fingers. He backed away. The Japanese stood near the top of the stairs, holding his left wrist muttering to himself. Jo Gar said grimly:

"Get over there— near Howker!"

The one who had judged the pearls moved slowly to Howker's side. The captain pulled himself to his knees and pressed his right hand under his left arm-pit. He gritted:

"That damn— knife—"

Jo Gar smiled with his lips. He looked at the Japanese.

"You were not wise," he said quietly. "You knew that the pearls were imitations. Yet you told Howker that they were very fine. That was foolish. He thought he had beaten me— and he grew careless— just for a second."

Howker stared at the Japanese. He muttered thickly: "Not real—the pearls? You tricked me, Matu—"

Jo Gar shook his head. "I think he wanted to warn you— but not before me," he said. "So he lied— and then he was about to take you aside, tell you the truth. But I knew they were not real—those pearls."

Howker stared at Jo Gar. The Island detective said slowly:

"You hate me, Howker. But you love the pearls. And you needed money. You wanted to kill me—and have the pearls, too. You would have killed me, even if you had possessed the real ones. You were too greedy."

Howker swore bitterly. Joe Gar said in a quiet voice, holding the gun's muzzle towards the captain and the Japanese.

"The irony of it is, Howker— that you had the real pearls in your possession."

Howker's brown-gray eyes narrowed on the half closed ones of Jo Gar. He breathed hoarsely:

"I— had them—"

Jo nodded. "They were in the hilt of the knife with which you murdered Ichito Toyen," he said softly. "They are still there— in a little hollow place in the wood. The knife was Toyen's— it was brought to me before I left the yacht. I placed the pearls within the hilt. The knife went back to him. He knew there would be stones of some kind for him to examine. He did not have the time to speak to me of the pearls, at the hotel. The Hollander, Vandeer— he interrupted us. When I left, in my attempt to find you— Toyen returned to my room. Perhaps he was suspicious of Vandeer, and thought he might attempt a search. I think you found Toyen outside the door— you forced the old lock, and made Toyen enter."

Howker groaned. He said hoarsely:

"He wouldn't come through— with them. I was sure he knew where they were. He drew the knife— and I got him with it."

Jo Gar said very softly: "And the pearls were in the hilt— in your palm as you stabbed."

There was a little silence, broken by the shrilling of voices beyond the room. Then Jo said in a toneless voice:

"We will go to the street— to the police. You are wounded. There will be no escape, this time."

Howker swore beneath his breath, got to his feet. He stood with his body hunched forward, his face twisted. Jo Gar said quietly:

"Go towards the stairs, please."

The captain moved forward slowly. He muttered to himself: "And I had them— in my fingers—"

The Island detective said in a cold voice:

"There are more uses than one— for the knives of Nagasaki."

____________________

7: By the Nepean River

"Waif Wander"

Southern Argus (Port Elliot, SA) 26 Dec 1878

MANY YEARS AGO a clerk was sitting at his desk in one of the small shipping offices in Sydney, opposite to the present site of the Circular Quay, and at about three o'clock in the afternoon the bright sunlight that streamed, in the open doorway was darkened by the entering figure of a man.

The figure was tall and stalwart, and that of a man about thirty. He was well-featured, but not pleasant-faced — a dark complexioned face, with keen, dark, yet restless eyes, and an obstinate firmness of lip, that denoted determination and surliness of temper. He was attired in dark trowsers and dark woollen shirt only, with strong long boots drawn above the knees, and a, high-crowned, dark felt hat; he carried a stout whip in his brown hand, and the clerk set him down at once as a country wool-grower down, with his wagons.

'There's a ship expected in by your folk, ain't there— a ship called the Wave of Life,' he asked.

'She's in,' replied the young man at the desk; 'there she lies,' and he pointed with the handle of his pen toward a brig that had not been long cast anchor in the roadstead.

'In? is she? Ah! And she has brought out some women, hasn't she? some servants I mean?'

'Yes, she has eighteen females on board, I believe.'

'What would be the best way to engage one?  Can I take a boat and go out to the vessel?'

'She's discharging her passengers now. I'm going down to the wharf in a few moments; you can come along if you like, and you'll have ,an opportunity of seeing the women as they land.'

In a few moments, as the clerk had said, they were on their way, to the wharf, and as they reached it, a couple of boats were making. their way toward the shore.

It was evident that the boats were principally occupied by females, who, with deep interest, were watching the shores of their new country, in which everything seemed so strange to their unaccustomed eyes. Among them was one dark-haired and heavy-browed, woman, with firm lips and a sharp and active eye that seemed to take in everything around her and analyse it, as far as her own personal interest was concerned.

She was not very young— she might have been thirty— and she looked like a woman who wouldn't lose her way even in so great a continent as Australia. As they landed and were met upon, the wharf by many whom curiosity or business had led to see the new arrivals, the woman I have described stood a little apart, looking keenly from face to face of the strangers around, and listening sharply to what passed between those who sought to engage a servant from among her late companions. Her appearance seemed to attract the man who had come down with the shipping-clerk, and he moved toward her.

'Are you looking for a situation, my girl?' he asked, bending his brows, and looking at her keenly from under the brim of his broad hat.

'I suppose so,' she answered, as she returned his stare with interest. 'Have you one to offer me?'

'I have. I am just down to engage a woman.'

'For what kind of work?'

'Housework, in the country.'

'And the wages?'

'Oh, we won't quarrel about the wages. If you will come with me I'll give you the highest wages that's going, for my place is so far out of town that I know it isn't every girl would care to take it.'

'How far away is it?'

'Over forty miles. Just under the first spur of the Blue Mountains.'

The woman laughed. It was not a pleasant laugh to hear— it was harsh and shallow. 'I'm as wise as I was before. What do I know about your Blue Mountains or your Green Mountains! There's one thing I'd like to ask you, my good man. What made you pick me out of all these girls to ask me? My looks are not in my favour I know.'

'Perhaps it was. because they are not that I preferred you. You look like a woman that has a determined will of her own, and that wouldn't be. frightened at a trifle. That's the sort of woman I want.'

'Well, you're right; that's about my character, and if we agree about terms I think I'll go. Them Blue Mountains of yours will have to be very high indeed if they keep me from coming back to Sydney if I have a mind to,' and she laughed again the strange, disagreeable laugh I remarked on before. 'But one thing I may as well tell you at once, I don't go one foot with you or any man until I'm taken to some well-known person of this city that will vouch for your decency and respectability.'

'That is but fair,' he said, 'and I agree to it.'

'And now you may give me a name to call you by,' she said. 'My own name is Martha Wilderness.'

'And mine Mark Blum.'

'You're not a foreigner?'

'No, but I expect some of my people were Germans. Now, Martha Wilderness, if you will point out your luggage, I'll get it taken to the place I put up at, and where you may as well put up at too. They are respectable people there, and have known me for years.'

Apparently all was arranged to the woman's satisfaction, for the earliest sunrays of the next morning saw the wagon of Mark Blum on its way to the Blue Mountains, with Martha Wilderness sitting under the tilt, but near the front, where she could see the fine team of horses and talk to the gloomy-looking owner as he drove.

They were a strange couple as they jogged along, and had anyone have been there to observe them, it must have been commented on. Hours and hours of the long summer day they sat there in silence, each apparently immersed in unpleasant thought, totally irrespective of the existence of the other, only arousing occasionally as some stoppage was necessary, or the wants of the horses had to be attended to.

When the sun was falling beneath the horizon, however, and they were but a little way from the place Blum had told the woman he should camp out for the night, a new mood seemed to overtake the immigrant.

Clapping her hands together, so suddenly that Blum turned and looked at her with a start, she cried, 'Well, we're nice company! How far have we come, Mr. Blum?'

'Well, we're about thirty miles from Sydney, and about fifteen from the Nepean. My place is not far from Emu Ford, and if the moon wasn't so old, I'd give the horses a rest and get in by moonlight, but it's not two hours high, you see,' and he pointed to the pale crescent that was drooping towards me trees.

'Are you tired?' he asked.

'Tired! no, not I— I'm never tired at night. I'm like the cats, and the bats, and the rats; I only begin to be alive when the world goes to sleep. My! but this is a fine country!'

Blum looked 'wonderingly at the speaker, who seemed in earnest in her admiration of one of the most depressing bits of scenery. the whole road between Parramatta and the Nepean could show. They had reached a low, marshy spot, where the coarse vegetation was low, and where the heavy timber, had receded in the direction of the not now distant Nepean river.

The sun had fairly set by this time, and broad, dark clouds from the east were creeping up the sky, darkening and deepening the shadows, and rendering the long, low marsh even gloomier looking than had the daylight fallen upon its surface. The woman's eyes were roaming eagerly over the desolate landscape, as if she thoroughly enjoyed it, and her companion began to think he had got to deal with a very strange woman.

'If you really like the look of Barra Swamp,' he said, 'you must be very different from other people.'

'I am very different from other people, Mr, Blum, and so are you. It was because I saw that at the first look that I wanted to come up to the Blue Mountains with you.'

'Saw what?' he asked sharply, turning a dark look upon the speaker.

'Saw that you had a secret in your face, that there was down in your heart a dark something to hide that you were afraid would look out of your eyes! Oh, I'm a rare one to read faces, especially when they're bad ones like your's.'

Blum stared at her with such anger and consternation, that he forgot his team, and had they not been accustomed to : the road they might have passed the track that led to the river side, where he was in the habit of camping,  but they took it of their own accord, and: the change drew the driver's attention to them.

'You're no coward, at all events, my good woman,' he said, 'and I must have, a talk to you in plain language presently.'

'No, I'm no coward.' she returned; 'If I was I shouldn't have come with you; and as for plain language, that's the sort I like to deal in sometimes,' she added, with slight hesitation as though recalling a something that she had overlooked.

It was far pleasanter down by the river. Trees grew on its murmuring banks, and green grasses hid the dark ground, and in the growing darkness even there a deep gloom lay under the spreading branches of the dark pines that border the Nepean.

There was no word exchanged between the ungenial companions until the horses had been seen to, and a rough meal prepared and partaken of, but when that was cleared away, Martha Wilderness spoke.

'Now, master,' she said, with a sarcastic emphasis, 'we're ready for that plain language of yours. What's the business you have trapped me for at the Blue Mountains?'

'Trapped you for?' he repeated. 'Or thought you trapped me for, where all along it was you that was trapped!' and again the strange laugh fell repellently on the ears of her new employer.

"I laid no trap for you,' he retorted. 'I engaged you tor housework in the back country, and you signed an agreement to do it.'

'Yes, but when I signed that agreement, I never asked you what sort of housework it was. Do you think any fool couldn't see in your face that it wasn't for sweeping floors and washing dishes you wanted a strong-minded and able-bodied woman to go to the Blue Mountains with you? By the way, what do they call them blue for? Are they blue?'

It was a sudden change of subject, and excited the suspicions of Blum. He looked at the woman, thinking what a peculiar being she must be, and felt a strange curiosity to know what was passing in her mind. Surely it was utterly impossible for a woman just landed from a voyage of many thousands of miles to know anything of his life, when not one in the country he dwelt in suspected its reality?

Martha was sitting on the grass, with her back leaning against a log, and the low moon sinking beyond the glittering waters, throwing its sad light on her pale face. She had taken off her bonnet and tossed it on the ground beside her, where it still lay, and her hand with it. Blum sat on a bit of wood at the distance of a few feet from her, and his shoulder was toward the moon. One side of his face was in deep shadow, and the brim of his hat fell low over his forehead ; but even in the pale moonlight the pallor of the man's face was like a white patch against the dark background, and his eyes shone like coals of fire.

As Martha asked the irrelevant question regarding the name of the mountain that she could now see the bold outline of rising up against the horizon, her own keen orbs were bent upon Blum's face, which she watched with a greater suspicion than was exhibited in even his own half-angry gaze.

'Well,' she said, abruptly, 'why don't you tell me why they call them blue? They look black to me.'

'What the— do I care why or what they call them!' he returned. 'Do you think I engaged you to come up to the Nepean to talk of the Blue Mountains?'

'No, I don't; you brought me up to do some dirty bad work that you don't want to own to yourself even now. What was it? that's what I want to know.'

Her attitude was so determined and aggressive, as she partially raised herself, and, lifting her hand from the ground, held it out before him with an air of command, that it, almost unconsciously to himself, impressed him.

'Well, that's just what I want to tell you. You're a sharp woman, you are, to have guessed that I was afraid to tell you for fear you wouldn't come. But we'll have it out now— it's too late to go back.'

'Yes,' she replied, 'it's far too late now ; what business have you foe me ? Why did you look among all my companions, and, passing by the fair and jolly girls, pick out the dark, ill-tempered looking woman for your work?'

'Because it's work that wants a strong arm and a stout will— you have both, Martha Wilderness.'

'Yes, I have. See to that,' she said, pushing the loose sleeve up from her wrist, and showing an arm, white as a woman's, but strong and muscular almost as a man's.

'What is it you want me to do? Is it murder? I could strangle you, I think, if I had a mind to,' and putting the ends of her strong fingers and thumbs together, she gripped them in as though she were crushing the life out of some living thing, and listening to its gasps.

Blum shuddered to the marrow of his bones.

'No, no!' he cried, ' how can you talk like that, woman? It's bad enough as it is. Well, the plain English of it is that my wife is mad, and I want you to look after her.'

'Mad! Your wife mad?'

Like a knife the terrible laughter of that strange being went through Mark Blum. Her hands fell to her lap, and letting her head drop back so that the heavy braids of her black hair unloosed and fell upon the log behind her, she laughed until the echoes rang among the branches of the trees above her and along the winding bank of the Nepean river.

'Woman, there is surely nothing to laugh at in madness!' Blum cried, half in terror and half in anger.

'Isn't there? Sometimes it seems to me the funniest thing in the world is a mad woman. And so you want me to watch your wife, who is mad?'

'Yes, you are not afraid of the job I see.'

'I told you I was no coward, what way is she mad? Is she dreamy and silent? does she wander with the moon, or kill with it? Or does she nurse and hide one feeling down below all others, a feeling to which years are as days, and which only gathers with time? Does she carry that one feeling about with her from youth to age, and over land and seas to quench it at last in the blood of an enemy?'

She was like a Pythoness, whom the evil spirit had suddenly overpowered, as she rose suddenly and poured out burning and strange words, to the night air of the Nepean. In the exaggerated imagination of Mark Blum, she seemed to loom tall and weird, in the darkening gloom, and her waving arm seemed to hold a strange power over him, and to subdue his will, like an incantation.

'Does she wander about like a ghost, and mutter of a lover who deceived her, or of a husband she has lost? Are her dreams of limitless space, where souls without bodies, flit about in the sunless air, or of the bottomless pits of fire, where the. accursed of heaven dwell? Ha! ha! ha! of what strange things are the thoughts of mad women!'

Blum swept the cold perspiration from His forehead and got up hurriedly.

'I'm beginning to think, you're mad yourself, my good woman, and I will take a ramble until you come to yourself. If I hadn't been in your company all day, I'd swear you had been drinking,' and he strode off into the darkness.

'Fool!' she muttered to herself, as she once more sat upon the grass; 'he thinks that nothing but drink can make a woman mad— he, of all men, ought to know better?'

As she ceased to speak the sounds of a quickly approaching horse's feet became distinct, and in a few moments a horseman alighted close to the wagon. Seeing the recumbent or half-recumbent figure of the woman making the shadow darker where she sat, he peered forward in the gloom and spoke.

'You are a woman, eh? Where's Blum?'

'Here, there, anywhere,' she answered, carelessly.

'I am here, John. What has happened?' Blum spoke sharply as he came near the man, and one could hear that his voice trembled.

'Nothing that need fret you much, Blum. She's dead.'

'Dead?'

'Yes, and I thought I'd better meet you with the news, or someone else might. There's all sorts of yarns at the Ford about it, and I did not know how you'd take 'em.'

'Yarns?'

'Yes, I haven't been up to your place since you left, you know, and it seems someone from, over the mountains happened to pass by the house yesterday, and had the curiosity to listen at the door or window, wondering how you had left your wife. It is said that groans were heard— at all events the stranger smashed in the door with your own axe, and found the woman dying.'

'Not dead? not speechless?'

'No, she told him that you had left her there for over a week without water and without food, and that she was dying of want. But she told him more,' the man said, drawing closer and almost whispering; 'she told that you wished her death, lest she should inform of your crimes, and that she had never been mad. Mark Blum, I rode here to-night to give you a chance for your life, for if you go to Emu Ford they will lynch you— if they don't, dead men have been brought to light from their graves made by you, and the la w will do your business.'

The speaker waited for an instant, but the wretched Blum made no reply, and the man remounted without another word and rode away again into the gloom.

Blum stood where he had listened, as if he had been struck dumb ; in those few minutes of helpless silence he doubtless suffered an almost unendurable agony from the horror of his own thoughts. He had forgotten all but the terrible words of the departed horseman, and when the woman he had forgotten put her hand on his arm he gasped with terror, as though he thought his murdered wife had come face to face with him in the lone night by the Nepean River.

'Ha! ha!' she laughed; 'I am not, and yet I am, the ghost of your dead wife. At last, at last, Mark Blum, your sins have overtaken you.'

'Who are you that talks to me like this?' he cried, hoarsely, as though the words choked him. 'If you heard that man's foolish story you needn't take it all for gospel. If I had meant to kill her would I have hired you to attend her?'

'Only the Spirit of Evil knows what you, would be capable of doing, Mark Blum. I know what you have done. And so you have murdered your second wife? Not every man can boast of killing two wives!'

The moon was now just throwing her last beams fall in the faces of the two so strangely cast together in that wild and lonely spot, and from the cloudless sky millions of stars were pouring down their brightness as the last beams of the hidden daylight ceased to contend with them. Into each other's faces the two stared steadily, and it seemed to Mark Blum as if, moment by moment, the woman's face became more familiar to him.

'Who are you ?' he repeated. 'Your face is changing— it is not the face of the woman I engaged at Sydney. I think I am going mad! I feel choking!' and he tore from his neck the scarf that encircled it.

'You know my face too well, Mark Blum— a living man cannot forget the face of his victim. I am Jane Repsill.'

'Jane Repsill!'

'That was, until she became Jane Blum. Wonder you dared to live under that same name, even although thousands and thousands of miles were between you and the blood you had shed. But you did not spill enough of it. You left me for a corpse; but, although my skull was fractured, I recovered, to find myself mad! Not mad enough to forget you though, Mark Blum. Not mad enough to prevent me from vowing a vow, and repeating it for fifteen years, until the asylum doors were opened to the recovered lunatic! Recovered! I shall let you and them see!'

He staggered back and lifted his hand to his head. 'If it is really you, Jane, have pity on me— I believe I am dying—'

'It is time for you to die. Would to God that you had died twenty years ago!' and as the old memories flooded up the diseased brain, she seemed to forget the man, who fell to the grass at her feet; she mechanically fell again to her former seat on the grass and buried her face in her hands.

There was no eye to mark the two figures half hidden among the shadows, and hours passed away, leaving their outlines unchanged. Clouds crept up once more and hid the brightness of the heavens, and wild breezes swept among the pines and roughened the surface of the cold Nepean. Moaning sounds followed the course of the erratic breezes, and dead leaves from the branches above fell upon the face of Mark Blum and upon the disordered hair of the silent woman, but they made no sign. The calico cover of the wagon flapped in the wind, and the satisfied horses crept near it for company, but the man lay prone upon the grass and the woman's face was still hidden from the dews of night. The morning broke bright and beautiful on the shores of the river, and in all his glory the glad sun shone full upon the sleepers.

The horses, looking for their early feed, moved towards their slumbering master, and then fled with a terrified snort. A grey lizard crept along the log against which the woman leaned, and invading her long, damp, black hair, crawled to her shoulder and touched with its shiny sides, the hands that hid her face, but she did not chide it; and when the same horseman, who had warned Blum, returned during the day to satisfy himself that Blum had fled, he found the murderer staring with sightless eyes up at the heaven he had outraged; and the dead woman with her face for ever hidden from the world she had suffered in.

There are green spots now by the Nepean River, and many homesteads on its banks, but where those dead bodies lay the air seems always gloomy to those who know the story I have told you.

__________________

8: Much Lost, More Won

H Bedford-Jones

Golden Fleece, March 1939

TEMPLETON, dark and impetuous and fiery, listened with impatience as we talked of the changing history of the world, the murderous warfare east and west, the wholesale slaughter and rapine from China to Spain.

"It's nothing new," he broke out suddenly. "Anyhow, we don't know what's happening anywhere. Nobody knows. It'll come out maybe a hundred years from now—how some chap turned the course of history by a handshake."

"Who?"asked somebody. Templeton shrugged.

"Anyone; you or I. That's the way history is made. The captains and the kings rant before the footlights. Away upstage, some unknown person pulls the strings, perhaps without his own knowledge. It's happened many times, particularly in the east, in the south seas, in the orient."

"You have a case in mind?"I demanded rather coldly.

"I have," said he. "I got hold of it in the Philippines last year, looked it up in the Arab records— the Moro tribes, you know, are more than half Arab. I could tell you how a mkoda, an Arab ship-captain, played hero to destiny three hundred years ago, and got no credit."

We called for drinks and cigars. Templeton, who has spent most of his life out in the islands, has no end of yarns that are not in the history books. Nothing loath, he waved his cigar, looked into the weave of smoke, and worked his wizardry.

"IT WAS just about three centuries ago, when the Dutch and Portuguese and Spanish and English were fighting tooth and nail for the spice trade and the Indies. The Portuguese held Malacca, but were losing out; a ten-year siege by the Dutch was drawing to its end. The Spaniards held Manila, but not strongly. Everything was in flux, a changing world.

"For a thousand years the Arabs like the Parthians before them, had been the seamen and navigators of these eastern seas. Theirs was all the knowledge of the monsoons, which blew the fleets eastward for half the year, westward the other half; the island trade, the coral reefs, the spice groves, the pirate lairs— all were known to the Arabs then, before Europeans ever heard of them.

"In those seas the word nakoda is still used to express the master of his own keel, the captain and ship-owner. It was a proud name in the ancient days. I wish I could make you see Nureddin the Nakoda as I can see him in my mind's eye! I've known more than one man of his type, proud and fierce and honorable to a fault, but never one who had the tremendous physical power and the keen brain, the will to victory, of Nureddin, Light of the Faith..."

He was silent for a moment. Then, to make us see his man, he quoted the old Arab proverb and explained its meaning: "If you meet a cobra and a Hazrami in the road, slay the Hazrami!"

A HAZRAMI, a man of Hadramaut, the old Arabian seaport, was the most dangerous thing afloat or ashore. Safer a cobra in the way, and less deadly, than a Hazrami of the old breed. Such was Nureddin, such were all his crew in the big dhow that had come to the Philippines from faraway Hadramaut.

That morning he had sailed out of Manila bound for Sulu and the Moro ports, when the Swann and her consort overhauled him. They plumped a few shot at him and were about to let him have full measure, when the two Portuguese ships came out of Manila Bay and hove up for the Dutchmen. Then Nureddin stood on the rail of his ship and watched, a bronze figure like the Perseus of Cellini. He sensed what was coming, though the Dutchmen did not. He had the gift of smelling blood before it was spilled.

"By Allah," said he to his men, all older men than he, "wait and see how these Christians fight!"

So he waited. The two Portuguese bore down; he saw the Swann signal them and hail, saw the Portuguese suddenly luff and pour full broadsides into the two smaller craft. Then they laid aboard and grappled, ship for ship; and there was fighting that day off the Luzon shores, from ten of the morning until sunset. When Nureddin and his men made the sunset prayer, they saw the Portuguese admiral go down to death with all his crew, while the Swann still floated, though she was afire; and the other two ships, still grappled, were still fighting savagely. And Nureddin, laughing, headed away for the Moro ports.

"There are the ones who can fight!"said he. "Let's make friends with these Hollanders, if we meet any."

So he bore on south, and at Sulu spoke with an English ship, who told him that two Flemings— so they called the Dutchmen then— were lying off the Boedor river; and he went on there to fulfill the will of Allah.

That was a large and a wide river, coming down to the sea through marshes and rice-paddies in half a dozen mouths, with Boedor two miles up the stream. In those days it was a rich place, famous for pearls, and the sultan could summon full fifty fighting praus if need were. In fact, he had already summoned them, to the astonishment of Nureddin and his Arabs. The river and harbor were crowded with ships.

The landing was a ceremonious affair, Nureddin the Nakoda and twelve picked men going with gifts to be received by the sultan. They were dressed in their finest; he wore a light steel cap, a steel mesh shirt, his gold-hilted scimitar and a scarlet cloak over all. Tall, young, with the face of an eagle and the bearing of a conqueror, he was hailed with admiring shouts by the massed Moro warriors, as he led his men up to the palace.

Here was a tremendous jam, for the dattos and warriors of the neighboring islands were here, the captains of the praus, the council, and a score of Dutchmen. Nureddin noted the grizzled, bearded faces, the half-armor, the sturdy bearing of these last, and saluted them, joyously, in friendly fashion. He exchanged greeting and salutations with the old sultan, Ali, then stood in talk.

Everyone else there was seated, even the Dutchmen; it was the fashion among the Malays and Moros and other island peoples to squat, in token of respect to the sultan. This the men of Hadramaut did only when regarded as equals. Nureddin took note that the Dutchmen had an interpreter, an Achinese. They spoke no Arabic. He, however, had learned their tongue from a Dutch renegade in Hadramaut. When he found that the sultan had gathered this array for a raid against the Mindanao shores, a thin smile drifted across his high-boned features.

"It were better, Beloved of Allah," he said to the old sultan, "to uplift the standard of a juramentado, a holy war against the infidel in Manila!"

"Has Allah addled your brains?" spat out the sultan. Nureddin laughed.

"Not yet, Sultan Ali! I have news, important news, for your ear alone. Gather your council and give me private audience, I pray you. First let me speak with these infidel Hollanders, or with their captain, and I'll guarantee you the aid of their guns and ships."

Sultan Ali chewed his betel paste and eyed the young eagle who dared advise him. Well he knew the worth of the men of Hadramaut, and Nureddin the Nakoda had won a name for himself even among the islands, where every man was a warrior to the death. Into his fierce, shrewd eyes came a glimmer of admiration and resolve.

"Wait in the inner court. I will come. First I'll send the captain of these infidels to speak with you. Also his interpreter."

"No need of that; I speak his tongue," said Nureddin.

A CHAMBERLAIN took him to the inner courtyard, a pleasant spot with a fountain, and left him. There, as he waited, a lattice at a window was pushed aside, and he looked up to meet the eyes of a girl. He stood stock-still; so did his heart. Their eyes met and held. She was of such striking beauty that Nureddin was stupefied. Yet he knew how often mere beauty was deceptive, in the orient. He noticed that she wore in her hair an ornament of pearls, shaped like a scimitar; then she smiled, made him a slight gesture, and was gone from sight.

Nureddin turned, to meet the Dutch captain, Jans Doort, a massive, heavy-jawed man. He saluted gaily and spoke in very fair Dutch.

"Greetings, mynheer. Do you know a ship of your nation called the Swann?"

"Aye!"replied Doort in astonishment. "I know her well. We took her from the English. She was to meet us here."

"She will not, for she was afire when I saw her last, after fighting a Portuguese all day long," said Nureddin. He went on to tell what he had seen off Manila, while Jans Doort swore many a grim oath at hearing the tale. Then he went on, craftily, to tell more.

"You may ask why no other ships came out from Manila to help those Portuguese in the fight? Because no others are there. The two stationed there were destroyed in the hurricane of last month. Other ships have not come yet, except those two Portuguese craft. Also, insurrections have broken out, and the pestilence is in Manila; there is great sickness. Many of the garrison were lost with the harbor ships in the hurricane."

"What of it?"asked Jans Doort, pulling at his beard.

"A fleet is expected from Spain, but cannot arrive for another month," said Nureddin. "Because of the insurrectos, the castle and land forts must be manned. Thus, the harbor forts are empty. There are not enough soldiers for both. Further, I know the harbor, the entrances, the depths, every foot of the place."

A startled gleam lit up the Dutchman's eye.

"You've just come from there, I hear."

Nureddin laughed a little.

"I might go back there. Why not? We could do it in three days, with a fair wind. I have eight guns aboard my dhow, and sixty men who can fight them. You have two ships and more guns, and your men can fight. Here is Sultan Ali, with some fifty praus and three or four thousand Moro warriors— who can fight! Why waste time on Sulu, where the loot is small, when Manila and an empire is waiting?"

"Ha!"exclaimed Jans Doort, and grunted in his beard. His face lit up.

"You're Nureddin the Nakoda, eh? Yes. I heard of you at Achin. Manila— ha! Thunder and lightning! It could be done. Manila seized for Holland, aye! Will the sultan do it?"

"Will you do it?"Nureddin looked him in the eyes.

"I'll consult my officers."

"Then consult them. Here comes the sultan. I'll talk with him and his council; ten to one, he'll do it. He hates the Spaniards. Come back and talk with him in the morning. By that time, you'll find him all afire for the venture— if you are."

Well Nureddin knew that Sultan Ali and the wrinkled old men of the council, who looked like monkeys in their scarlet jackets, would itch for the sword-hilt when they heard how helpless Manila was; and would not wait for morning to blaze for a holy war against the infidel and the loot of the Spanish town.

JANS DOORT stalked out, assembled his junior captain and his officers aboard his ship, and imparted the news to them. They lit long pipes and broached a keg of beer, they looked at one another, they heard the news of the Swann, and the junior captain spoke up.

"The Swann and her consort much damaged or lost, eh? That's bad news. Manila town ready to drop like a ripe plum, eh? That's good news. Treasure ready for the loading."

A little man with flaming eyes spoke with sudden sharpness.

"Is that all ye see in it? Look, Jans Doort! Here's the offer in our hand— not of a little loot alone, though God knows we'll not refuse that, but something greater. The whole course of history in these seas, for ever! Manila can't be taken. It's impregnable, ordinarily. But, if this news be true, we can take it for Holland!"

"That," said Jans Doort mildly, "had occurred to me. Look, gentlemen! We have two other ships loading at Achin; we can send word to them to come to Manila. We must act now or never. No delay is possible. Decision is here and now. It means the winning of Manila, and more than that, a secure base from which we can't be dislodged. All those islands will be ours; the island trade, the China trade, the spice trade— at one stroke, everything falls to our hand. Spain will be swept off these seas."

"Right," said another. "Who holds Manila, holds Luzon; who holds Luzon, has wealth of every kind, and the key to empire. I vote we agree— if this Arab trader can be trusted to fight."

"Fight?"Jans Doort smiled and sent a smoke-cloud at the cabin ceiling. "You don't know him. But he promises he can pilot us, once in the harbor."

"There's the rub," said the other captain, in doubt. "Our ships mean life to us all. None of us know Manila harbor; the Spanish charts are secret. No one knows it. These Moros, with their light craft, are ignorant of depths. If we ran aground in that harbor, God help us all! Without a pilot, I'd say no. I'm not sure of this Arab."

"I think he's the right man for us," said Jans Doort. "Suppose we take that for granted, eh? On the assumption that he'll pilot us, let's put it to the vote— do we see Sultan Ali and make a bid for empire?"

One by one, they voted; there was no dissenting voice. Fired by this chance at destiny, they were ready to gamble lives and fortunes and future, and said so.

NUREDDIN, meantime, laid his information before Sultan Ali and the council of old dattos, left them to chew over the thought of a holy war and loot beyond all calculation, and took his swaggering way out of the palace.

As he passed through the gates and headed for town, an old crone came whining up to him, asking alms in Allah's name. He gave her a coin, and she cackled a laugh.

"Thanks, Nureddin the Nakoda! Now go to the bazaar of the yellow infidel, and ask to see the pearls in his rear room."

"Eh?"Nureddin gave her a quick glance. "Why should I? Pearls?"

"Shaped like a scimitar, lord," was the answer, and the old hag departed. Pearls in dark hair, a scimitar of pearls— ah! His heart leaped. He was not unused to such palace intrigues. His girl of the palace would be there!

Then, with contempt, he spat and growled an oath. A mere pretty toy, no doubt; a dumb doll with a lovely face!

A palace girl seeking a light o' love— Allah forbid! His hot and tempestuous Arab heart leaped again, and recoiled. In that girl's face he had divined great things, wonderful things; and it hurt to find her so cheap. Or was he mistaken?

He fell in talk with a captain of the palace guards, and in jest mentioned a dream he had had two nights ago, a dream of a woman wearing in her hair an ornament of pearls shaped like a scimitar. The captain stared and rolled his eyes.

"Allah upon you, Hazrami! That is a true dream. The princess Fatima, youngest daughter of the sultan, upon whom be peace, wears such an ornament in her hair!"

Nureddin laughed lightly. "Of a truth? And she is fat and ugly, no doubt ?"

"As Allah liveth, Hazrami, she is a very gazelle for beauty, and the wisdom of the ages is in her brain! In three weeks she is to marry the datto of Jolo— he is here now, and has brought ten praus to the assembly."

Carelessly, Nureddin closed the talk and sauntered away, but now he went straight to the town and the bazaars. There were a few Chinese traders in the islands, and one of these had a bazaar in the town here, a large and prosperous place.

When he had bought a thing or two, Nureddin beckoned the yellow man apart and said he had come to see the pearls in the rear room. He was taken through a narrow passage, a curtain lifted and fell, and he was alone in a room with the girl of the palace. She was veiled, now, and cloaked from head to heels, but he could glimpse her face through the thin veil.

"Greetings, Nureddin, and peace," she said softly.

"And to you, peace," he rejoined.

Then she gave him a shock.

"So you came, drawn by a pretty face, in search of intrigue?"

"No, by Allah!"he said stoutly. "I came to see if so lovely a face could have so cheap a heart."

"Ah!" Her voice leaped at him, thrilled him, burst into a rippling laugh.

"Well said! You're the man I thought you were, at first sight. I've no time now to talk or to explain. Will you do me a service, Nureddin?"

"I may and I may not," said he.

"Lightly promised, lightly forgotten; that's not my way. When I give my word, I keep it. Is the service to be done a sultan's daughter, the promised bride of a chieftain— or to a woman named Fatima?"

SHE caught her breath. "So you know me! Well, why not? I want a boat, six rowers, and your sword to guard me, an hour past the prayer of darkness tonight. We must row eight miles up the river and land, wait an hour, and return."

