Past Masters 31
Author: Various
Date: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00
Description: Something of a Bedford-Jones special, with some by one of his busiest pseudonyms, Gordon Keynes. A World-War 1 aviation story by Whitfield, medical detective work by Meade & Halifax, and some stories by Roche involving amateur detective Pelham and his continuing battle with his "Moriarty", the Gray Ghost. There are several more of these Pelham stories, hard to find. 1: The Devil's Fire / H Bedford-Jones 2: He Who Sets a Trap / H Bedford-Jones 3: The Devil is Dead / H Bedford-Jones 4: Lady of the Evil Eye / H Bedford Jones 5: Sons of Kalewa / H Bedford-Jones 6: Apache Gold / H Bedford-Jones 7:

PAST MASTERS

THIRTY-ONE

May 2021

Part 4

Produced by Terry Walker ("Pulpmeister")

Contents

1: The Devil's Fire / H Bedford-Jones

2: He Who Sets a Trap / H Bedford-Jones

3: The Devil is Dead / H Bedford-Jones

4: Lady of the Evil Eye / H Bedford Jones

5: Sons of Kalewa / H Bedford-Jones

6: Apache Gold / H Bedford-Jones

7: The Fog at Fiddler's Green / H. Bedford-Jones

8: Rivals of the Clouds / Raoul Whitfield

9: A Pretty Woman / Owen Oliver

10: The Strange Case of Captain Gascoigne /

L. T. Meade and Dr Clifford Halifax, M.D.

11: The Victim of Amnesia / Arthur Somers Roche

12: "Illimore!" / Arthur Somers Roche

13: The Robbery at the Café Ravasan / Arthur Somers Roche

Cumulative Index to No 31

_______________________

1: The Devil's Fire

H Bedford-Jones (as by Gordon Keyne)

Blue Book Feb 1947

The second-last of a series of four stories of vengeance. The final story follows this one.  I was unable to obtain the earlier stories. "Gordon Keyne" was one of Bedford-Jones's busiest pseudonyms.

DRIVING WITH Parr, I got up to Santa Barbara from Los Angeles at an early-morning hour. We stopped at a filling-station downtown to gas up, and I sought the telephone. After some difficulty I got the residence of the Honorable Fitzjames Balfour— and a very English butler.

"This is Dr. Hugh Clements," I said, "an old friend of Mr. Balfour just from India. Is he up and around?"

"Yes indeed, sir," came the reply. "He's always about early. Just now he's somewhere downtown getting an important letter in the post."

"The devil! Is Miss Trent there at his house?"

She was, and presently I had her on the phone, much surprised to hear my voice.

"Yes, I'm here, Virginia," I said. "Parr is with me— Colonel Magruder's man. Magruder was murdered last night."

Her voice broke like a violin-string at hearing this. First her father, then Magruder!

"Balfour's next," I said. "Tell me what luck you had with him?"

"Oh, the very best!" she reported. "We were driving down today to meet with you and Colonel Magruder. He'll do anything you want, will cooperate in any way you think wise. He's downtown now, mailing a special-delivery letter to you."

I queried her about the situation. She said to come at once to the house, and told where it was. Plenty of room, she said. Balfour would be delighted to have us.

"Be there in twenty minutes," I said, and rang off before I could succumb to temptation and send her a kiss over the wire. She might not have liked that.

Balfour's place was no large estate. He had retired from his prosecutor's position in the Indian service just before the war's end, and instead of going home to England, came to California. He got in on the ground floor, just before the real-estate boom, and took over a nice but not showy place in the new Santa Barbara development north of town. We gained it without trouble—a pleasant hillside house with a few big trees around, small grounds, and the walls of big estates on either side. There was a roomy garage with servants' quarters above.

Virginia Trent welcomed us and took us in to breakfast; Balfour was not back yet. The house was thick with his pompous style— two English servants and so forth; a buffet breakfast, and that sort of thing. Having an unpleasantly fresh and stiff wound in my thigh, I was not very brisk, but said nothing of it. Parr disappeared, and I was thankful for a few moments alone with Virginia.

"Better save the Magruder story till Balfour gets back," I said. "Your report is the main thing, my dear. If Balfour really means business—"

"Oh, but he does!" she exclaimed lives, and has already written him. He has sent to San Francisco for guards. He'll do anything you think best. Mrs. Balfour is visiting friends in Beverly Hills and won't be back for a week, so there's no interference." She looked out of the window. "He's back now."

Balfour walked in and wrung my hand delightedly. He was ruddy, very fit, gray-topped, inclined to pomposity, quite a human fellow on the whole. I spared him the news about Magruder until he had breakfasted; when he found Parr was with me, he guessed the truth, and it shook him frightfully.

We gathered on his screened veranda with Parr and Virginia Trent.

"This meeting is your idea, Clements," he said. "So take charge. Bad news?"

"The ring turned red as fire, sir!" Parr cried, staring at me. "You have just heard the voice of the Rajah," I said.

"Very. Let me begin at the beginning. Last week I landed here after seven years at my Lacpore hospital—"

I told how I had been thrown into contact with the Rajah from Hell (he was by right, and called himself, Rajah of Sirvath, but I knew no other name for him) and how he proved to be a man whom I had saved from death in Lacpore. Now he as wealthy, handsome, most capable; then, he had been destitute, a poor devil of whom I knew nothing.

"He holds me in real gratitude," I went on, "but he's imbued with venomous hatred for four men now in California. You, Balfour; Howard Chaffee, whom I don't know; Sir James Trent and Colonel Magruder—and these last two he has already murdered."

"But why?" puffed Balfour. "Why, in God's name?"

"Because you people picked him up as a notorious dacoit or bandit, and sentenced him to life imprisonment. He believes you framed him; he thinks you were unjust—"

"Look here, that's all poppycock," Balfour broke in. "Mere eyewash, Clements! I recall the case perfectly. Government was very grateful to us. You can't accuse us."

"I'm not; I'm telling you his warped beliefs. He was in Russia for a time and no doubt absorbed an anti-English bias. He escaped, you see, during the time of turmoil when the Japs were invading Bengal. He thinks himself a victim of injustice."

I went on to describe the murders of Colonel Magruder and Sir James Trent; it was tough on Virginia and Parr, but necessary. We had no evidence on which to convict the Rajah of the murders. Last night his chauffeur had fired on us, wounding me slightly, and Parr had killed him. I held out my hand.

"There's the proof. Parr found that silver ring beside the man's body."

I TOOK off the ring; everyone examined it. Plain silver, set with a black stone in whose heart burned a red flame— a stone unknown to any of us. I put it on my hand again.

"The Rajah wears a similar stone; therefore I fancy this ring has some connection with him and may serve us," I said. "Now, Balfour, you have all the facts. My idea is that we should combine against this terror. If Magruder had listened to me and had come here yesterday, he'd still be alive. What d'ye think, Balfour?"

"I think you're right," he said. "I've written this Chaffee— he lives in San Francisco. We'll hear from him. He was the one who identified our friend as the dacoit, by the way."

"And you were the King's Counsel who prosecuted him," I said. "Trent was the judge who sentenced him, and so forth. He believes .that you fellows framed him unjustly in India— and now he's being tough on you. He murdered Trent, who was my friend, and I'm in the business to prove it and get him his just deserts. He knows it, and mind you, won't hurt me; but his men will, quick enough. It's an ironic situation."

We discussed things. My idea was that Balfour would get a warning— the Rajah always gave warning before striking— before long; and that we should get in touch with Chaffee and make every effort to find the Rajah and put him behind the bars. So far, we did not even know what name he used, or where he was.

"Right," said Balfour. "Chaffee should get my letter today. I told him to telephone me instantly he got it; we'll hear from him. How about pulling in the police, what?"

THIS was argued and negatived, until we had some actual evidence.

During the discussion I got out a cigarette and reached for an electric lighter that stood on the table. As I lit the cigarette, I was aware of a sensation, not painful, but annoying, in my finger. I looked at it. An exclamation escaped me.

The formerly black stone in the silver ring was now flaming red, as though afire! Yet it was not hot, barely warm enough to be felt.

I stared at it, still holding the lighter. So did the others. Virginia started to speak, then was silenced by another voice, faint but distinct.

"—nothing more at present," it said. And it was not speaking English, but Hindustani! "Look for orders at noon and at midnight. Ghopal Singh or I will speak each time. I shall be in Santa Barbara only a few days. I want everyone to be alert and ready. That is all."

The voice ceased. Also, the fiery glow died out of the stone in my ring, which again became black and glittering, with just a spark in its depths. When I put down the lighter and cord, the spark lessened.

Everyone, even Virginia, recognized the Hindustani if not the words. All were staring blankly around in search of the speaker. Except for us, the veranda was empty. I was the only one to recognize those tones; it shocked me stiff.

"What a singular vibrant voice!" exclaimed Virginia. "Who was speaking?"

"Dash it, that's what I'd like to know!" broke out Balfour. "Hindustani! Some trick of yours, Clements?"

I tried to speak and could not.

"The ring turned red as fire, sir!" Parr cried, staring at me.

I stirred, came alive, found words. "You have just heard the voice of the man we were discussing," I said slowly, "the Rajah from Hell. Look— it's just past ten o'clock! I picked up this lighter, touching the wire. The ring turned red. It didn't burn, just turned red, blazing red. Touching that wire caused the contact, caused the supersonic waves to take hold, caused us to hear the speaker—some sort of electronics, you see! This ring belonged to the Rajah's man who was killed last night—"

They all began to talk at once. Balfour pooh-poohed the notion, then became silent as I translated the words we had heard. He got a shock, also; evidently the Rajah was here in Santa Barbara. Presently I roused myself and spoke.

"Let's accept what we all heard. Electronics— why not? We know the human body is an antenna, a radio aerial. We don't know the half of what electronic developments arose from the war, here or in Russia. Our man was a refugee in that country, for a time. It's far easier to believe than to disbelieve; that he's an electronic wizard is a fact."

"By your theory," Balfour said, "that stone is a sort of speaker by which he's in touch with his bally agents."

"That's my notion." I handed him the ring. "Test it at noon, twelve o'clock. Touch a wire somewhere, get his broadcast. If it's true, then we, as well as his own men, will be in touch with him."

An electrifying thought; it brought us all up in sharp surmise. Ghopal Singh—as Parr exclaimed, that was not a Hindu name. Sounded like a Sikh. There might be a clue!

Balfour started up.

"I know the police chief here, slightly. I'll run downtown now and get him after information on this Ghopal Singh—won't need to lay any charge. The fellow may have a record, y'know. I'll be back by noon to test the ring. Care to go, Clements?"

I did not. My wound, slight as it was, bothered me when in a car, so Balfour took Parr with him, for company, and Virginia remained with me.

This affair of the ring, while it might afford us a slight lead, rather hit us all under the belt. It indicated the diabolic craft and ingenuity of the enemy. It showed that he was in command of weapons far beyond our knowledge. To be blunt, it terrified us— it did me, at least. The fire in that stone which was not fire at all was frightening.

I bathed quickly, shaved, and rejoined Virginia, feeling much more myself. We went into Balfour's library, where his telephone was located, with the possible call from Chaffee in mind. He had a remarkable lot of Anglo-Indian directories of all sorts, and I examined these with quick interest that kindled when I came upon a volume devoted to the Indian peerage and royal houses.

Seizing on this, we examined it together, found the royal Rajput house of Sirvath listed in great detail, and in breathless excitement conned the entries. The present ruler was a brother of the previous rajah, whose only heir had been a son, a young man now dead. He had died during the war, and his name had been Lajpat Rai.

"That's the man," said Virginia. "No one else answers, Hugh."

"So what?" I said. "Our man claims to be the rightful Rajah of Sirvath. Now we have his name—Lajpat Rai. He may not use it, but that's his name, and we have it. Beyond doubt he has papers to prove some other identity, by which he entered the country. Now we put the Immigration people on him, and spike his guns!"

"Grand!" she said. "How are you going to find him to do it?"

This was a facer— it was quite impossible, so far as I could see. However, I felt we had made a step forward, a definite step. His prison conviction under the identity of another man, a bandit, had ruined our man's pretensions to the throne of Sirvath; this was one reason for his actuating hatred of Balfour and the others. Lajpat Rai was dead— but our Rajah from Hell had been Lajpat Rai.

We were still discussing this discovery when Balfour came back with Parr, and we found it was getting close to noon. Our host was radiant.

"Jolly good work!" exclaimed Balfour, upon hearing our report. "I've done very well, too— excellently, in fact! It was an-inspiration to go to the police. They have complete data on this Ghopal Singh. He's a Sikh, right enough; was a worker in the hot district south of Stockton, and is badly wanted for robbery and attempted murder up there last year. If he's in town, they'll dig him out, be sure of that—and his master with him. This Ghopal was a Communist, as well."

"That's no crime," I said. "Andrei Gromyko is one too, and lives in a grand estate on Long Island and is popular in Washington."

Balfour winked. "All right, my lad. Wait and see. Getting just on to noon— so we'll try this ring of yours, what?" He reached out and took hold of a lamp-cord. "Any wire will do, I suppose. One minute before twelve, by my time."

He stood there, his puffy red face looking rather foolish, but his eyes were intent and combative, his mouth had an ugly set; he could be a nasty customer, I thought, especially when browbeating some poor devil of an Indian radical— a "filthy native," in his estimation.

"LOOK at it!" broke from Parr. "The ring! The devil's fire!"

Balfour held up his hand; the black stone of the ring was fiery crimson.

"Twelve o'clock," said none of us. "No further orders today, my friends."

The Rajah's voice, speaking in Hindustani. Then he switched instantly to English.

"Good day, Dr. Clements. Good day, Mr. Balfour. I trust you are making use of that ring you obtained last night? Make the most of it, I admonish you. A message is on the way to you now. That is all."

The words died out; the ring became black again. I saw Parr looking at me and nodding. Balfour had purpled with anger. Virginia sat tense and white.

"He gives us credit for more ingenuity than we possess," I observed lightly. "He's not certain we've found the secret of the ring; apparently he has sent you some warning, Balfour. You can still clear out of here."

"Be damned if I'll run from him!" snapped Balfour. "Those watchmen haven't come? No word from Chaffee? Huh! I'll stay right here, and if he tries any tricks I'll give him what for! Upon my word— the insufferable impudence of him!"

HE reverted to the practical. The police had been trying out a new radio trick— electronic plates fastened to the walls of a room, and radio reception audible between the plates, nowhere else. Something like that might explain the black stone, on whose properties we had accidentally stumbled. I shrugged; anything was possible.

The butler announced luncheon. Almost at the same moment Balfour was called to the telephone; he rejoined us with a sparkle in his eye.

"That was Howard Chaffee," he announced. "He's driving down from San Francisco. Said he'd get here sometime this evening. He has important information on our man. Said he saw in the papers about Sir James Trent's death, and had been at work on the case. Expects a Government man named Aguilar to meet him here tonight. Looks definite, what?"

"Pleasantly so," I assented cheerfully. "I knew if we got our heads together we'd get results. Aguilar sounds Spanish."

"Half this town is Spanish, or Mexican, or pretends to be," sniffed Balfour. "They capitalize it for tourists. Ha! Now I feel better. We can fight back. Chaffee sounded as though he meant business."

I did not mention that, from the little I knew of him, Chaffee seemed to be an arrant scoundrel. I was by no means particular.

We all relaxed under this cheerful intimation, and the meal became almost merry. The coffee had just arrived when a car drove in, and there were Balfour's three guards. We interviewed them— hard-eyed, capable men who obviously knew their business. Balfour told them his life had been threatened, and they, with Parr, were to guard the place.

"I sha'n't stir from it," he said. "I'll remain here."

"Okay," said one of the three. "That's the ticket, sir. Now let's see the servants and look over the place. We'll answer for your safety if you don't leave the premises. If any visitors are expected, we want to know about 'em."

They went off with Parr, and Balfour beamed at us, and returned the silver ring to me.

"I fancy we have that devil blocked now, eh? What are you two going to do for the afternoon? You said you wanted to see the town, Virginia."

She assented. "I've always heard about it and have never seen it. But—"

"Then we'll do it," I broke in "Everything's safe here. We'll see the place, do any errands for our host, maybe take in a movie, and get back for dinner and a big evening with Howard Chaffee."

So, half an hour later, Virginia and I got away for town.

Looking back now at those happenings in Balfour's house, it is easy to realize what childish fools we all were, and I make no exception of myself. At the moment we seemed pretty smart, covering every avenue of possible danger and of approach by the Rajah from Hell, as we thought. Yet we were the veriest bungling amateurs, neglecting the most simple precautions. Aware of his deadly rapidity of action, we were hypnotized by it, and absolutely forgot the possibility that he might have made slow and careful preparation toward gaining his ends. I had previously guessed that I was watched in all I did by his agents, and paid small importance to it; I was as much to blame as anyone.

For an hour or so I drove about with Virginia, even taking a look at the vast estates in the southern suburb of Montecito. Then we came back into town, parked the car, and she did some shopping on Main Street. Fascinated by the luxury shops, she vetoed any movie, and we wandered rather expensively about the place, until I was loaded with her packages.

We were in a drugstore buying toiletries when she suddenly turned to me.

"Hugh, will you telephone Mr. Balfour? He said to get some Kleenex if I saw any, because he had run out and did not know where to find it. They have a big stock here. Ask if he wants the white or colored, and how much to get."

There was a phone-booth in sight, so I went to it and called Balfour's house. The butler responded; I gave my name, and Balfour came to the phone. I put Virginia's question to him.

"Oh, get three or four packages, any color," he replied. "And— Clements!"

"Yes?"

"I had a telegram half an hour ago, sent from Los Angeles." His voice was quite steady. "It was unsigned, but said something would occur within two days."

"Oh! Sirvath?"

"Obviously. I'm trying to get it traced. Won't do much good, I fear."

I hung up thoughtfully. So he had received his warning. The time-limit meant nothing. Lajpat Rai, to give him his true name, might strike at any time. Better not say anything to Virginia about this, I thought, as I pushed open the booth door.

"Ah, Clements! I'd like a word with you— just a word."

I stood immobile, transfixed. There was Virginia, across the store— and here, within a foot, smiling at me coolly, stood the Rajah from Hell! Hat pulled over his darkly luminous eyes, he wore natty flannels and looked quite at his ease.

"Glad you found Miss Trent unhurt and well," he said swiftly, as though we were old friends. "I want to emphasize my kindly feelings toward you, Dr. Clements, by asking you to pull out of this Balfour thing— you and her both. It would grieve me if accidents happened."

"Grieve you?" I repeated. "You and your cheap tricks— see here, you'll get badly bitten if you keep up this deviltry of yours!"

"As though you or your friends could harm me, or even find me!" he said. "Sorry you're stubborn about it, but I must admit the reason is charming. Well, I warn you: clear out before evening comes— for her sake. I can't be answerable otherwise."

With a nod he turned away; Virginia was coming toward us. My childish outburst had been weak, pitiful. There was nothing I could do— no use in making a scene.

"Lajpat Rai!" I exclaimed. He looked back at me, pausing. "What stone is in that silver ring?"

His white teeth showed in a faint grin.

"An uranium compound, of course! So long."

I WATCHED him out the side door, helpless, unable to think or move. Virginia came to me, smiling.

"Who's your handsome friend— oh, what's the matter?"

"Everything," I said. "That was the Rajah from Hell— and he answered to the name of Lajpat Rai— here, come along to the soda fountain; we can talk there."

We got a little table, sat down, gave our order; and I told Virginia what Balfour had said, too— no use trying to hold anything back. The drinks came. Virginia was as white as a sheet, but otherwise never turned a hair.

"There was nothing you could do," she said quietly. "Nothing I could have done either, except to lose my head. Glad I didn't know who he was. I'll know him next time."

"His warnings are to be respected, and this one was well meant. Think you'd better respect it, and leave?"

"No," she replied. "I can do no good, I know, but I intend to exert every effort to bring him to justice for Father's murder, Hugh. I think we're getting somewhere, too. If one of his men can be caught and made to talk, we'll have him. Balfour has the police after this Ghopal Singh, and Chaffee will give us something important when he comes.... No, I want to wait for developments. Do you blame me?"

I did not, of course. She was the vitally interested party; she was the one to prosecute if Lajpat Rai could be linked with the murder of Sir James Trent. Some attempt on Balfour's life would be made within two days. It seemed safe enough for her to stick around until morning, anyhow. We might even get our hands on the chief devil himself.

So there was no further argument.

Getting to the car, we drove out to Balfour's house, getting there about four o'clock, and called Parr and Balfour into consultation. They heard my report of the meeting, and Balfour urged Virginia to accept the warning and leave. She refused flatly.

"Wait till morning, anyhow," she concluded. "I must hear what Chaffee has to tell us, you know."

"All right, then." Balfour shrugged and assented. "So he says the black stone is uranium? Bosh!... Where's the bally thing now, Clements?"

"Lying on my dresser. Want to give Chaffee a demonstration at midnight?"

"We might," he said. "Hello— what's this, now?"

"This" proved to be one of the three guards, asking for a hearing.

"We've been doing a little checking up, Mr. Balfour," he said. "Your phone wires come to the garage first, then to the house. Why?"

"Eh? How the devil would I know?" said Balfour. "Ask the telephone people."

"Well, it'd be a cinch for anyone living in those upstairs garage rooms to tap your wires. All that's needed is a magneto, or a magnet wrapped magneto style. Who stays up there? The two menservants and the cook, I understand."

"Correct," said Balfour. "Both men have been with me for ten years or more. The cook, Mrs. Brown, was employed by my wife three months ago. Local woman. Steady, reliable and a good cook. There's a phone in the garage, by the way."

The guard grinned. "That answers my first question, then. Suppose Mrs. Brown was a spy and reporting all that was said on your phone here?"

We looked at one another. "Well, we'd be in the soup," said Balfour. "I say! I can telephone Mrs. Balfour in Beverly Hills and get this woman's references, and you can look her up in the morning, eh?"

"I'd say do it now," replied the guard, "and one of us can look her up tonight/ If you're on a spot, there's no sense in wasting time. We don't want her to listen in and get wise, though; she's in her room now. I'll go chin with her while you're on the wire."

This was good advice; it would have been better a few hours earlier. Thought of what any such spy might have reported to Lajpat Rai via the garage phone was disturbing. Balfour called Long Distance; before he got his wife, the guard came back hotfoot. Mrs. Brown had gone, disappeared— gone for a walk half an hour ago, another guard said. It had not been considered worth while reporting. She had carried only a leather arm-bag.

"With the magneto and wire in it," said the guard, and went off to search the woman's room. The search revealed nothing suspicious, but Mrs. Brown did not come back; and this looked bad, but not necessarily suspicious.

There was plenty of food in the house, and Balfour's two menservants threw a meal together without trouble. Just as we were about to sit down, the telephone summoned our host. He rejoined us, rubbing his hands and chuckling.

"I knew it! I knew the blighter would overstep!" Balfour exclaimed. "They've got Ghopal Singh— found him driving a car that's registered in his own name, and he's behind the bars now. The chief said I'd better come down this evening when he's questioned. I'll go in an hour or so.... Risk? Poppycock! No risk at all."

Knowing the infernal craft of Lajpat Rai, I was not so sure; however, it was great news, and put us all into an excited dither. At last we had one of the enemy's men in limbo! A start had been made; the Rajah from Hell was not impervious. It put heart into us all. It has often occurred to me, however, that this lucky stroke of ours may have forced Lajpat Rai to change his plans and get into faster motion.

At any rate, we made a merry meal, seasoned with facile predictions on what the morrow would bring forth. The coffee was being served when again Balfour was summoned to the phone by a long-distance call. Once more he returned joyously, and picked a fat cheroot from the open box on the table before he explained.

"That was Chaffee on the line. He's at Santa Maria, a town just north of here. Had some tire trouble and was delayed. Hopes to be along here in a couple of hours. He says not to open any fight on our man until we've talked with Aguilar—dashed important By the way, we've heard nothing from the fellow, eh?"

"Did he say what branch of Government service this Aguilar was in?" I demanded.

"Eh? Oh, yes— Immigration Service."

"Then we may have our man nailed. He probably, almost certainly, entered the country under a false name, and with false papers, and Aguilar is laying for him. Lucky thing Chaffee got into this with us."

"Still, we must catch the wolf," said Virginia Trent, "before we can skin him."

Balfour chuckled over his cheroot, but there was an unhappy truth in her words. Laying hands on the Rajah from Hell would not be easy.

Our host, with activity at hand, became a careful general. He meant to be back from police headquarters before Chaffee arrived. He sent Parr to get out his car and to drive him downtown, and called in the three guards.

"No trouble likely tonight," he said, "and I'll have a radio car sent to prowl on this road; but keep a sharp eye out just the same. Admit nobody except
a man named Aguilar, and another named Chaffee; each will be driving. As soon as I return from downtown, Parr will join you, and you'd best form watches to break up the night. That's all."

"What if anyone else shows up?" asked one. "Strangers?"

"Detain them," Balfour directed. "That's what you're here for."

The forces scattered; the car honked; Balfour bade us a cheery farewell and departed with Parr at the wheel. The evening was pitch dark.

I took a look at things outside, and did not envy the guards their job, though they were armed and had flashlights. Balfour had one floodlight that would illumine the garage front; he should have had a dozen to cover the whole house and its approaches. Still, two men should be able to guard the place.

HALF an hour passed. Virginia, at the piano, was playing softly. I finished a cigar and went upstairs. The slight flesh-wound in my thigh was burning a bit, and I decided to put on a fresh dressing. I switched on the lights in my bedroom, and while getting the gauze and adhesive tape, noticed the silver ring with the black stone lying on my dresser. Better take it downstairs when I went, was my thought; Chaffee would want to have a look at it. We might even test it out at midnight.

My room was at the corner of the house overlooking the drive and the approach to the garage. It was warm weather and the windows were open. I mention all these details, not because of their importance, but to counter the allegations that have been made regarding the luck of Lajpat Rai. I do not believe it was luck. I am not so sure there is any such thing as luck, even. I do know that the man went to amazing care, and was swift to take advantage of conditions as they were— and this, for some people, means luck.

I could hear the piano faintly. To change the dressing on my hurt was no great job. I removed my trousers, took off the bandage Parr had applied, and went to the window. I had heard a car drive up, saw a flashlight beam stabbing about down below, and heard voices.

"Who is it?" I demanded. "Is that Mr. Balfour back?"

"It's a Mr. Aguilar looking for him." replied one of the guards. Aguilar! So the Government man was here!

"Good," I rejoined. "I'll be down in five minutes. Bring him in."

They never had a chance to bring him in.

I went into the adjoining bathroom to get some iodine, found mercurochrome instead, and carefully dabbed it on the torn flesh; to use that stuff requires attention, because it spills and stains. On top of it I put the cotton, gauze and strips of tape, well fastening the dressing. The whole thing had not taken more than three minutes, if that. I looked approvingly at the result, caught a slight sound, and looked up.

Across the bedroom, the top of my dresser was gushing flame.

I was spellbound by the incredible sight. Flames were rolling and breaking in a wave; and the wave came from that silver ring. It, was like a blowtorch, only a hundred times worse. The window curtains had already caught, and fire was bursting up the old-fashioned wooden Venetian blinds. I heard a yell of alarm from outside.

Then I was darting for my trousers. I yanked them on, got bath-towels and went to the flames. It was like fighting blazing gasoline; the towels whipped the flames all over the place and started a dozen more fires— and the damned ring gushed forth fire until the towel knocked it aside and knocked it under the bed. Then the flames really took hold of things.

Chemical of some sort, naturally; we never learned whether some form of radiant energy started the thing, or whether it was spontaneous. The room was a blazing furnace when at length I gave up the useless effort and staggered out into the hall, slamming the door behind me. Virginia was calling frantically at the foot of the stairs; men were shouting outside.

"Get out of the place!" I called to her. "Phone for the fire department!"

Panic had seized me, I admit. Still, I got downstairs and to the phone, and sent the alarm before she could do so. Balfour's two servants and the guards were already at my room, and opening it up merely spread the blaze. I got Virginia outside, and got my rented car out of the garage. It was the only thing saved.

Naturally, everything else had been crowded out of my head— Aguilar's arrival and the rest. I was taking the car down the road a bit when Balfour's car roared up past me on its return. The whole corner of the house was ablaze now, and the ruddy glare showed me the faces of Parr and Balfour very clearly.

I STOPPED the car as quickly as possible and hastened back to the fire. Little time had passed, rapidly as the blaze had gained. Balfour was out of his car, running to Virginia and the guards, who stood out in the road, well away from the heat. The two men-servants had rigged a hose and were dousing the garage roof, to which the flames were nearly reaching. Everything at this side of the house was in a full glare of light. As I approached, I caught sight of another car standing just past the house— that in which Aguilar had arrived. Parr joined me, shouting questions above the roar and crackle of the flames, and we hurried on to the group.

I caught one of the guards by the arm. "Where's that man Aguilar?"

"Gosh, I dunno!" he said, staring around. "He was here a minute ago— back out of the heat somewhere, I guess."

A distant siren, just then, told of coming help. Balfour strode out from us, shouting something at his two servants. I was watching the flames gush out through the house-wall, and thinking how fantastic and improbable must be my story of the fire's origin. We had all forgotten any thought of danger to Balfour.

Then it happened. From the road-edge I saw a tiny spurt of reddish flame; the crack of a shot pierced through the flame-crackle. Balfour threw out his arms and pitched forward in the glare of light.

"There he goes!" yelled one of the guards. I saw a running figure in light gray go darling toward the car up the road. The guard had seen it first, and the gun in his hand spat three rapid shots. The figure fell, rolled over, then was up and in the car. Another guard beside me yelled.

"That's him! That's Aguilar! Get him!"

But nobody could get him. A driver must have been waiting with the engine going; the car slipped away and leaped into the darkness and was gone. Aguilar— Lajpat Rai had come giving Aguilar's name, had done his work, had been hit— and was gone. But he had been hit! One of those pursuing bullets had reached him!

Not that this did any good. Just as the fire chief arrived with siren screaming, we dragged Balfour out of the heat, and found him dead, shot through the head.

Firemen arrived, police arrived; water streams blasted into the house and saved half of it, and the garage, from the flames; but Balfour was dead, murdered. Our efforts had accomplished nothing— except, perhaps, to drive Lajpat Rai into this desperately clumsy murder which could not be disguised as being anything else. He must have planned something far more refined and clever. Certainly his get-away was perfect.

Hundreds of cars and a tumultuous crowd poured on the scene. Parr came through it to where Virginia and I were talking with the police chief. He led another man— a slight, inconspicuous little man.

"Here's Aguilar, Dr. Clements," he said. "The real one."

A quiet, small man, saying almost nothing. But he went down to police headquarters with us and sat in on the investigation. Chaffee showed up later, upon his arrival. He was not so old as the others, being in his early fifties; a spry, leathery-faced, hard-eyed man, also with the ability to keep silent, and a bad egg in spite of his money. He was in time to hear everything and put into dry blunt words what the police chief would not say.

"It's a bust, Dr. Clements," he murmured to me. "The beggar's made a bloody fool of us again, and we're damned well bilked."

AND that was precisely the case. The l single fact on record was that Balfour had been shot; by whom, none could say. Nobody had identified the murderer. In fact, the coroner next morning got a verdict from his jury of person or persons unknown. The hunt went out for the person we described as Lajpat Rai— and that was the end of it, practically.

"Not quite, of course," Aguilar said that afternoon. He, Parr, Chaffee, Virginia and I were in consultation. "He entered the country with false papers, under a false name. That much remains fact, and it sells me chips to sit into the game. That's a crime. We can't pin Balfour's death on him, maybe. We can't pin Colonel Magruder's death on him, maybe. But he's an accessory to the murder of Sir James Trent; do you want to make that charge, Miss Trent?"

"I certainly do," replied Virginia.

I nodded to her.

Howard Chaffee, who had done very little talking to now, spoke up. "I haven't had much chance to gam with you folks, but by all accounts I'm next on the list of this Rajah from Hell, so I'd better take the ball and run with it. I've got a place up at Frisco, no family, lots of room, and I aim to give this guy one hell of a fight when he comes along to monkey with me."

"You'll probably have a respite," I said, "since it's pretty sure he drew a bullet last night and may be laid up temporarily."

Chaffee nodded. He was a cool, level-headed sort, and while disliking him heartily, I felt he was the right man for us.

"Okay, then, if you folks want to join in, come along," he offered. "I can use help, yes. Parr wants to get him because of the killing of his master, Colonel Magruder. Miss Trent has her father's murder in mind. Aguilar has a Government job to handled You, Dr. Clements, have no direct interest—"

"But I have," I said, and met Virginia's eyes for an instant. "Sir James was my friend, and I'm assisting his daughter. Also, I'm the only one of you all who knows the man and can identify him, so that lets me in. Further, I didn't tell the police the truth about how the fire started last night. The truth would be incredible."

Then and there, I gave it to them. Told them about the ring, the black stone, what Lajpat Rai had said concerning it, and what I had seen as the fire's origin.

"Nothing mystical or occult about it," I concluded. "Nothing fuzzy about my brains either. What I saw, I saw, and I can't explain it. Take it for what it's worth."

There was a silence while they eyed me. Then Aguilar spoke in his soft, quiet way, almost apologetically.

"Electronics happens to be a hobby of mine," he said. "During the war I was working with the navy on radar, and the many other electronic devices that were invented. What you've just said, Dr. Clements, is quite credible. I'd say it's clear that this man we're after is an electronics and possibly a radium expert, and therefore dangerous and most interesting in Government eyes. He learned of my expected arrival from the wire-tapping servant and came in my name—impersonating me. I fully intend to wire Washington regarding the issue of a special warrant for his arrest. And for the near future I expect to be located in San Francisco. Do I make myself clear?"

He did, at least to me, for his sidelong glance at Howard Chaffee gave me a hint. He did not entirely like the company he was keeping; nor did I blame him.

"Okay, folks!" Chaffee rose blithely. "I'll get back up to Frisco. You have my address, so show up as soon as you're done with the formalities here. We'll set a trap for Lajpat Rai that will settle him for keeps!"

He little dreamed who would be the victim of his trap— nor did we.

_______________________

2: He Who Sets a Trap

H Bedford-Jones  (As by Gordon Keyne)

Blue Book, March 1947

JOHN AGUILAR was a quiet, efficient little man in or from the Immigration Service. The day after we got to San Francisco, he sat at lunch with us in our hotel— a small, select place far out on California Street. Virginia's English prudery thought it undesirable that we should be at the same hotel; under the circumstances, however, it was necessary, and of course our rooms were on different floors.

"So far," Aguilar said, "I've not received the green light from Washington, but I'm working on the case. Have you seen Howard Chaffee yet?"

Virginia Trent shook her head and gave me a look.

"No. We're going to see him tomorrow. Dr. Clements distrusts him."

"Oh!" Aguilar cocked an eye at me. "We're joining forces to save this man from murder— and yet you don't trust him?"

"Be hanged to saving him!" I said flatly. "Look: Lajpat Rai, the so-called Rajah from Hell, came here from India in order to kill four men who he thought had wronged him during the war. Three of them are now dead, Miss Trent's father among them. I've joined the effort to bring the killer to justice because Sir James Trent was my friend. Also, I know Lajpat Rai personally and in India I saved his life, and he's grateful to me. I don't care a hoot if he kills Chaffee, whom I dislike heartily— in fact, I think him little short of a scoundrel."

"Personally," Aguilar said softly, "I fancy you're right about it."

"Thanks," I said with sarcasm. "You're in it because Lajpat Rai entered this country under an assumed name, with forged papers, and because he's an expert in electronics who has turned his knowledge and aptitude to crime. But evidence—"

"Apparently you have none that will convict him of murder," Aguilar observed: "I have none to convict him of anything else— but I hope to get it. Every scientist in the world is playing with electronics and uranium, these days. Washington holds up my green light, and I'm helpless."

"As regards Chaffee," I said, "I have definite information— but I'm not telling. It may prove damned important."

Virginia eyed me speculatively, and Aguilar chuckled.

"Clements, I like your style," said he. "Talk when ready, not until; that's my motto also. I must warn you two people that Lajpat Rai will have you closely watched."

I nodded. "Understood. But he doesn't regard us as enemies. In fact, I'd not be surprised if he called on me for help one of these days."

Aguilar asked for no explanation of this statement, but rose and shook hands.

"I'm off. I know where to find you; you'll hear from me. I'll give you a ring tomorrow night to hear what develops with Chaffee; for the present, I feel like leaving that man alone. So long!"

He departed. I ordered some more tea; I had become an addict to tea during my years in charge of a hospital in northern India.

Virginia was still eying me.

"Come, Hugh! You have some secret about Chaffee. Telling me?"

"My dear, I love you, I hope to marry you, I want to spend the rest of my life with you," I replied. "But my knowledge remains a secret from everyone— except perhaps from Howard Chaffee himself."

She frowned, then the frown dissolved into a smile.

"You'll make an admirable husband, Hugh," she said, not too lightly. "So few of them seem to know how to keep secrets! Mr. Aguilar keeps them too. We didn't learn much from him, did we?"

I smiled. "I planted bait. He'll burn to learn all I know, and will talk when the time comes. Tomorrow night he'll be still more curious. Howard Chaffee was a teak-buyer in India before the war; that's all we know. Yet he now arrives home, long after all the fracas, with a pocket filled with spending-money. What I know is more definite; Lajpat Rai told me, so it's just hearsay. I'll prove up on it some day.... Well, it's too bad this is such a public place— I like it, otherwise."

"Too bad it's public? Why?" Virginia's eyes widened.

"The well-known biologic urge tells me to kiss you, but reason says you wouldn't appreciate it here. Let's take a taxicab and go down to Chinatown; then people will think we're honeymooners and won't care."

"Oh! I've never seen Chinatown," she said demurely. "And I'd love to."

For a young woman who had spent most of her life in India, Virginia Trent had a surprising eagerness about Grant Street and its Oriental shops. We bought some rather good tea and a few knickknacks. I tried to lure her into looking at engagement rings, but she balked at spending so much money; evidently I would have to select one on my own.

WE SPENT a charming afternoon and quite forgot Lajpat Rai. I was not worried about him particularly, because a week ago in Santa Barbara he had apparently stopped a bullet, after Balfour was killed, and I thought he might be out of the game temporarily.... Wishful thinking, of course.

On the following afternoon Chaffee came for us in a swanky big car. He asked where Parr was. Parr, who had been Colonel Magruder's man, had attached himself to me after the murder of his master.

"He was called to Los Angeles, on some affair of the estate," I said. "He'll be here in a few days. So there are just the two of us at the moment."

Chaffee, leathery, hard-eyed, slangy, tucked us into his car. He was in his early fifties, I judged, and hard as nails. He drove us west to Golden Gate Park, then south to the western flank of the hills. The seaward side of the city stretched out before us, and the ocean beyond, bordered by the Esplanade.

"Got a quiet hillside place," he said. "Nice district, all built up solid; China boy to look after things. The Rajah from Hell won't crack this nut very easy. Wong can use a gun too."

It was a snug, secure place— a small stucco house and garage, bordered by stucco walls eight feet high, with a garden behind and a high iron-spiked fence in front. Inside, the house was up to date, handsomely furnished, and Chaffee was rightly proud of it. He had trophies of various kinds from Burma and India, and displayed them with a childish vanity. He was showing us a book—a Persian manuscript— containing some remarkable Mogul miniatures, which he had found in Nepal.

"A bit o' loot," said he. "All kinds of agents there— Communist, Jap, Chinese, Soviet. This here Lajpat Rai was one. I got this book from his effects. It was me identified him as the famous bandit when we nailed him."

"He claims it was all framed on him, and false," I said.

Chaffee snarled. "Arrgh! That's a lie! I knew him. My own brother Gerard was killed by those dacoits, near the Tibet border. He had done well, too, and had made money. Why, he had two teak companies going—"

Something fell out of the book and slid to the floor; a small slip of paper on which a few words were written. Chaffee picked it up, glanced at it, and his leathery face went white. He hastily pocketed the slip of paper and called Wong, questioning him about any strangers who might have been in the house.

Wong was an alert, cheerful fellow, no longer young, and spoke fluent English. Nobody had been here today, he said; but yesterday a man from the electric-light company had called and checked up on wiring installations.

Chaffee dismissed him and led us out into the garden, which was private and charming. Delicious tea was served with mint and jasmine, and our host spoke of Aguilar.

"He couldn't show up today. Acts sort of huffy, if you ask me— stand-off guy. Well, I have some information on Lajpat Rai I'm willing to throw in the pot, and if Aguilar won't work with us, he can go without. You ready to talk business, Dr. Clements?"

I said yes, and asked if he had hired any guards.

Chaffee sniffed impatiently.

"No. When Parr comes, he and Wong can act. The fewer people around, the better. Do you think Lajpat Rai is here in town now?"

I shrugged. "You know as much about him as I do."

"Well, step inside to my den, while I get that data on him. Excuse us a minute, Miss Trent; be right back."

We went into the house, to a pleasant den overlooking the garden. Here Chaffee produced some regal cheroots, and taking one, I ventured a question.

"Pardon the personal angle— there's a reason. Did you inherit a good deal of money from your brother who died in Tibet?"

"Aye. Everything. A goodish lot." Chaffee turned, his sharp eyes boring into me. "Who told you that?"

"Lajpat Rai, the Rajah from Hell. He also said your brother was not dead but alive, that he had rescued him and was keeping him safe. I thought I'd better warn you."

The man stood stock-still. After a minute he took from his pocket the bit of paper which had fallen from the book and handed it to me, without a word. I looked at the writing:

I'll drop in to see you one of these days.— Gerard.

"That's his list," said Chaffee. "How did it get in that book? Electric man, yesterday, slipped it in. Nobody else has been here. That devil Lajpat Rai is at work, all right! Well, thanks for letting me know."

I followed him back outside. We said nothing to Virginia of this by-play, but settled down with our cheroots and Chaffee gave me the information he had gathered. This was that Lajpat Rai had entered the country at San Francisco six months ago, under the name of Hari Lal, a student, and had papers to prove his identity.

"All forged, of course," sniffed Chaffee. "Aguilar can sweat on that, all right. It's his business. Who can prove that the guy is actually Lajpat Rai, though? That man is supposed to be dead back in India— heir to the Rajah of Sirvath."

"You're getting things balled up," I said, and Virginia laughed uneasily. "I want evidence that he was accessory to the murder of Sir James Trent, which he was. He has killed three of the men who allegedly framed him and jailed him in India; you're the fourth. If he's deported, aren't you safe?"

"Until next time, maybe," Chaffee said sulkily. "I want to see him planted. And that's what I want from you— help in locating him. You know him. You tell me where to find him, Clements; that's all. I'll see to the rest; I've got ways and means. But it's got to be soon— inside of two days."

RELATIONS were becoming more strained. I liked Chaffee even less. Now, for the first time, I suspected his pose of wanting no one but Parr and Wong there. He was playing a deep game of some sort. I was glad when Virginia made a move to depart. Chaffee ran out his car, insisting on driving us.

"We don't seem to be getting far with any campaign of precautions," I said to him as he drove over Twin Peaks road and headed downtown.

He chuckled.

"Leave it to me; it's my fight," he replied. "What I want is all the info I can get on this fellow Lajpat Rai. Give me whatever you get. Send Parr to me— he's an honest man. That house of mine will make the prettiest trap you ever saw."

"He who sets a trap," chimed in Virginia, "had better be sure what game he expects to catch in it, Mr. Chaffee."

He chuckled anew at this. "Thanks, I'll bear that in mind, Miss Trent."

He delivered us safely at the hotel, gave me his card and phone number, said we must keep in touch, and drove away. I was glad to see him go.

Finding no mail, I guided Virginia into the tiny cocktail lounge, found a table for safe conversation, secured the proper drinks, and said:

"All right, my charming partner, let's have it."

"Have what?"

"Your reaction. While in his den, I gave our associate a hard jolt, but he made no comment. I think he's double-crossing us— that is, holding back. Keeping his boasted ways and means strictly to himself! While in India, he pocketed fat rewards for false testimony, so I'm entirely willing to think him a blackguard."

"My feeling exactly," she agreed in her quiet way. "And I'm sorry we're associated with him, Hugh; I'm sorry you are."

"I'm playing a game of my own," I said. "I expect something to come of it. In another day or two I'll tell you all about it, my dear— so give me the satisfaction of seeing whether my expectations come true, as I think they will."

She laughed softly. "As you like. When does Parr rejoin us?"

"I don't know yet. Chaffee wants his help, seems to trust him."

"For obvious reasons," she said. "Parr was utterly devoted to Colonel Magruder. He wants only one thing— to get the man who murdered him. And being an old soldier, he's absolutely ruthless and will stop at nothing; that's why Chaffee wants him."

I whistled softly. English girls can be smart as whips.

"You're positively clairvoyant at times!" I said.

Virginia finished her drink and rose, smiling at me.

"Probably that is why I like you, Hugh," she said, and left me to figure whether it was a compliment or not.

Aguilar, as he had promised, gave me a phone-call that evening.

"I had a letter from Washington today," he said. "Indefinite: a checkup is being made with atomic-bomb people and I'll hear in due course, and so forth. Irritating! Everyone passes the buck and is afraid of decisions. You have any luck with Chaffee?"

"Yes and no," I replied. "Our friend entered the country here at San Francisco six months ago under the name of Hari Lal— papers okay."

"Ho! That's fine— I can check on that, you bet. And that's not his name. But who can prove it?"

"So far, I don't know. But he'll have a hell of job proving it is his name! However, that's your pigeon, not mine. I don't care about seeing him deported, nor does Chaffee. In fact, the latter wears thin on my nerves. Miss Trent and I don't fancy him, and I suspect his intents and purposes."

Aguilar cackled a thin little laugh.

"Excellent man, Clements! So do I, between you and me, I'd advise keeping Miss Trent on the sidelines; I rather think our excellent Chaffee is playing with firecrackers. I'll know more about that in a day or two."

"Oh!" I said. So he knew something. "Which Chaffee?"

"Which Chaffee?" echoed Aguilar, puzzled. "Just what do you mean?"

"Well, I may know more about it in a few days," I said. "When you feel like explaining about your firecrackers, just let me know. Good luck."

I rang off, knowing very well that he would understand perfectly. An amazing little man, this Aguilar; but he had to be reined in sharply, and I meant to do it.

That is, if my expectations came to anything. It was purely a gamble, but in view of what had happened before, I did not mind the risk.

ii

THE VERY next day, my expectations bore rich if somewhat perilous fruit. This was extremely lucky, because Chaffee had given me a two-day limit in which to tell him where Lajpat Rai might be found. Not put as an ultimatum, of course; all the same, I felt that anything Mr. Howard Chaffee might say was to be regarded with a serious eye. As Parr had expressed it after their first meeting, the leathery-faced gentleman was a stinger; and very well put, I thought.

The situation was one of almost ludicrous irony: Virginia and I had come here to save one man from murder, and to help the law get its hands on the killer of three others. We now distrusted the one man acutely, and I was somewhat at odds with Aguilar, who stood for the law. And I, meantime, was on passable terms with the murderer, whom I hoped to bring to justice!

I left the Stanford, our quiet little hotel, for a trip downtown. I meant to get that engagement ring, today. Virginia Trent was very English in some ways— naturally— and I figured that once she was wearing the ring it would be an irrevocable step. Not that I was afraid of losing her, but it was just a play-safe detail. And, of course, there was the sentimental side.

So I mentioned that I intended to get her ball-and-chain, kissed her with due appreciation of her spirited response, and sought a downtown-bound cable car.

Downtown I hopped off the car, having the address of a big jewelry store, and was headed for Kearny Street when it happened: A big cheerful well-dressed man overtook me.

"Beg pardon," he said. "Are you Dr. Hugh Clements?"

"Yes," I replied in astonishment. "But how—"

"Never mind— you were pointed out to me. This is an emergency," he said. "Here's my card— Dr. James Smythe. I've been working on a former patient of yours: old chap named Chaffee. The case has me absolutely stumped. I had to give up and shoot some dope into him to keep the muscles relaxed until I could get you. Frankly, I think he's on the way out, but I understand you have used a peculiar technique that may save him. Will you come along and see him? I've a car here."

A strange thing to happen on the street of a strange city where I was unknown. But Lajpat Rai had kept me tailed, of course.

"Yes," I said. "As a physician, I can't well refuse your appeal."

"Fine!" he exclaimed, beaming. "Then hop in the car and we'll talk en route."

A car with a uniformed driver drew up at the curb, and we got in.

"This is my own car, Clements." Smythe spoke reassuringly, but still rapidly. Evidently he was not at all sure of me. "Catching you has been fast and furious work— but I must impress one thing on you: Emergency, professional secrecy, no broadcast! Savvy? We're trying to save a life— the old fellow's life. Maybe you can succeed where I failed. But we must keep silent, say nothing to anyone. You agree?"

I looked at him, and really saw him for the first time. He was earnest, sincere, rather breathless. A good man, I thought.

"Are you acting under instructions?" I asked.

He nodded.

"Yes, by phone. I don't know who gave them. At first I thought it was all screwy, until I got downtown here and you were pointed out to me—"

"Skip it," I said, and leaned back. "You're okay; for a moment I suspected you. Yes, I agree fully, if it concerns old Chaffee alone. He's not wanted for anything."

It began to come clear to me. Gerard Chaffee had gone under with one of his attacks. Lajpat Rai was unable to work on him; therefore had called in a good man— and I later found that Smythe was a very good man indeed— to handle him. An amazing thing was the rapidity and efficiency with which Lajpat Rai or his agents had acted. Smythe was unable to treat or understand the case, but realizing the emergency had pumped morphia into Chaffee to relax him and check the paralysis. Meantime I had been tailed downtown. Smythe was rushed to pick me up and haul me into the case. Desperately fast work!

A physician— a good one— reacts to the need of professional secrecy when it is necessary to save a life. Smythe had reacted instantly; I had to follow suit, and said as much. He nodded at me.

"I was told that you'd understand, Clements. But the case isn't clear to me."

"No. I'll clear it up in a jiffy. I'm working in connection with Government men," I said, stretching things a bit, "to locate the man behind this Gerard Chaffee—the one who gave you the instructions. So I can agree, therefore, to hold the affair confidential. I'll explain the case to you."

I went on to tell how I had just returned from seven years of work in India— from long before the war, indeed— how Gerard Chaffee had been on my boat, and I had been called in when the old boy had an attack. I knew the symptoms. Chaffee had undergone torture in Tibet, being bound lengthily in certain positions which induced a later muscular and nerve paralysis. My acquaintance with such things, my experience, told me what to do and so forth.

Smythe listened to my story with intent interest.

"It clears," he said at last. "They must have kept you under close surveillance to be able to put the finger on you so rapidly."

"Too damned close," I agreed. "Probably foreseeing this very contingency. In fact, I foresaw the possibility myself." I said nothing to him, of course, about Howard Chaffee, brother of the invalid. "Frankly, I don't know if I can pull the old boy through, but we'll have a try.... What the hell! Are we going here?"

The car was pointing up the grade for the Fairhill— the old aristocratic hotel on Nob Hill.

Smythe assented.

"Right. I'm the hotel physician. Chaffee has a room here, all alone."

This was a facer; but evidently Lajpat Rai was playing quite safe. He had put Chaffee here and was himself somewhere else— very much somewhere else. His vital interest in keeping the old fellow alive was not at all charitable. He intended to make use of him in pursuing his dream of vengeance upon Howard Chaffee; he had told me so himself.

WE WERE out of Smythe's car, without delay, then down a corridor and into a fine airy room where a nurse met us.

"Miss Simms, hotel nurse— Dr. Clements," Smythe snapped. "How is he?"

"Asleep. Relaxed. Heart not affected."

Old Chaffee, wrinkled and scarred and twisted, lay naked under a sheet. The drug had relaxed him, but any sedative was dangerous, purely an emergency measure; the nerve ganglia, I found, were still tight, and I said so.

"There's no cure, merely temporary relief," I told Smythe. "Your sedative has halted the paralysis; enough to stop the action would kill him. I'll work over the ganglia and loosen 'em up, and he'll sleep for a bit."

"How long does your relief last?" he queried, as I fell to work kneading and massaging the ganglia.

"Maybe a week or two, maybe less— can't say."

Between us, we gave that scarred, half-moribund old body a thorough going-over. While we were at it, the phone rang. The nurse answered and summoned me. I knew who it was even before I heard that remarkable voice with the timbre of a bronze bell.

"Hello, Dr. Clements! And how is Chaffee? Will he pull through?"