"Is that all?"asked Nureddin. She laughed again.

"All? It may mean all— life and death and eternity. My errand at that village up-river is to free my brother, who has been condemned to death by my father."

Nureddin frowned. "A father condemn his own son to death?"

"The sultan, my father, is a harsh man,"she said bitterly. "He sells me into a loveless marriage with the datto of Jolo; he condemned my brother, who dared to speak the truth. Now will you help me or not?"

Nureddin looked at her for a long, long moment. Once again his heart leaped, this time wildly, exultantly; and his heart shone in his eyes. She was a woman like a sword, true and keen and great-hearted. Her beauty was no lie. There was a flame in her; it spoke by her tongue, in her eyes, through her words.

"You may well hesitate," she said a trifle scornfully. "If my absence is discovered, if I'm betrayed, it means death and torture for us both."

"I think we shall each be in good company."A smile curved his lips, lit up his eagle-face, lightened his eyes.

"Death together, life together— there's a gamble worth the winning, by Allah! Look, Fatima. In a moment, all life is changed; I give you my promise, my heart, myself. You're the woman I've sought and have never found till now. Agreed! Tell me where to find you an hour after the prayer of darkness."

She told him, drew aside her veil, put out her hand with a word of thanks; he pressed her fingers to his lips and she was gone, with her ringing laugh that was like the little silver bells under the Borodor temple eaves.

IN THE sunset, over their bowl of food, Nureddin talked with his mate, a shrewd old Arab. The other men were all ashore, seeking women in the vast camp of warriors that lined the curving beach.

"Have the men aboard an hour after midnight," said Nureddin. "Warp out the dhow silently and carefully with the current. Let her drop downstream, just below the town."

"It is an order," said the mate obediently.

With darkness, Nureddin had his boat, and six of his best men. He knew now that Fatima's warning had not been idle, for the camp was full of talk about the prince Khalid and his fate— condemned to death upriver, in another two days. A fine fellow, said all of them, but Khalid had been a fool to brave the old sultan, to try and save the life of a man, to speak the truth about injustice and tyranny. The more Nureddin heard, the higher sang his heart; and as they waited, he told his six men about it, keeping back nothing.

They were no ordinary men, but were full mailed, keen, hard warriors and seamen, veterans of seas and battle, each of them worth a score of ordinary men.

"Why, here is a brave errand!"said one, laughing. "Love and rescue, brave hearts together— by Allah and Allah, I'm glad to be alive this night!"

The others said likewise, and Nureddin felt a swelling in his throat that such men should be his comrades and should serve him.

She came, alone, wrapped in a dark mantle. A word, an excited breath, and she was in the stern beside Nureddin, and the six rowers pushed off.

"Who knows the river?"asked one of the men.

"I do!"said she. "And I sit beside your captain. Row, Hazrami!"

They laughed to hear the word on her lips, for she had a pretty accent. Nureddin, moving the tiller, struck his elbow against her breast, and felt the hard touch of mail. She laughed softly, took his hand, and showed him that she wore a coat of steel mesh like his own, and was girded with a curved sword as well.

"I'll not be empty-handed in peace or war," said she, but he did not know the meaning of those words yet awhile.

The eight miles upstream to the village below the rapids were not quickly passed. The current was swift, wide as the river was, and other boats had to be avoided. Nureddin talked with the girl beside him, learned much of her, imparted much of himself; gradually they grew acquainted with likes and dislikes and ambitions and past histories. And the more he learned of her, the farther he saw into her heart and brain, the wilder sang his blood.

"Your great plan goes through," she said suddenly. "I heard tonight that my father and the council have decided to follow your advice, to follow you, join with the infidels and go to Manila. It will be settled in the morning. Are you glad?"

"Yes," he said honestly. "Conquest, glory, achievement— why not be glad? But I'll not leave you. How are you going to free your brother? What are your plans?"

"A faithful servant does the work; but I must get him away," she said.

"Plans? I have none. If I get back to the palace unseen, well and good. If not— well, at least I've found a man worth calling comrade!"

"We'll talk about that later," said Nureddin.

She pointed the place; they drew in at a village beach amid fishing craft drawn up on the shore. All was dark under the stars, and silent, until village  dogs began barking. Fatima rose as the boat backed in, stepped out and waded ashore.

"Wait," she said. "It may take a while. Will you wait?"

"Shall I go with you?"asked Nureddin.

"Safer not. You don't know the jungle paths. Will you wait?"

"We'll wait," said he, and she was gone.

THEY pushed out a little way, anchored, and waited. Nureddin talked with the six men, and the news about Manila brought fierce exultation to them and to him. He talked of his great schemes— place Manila in Dutch hands, and wax great! The Dutch were well liked in all the islands, whereas the Spaniards were hated. All the Moro trade would come to Manila, the trade of Sumatra and Borneo and beyond; wealth and power would come, alliance between the Dutch and Arab traders— why, the thing became enormous in scope and dream!

They waited a long time, an hour and another hour. The men dozed, their steel shirts and caps laid aside.

Suddenly Nureddin started. Off in the jungle, a drum was sounding. It was taken up elsewhere; a message, obviously, of uneven throbbing beats. It traveled on. Another and another took up the sound, fading away into the distance. A vague sense of evil oppressed Nureddin as he listened.

The men stirred, wakened, cursed the drums in the night. The village dogs began to bark once more, furiously. Nureddin hove up the anchor and sent the boat in at the mudflat shore, and presently heard her voice.

"All well, Nureddin! But get away fast. They're after us."

Two figures loomed, came scrambling into the boat. The oars dipped. They were out on the starlit water, whirling away with the current; behind, all was silence and darkness. No alarm, no shouts. A laugh broke from Nureddin.

"Allah be praised! I thought you said they were after you?"

"You heard the drums? They've sent word on ahead."She crowded close to him. Khalid spoke, courteously, quietly, voicing his thanks; a slim, dark figure of restraint.

The moon was up now, well past the full, rising at midnight, striking a silver radiance down the river road. With current and oars, the boat sped fast. Presently Fatima touched Nureddin's arm, her voice soft with regret.

"I'm sorry. It's another mile to the narrows; they'll stop us there. That's where we'll find the first boom— a defence against pirate raids, that can be swung across the river. Another farther down. You'll have to let us slip ashore and take our chances in the jungle. For your sake, dear Nureddin, I'm sorry."

He grunted scornfully. A laugh broke from the men.

"By Allah, we'll take you through safely!'' said he. "How can they know about us?"

"The drums tell everything. That I'm here, with you. The drums from the coast make answer. There will be boats on the river, coming up. To get through is impossible."

"Wait and see," answered Nureddin. "We've met booms before now."

They swept on. Here the river made a wide bend and then narrowed for a space. As they came around the bend, the flare of torches appeared ahead. Nureddin snapped out an order. Two of his men laid in their oars, produced bow-cases and quivers, strung their bows, and moved aft, so that the boat was out of trim, her bows high. She was a stout but light craft, long and narrow, well suited for work about reefs or rivers.

"Careful!"exclaimed Khalid suddenly. "They will have rafts to fight off any attack on the boom! If you have an extra bow, give me one."

The stroke-oar chuckled and passed him bow and quiver, without losing a stroke. Nureddin held the boat in midstream, heading for the torches. These burned on two bamboo rafts, crowded with men, moored along the center of the boom. This boom, of huge bamboos, was half awash.

A storm of voices broke out at the boat as she drew near. Conches, drums, brazen gongs sounded death. Orders were shouted. Nureddin, making no answer, headed between the two rafts.

When he drew near, the air suddenly sang with shafts. An arrow slapped into the gunnel, another thudded on his steel shirt.

"Loose!"he said, and the bowstrings twanged.

The two men, standing, shot with terrible rapidity, their shafts piercing the crowded masses aboard each raft. Shouts became shrieks. The bow of Khalid joined in. Those powerful bows sent their arrows through and through the unprotected warriors. Wild confusion ensued as dead and dying plunged down. In the midst, Nureddin called sharp warning, and the two men dropped their weapons as the bow of the boat slid up on the bamboo boom. Under the weight, the boom sank.

The two darted forward, the oars dipped and pulled, the boat slid up and over the boom and was across. A few arrows sped after her. With all six oars at work again, she fled away downstream in the cold moonlight.

"Hurt?"queried Nureddin. "Not even a wound? Good. There'll be worse ahead. Where's the second boom, Fatima?"

"A mile above the town," she replied.

"But it's not like this one. It's made of great logs lashed together, that will hold back a war prau. And there's a huge fighting platform, an enormous raft. The warriors will be men from below, also, not villagers."

"So much the more honor in fighting through them," and Nureddin laughed a little. "Mahmud and Abdallah! When I give the word, bend every effort to cutting the lashings. Use your own brains— we don't know what'll turn up. If it comes to swordwork, the others join me and we'll get you time to do the cutting."

THE drums were speaking again, from behind, from ahead; a more rapid beat now, excited tongues speeding the word downstream. The moonlight hung clear and beautiful on the water, and Nureddin caught a sudden exclamation from Khalid, as he leaned toward his sister.

"What's that? Fatima! What's that sword ?"

She laughed, and bared the blade she wore. A huge kris, shaped like a flame, the hilt heavy with gold and gems.

"Our father's kris," she said. "The sword of authority, the sacred kris of the sultan! Take it, Khalid; I stole it for you. Take it and use it."

Nureddin eyed the thing curiously. The scabbard was draped with pearls, the flame-bladed weapon richly dight with gems that flashed in the moonlight.

"A treasure indeed,"said Khalid, "but if we win through, it becomes a gift for our friend here, Nureddin the Nakoda!"

"Keep it,"said Nureddin, understanding now the words of the girl.

"I have gems enough, and a blade that suits my hand better, of Toledo steel. If I seek reward, it is not from you but from another."

Fatima looked at him, her face flashing with laughter and excitement.

"If you seek rewards from me, Nureddin, look well that I share in them fully!"

"You shall do that," he said, and put his hand under her chin and kissed her on the lips, and her lips responded. From the men at the oars broke a grunt of fierce delight. Thus, silently yet with a perfect understanding of words unuttered, was their troth plighted beneath the moon.

The boat swept on at speed, and Fatima sketched the situation ahead. The great boom was meant to close the river to traffic, and did so upon any alarm. There was no evasion, for the channel was narrowed by rocks on either side.

Scarcely had she finished speaking, when a glow of light showed ahead, and they were in a straight course that led down to the boom, where hundreds of torches flashed. A groan escaped Khalid.

"No use, Nureddin! Men are there by the hundred."

"Only so many can reach the boat and us,"said Nureddin. "Ha! Look there!"

A small boat was hailing them. Fatima answered in the local dialect, and turned.

"Nureddin! They know you're here, and that I'm here. They say to come in peace to the raft and talk. The datto of Jolo is there, and one of my father's chief captains."

"Good," said Nureddin. "Mahmud! You and Abdallah work while we talk."

The little boat tore on back ahead of them. They held on, and Nureddin drank in what awaited them, his brain alert to seize every chance; there was none.

In the torchlight, the boom was visible, high and great. In mid-current was a huge raft or platform, solid as the earth itself; he reckoned swiftly, and found there must be a hundred men or more on the raft alone, for it was all aglitter with weapons and armor in the torchlight. On the downstream side of the raft, which blocked further passage, was a crowd of boats from the town below, with more men.

"Allah is great!"said one of the rowers, glancing over his shoulder. "The river crocodiles will be full fed this night. They trap us into a peace-talk."

Nureddin said nothing, but steered for the right side of the platform, where a space was being cleared in the lurid torchlight. Once landed there, he was lost, it seemed. He held on; a dead silence had fallen upon all those men.

Fifty feet from the platform, he called aloud.

"In the name of Allah! Do ye guarantee peace?"

"We do not," replied a short, squat, powerful figure in gay sarong and coat.

"But we offer you peace and free passage, if that be your choice after hearing our words."

"Then the choice shall be mine," said Nureddin, and signed his oarsmen on.

"That is the datto of Jolo," breathed the girl beside him. "And at his elbow is Mansur, chief of my father's captains. If you land there, you must consent to what they say or be killed quickly."

"So they think," Nureddin said.

"Mahmud ! Throw your cloak over Abdallah, so he may cut at the lashings unseen, while we talk."

THE oars were put in. The boat drifted down upon the boom and the platform, and came to rest where two of the huge tree-trunks were lashed together. Murmurs went up at sight of Fatima, rising with Nureddin to land.

He signed Khalid and the others back, and went first, with the girl following. In his hand was his naked scimitar, a keen curved blade made long since in Toledo. Fatima was slim in her mail-shirt, lovely to see.

The datto of Jolo, for whom a stool had been placed, was a squat chieftain, dark with negroid blood, and held between his two hands, as he sat, a heavy-bladed war axe. He sat leaning upon it, his eyes going to Fatima, slender-breasted, her hair flowing, in her hand the common kris she had taken from her brother in exchange for the glorious weapon.

"Well?"Nureddin halted in front of the datto, smiled a little, leaned lightly on his long thin blade. "Why is our passage stopped?"

"You know well," snapped the chieftain. "As Allah liveth, I am here to act, not to talk! You are a fool. Handover this woman and her brother, and you go free, for we respect you, Nureddin the Nakoda. Otherwise you shall be slain quickly."

"Wait, wait!"exclaimed a voice.

Through the close-packed throng came shoving a burly figure. It was Jans Doort, in half-armor, steel cap in hand.

"I want a word with you, Nureddin!"

"Have it," said Nureddin quietly. He had put on his steel cap, was very composed, but his hawk-face was alight with repressed eagerness. Behind him, covered by the mantle, he knew that Abdallah was at work on those lashings.

"You've jeopardized everything," exclaimed the Dutchman angrily. "We've decided to accept your plan. We must have you to pilot us into Manila harbor; without you, the scheme were impossible. The sultan has decided to join with us. Now, give up this woman and her brother! Give up this madness; glory awaits you, power, wealth, empire!"

Nureddin caught his breath. He saw very clearly what his choice must be. His dream had been a great one, greater than he knew. This Dutchman had seized it, Sultan Ali had seized it; all combined, they could do what no one could do singly, for the Dutch cannon and the Moro swordsmen and the Arab seamen together held Manila at their mercy.

"You offer me a hard choice," said Nureddin slowly. "My honor is pledged to this woman and her brother."

"I release you from the pledge," said Fatima unexpectedly, and drooped a little. "Hand us over, Nureddin; your honor is clear, you've done all that can be done..."

There were murmurs of amazement and approval. But Nureddin gave the girl beside him a glance and a smile, and shook his head.

"You didn't pledge my honor; I did," he said. "Therefore, I'm the one to say on that head, not you. So the choice is mine, not yours."He jerked up his scimitar and thumbed the curved edge, and then looked at the datto of Jolo.

"So the choice is mine to make— for peace or war?"

"If you call it such," said the datto with a flash of contempt. "Only a fool would call it a choice, Hazrami, with death at his throat!"

"Very well," said Nureddin. "I choose, by Allah! I choose the best in the world, whether for life or death. Cut, brothers, cut!"

As he spoke, he moved so swiftly that no eye could have warning. His blade flashed up and down. It shore through the two wrists of the datto of Jolo, that leaned on the axe. It flashed again, and the warrior beside the stool dropped across the falling chieftain. In the boat behind, bowstrings twanged and there came a flutter of shafts, and Mansur, the sultan's captain, pitched forward with arrows in his throat. All this in one instant. As the first alarm yells pealed up, Nureddin hurled himself at the massed ranks. His four men appeared behind him, and Fatima, and Khalid. In the moment before the surprised Moros could use their arms, the Arab scimitars were smiting them into death, hurling them back, carving a bloody path in the torchlight.

Jans Doort whipped out his blade and struck. It glanced from Nureddin's steel cap. Furious, he struck again, and again the blade glanced. The swarthy hawk-face of Nureddin rose at him with a grin and a word.

"Poor work, infidel, poor work! Hadramaut does better—"

The Toledo blade slashed into the Dutchman's throat; and with that blow, as he well knew, Nureddin bade adieu to all his dreams and ambitions.

A Moro with a stabbing spear was upon him from behind, but Fatima's kris cut short the thrust, and this corner of the platform was clear.

NOW befell stern work under the flaring torches. The Moros were stubborn fighters, and the men of Jolo, seeing their datto dying, yelled for vengeance. Steel clashed and men died, but Nureddin was now here, now there, with satanic agility, and every man who faced him fought for a space and died.

His four Arabs fought like himself, and Fatima guarded his back, while young Khalid dyed the glorious kris red that night. Then, by sheer weight, they were pressed back and back upon the boat. One of the Arabs went down under a spear-thrust. Nureddin leaped to his rescue, but a kris had slit his throat. Another Arab slipped in blood and sprawled, and an axe beat out his brains. Nureddin killed the slayer, but a bolo slashed across his thigh and he was down. Shrill and wild pealed the yell, but changed to a death-shriek as he came up and struck, and a Moro died. Another bolo slashed at him, slithered from his mail-shirt, and Khalid struck down this man. But Nureddin's agility was gone now. That slash across the high was draining the life from him, and he knew it.

"Free!"came the yell from the boat. "Quick, nakoda!"

Free indeed. The boom was swinging with the current. The boat was moving. Fatima and her brother scrambled in, Nureddin leaped for the stern and made it. One of his Arabs went down under the Moro rush, the other got aboard.

As by magic, the battle and tumult were gone. The boat was heading downstream, the Moro boats dashing for her in vain; most of them were swept aside by the boom as it swung.

Three Arabs left, Khalid at an oar with them, and Nureddin with the blood pumping from his thigh, as he sat at the tiller. He caught the girl's hand and dabbled it in the warm blood.

"Tie it up! Stop the blood somehow!"he commanded, and peered out at the water intently, heading the boat over to the farther side.

Away from the town— aye, that was the one chance! Boats crowded there by the wharves and godowns and harbor. Nureddin held over to the farther shore, the oars dipped hard, the current swirled them on. The torches and roaring voices of the town slid past.

"Finished!"exclaimed Fatima, panting. "The best I could do—"

"Good enough," he broke in. A sudden fear had assailed him, at sight of flaring lights far down the river. If they knew he had gone with the girl, then they might well try to occupy the dhow. The mate had moved her, yes; but those lights, those lights! And the flash of powder, the mutter of guns! His crew had muskets, the Moros had none.

The town was past, the massed fleet of praus was past, the two Dutch ships dropped behind. Ahead, under those torches that shamed the feeble moon, was rising a din of fight; yells, shots, the ringing clash of steel. Nureddin saw that the dhow must have been attacked by surprise, before the mate could get cannon to work or boarding-nets up. Along one side of her showed the dark mass of boats gathered.

The boat was closing down upon her now. Nureddin lifted his head and shouted at his men aboard her. A wild yell made answer; they had heard him.

"Cut the cable! Out with the sweeps! Throw me a rope!"he shouted, and then the boat crashed in among the craft that surrounded the dhow. From the Moros lifted wild shrieks of dismay and consternation. Luckily, none of the fighting praus were here; only small craft had come. Once at sea, as Nureddin well knew, no Moro vessel could overhaul this big dhow of his.

A last medley of confusion, clashing weapons, wild voices, and they were in under the rail. He was aboard somehow, limping, falling, scrambling up to hurl himself into the fight raging on the deck. The Moros broke and fled. A dying man uprose, bolo in hand, and slashed at Nureddin viciously; the blow missed. Nureddin struck at him, slipped in blood, went all asprawl on the deck— and darkness engulfed him.

WHEN he wakened, the salt sea-air was in his nostrils, the sun was in the east, the dhow was lifting and falling to the sea-swell. Nureddin glanced around. He was lying pillowed on the after-deck, alone. Talking with the old mate, at the tiller, were Fatima and her brother.

Nureddin eyed them. The fine sweep of the young Moro, the lithe body, the alert gaze, pleased him. He was smiling when Fatima turned, saw him lying on one elbow, and came to him with a rush.

"They've given up! They've turned back!"she cried.

"Who?"demanded Nureddin, as she sank down beside him.

"The praus. The two Dutch ships. They were chasing us, but they've gone!"

Gone, true; gone, and with them dreams and empire and the loot of Manila, and the glory of conquest. And he smiled again, for thought of what he had won instead.

WE ALL SAT staring as Templeton came to the end of his story, and his voice died, and the magic of southern seas died with it. We were back in the present again, and the world seemed suddenly drab and empty.

"And you claim that's how history is made ?"asked somebody.

"Good lord, man, what more can you ask?"exclaimed Templeton harshly. "A trifle of a man's honor, of a girl's face— think of the tremendous effect it had! Otherwise, Manila would have fallen into Dutch hands, and the whole course of history would have been altered in that part of the world, in other parts of the world. No Dewey at Manila bay, to mention just one thing. No Manila galleons to be raped and plundered by buccaneers. Spain would have been banished from the south seas, as Portugal was—"

"But what became of this Nureddin? And the girl?"I demanded. "Do you know?"

Templeton gave me a long, slow glance, and looked away, and nodded.

"Yes, I know. A great story, a glorious and glowing story of blood and heroism and empire— good lord!"

He glanced at his watch, leaped to his feet, and reached for his hat. "I'm overdue. So long! See you again."

And he was gone, taking his unuttered story with him.

________________________

9: The Gray Brotherhood

(Carl) Henry Leverage

1885-1931

Blue Book Oct 1920

A GRAY taxi was threading the traffic of Fifth Avenue. Up through" the wealthiest street in the world the driver flashed with all the aplomb of a professional "bucker" who knew the elastic limits of the automobile laws.

Chester Fay leaned forward now and then and studied the hands which shifted the lever at the street intersections like those of an American Ace at the "stick" of a biplane.

"Good boy," he exclaimed when the taxi came to a grinding halt before the doorman of the Hotel Rockingham. "Good kid!"he added when he extended the fare.

"I thank you," said the driver of the gray taxi.

Fay paused at the marble steps of the Hotel Rockingham. The taxi turned and darted southward.

Wheeling with a pucker of interest on his features, Fay strode through an alley of palms and bronze vases and leaned over an onyx-topped desk where stood a trim looking clerk whose collar and tie indicated prosperity in subordinate positions. "Arthur Hilton?"Fay questioned.

"By appointment?"

"Yes. He phoned me at—"Fay glanced up to the gilt clock over the clerk's head. "Exactly twenty minutes ago!"he declared.

The page who responded to the pressure of a button led the way to a private elevator, nodded to the pilot and closed the green-grilled door when Fay stepped briskly inside the cage.

He was whisked to a silent stop on an upper floor. He stepped out and faced a gray-haired English detective of the superior type, who had been pacing an ornate hallway.

"Arthur Hilton?"said Fay.

"By Sir Arthur's consent?"

"Certainly!"

"You may follow me," drawled the Scotland Yard man.

Fay found himself in the foyer of a splendid suite. He waited, toying with his cap, as the detective passed through a rift in the portieres which led in the general direction of Fifth Avenue. He was on the point of coughing to attract attention when the curtains parted in invitation.

SIR ARTHUR HILTON stood by a long window with the white light of a western sky reflected across his furrowed face like the reaching hand of a specter.

"You're Fay?"he said as the Scotland Yard man backed into the shadow of an inner room.

"Yes. Chester Fay— Mr. George Mott, the reformer's friend."

"Good— good and bad! There's the old Nick to pay. Putney Stephney of Downing Street— a King's greyhound— with thirty thousand pounds in American banknotes, was found dead on top of a goods train at Poughkeepsie this morning."

Fay pulled out a cigarette.

"Murdered!"declared Hilton with a rising voice. "Killed in cold blood somewhere between the steamer dock at West Street and— and Poughkeepsie."

Fay dragged on the cigarette, thrust his hands into his pockets and leaned forward. His eyes hardened slightly. They fastened within the steady stare of Sir Arthur's own. '

"Facts are these," resumed the British representative. "Stephney had landed at the dock at ten-twenty last night. Was seen by two of the steamship company's detectives, who were watching all embarking passengers."

"Was that the Carpathia?"asked Fay.

"Yes— the Carpathia! Stephney came down the gang plank, turned at the customroom, went inside a telephone-booth, came out and was observed taking a gray taxi at the foot of the dock. That was the last seen of him until the chief of the railroad detectives at Poughkeepsie found his body on top of a goods-train. Skull was slightly crushed. Pockets rifled. Portfolio, with banknotes and memoranda, missing."

"Quick work!"

"Beastly quick!"shot back Hilton through rigid lips. "Beastly clever, too!"

The British representative glanced toward the doorway before which the portieres draped. He strode to Fay's side and leaned forward as his fingers clutched the investigator's left shoulder in the grip of a bulldog.

"Stephney didn't die from the crushed skull," he said tersely. "That accident came afterward. He was killed by an unknown method. He was lured to death in the heart of civilization! "

"An unknown method?"

"Fact! Had the coroner of Poughkeepsie on the wire not an hour ago. A surgeon from Plattsburg happened to assist at the autopsy. It was he who detected the condition of the lungs. Also, Stephney's face was greenish-black."

Fay backed away and allowed Sir Arthur's hand to drop. His eyes glazed with speculation. They hardened.

"You have other facts?"he asked.

"Little more! Stephney was last seen alive getting into a gray taxi which disappeared soon afterward. He was headed for this hotel. I sat up until three o'clock waiting for him."

"Who else knew he was coming to New York?"

"The Washington Embassy."

"Who knew it in London?"

"Downing Street."

"Whom do you suspect?"

"American crooks."

"Everybody blames them— for everything."

Sir Arthur frowned. "I've given you the case— on account of Mr. Mott's interest in ex-convicts and the Gray Brotherhood."

"Oh, I'll take it. I'll jump! I want all the facts you can allow me to have."

"I've given you everything. The body found at Poughkeepsie on top of the goods train was Stephney's. There's no doubt of that. He was first identified by the tailor's name in his pockets— Concre, of London, I think. We've a solicitor up there who made a complete identification."

"Did Stephney ever visit New York before?"

"Once, two years ago— just after the end of the war."

"Would he know any women here?"

"Hardly! He was to come right to me!"

Fay moved a chair and lifted his cap. He turned at the portieres. His glance toward Arthur Hilton was one of understanding.

"You and Mr. Mott alone know that I am on this case?"

"It is locked with us!"

"I have carte blanche?"

"Up to ten thousand pounds."

"Good-by!"said Fay, creasing his checked cap as he parted the curtains and strode through the suite to the hallway of the hotel.

He jabbed at a pearl button until the private elevator floated up to him. He reached the street and turned toward the Avenue. He saw there a gray taxi. A young man sat on the driver's seat. He was moving southward close by the right curb.

A swift sprint, a ducking lunge before the silver radiator of a polished limousine,  a hasty reach for the wind-shield of the taxi, and a startled exclamation from the driver— these occurred within seven seconds.

"I'm going downtown," said Fay, settling back in the front seat and staring boldly at the driver. "Don't mind if I ride out here?"

"I certainly do! It's against the company's regulations."

"Set the meter and drive on. I've really got something I want to say to you."

"Well, of all the nerve!"

"Certainly— certainly! I've always been interested in this new company with the gray taxies and the paroled men who drive them. I'm a Western newspaper man— come from Chicago. Suppose you tell me all about the Gray Taxi Company. How many taxies are there? Who's the originator? How's business? Do you cover the steamship docks?"

"Say! On the dead, you've got nerve. I'm going to call the first traffic-cop I meet. There's one!"

Fay reached into his right-hand trouser pocket. His hand appeared with a five dollar bill between his fingers.

"I'll bet you this you don't," he said, pressing the bill into the driver's lap. "Take it and buy a good dinner. There's another coming to you if you answer my questions."

The driver clutched the steering-wheel with both hands as he brought his knees together and pressed a leather toe upon the throttle. The taxi leaped by the traffic cop, dodged a bus and roared on down the Avenue until an open place was gained.

"Go slow," said Fay. "Loaf along and let me get some dope for my article; Who owns the Gray Taxi Company?"

"James Ponsardin."

"Proprietor of the morning Messenger?"

"Sure! He owns the company."

"How many taxies?"

"Fifty running now."

"Who manages it?"

"A girl!"

"What?"

"Sure! Her name is Elsie De Groot. She's making it pay, too."

"That's interesting."Fay stared into the alert face of the driver at the wheel. "Is she an ex-convict?"

"I never heard that said about her!"

"Loyal!"thought Chester Fay, shifting in his position. "You never heard," he repeated aloud. "That's definite. Do you keep records of passengers carried?"

"We make a report out at night. Miss Elsie gets them."

"Do your taxies cover the steamship docks?"

"Sometimes— if there's a call."

Fay saw that he was in the presence of a very matter-of-fact young man who was making his own way in the world.

"Mind taking me to the Southampton Line?"he asked.

The driver's answer was to glance around the right-hand side of the taxi, slow to a crawl, then swing the comer with both arms over the wheel.

FAY braced himself for five blocks of cobbled streets upon the surface of which ragged children played ball and dodged death. He stepped down from the taxi as it came to a gliding stop before the ornate entrance to the great dock.

"Mind waiting?"

The driver glanced at the taximeter.

"You've paid me for a couple of hours."

"Stay right here. I'll be back in ten minutes."

Chester Fay found two English detectives covering the dock. With them was a Secret Service operative of slight acquaintance.

"Hello!"he said, drawing this man to one side. "Say, Gardner," he whispered, "who would know down here what happened last night when the Carpathia's passengers came down the planks? I want to trace a man who took a Gray taxi. The man is—"

"Putney Steph— Stephney."

"Yes."Fay raised his brows. The matter was evidently out.

"Has he been found?"

Fay shook his head. He recalled that Sir Arthur Hilton had not given instructions to make public the matter of the finding of the body on the railroad train at Poughkeepsie.

"Not found yet, eh?"Gardner said. "Well, I did all I could. Come over here. That's right. Now we can talk. That British team are listening-in."

"What did you find?"

"Stephney came down the plank, showed his passports, went into a slot-booth, lugged his bag and a leather case out toward the street and there hailed a Gray taxi. That much is settled. The taxi was driven by a chauffeur with reddish-brown hair. His nose was slightly turned up. He had on a yellow coat and leather leggins. He'd been waiting around the dock for over three hours."

"Must have expected him!"

"Looks that way, Chester. He had plenty of fares offered him. You see, them Gray taxies are all the fashion now. They're gettin' the business."

"You were here at the time the passenger arrived?"

"No. I got my information from old Harry, who watched the express wagons and taxies. He's positive about the red-haired chauffeur. Said he was a bold trick!"

"He's right. Good-by!"

Fay left the Government operative and darted for a telephone booth. Into the slot of this he dropped a nickel and obtained, after a brief wait, Mr. George Mott's secretary.

"This is Chester Fay!"he said briskly. "Say, get about ten of the Gray Brotherhood rounded up right away and cover these assignments. Got it?"he added, drawing the door shut with caution. "Yes— yes! They'll do. Cover Poughkeepsie and a corpse found there this morning on top of a New York Central freight-car. Cover the morgue. Have them see the Army surgeon who made the autopsy on the lungs. Have them connect with the coroner and the railroad detectives who found the body."

Fay paused and mopped his brow with his sleeve. It was hot in the booth.

"Yes, there's more! "he snapped. "Cover James Ponsardin of the Messenger. Put him to bed and get him up in the morning. Find him and keep the boys tailing him till I call them off. That's all.... no, send Rake to the corner of the block where the Gray Taxi Company has its garage. Tell him I'll meet him there in fifteen minutes!"

IT was eleven minutes later when Fay requested the driver of the taxi to deposit him on the northeastern comer of the block around which Gray taxies to the number of a score or more were scattered.

Fay handed over a second bill with a polite bow.

"I'm going to visit your boss," he said with a quick smile. "I'll pump her in private for that write-up of mine. It ought to go big in our Western syndicate."

The driver twisted his wrist and studied
the time. He set the meter to the off position. "Good-by!"he said, leaning over and releasing the emergency brake. "I'm much obliged!"

Fay turned and stared into the broad Irish face of the ex-convict he had expected to meet.

"Ah, Rake— on time!"

"Sure, Chester! I was just watchin' you and that wild-looking driver. They're gettin' all the high-class business."

"Come on! Follow me and keep your eyes open. We're going to look a little lady over. Miss Elsie, the manager, is under suspicion."

Fay led the way along the sidewalk and threaded his steps through a group of young men outside the Gray Taxi Garage. He eyed each one for possible red hair and turned-up nose. He entered the doorway, dodged a fast-flying taxi which was coming out on second speed, then knocked upon the ground glass of a door marked Private— Keep Out— This Means You!

A slip of a girl answered the knock. She glanced from Fay's face to the peering countenance of Rake.

"Well?"she asked.

"I'm looking for a Miss Elsie De Groot," said Fay, thrusting his foot forward. "I'm a newspaper man. I— want to write her up for a Western syndicate. It ought to bring some business."

The girl toyed with a pencil which she jabbed like a bayonet into a raven-hued turban. "I'll see," she said, turning and gliding through an inner door.

Presently her elfin face gladdened the opening as Fay half advanced into the outer office.

"Come in, please. Miss De Groot will see you."

CHESTER FAY removed his cap, crushed it between his fingers and stepped briskly forward. He paused before the edge of a rug, Across this rug sat a girl. She swiveled in a businesslike chair and threw one neat ankle over the other. She glanced impatiently upward.

"We'd like to see you alone," Fay said as he noted a mop of reddish hair and a freckled nose which seemed to be pressed up by an unseen finger. "Alone," he added, swinging upon the stenographer and jerking his chin toward the door.

"Why, certainly!"

The girl slipped out and closed the door. Fay left Rake's side and moved up close to a littered desk which bore some resemblance to order.

"To be brief as time!"he said, drawing a card from his pocket. "To be brief," he whispered, replacing the card, "I want to know just why you took a taxi at or about six o'clock last night, went down to the Southampton Dock and waited for a passenger who wore a Silver Greyhound— indicating that he was on British Government business, urgent and pressing."

The girl's broad forehead whitened slightly. She recrossed her trim ankles. She tapped the desk before her with polished nails. She reached and adjusted a hairpin in her reddish knot, which added beauty to a resolute, somewhat bold face.

"I don't know what business that is of yours!"she said.

Fay frowned. "It's the people's business! It's Charles Mott's business. Are you going to help me?"

"I never talk to strangers: You may be Mr. Mott's representative. You may be connected with the Gray Brotherhood. How do I know?"

"You know what happened to your fare last night?"