"I think so, Your Highness," I said with irony.

"I'm glad you're there. Could you consent to run over to see me, when you've finished with him, on similar conditions?"

"No. On no conditions whatever," I replied— and he laughed.

"Very well. I respect your honesty. Then I'll come and see you."

He rang off. I hung up and returned to work, giving Smythe a nod.

"Remarkable voice," he said. "I could hear it. Any call for police?"

"Unfortunately, no," I answered. "Evidence, warrants and such things are not yet in the picture."

"Too bad; I hoped for excitement. See here, d'you mind if I run downstairs to my office to check on calls? Not be gone long. I'll leave Miss Simms in case you need her."

I had no objections, for he was of no great help to me. So he departed, and I worked away, in no good humor. What if Lajpat Rai did have the impudence to show up here? I could not have him arrested. There was no evidence against him to justify that extreme. Aguilar had no warrant. Certainly it was not my business to let Howard Chaffee know where his brother was, either. I must just lie doggo, and it irked me tremendously.

The job was finished at last. I stepped into the bathroom, washed my hands, and came back into the room, turning down my shirt-sleeves. My eye caught sight of the telephone on the dresser; a scratch-pad was attached to it, and a number was penciled on the pad— Burl. 8397. Easy to memorize.

A knock at the door, I called to enter, and the door opened to admit Lajpat Rai.

He smiled and walked in— handsome, assured, his small black mustache setting off his golden skin. One arm was under his coat, and the sleeve dangled.

"Good afternoon," he said, throwing a glance at the nurse, who was putting the bed to rights. "I thought it needless to be announced. He's asleep, Clements?"

"Yes. May stay so for a while," I said. "After this, Dr. Smythe will be able to treat him.... Something wrong with your arm?"

"Unfortunately, yes. Useless for the time being." He smiled at me. He had stopped a bullet at Santa Barbara, after murdering Balfour, but we did not mention the matter.

"Where's Dr. Smythe's office, Miss Simms?" I asked, and when she told me: "You might run along, and tell him I'll stop in on my way out."

LAJPAT RAI made no objection, and she departed. He closed the door behind her, and turned to me.

"Really, Clements, I appreciate your being here," he said quietly, earnestly. "I fully understand all it means. But there's one thing I had to ask you. Do you consider it your duty to inform Howard Chaffee where his brother is located?"

"No," I replied. Now as always, he fascinated me. His tailored tweeds, his entire getup, was immaculate. "I don't fancy your Howard Chaffee."

"Right. He'd murder this poor old devil like a shot," said the other. "Yet you are very anxious to protect him from me."

"Not at all," I replied. "Let him do that for himself. I want only to see you brought to justice as the murderer of my friend Sir James Trent."

"Because you desire to marry his daughter," he said, showing white, even teeth in a smile. "Well, that's natural. I regret it, but can't help it. If I were melodramatic and so forth, I might threaten the young lady and bring you to your senses. I shan't do that; I've nothing against her, or against you. Indeed, I shall prove as much."

I looked at him, without response. I wondered if he could feel that in my most secret heart I almost sympathized with him. After all, he fancied that a foul wrong had been done him in the past; he had every reason to seek vengeance, according to his own warped reasoning.

"No, we have different viewpoints," he said, quite as though reading my thoughts. "A pity. Well, at a previous meeting I told you that I was wealthy, powerful, impervious to any harm from you. You must have realized that was true, Dr. Clements. You cannot even find me. So I have no intention of bribing you. But you have helped this old man, who is necessary to my plans, and I am grateful. I am leaving an evidence of my gratitude at your hotel; do not reject it— it is merely a commercial object."

He turned to the door, paused, and gave me an amused glance over his shoulder.

"Your friend Mr. Aguilar," he observed, "might like to know that the papers with which I entered this country were not forged. The English consul here can no doubt obtain evidence of this fact. Good day."

He opened the door and departed. This final shot left me staring and entirely confused. What did he know, what did he guess, about Aguilar's activities? Once more I was left with the impression of his singular force; it was as though the rest of us were using pea-shooters against a man in armor.

With this sense of futility, I was slipping into my coat when Smythe knocked and stepped into the room.

"Oh! Gone, is he? Remarkable fellow, Miss Simms says. I'll have her keep an eye on the patient. Anything to suggest?"

I glanced at Chaffee. "No. He's a tough old bird and can probably prescribe for himself quite safely. I'll be getting along home."

In no mood now for buying a ring, I went back to the Stanford, inquired for Virginia, found her gone out. The clerk handed me a plain sealed envelope, and I remembered the words of Lajpat Rai. Opening it, I found a small envelope inside, and in this something that I turned out on my palm, amazedly.

A diamond— if it were genuine— a nice-looking one of about two carats. Or some similar stone. It looked quite blue, and puzzled me. Just a commercial object, Lajpat Rai had said. An imitation stone, perhaps? With that man, anything was possible. Hm! I was not inclined to moon around the hotel all afternoon with Virginia gone. So, impulsively, I hopped a cable car and went back downtown. This was not consistent with my former mood, but a man in love is never consistent.

The gem expert tucked his glass in his eye and said, "Nice stone!"

"Yes. What kind of stone?" I asked. "That's what I want to know."

"There aren't more than three or four in the country," said he. "Blue diamond."

I had already thought about Virginia. Women are funny about engagement rings; usually they do not like any other thoughts attached to them. And this stone was from the man who had killed Sir James Trent. So I scratched the notion, bought an expensive engagement ring and turned in the blue diamond on the price.

Regaining the hotel, I found Parr sitting in the lobby, a bag between his feet. I took him up to my room, we had a drink, and talked. He liked Chaffee no more than we did, but he wanted to get the murderer of his old master, Colonel Magruder.

"What I like doesn't matter, sir! Unless you advise against it, I'll take my place with Mr. Chaffee and be doing my bit. Isn't that the likeliest way of getting a shot at this 'ere bloody Rajah from Hell?"

"It is," I asserted, and reaching for the phone, called Howard Chaffee's number. He answered in person and I gave my name.

"Parr's here and wants to get busy. I gathered yesterday that you want him."

"Oh, right!" said Chaffee. "Pop him in a taxi, send him here, and I'll take care of him. If he's after action, he'll get it."

"He'll be along, then. I suppose you were joking when you spoke of wanting the address of our friend from India?"

"Eh? Who— oh, come now, Clements! Pulling my leg, are you? Joking? I'd give a thousand dollars cash on the nail to know where he is!"

"Well, his phone number is Burlingame 8397. That ought to be enough for you."

I hung up, catching Parr's eye and laughing.

"Is it really, sir?" he asked eagerly.

"I'm not sure, but I think so," I said. "He's too sharp to be caught, however."

Parr was on the scent, though; his one purpose in life was to meet this Lajpat Rai in the flesh. It had become an obsession. I saw him into a taxi, sent him off to Chaffee's house, and got back to my room to find my phone ringing. My colleague Smythe was on the line.

"Clements? Good! From the way you spoke this afternoon, I imagined you'd much like to know the address of that chap— Chaffee's friend, you know. I had him tailed when he left the hotel, and I just got a report. He went to the Burlingame Arms, a hotel in Burlingame, just south of the city. He's there under the name of Senhor Arenas— supposedly he is an Argentine businessman."

I thanked him warmly, hung up, and swallowed hard. My guess had been a good one.

For a crowded moment I sat thinking. Lajpat Rai must have written down that phone number for old Chaffee; he had been in the room with me, must have noticed or recalled it; he was too clever to miss such a detail. However—

I got Aguilar on the line.

"Just on the point of calling you," he said cheerfully. "I'd like to make a deal with you, Clements. Your remarks about two Chaffees—"

"All right; it's a bargain," I said. "Come along to lunch tomorrow, and we'll talk. But here's something you may be able to use, if you work fast: Lajpat Rai is at the Burlingame Arms hotel in Burlingame under the name of Arenas— presumably an Argentine capitalist. I doubt if he'll be there long. Also, the papers under which he entered this country as Hari Lal were not forged."

"Eh? How d'ye know that?"

"He told me so himself, an hour or two ago; said you might like to know."

With this parting shaft, I rang off, with the Immigration man cursing me.

iii

I WAS NOT at all proud of myself nor of my actions as a phone relay man; my share in apprehending Lajpat Rai was minor. And it would be fruitless. He was not one to be so easily caught, or even found. I had a feeling of contempt for Howard Chaffee. With Aguilar it was different— but I could not feel sure about him.

I said something of this when I took Virginia out to dinner and a bit of dancing at one of the night-clubs on the Esplanade, the beach at the far west side of town, that evening. She nodded at me.

"I know, Hugh. How much worse do you suppose I feel— a woman, futile, doing nothing? But really, I think you're doing a lot. I'm glad you're not a beast on the hunt like our Chaffee friend; that's my impression of him."

I nodded. Having told her about Gerard Chaffee and Lajpat Rai's idea of using him against his brother, and the afternoon's events, I went into the more inviting topic of diamonds. My ring was approved, and while we were dancing I slipped it on her finger. Her protests died in admiration. We had a very pleasant evening, all in all, and got back to the hotel to find a curt note in my box. It read:

You were right— but the bird flew the nest.—A.

Anxious to see me— so anxious that he had come to the hotel instead of waiting till the morrow! I chuckled. Aguilar was where I wanted him now; no more stand-off plays! And Lajpat Rai had skipped from the Burlingame Arms, as expected. So Chaffee had drawn blank also.

NEXT DAY was Sunday. In the morning, Virginia and I went to church, and came back to find Aguilar on hand. We settled down in a corner of the empty lobby.

"I've made discoveries," he said in his placid way. "Overnight, the whole state of things has changed amazingly. A special warrant is on the way from Washington, and I've been given charge of the case. You'd never guess why."

"I don't intend to guess," I said cheerfully. "You come clean, Mister."

He chuckled and burnished his spectacles.

"So you were talking with him yesterday! Clements, I'll come clean. To satisfy me, first tell me whether he has a slight scar on his upper lip."

I mentally pictured the handsome, powerful features of Lajpat Rai, and nodded.

"Yes. It's barely visible under the small black mustache, but it shows."

"That settles it; he's our man." Aguilar sighed contentedly and relaxed. "A man of a hundred identities! The one we want is Colonel Nicholas Myedin, so-called. Posing as a secret agent for China, he pulled some funny tricks on our Burmese forces at the close of the war. The specific charge is murder and theft of papers— a few weeks ago one of the officers engaged in the Bikini bomb tests was killed and his reports were taken, by Myedin. This is sacredly confidential, understand."

"And this Myedin is our Lajpat Rai?" I asked.

"Absolutely. Luckily, he thinks I'm only an Immigration inspector."

I was dazed. "Do you imply that he's a secret agent for China?"

"No, no! Of course not. A free lance. The man's an electrical wizard, Clements; he's now engaged in selling some amazing electronic devices to the Scott-Ames people of Vancouver, but he's not tied up with them. Scott, the head of the firm, is now here in the city. We've warned him and he sniffs; you know how Canadians can sniff. Like the British."

"I see. Chaffee got you into this game. Does he suspect that you—"

"That I'm a Federal agent? Nobody does," Aguilar said earnestly. "Howard Chaffee was a dope-smuggler out of India and China. He's in with a bad crowd here— and I mean bad! He probably has half a dozen guns working for him right now— killers, the worst kind."

This was a new light on the leathery Chaffee. Things were opening up.

I talked— and kept nothing back. Now Lajpat Rai stood in a new light entirely, with murder as his business; I kicked myself for my sneaking sympathy with him. He had lied like a Trojan in all he had said to me. He had not been framed at all in India; he had just been caught, whatever he might fancy about injustice.

"If I'd given you quicker information yesterday, you'd have got him," I said. "You didn't like to talk, so I didn't know the truth—"

He grinned, "Too many miss because they like to talk. I don't."

"Well, the whole situation now stands in a new and clearer light. Colonel Nicholas Myedin, eh? Then you don't care about Miss Trent's laying any charge against him in connection with her father's murder."

"I most certainly do," Aguilar said quickly. "The more charges the better. I'm not inclined to pass up any bets. He's slippery, and has a mean record."

I liked John Aguilar still more.

We decided to eat, and Virginia said she was dying to visit Fishermen's Wharf. At this, Aguilar shrugged.

"You've heard too much loose talk," said he. "It's a trap for sucker tourists who believe anything. Oh, well, there are one or two very good places there, so come on."

We took a taxicab and had an admirable fish dinner, because Aguilar knew his way around and everyone knew him. He was a contradictory fellow even in looks, never to be taken on face value.

After the meal, he left us, intent on business. Virginia and I decided to walk home; she loved long walks. My thoughts were naturally on Lajpat Rai— or Nicholas Myedin, as he had now become. A strange man, there; a free lance treading the verge of dizzy heights, strangely alone, strangely capable, holding murder a game to be played with huge zest!

Virginia and I did not discuss him. She wanted to see the city's unfamiliar places; we took little streets, all hill and dale, seeing the sort of landscapes that any city can produce in its meaner aspects.

Of course we missed our way and went far astray, which mattered nothing. We found incredible shops, crazy streets, odd corners among those steep hills. And as we climbed one short street of little apartments, mostly with garages beneath them, I saw a man putting away his car. He opened the garage doors, got into his car, and drove it in. I had a good look at him, and thought nothing of it; then as we came to the next corner, I remembered something.

His face— a kindly, aged, white-mustached face, the face of an old Hindu. The face of the old servitor of Lajpat Rai I had seen in his Los Angeles quarters weeks ago before Sir James Trent was murdered.

"Turn back, Virginia," I said. "Cross the street and turn back down— I want to get the number of a house. And what's the name of the street?"

We walked down past the garage; on the steep slope the ground floors were garages or walled, so we were below the casual sight of anyone in the house. "Thought I saw someone I knew," was my light explanation. "Evidently wrong about it." Virginia paid little attention, so I got what I wanted: 742 Colsax Street. With that address buzzing in my head, we finished our long walk.

Thinking it over, I was less sure. Perhaps mistaken recognition; perhaps merely someone who looked like the old Hindu. If that old chap were here with a car, then Lajpat Rai was here— a most unlikely and improbable thing, indeed. I was shaken, and lost confidence. Our man was a swaggering patron of great hotels and elegant hostelries, not a dweller in a hide-out in a dingy street of little flats.

So reason argued me into uncertainty; I dared take no chances on mistakes. The thing pestered me mentally all night. Go back there afoot and hang around? No, no! The whole street, except the spot immediately in front, was commanded by the house windows. I had to make sure.

VIRGINIA was to devote most of the day to a hairdresser, so I felt quite free. Midmorning saw me on Colsax Street, comfortably in the back of a taxicab. The driver halted on the hillside opposite 742, left the cab, and mounted to two different entrances in search of a mythical Horace Green who had sent in a call. He did a lot of talking and gained me quite a bit of time in which to keep an eye on 742 from my hiding-place, for I had wisely taken him into my confidence.

I saw nothing significant; that two-story apartment looked deserted, the windows remained empty, no one appeared in sight. But, when my driver returned, he settled under his wheel, started the car up the hill, and nodded at me.

"No rooms to rent around here at all," he reported. "Couldn't find out who lives in 742, neither; but I did learn the place had been sold about a week ago. That help you any?"

"Not particularly," I replied. "But if you want an extra ten-spot, come back here tonight or tomorrow, do some more gossiping, and let me have any details you can pick up about the people in 742— what they look like and so forth. Anything at all."

He said "okay," and took me back to the Stanford. I was by no means satisfied and yet not thrown off the track by what I had just learned. Rents being what they were, it was not unlikely that Lajpat Rai would buy a place, money being no object to him. And yet my notion might be all moonshine, so I had to go slow, until I obtained something definite by way of evidence. And if I got it, I did not intend to take it to Chaffee. Aguilar was now in position to handle our man to more effect.

Chaffee phoned me that afternoon.

"I keep my promises, Clements," he said. "There's a check for you in the mail, a thousand. You had the goods on the guy, but I went there with Parr too late. How did you chance on that telephone number?"

"Pure accident," I said. "I wasn't too certain about it. And I don't want your money, Chaffee—"

"Forget that stuff," he broke in. "You know that paper we found in the old book? I guess it was genuine. What you told me about my brother being alive was true— and who's behind him. A lawyer has jumped on me and it looks like I'm stuck; got to pay out big money. Well, that's all right; I'm trusting it'll lead me to Lajpat Rai. Parr is a good man. I'm glad to have him on the job. Hey! Hold the line, will you?"

I assented, for excitement had shrilled in his voice. Alter a moment of waiting, I heard Chaffee again.

"Clements? Well, I've got something. Parr just came in. He's been scouting around a hotel at Burlingame— that's where your phone number sent us. And he's learned something there. He got the license number of the Rajah's car: a Buick sedan, registered in the name of Howard Smith, at an address in Yreka—"

"What town?" I demanded.

"Yreka." He spelled it out. "That's a town north of here. Fake name and address, of course; but it's a starting-point to look for here. Do you want the number?"

I took it down, with a jumpy thrill; if that car garaged at 742 Colsax Street carried this license plate 7E-24-55, then I had the answer! Chaffee vouchsafed that the number had been obtained from the hotel garage, which listed all the cars of clients. Parr, he said, had learned that the Brazilian capitalist, Arenas, had a chauffeur, name unknown, and I could guess that this was another crafty dodge of Lajpat Rai, who never had a car registered in his own name.

"How will this thing do you any good?" I demanded.

"Any traffic cop who spots this number gets a hundred bucks, Clements. The same reward will be out in other quarters, too. You'd be surprised what a reward can accomplish! It may lead to nothing in this case, but I'm betting it will turn up something good."

There was sense in what he said, in his whole attitude. After all, he was fighting for his life. If resources had been pooled weeks ago, as I had desired, before the Rajah from Hell reached so many of his victims, a winning battle might have been waged against him— and good men might be still alive.

Excited as I was over the possibilities, I had to keep away from that Colsax Street house. One glimpse of me hanging about would blow the game, and off would be our quarry. How to make sure, then, in regard to the car and its license plate? Virginia, I, Parr, Aguilar— all of us were known by sight to Lajpat Rai, and he probably had men tailing us all. He must have a small army working for him; but now, while he had one arm out of commission, was the time to run him down, if ever.

I was expecting Virginia back about five. Slightly before then, Aguilar walked into the hotel and we adjourned to the cocktail lounge.

"Accident," said he. "I merely happened to be going past and dropped in to say hello. I suppose you know all about the legal troubles that have descended on our friend Chaffee."

"No," I said. "He mentioned something of the sort over the phone, though. He called to give me the license number on Lajpat Rai's car."

Aguilar smiled. "Yes, I got that, too, at the hotel. Happens to be a last year's plate, one of the old yellow ones, the car is undoubtedly sporting an up-to-date plate now. Parr wouldn't be up to the mark on such details of strategy."

This was a facer; it really knocked me for a loop. I tried to dissemble my feelings and asked about Chaffee's legal troubles.

These, said Aguilar, were bad. Howard Chaffee had inherited something like a hundred thousand dollars from the estate of his dead brother Gerard. Now it seemed that Gerard was not dead at all, but was here in San Francisco and was suing for the value of the estate. And Howard Chaffee, to cover up certain frauds of his own in connection with evidence of his brother's death in Tibet, would have to settle up on the nail.

"He admitted as much," I commented. "Lajpat Rai is behind it, of course. He regards Chaffee with venomous hatred, and I don't blame him. But tell me— how the devil do you know so much detail?"

Aguilar accepted a cigarette. "My boy, we're dealing with a smart man, one of the most clever fellows alive, in Colonel Nicholas Myedin. But let me tell you that no one, whether Al Capone or a Rajah from Hell, is smart and wealthy and powerful enough to thumb his nose at Uncle Sam's law-enforcement agencies. We're dealing with a crook, a scoundrel, a murderer. No guy like that is clever enough to beat it— in the end. Cleverness won't help him— it'd take an act of God."

I had my doubts, despite everything. Lajpat Rai, or Myedin, was a shadow, a myth. Trace him through Gerard Chaffee? Aguilar merely sniffed. Try everything, he said, neglect nothing, fail at every move— but sooner or later, the end would come. Maybe through Howard Chaffee, too. Another reason to give Chaffee rope, let him play his own game.

Now Virginia arrived, interrupting us. Aguilar stayed for another drink, refused dinner, and left us. After Virginia had changed her dress, we took a cab downtown to the Palace for a sensible old-fashioned dinner at the Garden Court—a regular London atmosphere, and excellent wine. Subdued lights, soft music, perfect service combined to make it a memorable occasion.

We were halfway through the meal, when Virginia gave me a startled glance.

"I'm not sure— or yes, I am too," she exclaimed. "Do you remember the man I saw in a drugstore at Santa Barbara, just for a moment?"

I caught my breath, as I met her eyes.

"You don't mean— No, it can't be— not here, of all places!"

"Yes. To your left and behind you; the table against the wall."

I turned a little, and saw him, slim and debonair in his evening attire, the jeweled miniature of some decoration flashing on his shirt-front— Colonel Nicholas Myedin, as he actually was— Lajpat Rai, as I knew him.

iv

A GLIMPSE— I dared no more, and turned to Virginia, breathless.

"Yes, that's the man! His empty sleeve is proof enough."

"Oh! That's what puzzled me; he seemed one-armed."

Her eyes flashed; I knew she was thinking of her father's murder.

"Careful, my dear," I warned. "He has seen you; therefore he knows we're here. He's no fool. Who is that with him?"

"I don't know him; a white man," she said. "Well, do something!"

"Whatever you say." I looked at her. "What?"

At this, she bit her lip. "I'm a fool, Hugh; there's nothing we can do."

"Yes, there is, but don't get hasty," I said. "If he hasn't noticed you already, he will. He wouldn't be here unless he were perfectly safe, be sure of that. The only person I know who can tag him down for keeps is Aguilar, who has a warrant for him. Making a scene or calling in the house detectives would be just so much old horse. Neither you nor I can go find a phone without attracting his direct attention; and he'd guess what for."

"Then what?" she said.

"Call our waiter, or the head-waiter, either one you see." While speaking, I wrote on the wine-list Aguilar's name and telephone-number.

Presently our waiter came and hovered above her. Virginia handed him the list, and I did the talking.

"An extra ten-spot for you if you'll make this call: Get Mr. Aguilar and tell him to come here immediately, that the man he wants is here. I am Dr. Clements. Do it fast."

No questions, no repetitions; the waiter was intelligent. He just bowed and went away.

I smiled at Virginia.

"Now calm down. Have a cigarette; don't watch him. It's a grand play if it wins, so don't spoil it."

She nodded and lit a cigarette at the match I held. I could have sworn she never again looked at that other table, yet all the while she was watching it from the corner of her eye, and reported to me. They had ordered; they were having cocktails. A wine-bucket was brought and set at one side.

Our waiter came back. Smart man! With him he brought the sommelier, as a plausible excuse for his errand, who displayed a bottle of wine to me and talked it up. I nodded and it was opened. The waiter brushed my sleeve as he leaned forward, with a glass.

"He'll be here immediately, sir," he said softly. The job was done.

FIVE MINUTES passed. When Aguilar would get here I had no idea. Virginia was looking past me, while apparently absorbed in conversation. She reached for the ash-tray and spoke softly.

"He's showing something to the other man; it looks like a little clock in a case, but it's not a clock. He's turning things and explaining it. Not a radio either; too small for that. Now he has put it on the table and is turning a dial, apparently. Perhaps it is a radio. He's moving it closer and saying something—"

Her eyes widened on me. She heard it too! A curiously quiet voice came from beside me, though no one was there. It was the voice of Lajpat Rai, like the lingering note of a bronze bell.

"Good evening, Miss Trent— Dr. Clements. This is a pleasant surprise."

A gasp escaped Virginia. "Hugh! It can't be! That table is thirty feet away! It's not real—"

"It is quite real." Lajpat Rai laughed softly. "We are talking, and no one else can hear. What do you think, Clements? Magic?"

"Hardly that," I said, not loudly. Turning, I looked at him. "If it's not some trick— some walkie-talkie or electronic development—"

"Right!" said he. "Trust your shrewd, practical brain to hit the mark! Yes, a new thing in electronics and sensory vibration. In a year or so you'll see it on the market, I believe."

Lajpat, or Myedin, reached forward and touched the glinting thing like a clock that stood before him. He was laughing at his companion, whose back was to us. There was no more voice. I turned back and met the startled gaze of Virginia Trent.

"Nobody else heard," she murmured. "No one is looking, no attention was attracted! Hugh, is it real?"

"I expect it is, my dear," I replied, and reaching over, touched her cold hand. "A bit of showing off, no doubt for his companion. Yes, give him due credit; he's a past master at electronics and such things."

"He's getting up," she said. "Putting the clock in his coat pocket—"

"Are they leaving?" I asked quickly.

"No. At least, the other man isn't; apparently he's just going out for something. He's asking the head-waiter something— now he's going out— he's gone." Her eyes came back to me. "What a handsome man; there's a fascination about him— terrible!"

She was badly wrought up. I glanced around. The other man sat at the table, smoking unconcernedly, evidently awaiting his companion's return.

"Good," I said, relieved. "Colonel Nicholas Myedin has been having a bit of fun, for which he'll pay presently. Let me fill your glass, my dear; the wine is good."

She nodded. I refilled our glasses. We clicked them across the table and she responded faintly to my smile. Our waiter came, replaced the bottle in its cooler, brought up another chair and laid the place.

"He said he was coming at once, sir," he said softly. "Mr. Aguilar, I mean."

I nodded to him. "Well, Virginia, we have him trapped. It'll be interesting to see how our friend Aguilar goes to work. That double-action walkie-talkie thing will be an entertaining and valuable capture, too."

"Strange that he was so open about it," she said, frowning slightly. "Almost a defiance. I don't like it, Hugh; I wish he hadn't gone out! I wish we had stopped him."

"How?" I rejoined. "Short of brute force, I don't see how. Here comes Aguilar now. Any sign of Lajpat returning?"

Her gaze swept the room behind me. "No."

AGUILAR arrived, wearing a tuxedo; his shirt was not fresh; he looked as usual, mussed and off trim. He spoke to Virginia, shook hands with me. The waiter drew back his chair and he seated himself placidly.

"A surprising summons, Clements, but I think I made good time," he said in his mild way. "Outside and in here are now nine agents in all; every exit is watched too. Now, if you'll— Ah!"

He broke off, looking past me. I glanced around. Myedin's companion had risen and was walking past—a chunky, efficient-looking man, a stranger to me.

"Interesting fellow," Aguilar said. "He's the French consul here in the city, an important man. Why, what's wrong?"

Our faces must have apprised him, as the appalling realization took us. The French consul! Myedin had been dining with him, entertaining him with that electronic gadget— and had skipped out to escape the net. I knew it with ghastly certainty.

"French?" repeated Virginia. "You mean that he— that Myedin is tied up with the French consul?"

"Lord, no! Probably making use of him," snapped Aguilar. "But where is he?"

"Dining with the man who just passed," I said. "Or was. He's gone now."

Between us, we acquainted Aguilar with the situation. My worst fears were too obviously true; the table where Myedin had sat was now being cleared, he was gone. In the very instant of victory we had lost our man. He had slipped away before our faces. Like a clever magician, he had bemused us with that toy of his— then vanished.

However, in this hard moment I had to admire Aguilar. He never turned a hair.

"Too bad, but you did well, Clements," he said quietly. "We're just not good enough. Next time we must do better. I can't touch that consul, of course; diplomats are inviolate, and Myedin has just made use of him."

"He had no reason to skip out," I protested. "It was mere chance that we came."

"But he saw you and took warning." Aguilar sipped his wine, then leaned over and patted Virginia's hand. "Sorry, my dear; however, I've some interesting news for you. Wait till I dismiss my men."

He lifted a hand. Two dark-clad men came from the foyer and to our table. Aguilar looked up at them.

"I was too slow, boys," he said, with unwarranted self-blame. "Send everyone away and hope for better luck next time. It's a miss."

THE TWO MEN went away. Aguilar hauled some papers from his pocket and produced an amazingly poor photograph or snapshot of three men in whites. He showed it to Virginia.

"Can you recognize any of these?"

"Of course. The one in the center— he has a mustache now, but he's Lajpat Rai. At least, Dr. Clements says he is. He's the man who was recently here."

Aguilar turned to me and shoved over the picture.

"That's your man, yes," I said. "What's all this about?"

"Business," said he. "Miss Trent, when your father was— er— murdered, the actual criminal was killed. He has since been identified. He was formerly a personal servant to Lajpat Rai, also to Colonel Nicholas Myedin. Tomorrow morning I'm going to ask that you sign the complaint charging Myedin with being accessory to your father's murder. Eh?"

"Of course," she responded. "That's what I've wanted to do, but you lacked any evidence."

"I think there's enough now, with what Dr. Clements can give us, to support the charge," he said. "We don't need it, perhaps, but I like to neglect nothing."

"A dozen warrants won't help you arrest Myedin unless you can find him," I said.

"True," assented Aguilar. "Too true, in fact. Tonight is an example. He laughs at us; but the last laugh is what counts most. Well, I'll come around to your hotel in the morning, if I may, and run you down to police headquarters to get the papers duly signed and so forth."

He departed. Virginia lit a cigarette and eyed me uneasily.

"I don't like it," she said, "any of it! That man isn't my notion of a proper bulldog on the trail. He's not brisk and threatening. Then there's Lajpat Rai or Myedin or whatever his name is. Why, he seemed positively frivolous, Hugh! I don't understand it at all!"

I smiled. "You've been reading detective stories, my dear. If I work all day in the lab with a microscope and blood-specimens, I don't come home at night spotted all over with gore, you know."

"That's not the same," she said.

"Precisely the same. Colonel Nicholas Myedin, bless him, has blood on his hands an inch thick, but he keeps them outwardly clean."

That must have made her think of her father. She shivered slightly, and gathered up her coat. I called for the check, and we rose. The evening had been spoiled for us; everything had gone wrong.

Still, I wondered. Lajpat Rai never took chances without a reason. Granted that the encounter with us had been unexpected, why had he appeared here with the French consul? What considered calculation lay behind it? The thought worried me. I knew the gentleman far too well to doubt there was much chance at work— except our presence. He had shown off his electronic trick with set purpose, he had dined publicly with the French consul from set purpose, and there was nothing frivolous about it either. The more I reflected on it, the more convinced I was of this fact, and it loomed with sinister force. No man deliberately risks life and liberty for a petty gain.

One pleasing thing about our little hotel was that it had the right idea about service. The morning paper, for instance, was always pushed under the door at an early hour. I wakened next morning in good time, obtained the news sheet, and hopped back into bed to read luxuriously. Later in the morning Aguilar would come for Virginia, and I would go along with them; probably much later. No use worrying over that until the time came.

The news held nothing disquieting, I remember. International affairs were not so bad; following the Bikini bomb test of July past, things had quieted down a good deal. United States and Soviet relations were on the whole doing all right, although the usual pinpricks showed a bit of tension. I glanced at a headline "Three Men Shot" and paid no attention, until suddenly the thing rose out of the printed page and hit me like a blow in the face, as I read the sub-head over the story:

THREE MEN SHOT

Mystery Battle Shocks

Fairview Street

Three men were killed at 9:30 last night in what is believed to have been an echo of Indian feuds. James Parr, caretaker of the premises at 795 Fairview Street, was shot to death and two visitors, Irwan Dhas of Bombay and an elderly man named Gerard Chaffee were the victims of the shooting. No witnesses of the affray remained to tell what took place. It was possibly a tragedy of errors, since the premises are occupied by Howard Chaffee, a brother of the dead man, who last evening was out of the city...

Incredulity seized upon me as I read. Parr, good old Scotty Parr, dead! It seemed impossible. And old Chaffee, my patient— why, he was assuredly no gunman; he could barely walk, much less go in for killings! But there it was, in cold print. The story went on to play up the mystery. Neighbors had been aroused by a sudden fusillade of shots from the house, before which a car stood at the curb—a car belonging, it was later ascertained, to Irwan Dhas. What took place, no one knew. Parr had been alone in the house, presumably. It was known that he had recently come from India. Howard Chaffee could not be reached at the time of going to press.

I looked back again at the beginning of the news item. Nine-thirty! That was precisely when Colonel Nicholas Myedin had been going through his electronic antics last evening. So my wondering was answered.

He had prepared a very careful, foolproof alibi. It explained everything, except the meaning of what had happened.

v

I BATHED, shaved, breakfasted, and was still eating eggs and bacon when Aguilar arrived. He joined me in the hotel coffee-shop, sat down with a nod, and ordered coffee.

"Myedin picked himself a good alibi last night, eh?"

"Obviously. So you've seen the story."

"Seen it?" He permitted himself a snort. "I've been working on it since four this morning, when one of my men picked it up. Within the past hour everything has been straightened out smooth as silk. Our man is a great detail worker."

"Glad you're informed," I said. "I don't see how, or why, Parr shot those two men— old Chaffee and the strange Hindu."

"He didn't," said Aguilar. "Must have been three or four gunmen on hand. They all opened up at once, boggled things a bit, and the Hindu got a crack at Parr and killed him. That, I imagine, is what actually happened; no one knows certainly. For lagniappe, as they used to say in New Orleans, there's the odd way the Hindu was dressed: in evening clothes."

I made no comment, and Aguilar related what had happened, as he figured it.

A trap, obviously. Howard Chaffee, who must have handed out a fat lot of money at his brother's orders, had arranged for a visit from Gerard and Lajpat Rai. The trap set, he skipped out to San José for the night. The visitors had come, with Irwan Dhas playing the part of the Rajah from Hell. Parr had admitted them into the house and the hidden killers had blasted them. Chaffee had got rid of his poor old brother, anyhow.

"I've investigated Myedin's connection with the French consul," Aguilar stated. "He's been selling to French interests certain electronic inventions for use with hydro-electric equipment— apparently quite legitimate. Old Gerard Chaffee left a will leaving everything he owned to the French consul here, too. Consulate lawyers have produced the will and established the claim."

"Behind that false front, Myedin collars the money?" I said.

Aguilar nodded.

"Right. All legitimate enough, of course. The man's infernally clever."

"Has Howard Chaffee come back to town?"

"Oh, sure. He's being grilled, but there's nothing on him to prove he laid any trap, of course. He remains blandly innocent."

"And can't you make any arrest?"

"No. We've no reason to touch the French interests, of course. Howard Chaffee thinks himself smart; he's a fool. Myedin will make some deal, probably killing him, and depart at will for fresh pastures. He's made a fat haul out of Gerard Chaffee."

"And you can't touch him?"

"Yes, if I could find him." Aguilar smiled and rubbed up his glasses. "That's my problem— finding him! I do not seek a battle of wits. My sole aim is to pounce on him, and if he resists arrest, to shoot."

"Simple," I commented ironically. Poor old Chaffee from Tibet! He had been no more than a pawn. He had deserved a better fate.

"Do you think Miss Trent is ready to go?" Aguilar asked. "We'd best get off."

"I don't know," I said discourteously. "Look her up yourself."

HE LEFT to do so; I paid the check and stepped outside for a breath of fresh air, feeling morose and shocked. Parr's death left me much disturbed, too. In passing the desk, I took an envelope that was shoved at me as my mail. After a few moments I opened it.

The sole contents was a check for a thousand dollars, signed by Howard Chaffee— the money he had said was in the mail. I stood there in the sunlight, staring at it, then abruptly tore it into scraps and stepped over to the gutter, throwing away the pieces. I wanted none of his money. It was no less than an insult.

"Hey, there! Hey, Mister!" said a voice. "It's me!"

I glanced around. A taxi had drawn up at the curb almost beside me. There was a face I recognized, grinning at me. With a rush, I remembered the taxi-man I had sent to pick up anything he could at the Colsax Street house. He had slipped clear out of my mind with the rush of events.

"Oh, hello!" I said, and opening the cab door, got in. "Stick around; we'll be needing you in a few minutes. Get anything on that house?"

"Yeah, but I been sick," he replied. "I sent a couple kids around there to scout. They done a good job. Only person they seen was an old guy, dark-complexioned, like a Mexican, with white mustache."

I nodded. The same man I had seen.

"Buick sedan in the garage," he went on.

I caught at the name. Lajpat Rai had used a Buick at Burlingame.

"Did they see the license number?"

"Yeah; California, but they didn't get the number— just kids, you know." He spoke apologetically. "Got something else they hauled out of a trash-barrel back of the house last night. Don't know if it means anything to you or not. It's a last year's plate, of course, orange and black instead of black and white—"

He lugged forth into sight a bent, bedraggled old license plate. When I saw the orange number upon it, I think my heart stood still for an instant. The number was 7E-24-55: the number of Lajpat Rai's car at the Burlingame Arms. The car had returned to this house on Colsax Street, the old plates had been stripped off and replaced by new ones— and this was one of the old plates from a trash-barrel!

That house was the secret hideaway of Nicholas Myedin!

I fumbled some money into his hand, seized the plate and shoved it under my coat, and got into the hotel; I did not feel safe until I had reached my room and put the thing out of sight. Then I came back down and met Virginia and Aguilar, and put them into the taxicab. I begged off going along; I was not needed, and did need to sit down and think what I was to do.

It was not so easy. The obvious thing, of course, was to advise Aguilar at once and let him fall to work. To be honest, I was afraid of failure, I think. Last night's affair had unsettled me; I could picture Myedin again scenting a trap and taking to flight. I was unsure of Aguilar, and too bitterly sure of the Rajah from Hell.

Yet what else could I do? Alone, nothing whatever. I sat in my room, shaking with buck fever, unable to determine on anything. I had the positive certainty now: Our man was in that house. Gradually the conviction came to me that there was only one thing to do— put my information in Aguilar's hands and let him act upon it. This was sensible, and calmed me to realize it. Thought of Parr did urge me to tell Chaffee and let him put his gunmen to work, but this would be folly and I knew it.

MY ROOM phone rang. I picked up the receiver to hear Chaffee's voice.

"Clements? I'm down here in the bar. Can you come down? Can't stop five minutes."

"Right down," I said, and suited action to words.

I found him seated at a drink, and the sight of him was a shock. He looked ten years older, shaken, nervous.

"You've seen the papers? I've had a hell of a time with the cops and all," he snarled. "On my way home now. Just stopped in for a minute. I don't suppose you know anything— bad business last night, all of it. Well, I've had my notice."

His manner, his snarling whine, put me off any thought of confiding in him.

"Your notice? What d'you mean?" I inquired.

"Telegram, unsigned. Said all accounts would be settled inside two days," he responded jerkily. "You know what that means— same as the others. I've got to use my head now; I'm going to let that bastard come after me, and then get him for keeps. By the way, I'm sorry about Parr."

"So am I," was my reply.

That was all. He had left his car outside, and I went out to it with him.

"So long," he said. "Don't count me out yet; I'm going to get him. If you pick up anything, let me know."

I merely nodded, and he drove off. I did feel a little guilty for letting him go and saying nothing— but it was the only wise course. Aguilar was the only man to trust.

I had to pay in worry for my indecision, however. Virginia came home alone; Aguilar had been detained on some business, she said. She had learned all about last night's affair, too, and it had put her into a dither of nervousness.

I was even worse off, for I tried everywhere to get hold of Aguilar, and could not. It was three in the afternoon before he telephoned.

"You'd better get here on the jump," I said.

"No can do," he rejoined. "I've an important meeting—"

"Listen," I broke in. "I've got everything you want— everything, understand? I haven't told even Virginia. I'm the only soul who knows, and I won't talk over the wire. But this is the wind-up if you don't bungle it."

"Oh!" he said slowly. "All right, then. I'll be there in ten minutes."

Three minutes later my phone rang again. I answered.

"Hi, Clements. This is Chaffee. Free this evening?"

"Unfortunately, no," I answered. "But why?"

"I thought you might like to sit in on a party with me," he said. "Looks as if it would clean up this business of ours at one crack. Get me?"

"Oh!" I thought fast. "You mean you've found the fellow?"

"No. I've got him coming to me. I got a line on him and I'm using it."

"Sorry," I rejoined, in relief. The game was still mine, and I wanted none of his traps. "I'm definitely tied up, tempting as you make it sound."

"Okay— your loss," he responded, and hung up in an evident huff.

I was not worried about his reaction, but wiped my brow; for an instant he had started me sweating, with the suspicion that he had discovered about the Colsax Street house. So he had got a line on Colonel Nicholas and had laid another trap? Evidently he had not learned his lesson the first time, I reflected. A bungler; and I had been so tempted to reveal my precious secret to such a rogue!

Virginia heard nothing of the secret. Not that I distrusted her, of course; I distrusted fate. When Aguilar arrived, he came directly to my room. I let him in and pointed to a chair. He settled into it.

"Very odd thing, if you spoke the truth over the phone," he said. "Chaffee had a notion to end the game tonight, too. I was with him when I called you."

"Howard Chaffee?" I stared at him.

He nodded, calm and unexcited.

"Right. He's been lucky in a way. Remember the fellow killed last night in company with Gerard Chaffee— Irwan Dhas? Well, Chaffee found he had a brother working in a store on Dupont Street and thinks it's a direct lead to Colonel Nicholas Myedin; so he's given the fellow a message to deliver. Of course, the man swears he never heard of Lajpat Rai and so forth; I think myself he lies, and the message will be delivered. Chaffee wanted me in on it; I refused."

"Does Chaffee know you for what you are?"

He shook his head, smiling slightly. "No. I think he suspects something, though, from my pull with the cops. He's probably heard of the FBI and such organizations."

"But I don't savvy it, Aguilar! What kind of a message to our man?"

"A damn' fool one. Precisely what Myedin will most like to hear. Chaffee is the bait; he'll be waiting in a car marked with a blue tail-light at nine tonight, on the outer Esplanade drive opposite McGinty's Café. Fine deserted sea-coast at that spot. He wants Lajpat to meet him and call everything off— offers big money and so forth."

"Still I don't get it. Will he really be in the car?"

"Absolutely. He figures he's being closely watched and Lajpat will come to finish him. But he has or will have men hidden, marksmen. He gambles his life on their ability to act first."

"Damned nonsense!" I exclaimed. "It's no more than a childish variant of the trap he set last night— brave, if you like, but silly."

Aguilar nodded. "So I tried to argue. But that's Chaffee himself— courageous, perfectly willing to gamble his life, but nervous and shaken, unstable, at extremes. Did you get me here to receive news, or to talk my head off?"

"Oh! Excuse me," I said quickly. "The point is, Chaffee called me and offered to let me in on the party, just after you had left him."

"He talks too much." Aguilar made a nervous gesture. "I think Myedin will copper him tonight, somehow. That fellow smells a trap afar off. I'd not want to be in Chaffee's boots at nine tonight."

He sat looking at me. A muscle twitched in his cheek; he was actually nervous as hell and trying to keep it hidden. I smiled at him.

"Oh, you want information! Very well. The Rajah from Hell is living at 742 Colsax Street, apparently with only one servant."

Aguilar blinked. "Guesswork?" he said.

I reached out the license plate. "This is real, solid fact. Finger it. I'll tell you the whole thing, and you can draw your own conclusions."

So, unhurriedly, I began with the car at the Burlingame Arms, told how my attention had fallen upon the Colsax Street house, and what had happened since. Through it all, John Aguilar listened in utter silence, eyes fastened upon me, until I had finished. He looked blank, emotionless, stony.

"I see," he said at last. "You've been careful. Good work, Dr. Clements. Very pretty work indeed." He stirred and rose. "I must be off."

"Eh?" I said, surprised. "Off? Where?"

"To find a taxicab and have a look at that house myself, now, in the full light of day. Our man's there, no doubt of that. We'll smoke him out tonight—unless Chaffee gets him first. We'll do it, in fact, while Chaffee is springing his little silly trap."

vi

AGUILAR GOT his look around, which of course showed him only a blank house. To my surprise, however, he showed up with a city survey of the district, showing everything in and about each lot.

He advised saying nothing to Virginia, and I agreed. She would necessarily have worried keenly. Besides, he wanted to keep the facts known only to the two of us; like me, he feared lest the Rajah from Hell could pick secrets from out of the very air. And he could just about do that with his electronic apparatus, too.

Aguilar showed up for dinner with us at the hotel. I told Virginia I was going out with him later to hold a conference upon the whole business, and she asked no questions. In fact, we left immediately after dinner; Aguilar had a car, and drove downtown on Post Street to a bungalow that served him for living-quarters and office. He had a bare, homeless sort of place there. His office had nothing in it except a big city map on the wall, an ancient roll-top desk, three telephones and a couple of chairs.

"Well, it's seven-thirty— loads of time." Aguilar took a creaky chair at the desk and began to load a pipe. Before he had it lighted, the phones began to ring; he got five calls within two minutes. To each one he replied just three words:

"Nine o'clock. Okay."

He hung up finally and grinned at me. "Military dispositions, Clements. This time, no mistake; everything covered. Even so, I expect he'll spring something on us at the last minute; maybe he'll vanish into thin air."

A sour jest— too apt to come true.

"Nine o'clock?" I said. "That's precisely when Chaffee has set his trap. Aren't you going to stop that foolishness?"

"No. It's very opportune for us," said Aguilar, smoking comfortably. "It's a long way from that house over to the Esplanade; gives us plenty of time to operate."

"Suppose the trap works and Chaffee kills him?"

He shrugged. "I'll not mind. I've given up all hope of catching him alive."

"And if Chaffee is killed?"

"No particular loss, as I look at it," he returned calmly. "Might even be a distinct gain. Anyhow, the thing distracts our man's attention."

"If he goes himself," I added. "He may not."

"We'll know before we leave here," said Aguilar. I gave him a sharp inquiring glance but he vouchsafed no information. Apparently he wanted to divulge none of his preparations, and I blamed him not a bit.

IT WAS A DISMAL hour that we put in, so far as I was concerned. We smoked, talked, got occasional phone reports. Eight-thirty came. Aguilar rose, opened a closet, and came out with a long walkie-talkie outfit. I helped him get it on his back.

"Expect to use this thing— in a city?" I demanded.

"The Signal Corps has developed it for that express purpose, my skeptical friend. We're going to fight the Rajah from Hell with his own weapons— Ah!"

A buzz; he made answer, listened, stood there smiling, and cut off.

"We'd better go, Clements. The Buick sedan is just leaving the Colsax Street garage now," he said. "Two men in it— Myedin himself is on the job. And for the first time, he's made a mistake, a serious one. Never mind; you'll see when we get there. My car has a driver; come along. You have a gun?"

I nodded, and we left the bungalow. Outside, a driver was in his car. We got in and the car started. Aguilar had to sit hunched over because of the walkie-talkie; from time to time, he got reports. To Colsax Street was only a short distance. When we turned into it, we drove past the house without stopping. The garage doors were closed. A floodlight at the top of the steps illumined them brightly; no one could approach the house from the street below without being distinctly visible.

"That's his mistake," said Aguilar softly. Our car stopped at the curb slightly up the street and opposite. "Plenty of light there— none in back! And it's possible to get at the house from the rear. Keep your eye on the place, now; we're running on schedule."

I looked, and saw not a soul in the street, though down the block two or three cars stood at the curb. A small car came toiling up the hill and stopped before 742. A man got out and started up the stairs that climbed to the house. In that floodlight every detail was visible. He wore a telegraph messenger's uniform and cap. A telegram for Colonel Nicholas Myedin, no doubt. He was all alone. No one else was in his car.

It was close to nine o'clock, almost upon the hour, in fact.

I watched those lighted steps, and saw no one. The house entrance itself was of course invisible from the street. Suddenly there came a buzz from Aguilar's contraption; he answered, listened, then spoke.

"Okay.... Here, Clements! Help me off with this thing."

In the confined space, it was a job getting the straps unbuckled and off. As he got clear, he told me:

"As we expected: Chaffee's parked car was just smashed to flinders by another car. Not the Buick, of course; Myedin was too smart for that—probably had another car all set for the job. No details yet, of course. Well, that finishes Chaffee; now we'll have to step on it. All right, Charley; come along with us."

The driver hopped out as we left the car, and I caught the bulge of a holster at his belt. Aguilar led the way, and as we crossed the street, the figure of the messenger came down the lighted steps, fast, got into his car and shoved off. We were going up those lighted steps almost before he was gone.

So Howard Chaffee was probably done for! Twice he had set a trap and caught the wrong prey. Well, he had been warned. I had no doubt that he was dead; when Lajpat Rai struck, he did not waste his blows. And what were we walking into, here in this blaze of light where anybody up above could see us clearly? Perhaps Aguilar suspected my hesitation.

"Step fast, Clements!" he said. "If the messenger got anyone in the house to answer the door, it's all right. If not, it isn't."

Our chauffeur dashed ahead of us, a flashlight in his hand. We were at the top, and out of the floodlight. Ahead was darkness and movement, and the stabbing beam of the flashlight.

"Okay, boss," said a composed voice. "Just like clockwork. Got him."

Understanding broke upon me: The messenger was a decoy. Here under the ray of light was Lajpat Rai's servitor, the gentle, kindly old man whom I knew by sight. He was now handcuffed and between two other men who held him. They had come in from the rear, to the house.

"Good work," Aguilar said. "Inside with him somewhere, out of the way. Tie him in a chair and gag him. Make sure that he touches nothing. Charley, take a look through the house. Careful not to touch anything."

He had a small flashlight and signaled with it, as the others moved into the house, which was all dark. I caught two answering stabs of light from the bushes around; more men were stationed there. The little entrance porch where we stood was in inky darkness.

"I think, Doctor," said Aguilar, "we'd better stop right here. Catch him in the entrance; a flashlight is always very startling. He may double back for the street, and then my men down below will have him trapped on the stairs."

" 'Him'? There'll be another man with him," I said. "Two men left here."

"Yes, of course. I wonder why? Must be a reason," he said musingly. "Well, we'd better shut up. He's a bit overdue now. We'll have warning when he comes into the garage; we can hear the doors."

We waited a long while; everything was black, everything was still. A dog in the adjoining yard began to bark, but roused no response and desisted. Deceptive as the minutes were, I knew they were flitting steadily away. To get here from the Esplanade, with a good driver, should take no more than ten minutes, with luck. Much more than that had elapsed since the report of the crash had come in on the walkie-talkie.

The porch on which we stood was only a step above the ground and was surrounded by a low half-rail a couple of feet high. The house door was standing wide open. I caught a brief ray of light in the hall and heard a footstep. The light struck us and vanished.

"It's me," said the voice of our driver, Charley, who was undoubtedly one of Aguilar's men. He spoke under his breath, cautiously: "House is empty. Lot of scientific apparatus in one room. One of the upper rooms projects and has a full view of the street below, and the steps up, in that blaze of light."

"Scram," said Aguilar. "And quick about it."

As he spoke, I heard a car door slam, and the sound prickled in every nerve. Charley disappeared silently. I listened for the scull of feet on the cement steps, but could hear nothing. Then, causing a distinct shock that was almost panic, an electric light over our heads flashed on, bathing the entrance in light.

I met the staring, startled gaze of Aguilar. I must have looked still more wide-eyed, for a shadowy smile came to his lips. He pointed down, and I understood. Someone in the garage, below, must have turned a switch. It was as simple as that. Colonel Nicholas Myedin had come home, and the trap was sprung.

No doing anything about it, of course. I questioned Aguilar with a look, and he shrugged. After all, it did not matter. If Myedin got this far, he was caught, and the light would merely prevent any attempt at escape. So, producing a cigarette, I lighted it and we waited. Now we could hear the sound of footsteps. Aguilar quietly stepped to the house door and pulled it nearly shut. Everything was strangely prosaic. Our anticipations had been absurd; there was no flourish of pistols, nothing melodramatic— just a man walking into the trap.

It seemed almost a pity, I thought, that the Rajah from Hell should end up in so tame and unglamorous a fashion. For he had no earthly chance of evasion or escape. Men inside the house, around it, men down below closing in upon him—

The footsteps were closer now. A voice was murmuring low words; I caught the metallic timbre of the voice I knew so well. A figure moved at the edge of the light. I flipped away my cigarette; no further need now of any concealment. Then I stood petrified, as the approaching figure came into the light with a sudden cry and a quick step forward.

"Oh, Hugh! He— he said you'd be here—"

It was Virginia Trent.

vii

THERE WAS an instant of stupefied silence.

I stared past Virginia, as I folded an arm about her, and saw Lajpat Rai standing there, within the circle of light. His guard was down: he looked utterly astounded as he regarded us. Virginia was speaking rapidly.

"He said you were here, that you wanted me; I thought it was a lie, but I couldn't refuse to come— he was very polite—"

Lajpat Rai broke into a laugh, and stepped forward.