The girl swung in the chair and glanced at Rake. Her eyes* opened to brown pools of protest. She brought both feet down on the rug and rose with her hand on the back of the chair.

"You both better go."

"Just a minute. You know Putney Stephney?"

"Perhaps I do."

"You know what happened to him?"

"No!"

"Do you want to know?"

"See here!"The girl's voice indicated reserve strength. "See here! This is my office. We— I, am obeying the law. Our business is of such a nature that we do not talk to strangers. To tell you frankly, I detest people who ask too many questions."

Fay took the thrust with good humor. "They're not all the same," he said, moving closer to the girl and regarding her with admiration. "Now you, for instance, know full well that I didn't come here without being pretty sure of my ground. You'll have to answer my questions, or you will be called to account for a number of nasty accusations. Mr. Mott is your friend—-he also is my friend! "

The girl turned helplessly toward the closed door. She tapped her foot on the rug. She bent her head.

"How came you to know Putney Stephney?"Fay asked, feeling his way for a surprise.

"I met him two years ago. He was just a good friend of mine. I can't see your purpose in questioning me concerning him."

Fay watched her lips tremble. He had conceived a liking for Elsie De Groot over the period of minutes. He said through his white teeth:

"Putney Stephney was murdered last night!"

THE girl swayed. She reached blindly for the arms of the chair.

"Murdered by an unknown method!"

A gasping sob racked the air. The beat of a powerful engine throbbed the garage. It was like the roll of a muffled drum.

"Foully murdered! Done to death between the steamship dock and Poughkeepsie, where he was found with skull crushed and his lungs empty of air. He was last seen getting into your taxicab!"

"Oh, don't! It isn't true!"

Fay leaned until his eyes compelled hers to waver. "It's true," he whispered. "Now, tell me what happened to Putney Stephney? The matter is going to do the Gray Brotherhood and the Gray Taxi Company considerable harm."

"Do with him?"

"Certainly! What did you do with him? The truth, and nothing but the truth. It's bound to come out!"

"See here!"The girl braced her shoulders and stared back defiantly. "See here!"she flashed with sudden anger. "I can give you no information except—"

"Except what?"

"The record of the call. That is all that I will ever give you or anybody else. My personal affairs are not to be dragged about by an amateur investigator."

"That's all I want."Fay turned and motioned for Rake to leave the office. He waited until the door closed with a click.

"We're going to be frank," he said. "I'm here to help you out. You met Stephney at the dock, after waiting around for hours. I'd judge by this action that you knew him. He perhaps wirelessed or telegraphed you from Quarantine."

The girl brushed her hair from her eyes with the back of her right hand. She stared at the rug, then into Fay's keen face.

"I met him by his own appointment."

"Ah! Now we're getting on, Miss Elsie.

You met him— after waiting a long time. He had an enormous sum of money. You alone knew that he was coming. He trusted in you so as to be safe in a city comparatively strange— to him. He—"

"Trusted me— yes! We stopped at Figaro's on Forty-second Street. We had a club sandwich served to us. I sat outside with him because I— I had these clothes on."

The girl swept her hands over her leggins and short skirt.

"And then?"

"Why, I took him on uptown within six or seven blocks of the Rockingham. He said he would walk the rest of the way. I left him on the curb. He started north."

"That's clear," said Fay. "He started north. Did you see him any more?"

The girl dropped her eyes and studied the design of the office rug. "I did and I didn't. He got in another cab—I think!"

"What?"

"Yes. There was no reason for him to do that. He had only a few blocks to go in order to reach the hotel."

"What kind of a cab?"

"One of ours— a Gray taxi."

"Well, don't you know who was driving it? Was it following you?"

A PUZZLED pucker gathered in a little square upon the girl's white forehead. She reached to the littered desk and lifted a call-sheet. She held this out with shaking fingers.

"I've questioned every one of my drivers. No one of them admits taking Mr. Stephney or anyone else to the Rockingham. I didn't understand it last night; I don't now. It was certainly a taxi painted like ours that he got in. I thought it so strange."

"Did this other driver call him?"

"I don't know. I was turning when I looked up the Avenue. Putney was running from the curb with one hand raised. He jumped on the running-board of the taxi, which disappeared from under an arc light. I didn't see anything more."

"Didn't that strike you as a strange proceeding?"

"Yes, it did! I thought a lot about it. I went over the call-sheet and asked all of the drivers. Two are out yet, but I know where they were at the time."

"Do you often take representatives of the British Government around? Have they a charge-account?"

"I can't answer those questions. You must ask Mr. Hilton."

"Do you want to tell me anything about James Ponsardin?"

The girl started. She folded the call-sheet by running it through her fingers.

"No, I don't! You'll have to see him."

Fay fished in his pocket and brought forth the same card he had before shown to the girl.

"You'll find me at Mr. George Mott's office. Please call me up if you discover anything. Ask those two drivers whom you didn't question. Help us in every way. This murder is an international matter. Keep thinking about what happened last night. We must find the murderer!"

Fay laid the card on the desk, bowed slightly toward the silent girl, nodded to the stenographer, and joined Rake in the run-way of the garage.

THE big ex-convict was staring at the group of drivers who were awaiting assignments. He smiled broadly as he felt Fay's hand on his shoulder.

"Some bunch, Chester!"

"Any of your old pals here?"

"The only one I remember is that snob-nosed mechanic over there— the fellow under that car."

Fay wheeled. A pair of bright eyes, grease-rimmed and shadowed with blond lashes, was peering out at him. A tapping sounded upon the rear axle of the taxi as Fay stooped a trifle. The mechanic extended one hand and coiled his fingers about a spanner.

"The only one in the place," said Rake. "I served time with him somewhere—  maybe in Sing Sing, maybe Joliet."

"Come on, Rake!"

Fay led the way to the sidewalk, nodded pleasantly to the staring drivers, then turned toward the west. It was at the corner of the block where he paused and glanced in the direction of the garage.

"The entire case rests there, "he declared without pointing. "Stephney was murdered in a Gray taxi. He was suffocated in some way to render him unconscious. He was tossed on top of a freight train after being well plucked. This much we know. Now, how was it done?"

"I don't think a woman was mixed up in it. That girl looked like a perfect lady. An old night-hawk, who is as crooked as his whip, might do it. He could get a cab an' turn the trick."

"But the mysterious way of suffocating a man?"

The ex-convict scratched his head.

"That's different," he admitted. "O'Toole, Flynn, Fogarty, Harris an' Johnson— they ought to discover something, Chester. Harrigan, Mr. Mott's man, sent them running after you telephoned. He's called on the Harlem Branch for three more of the Brotherhood to cover the case. You've got nine or ten boys out now."

"Hardly enough. We'll get more! Suppose we walk west for a block or two; I want to think this puzzle over."

Rake fell in behind Fay. They crossed the street and took a shady side. The last rays of the western sun struck slanting through the canon of tenements. The street resounded with the shouts of urchins playing ball. A truck went by as Fay paused and clicked keys in his pocket.

He glanced up at Rake.

"We'll have to cover the Hudson River homes," he said. "Looks to me as if the body was being taken over the railroad track when it was thrown on top of a freight-car. Who is investigating Poughkeepsie and the routing of the train?"

"O'Toole an' Flynn went north, Chester."

Fay dragged out his watch and studied the dial. "It's too early yet for them to report. It's too—"

HE stared open-mouthed toward the Avenue ahead of him. He reached and clutched Rake's arm. He gripped this with fingers of steel.

"Did you see that?"

"See wot, Chester?"

"The Gray taxi that went by?"

"I saw one. I didn't notice it particularly."

"It was being driven thirty miles an hour by Elsie De Groot! I'm positive it was her. Reddish hair and turned-up nose! "

"That's the colleen who runs the garage?"

"Yes— the girl of the garage! The same little lady who met Putney Stephney at the steamship dock last night."

"We're gettin' on, Chester. It looks bad for the Brotherhood."

"And for the Sisterhood! We just finished talking to her not a half— not twenty minutes ago; and there she goes uptown— full speed and more."

Fay eyed his watch and ran a polished finger-nail over the crystal. "Twenty-two minutes!"he declared, replacing the timepiece in his vest pocket.

"Let's go back, Chester."

"No! We'll go on to the office of the morning Messenger. Foley is their sporting editor. Perhaps he can tell us something about Ponsardin and the taxi-company."

"Nice name!"blurted the ex-inmate. "Sounds like a doped wine an' deep-dyed villainy."

Fay grasped Rake by the elbow and hurried him in the direction of the avenue up which the taxi had flashed. There was no trace of it. Fay hesitated a moment, like a keen hound on a scent, then fell into a brisk walk northward, which took him to the somewhat unostentatious building that housed the uptown offices of the Messenger.

Foley, the sporting editor, was in. He greeted Fay with a hand thrust over a battered typewriter propped upon a broken desk. He thrust aside a bundle of press clippings and cleared off two chairs.

"Sit down!"he welcomed. "Got some dope on the crook game for me?"

Fay leaned back and glanced about the office with slow caution, then shot a question at Foley through rigid lips.

"What do you know about Ponsardin— your proprietor?"

Foley tried to wink with lashless eyelids. He upended a huge can of cold tea, drank deeply, glanced at the keyboard of his typewriter before he set the can down on the corner of a box which had once contained ink rolls.

"What do I know? Nothing! He's a queer stick. Bought the paper about three years ago. Hardly ever see him. Goes to Washington quite often. The police are investigating the sheet, I guess."

"Ah!"said Fay.

"Yep! There's been talk of the actual ownership being in the hands of a lot of sure-thing grafters and gamblers. I'm looking for a knockout and an upper-cut from the postal authorities, any time. You can't pinch me! I don't write the editorials."

"They advocate horse-racing and open gambling?"

"They certainly did— a year or two ago. Now we've been instructed to hit a bunch of contractors and reformers. Take it from me, Fay, I don't think the Messenger is making any money."

"Bills paid and all that?"

"Oh, sure! James Ponsardin is rated three A's and a One."

"Is he French or Swiss?"

"Came from Switzerland, I think. Bright fellow, but—"

"Where does he live? Directory gives an apartment on Riverside Drive."

"I went up there once with some tickets to a bout. He wasn't there. Butler said he was up-State. I guess he's dug in, covered up and pulled the hole in after him. No one around here or downtown knows where to find him."

"Do you know anything about the Gray Taxi Company?"

"The one with the ex-convict drivers?"

Chester Fay nodded.

"No. I heard the bunch talking about it. Why did you ask?"

Fay rose from his chair and threw back his shoulders. "Your boss is supposed to own it," he said. "Ponsardin is the owner! I've got a case that's far from being clear, Foley. I'll give you first chance when I've worked it out for Mr. Mott. Goodby!"

RAKE led the way out and down the steps to the street.

"Where to, Chester?"he asked as they stood on the sidewalk.

"Nearest telephone!"said Fay, thrusting his hands in his pockets in search for some change.

Rake waited outside of the cigar-store while Fay entered a booth. Night was dropping on the city. The sun had set over the blue barriers of the Palisades. The lights of Broadway sashed the purple heavens from south to north. Forty-second Street with its sign-clusters marked the center of the illumination.

It was a long ten minutes before Fay emerged with his teeth clamping a slender Perfecto. He passed one to Rake.

"Smoke up!"he said. "It's on the British representatives. I've got a good lead from Arthur Hilton. It's one I overlooked in my haste this morning. I think we get our people tonight!"

"What people, Chester?"

"The crooks who killed Stephney. They were after bigger game. The others of Stephney's suite are due on the Imparada. Hilton tells me privately that she has been sighted from Sandy Hook."

Rake examined the cigar, then lighted it and started puffing.

"I don't get you! What's due on the ship? What's it got to do with—"

Fay started toward Broadway. Rake followed with the question still upon his mind.

"We're closing in," said Fay as he brought a sheet of paper from his side pocket and spread it out on the palm of his right hand. "I did a lot of phoning. There's nothing new at Poughkeepsie— except that the train upon which Stephney's body was found was made up on Tenth Avenue, New York."

"That's Death Avenue!"

"It's well named. It left at seven o'clock. It passed the Harlem River at eight-sixteen. It reached Harmon at nine-three. It rolled into Poughkeepsie early in the morning and was shunted on a sidetrack. The railroad detectives searched it carefully while looking for tramps. It was then they found the body."

Rake eyed the sheet of paper.

"Did O'Toole get all that?"he asked.

"Yes. He saw the coroner and the Army surgeon. Stephney was suffocated and completely out of this life when his body was dropped on top of the train. That must have been from some small bridge leading over the tracks to the Hudson River. It was either to a boathouse or a private estate."

"Go on," said Rake.

"Hilton— Sir Arthur— tells me that two members of the same banking firm,, coming over on the Imparada, have considerable money with them. This Commission, of which Stephney was a member, came on different steamers on account of a secret matter pertaining to pending treaties. These two members will dock sometime tonight."

"At the same pier, Chester?"

"At the Southampton Pier."

"That looks like business. We'll be there, eh?"

"Right there! We'll meet the bankers at Quarantine, substitute ourselves for them, and land, all regular and proper, at the Southampton dock. I notified Harrigan, at Mr. Mott's office, to get our outfits. They'll be waiting for us with a valet at the Battery. We will have a valet."

"What, Chester?"

"Joe Yeader will play that part to perfection. Remember his accent? He did time in Brixton Jail."

"I don't get it all," blurted Rake. "What is coming off?"

FAY furrowed his brow and stared seriously toward the paper in his hand. He thrust it into his pocket. "I'll explain later," he said. "We're going right into the lion's den. We'll bait the trap with more banknotes. We've got to clear the name of the Gray Brotherhood and the ex-inmates working for the Gray Taxi Company."

"Do you suspect that girl?"

"I have every reason to believe she is guilty."

"She don't look the part."

"Looks and beauty are skin deep!"

"She didn't talk like a gun moll or a fallen sister."

"She's employed by a man who is suspected by the police and Mr. Mott. She has sole charge of Ponsardin's taxicab interests. She was the first to meet Stephney on this side of the Atlantic. She was the last to see him alive, according to her own admission. What would you think from all that?"

"I think a lot, Chester. But appearances are deceiving. She'd never admitted takin' that Stephney from the dock if she was guilty. She'd of denied it. The only time my Mary, at home, is lyin' to me is when she says nothing."

"Illogical logic!"

"Sure— an' it's the truth, nine times out of ten, Chester."

Fay glanced at his watch and quickened his steps. "We'll take the Subway to the Customhouse. From there we go over the Bay."

Rake scratched his head and followed Fay down the steps, past the ticket-chopper, and lunged with him into the warm interior of a subway car. They were hurtled southward. Fay said nothing during the quick trip. His mind wove the details of the plan which he had to save the name of the Gray Brotherhood.

He mounted to the surface of the street, closely followed by Rake. He sought a phone-booth before crossing to the Custom-house. Rake heard him giving a series of rapid-fire directions to Harrigan, the manager at George Mott's headquarters.

Fay emerged, tossed a dollar across to the cigar-clerk and jerked his thumb toward a box of Perfectos. "Eight of those!"he said. "Eight!"

Outside, in the cool evening, the two men drew a long breath of smoke for the final plunge. They dodged a flashing taxi, climbed the Custom-house steps, and  found, after consulting an alert doorman, that the harbor master's assistant was in.

To him Fay showed his card, his authority from George Mott, and other identifications. He sealed the matter with a cigar. The assistant to the harbor master made out passes in duplicate. He found the sealing wax and a well-chewed pen. He passed the finished documents over, after a scrawled signature in each corner.

"They'll take you aboard anything from here to the Hook," he said, leaning and watching Fay.

"Thanks!"said Fay. "I'll see if they will!"

THE ferry-house was thronged with passengers as the two ex-inmates searched about for Joe Yeader. These passengers thinned. A man stepped forward and clucked from the corner of his mouth.

"All right," said Fay swiftly. "Hop aboard, and we'll follow."

Rake trailed Yeader and Fay. The three men secured seats in the smoking cabin. Yeader, crossing his legs over a yellow kit-bag, took Fay's proffered Perfecto, and drawled:

"At your service, sirs. Beastly sultry night."

The ferry-boat reached St. George. The three rushed for a train which would pass Quarantine Station on an inland route. They descended at a dark station, walked rapidly through silent streets till they came to the gleaming waters of the Narrows.

Fay saluted a man on guard, showed his authority from the Customhouse, and received permission to enter the telegraph station.

He turned on the steps and glanced down at Yeader and Rake.

"Stay here!"he said. "Hold the bag. I'm going up and find out when the Imparada comes in. Also, I shall send a wireless message to the manager of the Gray Taxi Company."

Rake started. He frowned in perplexity. "How can you do that, Chester?"

"I've got authority to do most anything. I want a Gray taxi to meet us when we dock with the Imparada. Perhaps your nice little blonde with the turned-up nose will be driving."

Rake shook his head when Fay disappeared. He clenched his fists and glanced upward at the topmost light in the dark tower. He swung on one heel as Yeader touched his shoulder.

"Big ship coming in!"

"The Imparada?"

"Looks like it. We'll have to hurry. Call Chester!"

Fay appeared at Rake's third shrilling whistle.

"All set," he said, waving his arm toward the Government dock. "Let's get down to the quarantine boat."

A dark wharf jutted like a pointing finger from a green, sloping shore. Upon this wharf great, rusty cables and buoys were scattered.

Fay led the way through the buoys and presented his passes to a sailor on guard before a wire gate.

"Going out to the Imparada!"he said authoritatively.

The sailor hitched his trousers, turned, squinted through the sea mists, then swung the gate.

"You'll have to hurry," he said. "The quarantine boat is casting off her shore lines."

TRAPPED in the cloak of gray vapor,  the three men crouched forward of the wheelhouse and stared out across the Narrows to where a great ship glided like a glow-worm in a garden.

They heard the quarantine boat's bells as it maneuvered beneath the towering overhang of the giant passenger ship. They mounted a pilot's ladder which had been lowered for the quarantine officers.

Fay whispered into an officer's ear after he sprang over the rail. He motioned aft. Rake and Yeader, with the kit-bag, followed closely.

The two British bankers were seated at the taffrail. To them Fay told his mission, and his object of substituting himself and party, in order to discover who had slain Stephney. The bankers had already been informed of the murder. They were noncommittal. They rose from steamer chairs, studied Fay's credentials, stared keenly at Yeader and Rake, then consulted in whispers.

"All right," they said finally. "Come to our staterooms."

The transformation which was made while the ship glided to her dock was thorough and startling. Fay upended Yeager's kit-bag and sorted out its contents. He changed his appearance before the eyes of the silent Britishers. He put on goggles and borrowed a more pronounced checked cap than the one he had worn to the ship.

He ran a hand across his face, then tapped a well-bound packet suggestively.

"All set, "he said, looking at himself in a glass. "By Jove! George Mott or Arthur Hilton wouldn't know me!"

Wrapping a long mackintosh about his slender form, Fay threw open the door and led the way to the boat-deck.

"We'll stand here," he said to Rake and Yeader. "The ship is almost in. Now play your parts. Look out for a Gray taxi."

The ship snugged against the dock, under pressure from two snorting tugs. Steam plumed aft the giant funnels. A bell clanged its final message to the engine-room. A gangplank was raised in the gloom. It steadied and swung inboard.

"Come!"cried Fay. "Follow me!"

The way led down through a companion, along a luggage-littered deck and past the second officer, who gave the signal that they could descend the gangplank.

Fay shaded his face from the Central Office men at the foot of the plank. He turned and motioned for Rake and Yeader. They hurried over the splintered dock and reached the first of the shore throng to meet the incoming passengers.

"Go ahead!"said Fay to Yeager. "Lug the bag and find the taxi. Tell the driver you're from the British Banking Commission. Pile on all the Cockney you know."

THE throng parted. Fay saw, to one side of the dock entrance, a waiting taxi. Upon its seat a form crouched. Yeager waved his hand, opened the taxi door, tossed in the bag and assisted Fay and Rake to mount the running-board and step inside.

" 'Otel Rockingham!"exclaimed Yeager. "Go a'ead!"

The door clicked shut with a strong pressure. The driver lowered the taximeter flag, released the brake and moved through first, second, and into third speed with the cunning manipulation of a professional.

Fay rubbed the thick plate glass at his side, glanced out at the flashing lights and street intersections, before he leaned down and opened the bag.

"Take these," he whispered, handing Rake and Yeader two heavy automatics. "Plant them on the seat. Now this hatchet."

Joe Yeader straightened with the package in his hand. He broke the string, ripped off the wrapping paper and held out a bright-looking hatchet.

"Hold it ready!"said Fay. "We're turning into Fifth Avenue!"

The taxi swerved, straightened and lunged northward. Rake sputtered and swore as he attempted to open a door. Yeager bent over and tried the knob on the other door.

"Did you notice our driver?"asked Fay.

"Red hair and turned-up nose," said Yeager. "What to hell kind of a bloody trap did we get into?"

Rake turned and pressed his nose against the front glass of the taxi. He turned as Fay reached and jerked down the blind.

"It's Elsie De Groot!"he blurted. "It's the dame of the garage!"

"Listen!"

A slight noise like a steam-exhaust sounded. Fay reached close by the seat. He pressed one knee against Yeager. He nodded comprehendingly.

"The air's gettin' thinner!"exclaimed Rake. "I can't breathe!"

Fay dropped to his knees, swayed, and ran his hand over the bottom of the cab. He curled into a knot with his feet on the seat. He raised a hand and indicated for Rake and Yeager to bend down.

"We're supposed to be dead!"he whispered. "There's' a suction pump on the engine that's exhausting the air from the cab. The driver started the pump when she started the cab. The windows and framework are built to withstand enormous outside pressure."

THE taxi came to a sudden halt at a curb.

The driver sprang from the front seat, mounted the running-board and pressed a pair of sharp eyes against the side glass. Fay, Rake and Yeager lay on the cab floor with their faces shielded by their upthrown arms.

The driver swung into the seat, raced the engine, and clicked through the speeds. The taxi darted up Fifth Avenue. It gained Fifty-ninth Street and turned into the Park. It swung the dark curves on its swift passage uptown.

Fay's fingers groped along the seat and clasped an automatic. "Get the other!"he said into Rake's ear. "You, Yeager, take the hatchet and pry at the bottom of the door. I've got my hand over the suction pipe. We wont be suffocated."

The ride seemed endless. The taxi rolled from out the foliage of the Park and climbed a long hill. It turned northward along street-car tracks.

"Broadway!"said Fay, sensing his position. "We're going right out Broadway."

Rake gasped and pressed a finger across his mouth. He coughed, pounded his chest, and recovered himself. His eyes glared indignantly. He waited till the taxi clattered, over a bridge, then he protested:

"Let me out, Chester. I'll wring that damn girl's neck! I can't stand this much longer. There's no air."

"Sisst!"said Fay. "Are you sure Elsie De Groot is driving the taxi?"

"Sure! I'd swear to it!"

Fay chuckled. "We'll soon know. This is Yonkers. We've passed Getty Square. We're turning now. Now we're going north. Two turns and then a straight road. I'd know where we are, blindfolded."

IT was twenty minutes later when the taxi slowed, backed, then swung toward the left and took a narrow bumpy road. Fay sat up, pressed his toe on the sucking exhaust-pipe and clamped his teeth with a suggestive grind.

"All ready!"he said nudging Yeager. "See, we're rising. We're going across a bridge. Listen! That's the New York Central Railroad below us. This is where Stephney was thrown on the freight-train. Now— look out!"

The taxi dropped down a long, sharp incline with its brakes grinding. It rounded a lodge-gate, swung by a dark, stone house and came to a sudden halt in a sheltered courtyard.

The driver sprang out. Fay braced his feet against the door. He heard two voices in whispered conversation. A third joined in with a protesting snarl. The handle of the door clicked. A key was inserted. The lock snapped open.

Fay bent his knees, aimed at the exact center of the panel and kicked outward. He rolled over with the force of his blow. He staggered from the cab with Yeager and Rake scrambling after him.

"Get up your hands!"he exclaimed, jabbing forward the automatic. "Up! Up! Up! All three of you!"

Rake lunged swiftly and wrapped his arms about the forward figure of a startled group. He went down with the man under aim.

The two figures in front of Fay's automatic hesitated, spread, and bolted to right and left. Fay lowered his gun, fired once at the ground, then dashed in pursuit of the taxi-driver, whose khaki leggings were a fair mark to follow.

He gained with each stride. He reached forward, stumbled over a low wall, and clutched a coat which was torn from his fingers. He bounded across a roadway, dropped the automatic and made a flying tackle which brought his quarry to the close-cropped grass.

"Lie still, you! "he ordered as his fingers closed on a pair of flailing arms. "Get down! I think I know you!"

FAY'S hands gripped with strength. He heard a low moan below him, and eased the clutch he had fastened upon a thick throat. He wheeled and stared toward the courtyard. Rake had already secured his prisoner. The big ex-convict was looking up the road, which merged into gloom and dripping trees. A man was bounding along this road, with Yeager close behind him. The Cockney raised his revolver in a slow aim. He lowered it and dashed on. A taxi with blazing cones of yellow light swung over the bridge across the railroad track and began descending the grade. It slowed. It stopped with a shriek of metal bands on metal.

Two drivers sprang from the front seat and reached for the man whom Yeager was pursuing. He sank to his knees in the roadway as other forms scrambled from the taxi. He was surrounded by a resolute group of taxi-drivers. Their leader called an order and came running toward the taxi in the courtyard.

Fay twisted his fingers in a close collar, ran his hand over the figure below him and found, in a pocket, a matted red wig. He sprang erect.

"The mechanic of the garage!"he exclaimed. "You settle one doubt! You impersonated Elsie De Groot!"

The leader of the drivers who had arrived in the second taxi ran across the courtyard, paused, and stared at Fay's prisoner. She turned with her eyes sweeping the windows of the silent house. She came over the grass.

"Just in time. Miss Elsie!"said Fay. "You got a man up the road. Who was he?"

"A crook! And this is—"

"This is one of your mechanics. He resembles you. He must have had access to your desk. He impersonated you by putting on a wig, after you set Stephney down on Fifth Avenue. He was Ponsardin's tool. His taxi was equipped with a suction-pipe and a set of snap locks on the doors. It was death to enter it. They were after big game tonight."

The girl shuddered. She turned away from Fay and his prisoner.

"I don't know how it all happened," she said. "I suspected the mechanic after your visit. We followed him tonight. He had a taxi exactly like ours. We lost him in the Park. We were close behind you. Then— we found the trail again, up above Yonkers. It led here. You see, he had different tires than most cars. One was vulcanized on the tread and made a different mark in the dust."

"That was clever!"

The girl trembled slightly.

"Who's the third man," Fay asked, "—the one you looked at before you came over to me?"

"Oh, that's Ponsardin! He's the owner of the Gray Taxi Company. I wonder what will become of it now? I hate to see the boys lose their jobs."

"They won't, and you won't. I'm sure I can fix things so that once in a while I can drop around and call upon Miss Elsie De Groot— President and General Manager of the Gray Taxi Company— which Mr. George Mott will surely take care of, no matter what happens to Ponsardin."

The girl seized Fay's extended hand.

"That'll be corking! The Gray Brotherhood has certainly cleared its name tonight."

"And so have you!"said Chester Fay with a smile.

___________________

10: Lady of the Atoms

Miles J. Breuer

1889-1945

Tales of Wonder, Autumn 1941

WHEN Professor Grimm laid down his work and decided to go home, he changed into a different man.

"Seven o'clock. Time to quit."

He sighed with regret at having to leave his beloved apparatus. He picked up some pieces' again, fitted them into the big machine, lingered awhile, then tore himself resolutely away.

All day, while he worked in the laboratory, he was keen, alert, full of enthusiasm. His pencil drove swiftly over sheet after sheet of paper, leaving them covered with calculations too abstruse for ordinary mortals, or his eyes and fingers searched busily among the leaves of his library. But, most of the time, he hovered devotedly all around that vast and complex mass of apparatus at one end of the big room.

He had as much energy as the great waterfall whose roar could, just be heard through the windows, and which supplied him with inexhaustible power for his experimental work in intra-atomic physics. His eyes shone brightly; he never seemed to tire. It was evident that he loved the work.

Then came quitting time. A vacant, discouraged expression came into his face, and his figure drooped, as though there was nothing else in the world for him. He was like a lover driven from the side of his fair lady into the wilderness.

To look at him, as he went slowly down the street, you would think he was one of those dry, lifeless scientists who cafe for nothing, know of nothing hot archaeopteryx or eclipsing variables. The careless hang of his clothes, his unshaven chin and his general air of absent-mindedness seemed to suggest that he was a man so absorbed in his work that, indeed, it was all that existed for him.

But Professor Grimm was not that dry. There was, in fact, a good deal of the adventurous and romantic in his makeup. What else could account for the wistful look that came into his, eyes, and his lagging steps, when he passed the cinema where exotic scenes from some romantic epic were pictured on the billboards? He almost stopped before the colourful poster depicting the hero, in doublet and hose, defending a lovely lady's honour with flashing sword; but he pulled himself together, shrugged his shoulders, and resumed his walk homeward.

Again he forgot himself for a moment when a young man and a girl passed him, arm in arm, blissfully unconscious of everything but each other. ‘ He hesitated, too, at the window of a travel agency full of views of picturesque scenery and bathing beauties. But each time he braced himself and went on, resolutely.

He reached home dejected and weary. The house was full of bright resplendent rooms, in one of which was a glittering dinner-table.

His wife appeared, a vision of artificial glory, product of all the modern arts designed to enhance feminine beauty, and delightful to look at.

"Hurry, dear," she said, in a voice that tinkled like a silver bell. "Our guests will be here soon."

But, to Professor Grimm, the tinkle in her voice was cold and distant; arid the tone of it conveyed to him, if the words did not, that he was late again and that his appearance would not be presentable to the distinguished social captures his wife expected.

SO IT was every evening, except that sometimes her impatience at his tired condition and unkempt look was scarce concealed. On occasions, he would make his appearance among the guests; on others, he would not. It did not seem to matter, either way, for he was hardly noticed as long as he did not get in the way.

The gaiety always lasted until late, and he. would leave the guests and go to bed early, because he had work to do in the morning. His wife would sleep until noon, and he would never see her again until evening, dressed for another function.

When they had opportunity for conversation, which was rarely, it was always dominated by her intense social ambitions and a pouting impatience at the work which kept him so occupied, and prevented her from showing him off to her guests.

"I'll come over to the laboratory one of .these days, and smash up those silly machines," she complained. "You never seem to have any time for me."

If he had not been a scientist, accustomed to shaping intangible ideas and putting them to practical use, he might have retorted that it was her social-climbing nonsense that kept her away from him, and that his work was of more importance. But because he dealt in nebulous things, which did not always materialise, he had to excuse himself by explaining:

"I have a rather big idea to work out, and it needs a lot of time. But, if it does work out, it will bring in a lot of money."

That usually contented her, for money was necessary for beautiful clothes and entertaining. But Professor Grimm was far from being contented. His wife was no wife at all. He had no constant companion with whom he could share his problems, his ambitions and successes. He had only his work, to which he clung with such tenacity. His researches into the ionisation of solid bodies, and his concrete realisation of perfect high-density gases—these were his wife and love, and took the place of the romance which was missing from his life.

"Still," he reflected, "perhaps it's just as well. People who have all they want never give much to life. There is no incentive to further effort. If I were as happy as Puckner is with his wife, going off on one honeymoon after another, I suppose I should never have worked out my Integrator."

What was this Integrator, which filled the Professor's days, which occupied his thoughts at night, and at which he worked so enthusiastically? It was a truly astonishing thing, before which its own creator sometimes stood in awe, scarcely able to credit the miraculous powers it vested in him as reward for his strenuous labours.

That day, he had tested it out again, and witnessed its amazing performance. While the huge generators were starting up and the glowing platinum targets were warming, he had sat at his desk working his slide-rule and jotting down figures, his "pattern" equations. Then, with his eye on a stop-watch that showed fifths of a second, he had moved switches and pressed keys. In the centre of the big room, the air had swirled in a spiral and become a nebulous cloud. The cloud had condensed— and there had been a brick of clay, a bar of gold, a piece of ivory, or a mass of fibre or jelly.

NEXT morning he was practising on more complex things. He spent more time with his pencil and slide-rule, and got a blooming rose, and a wriggling worm, by substituting different values for the terms of his equation and setting his experimental quantities, according to the resulting "pattern."A bold attempt resulted in a little monkey, which scampered chattering about the room until the Professor shut off the power, whereupon the animal melted away and vanished into thin air.

He tried another combination, and there appeared a tiny, machine of whirring wheels and clicking levers, working away merrily; and when he opened the switches again, it dimmed and was gone, with a rush of air through the windows and an electrification of everything remaining in the room by the dissipated charges.

To the ordinary man, such feats as these would seem to be explained only in terms of magic. But, to Professor Grimm, they were a matter of intra-atomic physics, very accurate and complicated; so highly complex, indeed, that it would spoil any pleasure which the average reader may derive from this account if the full technical details of the process were to be included here. However, it will be sufficient if he is assured that certain electromagnetic vibrations have the property of displacing electrons from the outer orbits within the atom, leaving an unsaturated atom with an intense avidity to combine; and that Professor Grimm had accomplished more in the generation of large volumes of these short-wave X-rays than any man of his time, with the aid of the power available from the great waterfall near his laboratory.

So, with his streams of short waves, he had an unparalleled opportunity of observing the behaviour of these unsaturated atoms. By condensing the vast numbers of ions he obtained, he turned gases into solids of differing composition. He worked with air in his early experiments, and so produced masses of marble— marble, perhaps because the cloud of loose atoms that wander about in space consists mostly of calcium. But his blocks of marble were shapeless. Could he determine before-hand what shape they would assume? Could he produce substances other than marble? Could he manufacture a complex mass of a dozen or more elements?

From those first steps to the finished Integrator is a long story. The relation between the components of a complex body and their evolution from simple ions; the accurate control of the bombardment of free atoms by short-wave X-rays; the ability to separate one electron from an atom of nitrogen, or two or three— it is tedious, mathematical stuff. Curious indeed were the bodies he built up by rearranging and condensing the ions; fantastic blobs of stuff that twisted and writhed, then changed into something else.

No wonder the fascinating work absorbed him so intensely; yet he could not have endured that long, nerve-racking concentration unless he had been driven from the distractions of the outside world by his inner despair. Still, the final achievement was worth all of the effort. He had a sense of god-like power, of limitless potency, when he thought of what those rows of short-wave tubes could accomplish at his touch.