"A delicious irony," he said. "Yes, I did say you were here; I meant to get you later, Clements, and somehow arrange with both of you an end to hostilities. And here you are! Evidently I was right in suspecting that your continued enmity would be perilous. I disregarded you too long."

But before I could speak, Aguilar stepped out.

"Here you're not dealing with Dr. Clements, but with me. Colonel Nicholas Myedin, I have a warrant in my pocket. You're under arrest for murder; I counsel you to make no attempt to escape. I have men covering you this moment."

"Indeed! Mr. Aguilar, I believe." Myedin surveyed him with arrogance, seemed about to go on speaking, then checked himself abruptly. Pride, perhaps, or vanity. His trim figure, with one sleeve dangling, looked grotesque.

"Your hand, please," Aguilar commanded. I saw that he held a pair of handcuffs. Myedin saw it also, and started slightly.

"No," he said, a flat statement, a positive refusal. "You should add kidnap charges to your fantastic list. Or don't you suppose I kidnaped Miss Trent?"

"Oh, don't be silly!" broke out Virginia. "He didn't at all, really. I came quite voluntarily; everything was very pleasant!"

Myedin bowed to her. "Thank you, Miss Trent. May I suggest that things might be more comfortable all around if we stepped into the house?"

"No!" I exclaimed sharply. All eyes went to me. "Careful, Aguilar! He's an expert illusionist. You've forgotten one important thing: two men left this house— where's the other one?"

I had hit the mark; Myedin's face told me as much. Then he stepped forward past us to the doorway and paused, turning.

"Nonsense!" he exclaimed cheerfully. "These charges are fantastic. If Mr. Aguilar really has a warrant, I demand to see it. Come inside, and let's go at the thing reasonably. I sha'n't refuse to accompany you to police headquarters if you insist; naturally, I'm not fool enough to resist, since I can clear away all accusations in no time—"

He spoke rapidly, genially, giving no one any chance to object. As he spoke, he put out his one hand and shoved the door open. It all happened rapidly after I had cried out my protest, too swiftly for other action. And as he pushed open the door, he found a switch inside and clicked it.

The light here was extinguished; we were plunged into pitch darkness.

Noise— alarmed voices burst forth everywhere. I pulled Virginia to one side and held her close. Men came rushing upon the porch from every side. Aguilar, I think, reached the switch and the light returned, to show Myedin gone—into the house, of course. A pistol exploded somewhere inside, and at this everyone was shoving in. I abandoned Virginia and pushed in with the others, furious and aghast at the happening.

Tumult, darkness, men stumbling into one another, flashlights stabbing long rays of light across the rooms, everything in confusion— and then, so suddenly that it frightened us all, a burst of red flame erupting in our faces. How or why, we knew not. Half a dozen shots roared out; then we were frantically shoving back, away from the fierce redness— for the rooms ahead of us were alight in an instant, as though the house had leaped all at once into flames.

So it had, too, doubtless made ready beforehand. For as we retreated, the fire came gushing after us in a most incredible and appalling manner. We tumbled outside—two men shot and nearly helpless, another dead and dragged forth limply. Everyone was shouting; an access of fear and horror had seized all except Aguilar, who continued shouting frantic orders. He made himself heard; the men scattered.

I REACHED VIRGINIA, caught her hand, and we got away from the searing heat into a corner of the grounds. The house was now a pillar of spouting flame and thick oily smoke; everything was bright as day. The hurt men were brought to me— one dead, two with bullet-wounds, a couple more badly burned. Virginia and I, the only persons halfway calm, took charge and did what we could. The old Hindu servant of Lajpat Rai had apparently not been got clear.

"I think we got Myedin." Aguilar joined us, shouting above the crackling roar of flame. "Two men are positive they dropped him; they say he's still in there."

"We'd better scram before we roast to death," I responded.

This made sense. We got past a fence and into the next backyard with our wounded. The houses adjoining were already in wild commotion, with people running about like mad.

In time— it seemed a century— police and firemen arrived; by then, the house was a fiery mass past any saving. Virginia and I were taken back to the hotel in a radio car; to re-enter that peaceful, serene atmosphere seemed like a dream. I was astonished to find my clothes dotted with burns. In the wild excitement I had been unaware of damage.

An hour later Aguilar arrived. He came direct to my room and nodded as he saw my ruined garments spread out. His own were almost as bad.

"Chemicals," he said. "The damned place was a volcano, Clements!"

I poured him a drink, and he gulped it.

"Well?" I demanded. "Did you make certain about— him?"

He looked at me. "Eh? Him? Two of my men swore they got him. If so, his body is there still. He didn't get away through the cordon; they're all sure of that. We'll know later on, when the ashes can be searched. If they find no trace of him—"

They found none, though they located the old Hindu servant. This proved nothing. Three days later Virginia and I were married and left San Francisco. The authorities were quite satisfied that the Rajah from Hell was dead.

But as for me— well, two men left that house in the Buick sedan. We saw one return. Did the other come by some unguessed route? Well, it's none of my business. I have my own life to live.

__________

3: The Devil is Dead

H Bedford-Jones  (As by Gordon Keyne)

Blue Book, July 1939

CAP'N LUCAS winked at the seamen around him, then gazed gravely at young Jack Bertram, whose brown cheeks bore a trace of Indian blood.

"How to lay the devil for keeps and be sure he's dead ? Ah, lad, that's a hard business. First, ye must catch him!"

"Aye, sir," said Bertram, while the crew nudged and grinned.

"Then slash off his head, quick! " went on the skipper. "But how to be sure he's dead? There's the hard thing. The devil always comes alive again. Only one way to make sure of him: Wait till his eyes glaze, then pop a sailcloth needle into each eye— quick! When it's done, so's the job. Many a time—"

"Cap'n Lucas!" came the lookout's wild, startled yell. "Sail ho! A schooner be bearing down on we, wi' the black flag aloft!"

The men forgot their joke; Cap'n Lucas forgot his yarn.

"All hands, all hands!" bawled his voice. "Look alive! It's the pirate Teach, I know his rig—"

Desperately the Laughing Girl scudded close-hauled. Desperately the dour New England men wet down the sloop's canvas. Desperately they eyed the schooner closing up the gap between, until her first gun barked. Then her second gun, and the sloop's mast cracked, toppled.

The sloop slewed to the drag and wallowed upon the Atlantic swells. Bertram, at the useless tiller, gawked and swallowed hard, a flush in his brown thin cheeks, and never dreamed that kindly Cap'n Lucas had been joking about the devil. To Bertram, as to many another in this autumn of 1718, the devil was a serious proposition.

The schooner bore down with final rush, her deck alive with men, a blood-red shirt at the foretop, a black flag at the main, and clinging in the shrouds a tremendous big form, garish of garb and black of shaggy beard.

"Blackbeard— the devil in person," said Cap'n Lucas. "God help us all now!"

With a chorus of triumphant yells the schooner brought to, dropped her long-boat, and it came dancing over the waves. Bertram still stood staring, a chill in his heart. The boat was alongside. Over the rail came a throng of wild rascals, led by a thin fellow whose sharp fair face was marred by a broken nose.

"Where's the captain?" he shouted as he ran aft, waving a long pistol.

"I'm Cap'n Lucas." The skipper stood firm. "What d'ye want of me?"

The fellow halted, bowed mockingly.

"What does Cap'n Teach want of anyone? I'm his first officer. What's your lading?"

"Naught but rum for New England. Look for yourself. Nothing of value."

"A prize for thirsty men!" Flatnose laughed. "Into the boat, all of you."

One by one, hands bound behind them, they went down into the boat: six men, Tom Reed the mate, and Cap'n Lucas. To Bertram, it was unreal. They had done nothing. They could not be punished. Yet the words around him— Teach, Blackbeard, the devil incarnate!

And when he set foot aboard the schooner, he saw the reason. The huge figure of the shrouds, Captain Edward Teach— incredible and awesome, close at hand. He was in a tipsy slavering passion, his black eyes rolling. His huge black beard was in plaits, weighted with bullets to keep it clear of his eyes— plaits twisted behind his ears, smoking slow-matches tied to them, others in his cocked hat. Blackbeard, who played the devil. The flat-nosed mate saluted him mockingly.

"These gentlemen, and their cargo of rum, ask your favor, worthy master—"

"I ask no favors from a bloody pirate," said Cap'n Lucas proudly.

Blackbeard glared at him.

"Ho! You'll take a walk in my park, Lively about it, lads! A short walk to all. A short walk and a short memory!"

"I wish you no worse than a long memory," said Cap'n Lucas, "when the trap opens under your feet."

Teach exploded oaths and swung a pistol, but Cap'n Lucas stood grimly.

"When you see the devil below," cried Blackbeard, "you can tell him of a greater devil above, who fears neither God nor man, rope, lead nor steel! "

So saying, he turned and lurched for his cabin.

Flatnose came up to Cap'n Lucas.

"You see how it is. We've no plank at hand, but step to the rail, and we'll do the rest. Officers first, my hearties! "

His brown hair blowing in the breeze, his tanned face grim, Lucas obeyed. Tom Reed mounted to the rail beside him; and men clustered around, binding their ankles. Bertram, in the clustered knot of prisoners, sickened with a clammy sweat. But his eyes did not flinch, for there was Indian blood in him, shrewd blood, ugly blood.

"Excuse me!" And with a laugh, with a push in the small of the back, Flatnose sent Cap'n Lucas over. Tom Reed followed, amid a burst of yells and laughter from the crowding men. Boats were already plying to and from the sloop.

"Now, lads!" Rubbing his hands, Flatnose came to the knot of staring, cursing New Englanders. "Who chooses for a voyage under our Cap'n Teach? Gold, women, rum aplenty and a free life!"

"Be damned to you!" cried William Brown of Charles Town. "Bloody murderers ! We're not of your stripe! "

So said one and another; but Bertram spoke out boldly. "I'll join, and glad of it!"

Growls and curses, wild furious reproaches, dinned upon him— and roaring laughter and wild acclaim. The others were pressed to the rail. One by one they were bound and shoved over. William Brown was the last of all. Flatnose breasted the rail to watch, laughing softly. William Brown slipped his wrist-bonds. He leaped, he clutched Flatnose by the middle; and with a heave and a yell, they went over. Twined together, they struck the water, and together they sank, and did not break up through the eddies.

Thus Bertram joined the devil's crew, his dark cheeks and sultry eyes betokening Indian blood— the blood that forgets not nor forgives.

SOME two months later, in the opening part of November, Bertram sat at his meal in the Princess Anne tavern, in Williamsburg. The taproom was deserted except for a shock-headed boy brightening the brass and copper. Bertram wore haphazard garments, shrunk and stained by water; a half-healed scar streaked his right cheek with sinister touch; but he had money, and stoked his furnace with stolid precision. The tap-boy stared at him, and stared again.

And suddenly Bertram knew the boy: one of a crew with whom Teach had lately dealt; a Chesapeake trading-sloop, craft scuttled and crew marooned on a lonely strip of the Carolina coast. As recognition came to each, the boy let out a bleat that rose to a scream.

"I know you— one of Blackbeard's men— a pirate! Help! Help! Here's a pirate— come and get him, quick! A pirate!"

Bertram leaped up, cold with dismay, furious at this trick of fortune.

"Silence, you fool! Curse you, let me out of here—"

The boy shrank back, but barred the way sturdily.

"You're a pirate spying for news! Help, here! Help! A pirate!"

Bertram's brain raced. A bolt into the street— then where? Williamsburg was the capital of Virginia province.

Flight meant guilt.

Here was the landlord, horse-pistol in his fist; the black hostlers, gaping stable-boys crowding the threshold, pitchforks at the ready. The street doorway filled with citizen figures— a trickle, an inpour, borne upon the clatter of running feet; alarm hails, exultant voices, excited shouts. The room was crowded with a jumble of gawking, angry faces, flourished fists, hemming in the man who was at bay in the corner, lashed by waves of fury, unable to make himself heard.

"That's one of 'em!" the boy was shrilling away. "I remember him. Take him!"

"Seize him; out with him; hang him! Where's a rope?" lifted the voices. "Out with the gallows-bird!"

The landlord was to the front, horse-pistol thrust forward, fat chest heaving. "You can't escape, you bloody scoundrel! Yield!"

"I'm not escaping, you fool," said Bertram into a lull. "I'm no pirate—"

"He is! He lies!" shrilled the boy. "He was on Blackbeard's ship! He helped row the boat that put me and the others ashore!"

Turmoil dinned again, there was a rush forward. Bertram seized a stool and whirled it. The half-circle recoiled hurriedly from fear of a Blackbeard pirate; but the clamor swelled again in yapping frenzy. Men yelled at one another to shove at him.

Then, suddenly, the circle parted. A newcomer masterfully shouldered through and came into the front rank, with glimmer of blue uniform coat and fine linen. An officer of the Royal Navy, Bertram saw instantly,

A young officer, sandy hair and hazel eyes, a slim boyish back, a quick gaze sweeping the scene and then turning. Hand on sword-hilt, he faced the mob. "What's all this? Fifty of you against one man?"

"A pirate from Blackbeard's crew!" went up the yell. "Out with him! Hang him! "

"A pirate? Here in Williamsburg?" exclaimed the young officer incredulously.

"Aye, Your Honor," cried the landlord. "My tap-boy recognizes the rascal as one o' Blackbeard's crew. The boy was on a ship took by 'em last month! "

The officer turned, his eyes seeing Bertram more clearly, probing him. "You, sirrah? A pirate?"

"I'm not," snapped Bertram. "Give me a chance to explain in private."

"Egad! Hanged if you look like a villain, despite that scar; but hang you if you are one. From Teach's crew?"

"He is, he is!" shrilled the boy.

"Helped maroon us, he did!"

"I did not," rapped out Bertram. "I got this scar on my cheek for refusing to have a hand in those damnable doings."

"So you admit it, eh?" said the officer shrewdly. "You're one of Blackbeard's men, eh? What are you doing in Williamsburg?"

"He's a spy!" blurted the landlord. "String him up, says I!"

"Then no one will know what I'm here for," said Bertram. "Let this officer take me to the Governor, and it'll be a different story."

The officer surveyed him with sharply narrowed gaze, but Bertram met the look boldly, with sultry defiance.

"Clear the room, landlord," snapped the officer abruptly. "Out, everybody! I'll have a word in private with this fellow, whether pirate or not. God save the King! Out!"

Muttering, wrathful, the crowd went stamping out until only the landlord remained. The young officer took a chair and delivered cool command:

"Put that stool on its legs, man, and sit down. Prove your scar to be an honest one, and you'll come to no harm. Egad! Quite the contrary, in fact. I'm Lieutenant Robert Maynard, of His Majesty's frigate Pearl. Who are you?"

"Jack Bertram, of Albany; I was one aboard the Laughing Girl out o' Boston, when Teach took her."

"Likely enough," sniffed the landlord. "Blackbeard recruits hands from—"

"Hold your tongue," Maynard snapped. "You, Bertram! You look young for a pirate."

"Nineteen, four year at sea, and no pirate, damn you!" flared out Bertram.

"Ha! Hard eye and hard tongue, eh? And damn you back again." Maynard laughed. "I'm nineteen myself. But I wear the King's coat, and you're in rags with a scar for your rank. I think the pirate business doesn't pay. Eh?"

BERTRAM flared again, finding himself baited by this jackanapes in livery.

"I'm no pirate, I tell you! Take off your blue King's coat, and I'll break you in two for the word."

"Small gain to you, and much loss to His Majesty's navy," Maynard chuckled. "Calm down, fellow. What's your business here in Williamsburg?"

"I came here to see the Governor."

"Ha! That passes all limits!" burst out the landlord. "He's a spy for Blackbeard! That's how the recent ship with the high officials came to be seized by Teach—"

"Confound you! I'm talking here. Shut up," snapped Maynard.... "To see the Governor, eh? And why?"

"To tell him the whereabouts of Captain Teach, who's the devil in person!" spat out Bertram. "And I can fetch him the devil's head, too. No one else can do it."

The landlord vented a derisive bleat. Maynard started, leaned forward, the hazel eyes blinking in his smooth boyish face. He stuck out his under lip thoughtfully; hesitated, gazing hard at Bertram.

Suddenly he gathered himself with a jerk, and sprang up.

"You," he said to the landlord, "know nothing, have heard nothing. If one word of this gets out, you'll answer as a spy yourself. Tell the gossips that I've taken the pirate to His Excellency the Governor. More than that, nothing, if you value your ears!" He turned to Bertram imperatively. "Come along."

Bertram followed to the door, gladly enough. The little lieutenant shouldered a way through the gaping crowd outside, with Bertram keeping close to the uniform tails. Then up the street and away swaggered Maynard.

"He may be a hop-o'-my-thumb, but he has a manner and a mind!" decided Bertram, and he vented a dour chuckle as he followed, thanking his luck for clearance from a closing noose. The November sunshine had never seemed so bright to Indian eyes. Stiffly marching along, Maynard turned a corner and then slackened pace, and turned.

"Still in tow, are you? I gave you a chance to duck; it'd have meant a gallows-tree. Now let's talk in private."

They stood together in the empty street.

"The Governor has offered one hundred pounds for Captain Teach, alive or dead. After serving under him, you'd betray him for the sake of the reward, eh?"

"I never heard o' the reward," snapped Bertram. "I want none of it. What I want is the head o' that devil! I'll kill him so he can't come back! "

MAYNARD gave a nod as though the words struck his fancy.

"Ha! I've small faith in a man who can be bought. Why do you have this great love for Captain Teach?"

"I don't love him; I hate him," said Bertram with somber mirthless eyes. "I saw my cap'n murdered by his orders. Pushed off the rail, Cap'n Lucas and all the rest, who were better men than he. That's why I took service under him: saved my neck so's I could get his head. Since then, I've seen monstrous things done, but have had no hand in 'em."

Maynard nodded again, his eyes very joyous and eager.

"I see!" he murmured. "Shrewd head. I'd like to have known Cap'n Lucas."

"He was like a father to me." Bertram's stolid lean features relaxed a trifle. "I loved him. Well, I waited— served that devil Blackbeard, took my time. Then I swam ashore, three mile or so, one night, and came to Virginia with my word. It was no use trying in Carolina. Teach and some of those Carolina people are too thick friends."

The lieutenant nodded. "Aye. I hear the coast merchants profit from his free spending and cheap goods. And it goes higher than that. So you're not afraid of him?"

"I am," said Bertram bluntly. "You would be too, if you could see him in his cups. A tremendous big man, pistol in hand, half a dozen more in his slings, a-chewing glass so he drivels bloody slaver, with lighted slow-matches hung under his hat, his long beard plaited and ballasted with bullets, and his mouth spitting curses with the blood—"

"Bah! A bogey for children."

"There's worse'n that; he claims to be the devil, and so he is," went on Bertram, his eyes hot again. "He shut all of us in with him below hatches, and played at hell by setting a keg o' brimstone afire. He near choked the lot of us, but there he sat, pistol in hand, roaring a snatch o' song, swallowing the smoke as if he liked it. Aye, he's the devil in person, and I'm the only one who can kill him so's he won't come back."

Maynard regarded the other curiously, caught by the dour lack of mirth.

"D'you know where he is now?"

"Aye. He'll be outfitting a fine new ten-gun schooner. She lies in Ocracoke Inlet, in Pamlico Sound off North Carolina."

"By Jupiter!" Maynard smacked palm on thigh. "Come along to the Governor's house. We take the great Captain Teach, you and I! Stap me, but we're well met! Here I was on my way to engage that hundred pounds when I heard the rumpus."

Bertram fell in stride with the officer, who was nearly a head shorter.

"You?" he said. "He's twice your size and fears naught. But you'll take the king's frigate against him, eh?"

"No. The scoundrel has amnesty papers from the King himself, on plea of honest practices," said Maynard.

"Damme if the Governor of North Carolina didn't dance at his wedding ashore! No. I'll turn Virginia constable, by commission from the Governor, and take the rascal aboard his own craft. Art with me?"

"He'll have half a hundred men with rum in their brains. Aye, count me in with you. But if you don't get his head, things will go bad. And if you kill him, he'll come alive again. He's got more than man in him; it's well known."

"He'll have a chunk of lead in him soon enough," snapped the little officer.

His Excellency Alexander Spotswood, lieutenant-governor of Virginia, was at home in his fine brick mansion, at work before a table in his reception room. When he looked up, the brows of his long florid face puckered testily, then smoothed at sight of the uniform. He smiled, only to frown again at sight of the tattered and scarred Bertram.

Maynard went to the point. "Your Excellency, I'm Lieutenant Maynard of His Majesty's frigate Pearl; I've come to offer you the head of Captain Teach."

"Gad, sir! You have it with you?"

"I first want Your Excellency's commission to take it, and leave from my captain. This tall fellow is from Blackbeard's crew—"

"And looks it," said Spotswood.

"Teach's outfitting a new schooner in Pamlico Sound," said Bertram, his eyes smoldering. "He can be took before he sails. He thinks he's safe."

"And you'd betray him, fellow ? More like, betray this officer to him. Ha! You can bide in jail until I learn the truth of it—"

"And you'll lose him, Your Honor," broke in Bertram hotly. "The waters are tricky, but I know 'em; I can pilot the lieutenant. I mean to have Teach's head, for what he did to Cap'n Lucas."

"Pardon, Your Excellency," cut in Maynard. "I believe this fellow to be honest; I'll chance him. I vow, sir, I'll bring you Teach's head! I've set out to stand up to him and kill him with my own hand."

"Eh— 'pon my word, a very David!"

The Governor smiled. "I hear Teach to be an enormous big man, who defies lead and steel. No offense intended, sir; I admire and honor your spirit, damned if I don't!" Powder showered from the big wig, as Spotswood's fist pounded the table. "Gad! What North Carolina daren't do, Virginia does! I guarantee you leave from your ship. The commission is yours. Fetch in Teach's head, and the hundred pounds is yours as well."

"It'll wipe out a few debts," said Maynard with a grin. "The prize-money from the pirate craft goes to my volunteers who engage. And for my pilot, here?"

"Enough for him if he keeps his own head on his shoulders."

"I want nothing from any of you," flared Bertram. "I'm in no one's pay. All I want is to kill that devil."

"Humph! " The Governor grunted.

"So, Maynard, you vow to bring me Teach's head? Then I vow we'll have the skull made into a punch-bowl! Here, now—"

The Governor scrawled the commission with a furious quill, plastered it with the royal seal of the colony, and with another thump of fist was done. He sanded it, folded it and thrust it at Maynard, and the interview was over.

"Where now?" said Bertram, when he and Maynard were in the street.

"Take horse, and to the bay coast. We'll not recruit here, but among seamen who've suffered from that devil. And one or two craft to lay him aboard. You take his head after I've killed him! "

"You'll have to do more than take his head— to kill the devil," grunted Bertram with grim foreboding.

NOW there was fast riding and hot riding, by the road southeast to the James River. A boat to the two king's ships lying there; back again to the Virginia coast. The little lieutenant fairly buzzed with impatience. Two small fishing-sloops, and a crew of thirty men to each, were ready within twenty hours. More he would not take.

Bertram, dour and silent, the scar athrob in his lean cheek, scanned the crew as the Mary Jane slipped out into the bay, the Dolphin following. A motley array: fishermen, oyster-dredgers, lobster-potters, armed with blunderbuss, fowling-piece, pistols, cutlasses, pikes. Himself at the tiller, cutlass handy.

Maynard, in full dress of laced chapeau and skirted uniform coat, ruffled shirt, knee-breeches and silver-buckled shoes; girded with sword, pistols in slings.

"Once off the Carolina coast," said Maynard, as the sloop tacked through the roads for Cape Henry, "we'd best take the outside passage to the rascal's lair. He'll not be looking for attack from the seaward side."

"He'll not be looking for any; he'll be snug anchored and likely drunk," said Bertram with uncompromising conviction. "These fishing-sloops will make better weather through the Sound; if he beats us off, we can reach a shore port."

"Damme, have your way, since you know the waters! But we've not come to be beaten off. Once we pen him in with his tackle at loose ends, his head leaves his shoulders. And mind— if we find him ready and waiting for us, you'll be first to die."

He tapped his pistol. Bertram gave him one scornful glance...

A DAY'S SAIL down Pamlico Sound; and with twilight, the failing breeze gradually died out altogether. Maynard had been storming along, with restless eye alow and aloft, and now swore with all his heart. Ocracoke Inlet was scarcely a mile to starboard; they could even see the topmasts of a schooner pricking the eastern sky.

"I'll out sweeps and go at him!" said Maynard.

"Not so," objected Bertram dourly.

"The Dolphin's far behind. Further, I'll not venture these shoals in the dark. We'd be certain to ground."

"Damme, sir! I'm captain here."

"Aye, but I'm pilot. And if we hang up on a shoal in the dark, with the ebb tide coming on, what's the answer?"

"If we hang up, I'll kill you for a traitor!"

"Be damned to you," said Bertram with contempt. "You know well I'm no traitor— he's as much mine as yours. I'll take you in with morning, when the tide and breeze favor."

The little officer stared him up and down. "Stap me, but I think you've the right of it! Yet we could surprise him in the night. Daylight, eh? Well and good."

The sloop anchored. The distant Dolphin anchored. The tops of the schooner in Ocracoke Inlet faded, and the sky greened and darkened, and night drew on. An unpleasant night, all hands nervous and the devil too close for comfort.

The dawn came on. Now Maynard was all for the sweeps, at once, but the first waft of sea breeze tickled the smooth surface of the Sound; the canvas swelled and drew; and the Mary Jane glided through the pink sunrise, for the hell-ship's haven. Bertram, at the tiller, glanced astern. The Dolphin was following, but Maynard refused to wait for her. The ebb tide was on the turn. The sloop drew in to the bar and began to thread the shoals; the inlet was opening up.

"Every man flat along the bul'arks!" ordered Maynard. "Stay out o' sight all ye can, till we're fast to him."

LEFT now above-deck with only Maynard and one or two more, Bertram felt his lips dry and hot, his scar athrob, fear stabbing into him; the old horror, rather than fear. The inlet opened now, and the schooner in sight.

She lay broadside to, grounded by the ebb tide and awaiting the flood. At the foremast hung the bloody shirt, Captain Teach's pirate flag. And there, perched on the rail beside the main shrouds, blackly outlined against the sunrise, was the monstrous shape of Blackbeard himself, looking at them.