For, now that he had worked, out the proton bases and the electron patterns, he had achieved automatic control of wavelengths and radiation densities, and was learning to make what he pleased out of his condensed ions. It was merely a matter of getting the pattern right to start with; and the object would then develop itself, providing there was a sufficient supply of energy.

THAT evening, he walked home in a daze. He did not even glance at the cinema posters; the laughing couples passed by unheeded. For, just as he had been leaving the laboratory, an idea had suddenly occurred to him; an idea so tremendous that the force of it had stunned him. It was something that the Integrator could do for him— and it was something even bigger than the Integrator itself.

When at length he came out of his daze, he looked abound at the grey world that had left him so forlorn, and his heart leaped wildly with anticipation. Now, he could have the happiness he craved— he could make it for himself!

His wife was all ready to set out for a theatre party. Her beautiful gown and tinkling voice invited him. No; he didn't want to go. He never did want to go, and to-night he wasn't even in the same world. So, his wife went off alone; while he, with head throbbing and heart racing with excitement, went back to the laboratory.

The Integrator, with which he was to work the miracle, stood at one end of the vast room, which otherwise was almost empty, leaving large areas of bare floor, walls and ceiling. He opened all the windows wide: he would have to draw on the atmosphere for large quantities of matter. Then he sat down at the pattern-board of the machine.

A whole hour's calculation was necessary. His pencil, slide-rule and book of integrals were fully employed. His results came out in milliamperes and spark-gap lengths, and he manipulated the switches and rheostats accordingly. Then, before his eager eyes, grew his dream.

First, swirling nebulae. Then vague shapes took form in the depths of the fog. They rolled like smoke, and changed. Soon, he could see trees; soft, green grass in their shade; flowers, and a gravel path. Then there was a picturesque cottage, and through its windows, glimpses of a bright, cosy room with lamps, draperies and a divan. And last— and best— of all, a beautiful woman!

She materialised in the doorway of the cottage, in a simple gown of soft silk, a gentle smile on her lips. She seemed to be waiting for him. He made certain that the machinery would continue its smooth running, and walked towards her up the gravel path.

"Are you real ?"He could not help but ask the question, though it sounded foolish, and he did not under-estimate the capacities of the Integrator. She held out her hands towards him.

"Real— and waiting for you."

They entered the cottage and sat down on the divan together. She was real enough. Her hands were soft, but there was a firmness in their grasp that he liked. He touched her shoulder, and her cheek. They were real. She smiled at his doubts.

"Do you believe I'm here, now?"she asked.

"What is your name?"He felt he must know.

"Amaranth."

"It's a nice name. Sounds just like I feel."

She brought him some lemonade. He began to wish he were more carefully dressed, for she seemed interested in him; her eyes were always on him. They talked a good deal, in the process of getting acquainted. She was intelligent, and talked well; she had a good sense of humour, and her radiant cheerfulness made him feel rested. As the evening passed, he forgot all his troubles, and the grey world without. He was happy.

"I shall see you again, of course," they both said when he took his leave.

BEFORE he shut off the power, he checked his patterns most carefully, so that he would be sure of their accuracy when he wanted to repeat them, and that everything would be just the same again. Then he shut off the generators, gradually, one after another. There was a dimming of the scene of paradise before him; and he had a vague, fleeting feeling that he was killing, destroying somebody, but he reassured himself with the thought that he could reproduce it all to-morrow.

It faded, and was gone. There was a momentary sense of extreme pressure in the room as the disintegrating molecules expanded, and before the open windows released the excess atmospheric density. Then the room was empty again, except for the Integrator; and the Professor went home through the night, a feeling of supreme contentment inside him.

The next day seemed endless to Professor Grimm. A blaze of bronze hair and a pair of soft, round arms would not stay out of his mind. Even when he was at his busiest, he could hear in the background the low, musical tones:

"I shall see you again, of course."

When at last evening came, he dressed carefully, and sallied forth spruce as any young swain. Back in the laboratory, he sat before his switches and patterns. The idyllic scene materialised again at his touch: the trees, the green grass, and the country cottage, with the lovely Amaranth at the door. Everything was exactly the same as before.

As Amaranth gazed with large, blue eyes at her creator, the eager pressure of her soft, warm hand on his sleeve thrilled him through and through. She brought him a grape-fruit, this time, with some slices of sponge-cake, and a luxurious cushion to make him more comfortable on the divan. To add to his bliss, she sang a lilting air at the piano, while he feasted his eyes on her.

And so the electron patterns were repeated many times, and much power was used from the waterfall. Day after day, the Professor, after a hard day's work, would make a brief appearance at his home, then hurry back to the laboratory and the artificial paradise which awaited him. There were long hours of sweet companionship, soft arms about his neck, and rapturous communions of perfect understanding. Professor Grimm knew all the happiness he had ever craved, and more. He was a changed man. His friends noticed the difference in him— and so did his wife.

"Your work must be going well," she suggested. "You seem livelier than you used to. What is it this time?"

"Oh, just a little machine," he told her evasively. "That idea I told you about. It's quite a success, and if I can sell it to somebody like Amalgamated Amusements, there, should be a few thousand dollars in it, I fancy."

It sounded good to her. She wanted to see it for herself. He took her to the laboratory, and made flowers, gorgeous gowns and motor-cars appear out of nothingness before her startled eyes.

But the wonder of it was not so impressive as the figure it would sell for.

"It's worth a million dollars— no less,"she decided.

WEEKS lengthened into months, and Professor Grimm was still full of happiness. But he was still without the cheque for a million dollars. His wife grew impatient.

"Haven't you seen those people about selling that machine yet?"she asked, more than once.

"No," he told her. "I'm still working on it. I'm not satisfied to let it go as it is. Besides, I'm thinking of offering it to somebody else— to a manufacturing firm. It's worth more as a producing machine than it would be as a mere novelty to give amusement."

"You're too particular. It doesn't matter whom you sell it to, as long as you get a good price for it. It's taking up more of your time than ever. I'll come over there one evening and drag you away from it, if you don't stay home a bit more. You're making me jealous of your old machine!"

The Professor felt a little guilty, after that. People thought he was working terribly hard, when all the time he wasn't. And, really, he should be. He had an idea on solar power to tackle, and he couldn't seem to get down to it. He was happy and satisfied. He didn't want to work.

Some of his friends, with whom he had grown so popular now that he was such a bright and breezy fellow, began to talk. While they were delighted at the transformation in him, they were rather disappointed in the effect it seemed to have had on his work.

"He's full of ideas about solar power, and I've been waiting for something big, but he doesn't seem to be doing anything. He's still got the same apparatus in his lab. that he's had for months."

So they commented; and Professor Grimm could not help hearing these complaints, by roundabout paths. He sighed, and the world seemed almost grey again.

"Obviously, progress and contentment do not go together," he mused. "Men who are happy can't accomplish much."

He brooded, and was sunk deep in melancholy for several days, during which he never touched his patterns. Then, one evening, he returned to the laboratory and started the generators. Things had gone all wrong. He was miserable, and depressed. He had to see her again...

In her arms, in the little cottage, his tortured soul was soothed. He forgot everything but Amaranth; her bronze hair, her melting smile, her sweet devotion to him. Until, somewhere in the background, a dull pounding, hammering sound  intruded. He tried to ignore it, but it persisted. Then he realised what it was. Someone was at the laboratory door, and was banging on it furiously. Had he locked it? An awful, guilty fear seized him. He didn't want to be caught like this.

"Charles!"came a voice that, on this occasion, did not tinkle as it usually did. He leaped up, and ran to the switches; shut off all the generators in, a single sweep of his hand. Then he hurried to open the door. There was his wife and, behind her, two men, looking very business-like.

BEHIND him, the paradise created by the Integrator had faded; the hum of the generators was dying down. But he had shut off the power so abruptly that the big room was full of swirls and currents. A blast of air blew out of the opened door, and the windows rattled. His ear-drums clicked with the sudden pressure. Papers blew about; a stack of them went sailing off his desk, and his hat flew through the nearest window. His wife gasped, and clung to the door-handle for support, as the cyclone whirled about her. But, when the rush of air died down, she regained her supreme calm at once.

"Darling," she said sweetly. "These gentlemen are Mr. Rosenthal and Mr. Laskey, of Amalgamated Amusements. They say they never got your letters about the machine at all, but they were quite excited when I told them all about it. They have a cheque for a million dollars all ready for you. Isn't that nice ? I know you won't mind the interruption, will you, dear ?"

The Professor stood and stared at her, blankly. There was a confused roaring in his head, and he could not speak. Sell the Integrator? Lose Amaranth? Be miserable again— for ever? Was it worth a million dollars— which his wife would spend for him? The prospect seemed appalling. Then, on the other hand, he really ought to be working on that solar power idea. Great things were expected of him; his fellows were talking, and it was only the Integrator that kept him from making a start. He groaned. He couldn't decide.

His wife stood there gazing at him, puzzled, while the two business men waited respectfully. He passed his hand over his forehead, as though to clear his fuddled thoughts, then sat down at the Integrator. He reached for his patterns, and realised with a shock that they were not there. He rushed to the window, through which his papers had flown on the swirling air. He leaned out, peering through the darkness. There were white-sheets floating on the river below. He sank back. All his patterns, those careful calculations.... Then, with a sudden movement, he shrugged his shoulders and pulled himself together. He turned to the two men. "Would you like a demonstration?'' he asked quietly.

"It doesn't matter, now. We know you. Let's close the deal right up, and you can show us how it works to-morrow."

Professor Grimm signed the paper, and took the cheque from the fat, red-faced man. His wife looked on, beaming. He passed the cheque to her without even looking at it. His eyes were far away.

"H-m-m," he was saying. "Solar power... To-morrow, I must look up Langley's stuff on the pressure of light."

___________________

11: The Riots at Sanderac

Miles J. Breuer

Amazing Stories, Dec 1927

THE courts have started their slow, blundering grind at Sanderac. First there came the newspaper headlines  screaming the shocking news over the country. The next day the columns went into details concerning the unaccountable out- break of rioting in the little mining city. Nearly two hundred dead, buildings burned, property destroyed, and no one knew the cause. The nation stood aghast, because the perpetrators of the ferocious massacre were those who had until then been solid and respectable citizens.

I happened to have been there when it occurred. I told my story. I was scoffed at and received no attention. The courts continue to grope ineffectually about in circles. How futile they seem!

The town is built about the mine head. Its population is about half American, half foreign labor. Among the latter is a colony of Russian refugees, largely Marxian Communists, or as we know them, Soviet Bolsheviks. Their meetings were watched by the police, and some vague, ridiculous rumors started that they planned organizing a Soviet right there on Lake Superior. But no one took it seriously. On the whole, the Bolsheviks lived harmoniously with the five thousand Americans. Even the refugees belonging to the Russian aristocracy and intelligentsia got along very well with the Reds. Such is the leveling influence of Americanism.

I was visiting an engineer friend of mine at Sanderac. This was my first visit to Grant since our college days at the "Boston Tech." He had gone straight to the mine job, while I had a government position which took me all over the country. I still remembered Grant as a fellow of uncanny ingenuity as well as ridiculous absent-mindedness. He was— overjoyed to see me, made me put up at his home, and took me all over the town— the town which has now become so famous.

"I have often wondered," I said to him at dinner, "why as brilliant a man as you are, is willing to bury himself here out of sight. I looked forward to your accomplishing some sensational thing in the world."

"Well, you may not be so far wrong at that," Grant said with a smile that seemed to indicate he wasn't telling everything. "This is an ideal position for me: not much work. lots of leisure, plenty of money. I'm working on things of my own, you see!"

I knew then that he had some sensational plan worked out. From that moment on, I gave him no rest until he had started out to tell me about it. I hurried myself and him through the rest of the meal. Grant took me out to a concrete shack near his building at the mine works. It was heavily locked. Within was a workshop.

From the looks of the tools and the small parts, it was evident that he was working on some delicate electrical stuff. A smooth-shaven, sad-looking man of about fifty, bent over a bench, was working on some things strung full of green-insulated wires.

"This is Sergei, my assistant," Grant said, introducing me. Sergei's face showed refinement and intelligence. His courtesy was of the European type, which Americans so admire but cannot imitate. He moved away to turn on more lights.

"Queer fellow," Grant said in an undertone. "He won't even associate with the other Russians. Used to be a musician. The Bolsheviks killed all his family."

For a moment I was more interested in the Russian than in the machine, but he was now bent over a table, studying a blue-print and putting pieces together. There was a sort of hopeless droop about him; yet he worked swiftly and with marvelous skill.

"Here we are!" explained Grant. "This is what I've spent the last ten years on."

"What's it supposed to be?" I inquired. "It doesn't suggest a thing to my mind."

There was a semi-circular keyboard, like those on large pipe-organs. The rest of it was built up into a sort of a cabinet, with bulbs, instead of organ pipes. It was something like an exaggerated and caricatured radio sending set. There were scores of the bulbs, globular, pear-shaped, gourd-like, flask-shaped, and of all sizes from that of an egg to one as big as a pumpkin.

Grant moved a switch. The complex array of bulbs filled with a pale white glow.

"They look as though they might be electron-tubes," I remarked, "Is it some form of musical instrument?"

"No. Not exactly. Sit down." Grant was elated.

So, while I found a chair, he took his place on the bench in front of the organ thing. He ran his fingers around over the keys. I stared at him in surprise. Not a sound came from the instrument. Was it some effect of light or color that I should look for? I looked closely, but the bulbs glowed quite unchanged. Was he out of his mind? Not knowing what else to do, I sat and waited patiently.

I sat bowed forward with my chin leaned on my hand and my elbows on my knees. Grant's movements at the silent machine became monotonous and depressing. The dingy, concrete walls were unutterably gray. The gloomy interior of the shack made me think of some graveyard of human desires. Even the futile wires sprawled all about, gave a mournful impression. I grew so lonesome and discouraged that I could feel the muscles of my face droop and sag. Grant, failure of a fellow that he was, seemed somehow ragged and dismal as he lugubriously pawed the keys. I watched the heavy smoke drag across the square of leaden sky visible through the window, in the same way that my useless soul was drifting across a colorless and dreary world. The only place for me was at home with my mother; my mother of the white apron and sunny hair, who made gingersnaps for me. But my mother was dead.

Grant stopped his activity at the keys and turned around. He looked at me intently for a long time. Then he turned around and started playing again on that dumb, futile keyboard. He danced around on his seat like a clown; like a travesty of Paderewski. He crooked his fingers into claws and brought them down wildly on the keys, and then ran them through his ruffled hair. His knees worked comically up and down as he manipulated some sort of pedals. He looked so silly that I was forced to smile. Then I leaned back and laughed. I laughed at him, and at the funny little zig-zag wires on the bench near me, like wiggling rat's tails, and at the comical shapes assumed by the wisps of smoke outside the foolish little window. The back of Sergei bent over his work was like a hump on the back of some droll camel; it made me laugh till I rocked. The whole adventure up on the mountainside with a coal-mine below and a cracked inventor pounding on an organ that wouldn't work, was all so inexpressibly funny that I laughed till I was hoarse.

GRANT was sitting motionless again, gazing fixedly at me. As my laughing died down, he turned again to the keys.

He played slowly, if I could call it playing, since I heard nothing. The crazy fellow, trying to deceive me that way! I grew impatient at him. Did he think I was a fool? I had a strong notion to tell him what I thought of him and his abortive invention. His slowness was irritating.  I knew he was doing it to tantalize me. I felt like giving him a shove and knocking him off the seat— and kicking him into a corner. My lists clenched and my biceps tightened. Why had he brought me into this barred and locked stone cell, full of poisons and dangerous currents? And there was that maniac Russian over there, ready to spring upon me and kill me unawares! The coward! I looked at him. He straightened up and glared at me with lips curled hack from gritted teeth. I seethed with rage against both of them. I've got to get them both out of my way before I can escape. Grant first. I stood up and stole toward him, my fingers clutching spasmodically to get hold of his throat. I wanted to maul him, to break his bones.

He whirled around and saw me. His hand shot out and moved a switch. The glow in the bulbs died out. A sudden limpness went through me; my knees went weak and I collapsed on the floor. Now everything was peace. I was myself again, wondering what had been happening to me.

Slowly it dawned on me that Grant's "playing" must have had something to do with these storms of emotion.

I sat up. Sergei was sitting in a chair, pale and clutching a bench.

"That last effect was foolish of me." Grant was saying. "You might have beaten me up before I realised what was happening. My own fault."

I stood up, feeling much better physically. Grant was again the same old good-natured, absent-minded scientific child. Sergei also walked away in deferent silence. He didn't look fierce at all, only humble and quiet, and very much a gentleman. Think of it, a concert musician now at a menial job. And a wife and two girls murdered by Bolsheviks!

"Narrow escape, I had," Grant laughed again, as I stared around, unable to find words. "And poor old Sergei was on his way out to clean up his Bolshevik neighbors!"

"What's this?" I finally demanded. "What's been happening to me?"

"You will admit that it affected you powerfully?" Grant smiled.

"I'll say it did! It nearly drove me crazy. What is it? How is it done? Tell me quick, or I'll get you yet!"

"When I explain," Grant warned, "you will be disappointed at the simplicity of it."

"I'm waiting to be."

"You know well," he began, "that emotions are purely physical states, produced by the activity of the ductless or endocrine glands. Stimulation of the suprarenal produces rage ; that of the thyroid, fear and anxiety ; that of the gonads, love, and so forth. Warm up the gland, increase the amount of its secretion, and the emotion follows. By mixtures and combinations, an endless chain of emotions may he produced. That is well established knowledge."

"Old stuff!" I agreed.

"The next step is that the operation of the body cells is merely a matter of the exchange of electrical charges. Secretion, nerve action, muscle contraction, ail you do, is merely a movement of electrons from here to there."

"Nothing new or startling about that so far," I commented.

"The rest isn't so old. I figured that instead of waiting till the exchange of electrons in the body takes place by chance impulse and accidental combinations of perceptive stimulation. I would make them for you at will, by shooting electrons at you out of my vacuum tubes. The numbers, velocities, and quantity-rates of discharge of negative electrons, and various .varieties of positive ions, determine whether it is your suprarenal or your pituitary that is warmed up. Your body obeys; can't help itself."

"It is simple," I admitted. "But it is uncanny. I certainly felt real emotions."

"They were real emotions. And I had a real one, too, when I saw you coming— I was scared!"

I sat down to think over the astounding thing. He had sat up there and played on keys, and made me feel as I did. And since feeling controls action— that man had an instrument that could make people do anything. He had the world at his beck.

"You just got here in time," he was saying in a most matter-of-fact voice. "We were about to begin taking the machine apart and moving it to a theater. I want to give a public performance."

In fact, Sergei was already taking out the electron tubes and packing them in cotton-lined cartons.

"I'd like to see that," I said eagerly, my mind full of interesting possibilities. "When does it come off?"

"By all means come. That will be an excuse for you to remain with me for a few days. I am planning the show for next Friday. Sergei can almost handle the moving alone, so you and I can have lots of time together, for my work at the mine is light."

GRANT'S advertising for his public performance was very modest. I was afraid that he would not have much of an audience. He announced in the newspaper and on billboards that he had a scientific discovery for influencing emotions in a new way, without the medium of pictures, music, words, or other common means; something different. He told me that he did not care to have a big crowd for the first performance.

But the house was packed full. Grant's towns-people apparently knew him, and expected something worth while. The buzz of excitement through the theater swelled and waned in rhythmic waves as the people sat and looked at the organ keys and the assortment of odd-shaped bulbs. The theater was full; people continued to crowd in, and there were more people outside. And still Grant had not arrived.

He had tested out the machine in the afternoon and had waited eagerly for the evening. Then, at 7:30 P. M., he had been called to the power-house at the mine, where a safety-valve of a loaded boiler had jammed. Now it was 8:15, and the densely packed audience shuffled impatiently and broke out into occasional bursts of clapping to encourage themselves. At 8:23 a messenger arrived from Grant with a note. Sergei, who had been hovering anxiously about the machine, took it, glanced at it, and handed it to me. The note was addressed to me.

"Bad job here," it read. "I don't know whom else to ask, and therefore I should like to have you get up and explain to the audience what the situation is. Tell them that I shall be back in an hour. They may go out, and return in an hour if they wish. Grant."

Facing an audience has always been unpleasant to me, even for such a trifling matter as this. It took me some minutes to screw up my courage, but eventually I was in front of them.

The people looked queer. Their eyes were big and glaring. They sat up rigid. Everyone's teeth showed in an ugly snarl. Here were the town's best people, business and professional men whom I had previously met ; well dressed women ; as good a group as one could see in any city. But now they looked like some savage beasts.

Then, suddenly I understood. A glance backward had shown me Sergei seated at the keys, his body swaying, his fingers busy, every inch a musician. I gave one more terrified glance at the audience. Peoples' arms jerked convulsively. One by one they were leaping fiercely to their feet and surging forward. I was desperately afraid for my own safety, and I turned and fled across the stage and out of the rear door. I ran— something I was not accustomed to do. I puffed and my head throbbed. I ran for the powerhouse where Grant was working on the jammed safety valve. An overloaded boiler was less dangerous than this fiercely aroused audience. The uproar of shouting and trampling behind me, lent speed to my clumsy progress.

I began to feel relieved when I saw the boiler-house in front of me. Why I do not know, for what could Grant do? Then, the boiler house acted queerly. It bulged outwards. The tall chimney stack bent in the middle like a knee, and seemed to hang that way for an interminably long time. There was a great spout of steam, and a terrible boom that reverberated and roared for several minutes. Before me was a vast cloud of steam, out of which black objects flew high in all directions. Some of them seemed to be men. I stopped. Behind me the clamor of shouting and trampling was increasing. I looked back and saw names shooting high in the air from the theater building. A mob of infuriated people was running, surging, pouring through the streets, brandishing things. Terror possessed me. Which way should I run?

However, I soon noted that they were not after me. They turned and flowed to my left, toward the mountainside. I stared at them, amazed, for a while. In the mean time, shots and screams and hideous thuds came from the section on the mountain slope where the Russian miners lived. Flames shot up here and there. The attack had fallen on the Bolshevik quarter, which was being swiftly wiped out.

For a moment I stood frozen in my tracks. Then I dragged myself to the garage where I kept my car. I dashed out of that place in the twilight, without a hat, without my baggage— without my mind, almost.

Now, the courts are foolishly, blunderingly groping around, trying to fix the blame. They have scores of citizens in prison— perfectly innocent citizens. I tried to tell them of Grant's instrument, and of Sergei who was a musician and whose wife and daughters were horribly murdered by Bolsheviks.

But I was only told that I had not been called as a witness, and if my testimony was required, I would be notified.

______________________

12: The Puzzle Duel

Miles J Breuer

Amazing Stories Quarterly Winter 1928

DURING the years just preceding the World War, our supposedly homogeneous country contained numerous undercurrents of race-hatred. I had an exceptional opportunity to observe them, for I was a student at the University of Chicago, that teeming meeting-place of youthful brilliance from all the ends of the earth. It was fascinating to mingle in class with them— Japanese from their Pacific Island, Balkans from their wild borderland, Latins from the vastness of South America, Englishmen from the Cape, fair-haired Nordics from the Scandinavian countries— all young and all gathered together to learn about the world and how to run it.

All these children of different climes were so interesting to me that I cultivated personal friendships with many of them, and finally chose as my room-mate a young Hindu by the name of Raputra Avedian. I became very much attached to this intelligent chap, who was qualifying himself to teach at the University of Calcutta. His work was in physics— chiefly electrical theory. The longer I knew him, the better I liked him for his quiet and dignified modesty coupled with profound learning and brilliant ability. Despite his dark skin and his strange white headdress, he seemed more like a brother to me than did my fellow-students from my home town in Iowa.

Therefore the incident in the library came as a severe shock to me; a shock both because of my affection for my friend, and because of the startling difference in the workings of the foreign mind from our own American ideas. Raputra had been standing near the door, talking to a short, heavy-set man with a red face and a plateau of blond hair. Though not personally acquainted with him, I knew who he was: Schleicher, a graduate of the University of Heidelberg in Germany, and doing post-graduate work in physiological chemistry at the University of Chicago. What little I knew of him was unsavory; he had a reputation of being personally difficult to get along with. Right now he seemed to be living up to that reputation. Though I could not hear anything that was said, the sneering expression and the contemptuous snarls of the man were irritating even to a disinterested spectator at a distance. Suddenly Raputra drew himself up to the full height of his tall figure and deliberately slapped the German across the mouth.

The sharp sound of it made me sit upright in my chair. The white mark of the Hindu's fingers showed against the red of Schleicher's face, which grew redder until his downy mustache stood out white against it. He kept puffing up till I was afraid he might explode. When he was nearly purple, he caught himself up with a gulp; his lower jaw worked up and down and he fumbled in his vest pocket. He drew out a card, handed it to my friend, turned on his heel, and walked away. I had read enough about duelling customs in German universities to know what that meant. Raputra turned and looked at me. His face was calm as I came toward him.

"Peters," he said evenly, "will you assist me in this affair?"I stood for a moment not knowing what to say.

"I might endure personal insult," he explained, "but no Indian gentleman will listen to national calumny."

He gave me the German's card and walked out of the building. There was only one other student in the library. When I had recovered from my daze, he was coming toward

"Jerry Stoner," he introduced himself succinctly. "As I understand it, these birds want a duel. Schleicher said to me: ‘Only his life will satisfy me!' "

"I'm not very strong for this stuff," I said.

"And what's more," replied Jerry Stoner, "the police aren't either."

"Yet these benighted foreigners consider us under obligation to arrange a fight between them," I reflected aloud.

"What we ought to do," Jerry Stoner said vehemently, "is to get them out behind the wall of Stagg Field with their coats off and a couple of pairs of eight-ounce gloves. But their minds don't run that way; I know them too well."

"We'll have to fix up some sort of an arrangement that will satisfy their pride and do them no harm," I continued. "I've got an idea. Both of them are clever scientists-"

"Each of them is hungering for the other's life," Jerry Stoner interrupted me.

"Look here!"I drew my chair up to his. "Let's have them fight a modern, scientific duel. Science for weapons! The real fight will be a battle of wits to devise a secret, silent blow. The victims will not know when or how it is to fall. The one who deals it will not be on the scene to be connected with it. To the public it will seem like a natural death or an accident."

"Sounds all right," Jerry Stoner laughed skeptically. "I doubt if they can hurt each other much, if they stick to the rules of that."

"That's what we want, isn't it? Both are well equipped for such a contest. It will keep them busy for a while. Then, in the press of daily work, they will forget it. I can't imagine any man, who is really busy, letting a little falling-out like this upset him for very long."

Raputra Avedian was delighted with the plan when I outlined it to him. Something about the subtlety of it appealed to his Oriental mind and it also satisfied his scientific nature. He thanked me as profusely as though I had done him a tremendous favor, and for some days afterwards was silent and happy.

He was missing all of one night and I became worried lest he had met with some disaster; but he turned up in the morning, grimy and fatigued as though he had been at some sort of hard labor, but he seemed cheerful and enthusiastic.

He seemed to be taking something very seriously; but I forbore questioning him about it. I could see that he was not neglecting the defensive, although I did not know what his plan of attack was. He assembled a pocket first-aid kit containing all manner of emergency measures, antidotes, stimulants, antitoxins, stomach pump, purgatives, and emetics. He ate only at the Commons, of the same food with hundreds of other students, and never went anywhere but to his laboratory and to our room at the dormitory, always within view of numerous people and always watching about himself carefully. He was as unapproachable as a royal personage. I regarded his danger as an exaggerated fancy.

The blow came all the more, therefore, as a shocking surprise. The suddenness of it, the mystery of it, left me stunned and paralyzed.

ONE Sunday morning I remained in bed for a few minutes after Raputra had risen and gone into our little bathroom. I could hear him stropping his razor and washing his face. Then there was a heavy thud and a rapid knocking which gradually died down. I leaped up and ran in. Raputra lay on the floor, still moving feebly, but already stiffening in death. He had got his emergency kit open and one hand jerked it about, spilling the contents about the room. It jerked back and forth feebly once, and then he lay still.

I grew so suddenly weak that I had to sit down on the floor for a moment before I could look around. Then I searched carefully. Nowhere on Raputra or about the room were there, any signs of violence or of anything unusual.

How had it happened?

The wonder of it occupied my mind for a moment then I caught sight of the wet toothbrush at the foot of the lavatory; the pitiful little subject told me that my friend had been stricken while brushing his teeth, and a rush of grief drove all the detective impulses out of my mind. Poor Raputra! All his brilliant fire and his vast promise were nothing now! Again my mind returned to the mystery. The only window in the room was closed and locked on the inside. Outside, five stories of smooth, gray brick wall stretched down to the ground, with a feeble wisp of ivy here and there. There was no exit save through our sleeping room; this had one door into the corridor, locked on the inside. No one could have gotten in or out unobserved. What a foolish idea! Of course no one had gotten in or out. This was the secret, scientific death, and Schleicher had done it.

All at once it came to me that a sudden death of this sort would have to come before a coroner's jury. I decided that I had better leave everything undisturbed for more skilled investigators than I was. I called the police and waited.

I will not go into detail about the miserable days that followed. The post-mortem examination that took two doctors and two assistants six hours, the analyses for poisons, the minute study of our room and bathroom, the minute questioning and re-questioning of myself and all persons in our end of the dormitory, failed to reveal the least suggestion of a possible cause of death.

Not a sign, not a clue, not a mark!

It looked as though he had been struck dead by magic, and the case promised to remain a medical mystery. No less a personage than Doctor Victor LeCount was involved in the investigation. This man, the author of a book on sudden death and its causes, and the world's foremost authority on that subject, had been retained by the insurance company in which Raputra had recently taken a policy; for the presence of the emergency kit had stirred the company's suspicions. However, even this great man could offer no suggestions. So, the death certificate was made out as "sudden death, cause unknown," a burial permit issued, and the insurance paid to Raputra's brother.

Of course, Jerry Stoner and I had kept quiet in regard to the duel. My first impulse was to stand up and accuse Schleicher. But reflection quickly showed me that such a course would not only be futile, but dangerous to both of us. It would sound so improbable that everyone would doubt its truth and no proof of any kind could be produced. On the other hand, we would only lay ourselves open to blame for complicity in the death.

So my friend was buried. The world seemed strangely blank and gray to me. I had not known that a mere roommate could mean so much in one's life. My mind was in a whirl of torment, for in the background of my mind was the guilty feeling that I was to blame. My own brain had contrived the devilish idea. It had never occurred to me that my friend might be the victim. My mind was filled with resentment against the German. Surely the justice that in the movies always overtakes the wicked, was lacking in the real world. Why had the possibility not occurred to me that the overbearing Prussian might not get his just dues?

The more I thought about it, the more my resentment rose against the cruel turn of fate, and against Schleicher himself. He had murdered my friend! I determined to ascertain how, to prove it, and to prosecute him. If I could thus avenge my friend, I could at least justify myself in my own eyes for the regrettable part I had played in the affair. It could not bring my friend back, but it might wipe out my guilty feeling. I thought about it constantly, alternating between the depression of self-censure and the efforts of solving the mystery. I was quite unable to attend to my class work. The problem interfered with my sleep and appetite.

FINALLY, I went to LeCount. My regular course would bring me under his instruction the following year, and I had no hesitation in seeking his acquaintance.

He was short and rotund, with a fat, grey mustache. His students looked up to him with awe because of his learning and with fear because of his snappy manners. I found him at a microscope in the Pathology Laboratory. He was not much of a conversationalist; when I tried to explain why I had come, he jerked out:

"Tell me all of it this time!"That embarrassed me from the beginning; evidently he referred to my testimony before the coroner's jury, and in some uncanny way knew that I had withheld some information. Then he sat motionless, without the quiver of a muscle all the time I was telling the story. After I had finished, he continued to stare at me until I thought I would go frantic. Finally I had to speak:

"Do you think Schleicher killed him?"I asked.

"Of course he did!"

"In God's name, how?"

"I don't know."That was all. He looked at me inscrutably. I did not know what to do or say. His eyes were fixed on me until I began to think I had done it myself. "Possible, all right," he finally snapped. "Now go over all the details of that Sunday morning."As I talked, he interrupted me frequently: "Did he take a drink every morning?"

"Did he ever cut himself with his razor?"

"The toothbrush! Ah, the toothbrush!"

"The dormitory is familiar to me," he mused as I concluded. "It is possible for someone to get into your rooms during your absence, is it not?"

"Yes, but—"

"There is only one explanation possible. Your history eliminates every other. Some sort of poison—"

"But none was found in the post-mortem analyses—"

He looked at me sternly for interrupting, and then went on as though I should have known better: "Here are some poisons that leave no trace perceptible to the analyst."He pointed to a chapter in his own book on toxicology, and continued: "Aconitine kills in doses too small to leave any detectible traces. Rattlesnake or cobra venom, if introduced directly into the circulation, that is, not through the stomach, also kills without leaving any traces for the analyst. Finally, Vaughan's split-protein products have much the same effect as the snake venoms."

He regarded me steadily for a while and then thrust "Now do you have an idea how he met his death?"

"Of course, the poisons are a possibility," I pondered. "But how were they administered? There are no marks of needles—"

"Think some more. Perhaps you can recall if there was a spot of blood on the toothbrush?"

"Yes. Almost everyone's gums bleed occasionally during the brushing of the teeth. Raputra was more susceptible to bleeding than I."

"Well? Did Schleicher know that?"

"He might have."

I could not make out what he was driving at.

"All right. We can probably eliminate the aconitine. Death by that is slower than this man's was, and does not produce the convulsion that seemed to be present in this case. But either snake-venom or split-protein placed on the toothbrush Saturday night when both of you were out celebrating the football victory, would introduce enough poison directly into the bloodstream to have caused just such a death. Where's the toothbrush?"

"In the room. I don't think it has been touched since that morning."

In response to his curt nod, I bolted out and was back with the toothbrush in twenty minutes.

By the time I returned, he had two guinea-pigs ready. He first injected one with some physiological salt solution.

"That is the control," he said; "just to prove that the salt solution is pure and harmless."

The guinea-pig was quite unconcerned after its experience. Then Dr. LeCount soaked the toothbrush for a few minutes in a test-tube half full of the salt solution, and injected a syringeful of that into the second pig. He hardly had time to remove the needle; the animal shivered, kicked convulsively several times and was dead.