"Egad!" muttered the officer. "His guns are run out, his flag flaunted; he's on watch for us! If I kept my word now, you'd die in haste! "

Bertram laughed scornfully. But the rising sun dazzled the course for him.

The breeze suddenly failed. As though to mock his scorn of the threat, the sloop scraped and shoaled. She was fast, canted to larboard; and Maynard had his pistol out, furious.

"Delivering us to him, are you?"

"If ye think so, shoot and be damned," rasped Bertram hotly. Then, regarding the schooner: "Like enough he's had warning from somewhere. He has men in his pay all along the coast. We can get off with the sweeps, I think."

Maynard swore rolling navy oaths.  "Wait. He's about to hail us."

"Ahoy there! " came Blackbeard's bull voice. Within gunshot distance, he needed no trumpet. "What do you want?"

Maynard cupped his hands. "I mean to come aboard you."

"With a boat?" Teach roared out a laugh. "What d'ye want of me?"

"Your head, pirate!"

"You'll find hellfire here to roast you, bantam! " Blackbeard lifted a bottle and drank, and laughed again. His men, crowding along the rail, echoed the laugh with added jeers. "Damnation to my soul if I give you quarter! " he added.

Maynard hopped with fury. "Your soul's already damned, and so's your head! Bide where you are. I'm coming."

"Don't hurry! The fire will keep hot till the tide floats you! "

The lieutenant swung forward. "Out with the sweeps!" he stormed. "God's name, the devil makes mock of us! Oarsmen, take your chance; the rest lie low. You at the tiller, get down."

"Down yourself," said Bertram. He glanced astern, and grunted. The Dolphin was aground on a shoal, and her sweeps were plying, trying to get her off. Six sweeps went out, three on a side; to the tug of the blades, the Mary Jane swung on her keel. She grated; she moved; she slid afloat and breasted the inflow of the tide.

The schooner gradually came nearer.

Teach had disappeared. The rail was lined with his men, bristling with muskets and pikes. Presently, as the sloop drew nearer, Teach came again in sight, mounting the rail, every detail clear. The slow-matches under his hat were alight, his snag-toothed jaws champed upon red froth, his sooty beard masked him from ears to chest; bottle and cutlass in hand, another cutlass hanging on him, with an armor of pistols. He swayed and bellowed obscene oaths, cursing God and the devil, defying lead and steel.

Bertram felt a stealing chill of fear and horror, and looked to see how Maynard took this monstrous reality. A trifle pale, the little officer stood firmly planted, bodkin sword gripped and eyes upon the smoking prodigy.

"We could reach him with a ball and change his tune," said one of the men.

"Fire on him, and I'll put you in irons!" snapped Maynard. Then his voice lifted high and eager, as a whiff of air fanned across the deck. "To the sheets!"

Men ran stumbling. The canvas filled; the sloop quickened, gathering way ere the puff of breeze lapsed and died. The schooner was pointblank now, filling the view with her crowded rail. The sloop put out her sweeps again; Teach drained his bottle and cast it at her; his men let out a ribald yell, and suddenly the guns staring from the bulwark ports gushed and roared. White smoke rolled. Bertram, white to the lips, stood sturdily to the tiller. Fear was in him, horror of the yelling devil above, hatred of that monstrous shape.

The sloop reeled as the iron hail drove into her— scraps of iron, nails, bullets, glancing and hissing and bounding. Men screamed and staggered and sprawled, to lie writhing or motionless. The gangways were crimsoned, with half the men aboard cut down or wounded as they lay. The sweeps were in a tangle; the sloop fell off.

Maynard was still up, his voice lost in the wild uproar of yells from the rail of the schooner Where the smoke still hung. He came leaping for the tiller, but Bertram was already heaving at it; a breath of air lifted the smoke, lifted the Mary Jane, sent her blunt bowsprit clashing into the schooner just abaft the bow. Grapnels were flung; and as they hooked on, a blast of powder grenades came down, vomiting iron and sulphur.

Here, for an instant, all was confusion. Bertram caught up his ready cutlass.  The breeze rifted the smoke; in the rift towered Blackbeard, a-fume, slavering.

"AWAY! Boarders away!" shouted Maynard. Bertram leaped to follow him, but they were too late. Blackbeard was already in air, leaping like the foul fiend himself, his men pouring over after him, and hurtling to the foredeck of the sloop.

The remnant of the sloop's crew rushed from cover. The sloop swung away from the schooner, swung away and away, as puffs caught her canvas and drifted her. Maynard, on the way forward, stumbled and went down, cursing. Bertram leaped past him to get into the fray. Teach was raving like a madman, as the fishermen halted his crew and fought stubbornly. Bertram was in the thick of it now, plunging headlong for that monstrous red-frothing devil, his blade ready.

Fear? Somehow all the horror was gone out of him; only a parching hate remained, with memory of Cap'n Lucas. And now Blackbeard caught sight of him and roared with insensate fury.

"You traitor dog! I'll rip the skin from your living body for this! "

Bertram was in at him, dour, silent, sultry eyes intent. The great cutlass of Teach drove at him; he met the stroke with his own blade, and the shock went through his whole arm. Cut, slash, give and take, while steel rang around, pistols exploded, men cursed and cheered, and all the deck was smoke-drifted turmoil.

Clash upon clash— and sudden, Bertram's numbed arm fell. The blade in his hand had broken at the hilt; the huge slavering beast, untouched, roared and slashed anew. His hilt turned the down-sweeping blade, but the flat of it drove against his head, beat him to his knees as though clubbed.

He was down, on hands and knees. Somebody leaped right over him. Dizzily writhing aside, he beheld an amazing sight. Here was little Maynard, bodkin in one hand, pistol in the other, charging like a wildcat. And Teach hauling out a pistol—

Bertram, groping about for a weapon, trying to gain his unsteady feet, could feel time stand still. This was no dither to be ended by one shot, by one flashing thrust. Blackbeard loomed huge, inhuman, massive features contorted; his deep roar of fury actually lessened the explosion of the pistol in his hand, and spoiled its aim.

His frightful figure straightened aback to the crash of the second pistol. Maynard had halted his rush to aim. Another bellow escaped Teach; through the smoke, he spat blood and teeth, as Maynard's ball shattered his jaw and drove him back a pace. Like a hornet, the little officer was in upon him with a rush.

They were at it, cutlass and bodkin; clash and parry, cut and thrust, with Maynard topped by half a yard, but dancing about at fencer's straddle. Incoherent oaths burst from Blackbeard. The little thin blade was pinking him into a colander; the devil's coat was all reddened with blood.

A cutlass came clattering along the deck and spun against Bertram's ankles; he caught at it frantically and crouched to spring. The little officer, his hat gone, was down. He had come to one knee, his bodkin splintered, the steel stub raised to parry the sweeping downstroke.

As it came, the blade sliced through Maynard's sword-hand— took thumb and finger. Teach belched a red-bubbling curse and bent forward, the better to line his finishing stroke.

Maynard's left hand sought the other pistol at his belt. Then Bertram was leaping, with a spring and a whirl of his blade, all in one motion. He sent his cutlass home, fair to the mark; it sank for its full width into the thick neck of Captain Teach— and stuck fast. The hilt was wrenched from his sweaty grip as that huge bulk reeled aside and staggered for footing.

DEAD? Far from it. With gusty horror, Bertram was shocked dumb and staring; would no steel kill this devil of flesh and blood? Maynard came up, right hand dripping blood, pistol in left fist. He fired pointblank. Teach clapped hand to stomach and roared fresh formless rage.

Then, ignoring them both, Blackbeard plucked at the cutlass stuck fast in his neck. He had shed his hat and his smoking matches. Now he staggered to the mast and set his back against it, caught the cutlass-hilt with one hand, caught the point against the mast, and with a mighty heave had it out of his flesh. It clattered down along the deck; and with a dive, Maynard was after it and had the weapon.

Blackbeard had dropped his own huge blade now. He was sagging; his knees yielded; he spouted crimson from a dozen wounds, and blood was running over his plaited beard. The turmoil along the deck had lessened. Bertram, weaponless, saw Maynard poised to leap in and fight anew. Teach was not done yet....

With a choked, incoherent bawl of fury, he put left hand to head as though to keep it in place, with his right snatched a pistol from the slings, and leveled it. Maynard charged in. Blackbeard steadied for deadly aim, but the pistol merely flashed in the pan. Maynard was plastered to him; they were at grips, Teach clutching the little lieutenant by the shoulder, clawing at him.

And there underfoot was the huge whinger of Blackbeard. Suddenly waking, Bertram swooped for it and had it. Blackbeard, clasping Maynard against him, fell forward and bore the officer down beneath him, weighted him flat on the deck, clutched for his throat and gripped it, up-reared for purchase as he throttled.

Bertram swung up the heavy weapon, and then paused; it was impossible to know where to strike. A convulsion seized those two figures as Maynard twisted up, Teach rolled sideways; grappling and striking, they pitched over together. But now, wounds and loss of blood took toll.

The monstrous bulk of Captain Teach shivered and relaxed to a crimsoned mass, his head askew. The slender figure of Maynard squirmed erect; gaining his feet, he shook himself like a terrier.

"Egad! Dead at last!" he panted, looking down. "Here's a hundred pounds earned. And well earned, damme! "

"Your earnings," grunted Bertram. "My head."

HE swung up the big blade, swung it in both hands, put arms and shoulders into the stroke. The steel thudded straight; it sheared on, razor sharp, through flesh and cartilage and bone, and scraped the deck. The head was lopped aside, but was still attached to the mass by a shred of hairy skin.

"My head, remember," Bertram said again, leaning on the big cutlass and looking on the work with glittering eyes. Maynard glanced at him, glanced around, and then was darting away. The deck of the sloop had been cleared; the last survivor of the boarding-party had gone over the rail. With what men remained to him, Maynard got out the boat and tumbled into it. The oars flashed in the sunrise light, and the boat headed for the schooner.

The tardy Dolphin had come up and was locked in fight with the pirate craft, men surging on the decks, pistols spattering, figures vaulting the rails. Bertram sat beside the reddened mass upon the deck, paying no heed to aught else. He had freed the head from the body, and set it on the deck, the wild bloodshot eyes open and glaring in fearsome life like manner....

The fight ended, Maynard's boat came back. The little officer strode up and stood gazing at the corpse and its keeper. His riven hand was bandaged, his sandy queue was loosened; he breathed hard through thin nostrils and his hazel eyes were hot with battle-light.

"Damme, man!'' he exclaimed. "What's wrong, that ye sit here staring at a villain who's harmless?"

"Naught," said Bertram in his throat. "But he may come to life again. There's only one way to kill the devil. Cap'n Lucas told me of it, afore he was murdered."

Maynard grunted. "The head goes to the Governor, as witness for the hundred pounds. You shall carry it into the bows, and lash it by the hair to the end of the bowsprit; we'll sail Blackbeard back to Chesapeake Bay, for all to see."

"Not yet," said Bertram. "Not till I make sure the devil's dead."

He had brought from under his belt a sailcloth needle, long and curved, and sat with it ready as he watched the head with wary eyes. Teach was dead a dozen times over, yet had not died, but clung to life with all the incredible virility of a primal beast. Even now, with head and body sundered, the monster might yet come to life, act, speak! The men who gathered around to stare, hesitated to touch the thing.

"They're glazing! " exclaimed Bertram suddenly. "Look!"

The scar throbbed in his cheek. His hot intent eyes, the eyes of an Indian, gripped those of Teach. Excitement rose in him; a swift gusty breath escaped his lips, as he sat poised.

"Now's the time!" he said. "Now, when the eyes are glazed— then's when he'll come back to life if no one takes action! But Cap'n Lucas told me what to do—"

The men caught his words, caught the thrilling timbre of his voice. Fear and horror touched them. They moved back hastily. The devil come to life again? It might well be. Even Maynard stood half fearful, clutching for the reloaded pistol he carried.

The huge bloodshot eyes were glazed in horror. Bertram suddenly moved, with the flashing swiftness of an animal. He leaned forward, caught the twisted bloody hair in one hand, and in the other his needle flashed, and flashed again, pricking into those staring orbs.

"Ah! " He sprang nimbly to his feet.

A sharp yell escaped him— so sharp that the men stumbled backward, looking for the fiend to rise before them. "Dead! Now he's dead indeed, and a good job. The devil is dead! Look at him!"

SO it happened that the Mary Jane laid her course up Pamlico Sound for the Chesapeake, with a weird object under her stubby bowsprit. The head there, pendant by its long braided hair, turning this way and that as the sloop rolled— turning with a horrible semblance of looking about, peering about with wild glazed eyes. And seated on the bowsprit butt, watching that head as it swung, a lean shape with scarred brown cheek and vigilant hot gaze, the vengeance-glutted gaze of an Indian.

"The devil is dead," muttered Bertram. "Sure enough this time.... And he has Cap'n Lucas to thank for the job!"

________________

4: Lady of the Evil Eye

H Bedford Jones

Blue Book, July 1939

The ninth dramatic tale in "Trumpets from Oblivion"— stories based on the reality of old legends.

THE day that I shared in one of Norman Fletcher's experiments, or rather watched him at work, gave me a brutally shocking experience that I have no desire to repeat.

Our Inventors' Club, before which Fletcher had been demonstrating what he termed his "Trumpets from Oblivion," had disbanded for the summer. That day I drove out to the Pan-American laboratories on a business errand. Some one mentioned that Fletcher had been ill, and I looked him up. I found him at work in his private office, and he received me with hearty acclaim.

"Come in, come in! Make yourself comfortable; I'm glad to see you. I've had a touch of flu but it's over now, and I'm taking things easy."

"If you're busy—"

"I'm not! In fact, I'm about to play around with my pet invention, so you're just in time to sit in on an experiment and name the subject. Half a minute, now, till I finish these notes, then we'll go at it."

As I waited, it was with a self-conscious feeling. Here was a famous man, hailed by the world as an electrical genius, heir to the wizardry of Steinmetz and of Marconi, placing himself and his time and skill at my service! His affability, his friendship, were genuine. My heart warmed to the old Yankee, with his bushy snow-white hair, his ruddy features, his shrewdly twinkling eyes.

My thoughts flickered back over his odd theory, that all the old myths and legends of the world invariably had a basis of fact. He had proven this theory, too, with the astonishing apparatus he had invented, comprising his researches in ultrasonic waves, light waves, and other little-known and untrodden paths of physics. In recalling light and sound, which never die, in bringing back scenes from the past with what I can only de scribe as a sort of backfiring television, he had amazed everyone. Unperfected though his invention was, it was none the less a thing of rank magic to me.

"Ready? Come along to the laboratory," he exclaimed cheerfully. "Now I can relax for the day. Have you thought of some subject you'd like to probe?"

"Along the line of your myth theory?"

He chuckled. "Trumpets from oblivion, eh? Yes."

"Well," I said, "do you suppose we could learn anything about the origin of the evil-eye notion?"

"The evil eye?" He ruffled a hand through his white hair. "You've certainly picked something there! That belief is actually as old as the human race. Archaeology has turned it up even in prehistoric days. Excellent! We'll see what we can get."

And, thought I with a thrill, I would settle a few doubts of my own. I had always half suspected that Norman Fletcher's experiments were part trickery or illusion, that his demonstrations were somehow made up beforehand. No chance for that here.

"Remember," he said, as we came into his gaunt laboratory with naked granite walls, "you'll have the language problem to cope with. We can't understand the words used in the dim far past; I'll have no opportunity to translate them into English and synchronize the speech. Now, make yourself at home and we'll get to work."

I dropped into one of the easy chairs, and took a cigar from the box on the table. Fletcher seated himself before the keyboard, no larger than an organ manual and not unlike one in appearance, from which he controlled all his apparatus ; there was none in sight, but I knew it must be somewhere about the place. Under the touch of his finger, the room lights dimmed. Fletcher had never explained his invention, had never discussed how it worked. Now he gave a mere hint, which was quite incredible had it not been justified by results.

"We never know what we'll pick up, while fishing for the subject." He took a cigar, bit at it, and lighted it in his careful way. With it, he pointed to metal plates under his feet. "Conductors must obtain results by sending thought impulses into time and space— a difficult thing to explain, yet quite simple. You know, we're on the threshold of vast discoveries in the field of light, sound, invisible waves and impulses of all kinds.

The little I've learned leaves me terrified and awed, I assure you."

"You can't mean that you produce these— these visions— with mental telepathy?" I blurted out.

He smiled, then broke into a hearty laugh.

"No, and yes; the radiations of the brain, amplified and controlled— who knows how far they reach? Not I. It was by accident that I stumbled on this one manifestation. For years, bacteriologists have been at work on much the same thing: One well-known scientist has made some surprising discoveries in the field of human radiation and in ultrasonic-wave phenomena; then there are the Russian and German investigations into ultra-violet and other invisible radiations of wave-lengths shorter than visible light, and so on. Such human radiations have been measured at two thousand angstrom units—"

He broke off abruptly, and I learned no more.

On the stone wall before us, where a golden glow of light was glowing, a huge and shapeless something now was crawling, palpitating, moving. Fletcher leaned forward to his controls, his fingers moving swiftly. The shapeless thing disappeared, the stone wall began to disappear and dissolve. I heard Fletcher catch his breath.

"Too damned close!" he muttered. "That's the first time it's materialized on this side of the wall— careless of me! By the way,"— he turned his head, speaking casually to me,— "I should add that human blood possesses this power of radiation, to a marked degree."

Where the light rested on the wall, the stones had vanished. As through a wide-open doorway, we looked upon another room. I knew that outside it was mid-afternoon of bright sunlight; yet this room before us was in night, lighted by a massive candelabrum on a table, and beside the table sat a veiled woman working at embroidery.

She was richly attired, jewels sparkled on her fingers, everything about the room conveyed an impression of luxury, of Oriental richness. Tapestries of Bagdad weave hung on the walls, the stone floor was thick with rugs, and above the empty fireplace were a pair of gold-damascened Arab scimitars, with an emblazoned Arab shield. One vaguely recalled that heraldry had started in the Orient and been brought to Europe by the Crusaders.

The veiled woman looked up. A door opened and an old serving-man appeared. At first his speech was without meaning; then it became intelligible. For he was speaking French— not the French of today, but old Norman-French. While to the eye this differs vastly from the present-day language, to the ear it was otherwise; not by any means clear and distinct, but not difficult to comprehend.

"Lady Alixe," said the old servitor, "a knight has arrived at the castle— an English knight, Sir Gervase of Cliffden. He landed at Acre three days ago and is on his way to Jerusalem. He has two Arab guides, and a letter to your father."

"Did you tell him," asked the lady, in
a low, controlled voice, "that my father was killed by the Saracens last week?"

"I did, lady. He asks shelter for the night, and an interview with you."

"Did you tell him," her voice came more bitterly now, "that this is an evil place, that Lady Alixe of Beltran is an evil, murderous woman accursed by God?"

"God forbid, lady!" exclaimed the old man hastily. "Those things are not true. We know that you are the most beautiful and good—"

"Never mind," she broke in wearily. "Send the man here, when he has eaten. And send us wine."

The old servitor departed. The veiled woman resumed her embroidery. Her hair was massed in vivid gold; nothing of her face could be seen, but her fingers plying the needle were slim and young and lovely to see.

SUDDENLY all became clear, with these words, with the hints of the Orient all about. This Beltran was one of the numerous castles scattered about the Holy Land, held by the Crusaders or their descendants, before the Saracens expelled them. Lady Alixe was one of these transplanted offshoots of chivalry, fighting and dying in a far land for their faith, surrounded by a half-Arab environment. Her father slain, she held the castle in his place. But why the veil? Why was she not married? Was she young or old ?

The door opened again. Into the room strode a man young, yet not young; he was ablaze with virility, a strapping, powerful figure in leather surcoat and chain shirt. His face, framed in shaggy black hair, was eager, dominant, masterful, its youth belied by harshness of sun and wind and suffering. To gain the Holy Land, in those days, one suffered much.

He fell on one knee before Lady Alixe and kissed her hand, and spoke.

"Lady, my father and yours were old comrades in arms; it grieves me to hear that your father, good Count Beltran, is no more. Here,"— and he produced a folded, sealed vellum,— "is a letter the learned monks at Cliffden wrote for my father, introducing me."

"I thank you, Sir Gervase," she replied, taking the document and laying it aside. "Sit down, I beseech you; what little hospitality we have, is yours."

A servant brought in wine; he was a dark Arab who saluted the lady silently.

Gervase took a seat, gave her gossamer veil a curious glance, and spoke out impulsively.

"Let me remain here and serve you. No doubt you have need of a soldier, with things as they are, and more need of a friend. I'm in no haste to reach Jerusalem. No protests, I insist! We're old friends, or should be."

She glanced aside, startled, as a sound came at the door, a scratching sound. Gervase laughed and swung to his feet.

"That's my friend Molitor— I picked him up at Venice, and he won't let me out of his sight. A stout fellow, and intelligent as the devil. You'll like him."

He jerked open the door as he spoke. A dog leaped in, a lean hunting shape of greyhound blood, who sprang on him with avid joy. "Down!" commanded Gervase, and went back to his seat. The dog stood looking around, and a change came over him.

His hackles rose, his eyes glared; he crouched to the floor and then came to Gervase and crouched again, fear and a fierce angry terror upon him. Gervase touched his head and he relaxed.

"What's got into you, Molitor? Nothing to fear here, old fellow."

"But there is," said Lady Alixe.

Gervase jerked up his head. "Eh?"

"The dog knows, what you do not know," she went on, sadness in her voice. "The dog knows what all the peasants know, what people all around me know, what is whispered through the whole land. God knows it is no fault of mine, but the lords of the kingdom at Jerusalem have threatened to burn me for a witch, and now that my father is gone, they may do it."

Gervase drained his flagon.

"Nonsense or madness, which?" said he angrily. "Are you jesting with me?"

"This veil is no jest," she said. "This is why I cannot accept your friendship or your offer of service, though I thank you with all my heart. This is why you must leave here in the morning."

"I will not," he rejoined curtly. "What's the reason, in God's name?"

"Ask Mansur, the Arab castellan who will take you to your room." She touched a bell. "And before he comes, let me give you an earnest of what he'll tell you. Here, Molitor!"

THE dog looked up, rose, came to her outstretched hand, sniffing. She lifted her veil so that he could look up into her face. Gervase, from one side, caught a glimpse of loveliness— but the dog suddenly shivered and sank down. Terror came upon him; an acute shiver seized him, and pitiful whines, until Lady Alixe leaned back again, and hid her face.

Gervase looked on frowningly, perplexed, and the door opened to admit the Arab.

"Mansur, take Sir Gervase to the best chamber, give him all he desires, tell him all he wishes to know," she said. "When he leaves in the morning, see that he has food and competent guides."

"I am not leaving," said Gervase, and stalked out of the room with the dog at heel, following closely.

MANSUR took him to a room in the tower, overlooking the countryside and the Arab village and the palm groves. When they were alone, Gervase turned to the dark man.

"Why does Lady Alixe wear a veil?" he demanded. "What is this mystery about her?"

"Lord, I will tell you," said the Arab. "But first, I pray you, give us aid; there's no time to lose. Sergeant Giles commands the garrison, for all the officers were killed with the Count, and he's a fool; no one knows what to do. You must take charge."

"What the devil are you talking about ?" snapped Gervase, staring. "Your whole castle is at sixes and sevens— that's easy to see, and a worse-looking garrison I never beheld; but what's so urgent ?"

Mansur dropped his voice. "We have not told Lady Alixe, my lord, but two men arrived just before you, knights from Jerusalem, seeking her. We've given them food and wine in a room apart and put them off with lies— for we fear they have come to kill her."

Sir Gervase crossed himself. "Before God, such madness I never heard! You're all mad here! You suspect noble knights of dastardly actions—"

"Lord, come and meet them yourself, but keep your sword-belt on," said the Arab. "All we ask is a man to lead us, in her service!"

Gervase, who had loosened his belt, buckled it again. "Show the way."

Molitor at his heels, he followed the Arab to another chamber, and strode in upon two knights at table, being served by their squires. They gaped at him.

One, a stem scowling man, wore the mantle of a Hospitaler; the other was beefy, ponderous, sinister of eye. "Who the devil are you?" demanded
the latter.

"Sir Gervase of Cliffden, an English knight, in acting command of this castle," said Gervase. "I've just learned of your arrival, gentlemen. And you?"

"Sir Hubert Montjoy," the Hospitaler rejoined. "This is my companion, Sir Balthasar, a very worthy knight of Provence. We have orders from the King at Jerusalem; but whence came you? We knew of no knight left alive here."

"Live and learn," Gervase said curtly.

"Your business here?"

"Is with Lady Alixe of Beltran. Is she ready to receive us and hear our errand?"

"Let me hear it first."

Sir Balthasar came out of his chair, angrily.

"Ha! Some damned English adventurer just arrived!" His French was difficult to understand. "Out of this, rascal! We bear orders under the royal seal to take over command of this castle and send Lady Alixe to Jerusalem."

"Let's see your orders," said Gervase, stonily, and advanced to the table.

Montjoy drew a sealed packet from his pocket, and showed the dangling ribbon and seal.

"Does this satisfy your worship?" he said with a sneer. "Or have you fallen under the spell of her basilisk eye ?"

"I fear, Sir Hubert, that I don't comprehend," Gervase replied. "Did you say 'basilisk eye' ?"

"Certainly. All the world knows that Lady Alixe is accursed, that she possesses the Evil Eye which casts death and misfortune on all around. That's why she's to be burned at Jerusalem— after fair trial, understand."

"Oh! " said Gervase. "And you're eating her food and drinking her wine! You, who should be patterns of chivalry; you who have sworn to serve womanhood and protect it!"

"Young sir, apparently you have high ideals," sneered the Hospitaler.

The long arm of Gervase went to a wine-flagon; he shot the contents into Sir Hubert's face. Swinging around, he gave the Provencal a buffet that knocked him back into his chair.

"Is my meaning plain?" he demanded. "You are recreant, traitor knights—"

"You damned fool, I'll have you flayed alive for this!" Montjoy, sputtering, hauled out his sword and stalked around the table. "You've resisted the royal authority— at him, men!"

THE two squires leaped up. Sir Balthasar was out of his chair again, roaring oaths. Gervase scraped his long steel out of the scabbard and perceived that the Arab had fled.

"Up, Molitor!" said he, and leaned forward to meet the sweeping, vicious attack of Sir Hubert. What followed, was sudden and terrible beyond words; for, with death all around him, the English knight could waste neither time nor motion.