"Of course, I can't tell you whether it is rattlesnake or cobra; it might be split-protein. But, is that proof?"

The doctor fixed his wide, blue eyes on me again.

"That's proof enough!"I exclaimed. "I'm going straight to the District Attorney's office. I'll get Schleicher yet."

Dr. LeCount smiled. That was a rare thing. It meant something. "The District Attorney's office does not close until four o'clock. It is now eleven," he said deliberately. "Wait a while."

So I waited, while he studied me. I felt like a germ on a slide.

"In the first place," he began in his favorite phrase, "scientific proof is not legal proof. This sort of evidence wouldn't convict anybody. My work is the study of disease, not of law; but I get mixed up with law often enough to know that you can never get a case against that man. You may prove it morally and scientifically, but not legally.

"Secondly," he eyed me fixedly, "for a scientific man, you are inconsistent. You'll have to reason more rigidly than that if you want to pass my class next year. These two men stepped out of the bounds of the law when they arranged their duel. Now all parties concerned should be satisfied. To invoke the law now is childish in the eyes of a fair man.

"Finally, what about the part you played in it? You should have thought of this possibility when you planned the duel. Now you are apt to get into trouble as an accomplice."

I left his presence humble, but not subdued. The desire for revenge is a shamefully primeval impulse; it is so powerful, that its suppression causes even civilized men considerable difficulty. As I walked down the street, I shook my fists in the air, vowing that I would get Schleicher somehow. Involuntarily my footsteps carried me toward Schleicher's residence. For— and it doubled my resentment—  Schleicher was evidently independently wealthy; at least he spent money as though he were. He never got sufficiently accustomed to Chicago's ways to live in a flat or an apartment. He occupied one of the cottages in the row opposite Washington Park, and had a flower garden in his front yard. Gardening was his hobby. Then I recollected that he had not been seen since the day of the challenge. Was it guilt that kept him in concealment? The report had gone about his laboratory that he was confined to his home by sickness. I strode quickly toward his house.

There he was now in his garden, sprinkling with a hose. If he had been sick, he must have just recovered, for it was his first appearance. I walked slowly past on the opposite side of the street. He stood stiffly, holding his red face arrogantly above the rest of humanity, and moving the stream of water from his hose with military precision. He didn't even see me. I execrated him; I almost shook my fist at him. I wondered what to do next.

"I'll get you somehow—"my thoughts began, and suddenly stopped. Schleicher had toppled over and lay flat on the ground. He had been standing in his stiff, military attitude, spraying the hose this way and that on the flowers and shrubbery. Then right before my eyes he dropped like a slaughtered ox. Now he lay still and the hose spurted over him in an arch where it had fallen out of his hand. I reached him first though a number of people also came running up. His heart seemed to flutter a little, but as I felt of it, it stopped still. Half a dozen people gathered before I had him looked over. He was undoubtedly dead. Nowhere on him was there a scratch or a mark of any kind.

Another sudden death! Another secret, silent, scientific blow! This time the mystery of it elated me. I left the others crowding around the body, while I eagerly looked the surroundings over carefully, behind the fence, under the porch, through the shrubbery, hoping that I might find a clue to the method.

Then, a gleam of metal, hidden in the shrubbery, caused me to halt and stagger back. I had caught myself just in time to prevent my hand from touching it. There was an insulated copper plate concealed in the bush. From it ran a cable which I quickly traced toward the Jackson Park Elevated Railway.

The whole scheme was clear to me now. I understood the meaning of the coil of cable and the bag of tools that Raputra had carried out of our room with him on the night that he had spent out. The plate in the bush was connected with the third rail of the elevated railway, and when the water from Schleicher's hose struck it, the powerful current that ran the trains overhead had electrocuted him on the spot.

The crowd about the body increased. The distant clanging of an ambulance swelled rapidly. I stood off from the crowd and reflected. Things seemed to balance now. Appropriately, by the hand of a man several days in his grave, movie-justice had been done.

_________________________

13: The Voice on the Telephone

Arthur Somers Roche

Sunday Star, Washington, 19 Aug 1923

"JACKASSES are queer creatures," announced Jerry Tryon.

Jimmy Pelham, the consulting partner of the head of the Tryon Detective Agency, looked quizzically across the table. "You are acquainted with the habits of the animal you mention, Jerry?" Pelham asked mischievously.

"Enough," said Jerry loudly, "to know that you can't toll 'em by their ears. You can't always tell 'em by their bray. Sometimes they put on pants and boiled shirts, and get into restaurants like this, and try to listen to conversations not meant for them."

His voice rose with each syllable. A gentleman at an adjoining table flushed. For a moment he tried to meet the fiery glance of the ex-lieutenant of police. Then he looked quickly away.

Pelham grinned. The eavesdropper, rebuked by Jerry's Innuendo, signaled his waiter and asked for his check.

"After all, Jerry."Pelham said chidingly when the recipient of Jerry's rebuke had departed, ''you're a famous man."

"Famous! There ain't a chance In the world of you and me ever getting famous with the Gray Ghost at large," growled Jerry. "Anyhow, I hate nosy folks."

Pelham chuckled. "Imagine a detective making that remark."

"Well, we're nosy in the line of business," said Jerry defensively.

"And in another minute we'll be deep in the discussion of business." said Pelham. "And digestion is ruined by too much thought."

But not until they had finished their dinner and were parting, on a near- by corner, did Jerry again refer to anything bearing even remotely upon business. Then his bushy brows wrinkled.

"Suppose that nosy guy was somebody sent by the Gray Ghost," he suggested.

Pelham shook his head. "The Gray Ghost knows that you and I don't discuss business In public. Jerry."

Jerry shrugged his thick shoulders. "Guess you're right, Mr. Pelham. That fellow kinda got my goat, I guess."

Pelham slapped his coadjutor on the back. "Go home and sleep off that grouch, Jerry," he laughingly advised.

He was still smiling as he let himself into his apartment. Good old Jerry!

Presently. In dressing gown and slippers, and seated in a deep armchair, he stared at the fire which Dickenson, his man of all work, had lighted against his return. As he thought of that arch-criminal who defied society and preyed upon it, his lips hardened and his eyes matched the glow of the flames in the fireplace.

But worry would get him nowhere. He dropped his cigarette upon an ash receiver, and. leaning back farther in his comfortable chair, closed his eyes.

DICKENSON awakened him, "Hate to wake you. Boss," said the former Maine guide, "but Mr. Tryon's on the telephone— long distance— and says he must talk to you."

Pelham crossed the room and was speaking into the phone. Dickenson heard his tones of mild surprise change to excitement. There was a rapid-fire exchange of questions and answers, and then Pelham hung up. He turned to Dickenson.

"You heard what I've been saying?"

"Mr. Tryon's out in the country near Portchester, on the Gray Ghost's trail, and wants you," replied Dickenson.

"Get the roadster and bring it around while I'm dressing," ordered Pelham.

"I'm going with you," stated Dickenson. There was a flat finality in his tone.

Pelham chuckled. "You bet your life you are," he agreed. "Hustle!"

When Dickenson returned, at the wheel of a speedy-looking two-passenger car, Pelham was waiting impatiently on the sidewalk outside his apartment house. Pelham climbed into the seat beside Dickenson.

"Shoot over to Riverside drive," he said. "Tryon is waiting for us somewhere between White Plains and Portchester; we'll make it quicker that way."

Dickenson slipped In the clutch, and the machine started.

There was little conversation during the next forty-five minutes. Once Dickenson asked "Why did Mr. Tryon start off on a stunt like this without telling you that he was going?"he demanded.

"Said he was afraid that he was on a blind lead, and didn't want to bother me needlessly," explained Pelham.

Dickenson frowned. "Don't sound sensible to me," he argued. "And It don't seem any too sane him telling you not to bring any one with you."

Kings could not have bought the services of Slim Dickenson unless he liked them. He was more than a servant: he was an intimate friend, and even at times a highly valued counselor. So Pelham did not rebuke, even in his thought, the comment of Dickenson. As a matter of fact, he agreed silently that Jerry was a bit reckless.

They did not speak again until after they had passed White Plains. Then Pelham ordered Dickenson to slow down.

"I don't know just whore Mr. Tryon will meet us. Keep your eyes open for a car drawn up alongside the road, just beyond a cross street and around a curve."

"Right," said Dickenson. And half a mile beyond, rounding a curve, he threw out the clutch and applied the brakes, swerving in toward the high bank that bordered the road.

PELHAM was out of the car and approaching the shadowy bulk of another machine almost before the wheels ceased moving. A dark figure detached itself from the gloom and approached him.

"Mr. Pelham?"It was Jerry.

"Jerry?"Pelham replied. "

What's the big Idea?"asked Jerry. "What do you mean?"Pelham felt a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach. "Mean? I mean, now that we're here, why are we here?"demanded Jerry. "You were so mysterious over the phone "

"I was? You mean you were! Waking me up and telling me that you had followed the Gray Ghost out here and didn't want me to bring any one "

"Why, that's what you told me when you called me up," cried Jerry.

Pelham stared at him.

"I haven't phoned you tonight, Jerry," he declared.

"Quit kidding! I talked with you,'' said Jerry.

"Of course; when you telephoned me to come out here," retorted Pelham.

"I didn't telephone you," protested Jerry.

"And I didn't telephone you," said Pelham.

"But I ought to know your voice," argued Jerry.

"And I certainly thought that I knew yours." snapped his partner. Perplexed, bewildered, they stared at each other.

Jerry, less acute than the younger man. reacted to the situation more slowly than Pelham. So, when the big touring car, Its brakes shrieking, stopped In the road beside them, and one of Its occupants leaning out of the car, asked "Pelham there? Tryon there?"Jerry Tryon answered in the affirmative before Pelham could stop him.

And from the touring car came Instantly flashes of flame and the loud reports of revolvers.

Pelham grasped Jerry and dragged him behind Jerry's car.

Slim Dickenson it was who turned the tide of battle. The attackers paid no attention to Pelham's car. and at sound and flash of the first shot, Dickenson leaped into that machine. Shielded by crouching down in the seat, he opened fire on the touring car. He was a crack shot, and the flashes of the bandit's revolvers afforded him an excellent view of their figures. He fired twice and shrieks of pain apprised him of the success of his aim. After his second shot the firing from the car ceased.

Dickenson darted across the road; with the silent tread that years of stalking animals had bred in him, he raced down the road and opened fire at the rear of the touring car. From the cries of the bandits it was easy to learn that the trappers now considered themselves the trapped. Dickenson's maneuver made them believe that they were surrounded. They gave up the battle at once. Pelham and Tryon, firing from behind Tryon's car, could not tell whether or not their shots had been as accurate as those of Dickenson.  They know only that the battle ended as suddenly as it had begun.

It was Dickenson's desire to pursue the fleeing foe, but by the time that the three men had taken stock, so to speak, and found that none of them had been injured, the murder car, racing through the night with Its lights dimmed, was beyond pursuit. It might have turned on any one of a dozen cross-roads.

"The Gray Ghost is changing his tactics," commented Tryon. "We've said that we were ease from this sort of thing; shows how much we know about the Gray Ghost."

Pelham shook his head in bewilderment. "It doesn't seem like his work," he replied. He turned to Dickenson. "Drive my car in; I'll ride with Mr. Tryon." *

TWO doors from the apartment house in which Jimmy Pelham lived was the store of Bennett & Darius, well known furriers. Their building, only four stories high, was a remodeled residence, like all the other buildings on Pelham's block. There was a back yard in the rear, separated by fences from other back yards. Directly across from the rear of the furriers' building was the rear of a house that for the past six months had been vacant. Its owner planned to remodel it into stores and offices, but lack of capital had prevented him from doing so as yet. So that, when, a few days ago, he had been approached by a representative of the Novelty Patent and Exploitation Company, and that representative offered him a substantial rental, accompanying the offer with a check, he accepted the terms. The novelty company required the place for only six weeks, while they carried out an advertising and demonstrating plan. The policeman on the beat that included the street south of Jimmy Pelham's street was surprised to see four great trucks back up to the curb before the vacant building at about 10 o'clock on the evening of the battle on the White Plains road. The trucks appeared about a quarter of an hour after Tryon's vocal impersonator had summoned Pelham away from home.

The policeman, making inquiries was shown permits from the proper city authorities, allowing the novelty company to unload trucks at night. It was a busy street in the daytime and this hour for the transaction of this sort of business was eminently suitable. The policeman watched the drivers and helpers unload a few great boxes and then sauntered on his way.

The night was moonless. The watchman of the furriers' building occasionally smoked a pipe in the yard behind his building. Tonight was one of those occasions. He had just completed knocking the dottle from the bowl when something Struck him. He lost consciousness and. did not regain It for hours; when he did so he found himself neatly gagged and bound. The first clerk to arrive in the morning released him, but ho could tell nothing of his assailants.

But the work of these assailants spoke for itself. The contents of the furriers' building bad been removed almost entirely. The precious furs had been carried across the yard Into the building so recently rented by the novelty company. Thence the furs had been transferred to the trucks outside.

REPRESENTATIVES of Bennett & Darius retained Pelham on the case. Furs dropped In the yard during the hasty transfer led him to investigate the vacant building opposite. That building, save for scores of empty boxes, was bare. Inquiry of the owner disclosed the name of his tenant. But when the operatives of the Tryon agency went to the address given by that tenant, the man was not there, never had been there. An investigation of the check which he had tendered in payment of his rent disclosed the information that the account on which the check had been drawn was closed out. The bank gave an address; the drawer of the check did not reside there.

"Now, do you believe that it was the Gray Ghost who planned that attack on us last night?" asked Tryon late in the afternoon.

"I guess you're right, Jerry,"' admitted Pelham.

" 'Guess' ain't the word," said Tryon triumphantly. "The Gray Ghost knows that you are a wakeful cuss. You could easily look out your back window and see signs of life in the yards. Other people saw those signs of life, but thought nothing of it. But you'd investigate. So the Gray  Ghost gets you out of the way. While he's at it He decides he might as well bump you off. Why not make a clean sweep of it, he asks himself. So he gets me out in the country. What about it?"

"There isn't any answer, Jerry," said Pelham.

Nor was there any answer that Pelham could give to the weeping members of the ruined firm of Bennett & Darius.

The afternoon papers, wasted no time in coming to the conclusion that the robbery was the Gray Ghost's handiwork. And when reporters asked Slim Dickenson, who received the men of the press, in the absence of Pelham, how it was that his employer had not noticed the strange activities only a few rods from his rear windows, Slim resented the tones of the questioners. It seemed to him that they jeered. So he blurted out the tale of the ruse whereby the Gray Ghost's great opponents had been lured away. Slim had meant to defend his beloved employer from cynical aspersions. He failed lamentably. The morning newspapers not merely jeered at Pelham and Tryon; they sneered.

Pelham was not extraordinarily sensitive. Nevertheless, on the following day he felt averse to meeting people whom he knew. He lunched at his club. But his follow members, even as they congratulated him on his escape from death two nights ago, were unable to hide their mirth at the manner in which he had been outwitted.

He dined alone at a shabby little restaurant, where he knew he would meet no acquaintances. He would not, though misery loves company, permit Jerry to accompany him. He said that he wanted to study the situation by himself. But, long before he had eaten dinner, he confessed to himself that this was merely an excuse.

AFTER dinner he strolled aimlessly uptown. Into the theatrical district. To kill the evening he entered a vaudeville house. Bored though he was. he sat through the program. And finally there came upon the stage an entertainer who was billed outside the theater as "an added attraction."

And at the moment of his entrance Pelham lost his boredom.

For the man happened to be the gentleman who two nights ago had been so extremely interested at the restaurant in the speech of Pelham and Tryon. And on that billboard outside the theater, beneath the name of "Samuel Bozell, the world's greatest ventriloquist," had been the line of invitation: "Come in and hear him imitate your voice."

Eagerly from the first moment of recognition Pelham watched the man's act. It began with the usual banalities between Bozell and the dummy figure which he held upon his knee. But It ended with his offer to imitate the voice of any one in the audience. Half a dozen people accepted his challenge. Immediately he would utter the words that had just left their mouths with an uncanny simulation of their voices.

Slim Dickenson was reading a book entitled Memoirs of the Wickedest Court in Europe, by a "well known nobleman," when his employer burst into the apartment.

"Slim," began Pelham, "didn't you tell me the other day that an old friend of yours, a Maine guide like yourself, was doing an act In vaudeville?"

"Sure did," replied Slim. "Lem Higgins, from my own town of Juno. He's playing at the Castle this week. Comes on the stage all rigged up in the fanciest huntin' clothes ever I see and begins imitating the voices and sound of animals and birds. Shows how to call a moose. Has a real moose there that he's trained. Sure, I know him. Why?"

"I went to the Mirror vaudeville house tonight. A ventriloquist was on the bill. Two nights ago Tryon rebuked the man for trying to listen to our conversation in a restaurant."

"A ventriloquist, eh?"said Slim. "And a little later some one with voice just like Tryon's calls you up on the phone "

"Slim, you're the quickest man I know. It doesn't sound crazy to you?"asked Pelham.

"There ain't anything sounds foolish to me If It has to do with the Gray Ghost." Slim declared. "But what about Lem Higgins?"

"Go to see him tonight. If you know where he lives. He must know Bozell— that's the ventriloquist. Get him to introduce you to Bozell. After that— well, I leave It to you."

LEM HIGGINS had finished his act by the time that Slim arrived at the Castle Theater, but the stage door keeper obligingly Informed the questioner that Mr. Higgins could probably be found at the Headliners' Club, that modestly named association of variety artists.

The stage door keeper was correct. Lem Higgins was finishing a late supper when his old friend sent in his name. He came out to the hall, slapped his visitor on the back and almost dragged him into the dining room and to his table. But Slim resisted Higgins' insistent desire to make Slim known to vaudeville's elite.

"There's only one guy in the world that you can introduce me to, Lem," he told the guide-actor. "Do you know a ventriloquist named Samuel Bozell? He's playing at the Mirror this week."

Higgins eyes his friend curiously.

"Now what interest have you in Sam Bozell?"he asked. "Your boss send you?"

"What do you mean by that?"demanded Slim.

Higgins' weatherbeaten face took on a shrewd expression. "Well, Mr. Pelham's a detective and Bozell's a crook. That ain't putting two and two together; it's easier than that: it's adding one and one."

Dickenson stared at his old friend. "Lem, you didn't use to be the gabbiest guide In Maine."

"I can keep my mouth shut now. if that's what you mean," grinned Higgins.

"I believe you," said Slim, "You just forget after I've left that I ever mentioned Bozell. Now tell me what you know about him."

"It ain't much," said Higgins. "But he has a reputation all over the circuit of being crooked. Gives bad checks, trims his friends, you know. And lately he blossomed out with a new car chauffeur and everything. Now you can't do that sort of thing on the salary you get in the four-a-day houses. He must have some phony game."

Slim whistled. "I want to meet him," he said.

"That'll be easy," stated Higgins.

It was easy. On the following day Higgins Introduced his friend to the ventriloquist. Slim— he called him Mr. Jonas Perkins— was a state of  Maine man, like Higgins. Higgins' success had made Mr. Perkins desirous of investing some of the capital that he had laid away in a few good vaudeville acts. He was especially interested in building-up Bozell's act until It became a complete evening's entertainment. He had good suggestions, too, as to how this could be accomplished.

It took less than an hour to convince Bozell, always on the lookout for easy money, that Mr. Jonas Perkins was the most gullible backwoodsman that ever breathed.

Even the low cunning that Mr. Perkins showed in demanding that Bozell put up an equal amount in financing the new production did not change the ventriloquist's estimate of the mentality of his new acquaintance. He agreed to put up the equal share demanded by Mr. Perkins, and to prove his ability to do so he ostentatiously showed the new "angel" his bank book. Slim took a mental note of the name of the bank.

Next day Pelham was permitted by the bank officials to examine the account of Samuel Bozell. He discovered that Bozell had deposited checks recently which had not been earned in the practice of his profession. Those checks were traced to another bank. Pelham discovered the address of the J. H. Johnson who had drawn them.

THE house wherein J. H. Johnson resided was watched by two operatives of the Tryon agency. They were accompanied by the owner of the vacant house behind the establishment of Bennett & Darius. From the recesses of a taxicab the landlord saw entering the watched house a man whom he Immediately identified as the agent of the novelty company to whom he had rented his premises.

At 8 o'clock that night Bozell, under the third-degree examination to which Pelham and Jerry Tryon quite unwarrantably submitted him, broke down. He admitted that he had been engaged in several criminal transactions with a group of men whose names he gave to the detectives. He said that he had imitated the voices of Pelham and Tryon over the telephone. He said that he had not yet received his share of the proceeds of the fur robbery, stating that the furs were in the building now watched by Tryon's operatives, that there had not yet been time to dispose of the stolen property. But he also said— and no amount of cross-examination could make him change his statement— that he had never met the Gray Ghost, and did not believe him to be the master hand behind the group with which Bozell was associated.

"You see," said Tryon, after the man had been led away, "they'll tell anything except where to find the Gray Ghost."

Pelham shook his head.

"Bozell is scared to death; he'd surrender his own mother to the gallows. He doesn't know."

"Mean to say that the Gray Ghost's followers can be in on half a dozen jobs and not know they're working for him?" grunted Tryon Incredulously.

Pelham sighed wearily.

"I don't know exactly what I do mean, Jerry. Let's go."

They motored to the house which J. H. Johnson had entered a couple of hours ago. Outside, in shadows across the street, were the operatives who had seen him enter. They were reinforced by a dozen other men in plain clothes, but these were members of the police department, acting temporarily under Pelham's orders. The surrounding streets were also guarded. At a muttered order a group of detectives followed Pelham and Tryon up the stoop.

Pelham rang the bell. He rang it again. He waited three minutes, and then gave a command for the door to be battered in. He led his followers Into the house, with Jerry Tryon struggling at his elbow for the lead, fearful that his beloved younger partner might suffer injury!

Just beyond the threshold, at the foot of a flight of stairs, he paused. The silence of the place was uncanny. The noise of the assault on the door had aroused the neighborhood; it should have aroused the inmates of this house.  Perhaps they waited at the top of the stairs, ready to kill... in that case he must be the first to face them.

And so he bounded up the stairs.

And at the landing he paused. The strangest sight that had ever—in his knocking around with Jerry Tryon, in his experiences in the war— met his eyes confronted him now. For the door to a large room was open; electric lights burned brilliantly in a chandelier. And in that room, beneath those lights, lay the bound and gagged bodies of fifteen men!

HE strode into the room. Jerry and the plain clothes men behind him. There, upon a table in the center of the room, propped against a book so that it would attract the attention of the first arrival, was an envelope. It was addressed to Pelham. He picked it up, tore it open and read the note inside.

My dear Mr. Pelham,  he read. I am an artist, not a bungling thief. I cannot see how you could imagine that I would be guilty of leaving so clear a trail. And yet, according to the newspapers, you believe that I, who deal only in money and jewelry, would annoy myself with so clumsy a booty as furs. You will find the property of Messrs. Bennett & Darius in the rooms upstairs.

I resent your stupid assumption that I. who never fail in anything I undertake, should have attempted your death without success. But even more strongly I resent the inefficient scoundrels who have impersonated me, who have dared to attempt to use my methods. And so I am delivering them to you. It would not do for you to capture them. You will understand that it is necessary that I make the vermin of the underworld understand that my name is not lightly to be used.

And please be assured, my dear Mr. Pelham, that when I decide that you are dangerous to me, and should be removed, you will be removed.

It was signed "Peter Ballantyne," the nom de guerre of the Gray Ghost. But threatening as was the tone of the epistle, Pelham laughed triumphantly as he turned to Tryon. The Gray Ghost was still at large and yet he grinned.

"I knew all along it wasn't a Gray Ghost job," he cried.

Tryon was amused at this exhibition of vanity on the part of his coadjutor.

"Well," he said, pointing at the prisoners upon the floor, "that's a Gray Ghost job."

"And a good one, too," said Pelham. He frowned as a thought came to him. If the Gray Ghost had happened to turn his talents to the detection instead of the commission of crime, he would have been without a rival. Still, he was without a rival now.

Dispiritedly he joined Tryon in searching for, and finding, the method of egress, through a skylight across the roofs and down another skylight, of the Gray Ghost's followers. Would he always be a little too late? Somewhere, now, the Gray Ghost laughed at him. But he laughs best who laughs last. He could wait for that last laugh.

_____________________

14: Fish Men of Venus

David Wright O'Brien

1918–1944

Amazing Stories, April 1940

"DON'T move!"

Manny Carter's heart went cold at the sound of the voice behind him. There was a sudden sickness in the pit of his stomach. Slowly, he turned.

On the promenade deck of the space liner Asteroid there had been nothing but silence and darkness— silence penetrated only by the half-hum of the percussion room deep in the bowels of the ship, and darkness broken only by occasional meteoric splashes of flame coming from the void surrounding the liner.

Crouching there on the promenade deck Manny Carter had been aware of the silence, and grateful for the darkness surrounding him. He had been waiting for this moment, waiting in his tiny cabin until he was sure that the other passengers had all retired. He'd given them two extra hours of grace— there wasn't any sense in taking chances— and as he'd moved silently across the aluminum deck planking he'd breathed a silent prayer of supplication. If he could only reach the lifeship hanging from the rail davits— but now...

"Up with your hands, Carter!"

Automatically Manny obeyed the command of the short gray-haired man who confronted him.

His eyes fixed in fascination on the vibrator-pistol pointed unwaveringly at his middle, but he remained silent.

"I had a hunch," his captor was saying, "that you'd slip aboard the Asteroid. And I also had a hunch that you'd try to make a break for it in a space lifeship. It's all over, Carter. You're nabbed. I arrest you in—"

The sentence was left uncompleted, for Manny Carter, watching his chance with a timing born of desperation, crashed down on his captor's head with a fire extinguisher from the wall. With the slightest of sighs the older man crumpled to the deck, his vibrator-pistol ringing hollowly as it slid from his limp grasp to the aluminum planking.

For an instant, Manny stood motionless above the unconscious form of his victim. Then, swiftly he stooped to retrieve the vibrator-pistol, stuffed it inside his belt lining, and waited. A second later Carter had the pistol once more in his hand and was facing the companionway entrance on his right. Someone was coming up the companionway to the deck. If he was seen.... But it was too late to try to make it in the lifeship, and he had no time to conceal the body of the man at his feet. So Manny Carter ran his tongue along dry lips and pointed the muzzle of his weapon at the entrance.

His exclamation, as the intruder came through the entrance and onto the deck, was involuntary, horror-stricken.

"Eileen!"

The girl, recognizing him, was equally astonished, but there was pleasure in her eyes, in the tone of her voice as she spoke./p>

"Manny! Well if this isn't something! I didn't know you were aboard. I thought—." Her voice stopped as though suddenly frozen, and she stood staring at the gray haired man at Carter's feet, at the vibrator-pistol in the young man's hand.

"Manny," there was sudden terror in her voice now, "Manny, what's wrong, what's happened?"

Then she gasped in anguished bewilderment as recognition leaped into her eyes— recognition of the gray-haired man sprawled inertly on the deck. "It's Dad!"

MANNY CARTER had been standing dazed from the moment of his first involuntary cry. And now, as he watched the bewilderment, the terrified suspicion growing in the gray eyes of the ethereal, auburn-haired girl before him, he found himself paralyzed for speech. He gulped futilely as Eileen Dodge, the girl he loved, dropped to her knees beside the man he'd just smashed to the deck. The little gray-haired man who tried to arrest him— Alson Dodge, her father! What a ghastly trick of fate.

His voice, when he finally spoke, was husky with the torrent of emotion he felt. "Eileen, he— he's not hurt badly. I— had to do it, please understand me. I was forced to— it was my only chance."

Alson Dodge moaned faintly, moving his head uneasily in his daughter's arms. Eyes flashing, Eileen turned to Carter. "I didn't know it was you. He hadn't told me." She bit her lip. "He probably wanted to spare me the knowledge that the murderer he was after was you!" Her eyes blazed accusingly but with infinite hurt at Carter. "You—" she repeated in stricken tones, "the murderer my father was trailing! No wonder you didn't meet us when the liner left Venus. No wonder Dad was unwilling to say anything when I asked him why you hadn't come to see us off." Her voice was shaking, almost sobbing. "Manny, Manny how could you have done this to us— to me!"

Dumbly, Carter tried to speak. The hate and grief that suddenly welled in the girl's eyes, however, was too much for him. He tore his gaze from hers. How could he explain? What could he say that she would believe?

She had known her father's mission— to trace down the murderer of Bramm. But Alson Dodge had spared his daughter the knowledge that he suspected her fiancé of the crime. Now— tragically— Eileen Dodge had stepped into a panorama that mere words could never explain away. A scene that would do more to convince her of Manny Carter's guilt than any indictment in the world!

Manny Carter started to speak. He was determined that, in spite of the incriminating evidence surrounding him, Eileen Dodge would learn the truth. He didn't expect her to believe him— but he had to try to make her understand. His brain was framing the words, "Eileen, please understand me, don't think what you're thinking without giving me a chance to explain. Don't—" He was framing the phrase, when hell— deafeningly and blindingly— broke forth in the bowels of the gigantic space liner.

The alarm bell rang almost simultaneously with the ear-splitting explosion that roared up from the engine room, through the corridors, and out onto the decks of the Asteroid. But Manny Carter didn't hear the bell. Knocked off balance by the rending explosion, he was thrown heavily into a lurching sprawl. He didn't hear anything after his head smashed against a bulkhead plate...

LATER, he had no idea how much later, Manny Carter regained consciousness. There were voices around him, excited voices. It wasn't until he tried to rise that Carter realized he was shackled. Then, through a haze of throbbing pain, he looked dazedly about at his surroundings.

He was lying on the floor of one of the Asteroid's lifeships, and standing within his vision were Eileen Dodge, two strangers, Alson Dodge, the uniformed captain of the Asteroid, and a good-natured, pleasant looking fellow who was gazing intently at him.

"He's come around," said the pleasant passenger.

Alson Dodge crossed to his side and stood above him. There was anger in the gray-haired man's eyes. But before he could speak, Carter addressed him. "What is this? What's happened?" he managed to blurt.

"You're in custody, Carter," replied Alson Dodge, "and you won't be eluding me this time. We're aboard a lifeship of the Asteroid. There was an explosion in the percussion tubes of the engine room. It set the liner ablaze. We managed to get clear in the lifeships. You can thank Eileen that your hide was saved— for the present. She dragged you into the lifeship while the crew and passengers were abandoning the vessel."

"But where—?" Carter started.

"We're some two thousand miles above Venus, and we're going down. Once this business is over I'm turning you in to the authorities. You're charged with the murder of Prince Bramm." He shook his head soberly. "And I don't envy you when you face trial for killing a Venusian Prince!"

"But I didn't, I swear—"

"Do you expect anyone to believe that?" Alson Dodge cut him short coldly.

The two passengers, a man and his wife, stared at Manny with ill-concealed curiosity. He met their glances, his eyes boring through them until they were forced to turn away. The Captain of the ill-fated Asteroid, Carter remembered his name as Sommers, scarcely gave him a second glance, giving all his concentration to the controls of the craft. Then Manny forced himself to look in Eileen's direction, only to find that she had turned her back on him and was apparently intently interested in something outside the thick porthole of the lifeship.

"Well," Carter declared bitterly, "this seems to be some little party." He spoke directly to the calm, good-natured fellow who, of all the passengers in the craft, was the only one still watching him.

"I'm sorry," the sympathetic man said quietly, "that it had to turn out like this, Manny." Even as he spoke, his left eyelid closed in a significant wink, observed only by Carter.

Suddenly Carter felt renewed courage. Chambers, Dan Chambers, the chap with the calmness, was still willing to help him. Carter knew that Chambers would aid him again as he did the first time. In spite of his despondency, Manny Carter managed an answering wink to Dan Chambers.

For Dan Chambers, his ex-boss, was one person who believed in him. It had been Chambers who aided Manny in getting secretly aboard the Asteroid. It had been Chambers who helped him make his escape from the Venusian authorities. Chambers was for him, and the thought was more than consoling to Manny Carter.

FOR the next several hours the passengers aboard the tiny lifeship paid no more attention to Manny Carter. And lying there in the corner of the craft, the shackled young prisoner had time for a great deal of thinking. He devoted it to a review of his plight and the steps that led him to his present situation.

Everything had been splendid with Carter, until the last two days. Sub-Administrator of Trade for the Earth Council, Manny Carter had worked hard and faithfully at his post on Twenty[*], the solitary land dot on the face of the watery planet Venus.

[* Twenty is the designation number of the Earth outpost on Venus and is one of 31 such posts scattered throughout the solar system for purposes of trade. Twenty is the only land area of the watery world.—Ed.]

The Venusians, creatures half-human and half-fish, carried on an extensive pearl trade with Earth. The island Twenty had been the base for these dealings, for it provided a livable spot for the earthmen during the pearling transactions with the Fish Men of Venus.

Since the Fish Men were unable to live on Twenty— it being above water and out of their natural environment— they had delegated one of their number, Prince Bramm, to act as their representative to the earthmen on Twenty. This was made possible by the construction of a water palace on the island. Here Prince Bramm had been able to live in comfort while supervising the pearl trading between his people and the earthmen.

As Sub-Administrator of Trade, Manny Carter had many dealings with Bramm, Prince of the Fish Men. Dan Chambers, Chief-Administrator, allowed Manny to negotiate most of the smaller pearling deals. And working under Chambers, Manny had been making a name for himself. There had even been rumors that Earth Council contemplated giving him a Chief-Administrator's post on Saturn or one of the other planetary bases. Eileen Dodge and Manny planned to marry as soon as he got that promotion. The Investigator for Earth Council had hinted that the couple did not have long to wait.

Then Bramm, Prince of the Fish Men, was brutally murdered. The kindly old Venusian had been found, two mornings before, lying several hundred yards away from his water palace on Twenty— dead. The evidence showed that he had been forcibly dragged from the palace and left to drown in the air.

Evidence also showed that the leader of the Fish Men tried to crawl back to his water castle, but had suffocated before he could reach it.

Circumstances pointed to Manny Carter as the murderer. The buckle from his office-belt, bearing the initials "M.C." was found clutched in Prince Bramm's hand flaps. And Manny Carter had been the last man to see the Venusian alive.

At first Carter decided to give himself up, but Dan Chambers, who believed his somewhat younger assistant's story, convinced him that such a move would be disastrous, that Venusians would demand punishment and that Manny would be railroaded into the role of scapegoat. "The rocky road of the innocent," Chambers had said, his great, good-natured face frowning.

Chambers made the arrangements for Manny's escape aboard the liner Asteroid which was headed back for Earth. They had decided that Manny could leave the liner in mid-space by means of a lifeship, and find his way to safety on Earth, until Chambers, working on the case, could clear him.

But Alson Dodge, assigned to the case, had his duty to fulfill. Like it or not he had to seek out Manny Carter and place him under arrest. And Alson Dodge hadn't had the courage to tell his daughter the truth.

But now Eileen knew, and Manny was captive, headed back for Venus to stand trial for the murder of Bramm, Prince of the Fish Men. Fate, in the form of the explosion in the percussion chambers of the space liner Asteroid, had made that return somewhat unconventional. Seven castaways from a space liner— headed for Venus in a lifeship.

"It's a mess," Manny said bitterly to himself, "a real mess. But somehow, some way, I'm going to get out of here."

The drone of the small atomic motor at the rear of the lifeship seemed to lull Carter's anguished thoughts into a hazy panorama. He was aware of the aching throb in his head, the slowly blurring figures of the others in the lifeship. Manny Carter hadn't closed his eyes in the last forty-eight hours. But now sheer fatigue took control of his weary mind and he dozed into a troubled sleep....

IT must have been the break in the muted purring of the lifeship's motor that brought Manny Carter back to consciousness. There was the sound of excited conversation coming from up forward, and as Manny turned his body this way and that in an effort to squirm to a position of vision, he noticed that the voice of Dan Chambers seemed to be the loudest, the most insistent.

"...the most feasible move," Chambers was saying. "It's more than certain we can't force the motors much further. And the delay won't be much."

"I have more than just that to think of," Alson Dodge said gruffly. "I have a prisoner to deliver, Chambers. It's urgent that I get him to Venus as soon as possible."

"Chambers is right, however," Captain Sommers was talking now. "It's almost positive that our atomic motors won't hold up much longer. If we can land, undoubtedly we'll be able to get assistance from whatever tribe of Fish Men are in that vicinity."

"They're right, Dad," Eileen Dodge broke in. "The delay won't be long, but it is necessary."

There was a murmuring of assent from the other two passengers, the middle-aged man and his wife, then Manny heard Alson Dodge clear his throat. "Good enough, Captain Sommers. If it's necessary, there isn't anything to be done about it. But please don't take any more time than is needed."

Captain Sommers' voice was terse, slightly bitter as he replied. "I don't care to take any more time than you do, Inspector Dodge. Please remember that it is as essential for me to get back to Venus as it is for yourself. Remember, man, I've lost my ship with that explosion. It's not pleasure that's waiting for me, by any means."

"Sorry, old man," Dodge said. "I'm afraid I came near forgetting that."

"How soon will we be ready, Captain?" inquired Chambers.

"We should start our dive in the next half hour," Sommers declared. "Everyone had better get ready."

Carter heard footsteps, then, and Alson Dodge approached him. He was holding a space suit in his arms, and he bent momentarily to deposit it on the floor beside Manny. Then he spoke.

"I'll have to ask you to make me a solemn promise, Carter."

Manny looked at him questioningly. "What?"

"We're going to be on Venus shortly. And since the motors won't last long enough to take us directly to Twenty, we'll have to travel underwater until we find a Venusian village where we can make repairs. It means that I'll have to remove your bonds, Carter. You'll have to put on one of these space suits when we submerge."

Manny merely nodded.

"I'll have to ask your promise not to attempt escape during that time," Dodge concluded.

"You have it," Carter answered briefly.

Wordlessly, Alson Dodge produced the keys to unlock Manny's shackles.

A moment later his young prisoner stood erect, stretching his hard, cable-like muscles gratefully.

"Thanks," Carter said.

Looking around, Carter saw that most of the other passengers, with the exception of Alson Dodge, Chambers, and himself, had already climbed into their space garb and were busy adjusting the oxygen and pressure gadgets. He tried to catch Eileen's eye, but was unsuccessful. Then he sighed and began to dress himself in the spatial equipment. Once, during the dressing process, Manny noticed Chambers looking in his direction and was grateful to see his former superior give him a knowing wink which seemed to say, "Don't worry, fellow, we'll get you out of this."

Fifteen minutes later Captain Sommers cut the motors on the lifeship and turned to the passengers. "We're coming down on the water," he announced.

Eileen, her father, and the middle-aged couple grouped themselves around the thick-plated porthole to get a glimpse of the territory on which the lifeship was descending. Captain Sommers stood quietly at the controls, occasionally checking the descent instruments. Dan Chambers took this opportunity to ease closer to Carter.

"Take it easy, Manny. I still believe in you, kid. The game isn't over by a long shot," he said softly. "I know the territory we're going down into. Once we're there, I'll see to it that you get the chance to make another break for it."

"Thanks, Dan," Carter replied. "I owe a lot to you, even if things did get messed up a bit. When I'm able to clear myself, I'll pay you back somehow."

Carter nodded swiftly, gratefully. Then an uneasy thought occurred to him. Escape? He'd given his word to Alson Dodge that he wouldn't try to escape again. Not, at any rate, until the lifeship was once more on its way to Twenty.

"Nonsense," Carter told himself sharply. "What in the Hell has my word got to do with this? Did they believe me when I protested my innocence? My say so isn't going to result in a trial for a murder I didn't commit!"

Chambers had joined the group at the porthole, and Carter, preferring to stay where he was, sat down on one of the benches lining the wall of the craft, turning his attention to Captain Sommers' skillful handling of the landing.

With the most imperceptible of jars, the tiny lifeship settled on the water. Killing the atomic motors entirely, Captain Sommers turned to the passengers.

"Very well," he said. "We're safely on Venus. We dive below water in five minutes. I'd advise you all to put on your space helmets before we go down."

Silently, the group obeyed Sommers' command. Then, after what seemed to be an eternity of preliminary gauge-testing, the white-haired ex-captain of the Asteroid faced the passengers of the lifeship once again.

"Ready," he said briefly.

The nose of the tiny craft seemed suddenly to go leaden, as if pushed front-end-over by a gigantic hand. There was the faint sound of the pressure gauges whistling, the lights in the small cabin flickered for but an instant, then, except for an imperceptible sloping of the floor, everything seemed to return to normality.

"How long will it be until we find a Venusian village?" Alson Dodge asked the Captain.

"Not long, not long at all," Sommers reassured him. "If the directions Mr. Chambers has given me are correct, we are almost within vibration wave of one of them now."

Carter saw Alson Dodge turn to Chambers. "You know the Venusian territory well, Chambers?" There seemed to be the slightest hint of a challenge in his voice.

Carter cursed himself for not having adjusted the ear-phones inside his helmet to a general auditory vibration for, although he had been able to hear Sommers speaking to Dodge, and Dodge's reply, he failed to pick up Chambers' answer to the old man's question. Quickly, Carter flicked the adjuster button on his suit to a general frequency pick-up. He came in on the tail end of the handsome good-natured Administrator's reply. "...after all, it's my job, y'know," Chambers finished.

DURING the minutes that followed, Manny Carter centered his attention on Eileen Dodge. Wistfully, he forced himself to follow her with his eyes as she moved back and forth in front of the instrument panels at the nose of the lifeship. Once he thought for an instant that she stole a glance in his direction. But if she had, she forced herself to turn coldly away, as if she had permitted herself to look at something quite distasteful very much by accident.

"God," Carter thought to himself, "she looks lovely even in that clumsy, cumbersome space suit."

Through the glass turret-like helmet, the lights seemed to slant sunnily down on her beautifully red hair, giving it an almost halo-like sheen. This last mental comparison was too much for Manny Carter, and for the first time in the last forty-eight hours he choked back a lump that rose swiftly to his throat. During the past hours he had been trying not to think of Eileen Dodge and all the things her loss meant to him. It was more than he could stand. The girl he loved— the girl who had once loved him— certain that he was a murderer!

At that moment Manny Carter was never firmer in the conviction that he couldn't die, couldn't let himself be railroaded into a final punishment for a crime he hadn't committed. His lean, tanned young jaw set firmly and his square, hard fists knotted and unknotted themselves at the thought of the rank injustice of his plight. But Manny Carter wasn't feeling any schoolboyish emotion of self-pity. Instead he felt rage, hot burning rage and determination to right the wrongs he had suffered.

"I'll show them," he muttered half-aloud. "I'll show them all, damn it." Then he flushed, for simultaneously all heads of the other passengers in the cabin turned in his direction. Manny realized that they had all picked up his muttered challenge through their helmet ear-phones.

IT couldn't have been more than several hours later when Captain Sommers turned to the group in the lifeship with the announcement: "There's a village directly ahead of us. Fish Men are already coming toward the lifeship. We'll find a mooring spot in the next five minutes."

Dan Chambers smiled. "I told you that we'd find a village if you followed my directions," he said easily. "This is probably Maeku, a village I've contacted on pearling business on several occasions."

Suddenly Carter became alert. He couldn't remember, from any previous knowledge, of ever having seen any transactions closed in the Administrative offices on Twenty that involved Maeku. As a matter of fact, he seemed to recall that Maeku was charted as one of the Venusian sections that were completely unproductive insofar as pearling was concerned. He felt himself grow tense within. Chambers' plan for his escape was beginning to materialize.

But Carter didn't have time for further surmises. Alson Dodge crossed to where he stood, and placing one hand on his arm the gray-haired interplanetary investigator spoke with an air of firm decision.

"I'll have to ask you to keep constantly in my sight, Carter," Dodge declared quietly. "You understand, of course. You've already made one break for it and I can't risk another." Then he addressed Dan Chambers who stood expectantly in front of the steel air-lock door at the nose of the ship. "I wish you'd take care of my daughter, Chambers. I don't want to take any chances on something going haywire with these Fish Men. After what's happened to their Prince on Twenty, they might be stirred up a bit."

"Be glad to," smiled Chambers, "if Eileen doesn't mind. But I don't think we've much to worry about insofar as the Venusians are concerned. They're a peaceable people. I don't think they mean to harm us."

Then Captain Sommers flooded the tiny cabin with sufficient air pressure to keep out the sea that enveloped the little lifeship. The door was thrown open in the next moment, and the little band of castaways from the liner Asteroid stepped forth into the dimly-lighted streets of the strange Venusian undersea village.

A WELCOMING committee of Fish Men had grouped about the tiny lifeship. As Carter looked swiftly through their ranks he felt a sharp, unexplainable sense of distrust. There was something written in their wide disc-like eyes and flat faces that made him uneasy. Then Dan Chambers took charge of the situation as the others looked on with an air of expectancy.

"Where," he demanded in the Venusian dialect, "is your leader?"

THERE was a commotion in the ranks of the Fish Men, and they parted to permit a huge, malevolent looking Venusian to move to where Chambers was standing. He was the same as the thousands of Fish Men Carter had grown used to in his services as Sub-Administrator on Twenty, and yet he wasn't. There was something different about him, and Manny Carter searched his mind to discover what that something was. Except for his unusual size— most Venusians were of short stature— the leader of this particular village didn't seem different. But still there was something.... Carter gave it up as Dan Chambers addressed the creature.

"We have come from Twenty," Chambers was saying, "our great ship was destroyed. And now we must return to Twenty. We wish to make repairs in your village."[*]

[* It is a well-known fact that sound waves carry much better under water than they do in air. Anyone who has pounded two stones together at the bottom of a swimming pool will readily agree that this is a fact. Sound waves, indeed, carry much further in atmosphere when that atmosphere is saturated with moisture, such as fog, or mist. Thus, when Chambers addressed the Venusian he was certain that the Fish Man would hear him. The sound waves carried through his helmet, into the water, and quite effectively as in atmosphere. —Ed.]

The huge Fish Man spoke in Venusian, gill-like mouth opened and sending tiny air bubbles up through the water with each syllable. "We are glad to offer ourselves to your service. State your wishes and I shall see that they are carried out even as commands."

Captain Sommers had been listening intently to the interchange of conversation, and now he broke in on Chambers and the Fish Man. "It will be necessary for us to have our lifeship raised several yards off the ocean bed. If this can be done by your men, I will appreciate it."

The Fish Man merely nodded. Then, turning to Chambers he spoke. "My name is Atar, I lead the villagers of Maeku. Would the other visitors care to rest inside our shell huts while the repairs are being made on the vessel?"

Chambers turned to Alson Dodge, who had been silently standing beside him. "How about it? I think it might be a good idea."

"Very well," Dodge replied. Then he gestured to Eileen. "Go on ahead with Chambers, dear. I'll follow in a moment."

As Chambers, taking Eileen by the arm, followed the beckoning hand flaps of the huge Fish Man Atar, Carter heard him laugh. "Don't look so frightened. These people are harmless, once you get used to seeing so many of them hanging around."

The middle-aged married passengers— Carter had learned their names to be Mr. and Mrs. Foswin— followed swiftly behind Chambers and Eileen, as if they were frightened by the idea of being left alone in the strange undersea village.

Then Alson Dodge stood in front of his prisoner. "Come on, Carter," he said. "I want you to stay very much in my sight while the repairs are being made."

The shell huts which Atar, the village leader had mentioned, were actually extremely well constructed dwellings. With the exception of the furniture and accessories, meant for undersea life, they rivaled some of the finest earth dwellings Manny Carter had ever seen.

The hut, a huge building of solid shell construction, into which the passengers of the lifeship were led was spacious and comfortable— if any undersea buildings could have been comfortable to land beings.

While Captain Sommers and Alson Dodge talked quietly with Atar the Fish Man, Carter silently pondered over the strange premonitions he felt concerning the village. He looked up, now and then, to see Dan Chambers talking casually, charmingly, to Eileen.

Atar disappeared, finally, with Captain Sommers, evidently to give directions to his villagers in connection with the repair of the ship. The middle-aged Foswins went along with them, undoubtedly curious about their odd surroundings. Minutes lapsed into an hour, then two. Alson Dodge, growing uneasy, began a restless pacing. Dan Chambers, however, appeared unperturbed by the delay of Captain Sommers and the Foswins.

Manny Carter was looking pensively at the bright carboncade bulbs that provided an almost daylight illumination for their underwater surroundings. Then, as if on a swiftly given signal, their glare faded into nothingness, leaving everything in pitchy, inky blackness!

IT was all so sudden, one instant there had been light, and the next moment nothing but impenetrable darkness. Alson Dodge had been the first to cry out. Then Carter heard a startled scream of terror from Eileen. Dan Chambers' voice, speaking swiftly, reassuringly, came to Carter through his headphones.

"It's all right. Everything is all right. Don't get excited. Must have been a voltage transference in repairing the lifeship. Follow the illumination of my torch. I'll lead you out of here."

There was a flickering, then an undersea torch blazed in the corner where Dan Chambers stood last. It wasn't strong enough to provide any more light than was necessary to carry its own radiance. But Chambers was evidently waving it back and forth in a beckoning signal. Then it moved ghostily in the direction of the nearest door.

Carter was starting out after the torch when a hand seized his arm. Startled, he wrenched himself free, stepping back a pace. Then, before he could prevent it, a hand reached forth to spin the communication dial on his chest plate to "short reception." In the next moment he heard Chambers' voice, calm and collected.

"Take it easy, Manny, this is your chance for a break. It's all been staged for your benefit, kid. The torch that Dodge and his daughter are following is held by one of the Fish Men. Sommers and the Foswins are being held. The lifeship's been juiced up to give you a chance for escape. I'll be able to explain it all to them, once you're free."

Something made Manny Carter hesitate for the briefest of seconds. Could it have been his promise to Alson Dodge? Or was it— Then it was past, and Carter remembered the penalty that awaited him if he was taken back to Twenty, remembered the law of self-preservation over all else.

"Let's get going," he said sharply. "Lead the way, Dan."

They had covered several hundred feet through the tangled mass of seaweed that engulfed them knee-deep at the rear exit of the shell hut. Through the murky half-light surrounding them, Carter was now able to make out the outlines of the lifeship, evidently held in readiness for his escape. Suddenly he stopped, turning about to face Chambers.

"What about the girl?" he asked. "Will any harm come to her, or to the rest of the passengers?"

"Lord, no," Chambers answered. "Manny, be quiet and keep going or you'll never make it!"

Then they were pushing swiftly through the tangled undergrowth toward the lifeship once more. Then they were at the door to the craft. Several Fish Men stood in readiness, waiting to help Carter and Chambers slide the lifeship along the ocean floor to a position where it would be free for an immediate take-off.

Carter was at the door, now, and he turned to Chambers, placing his gauntleted hand on the other man's shoulder. "Thanks, Dan." Then he was inside, heard the door slam shut behind him. He took his place at the controls of the craft, and felt it moving out from the tangle of seaweed under the guidance of Chambers and the Fish Men. Carter saw that he was clear, with a straight stretch of ocean floor ahead of him. Through the thick-paned window at his right he could see Chambers' grotesquely space-suited figure moving out of range followed by the naturally weird forms of the Fish Men. He reached for the throttle switch, his hand just a trifle hesitant.

A moment later the atomic motors sparked into crackling vibration and the lifeship was speeding down the open stretch of sea bed to safety.

"To safety," Manny muttered to himself perhaps a half hour later. "And what in the hell is it going to get me?" He had decided to remain undersea for the first part of his flight, pointing the nose of the lifeship in counter-direction to Twenty.

Now, all at once Manny Carter's hard young jaw went slack. A swift, sickening doubt, the culmination of all his previous vague suspicions, crashed in on his mind. The Fish Men at the village of Maeku— too late he realized what he remembered about them!

"No," Carter told himself savagely. "It can't be. I'm acting like a fool. It's just my crazy imagination, my rotten memory. It can't be!" But in spite of his words, in spite of the almost overpowering instinct for self-preservation, Carter threw the controls of the lifeship savagely about, heading back in the direction of Eileen Dodge, Dan Chambers, and the odd Fish Men of Maeku!

THE distance Manny Carter covered in flight seemed doubled, now that he was returning once more to Maeku. Doubled, no doubt, because of the fact that, in flight, Carter had worried only for himself. But now his frown of anxiety was caused by an unpleasant mental picture of Eileen Dodge, her father, Sommers, and the two unsuspecting Foswins. Carter knew what they must be facing.

"I've been a chump," Carter groaned aloud, "pray God I haven't been a chump too long!"

It was simple, so awfully simple that Carter cursed himself for not having suspected it at the start. The Venusian village of Maeku had been the first positive indication. Chambers spoke of having had pearl dealings with the villagers. There were no pearls within a thousand sea miles of Maeku. It was included in the blocked, unproductive squares that Carter had charted on his earth reports from Twenty.

Nor was that the only ominous part. Atar, leader of the Maeku villagers, had aroused Carter's suspicion. And now he knew why, for the huge Fish Man, identical to other Venusians in almost all respects, bore the outcast brand of Venus. On his back, where there should have been the black, sleek fin that was part of the anatomical structure of the ordinary Venusian, there was instead— the jagged, gray, menacing fin of the killer shark!

There was no doubt in Carter's mind whatsoever. Atar and his Maeku Fish Men were the Venusian renegades who had never been seen by Earthmen, but whose existence had often been testified to by brutal undersea pearl pirating. Manny remembered the venerable Prince Bramm speaking of the outcast tribes of Venus, of their desire to drive earth people from the face of the watery planet and seize control of the pearling trades. And Chambers, Dan Chambers, had been dealing with them!

"It was smooth," Manny muttered, smashing his knee sideways against the accelerator bar, "too damned smooth! Chambers had Bramm murdered and convinced me to take flight, so it would look absolutely certain that I was guilty. He didn't want me to give myself up, not until he had had his chance to organize the renegades and gain control of Venus. Then he would have been in a perfect spot. Dictator of Venus. If Earth wanted any more pearls [*], they'd deal with Chambers and his pirates, or not at all!"

[* Although on Earth synthetic pearls of great beauty are easily created, and natural pearls are abundant, Venusian pearls are vastly different. Properly, they are not pearls at all, although they are a formation built up by a small deep-sea fish. Rather than being opaque, as are Earth pearls, whose lustre is a surface quality, which breaks up the light into the delicate colors of mother-of-pearl, they are fully transparent and rather lack-lustre until warmed to body or near-body temperature. Then they burst into vari-colored flame that seems to flow through them like liquid fire, to ebb and flow even outside the surface of the pearl to a distance of as much as half-and-inch, as though the colors were escaping from the pearl itself. They possess a fascinating loveliness that is equalled by no other gem on either Earth or Venus. Even Martian rubies cannot match them for display purposes. —Ed.]

But what of the explosion aboard the Asteroid? Manny's brow wrinkled in perplexity. Was it sheer accident? It was too well done, too expertly timed to have been a thing of chance. The Asteroid was the only space liner traveling between Venus and Earth. Its destruction meant that actual communication— other than radio, that is— between Earth and Venus would have been cut off for at least three weeks. And in three weeks Chambers would have time to sweep the planet clean of anyone standing in the way of his monstrous scheme!

Of course! It could only be Chambers! He was the only man who could have engineered any crooked work on Twenty. He was present when Bramm was killed— at least he was on the island. He was on the ship when the mysterious explosion— not so mysterious now!— had wrecked the liner. He was on the scene to direct the lifeboat to the right spot to be picked up by his own cohorts. And now, he was allowing Carter to escape, so that if anything did go wrong, Carter would be the goat. Clever, that man!

DAN CHAMBERS, pleasant, good-natured, calm Dan Chambers, the one man on Venus Carter thought to be trustworthy, loyal. Why, Chambers would have taken his— Manny Carter's face went deathly white at the last unspoken thought. Why not? Why wouldn't Chambers have figured on that as well? Eileen was attractive. Chambers had expressed his admiration of Carter's fiancée countless times— under the guise of friendly admiration. Suddenly Chambers' actions toward Eileen Dodge became obvious, horribly obvious, to Manny Carter!

Face taut, hands clenching the controls of the lifeship in a vise-like grip of desperation, Manny Carter breathed a silent supplication that he had not been too late in his discovery, that he hadn't played the fool too long and thus thrown away his one chance.

EVERY second seemed several eternities, as the tiny craft split its way through the murky green depths. And Carter, peering with anguished impatience at the indicator gauges on the control board in front of him, tried to move the little lifeship forward and faster, forward and faster, by sheer willpower.

Time became a dull, gray, agonizing blot in Carter's mind. It seemed to him as if he had been sitting there at the controls for endless centuries. The throttles on the motor ranges had been opened wide, and the atomic engines were crackling with a furious, hysterical, hell-driven whine. Tiny beads of sweat formed on Carter's bronzed forehead, trickling down the bridge of his nose, clouding his eyes with their salty sting. He brushed them away when he thought of it, but most of the time he gazed fearfully at the pressure gauges, praying huskily that the motors would not give out, would continue to crackle onward under the driving fear that his throttle hand imparted to them.

So intent was Carter, so agonized, unseeing was his concentration, that at first he didn't notice the blot of light in the distance. But then, when the glowing aura registered itself in his brain, growing larger and larger as the lifeship approached, he reached swiftly to the throttle cut-off, and almost immediately the atomic motors gratefully subsided into a faint humming sputter. Maeku was just ahead!

As he eased the ship slowly forward, Manny Carter's mind went through a series of desperate calculations, seizing schemes and then discarding them, realizing odds and then ignoring them, for until this moment he hadn't given thought to a plan of action.

One thing seemed fairly certain. He couldn't barge right into the village, announcing his presence to everyone and anyone. It was also true that, should he leave the lifeship and proceed to Maeku on foot, he would need some sort of a weapon with which to defend himself. Carter eased the lifeship to a complete stop.

Climbing stiffly from the control seat, he walked to the rear of the tiny craft and began a thorough search for something which would serve as a weapon. "Or," Carter thought bitterly to himself, "a reasonable facsimile."

Moments were wasted as Carter tore through every possible cache for a weapon. Storage lockers revealed nothing, niches beneath the emergency caches were also empty. He was perspiring freely from the frantic search.

"To hell with it," he thought desperately, "there's no more time to waste." He was starting toward the airlock door and was throwing open its release, when the object caught his eye. It had been placed in an unnoticed holder above the door itself— an automatic type atomic arc torch, the kind used to cut through metal in emergencies that might occur aboard the craft. It was capable of working under water, or in any sort of pressure conditioning. Meant for a tool, it was not, however, too clumsy to be used as a weapon. As a matter of fact, the handle of the atomic torch was fashioned in much the same manner as the butt-end of a vibrator-pistol.

"It's something," Carter muttered grimly, "and it's going to have to work." Swiftly he tore the torch from its holder, pressed down on the air-lock door release, and stepped out into the undersea jungle.

He switched off the receptor button on the front of his space suit. There would be no need for communication. Besides, Chambers was probably still garbed in space gear, and Carter didn't want to take the chance of having him— with his receptor adjusted to a general pick-up— hear his heavy breathing as he made his way through the undergrowth that formed a sort of jungle around the village.

IT was slow, treacherous going. And several times Carter was almost caught in the vampire-like grasp of carnivorous undersea plants that reached out toward him as he passed. He knew that, once they seized prey, the flesh-feeding fungi never released their death grasp, so his narrow escape on both occasions made his heart hammer with the excitement of the danger that surrounded him and the greater danger that lay ahead.

It was fully fifteen minutes before Carter emerged from the underwater jungle and onto the edge of the clearing that encircled the Fish Man village of Maeku. For several minutes, he hesitated on the fringe of the clearing, trying to adjust his eyes to the new brilliance of the lamps of Maeku. And those minutes almost cost him his life.

He didn't hear the slithery, silent approach of his adversary, so it must have been sheer instinct that made him wheel about. And just in time— for less than four feet behind him was a shark-finned Fish Man of Maeku. In the evil-looking creature's hand-flap was clutched a two-foot long pearling dagger!

There was a sudden green swirl of bubbles as the Fish Man drove in toward Carter, knife raised high for the plunge. Carter forced himself to wait precious split-seconds, till he was positive the creature was in range of the atomic torch. He had to take the chance, for his weapon was as yet untried.

Then, as the wide, emotionless, disc-like eyes seemed almost against his very own, Manny Carter, breathing a prayer to the Gods of Combat, squeezed hard on the trigger of his atomic torch.

The Fish Man never drove his gleaming blade downward, for with a horrible, half-human gurgle, he dropped the knife, clutching in searing agony at his middle. In the instant before the creature fell, Manny Carter saw screaming anguish written in those wide, watery eyes.

A swift inspection convinced Carter that he would have no more trouble from that particular enemy. Then he rose from where he'd crouched over his fallen foe, and looked quickly about. He feared, for a moment, that the battle might have betrayed his presence to others in the village. But as seconds fled, and there was no sign of that Carter thanked his maker that the Fish Man had uttered no cry save the almost inaudible death gurgle.

As an afterthought, and an additional precaution, Carter stooped once more over the body of the renegade Venusian, picking up the pearling knife from where it had fallen beside the body. Stuffing this in his belt, Carter wet his dry lips with his tongue, and returned his attention to the shell huts of the village. Eagerly, his eyes searched along the strangely deserted street in an effort to locate the shell palace that apparently housed Atar, Fish Man chief of Maeku.

A sickening premonition assailed Manny Carter at that moment. Supposing he were too late? Supposing the apparent emptiness of Maeku meant that Chambers had already started the renegade Fish Men on their terrible mission? Then where would he find Eileen, and Sommers, and the rest of the party? Had they already been killed?

Carter was moving forward when he half-stumbled. Looking swiftly down at his feet, he gasped in numb horror. The objects he had almost tripped over were the utterly lifeless bodies of the two Foswins!

FOR a timeless, breathless period, Manny Carter stood staring horrified at the bodies before him. The middle-aged couple had been brutally, savagely, torn open by knives! Obviously the slaying had been perpetrated with the aid of the gruesome pearling weapons carried on the persons of the Maeku Fish Men.

Carter had to force himself to take his eyes from the pair, had to summon every last atom of willpower to lift his gaze from the Foswins and look elsewhere to see if the rest of the passengers had been similarly treated, murdered in cold blood.

Moving his eyes slowly around the ocean floor, Carter looked for indications of other struggles. There was a sort of relief, although but momentary, in the discovery that there had been no other struggles but the one that resulted in the brutal murder of the unfortunate Foswins.

"So the others must be still alive." Carter felt himself seized by blind ungovernable rage; rage at Chambers, futile maddening rage at what his own stupidity and trust had cost. Gone was his sense of caution, his wariness of danger. There was only one thought in Manny Carter's brain as he stepped out into the strangely silent streets of Maeku. He was going to find Eileen, and he was going to take primitive forceful vengeance on the deceptively good-natured Chambers.

Manny Carter had already killed, and he was ready, eager, to kill once more.

From shell hut to shell hut, Carter made his way along the street, opening doors, barging into empty, deserted dwelling places and rushing out again. At the end of the street stood the palace of Atar, leader of the renegade Fish Men.

In an instant, Carter was at the door.

Then he was inside the lofty building, heading for the place where Atar had left them just before Chambers enabled him to escape in the lifeship.

The carboncade lights burned brightly in every room of the building. Then Carter heard voices, and he stopped, breathlessly, to listen. The voices came from a door to his right, and one of them, he recognized with a heady flush of red rage, was Dan Chambers!

Swiftly, Manny Carter crossed the narrow hall, had his hand on the door. In the next moment he stepped into a small, brightly lighted room. Turning, astounded at his entrance, were Chambers, Alson Dodge, and Eileen!

Time hung motionless as Carter had the split-second panorama stamped into his mind. Dan Chambers seemed slightly dazed, and there was a jagged gash along the arm of his space suit. On the floor beside Eileen and her father were thick hemp coils, evidently used as bonds for the pair. Eileen's face was white, terrified, making the tumbled maze of her magnificent red locks seem even more brilliant beneath her space helmet.

Alson Dodge was looking at Carter with a bewilderment that was rapidly turning to rage.

Carter switched his receptor mechanism open with a quick automatic gesture. "Carter," he heard Alson Dodge grate. "By God, you have your unholy nerve!"

Then Chambers' voice broke in: "You renegade swine, Carter. Have you come back to finish your rotten work?"

Eileen merely stared at him with an unspoken look of mingled revulsion and bewilderment. Then Carter spoke his first words. "Damn you, Chambers! I don't know what in the hell this is all about. But I finally figured out your little scheme. And you're through, Chambers. Do you understand me? I'm going to kill you. Burn the guts out of your rotten body." His atomic torch pointed at Chambers, Carter advanced slowly across the room.

"Stop," the sudden almost hysterical command came from the lips of Eileen Dodge, and it was enough to make Carter halt momentarily. "Haven't you done enough?" the girl was saying. "Murder, revolution, greed, isn't there anything you'll stop at? Do you have to kill again? Have you gone stark, raving mad, Manny Carter?"

AT that instant it became terribly clear to Manny Carter that Chambers had once more played a trump hand. Chambers was making Eileen and her father think that he, too, was an innocent victim of Carter's ruthlessness.

That he, himself, had escaped the clutches of the Maeku Fish Men and was trying to save them.

He had undoubtedly told them that Carter's escape in the lifeship was the signal for a revolt which had been planned ever since the murder of Prince Bramm. That explained the deserted streets. The renegade Venusians were probably already on their way to surprise the peaceful Fish Men and unsuspecting earth colonists on Twenty. And Chambers, who had cleverly stayed behind, was playing his just-in-case hand. He was pinning it all on Manny Carter, and if it didn't succeed, Chambers would still emerge a hero— even in the eyes of Eileen!

Manny Carter realized, as the sweat beaded itself on his brow and trickled tauntingly down his face, that Chambers had him stopped cold. It would do no good to kill Chambers, for in the cunning brain behind that handsome face there was the only knowledge that would ever clear him. If he blasted Chambers into eternity he would have slight satisfaction, for into eternity would go, also, the evidence that could save Manny Carter and redeem him in the eyes of the world and Eileen Dodge. And Chambers, smirking sardonically in Manny's direction, was evidently quite aware of that.

"What do you intend to do with us, Carter?" Chambers was saying, and doing a beautiful bit of acting as he spoke.

The smirk on his face became slightly more evident, agonizingly irking to Carter.

"I should," said Carter levelly, "blow you to hell anyway. Just to see you die!"

Fear slid quickly across Dan Chambers' face, then vanished with Carter's next words. "But I won't. I'm going to make you talk. Somehow you're going to spit out the truth, whether you like it or not."

"You're raving, Carter. I'm more than positive that you've gone mad. Drop that atomic torch, man. Things are bad enough for you as it is, without making them any worse." Chambers was playing to a full house now, and taking devilish relish in it. He could be the heroic figure, arguing a murder-bent, raving killer out of his wildness. Oh, yes, very, very heroic. A performance that wouldn't hurt Eileen's opinion of him in the slightest. He was playing it to the hilt, even to moving over to where Carter was standing. But Carter, seeing his intention, raised the atomic torch immediately.

"Get back, Chambers. Get back, or I'll forget myself. Your plans wouldn't be worth a spark on Mars if I killed you!"

"Don't try it, Dan. He's gone mad, I tell you." The voice was Eileen's, and of all the sentences that had been spoken since Carter entered that room, hers was the one that hurt the most.

Suddenly Manny Carter knew where his only chance lay. It was a wild, almost impossible scheme. It would be the end of things if there were any remaining Fish Men of Maeku still in the village. But it was a chance that had to be taken. And the way Manny Carter felt, he'd gamble on a Fish Man surviving an air tank at that moment.

Manny gestured with his atomic torch. "Come on," he told the trio. "The lifeship is outside where I left it. We're going out there, all of us." Wordlessly, Eileen, her father, and Chambers moved as Carter directed them. They were in the hall when Chambers turned insolently to Carter. "You're just piling it up worse for yourself, Carter. I'll give you this last chance to hand over that torch."

"Shut up," Carter snapped in reply. "Shut up and keep moving."

THEN they were once more in the streets of Maeku. And Carter held his breath as he looked up and down the carboncade lighted avenues. There was still no sign of villagers. Undoubtedly they were on their way toward Twenty. The shark-finned creature Carter had slain on entering the village must have been a lone sentry left there by Chambers. Probably at this very moment Chambers was wondering what had happened to the Fish Man.