He ducked low under Montjoy's blade, his sword swept out low and far. A squire came in with dagger drawn to stab him from the side, and his point ripped that man's throat open, even before Montjoy came to the floor, screaming, with a leg gashed off. Sir Balthasar was almost upon him, swinging a sword as ponderous as himself, and the other squire was darting forward with a hunting-spear in hand.

Molitor took this squire, leaping in upon him, gripping his throat and dragging him down with worrying growls. Gervase gave the point to the Provencal before the latter could strike a blow— gave it to him full and deep, piercing from midriff  to back and jerking his blade loose again. Ludicrous anguished surprise swept into the man's fat face, his sword dropped, he clutched at himself and fell atop the cursing, groaning Hospitaler, whose life was running out with his bloodstream.

"Off, Molitor!" shouted Gervase, but was too late to save the hapless squire, for the long jaws had torn out his jugular. Gervase, leaning on his sword, stood shaking his head sadly at the ghastly scene. Sir Hubert cursed him and sank down in death. The Provencal was groaning his last.

"God rest them!" said Gervase, and wiped his sword. He was not callous at all, but death was very common in this day, life was cheap, and the man who could not kill quickly did not live long himself, except in servitude. Gervase had learned to kill, and so had lived.

He took the parchment from the table, opened it and eyed it curiously, being unable to read. He held it to a candle-flame, and was watching it burn when the door was burst open and Mansur came into the room, followed by a number of men-at-arms. Gervase turned to the silent, staring group.

"To my room with me, Mansur. You others, give these men burial and clean the room, and say nothing to the Lady Alixe."

Mansur accompanied him back to his own chamber. There he began to stammer something.

"Never mind about the dead men," cut in Gervase. "What's all this nonsense about Lady Alixe and the Evil Eye? Out with the truth, on your life!"

"Lord, it is no nonsense." The Arab shrugged and spoke resignedly. "As the wise men of my race know well, once in many generations is born a person whose gaze holds the power of evil influence. Such a person is the Lady Alixe, not of her own will but by the will of Allah; who is man, to avert his destiny? Upon all who endure her gaze, falls misfortune or death. Animals of all kinds perish; children die or fall ill if she caresses them. The monk who served the castle took care of her last year when she was ill; he sickened and died. Many of those who served her have likewise died. Now she wears a veil, which lessens the power of the Evil Eye. Mind you, there is no harm in her! She is a sweet and gentle lady, and grieves bitterly for the harm she has done."

"So that's the explanation! " said Gervase. "Who is the overlord of this place?"

"It is held in fief direct from the King, at Jerusalem."

"Good; then no one will bother about those two knights, for a while at least. Waken me early. At sunrise, I want every man in this castle assembled in the courtyard. How many men-at-arms have you?"

"Barely thirty remain, Lord."

GERVASE flung himself down in the darkness, but not to sleep for a while. He was superstitious; the whole world was ridden by superstition. Yet he refused to accept this story of Lady Alixe and the Evil Eye. There might be some basis for it, yes, but it had been enlarged and aided by ill luck and evil mischance. So he dismissed it, resolving to test the matter for himself. Nor would he accept the testimony of Molitor, snorting in uneasy slumber beside him.

That he had come at the right moment to save Lady Alixe from harsh destiny, he saw quite clearly. His own destiny had been abruptly altered; this killing of the two knights had changed everything for him. No Jerusalem now, no service with the King there!

"We'll think about the future when the time comes," he resolved, and fell asleep.

SUNRISE found him at work in the courtyard, inspecting, ordering, arranging, with a blaze of vigorous energy that swept everything before it. He was, in fact, appalled at what he found. Thirty men-at-arms, mostly French or of French descent, and fifty Greek mercenaries, in the main a slovenly lot. The castle was well supplied with food and wine, but arms lacked and defenses were slight. Below stretched a rich and fertile valley, with a large village and clumps of palms three miles distant; the villages and farmers were chiefly Arab and Syrian, he learned. Of horses, barely a dozen. The raid on which Count Beltran had perished had been disastrous in the extreme; the castle was an easy prey for the first band of Saracens to come this way.

Gervase took what measures he might. In the midst, he became aware of a veiled figure and the voice of his hostess.

"What, Sir Gervase, still here? I ordered you to depart this morning."

"Destiny ordered otherwise," said he. "I want you to ride with me to the village, yonder, and a bit farther."

She stiffened a little. "You talk as though you were master here! "

"I am," he said, regarding her steadily, trying vainly to pierce the thin veil. "It's my belief that I was sent here by God to save a very gentle lady from evil
fortune; and I mean to do it. I've no patience with fools or rascals or silly childish nonsense. Suffer me to have my way, lady, since it's for your own good. I've found a mission in life, and intend to see it through."

His voice was resolute; so powerful was his air, that he dominated the whole place. As she hesitated, sudden interruption came.

Villagers had been streaming in at the open gates, bringing produce and fruits. A wagon laden with oil-casks creaked across the stone, for the olives were in fruit and were being pressed. A man came to Lady Alixe and dropped on his knee before her, averting his face as he in barbarous French he said:

"Lady, there is sickness in the house of Mar Obed. Two children and the woman."

"Mar Obed has no children! " she exclaimed in surprise. "What woman?"

"A wandering Arab woman with two children, who came to the village yesterday on a dying horse. Mar Obed sheltered them; the woman was weak and ill, and is in no great peril, but the two children are dying."

"What does he say?" asked Gervase, and she repeated the words.

"We'll stop in and look at them," he said. "I have some skill with wounds and sickness. It's part of the knightly training; and God knows I've practiced it on many a poor soul since leaving England! Go and dress for the ride, Lady Alixe; I'll have out the horses."

With a gesture of helpless assent, she departed.

A little later they were riding down the cart-track toward the village, the two of them, with Molitor gamboling joyously around and ahead. Gervase wore his chain mail and a light steel cap; the sunlight well became his alert, strong features, saved from arrogance by the humorous wrinkles about his swift eyes.

"You're a very foolish man," she said softly, as they headed away from the castle. "Didn't Mansur tell you about me?"

"We'll discuss that later," he answered curtly.

"And the terrible thing you did last night. I heard the sounds as those men were being buried, and made Mansur tell me all about it. At least, all he knew."

DISMAYED, he checked his horse for a moment. His gaze went to her, keenly. In this instant he cursed the veil that hid her face.

"Then you know! " he exclaimed. "They had come to take over the castle, to send you to be burned as a witch. They tried to murder me. And you call it a terrible thing to defend my life?"

"I did not know," she said gently.

"Well, you do now. This land is no longer safe for me, or for you; now it's a matter of saving ourselves. If we had money, we could do it; money is power. But I've so cursed little. You probably have none."

She laughed. "Plenty, Gervase! My father has ransomed more than one Saracen. I have money and jewels at the castle; more is on deposit with a Genoese banker in Acre. What good is it to me? A woman alone is helpless."

"Ha!" His eye kindled. "You're not alone nor helpless, my lady."

"Hopeless, rather." Her hands made a fluttering gesture of futility, mournful as her voice. "What can I do? Nothing, accursed as I am! Better to let them take me, and end my life."

"Bosh!" he said roughly "I've got the thing through my head by this time. I'll make it plain later. There's a woman at home, in England, near Cliffden; she lives in a hut in the woods. Goody Toad, they call her; she has the Evil Eye and is a witch. My father saved her from being burned, and she has told me all about it."

"About what ?" she asked, as he paused.

"The Evil Eye. Something inside of her— a kind of power. If she stares at weak or sick animals, they die. But if she shuts her eyes and touches them, something goes out of her that cures them. People don't know this; they think she's wicked and accursed and can do only bad. Well, here we are at the village! Who's the man we seek?"

"Mar Obed. He's not an Arab but a Syrian. This is his house on the right."

They were among the houses, and Gervase noted a scattering on every hand. Mothers caught up their children and vanished hurriedly. Men drew back, although they saluted Lady Alixe humbly enough. One man hurriedly daubed his face and breast with a white powder. A girl, staring in fright, jerked a little box from her gown and scattered more white powder on her head and breast.

They dismounted at the door of Mar Obed. The Syrian, a bearded, bronzed man, saluted them, and Gervase noted that his bearded countenance, also, had been hurriedly strewn with the white powder. Lady Alixe talked with him, and turned to Gervase.

"He says the wandering Arab woman has been taken to another house, but the children are here; young children, fevered and dying. Go and see, if you like. I cannot. They would say that I looked on them and killed them."

"No, you're coming with me," Gervase replied. "Remember, your destiny is in my hands. I want you. Do as I say, lady, and trust me."

She moaned a little, but obeyed.

INSIDE the house, two children, dark-skinned and obviously Arab, lay on a pallet. The wife of Mar Obed, a kindly woman of middle age, was hurriedly dusting them with white powder, dusting her own face as well; she regarded Lady Alixe in abject terror.

The children, their little bodies drawn and emaciated, were muttering and tossing, looking about with fever-bright, uncomprehending eyes. Gervase examined them attentively, then asked for wine. Lady Alixe translated, and Mar Obed brought a cup of wine. Into it, Gervase put a few drops of liquid from a tiny phial.

"A fever remedy I got from a leech in Marseilles," he said. "Tell them to give it to the children later, a few drops at a time. Now lean over the bed and place a hand on each child."

She drew away. "No, no! You don't understand—"

"I understand better than you," he said gravely, compellingly. "Do as I say! Put a hand on each child, and close your eyes, Remain quietly until I give the word. If old Goody Toad had the right of it, we'll scotch this Evil Eye nonsense once and for all. Obey me! "

She was trembling violently, but yielded, and he placed one of her hands on the head of each child. A groan of fear came from the watching Mar Obed.

GERVASE, regarding the two little ones keenly, saw a change come over them, and his heart leaped. The feverish tossing gradually ceased. The racing pulses quieted, the bright eyes closed. Presently they fell into peaceful slumber, breathing gently and easily.

"Enough." Gervase caught the hands of Alixe away. She staggered, and he supported her within his arm. "Ask them what this white powder is."

She did so. Mar Obed responded at length and showed a small box of the powder.

"He says," she translated, "that it's a powder used everywhere in the Arab countries, here and in Egypt and in Persia, as a protection against the Evil Eye. The greatest Arab wizards and doctors make use of it."

"Hm! Those Arab doctors are wise men," he rejoined thoughtfully. "I heard of them in Sicily; they positively work wonders. Ask him to give me some of the stuff."

Mar Obed complied readily.

Gervase tasted the powder, made a wry grimace, and tucked it carefully away. Then he strode out, handed Lady Alixe to her saddle, and mounted. Instead of heading back, he gestured toward the desert.

"Ride past the palms, out into the wilderness a way. I want to talk with you."

She assented in silence, and they rode on, with Molitor keeping company. The village and the palms dropped away. Amid untrodden sand, they came into a little hollow, a bowl whose edges rimmed the sky. Gervase drew rein, dismounted, and gave her his hand. As she came from the saddle, he caught swiftly at her veil and ripped it away.

TEARS sparkled On her cheeks, tears filled her eyes; she had been weeping as they rode. Despite the anger that now came into her face, it was very lovely. Her eyes were a bright and vivid blue. A proud face, touched with sadness and beauty ineffable.

"How dare you! How dare you! " she gasped.

Gervase came to one knee, seized Her hand, and brought it to his lips.

"Pardon, lady! But I had to see you as you are; your voice told me, last night, how beautiful you were. Your voice has filled my soul. The touch of your hand has been singing in my heart. Dear lady, don't you see the truth ? It's like Goody Toad said— a power for good, not a thing accursed! "

"Oh, if I could believe it! " Her anger vanished, and anguished emotion filled her eyes. "Those children— they slept, they slept! My touch did them no harm! Yet it can't be true. If my eyes are accursed—"

"They're the most beautiful eyes in the world," broke in Gervase. "Listen! It's very simple, dear lady, just as old Goody Toad said. There's a certain power, yes; it can exert harm sometimes. That happened to you, perhaps once or twice, in little things; just as your vivid, bright eyes frightened Molitor last night. Then came exaggeration. Everything that happened was laid at your door. Tales spread and spread more wildly; fear lent wings to thought. You came to believe what was said. Others believed it. But now
you're looking at me, looking into my face. Does it harm me? No, by the saints! I ask no more than to meet the kindness and tenderness of your dear eyes all my life long! "

"Gervase! You are insane, mad!" she murmured. He laughed a little and once more pressed his lips to her fingers.

"Not at all; I'm utterly happy," he said, and rose, looking into her eyes. His sternly chiseled features were no longer harsh, but very gentle. "Look, dear lady! You've seen how this same power can heal, can do good. Here, let me prove it. Molitor! Here, you rascal!"

The dog came bounding to his side, caught sight of Lady Alixe, and shrank, stiffening.

"Close your eyes. Stoop down, touch his head," said Gervase, smiling. "Dogs read the eyes of humans, dear lady; it's a fact few people know. Do it, do it! "

She complied. Molitor shivered slightly at her touch, then quieted. As she stroked his neck, he lost his cowering air; after a moment, his head came around and he nuzzled her hand and licked it affectionately. She drew erect with a swift and startled word.

"True! It's true— oh, Gervase! "

Color swept into her cheeks, a rush of tears came into her eyes. She put out her hands to him, and Gervase upheld her, pressed her head against his shoulder, and his lips brushed the golden mass of her hair.

"What did you do to him— ah, the powder!" She shrank away, lifting her face in sharp conjecture. "Did you put that white powder on Molitor? Is that why he feared me not?"

Gervase broke into a laugh, but checked it thoughtfully.

"Heaven forbid! That powder, by the taste, is nothing but alum. Hm! There may be something to that powder, after all; these Arab wise men possess many secrets. This powder, that puckers the skin— hm! It might possibly fend off any such influences, in some queer way we don't understand. Bah! Sweep all that nonsense out of your head, my dear! From now on, we go up the world together. We'll abandon your castle and leave this land."

AS SHE listened, she yielded and drew against him, sobbing softly and happily, her face against his shoulder,

"We'll go to Acre," he went on, kindling to the thought. "There we'll take ship for Venice or Byzantium— perhaps to England; why not? The weight is off your heart and mind together. Here between sky and sand, you've come awake, you've learned the truth, you've cast off the darkness of your life. And I'll make the truth clearer to you, God helping me, through the years—"

His voice died away upon silence. A growl came from Molitor, a yapping angry bark; at the voice of Gervase, the dog subsided at his feet. Lady Alixe lifted her head and looked up, following the gaze of Gervase.

The rim of sand against the sky, above them, was broken by the shape of a horseman in glittering mail, who sat looking down at them. One low, incredulous gasp escaped the woman.

"Khalidl The Emir himself— Khalid of Damascus!"

As they looked, the rim of the bowl was broken all around. Men came into view, outlined against the blue sky, checking their horses silently; dark, bearded men in Arab chain mail, bows strung and shafts notched. Gervase relaxed. Caught, beyond escape! Caught, by swift savage raiders of the Saracen!

Lady Alixe moved swiftly. "I know him," she breathed. "He speaks French, he has often been a guest at our castle— Emir Khalid!" She lifted her voice in a clear, ringing call. "I'm the lady of Beltran! This knight is a friend—"

"It matters not who you are," broke in the Emir, a darkly indomitable, impassive shape. "I have sworn death to all Franks. It was I who slew your father Count Beltran. I shall kill every Frank I meet, for the injury that was done me last month, when my wife and children were carried off by Franks. Yield, both of you! Yield or die! "

Gervase scraped out sword. "Die like a man, then," he said grimly. White to the lips, Alixe tried once again.

"Khalid! We've done you no harm—"

"Take the woman alive," said the impassive Emir. "Kill the man. Shoot, Ali, and may Allah further your shaft! "

Alixe, who understood the Arabic words, flung herself before Gervase.

"No, no!" she cried fiercely. "They give no mercy— rather death, than a harem! Those infidel dogs shall not take me!"

Her long dagger flashed out in her hand. The Emir lifted his hand.

"Four of you, dismount and seize her. Ali, kill the man for me! "

Four of the Arabs dismounted; and of a sudden everything was happening at once. The bowman beside the Emir drew back his shaft. The four Arabs were plunging ankle-deep down the sandy slope. Gervase quickly stepped aside and put Alixe away from him with a shove. The bowstring twanged, and the shaft flew like a flicker of light.

LIGHTLY the sword of Gervase swung. It struck the arrow in mid-air and knocked it aside. The Arabs gasped; to them, it was magic. To Gervase, it was nothing; mere child's play, the everyday training of the straight-sworded Northmen and Normans.

Another twang, another flying shaft. He struck— and missed, losing balance in the sand. The arrow hammered on his mail-shirt. It broke, but the shock bore him back, overbalanced as he was, and  he came down. To those who looked, it seemed that he was dead.

"Allah!"

With the shrill pealing yell, the other men dismounted and came rushing down the slope. The first four were already closing in upon Alixe, wolfishly.

She evaded one; her dagger struck out at another, but the man caught her in his grip. Molitor came up in one terrific leap and caught the Arab by the throat; but another, curved scimitar swinging, struck at the dog and killed him.

FOR that man, it was an evil moment. Gervase was already coming to his feet; a cry of grief and fury burst from him as he struck. His blade clove through helmet and skull of the warrior, who pitched forward across the dead hound. Alixe poniarded the man who held her.

Then, smitten across the head by a mailed fist, she slipped down sidewise and lay quiet, senseless. The man who had struck her died, as the point of the long straight sword sheared across his belly; a spring, and Gervase was above her, bestriding her figure, feet planted firmly in the sand. He wasted no breath on battle-cries; he was marked for death and knew it, and meant to take full toll before dying.

They were flooding all around him now; they had left their bows with the horses, but steel was out and whanging at him. The first tried to rush him off his feet, but he met them halfway in this. He struck at their faces, swift and hard and fast; screams rang and blood spurted, for it was a ghastly business. The lithe curved blades were swept aside by the heavy sword; men staggered or reeled away from before him.

He leaped suddenly, turned about, caught those striking at him from behind. With point and edge he drove death into them, his tall figure towering above their lesser build. They pressed in for a moment. A Toledo blade slashed across his breast, piercing the chain-mail and bringing blood; another scimitar clanged on his steel cap, so that blood streaked down his cheek. Then they rolled back, as the smiting heavy sword struck down man after man, and blood spurted in the sunlight, and hurt men crawled, and screamed to Allah.

It could not last. He knew it most desperately; they were too many. Two came plunging at him, from either side. He cut down one, but his sword stuck there, and the other was in upon him, bearing him down. His sword was lost. His naked hands broke that man's neck, but already others were in, and he went down, down, slipping in the bloody sand, and they piled up above him.

"Back! Back, I say! Away from him!" The clarion voice of the Emir Khalid reached into them. The pile broke away. One warrior, poised to stab Gervase in the throat, was dragged off by his fellows. They scrambled clear, looking up in amazement to their leader. Gervase came to one elbow and reached out for his lost sword, but they did not move.

"Touch him not!" roared the Emir, swinging out of the saddle.

A man had come up to him, panting, gasping out eager words. In hot haste, the Emir turned and came down the slope in long leaps, and halted before Gervase. The latter came to one knee, sword ready, thinking it was the end, but the Emir checked him.

"Is this true?" The dark face was all ablaze, the eyes wildly alight. "Was it you, and this woman, who healed those children in the village? Answer, answer!''

"Aye," panted Gervase. "What of it?"

"My children, my children! " Reaching out, the Arab caught him in a wild embrace. "My wife, escaped from her captors with the two children! Allah bless you! Allah reward you, my friend and brother—"

THE hot gasping voices died out; the sunlight faded, the red gouts of blood were gone. The stones of the wall became visible once more. Then the experiment went wrong.

A cry broke from Norman Fletcher.

Against the wall something moved. A wild bloody figure, holding a long ax, moved in front of us, came rushing at us— no picture, no vision, but some actual thing from the past. I saw Fletcher plunge at his keyboard, as the ax swung. It fell, missed him, struck a chair beside him— then it faded and was gone, with the crash of the blow still in our ears. It was gone. The light was over, and died away. Fletcher came to his feet and looked at me; he was very pale and shaken. I looked at the chair. It was rent and splintered by a tremendous blow; but the room was very quiet.

"Good Lord!" I cried. "Did I dream that thing— that ax?"

FLETCHER exhaled a deep breath, laughed shakily, and pointed to the chair. "There's your answer," he said. "Those controls went screwy on me— confound it! Well, well, all's right that ends right. Here, have a fresh cigar.

Anyhow, you got the answer to your request for the Evil Eye material, eh?"

"More or less," I said, biting at the cigar. Right then, I needed a drink. "But I'm afraid I didn't get much of it. That alum stuff, for example."

He gave me a shrewd glance.

"No? To me, that was the most interesting detail of all," he observed reflectively. "We've just been told, flatly and unqualifiedly, that at the time of the Crusades, and presumably later, alum was used all over the Moslem world to avert the Evil Eye. Suppose we look this up and find it true,— and mind you, I've no doubt whatever that it will be substantiated in fact,— then what?"

"Well?" I said. "I'll bite. What?"

He shook his head. "There may be something in it from a scientific standpoint, that's all, directly in line with my own experiments. Alum, a powerful astringent, puckering the skin and membranes— yes, yes, it might have some such effect as we've been told. I've learned something today, let me tell you! Certain persons do emanate magnetic power, or invisible rays; science has proven that the Evil Eye is no mere fancy, but founded on sober reality. Once in generations, a person may show up whose radiations are extremely strong— for good or for evil. Hm! I'm going to experiment with the alum idea. Those old Arab physicians had something on the ball! "

Looking at the smashed and broken chair, I could not repress a shiver.

"So has your damned machinery, whatever it is!"

Fletcher took my arm, his shrewd eyes twinkling. "My friend," he said impressively, "come along to the library, where I'll lay before you the kindest words of tongue or pen."

"What are they ?" I asked suspiciously.

"'Scotch or Bourbon?'" he rejoined, smiling.

"For once you're dead right," I said. "And the quicker the better! "

___________________

5: Sons of Kalewa

H Bedford-Jones

Blue Book, May 1940

"I THOUGHT it was adventure,"  said Carrick rather disgustedly. "Instead, it's plain hell on a tension! And sub-zero hell, at that! "

The others laughed. "Even in Finland, the winter must break," said someone at the table. "It's beginning to break now. Then look out! They'll walk through us. The staff knows it;

Mannerheim knows it. The odds in men alone are fifty to one, and they've got the air. No wonder life's at tension! That's why we're here! "

Applause rang up; glasses were lifted; an excited Polish aviator shouted a toast.

The earth shuddered as they drank it— a bomb had struck somewhere close; but here in the deep shelter no Russian bomb could pierce, the Foreign Brigade drank deep.

That was not its title, except among the men who gathered here, outside the Viipuri camp— men who had come from near and far to fight for Finland: aviators, technicians, adventurers, rascals, soldiers of fortune. They met here to escape from the bitter cold, to drink, to talk. Old faces vanished each day; new ones came. Carrick was ready now to be moved out to the front. To his own amazement, since he knew nothing of soldiering, he had been made a captain.

His talent for figures, for organization, was what the Finns most valued.

Like many another man, he had shed an unhappy past to get here. He never wanted to see the past again, or to hear from it, except perhaps from his sister.

He was living for the present and for the future. And he had not found the present what he expected, by a long shot. Romance and adventure scarcely exist at thirty below zero.

"Captain Carrick!" A voice pierced the noise and smoke. A headquarters aide had entered, assuring everyone that the raid was over. "Report to Colonel Topelius at once, and bring Captain Lonnrot with you. Is Lieutenant Vincent here? Good. You are to report with Captain Carrick also. Yes, look up Lonnrot first— you may need him to interpret."

A final drink, a final chorus of farewells; and the two men, buttoned up and muffled against the frost, stumbled out of the shelter. They both knew that this meant business: the end of waiting and training had come; they were going to the front. But what front? All Finland was a battle-front, and sometimes in very curious forms.

Vincent, a Brooklyn boy who had fought in Spain and was pure soldier of fortune, chuckled as they emerged into the sub-Arctic daylight— four hours of it a day.

"This answers your grumbling, Carrick ! You were right, at that. Damned little high life around here; nothing but work. And the tension, everywhere the tension! Yes, that makes it hell. I suppose we'd better look up Lonnrot ?"

"If we want to know what it's all about," said Carrick. "Darned few of the headquarters outfit speak English, but I hear they're putting in a lot of Finns from America to help out."

"They're swell guys," Vincent said admiringly. "No fooling. Hard common sense. Wish we had a government half as good!"

Carrick laughed grimly. The Brooklyn boy was agin' all governments on principle, and was no idealist; but he was here as a volunteer, and was a walking wonder when it came to establishing shop units for airplane camps and squadrons.

"Most likely they're going to give us a job together," said Carrick. "Suits me."

"Might be worse," agreed Vincent with a grin. "You used to be in a bank, huh? My old man had a pool-room in Flatbush. Well, I guess we'll get on."

Not that it mattered; around them was a pandemonium of tongues and races, an outpouring of volunteers greater than Spain had known— perhaps the greatest rush of men to fight for an ideal the world had ever witnessed. In this one camp alone were Swedes by the thousand, and Norse and Danes, the finest of Scandinavia's youth. Here were Poles, Italians, Americans, Swiss, Greeks, even men who, like Baron Mannerheim the commander-in-chief, had once been Russian. Technical equipment was pouring in from half the countries of Europe.

THE two Americans located Captain Lonnrot, who acted as interpreter and liaison officer; and all three set off for headquarters. Lonnrot was lean and hawk-faced, like Carrick, but shorter, and with the peculiar slightly oblique eyes and round head that bespoke the Turanian origin of his people. Almost a Laplander, was Lonnrot. Carrick found the man a perpetual surprise, for from behind the veneer of education, flashes of a savage and primeval— almost a barbaric— spirit were continually breaking forth. Yet to all appearance Lonnrot was a courteous, cultured gentleman.

"Is it true," chirped Vincent, curiosity filling his scarred, impudent features, "that Hitler has sent a whole squadron of German flyers here ?"

"No, no," said Lonnrot, frowning. "That is silly, absurd talk, my friend. He cannot spare any flyers. If he could, he would not send them. As soon as we have broken Stalin's back, Hitler will send him help to crush us— but at a price. He will get what he wants from Stalin, then."

"You seem damned confident about the future," observed Carrick. The Finn gave him a bleak sidelong look.