Silently, the odd-appearing group moved through the deserted streets of the undersea village. Carter noticed the quick glance that Chambers shot to either side as they drew closer to the fringe of the undergrowth surrounding Maeku. Undoubtedly he was trying to figure out what had happened to his Fish Man sentry.

"Looking for someone, Chambers?" Carter said softly. And from the sudden, involuntary jerk in the man's back, Carter knew he'd struck home with his question. Deliberately, he herded his captives forward in the same direction that he had taken to arrive at the shell palace. They were retracing his steps, foot by foot.

Then Eileen screamed, and Carter cursed himself for not having concealed the bodies of the Foswin couple. Her father quickly stepped in front of the gruesome sight, shielding her from further view of the brutal scene, but it was too late, and Eileen fainted in Alson Dodge's arms.

"You swine," Carter heard Alson Dodge mutter, "you bloodthirsty swine, Carter!" Sickly, Carter realized that another atrocity had been attributed to his hand. But he clenched his jaws and forced himself to grate:

"Move on, even if you have to carry the girl!"

Carter was deliberately moving closer to his captives, until he was walking a scant three feet behind them. Alson Dodge was slowing up because of his added burden in Eileen. When they passed the queerly spread, pain contorted body of the Fish Man, Carter, listening sharply, heard Chambers' involuntary swift intake of breath. But that was the only sign that his enemy gave.

Then the underbrush grew deeper, until a few moments later they were in the jungle, heading for the lifeship. Manny Carter tensed his muscles in anticipation of the plan he waited for, moving even a few more inches closer on the group in front of him.

Then his chance presented itself, and moving silently, as swiftly as his muscles allowed him, directly behind Dan Chambers, Carter shoved with all his strength, bowling the unsuspecting captive off the tiny trail on which they had been traveling.

CHAMBERS' first reaction was a grunt of amazement as he tried to regain his balance, then an oath as he realized he couldn't. His hoarse scream of utter terror came immediately with the knowledge that he was sprawling helplessly into the arms of a gigantic, flesh-feeding undersea pitcher plant of Venus!

Alson Dodge wheeled around as the cry from Chambers almost split his eardrums. He cried out in terror as he perceived what had happened. Then, dropping Eileen to the safety of the path, he started toward Chambers. But Manny Carter had anticipated as much, and his atomic torch was leveled directly at Dodge's head before the man realized it.

"Stand back," commanded Carter. "Dammit, stand back, or you'll get caught too."

"You pushed him," cried the horrified little man. "You, you pushed him!"

The agonized cries of Chambers had subsided to a low moaning whimper of babbling terror, and Carter spoke again. "Right. I pushed him. And no one's going to aid him until he comes out with the truth."

He faced Chambers, now. "Do you hear that, Chambers? I have a knife. It's your only chance to free yourself from that plant. You'll either tell the truth, or be eaten alive. Take your choice!"

There was a sickening, plucking sound, as the tentacles of the flesh-eating plant started their ripping pawing of Chambers' space suit. But Chambers was still whimpering incoherently, and sweat broke out anew on Carter's forehead as he realized that he wouldn't have the guts to let anyone— even Chambers— die under such horrible circumstances. He prayed silently to his creator for the strength to hold out longer than Chambers. Carter forced his voice to the hardness of steel.

"Chambers," he spat. "It's now or never. Are you going to spill the truth?" Carter reached into his belt and drew forth the pearling knife he'd taken from the Fish Man. He forced himself to hold it tantalizingly near the flailing arms of the enmeshed Chambers.

"This knife can cut you free. But it won't, until you clear me."

But Carter had only to fight inherent decency. Chambers faced the madness of terror. And Chambers broke. "All right, for God's sake, I'll tell. I'll come clean, I tell you. Cut me free! For God's sake cut me free! I killed Prince Bramm. I framed you, started the revolt. I admit it, do you hear? I admit it. I admit it! Ohhhhh, God, cut me free!"

Carter turned to Alson Dodge for but an instant. "Enough?" he snapped. "Are you convinced?"

Alson Dodge, his face the color of death, could only nod and reply weakly. "Yes, that's enough. Now, free him. For the love of heaven, even he doesn't deserve to die like that!"

"CHIEF-ADMINISTRATOR of Venus," breathed a pretty redheaded girl on the balcony of the earth embassy of Twenty. "That's some promotion, even for a hero who staves off renegade revolts like people in stories."

"Yes," murmured Chief-Administrator Carter, taking a cue from the long forgotten balcony legend of Romeo and Juliet, "like a story, even to marrying the beautiful heroine and living happily ever after!"

___________________

15: The Case of Beauvais

James Oliver Curwood

1878-1927

McClure’s Magazine December 1916

MADNESS? Perhaps. And yet if it was madness....

But strange things happen up there, gentlemen. I have found it sometimes hard to define that word. There are so many kinds of madness, so many ways in which the human brain may go wrong; and so often it happens that what we call madness is both reasonable and just. It is so. Yes. A little reason is good for us, a little more makes wise men of some of us— but when our reason over-grows us and we reach too far, something breaks and we go insane.

But I will tell you the story. That is what you want to hear, and you expect that it will be prejudiced— that I will either deliberately attempt to protect and prolong a human life, or shorten and destroy it. I shall do neither, gentlemen of the Royal Mounted Police. I have a faith in you that is in its way an unbounded as my faith in God. I have looked up to you in all my life in the wilderness as the heart of chivalry and the soul of honor and fairness to all men. Pathfinders, men of iron, guardians of people and spaces of which civilization knows but little, I have taught my children of the forests to honor, obey and to trust you. And so I shall tell you the story without prejudice, with the gratitude of a missioner who has lived his life for forty years in the wilderness, gentlemen.

I am a Catholic. It is four hundred miles straight north by dog-sledge or snowshoe to my cabin, and this is the first time in nineteen years that I have been down to the edge of the big world which I remember now as little more than a dream. But up there I knew that my duty lay, just at the edge of the Big Barren. See! My hands are knotted like the snarl of a tree. The glare of your lights hurts my eyes. I traveled to-day in the middle of your street because my moccasined feet stumbled on the smoothness of your walks. People stared, and some of them laughed.

Forty years I have lived in another world. You— and especially you gentlemen who have trailed in the Patrols of the north— know what that world is. As it shapes different hands, as it trains different feet, as it gives to us different eyes, so also it has bred into my forest children hearts and souls that may be a little different, and a code of right and wrong that too frequently has had no court of law to guide it. So judge fairly, gentlemen of the Royal Mounted Police! Understand, if you can.

It was a terrible winter— that winter of Le Mort Rouge. So far down as men and children now living will remember, it will be called by my people the winter of Famine and Red Death. Starvation, gentlemen— and the smallpox. People died like— what shall I say? It is not easy to describe a thing like that. They died in tepees. They died in shacks. They died on the trail. From late December until March I said my prayers over the dead. You are wondering what all this has to do with my story; why it matters that the caribou had migrated in vast herds to the westward, and there was no food; why it matters that there were famine and plague in the great unknown land, and that people were dying and our world going through a cataclysm. My backwoods eyes can see your thought. What has all this to do with Joseph Brecht? What has it to do with Andre Beauvais? Why does this little forest priest take up so much time in telling so little? you ask. And because it has its place— because it has its meaning— I ask you for permission to tell my story in my own way. For these sufferings, this hunger and pestilence and death, had a strange and terrible effect on many human creatures that were left alive when spring came. It was like a great storm that had swept through a forest of tall trees. A storm of suffering that left heads bowed, shoulders bent, and minds gone. Yes, gone!

Since that winter of Le Mort Rouge I know of eyes into which the life of laughter will never come again; I know of strong men who became as little children; I have seen faces that were fair with youth shrivel into age— and my people call it noot' akutawin keskwawin— the cold and hungry madness. May God help Andre Beauvais!

I will tell the story now.

IT WAS in June. The last of the mush-snows had gone early, nearly a fortnight before, and the waters were free from ice, when word was brought to me that Father Boget was dying at Old Fort Reliance. Father Boget was twenty years older than I, and I called him mon pere. He was a father to me in our earlier years. I made haste to reach him that I might hold his hand before he died, if that was possible. And you, Sergeant McVeigh, who have spent years in that country of the Great Slave, know what a race with death from Christie Bay to Old Fort Reliance would be. To follow the broken and twisted waters of the Great Slave would mean two hundred miles, while to cut straight across the land by smaller streams and lakelets meant less than seventy. But on your maps that space of seventy miles is a blank. You have in it no streams and no larger waters. You know little of it. But I can tell you, for I have been though it. It is a Lost Hell. It is a vast country in which berry bushes grow abundantly, but on which there are no berries, where there are forests and swamps, but not a living creature to inhabit them; a country of water in which there are no fish, of air in which there are no birds, of plants without flowers— a reeking, stinking country of brimstone, a hell. In your Blue Books you have called it the Sulphur Country. And this country, as you draw a line from Christie Bay to Old Fort Reliance, is straight between.

Mon pere was dying, and my time was short. I decided to venture it— cut across that Sulphur Country, and I sought for a man to accompany me. I could find none. To the Indian it was the land of Wetikoo— the Devil Country; to the Breeds it was filled with horror. Forty miles distant there was a man I knew would go, a white man. But to reach him would lose me three days, and I was about to set out alone when the stranger came. He was, indeed, a strange man. When he came to what I called my chateau, from nowhere, going nowhere, I hardly knew whether to call him young or old. But I made my guess. That terrible winter had branded him. When I asked him his name, he said:

"I am a wanderer, and in wandering I have lost my name. Call me M'sieu."

I found this was a long speech for him, that his tongue was tied by a horrible silence. When I told him where I was going, and described the country I was going through, and that I wanted a man, he merely nodded that he would accompany me.

We started in a canoe, and I placed him ahead of me so that I could make out, if I could, something of what he was. His hair was dark. His beard was dark. His eyes were sunken but strangely clear. They puzzled me. They were always questing. Always seeking. And always expecting, it seemed to me. A man of unfathomable mystery, of unutterable tragedy, of a silence that was almost inhuman. Was he mad? I ask you, gentlemen— was he mad? And I leave the answer to you. To me he was good. When I told him what mon pere had been to me, and that I wanted to reach him before he died, he spoke no word of hope or sympathy— but worked until his muscles cracked. We ate together, we drank together, we slept side by side— and it was like eating and drinking and sleeping with a sphinx which some strange miracle had endowed with life.

The second day we entered the Sulphur Country. The stink of it was in our nostrils that second night we camped. The moon rose, and we saw it as if through the fumes of a yellow smoke. Far behind us we heard a wolf howl, and it was the last sound of life. With the dawn we went on. We passed through broad, low morasses out of which rose the sulphurous fogs. In many places the water we touched with our hands was hot; in other places the forests we paddled through were so dense they were almost tropical. And lifeless. Still, with the stillness of death for thousands and perhaps tens of thousands of years. The food we ate seemed saturated with the vileness of sulphur; it seeped into our water-bags; it turned us to the color of saffron; it was terrible, frightening, inconceivable. And still we went on by compass, and M'sieu showed no fear— even less, gentlemen, than did I.

And then, on the third day— in the heart of this diseased and horrible region— we made a discovery that drew a strange cry even from those mysteriously silent lips of M'sieu.

It was the print of a naked human foot in a bar of mud.

How it came there, why it was there, and why if was a naked foot I suppose were the first thoughts that leaped into our startled minds. What man could live in these infernal regions? Was it a man, or was it the footprint of some primeval ape, a monstrous survival of the centuries?

The trail led through a steaming slough in which the mud and water were tepid and which grew rank with yellow reeds and thick grasses— grasses that were almost flesh-like, it seemed to me, as if swollen and about to burst from some dreadful disease, Perhaps your scientists can tell why sulphur has this effect on vegetation. It is so; there was sulphur in the very wood we burned. Through those reeds and grasses we soon found where a narrow trail was beaten, and then we came to a rise of land sheltered in timber, a sort of hill in that flat world, and on the crest of this hill we found a cabin.

Yes, a cabin; a cabin built roughly of logs, and it was yellow with sulphur, as if painted. We went inside and we found there the man whom you know as Joseph Brecht. I did not look at M'sieu when he first rose before us, but I heard a great gasp from his throat behind me. And I think I stood as if life had suddenly gone out of me. Joseph Brecht was half naked. His feet were bare. He looked like a wild man, with his uncut hair— a wild man except that his face was smooth. Curious that a man would shave there! And not so odd, perhaps, when one knows how a beard gathers sulphur. He had risen from a cot on which there was a bed of boughs, and in the light that came in through the open door he looked terribly emaciated, with the skin drawn tightly over his cheek bones. It was he who spoke first.

"I am glad you have come," he said, his eyes staring wildly. "I guess I am dying. Some water, please. There is a spring back of the cabin."

Quite sanely he spoke, and yet the words were scarcely out of his mouth when he fell back upon the cot, his eyes rolling in the top of his head, his mouth agape, his breath coming in great panting gasps. It was a strange sickness. I will not trouble you with all the details. You are anxious for the story— the tragedy— which alone will count with you gentlemen of the law. It came out in his fever, and in the fits of sanity into which he at times succeeded in rousing himself. His name, he said, was Joseph Brecht. For two years he had lived in that sulphur hell. He had, by accident, found the spring of fresh, sweet water trickling out of the hill— another miracle for which I have not tried to account; he built his cabin; for two years he had gone with his canoe to the shore of the great Slave, forty miles distant, for the food he ate. But why was he here? That was the story that came bit by bit, half in his fever, half in his sanity. I will tell it in my own words. He was a Government man, mapping out the last timber lines along the edge of the Great Barren, when he first met Andre Beauvais and his wife, Marie. An accident took him to their cabin, a sprained leg. Andre was a fox-hunter, and it was when he was coming home from one of his trips that he found Joseph Brecht helpless in the deep snow, and carried him on his shoulders to his cabin.

Ah, gentlemen, it was the old story— the story old as time. In his sanity he told us about Marie, I hovering over him closely, M'sieu sitting back in the shadows. She was like some wonderful wildflower, French, a little Indian. He told us how her long black hair would stream in a shining cascade, soft as the breast of a swan, to her knees and below; how it would hang again in two great, lustrous braids, and how her eyes were limpid pools that set his soul afire, and how her slim, beautiful body filled him with a monstrous desire. She must have been beautiful. And her husband, Andre Beauvais, worshipped her, and the ground she trod on. And he had the faith in her that a mother has in her child. It was a sublime love, and Joseph Brecht told us about it as he lay there, dying, as he supposed. In that faith of his Andre went unsuspectingly to his trap-lines and his poison-trails, and Marie and Joseph were for many hours at a time alone, sometimes for a day, sometimes for two days, and occasionally for three, for even after his limb had regained its strength Joseph feigned that it was bad. It was a hard fight, he said— a hard fight for him to win her; but win her he did, utterly, absolutely, heart, body and soul. Remember, he was from the South, with all its power of language, all its tricks of love, all its furtiveness of argument, a strong man with a strong mind— and she had lived all her life in the wilderness. She was no match for him. She surrendered. He told us how, after that, he would unbind her wonderful hair and pillow his face in it; how he lived in a heaven of transport, how utterly she gave herself to him in those times when Andre, was away.

Did he love her?

Yes, in that mad passion of the brute. But not as you and I might love a woman, gentlemen. Not as Andre loved her. Whether she had a heart or a soul it did not matter. His eyes were blind with an insensate joy when he shrouded himself in her wonderful hair. To see the wild color painting her face like a flower filled his veins with fire. The beauty of her, the touch of her, the mad beat of her heart against him made him like a drunken man in his triumph. Love? Yes, the love of the brute! He prolonged his stay. He had no idea of taking her with him. When the time came, he would go. Day after day, week after week he put it off, feigning that the bone of his leg was affected, and Andre Beauvais treated him like a brother. He told us all this as he lay there in his cabin in that sulphur hell. I am a man of God, and I do not lie.

Is there need to tell you that Andre discovered them? Yes, he found them— and with that wonderful hair of hers so closely about them that he was still bound in the tresses when the discovery came.

Andre had come in exhausted, and unexpectedly. There was a terrible fight, and in spite of his exhaustion he would have killed Joseph Brecht if at the last moment the latter had not drawn his revolver. After all is said and done, gentlemen, can a woman love but once? Joseph Brecht fired. In that infinitesimal moment between the leveling of the gun and the firing of the shot Marie Beauvais found answer to that question. Who was it she loved? She sprang to her husband's breast, sheltering him with the body that had been disloyal to its soul, and she died there— with a bullet through her heart.

Joseph Brecht told us how, in the horror of his work— and possessed now by a terrible fear— he ran from the cabin and fled for his life. And Andre Beauvais must have remained with his dead. For it was many hours later before he took up the trail of the man whom he made solemn oath to his God to kill. Like a hunted hare, Joseph Brecht eluded him, and it was weeks before the fox-trapper came upon him. Andre Beauvais scorned to kill him from ambush. He wanted to choke his life out slowly, with his two hands, and he attacked him openly and fairly.

And in that cabin— gasping for breath, dying as he thought, Joseph Brecht said to us: "It was one or the other. He had the best of me. I drew my revolver again— and killed him, killed Andre Beauvais, as I had killed his wife, Marie!"

Here in the South Joseph Brecht might not have been a bad man, gentlemen. In every man's heart there is a devil, but we do not know the man as bad until the devil is roused. And passion, the mad passion for a woman, had roused him. Now that it had made twice a murderer of him the devil slunk back into his hiding, and the man who had once been the clean-living, red-blooded Joseph Brecht was only a husk without a heart, slinking from place to place in the evasion of justice. For you men of the Royal Mounted Police were on his trail. You would have caught him, but you did not think of seeking for him in the Sulphur Hell. For two years he had lived there, and when he finished his story he was sitting on the edge of the cot, quite sane, gentlemen.

And for the first time M'sieu, my comrade, spoke.

"Let us bring up the dunnage from the canoe, mon pere."

He led the way out of the cabin, and I followed. We were fifty steps away when he stopped suddenly.

"Ah," he said, "I have forgotten something. I will overtake you."

He turned back to the cabin, and I went on to the canoe.

He did not join me. When I returned with my burden, M'sieu appeared at the door. He amazed me, startled me, I will say, gentlemen. I could not imagine such a change as I saw in him— that man of horrible silence, of grim, dark mystery. He was smiling; his white teeth shone; his voice was the voice of another man. He seemed to me ten years younger as he stood there, and as I dropped my load and went in he was laughing, and his hand was laid pleasantly on my shoulder.

Across the cot, with his head stretched down to the floor, his eyes bulging and his jaws agape, lay Joseph Brecht. I sprang to him. He was dead. And then I saw Gentlemen, he had been choked to death!

"He made one leetle meestake, mon pere. Andre Beauvais did not die. I am Andre Beauvais."

That is all, gentlemen of the Royal Mounted. May the Law have mercy!

_______________________

16: On a Charge of Forgery

L. T. Meade and Dr Clifford Halifax, M.D

L T Meade 1844-1914; Edgar Beaumont 1860-1921

The Strand Magazine No 56, Aug 1895

THE study of the human character in its many complex forms has always been of deep interest to the doctor. From long practice, he becomes to a great extent able to read his many patients, and some characters appear to him as if they were the pages of an open book. The hopes, fears, aims, and motives which influence the human soul are laid bare before him, even in the moment when the patient imagines that he is only giving him a dry statement of some bodily ailment. The physician believes fully in the action of mind on body, and can do little good for any patient until he becomes acquainted with his dominant thought, and the real motive which influences his life.

For the purpose of carrying on what has become such an absorbing study of my own life, I have often visited places not at all connected with my profession in the hope of getting fresh insight into the complex workings of the human mind. Not long ago, having a day off duty, I visited the Old Bailey while a celebrated trial was going on. The special case which was engaging the attention of judge, learned counsel, and twelve intelligent members of the British jury was one which aroused my professional acumen from the first.

The man who stood in the prisoner's dock was a gentleman by birth and appearance. He was young and good-looking— his face was of the keenly intelligent order— his eyes were frank in their expression— his mouth firm, and his jaw of the bulldog order as regards obstinacy and tenacity of purpose. I judged him to be about twenty-eight years of age, although the anxiety incident to his cruel position had already slightly sprinkled the hair which grew round his temples with grey. His name was Edward Bayard— the crime he was being tried for was forgery— he was accused of having forged a cheque for £5,000, and I saw from the first that the circumstantial evidence against him was of the strongest. I listened to his able counsel's view of the case, watching the demeanour of the prisoner as I did so.

He leant the whole time with his arms over the rail of the dock, looking straight before him without a vestige of either shame or confusion on his fine face. I observed that his intellect was keenly at work; that he was following the arguments of his counsel with intense interest. I also noticed that once or twice his lips moved, and on one occasion, when a very difficult point was carried, there came the glimmer of a smile of satisfaction round his firmly-set lips. The counsel for the prosecution then stood up and pulled the counsel's argument for the defendant to pieces. The case seemed black against the prisoner— still he never moved from his one position, and stood perfectly calm and self-possessed. The case was not finished that day. I went away so deeply interested, that I resolved at all hazards to return to the Old Bailey on the following afternoon. I did so— the case of Edward Bayard occupied another couple of hours— in the end, the jury brought in a verdict of "Guilty," and the prisoner was sentenced to five years' penal servitude. I watched him when the sentence was pronounced, and noticed a certain droop of his shoulders as he followed his gaoler out of the dock. My own firm conviction was that the man was innocent. There was nothing for me to do, however, in the matter. A jury of his countrymen had pronounced Edward Bayard guilty. He had been employed in the diplomatic service, and hitherto his career had been irreproachable; it was now cut short. He had metaphorically stepped down, gone out, vanished. His old place in the world would know him no more. He might survive his sentence, and even live to be an old man, but practically, for all intents and purposes, his life was over.

I am not given to sentimentalize, but I felt a strange sensation of discontent during the remainder of that day; in short, I almost wished that I had taken up the law instead of medicine, in order that the chance might be mine to clear Bayard.

That evening at my club a man I knew well began to talk over the case.

"It is a queer story altogether," he said; "it is well known that Levesen, the man who prosecuted, is in love with the girl to whom Bayard was engaged."

"Indeed!" I answered. " I know nothing whatever of Bayard's private history."

"Until this occurred," continued Teesdel, "I would have trusted Bayard, whom I have known for years, with untold gold— the evidence against him, however, has been so overwhelming that, of course, he had not the ghost of a chance of acquittal; still, I must repeat, he is the last man I should ever have expected to do that sort of thing."

"I was present at the trial," I answered, "and followed the story to a certain extent, but I should like to hear it now in brief, if I may."

"I will present it in a nutshell," said Teesdel, in his brisk way. " Levesen, the prosecutor, is a tolerably rich man— he has a house in Piccadilly, where he lives with his sister. Levesen is guardian to a very beautiful girl, a ward in Chancery— her name is Lady Kathleen Church. She has lived with Levesen and his sister for the last couple of years. Lady Kathleen is only nineteen, and it was whispered a short time ago in Levesen's circle of friends that he intended to make the fair heiress his wife. She is a very lovely girl, and, as she will inherit a large fortune when she attains her majority, is of course attractive in every way. Lady Kathleen met Bayard at a friend's house — the young people fell in love with each other, and became engaged.

Bayard was rising in his profession— he was far from rich, but was likely to do well eventually. There was no reasonable objection to the engagement, and Francis Levesen did not attempt to make any. Levesen took Bayard up— the two men were constantly seen together— the engagement was formally announced, although the wedding was not to take place until Lady Kathleen's majority. One fine morning it was discovered that Bayard's banking account was augmented to the tune of £5,000, that Levesen's account was short of precisely that sum, that a cheque had been presented by Bayard at Levesen's bank, with Levesen's signature, for exactly that sum of money. The cheque was, of course, a forgery. Bayard was arrested, prosecuted, and found guilty. His version of the story you have, doubtless, followed in court. Levesen is in Parliament, and has a secretary; Bayard was in money difficulties. He asked Levesen to help him, and declares that the cheque was handed to him by Mr. Franks, Levesen's secretary. There is no evidence whatever to support this story, and Bayard has, as you know, now to expiate his crime in penal servitude. Well, I can only repeat that he is the last man in existence I should ever have expected to do that sort of thing."

"We none of us know what we may do until we are tried," said a man who stood near.

"The story is undoubtedly a strange one," I answered. " I have listened carefully to the evidence on both sides, and although the verdict is evidently the only one which could be expected under the circumstances, my strong feeling is that Bayard did not commit that forgery."

"Then how do you account for the thing?"

"I wish I could account for it— there is something hidden which we know nothing about. I am convinced of Bayard's innocence, but my reason for this conviction is nothing more than a certain knowledge of character which from long experience I possess. Bayard is not the sort of man who, under any circumstances, would debase himself to the extent of committing a crime. The whole thing is repugnant to his character— in short, I believe him to be innocent."

My words evidently startled Teesdel; he gazed at me attentively.

"It is queer that you, of all men, should make such a remark, Halifax," he said. "You must know that character goes for nothing in moments of strong temptation. It was clearly proved that Bayard wanted the money. Franks, the secretary, could not have had any possible motive for swearing to a lie. In short, I can't agree with you. I am sorry for the poor fellow, but I am afraid my verdict is on the side of the jury."

"What about Lady Kathleen?" I asked, after a pause.

"Of course the engagement is broken off— people say the girl is broken-hearted— she was devoted to Bayard; I believe Miss Levesen has taken her out of town."

I said nothing further. It was more than a year before I heard Bayard's name mentioned again. Walking down Piccadilly one day I ran up against Teesdel; he stopped to speak to me for a minute, and as we were parting turned back to say:—

"By the way, your face reminds me of something— yes, now I know. The last time I saw you, you had just come from poor Bayard's trial— well, the latest news is, that Lady Kathleen Church is engaged to Francis Levesen— the engagement is formally announced— they are to be married within a month— the wedding is to be one of the big affairs of the season."

"Poor Bayard!" was my sole exclamation. I parted with Teesdel after another word or two, and hurried off to attend to my duties.

A week later two ladies were ushered into my consulting- room. One was elderly, with a thin, somewhat masculine, type of face, shrewd, closely set dark eyes, and a compressed mouth. She was dressed in the height of the reigning fashion, and wore a spotted veil drawn down over her face. Her manner was stiff and conventional. She bowed and took the chair I offered without speaking.

I turned from her to glance at her companion— my other visitor was a girl— a girl who would have been beautiful had she been in health. Her figure was very slight and willowy— she had well-open brown eyes, and one of those high-bred faces which one associates with the best order of English girl. In health, she probably had a bright complexion, but she was now ghastly pale— her face was much emaciated, and there were large black shadows under her eyes. Looking at her more closely, I came to the quick conclusion that the state of her bodily health was caused by some mental worry. The melancholy in her beautiful eyes was almost overpowering. I drew a chair forward for her, and she dropped into it without a word.

"My name is Levesen," said the elder lady. "I have brought my ward, Lady Kathleen Church, to consult you, Dr. Halifax."

I repeated the name under my breath— in a moment I knew who this girl was. She had been engaged to Bayard, and was now going to marry Francis Levesen. Was this the explanation of the highly nervous condition from which she was evidently suffering?

"What are Lady Kathleen's symptoms?" I asked, after a pause.

"She neither eats nor sleeps— she spends her time irrationally— she does everything that girl can do to undermine her health," said the elder lady, in an abrupt tone— "in short, she is childish to the last degree, and so silly and nervous that the sooner a doctor takes her in hand, the better."

"What do you complain of yourself?" I said, turning to the patient.

" I am sick of life," said the girl. "I am glad that I am ill— I don't wish to be made well."

"It is all a case of nerves," said Miss Levesen. "Until a year ago there could not have been a healthier girl than Lady Kathleen— she enjoyed splendid health— her spirits were excellent— from that date she began to droop. She had, I know, a slight disappointment, but one from which any sensible girl would quickly have recovered. I took her into the country and did what I could for her; she became better, and is now engaged to my brother, who is deeply attached to her. They are to be married in a month. If ever a girl ought to enjoy life, and the prospect before her, she ought."

"Ill-health prevents one enjoying anything," I answered, in an enigmatical voice. " Will you tell me something more about your symptoms?" I said, turning again to my patient.

"I can't sleep," she replied. "I do not care to eat— I am very unhappy— I take no interest in anything— in short, I wish to die."

"Your manner of speaking is most reckless and wrong, Kathleen," said the elder lady, in a tone of marked disapproval.

"Forgive me, but I should like to question Lady Kathleen without interruption," I said, turning to Miss Levesen.

Her face flushed.

"Oh, certainly," she answered. " I know that I ought not to speak— I sincerely hope that you will get to the bottom of this extraordinary state of things, Dr. Halifax, and induce my ward to return to common-sense."

"May I speak to you alone?" suddenly asked the young lady, raising her eyes, and fixing them on my face.

"If you wish it," I replied. "It may be best, Miss Levesen, to allow me to see Lady Kathleen for a few moments by herself," I continued, in a low voice. "In a case like the present, the patient is always much more confidential when quite alone with the doctor."

"As you please," she replied; "only, for Heaven's sake, don't humour her in her fads."

I rang the bell, and desired Harris to take Miss Levesen to the waiting-room. The moment we were alone, Lady Kathleen's manner completely changed; her listlessness left her— she became animated, and even excited.

"I am glad she has gone," she said; " I did not think she would. Now I will confess the truth to you, Dr. Halifax. I asked Miss Levesen to bring me to see you under the pretence that you might cure my bodily ailments. My real reason, however, for wishing to have an interview with you was something quite apart from anything to do with bodily illness."

"What do you mean?" I asked, in astonishment.

"What I say," she answered. a I think I can soon explain myself. You know Mr. Teesdel, don't you?"

"Teesdel," I replied; "he is one of my special friends."

"He called at our house last week: I was alone with him for a moment. He saw that I was unhappy, that— that a great sorrow is killing me— he was kind and sympathetic. He spoke about you— I just knew your name, but no more. He told me something about yon, however, which has filled my mind with the thought of you day and night ever since."

" You must explain yourself," I said, when she paused.

"You said, doctor "— she paused again, and seemed to swallow something in her throat— " you said that you believed in the innocence of Edward Bayard."

"My dear young lady, I do," I replied, with emphasis.

"God bless you for those words; you will see now what a link there is between you and me, for you and I in all the world are the only people who believe in him."

I did not reply. Lady Kathleen's eyes filled with tears; she took out her handkerchief and wiped them hastily away.

"You will understand at once," she continued, " how I have longed to come and see you and talk with you. I felt that you could sympathize with me. It is true that I am ill, but I am only ill because my mind reacts on my body— I have no rest of mind day or night— I am in the most horrible position. I am engaged to - a man whom I cordially loathe and hate, and I love another man passionately, deeply, distractedly."

"And that man is now enduring penal servitude?" I interrupted.

"Yes, yes. Did Mr. Teesdel tell you that I was once engaged to Edward Bayard?"

"He did," I answered.

"It is true," she continued; " we loved each other devotedly— we were as happy as two people could be— then came the first cloud— Edward in a weak moment signed his name to a bill for a friend — the friend failed, and Edward was called upon to pay the money. He said that he would ask my guardian, Francis Levesen, to help him. He did so in my presence, and Francis refused. Edward said that it did not matter, and was confident that he could get the money in some other way. Immediately afterwards came the horrible blow of his supposed forgery— he was arrested— he and I were together when this happened. All the sun seemed to go out of my sky at once— hope was over. Then came the trial— the verdict, the terrible result. But none of these things, Dr. Halifax, could quench my love. It is still there— it consumes me — it is killing me by inches— my heart is broken: that is why I am really dying."

"If you feel as you describe, why do you consent to marrying another man?" I asked.

"No wonder you ask me that question. I will try and answer it. I consent because I am weak. Constant, ceaseless worrying and persuasion have worked upon my nerves to such an extent that, for very peace, I have said ' yes.' Miss Levesen would like the marriage; she is a good woman, but she is without a particle of sentiment or romance. She believes in Edward's guilt, and cannot understand how it is possible for me to love him under existing circumstances. She would like me to marry her brother because I have money and because my money will be of use to him. She honestly thinks that he will make me a good husband, and that after my marriage I shall be happy. I respect her, but I shrink from him as I would from a snake in the grass— I don't believe in him. I am certain that he and his secretary, Mr. Franks, concocted some awful plot to ruin Edward Bayard. This certainty haunts me unceasingly day and night. I am a victim, however, and have no strength to resist the claim which Mr. Levesen makes upon me. When Mr. Teesdel called, however, and told me that you believed in Edward, a faint glimmer of light seemed to come into my wretchedness; I resolved to come and see you. I told Miss Levesen that I should like to see a doctor, and spoke of you. She knew your name, and was delighted to bring me to you— now you know my story. Can you do anything for me?"

"I can only urge you on no account to marry Mr. Levesen," I answered.

"It is easy for you to say that, and for me to promise you that I will be true to my real lover while I am sitting in your consulting room; but when I return to my guardian's house in Piccadilly I shall be a totally different girl. Every scrap of moral strength will have left me— in short, I shall only be capable of allowing matters to drift. They will drift on to my wedding-day. I shall go to church on that day, and endure the misery of a marriage ceremony between Francis Levesen and myself— and then I only sincerely trust that I shall not long survive the agony of such a union. Oh, sometimes I do not believe my mind will stand the strain. Dr. Halifax, is there anything you can do to help me?"

The poor girl was trembling violently— her lips quivered— her face wore a ghastly expression.

"The first thing you must do is to try and control yourself," I said.

I poured out a glass of water, and gave it to her. She took a sip or two, and then placed it on the table— her excessive emotion calmed down a little.

"I will certainly do what I can to help you," I said, " but you must promise on your part to exercise self-control. Your nerves are in a very weak state, and you make them weaker by this excessive emotion. I can scarcely believe that you have not sufficient strength to resist the iniquity of being forced into a marriage which you abhor. You have doubtless come to me with some idea in your mind. What is it you wish me to do?"

" I have come with a motive," she said. " I know it is a daring thing to ask. You can help me if you will— you can make matters a little easier."

"Pray explain yourself," I said.

"I want you to do this, not because you are a doctor, but because you are a man. I want you to go and see Edward Bayard— he is working out his sentence at Dartmoor. Please don't refuse me until I have told you what is exactly in my mind. I have read all the books I can find with regard to prisons and prisoners, and I know that at intervals prisoners are allowed to see visitors. I want you to try and see him, and then tell him about me. Tell him that my love is unalterable— tell him that when I marry Mr. Levesen, I shall only have succumbed to circumstances, but my heart, all that is worth having in me, is still his, and his only— tell him, too, that I shall always believe in his innocence as long as I live."

"You make a strange request," I said, when she had finished speaking. "In the first place, you ask me to do something outside my province— in the next, it is very doubtful, even if I do go to Dartmoor, that I shall be allowed to see the prisoner and deliver your message. It is true that at stated intervals prisoners are allowed to see friends from the outside world, but never alone— a warder has always to be present. Then why disturb Bayard with news of your marriage? Such news can only cause him infinite distress, and where he is now he is not likely to hear anything about it."

"On the other hand, he may hear of it, any day or any hour. Prisoners do get news from the outside world. Newspapers are always being smuggled into prisons-— I have read several books on the subject. Oh, yes, he must get my message; he must know that I am loyal to him in heart at least, or I shall go quite mad."

Here the impetuous girl walked to one of the windows, drew aside the blind, and looked out. I saw that she did so to hide her intense emotion.

"I can make no definite promise to you," I said, after a pause; "but I will certainly try if it is in my power to help you. I happen to know the present Governor of Dartmoor, and perhaps indirectly I may be able to communicate with Bayard."

"You will do more than that— you will go to Dartmoor— yes, I am sure you will. Don't call this mission outside your province. You are a doctor. Your object in life is to relieve illness— to soothe and mitigate distress. I am ill, mentally,, and this is the only medicine which can alleviate my sufferings."

"If possible, I will accede to your request," I said. " I'm afraid I cannot speak more certainly at present."

"Thank you; thank you. I know that you will make the thing possible."

"I can at least visit the Governor, Captain Standish; but remember, even if I do this, I may fail utterly in my object. I must not write to you on the subject— just rest assured that I will do my utmost for you."

She gave me her hand, turned aside her head to hide her tears, and hurried from the room. I thought a good deal over her sad story, and although I was doubtful of being able to communicate her message to Bayard, I resolved to visit Hartmoor, and trust to Providence to give me the opportunity I sought.

Some anxious cases, however, kept me in town for nearly ten days, and it was not until a certain Saturday less than a week before the day appointed for the wedding that I was able to leave London. I went to Plymouth by the night mail, and arrived at the great, gloomy-looking prison about eleven o'clock on the following morning. I received a warm welcome from the Governor and his charming wife. He had breakfast ready for me on my arrival, and when the meal was over told me that he would take me round the prison, show me the gangs of men at their various works of stone-quarrying, turf-cutting, trenching, etc., and, in short, give me all the information about the prisoners which lay in his power.

He was as good as his word, and took me first through the prison, and afterwards to see the gangs of men at work. I was much interested in all I saw, but had not yet an opportunity of saying a special word about Bayard. After dinner that evening Captain Standish suddenly asked me the object of my visit.

"Well," he said, "has your day satisfied you?"

"I have been much interested," I replied.

"Yes, yes, but you must have had some special object in taking this journey— a busy man like you will not come so far from town, particularly at this time of year, without a motive— even granted," he added, with a smile, "that we are old friends."

I looked fixedly at him for a moment, then I spoke.

"I have come here for a special object," I said.

"Ah, I thought as much. Do you feel inclined to confide in me?"

"I certainly must confide in you. I have come to Dartmoor to see a man of the name of Bayard— Edward Bayard; he was sentenced to five years' penal servitude about a year ago— I was present at the trial— I have brought him a message— I want, if possible, to deliver it."

While I was speaking, Captain Standish's face wore an extraordinary expression.

"You want to see Bayard?" he repeated.

"Yes."

"And you have brought him a message which you think you can deliver?"

"Yes. Is that an impossibility?"

"I fear it is."

He remained silent for a minute, thinking deeply— then he spoke.

"One of the strictest of prison rules is, that prisoners are not allowed to be pointed out to visitors for identification. It is true that at stated times the convicts are allowed to see their own relations or intimate friends, always, of course, in the presence of a warder. Bayard has not had anyone to see him since his arrival. Are you personally acquainted with him?"

"I never spoke to him in my life."

"Then how can you expect―" I broke in abruptly.

"The message I am charged with is in a certain sense one of life or death," I said; "it affects the reason, perhaps the life, of an innocent person. Is there no possibility of your rule being stretched in my favour?"

"None whatever in the ordinary sense, but what do you say"— here Captain Standish sprang to his feet— "what do you say to seeing Bayard in your capacity as physician?"

"What o you mean?"

"Simply this. I should be glad if you would see him in consultation with our prison doctor. I know Bruce would be thankful to have your views of his case."

"Then he is ill?" I said.

"Yes, he is ill— at the present moment the prisoner whom you have come to see is in a state of complete catalepsy— stay, I will send for Bruce and ask him to tell you about him."

Captain Standish rose and rang the bell. When the servant appeared he asked him to take a message to Dr. Bruce, begging him to call at the Governor's house immediately.

"While we are waiting for Bruce," said Standish, " I will tell you one or two things about Bayard. By the way, we call him Number Sixty here. He came to us from Pentonville with a good character, which he has certainly maintained during the few months of his residence at Dartmoor. He is an intelligent man, and a glance is sufficient to show the class of society from which he has sprung. You know we have a system of marks here, and prisoners are able to shorten their sentences by the number of marks they can earn for good conduct. Bayard has had his full complement from the first— he has obeyed all the rules, and been perfectly civil and ready to oblige.

"It so happened that three months ago a circumstance occurred which placed the prisoner in as comfortable a position as can be accorded to any convict. One morning there was a row in one of the yards— a convict attacked a warder in a most unmerciful manner— he would have killed him if Sixty had not interfered. Bayard is a slightly built fellow, and no one would give him credit for much muscular strength. The doctor placed him in the tailoring establishment when he came, declaring him unfit to join the gangs for quarrying and for outside work. Well, when the scuffle occurred, about which I am telling you, Sixty sprang upon the madman, and, in short, at personal risk, saved Simpkins's life. The infuriated convict, however, did not let Bayard off scot-free; he gave him such a violent blow in the ribs that one was broken— it slightly pierced the lung, and, in short, he had to go to hospital, where he remained for nearly a fortnight. At the end of that time he was apparently well again, and we hoped that no ill-consequences would arise from his heroic conduct. After a consultation with Bruce, I took him from the tailoring and gave him book-keeping and the lightest and most intelligent employment the place can afford. He has a perfect genius for wood-carving, and only this morning was employed in my house, directing some carpenters in putting together a very intricate cabinet. He is, I consider, an exceptional man in every way."

"But what about these special seizures?" I asked.

"I am coming to them. Ah, here is Bruce. Bruce will put the facts before you from a medical point of view. Bruce, let me introduce my friend, Dr. Halifax. We have just been talking about your patient, Number Sixty. What do you say to consulting Halifax about him?"

"I shall be delighted," answered Bruce.

"I think I understood you to say, Standish, that Bayard is ill now?" I asked.

"That is so. Pray describe the case, Bruce."

"Your visit is most opportune," said Dr. Bruce. " Sixty had a bad attack this morning. He was employed in this very house directing some carpenters, when he fell in a state of unconsciousness to the floor. He was moved at once into a room adjoining the workshop— he is there now."

"What are his general symptoms?" I asked.

"Complete insensibility— in short, catalepsy in its worst form. His attacks began after the slight inflammation of the lungs , which followed his injury. Captain Standish has probably told you about that."

"I have," said Standish.

"He may have received a greater shock than we had any idea of at the time of the accident," continued Dr. Bruce, " otherwise, I can't in the least account for the fact of catalepsy following an injury to the lungs. The man was in perfect health before this illness, since then he has had attacks of catalepsy once and sometimes twice in one week. As a rule, he recovers consciousness after a few hours; but to-day his insensibility is more marked than usual."

"You don't think it by any possibility a case of malingering?" I inquired. "One does hear of such things in connection with prisoners."

The prison doctor shook his head.

"No," he said, " the malady is all too real. I have tested the man in every possible way. I have used the electric battery, and have even run needles into him. In short, I am persuaded there is no imposture. At the present moment he looks like death; but come, you shall judge for yourself."

As Dr. Bruce spoke, he led the way to the door; Captain Standish and I accompanied him. We walked down a stone passage, entered a large workshop with high guarded windows, and passed on to a small room beyond. The one window in this room was also high, and protected with thick bars. On a trundle bed in the centre lay the prisoner.

For a moment I scarcely recognised the man. When I had last seen Bayard, he had been in ordinary gentleman's dress; he was now in the hideous garb of the prison— his hair was cut within a quarter of an inch of his head— his face was thin and worn, it looked old, years older than the face I had last seen above the dock of the Old Bailey. There were deep hollows, as if of intense mental suffering, under the eyes— the lips were firmly shut, and resembled a straight line. The bulldog obstinacy of the chin, which I had noticed in the court of the Old Bailey, was now more discernible than ever.

"If ever a man could malinger, this man could," I muttered to myself; "he has both the necessary courage and obstinacy. But what could be his motive?"

I bent down and carefully examined the patient. He was lying flat on his back. His skin was cold— there was not a vestige of colour about the face or lips. Taking the wrist between my fingers and thumb, I felt for the pulse, which was very slow and barely perceptible— the man's whole frame felt like ice— there was a slight rigidity about the limbs.

"This is a queer case," I said, aloud.

"It is real," interrupted Bruce; " the man is absolutely unconscious."

When he spoke, I suddenly lifted one of the patient's eyelids, and looked into the eye— the pupil was contracted— the eye was glazed and apparently unconscious. I looked fixedly into it for the space of several seconds— not by the faintest flicker did it show the least approach to sensibility. I pressed my finger on the cornea— there was not a flinch. I dropped the lid again. After some further careful examination, I stood up.

"This catalepsy certainty seems real," I said— "the man is, to all appearance, absolutely unconscious. I am sorry, as I hoped to have persuaded you, Captain Standish, to allow me to have an interview with him. I came to Hartmoor to-day for that express purpose. I have been entrusted with a message of grave importance from someone he used to know well in the outer world— I should have liked to have given him the message— but in his present state this is, of course, impossible."

"What treatment do you propose?" asked Bruce, who showed some impatience at my carefully-worded speech.

"I will talk to you about that outside," I answered— I was watching the patient intently all the time I was speaking.

Standish and Bruce turned to leave the
room, and I went with them. When I reached the door, however, I glanced suddenly back at the sick man. Was it fancy, or had he looked at me for a brief second? I certainly detected the faintest quiver about the eyelids. Instantly the truth flashed through my brain— Bayard was a malingerer. He had feigned catalepsy so cleverly that he had even imposed upon the far - seeing prison doctor. He would have imposed upon me, but for that lightning quiver of the deathlike face. I had spoken on purpose about that message from the outside world. Mine was truly an arrow shot at a venture, but the arrow had gone home. When I left the room, I knew the man's secret. I resolved, however, not to reveal it.

Bruce consulted me over the case. I gave some brief suggestions, and advised the prison doctor not to leave the man alone, but to see that a warder sat up with him during the night. Standish and I then returned to the drawing- room. We spent a pleasant evening together, and it was past one o'clock when we both retired to rest. As we were going to our rooms, a sudden idea flashed through my mind.

"Have you any objection," I said, turning
suddenly to Standish, "to my seeing Number Sixty again?"

"Of course not, Halifax; it is good of you to be so interested in the poor chap. I will ask Bruce to take you to his room to-morrow morning."

"I want to see him now," I said.

"Now?"

"Yes, now, if you will allow me."

"Certainly, if you really wish it —I don't suppose there is the least change, however, and the man is receiving every care— a warder is sitting up with him."

"I should like to see him now," I repeated.

" All right," answered Standish.

We turned and went downstairs; we entered the cold stone passage, passed through the workshop, and paused at the door of the little room where the sick man was lying. Standish opened the door, holding a candle in his hand as he did so. We both looked towards the bed; for a moment we could see nothing, for the candle threw a deep shadow, then the condition of things became clear. The warder, who had charge of Bayard, lay in an unconscious heap on the floor— the prisoner himself had vanished.

"Good God!  The man was malingering after all, and has escaped," cried the Governor.

I bent down over the warder; he had been deprived of his outer garments, and lay in his shirt on the floor. I turned him on his back, examined his head, and asked Standish to fetch some brandy; a moment or two later the man revived.

He opened his eyes and looked at me in a dazed way.

"Where am I?" he said. "What, in the name of wonder, has happened? Oh, now I remember— that scoundrel— let me get up, there is not a moment to lose."

"You must not stir for a minute or two," I said. " You have had a bad blow, and must lie still. You are coming to yourself very fast, however. Stay quiet for a moment, and then you can tell your story."

"Meanwhile, I will go and give the alarm," said Standish, who had been watching us anxiously.

He left the room. The warder had evidently been only badly stunned-— he was soon almost himself again.

"I remember everything now, sir," he said. " I beg your pardon, sir, I don't know your face."

"I am a friend of the Governor," I answered, " a doctor from London. Now tell your story, and be quick about it."

"We all had a good word for Sixty," replied the man; " 'e was a bit of a favourite, even though 'e wor a convict. To-night he laid like one dead, and I thought, pore chap, 'e might never survive this yere attack; all of a sudden I seed his eyes wide open and fixed on me.

" 'Simpkins,' he says, 'don't speak— you are a dead man if you speak, Simpkins, and I saved your life once.'

" 'True for you, Sixty,' I answered him.

" 'Well,' he says, ' it's your turn now to save mine. You 'and me over your hat, and jacket, and trousers,' says 'e. ' Be quick about it. If you say "no," I'll stun you— I can— I've hid a weapon under the mattress.'

" 'Oh, don't you go and break prison, Sixty,' I answered; ' you'll get a heap added to your sentence if you do that.'

" 'I must,' he said, his eyes wild-like. 'I saw it in the papers, and I must go— there is one I must save, Simpkins, from a fate worse than death. Now, is it " yes " or "no"?'

" 'It's "no," ' I answered, as I makes for him.

" I'd scarcely said the words," continued the man, " before he was on me— he leapt out of bed, and caught me by the throat. I remember a blow and his eyes looking wild— and then I was unconscious. The next thing I knew was you pouring brandy down my throat, sir."

"You are better now," I replied; " you had better go at once, and tell your story to the authorities."

The man left the room, and I hastened to find Standish. There was hurry and confusion and a general alarm. There was not the least doubt that Bayard had walked calmly out of Hartmoor prison in Warder Simpkins's clothes. One of the porters testified to this effect. A general alarm was given, and telegrams immediately sent to the different railway and police stations. Standish said that the man would assuredly be brought back the following morning. Even if by any chance he managed to get as far as London, he would, in his peculiar clothes, be arrested there immediately.

I remained at Hartmoor for a good part of the following day, but Standish's expectations were not realized. Although telegrams were sent to the different police-stations, there was no news with regard to Edward Bayard. It was presently ascertained that Simpkins had money in the pocket of his jacket— he had just received his week's wages, and had altogether about £3 on his person. When this fact became known the success of the escape was considered probable. As there was nothing more for me to do, I returned to London on the evening of the following day, and reached my own house in time for breakfast.

I was anxious to see Lady Kathleen, but was puzzled to know how I could communicate with her. My doubts on this point, however, were set to rest in a very unexpected manner. When I returned home after seeing my patients that afternoon, Harris surprised me with the information that Miss Levesen was waiting to see me. I went to her at once. She came forward to greet me with a look of excitement on her face.

"You remember your patient, Lady Kathleen Church?" she asked.

"Perfectly," I replied. "I hope she is better."

"Far from that, she is worse— I consider her very ill. Her wedding is to take place in a few days, but unless something is done to relieve her terrible tension of mind, we are more likely to have a funeral than a wedding on that day."

"What are her special symptoms at present?" I asked.

"She has been going from bad to worse since you saw her, Dr. Halifax. This morning she went out by herself for a short time, and returned in a very strange state of excitement. Her own impression was that she was losing her senses. She begged and implored that I would send for you. And I resolved to come to fetch you myself. Can you come to see her?"

"Certainly," I replied; "at what hour?"

"Now, if you will; there is no time to be lost. Will you return with me? Your patient is very ill, and ought to have attention without a moment's delay."

"My carriage is at the door; shall we go back to your house in it?" I asked.

"Certainly," replied Miss Levesen.

She rose from her chair at once— she was evidently impatient to be off. As we were driving to Piccadilly, she turned and spoke to me.

"While we have an opportunity, I wish to say something," she said.

"What is that?" I asked.

"I should naturally be glad if Lady Kathleen married my brother, but I wish you clearly to understand that I am not one to force the marriage. I fear the poor girl has not got over another most unfortunate attachment. Under present circumstances, I have made up my mind to cease to urge the wedding which we had hoped would so soon take place. I can't get my brother, however, to view matters in the same light; he is determined at any risk to keep Lady Kathleen to her promise."

"He cannot force her," I said.

"By moral suasion, yes— you do not know the man, Dr. Halifax."

I said nothing further— we had drawn up at the magnificent mansion in Piccadilly, and a few moments later I found myself in the presence of my patient. Miss Levesen brought me as far as the door, then she withdrew.

"Go in alone," she said, "that will be best. I don't want my brother to think that I'm in any way plotting against his interests."

She said these last words in an almost frightened whisper, and vanished before I had time to reply. I knocked at the door— a man's voice called to me to enter, and I found myself in a pretty boudoir.

The young girl whom I had come to see was lying on a sofa— her eyes were shut— a handkerchief, wrung out of some eau de Cologne and water, was placed over her brow. A man was seated by her side— he was evidently nursing her with extreme care, and there was a look of solicitude on his face. I guessed at once that this man was Levesen. A hasty glance showed me that he was in the prime of life. He was dressed irreproachably, and looked not only gentlemanly, but aristocratic. He rose when I entered, and bowed to me rather stiffly. I hastened to tell him my name and errand. Without a word he offered me his seat near the patient. Lady Kathleen had opened her eyes when I came in— she roused herself from the sort of deathlike stupor into which she had sunk, and gave me one or two glances of interest and relief. I put some questions to her, but I quickly saw that in Levesen's presence she was constrained and uncomfortable.

"Do you object to my seeing the patient for a few moments alone?" I asked of him.

His answer surprised me.

"I do," he said; "there is nothing you can say to Lady Kathleen that I have not a right to listen to. She is suffering from nervousness— nervousness bordering on hysteria— she needs sleep— a sedative will supply her with sleep. Will you have the goodness to write a prescription for one?— you will find paper, pen, and ink on this table."

He spoke in a quiet voice, the rudeness underneath being covered by a very suave manner. I was just turning to put some more questions to Lady Kathleen, when she surprised me by sitting up on the sofa and speaking with startling emphasis and force.

"You won't go away? " she said to Levesen.

"I will not," he replied.

"Then I will speak before you. No, you cannot cow me— not while Dr. Halifax is here. You shall hear the truth now, Francis, unless you change your mind and leave the room."

"I prefer to remain," he answered, with a sneer. "I should be glad to know what is really in your mind."

"I will tell you. I only marry you because I am afraid to refuse you. The only influence you have over me is one of terror. At the present moment I feel strong enough to defy you. That is because Dr. Halifax is here. He is a strong man, and he gives me courage. I don't love you— I hate you— I hate you with all my heart and strength. You don't love me— you only want to marry me for my money."

While Lady Kathleen was speaking, Levesen rose.

"You see how ill your patient is, doctor," he said, "you perceive how necessary a sedative is. My dear child," he added, "you are not quite accountable for your words at the present moment. Pray don't talk any more while you are so feverish and excited."

"But I have something more to say," she answered. " Perhaps you will think me mad— perhaps I am mad— still, mad or sane, I will now say what is in my mind. I hate you, and I love Edward Bayard. I saw Edward in the park this morning. He was standing close to Stanhope Gate. I passed him. I wanted to turn and speak to him, but before I could do so, he had vanished. Yes, I saw him. It was that sight which completely upset me— it took my last remnant of strength away. When I returned home I thought I should die— the shock was terrible — perhaps I did not really see him— perhaps I am mad, and it was a case of illusion. Oh, Francis, don't ask me to marry you— don't exercise your strength over me— give me back my freedom. Don't make a girl who hates you as I do, your wife."

"Come," said Levesen, "this is serious. Stay quiet, my dear child; you are really not in a condition to excite yourself. I did not know, doctor," he added, turning to me, "that the case was so bad. Of course, Lady Kathleen is suffering from illusion, seeing that Bayard is at present working out the sentence he richly deserves at Hartmoor."

"He is an innocent man, and you know it," said Lady Kathleen.

"Poor girl, her malady has grown much worse than I had any idea of," continued Levesen.

I interrupted.

"That does not follow," I replied. "Lady Kathleen is very ill, but she is not suffering from illusion. It is very probable that she did see Bayard this morning, seeing that he escaped from Hartmoor two nights ago."

"What?" said Lady Kathleen.

My words seemed to electrify her. She sprang from the sofa, and clasped one of my hands in hers.

"Edward has escaped from prison?" she said, with a sort of gasp.

Levesen said nothing, but his face assumed an ugly, greenish tint.

"It is true " I began.

My words were interrupted. A sudden noise was heard in the drawing-room which communicated with the boudoir. Quick footsteps approached, the door of the boudoir was burst open, and a man whom I had never seen before rushed in, and clasped Levesen by one of his hands.

"What in the world is the matter, Franks ?" said Levesen, in a tone of displeasure.

"Matter!— it is all up," said Franks, in a choking, trembling voice— "that— that poor fellow has escaped— he is in the house. Oh, I know he has come for me— he— he'll murder me— he'll shoot us both, Levesen. I saw him in the hall, and he carried a revolver. He'll kill us, Levesen, I say— he will— there is murder in his eyes— he is a madman— oh, what shall we do?"

"For God's sake restrain yourself," said Levesen; "it is you who have taken leave of your senses."

"No, it isn't," said another voice; "he has reason enough for his fears."

The door had been opened a second time, and Bayard, the man I had seen last in prison garb, looking like death upon his trundle bed, stood before us; he carried a revolver, but did not use it. Franks, who had been almost beside himself, rushed now towards Bayard and flung himself on his knees at his feet.

"Spare my life," he said; "don't take my life. I have repented for months. Spare me— don't murder me— I'm afraid of you. Let me go, I say."

The wretched man raised his voice almost to a shriek.

"Don't kneel to me," said Bayard. "I won't take your wretched life— I don't want it. Tell the truth, you coward. You gave me that cheque?"

"I did, Bayard, I did. I've been in misery ever since— I was tempted and I fell. It is true. Don't take my life."

"I don't want your life," said Bayard. "I would not soil my hands with you— I would not pollute myself with your blood. You have got to answer me one or two questions, however. You gave me the cheque for £5,000?"

"Yes, yes."

"Levesen gave it to you for the purpose?"

"He did."

"Franks, you don't know what you are saying," interrupted Levesen; "terror has turned your head."

"No, it hasn't, Levesen," replied Franks. "You did give me the cheque to give to Bayard. I can't help telling the truth. I would do a great deal for you, but I prefer ruin and disgrace to the mental anguish our crime has caused me. This fellow will shoot me if I don't tell the truth now, and by heavens, I'm not going to lose my life for you, Levesen."

"As far as I am concerned, you are safe," said Bayard, laying his pistol on the table. " You have admitted the truth, that is all I want. As to you, Levesen, the game is up. You never guessed that I should break prison to confront you. You and Franks between you invented the most malicious conspiracy which was ever contrived to ruin an innocent man— you got me false imprisonment, but it is your turn now. You sha'n't escape, either of you. This gentleman here, I think I know him— I saw him two days ago at Dartmoor— will be my witness. our game is up; I, too, can plot and contrive. I feigned serious illness in order to lull suspicion, and so got out of prison. I did this because you, Levesen, goaded me to madness— you took away my liberty— my character— you ruined my entire life; but when, added to these iniquities, you determined to force the girl whom I love, and who loves me, to be your wife, I felt that matters had come to an extremity. By a mere accident, I saw the notice of your engagement to Lady Kathleen in a paper which another convict lent me. I was in hospital at the time. From that moment I played a desperate game. I escaped from prison with the intention of shooting you, if necessary, you black-hearted scoundrel, rather than allow you to become the husband of the girl I love."

"The girl who loves you, Edward," said Lady Kathleen.

She flew to his side, and threw her soft, white arms round his neck. He gave her a quick, passionate glance, but did not speak.

"You must make a statement in writing," he said to Franks. "As to you, Levesen― No, you don't leave the room"— for Levesen had softly approached the door— "I have a pistol here, and I'm a desperate man. You will know best if it is worth exciting my rage or not. You will witness Franks's confession. Now then, Franks, get your deposition down. I see paper, pen, and ink on that table. Now write, and be quick about it."

"You write at your peril, Franks," said Levesen. "Are you mad to give yourself away as you are doing? What is this fellow here, but an escaped convict? Don't put anything on paper, Franks."

"Yes, but I will," said Franks, suddenly. " It is not only that I am frightened, Levesen— upon my word, I am almost glad of the relief of confession. You don't know what I've been through— perfect torture— yes, no more and no less. Bayard was no enemy of mine. I know you gave me money, and I have not much moral courage, and I fell; but the fact is, I'd rather serve my own time at Hartmoor than go through the mental misery which I have been enduring of late."

"Put your confession on paper without a moment's delay," said Bayard, in a stern voice.

His words rang out with force. Notwithstanding his dress, his shaven head, his worn and suffering face— he had the manner of the man who conquers at that moment. The spell of fear which he had exercised over Franks he so far communicated to Levesen that he ceased to expostulate, and stood with folded arms, sullen face, and lowered eyes, not far from the door. I saw that he would escape if he could, but Bayard took care of that.

"Write, and be quick about it," he said to Franks.

The wretched Franks bent over his paper. He was a short, thickly-set man, of middle age. His face was red and mottled. Large beads of perspiration stood on his brow. His iron-grey head was slightly bald. The hand with which he wrote shook. All the time he was writing there was absolute silence in the room. Lady Kathleen continued to stand by Bayard's Side. She had lost her nervousness and hysteria. Her cheeks were full of beautiful colour, her eyes were bright— she had undergone a transformation.

At last Franks laid down his pen. He took his handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the moisture from his brow.

"Give me the paper," said Bayard.

Franks did so.

"Will you, sir, read this aloud?" said the ex-prisoner, turning suddenly to me.

"Certainly," I answered.

The queer group stood silent- around me, while I read the following words:—

"On the 4th of May, 189—, Francis Levesen, whose secretary I have been for several years, brought me a cheque for the sum of .£5,000, which he had made payable to Edward Bayard. He told me to give the cheque to Bayard, remarking, as he did so:—

" 'The fellow is in difficulties, and will find this useful.'

"Bayard at the time was engaged to Lady Kathleen Church, Francis Levesen's ward. I replied that I did not know Mr. Bayard was in money difficulties.

" 'He is,' said Levesen; 'he has been fool enough to put his name to a bill for a friend, and has to meet a claim for ,£3,000 within the next ten days. He asked me to lend him that sum to meet the difficulty in Lady Kathleen's presence yesterday. I refused to grant his request at the time, and he seemed in distress about it.'

" 'And yet you are now giving him £5,000,' I said. 'That seems strange, seeing that he only requires a loan of £3,000.'

" 'Never mind,' said Levesen, 'a little ready cash will be acceptable under the circumstances. Get him to take the cheque. The fact is, there is more in this matter than meets the eye. I want you to help me in a small conspiracy, and will make it worth your while. You are to give this cheque to Bayard when no one is present. See that he presents it at my bank. If you can act quietly and expeditiously in this matter, I will give you that thousand pounds you want so badly in cash.'

" 'What do you mean?' I asked, looking at him in fear and astonishment.

" 'You know you want that money,' he replied.

" 'God knows I do,' I answered.

" 'To meet that bill of sale on your furniture,' continued Levesen. 'Your wife is just going to have a baby, and if the furniture is sold over her head, you fear the shock will kill her. Is not that so? Oh, yes, I know all about you— a thousand pounds will put all straight, will it not?'

" 'Yes, yes; but the deuce is in this matter,' I replied. 'What are you up to, Levesen— what is your game?'

"Levesen's face became ashen in hue.

" 'My game is this,' he hissed into my ear: 'I mean to do for that wretched, smooth-tongued sneak, Bayard.'

" 'I thought he was your friend,' I answered.

" 'Friend!' said Levesen. 'If there is a man I hate, it is he. He has come between me and the girl I intend to marry. I have made up my mind to ruin him. In short, he sha'n't have Lady Kathleen— I shall lock him up. Now, if you will help me, the deed can be done, and you shall have your  £1,000.'

"I was as wax in his hands, for the state of my own affairs was desperate. I asked what I was to do.

" 'I mean to have Bayard arrested,' said Levesen. ' I mean to have him arrested on a charge of forgery. When the moment comes, you are to help me. I mean to prove that Bayard forged the signature to the cheque which you now hold in your hand. He will declare that you gave it to him— you are to deny the fact— in short, you and I will have to go through a good deal of false swearing. If we stick together and make our plans, I am convinced that the thing can be carried through. My ward can't marry a man who is going through penal servitude, and, by Heaven, Bayard shall have a long term.'

"I said I couldn't do it, but Levesen said: 'Sleep over it.' I went home. The Evil One fought with me all night, and before the morning he had conquered me. That thousand pounds and the thought of saving the home were what did for me. We carried out our scheme. I am prepared to swear to the truth of this statement before a magistrate.

"John Franks."

"It would be well to have witnesses to this," I said, when I had done reading. " Lady Kathleen, will you put your name here?"

She came forward at once, writing her full name in a bold, firm hand. I put mine under hers.

"And now, Bayard," I said, "this is not a moment for showing mercy; a foul deed has been committed, and only the stern arm of justice can set matters right. Will you have the goodness to go at once for the police? Levesen and Franks must be taken into custody to-night on the charge of malicious conspiracy against you, for causing you to be falsely imprisoned, and for perjury."

"One moment before you go, Bayard," said Levesen— moving a step forward and speaking with the studied calm which all through this strange scene had never deserted him. "There is another side to Franks's story, and when I have said my say to-morrow morning before the magistrate, I can easily prove that the statement made on that piece of paper is worth no more than the paper on which it is written. There is not a magistrate on the Bench who is likely to give even a moment's serious consideration to such a trumped-up tale told under pressure, and at the instigation of an escaped convict. You can do your worst, however— I am so conscious of my own innocence that I have no wish to escape."

"Have you done speaking?" said Bayard.

"I have— you will repent of this."

Bayard left the room. In less than half an hour, Levesen and Franks had been carried off to the nearest police-station, and Bayard was left alone with Lady Kathleen. I went then to find Miss Levesen. I had a painful task in telling the poor lady the shameful truth. She was a hard woman, but she at least had been no partner in Levesen's horrible conspiracy.

THE EVENTS which followed can be told in a few words. The next morning, early, I took Bayard to see my own solicitor, who instructed him to return to Hartmoor, and to give himself up; in the meantime, a petition would be immediately presented to the Queen for his free pardon.

That pardon was obtained in less than a week— although Bayard had to go through a short nominal punishment for his assault on the warder and his escape from Hartmoor.

One of the sensational trials at the autumn assizes was that of Levesen and Franks. The intelligent jury who listened to the trial were not long in making up their minds with regard to the verdict. I do not know that I am a specially hard man, but I could not help rejoicing when the judge's sentence was known. Levesen and Franks are now serving their time at Hartmoor— their sentence was seven years' imprisonment.

As to Lady Kathleen, she has completely recovered her health, and the long postponed wedding took place before the Christmas of that year.

__________________

End

Cumulative Index to

Past Masters Thirty

May 2021 Part 3

An Author Index to the short stories in the Past Masters series produced by "Pulpmeister", in which the issues are identified as follows:

Past Masters   P

M:  More Past Masters   M

Past Masters Three   3

Past Masters Four   4

etc

__________

Cleve F. Adams

Flowers For Violet 4

Forty Pains 4

Punk 22

Shrinking Violet 22

A.J. Alan

The Diver  5

My Adventure at Chislehurst  5

The Hair  5

H2, etc.  5

My Adventure In Norfolk  5

W. L. Alden

Hopkins' Safe  15

Monty's Friend  15

Starkweather's Circular Hotel  15

Grant Allen

The Conscientious Burglar  P

Raymund Allen

Allah Knows Best  13

The Black Knight  13

A Happy Solution  16

The Winning Move  13

Mark Allerton

Price of Office  17

Mary Raymond Shipman Andrews:

The Butler  6

Anonymous

Adventure of the Rubber Pipe  11

The Banshee 21

By a Miscalculation  12

A Detective's Story  12

The Fatal Trapdoor  15

Martin Guerre  12

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

Captain Rose and the Bullfrog 30

The Devil's Fire 21

The Four Red Circles  4

Gallegher of Beaver  4

Harbor Hazard 21

Much Lost, More Won 30

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

Lady of the Atoms 30

The Puzzle Duel 30

The Riots at Sanderac 30

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

The Case of Beauvais 30

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 Nameless Mummy  30

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

Henry Leverage

The Gray Brotherhood  30

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

On a Charge of Forgery 30

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

Fish Men of Venus 30

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

Milo Ray Phelps

The Big Cast Mystery  30

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

The Voice on the Telephone 30

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

By the Nepean River  30

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

Wongawarra 30

Harold Ward (aka Ward Sterling)

Bride of the Ape 30

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

The Undelivered 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

Nagasaki Knives 30

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: Captain Rose and the Bullfrog / H. Bedford-Jones

- 2: The Big Cast Mystery / Milo Ray Phelps
- 3: The Nameless Mummy / Arlton Eadie
- 4: Bride of the Ape / Harold Ward
- 5: Wongawarra / "Waif Wander"
- 6: Nagasaki Knives / Raoul Whitfield
- 7: By the Nepean River / "Waif Wander"
- 8: Much Lost, More Won / H. Bedford-Jones
- 9: The Gray Brotherhood / Henry Leverage
- 10: Lady of the Atoms / Miles J. Breuer
- 11: The Riots at Sanderac / Miles J Breuer
- 12: The Puzzle Duel / Miles J Breuer

- 13: The Voice on the Telephone / Arthur Somers Roche

- 14: Fish Men of Venus / David Wright O'Brien

- 15: The Case of Beauvais / James Oliver Curwood

- 16: On a Charge of Forgery / L. T. Meade and Dr Clifford Halifax, M.D

- Cumulative Indexs to Past Masters Series