"I am. I know. I have been told."

"Yeah, he's a wizard," spoke up Vincent, to whom nothing whatever was sacrosanct. "All Finns are wizards. It's no secret. I hear in the back-country they all eat horseflesh and cast spells; that's how they've brought this weather on the Russians. How about it, Lonny?"

"It is possible," said Lonnrot curtly. Vincent must have been a fearful trial to him at times— but boy, what a machine-shop boss! Vincent had drawn up plans for salvaging a lot of the captured Russian materiel, and his plans were rumored to be posted at headquarters as samples of efficiency. The Finns loved efficiency.

Colonel Topelius was the headquarters official in charge of foreign volunteers. He was a broad, squat man of obviously Teutonic origin; Carrick was by this time learning to differentiate between the Swedish and Teutonic Finns, those of Russian mixture, and those of the old Hunnish blood. Not that it made much difference, these days.

Topelius, who spoke fluent German, addressed them in that tongue, which all understood.

"You are all three leaving in an hour, gentlemen, for a special camp near Lake Kianta. A plane will be at your disposal; it is essential that you get there at once. You have been chosen because you speak German. Captain Carrick, you will organize the camp there and be in charge of it, with Captain Lonnrot as your assistant; you will not, of course, have any jurisdiction over the aviation personnel. We expect you to build a model camp there; you'll have supplies just as soon as the pressure on the front slacks up a bit.

"Lieutenant Vincent,"— as he turned massively to the Brooklyn lad, —"a large amount of captured Soviet materiel has been assembled there: tanks, artillery and so forth. A crew of selected men will be sent you. Salvage what can be salvaged. Here are the detailed orders for all of you," he added, handing Lonnrot a fat envelope, "so there's no more to be said."

AN hour later, the three entered a Swedish plane, the grinning pilot shook hands joyously, and they were on their way north.

To Carrick it was a blessed relief from the tension of the training-camp, of this entire country. Here was his chance to make amends, somehow, for the past wastage of his life. He had found a new road, new things to do, new outlets for his flaming energy; he welcomed them all with a savage joy. He had been a misfit back home; here, it seemed, he had found his intended place. Yet when the journey was ended that afternoon, he was not prepared for what he found, or for the surprises that greeted him.

Everywhere was snow, and little else in sight. Men, willing but awaiting orders. A camp half formed, snowed in, poorly organized, no supply-lines established. A vast lot of captured tanks and artillery and machinery. Above all, forty foreign pursuit-planes, a hundred aviators and mechanics who said they were "Polish" volunteers— and no gasoline. All was stagnation. And this lay at the brink of a narrow but deep river fifty feet across, thickly frozen, that plunged down from hilly higher ground a mile to the north. There were no defenses. It was a camp supposedly well in the rear of the fighting-line. There was a good radio post here, too.

WITH officers flocking about them Carrick noticed the ski patrols coming in, was aware of the boiling turmoil that greeted them; but for a time he did not get the meaning of the frightful news these men brought. It did not soak in, even though Lonnrot explained it to him: The entire Soviet 32nd Division, a crack fighting corps, had broken clear from the trap holding it twenty miles eastward. It was headed this way in a desperate effort to smash through; fourteen thousand men, with artillery and tanks.

Still it meant little to him. His mind was full of the things he had to do here, of the chances given him to build and work. He was thinking more about this, than about the news. That he had literally dropped into an unexpected and terrific crisis did not at once become clear, even when he was called to sit in upon a council of war, together with Vincent and Lonnrot. The amazing presence of this foreign squadron had meant far more to him, until he sat in that council and learned what it was all about. The squadron commander was present; also a Swedish captain of engineers, and a dozen Finnish officers— the highest rank a colonel. Everyone spoke German.

"This camp was prepared for the reception of these planes, not for fighting," said the colonel in command. "I have here less than a thousand men, ski troops and others in training. A hundred Swedish engineers, no artillery, some two thousand laborers collected from the country roundabout, limited supplies."

"And the planes," said a voice.

But the "Polish" commander, quietly but firmly, made it painfully clear that the squadron could give no help; there was no gasoline for the planes.

A radio officer came in and handed the colonel a message; the Finn read it, folded it, remained silent.

"We have two days before the Russians could get here," he said. "It is impossible for any help to reach us— the air is shaking now; the whole Mannerheim Line is under assault day and night. We have nothing with which to meet the Russ."

"You have something with which to destroy him," said Captain Lonnrot in a deep voice. Every eye went to him.

"You have the three sons of Kalewa," he asserted.

Carrick did not know what this meant. Eyebrows lifted; one or two Finns nodded gravely; others grunted sardonically. The colonel in command shrugged.

"I don't think they are going to give us any practical help, Captain Lonnrot," he answered mildly. "Have you any suggestions?"

"Yes," said Lonnrot. "First, what are your orders ?"

The colonel reread the message.

"To try and delay the Soviet column; and if necessary, abandon the camp here, destroy the planes and fall back," he said. Angry mutters broke out. Lonnrot laughed harshly.

"Things must be desperate indeed! Well, I have an excellent suggestion. This camp has been placed under command of Captain Carrick, here; turn it over to him. You obey your orders; take out what troops you have and delay the Russ."

"Without artillery?"

"You need none. Tomorrow snow will fall, soft snow; their tanks cannot advance."

Lonnrot glanced at Carrick. "With the Swedes, two thousand laborers, and our excellent foreign assistants— what can we do?"

CARRICK'S lean, frost-hard features flashed in a smile. Gamble with destiny, by Heaven! It was his big chance. And though he did not know what the words meant, he repeated Lonnrot's recent utterance.

"I think we can do anything we desire, especially with the three sons of Kalewa to help us! Yes, I'll take the gamble."

Somewhat to his surprise, the usually merry Finns did not crack a smile at his words. Into Lonnrot's face leaped a great wild light of joy. Others looked at him askance. The colonel turned to him gravely.

"Very well. I turn over the command to you, and shall march out at once. I'll arrange to keep in touch with you by ski couriers and sleighs— the radio here is not portable."

So, while the air shuddered with the spasms of artillery fire from the embattled Mannerheim Line a few score miles away, to north and south, Carrick found  himself with the devil to pay and no pitch hot. Taking over the commandant's hastily evacuated quarters, he conferred briefly with Lonnrot and Vincent, before going to mess.

"DINNER'S ahead— let's jump into it right afterward," he said. "Vincent,  your job is to get some of that Russian artillery and maybe a few tanks in shape to use. — Lonnrot, what did you mean— who were the sons of Kalewa?"

"Oh, 'Kalewa' is the old name for our country, for Finland! The three sons of Kalewa are the heroes of our great epic, the Kalevala. I think you said better than you knew. They will help us, yes; the ghosts of all the heroes will fight for us!"

Carrick grunted. So that was it!

"You Finns don't need ghosts to fight for you," he said. "But if snow is coming tomorrow, we'll have to work like hell tonight. Shall we pack off the lanes to another base? It might save having to destroy them."

"Everything is being bombed; this is a secret place, prepared for those planes. Leave them here, and trust to the protection of the ancient gods! "

"I'd sooner trust in gasoline," snapped Carrick.

When, later, he faced the task in hand, he was absolutely appalled. It was an impossible job he had assumed. The camp had no protection, no artillery; its very position rendered it helpless and open to attack from the higher ground upriver. The earth was a dozen feet under the snow, and frozen hard; there were a few sticks of dynamite in the stores, but not enough to open a single trench.

He consulted with the "Polish" commander, an alert, eager young officer. The ships had actually exhausted their fuel getting here— they had not been given much to start with. And until their insignia were covered, the commander refused to let any in the air. Since there was no paint of any kind, it meant waiting.

"Not much," said Carrick. "Put what as you have left together, and there'll be enough for one plane— not to fight, but to scout and report. If we can't paint over your insignia, then remove them. Put men to work scraping it off."

With a matter of only two or three days before crisis, Carrick sought desperately for a better camp site, questioning men who knew the country intimately. The heights, a mile away, offered the only possibility; but without artillery the move would be folly. Better to abandon the position entirely; this had not been intended as a fighting unit.

Carrick refused point-blank. The laborers, countrymen who were in training as soldiers, were put to work felling trees and surrounding the camp with breastworks— a futile effort, as Carrick knew, but it kept them busy. He made plans for the camp organization and dugouts.

All this took hour upon hour. He was close to exhaustion when Vincent showed up.

"Come on and turn in, Carrick. I'm dead beat, but things are moving; best we can do. Any news ?"

"Coming now; the radio officer just sent word. Stick around; then I'm with you. What chance of getting any gas from those Russian tanks and trucks?"

"Plenty of it, but vile stuff. They've tried that angle already— it wouldn't work at all in the plane engines. I've made a hole in that junkyard out there, and we've got half a dozen tanks that look first-rate. Plenty of heavy guns, but mighty little ammunition. I can get some of the trucks moving, inside a day or two."

When the radio man arrived, however, all rising hopes were dashed.

No help whatever could be spared them, he reported. The Russians were making terrific assaults, regardless of losses. Their bombers were sweeping not only the Finnish lines, but all concentration points, the cities behind the front, everything; they were coming over even in the night. All Finland was in an agony of resistance. The 32nd Division was to be held here at all costs until troops could be sent.

"Fine prospect," said Carrick, as he slipped off his boots and furs, and turned to his blankets. "See you in the morning, Vincent— if there is a morning!"

HE slept, and dreamed; his dream was a queer thing to look back upon. He could only remember three men who came and jabbered in a language of which he knew no word. A wrinkled old man, a young handsome man who laughed, and a grim fellow in the blackened leather apron of a smith. When he could not understand them, they grew angry, and the old man pointed out to him a great auger standing in the snow— a two-inch auger, such as might be used for boring great timbers for the wooden pins of old-time construction. That was all of the dream.

Carrick wakened and dressed, and laughed at the memory. He remembered having seen, the previous night, just such an auger standing in one corner of his quarters— yes, there it was! And it, of course, had produced that whole hallucination! He dismissed it as such, and fell upon a bite of breakfast.

More bad news from the radio. Communication was difficult; headquarters had been bombed. New Soviet army corps had come up; the battering and assaults were incessant; the defense was holding, but none knew how long it could hold. And if this 32nd Division broke through, here back of Kianta, Finland was lost. Here was the weak spot.

Lonnrot, who brought this message, shook his head darkly.

"We've no guns, no ammunition, no defenses," he said. "We can die; that's all."

"And rather foolish," Carrick said cheerfully. "You predicted snow. Think it will come?"

"In an hour," Lonnrot said positively. "That'll stop the bombing raids, and will slow up the 32nd Division— or at least its transport and tanks. But no word has come from our colonel; that's bad."

Word came, an hour later. A ski courier came in. The Russians, fighting like fiends, had burst through in the night; they were not ten miles away. The scattered Finns were hanging on doggedly to their line of march, and sent desperate prayers for help. Carrick summoned Lonnrot.

"Why not take the two thousand laborers and go to harry the Russians?"

"We have neither skis nor rifles for them," said Lonnrot, and that settled it.

Trees were felled and brought in, as the hours passed; the semblance of a camp began to take form. The snow was falling now, thick soggy snow.

CARRICK went to where Vincent was at work, near the snow-covered mass of trucks and mechanized units. The Swedes and some hundreds of the laborers were busily employed.

"Not even two or three guns with ammunition?" Carrick asked.

Vincent shook his head.

"Look, boss; it's a jumble, see? The most of what ammunition there is, won't fit the guns that'll work. I can give you a dozen of these seventy-fives, but with not more than four or five shells each. So it's no use."

"Send them along as soon as they're in shape, with what shells you have."

Carrick, puffing at his pipe, stared into the snow-flittering obscurity. An inkling of something had come to him; these Russians had burst through— why? Because the thin forces of the Finns, overconfident, had met them face to face. The great Finnish victories had all been won, heretofore, by strategy. What price strategy now?

Through the snow grew a strange sight— one of the seventy-fives, with a hundred men tailed on the ropes that drew it. A Swede saluted and asked where it should go. With this, the answer suddenly came to Carrick— or at least the partial answer. Within another hour he had a dozen pieces of artillery in readiness and covered over, with Swedish and other foreign officers drilling men in their use. Lonnrot came up.

"It is folly, utter madness!" he exclaimed. "There are only a few shells. The guns have no emplacements."

"True," said Carrick. "Persuade that plane commander to send up the one ship we've fueled, as soon as the snow lets up a bit, and bring in word of what's happening."

Vincent, greasy and cheerful, appeared for noon mess and eyed Carrick curiously.

"I hear you've gone mad, Chief. Swell work! Got an idea, have you?"

Carrick laughed. "Part of one, anyhow. How many tanks can you get in running order?"

"If you just want tanks, without being critical, I can have a dozen on the move by tomorrow night. No good, except where there are no drifts, because they bog down in the soft snow; darned little fuel, and only a couple have guns. Most were stripped off. Not much ammunition for those with guns, either."

"Get some men trained in running 'em, as quickly as possible, but don't waste fuel."

"What are you up to, anyhow?" Vincent demanded. "This artillery is no damned good, and the tanks won't be any good either."

"Tell you later," said Carrick. "What I'm wondering about is how these foreign planes got here and why. Is Hitler secretly helping the Finns?"

"Ask that commandant," Vincent replied shrewdly. "Maybe he knows. There's a lot that's not on the surface in the German-Russian hook-up. Some sort of double-cross, probably. Maybe a triple one. Hello! "

An engine was roaring. Snow or no snow, the "Polish" plane was going up to scout. Vincent left. Lonnrot came tramping up with several other officers; they were in no pleasant mood, and demanded some explanation of Carrick's purpose in this mockery of a defense.

Carrick eyed them, repressed a smile, and spoke in a half-jocular attempt to strike at their superstition.

"I am not sure myself," he said frankly. "I hope to trick the Russians, if they come, into thinking we have a regular camp. Three men suggested it to me last night in a dream."

"Oh!" said Lonnrot. "Three men? Who were they?"

"I don't know," rejoined Carrick. He described the three he had seen. To his amazement, the officers looked at one another, turned, and made off in haste. Lonnrot saluted, his eyes like saucers, and followed. Carrick laughed silently.

He stamped off, found Vincent, and told him. The Brooklyn boy grinned.

"All right, boss! I don't savvy it, but we'll give you a camp here! "

THE snow thinned; the gray skies cleared; the plane returned, its skis taking the snow in a beautiful landing. The young pilot, laughing, reported a brush with four Soviet planes. He had shot down one and given the others the slip. The Russian column was not more than five or six miles distant, he reported ; the other planes had been scouting ahead for them. The Finns had managed to cut the Russian line in two during the heavy snowfall; a few light trucks were with the column, but the artillery and tanks had fallen behind. Russian scouts were well in advance of the column. Some companies of Finns, apparently, were cutting back for the camp.

Carrick took the plane commandant aside and talked with him at length. The officer refused flatly. Carrick shrugged. "All right; have your own way, and your planes must be destroyed. Take my way, and you have a chance to save them and yourselves. Which?"

Reluctantly, the commander yielded. The planes were taken out into the deep snow and covered over; their machine- guns were removed and mounted for use on the ground. The scant hours of daylight faded out, and no Russians had appeared as yet on the heights upstream....

Carrick was asleep, that night, when the Finnish colonel came in. He wakened to hear that a radio message had just arrived through the shuddering air; there was no hope of sending help, for days to come. Soviet man-power and guns were driving incessantly at the whole Finnish line. "Hold the 32nd, stop it, delay it, or we are lost!" came the word.

The colonel was hopeless. With the remnants of the previous corps, about fifteen hundred men remained, hanging on the flanks of the Soviet column, but unable to do more. The artillery and tanks had been cut off, bogged in the fresh snow; but the Russians had an enormous number of machine-guns and automatic rifles, and against these the Finns were nearly helpless.

"If we could only reach them," cried the colonel, "we could use our knives alone and destroy them! But that is impossible. We have no machine-guns, no artillery."

He fell silent— then, utterly worn out, dropped to the floor asleep.

Carrick beckoned Lonnrot.

"Send out scouts to meet our riflemen; have them posted in the trees upstream, on those heights. And try to get hold of two or three Russian prisoners."

The country running upstream to those heights was denuded of trees and so heavily windswept that it had little snow. Carrick sent word to Vincent to get the tanks out and have the deeper drifts marked so none would bog down. They were to be left in plain sight, but the crews would not man them until necessary. Whatever Carrick ordered was by this time given implicit obedience.

Parties of the broken ski companies began to drift in. They brought word that the Soviet column, now a mobile outfit with light supply-trucks aloft, had halted for the night.

One of the parties brought in a number of prisoners, and Carrick immediately sent for Lonnrot.

"Take charge of those prisoners," he said. "Let them see everything here, especially the artillery and the tanks. Tell them we've prepared a trap for the entire Russian column, and that we have thousands of men hidden— and see that a couple of them escape, as soon as the Russians get close. You understand ?"

The sharp features of Captain Lonnrot became radiant.

"Yes, yes! It's a noble plan, a wonderful plan—"

"It's a desperate expedient," broke in Carrick quietly. "Tell me, why did that dream of mine make such an impression? Who did you take those three men to be?"

"Oh! That was obvious to everyone," said the Finn. "They were the Three Sons of Kalewa, of course. The old man was Wäinämöinen the ancient; the second, the cunning smith, Ilmarinen; and the young one was the gallant Lemminkäinen. Yes, our heroes themselves appeared to you. It is evident that you are a man of great power."

He departed, and Carrick broke into hearty laughter. He was far too conscious of the distinction and help given him by this superstition, to make any effort to disillusion the Finns; still, it amused him, and when he saw the huge auger in the corner, he chuckled.

There was no chuckling next day, however, when the storm burst....

Troops came flocking in, some companies intact, others badly shattered. The Soviet machine-guns had taken heavy toll. The colonel's estimate of fifteen hundred men proved optimistic. Soviet planes appeared overhead, reconnoitering the camp, and departed; the Soviet scouts appeared on the heights upstream ; and the Finns, resisting starkly, fell back as Carrick ordered. The colonel, who ranked the command, refused to take it away from Carrick.

Two of the prisoners escaped. The full half-dozen Soviet planes reappeared, swept down upon the camp, dropped a few bombs that did no great harm, and started in to machine-gun the camp in thorough style. The hidden machine-guns taken from the planes opened on them at close quarters in a terrific volley. Two of them came down in flames; two others crashed, and two went limping away to tell of the trap.

THE Russian masses began to flood down from the heights. The tanks moved forward to the attack; the artillery from the camp opened fire. The Soviet forces hurriedly moved back again, and the fire ceased. Machine-guns began to stutter along the heights, and the Finn scouts moved back; but with nightfall they swept out and encircled the Soviet camp, sniping.

And there the Russians dug in, on the high ground, no doubt mourning the artillery that would have placed the Finnish camp at their mercy. An occasional shot or two from the camp held them immobile for the moment.

Amid all the rejoicing in camp that night, Carrick did not disguise his real feelings from Vincent.

"One push, Brooklyn, and we're done! They can blow us down like a house of cards. As it is, they're consolidating themselves and probably expecting another division to move up with more artillery. If they don't get too damned curious, we may bluff 'em for two or three days."

CARRICK woke up next morning with a gasp; he was slow to get rid of the dream. Not much of a dream this time, just one of those three men, the old one, pointing to the big auger and then fading out. Merely enough to jangle Carrick's nerves, till he was dressed. Then he threw it off with a laugh.

"That auger's on my brain!"

With the muttered words, he went out to mess. All was quiet, apparently. Vincent joined him, and Captain Lonnrot also showed up, looking hopeful.

"I dreamed! " he informed Carrick solemnly. "It was about the foreign squadron. Other squadrons have come to help us, to shoot down the Russ flyers. They do this; things get bad for Stalin; he tells Hitler to help quick. Hitler gets his own price then. Oh, that is the Nazi way! Then those 'Polish' flyers, they know all about our defenses, then come back and bomb us— that's what it will be."

And all a dream! The man was convinced, absolutely convinced, of it.

"I'll be getting nuts myself," said Vincent, "the way those Swedes talk. They say there's not a chance to hold back the Bolshies very long, that the lines will crumple. I guess they're right. Can't go on forever here, and the odds are fifty to one."

"What are they in it for, then? Or you?" said Carrick, smiling.

"Same as you are, blast you!" Vincent slapped him on the back, and was gone with a burst of harsh laughter.

Doomed? Yes. Carrick had heard this on all sides since reaching Finland; even the high command had proclaimed it as no secret. The Finns were doomed, for the present; they would fight to the end and go down, and rise again. This was the country of ancient wizardry, and the people had the ghosts of the ages supporting them. Many of them, like Lonnrot, were fey men.

More parties of the ski fighters came drifting in, circling the camp above, dropping exhausted on their rifles. More bad news came from the radio; five Russian mass-attacks the previous day, on the Karelian Isthmus lines. Another division pressing westward. "Stop the 32nd— for the sake of Finland, hold it, check it! We can give no help."

Well, the 32nd was stopped, there on the heights!

So, at least, Carrick congratulated himself. So the wildly delighted Finns spread the news, and saluted him eagerly whenever they sighted him; their sisu, that word meaning morale and courage, peculiar to Finns, was rising high and higher.

Until, suddenly, all hopes cracked and went to black ruin....

How did it happen? Carrick scarcely knew, at the time. The brief hours of daylight were nearly sped, and all promised well, when the alarm started. A squadron of planes appeared out of nowhere; a black spearhead of men came streaming down from the heights; attack! Men rushed to stations, but the bombers streamed across the sky, high, very high, and the black pellets dropped and roared. Flame spouted on every hand—snow and wreckage and men blown afar.

The guns taken from the airplanes spoke with futile hammering. The tanks, up there in the open, charged that wing of attack, and used their scant ammunition, and one by one became black empty hulks; flaming explosive bullets had pierced them.

The pieces of artillery spoke; the shells burst— and there were no more to fire. Half the camp was in deathly ruin. White shapes on skis flitted out. Rifles against machine-guns— it was useless work. Useless, yet heroically done, well done; that Russian phalanx was halted. It turned, retreated to the heights; but here was utter ruin. The planes were gone, and came no more. Their work was done. The Russians knew now how they had been tricked, and that this seemingly strong array was but a mockery.

DARKNESS was coming down, a few drifting snowflakes in the air, as Carrick and what officers remained gathered together in drear dismay. The colonel was dead. The hospital dugout was full of wounded men; the Swede surgeons were hard at work. A party of riflemen brought in a wounded Russian, an officer, taken prisoner. He talked freely. The radio had been at work. The 32nd knew now how it had been swindled, yes! This had been a trial effort, a successful one. Morning would bring the attack in force, with daylight to see and pierce the weakness of the camp.

What to do ? They looked to Carrick, all of them. And he, futile, dismayed, knew that upon his word hung all their lives, and possibly the fate of Finland as well. The 32nd was coming through with daylight— and would come through.

"I'll give you my answer in an hour," he said quietly, looking at the brown Finnish faces, the straining eyes, the watching Swedes. He turned and went out; but as he went, Lonnrot came and stopped him, pointing to a dark figure, a countryman.

"THIS man has been asking for you,"  he said. "He says he has something to tell you. I will translate."

"Very well," said Carrick dully. He lit his pipe. The countryman spoke, and Lonnrot translated. It seemed something very silly, very absurd; something about this river that came down from the heights, a fifty-foot strip of solid frozen ice with scarcely a curve in all its long mile of descent; the current beneath the ice was rapid and torrential, even though the falls up above were frozen.

In olden days the river had taken another course from that waterfall, a course leading it far astray to the eastward, but engineers had very simply changed the channel. They had merely built a dam, a retaining wall, diverting the downpouring torrent to its present channel. If that dam were blown out, the river would return to its ancient course.

"Is that all?" Carrick asked, when the countryman fell silent.

"Yes," said Lonnrot. "Except, he says, you should know that the position of the dam can be found easily. At the lower end grows a clump of white birch, all alone."

"Oh, very well. Thank him and get rid of him."

The countryman removed his felt headgear and saluted awkwardly, and turned away. Carrick glimpsed the seamed, lined, wrinkled face; it struck him as vaguely familiar. Some fellow he had seen about the camp, no doubt. Then he forgot the man.

He sat on a smashed artillery carriage, sucked his pipe, and looked up at the ruddy reflection of the Russian campfires a mile away. All this nonsense about dreams and rivers was childish. His sanity, he thought, must be affected. He had hoped that the Russians could be held here for days; more absurdity! They were not fools. They had the Finns at their mercy now. If only those machine-guns—

With a stifled exclamation, Carrick came bolt upright. A chance thought slipping across his mind, a memory of boyhood days when he had fished on the millpond in winter. He had not chopped holes in the ice, like the others, but had quietly, carefully bored a circle of holes till he could take out a chunk of ice, or shove it under. They had laughed at him for not frightening the fish, but he had always brought fish home. And that enormous auger, there in the corner of his quarters! Even the men in his dream, urging him to make use of it— dream be hanged! The idea had prodded him and until now he had not seen it at all! But he saw it now.

He came striding back into the dugout. His radiant eagerness struck at the huddle of staring men; his voice rang at them like a clarion.

"Lonnrot! You have some dynamite here? All right. Get it. Vincent, you make a bundle of sticks, capped and fused; then take half a dozen more and make 'em watertight somehow, in case I need them. May have to lower 'em into water. Do it now! No questions!"

Voices hammered at him from all sides. His gaze swept them; his voice stilled them. "Never mind what it's all about, my friends! You'll know if my idea works out. Now we'll make use of every man here in camp! A thousand or more soldiers, and all of these farmers, these laborers— every man of them! Three thousand men— knives, pistols, bayonets! In among those Russians with the cold steel— could you destroy them then? Cold steel and grenades?"

"We could destroy twice their number," said someone gloomily, "if we could get at them. But it is impossible to reach them. Their machine-guns command those open slopes."

"Good! I'll show you how to reach them," rang Carrick's voice. "I want one man to go with me and open the road. Who'll volunteer? It may well be death to go."

"I," said Lonnrot, and Carrick nodded to him.

IN an hour they were on their way, white wraiths in hooded snow-robes, booted and spiked. No skis, no weapons. Carrick carried the heavy auger. Lonnrot was loaded with the dynamite, well prepared. They went in silence, moving afoot up the crusted Ice of the river, thin snowflakes drifting on the darkness around— the darkness that was dimly lighted by the Northern Lights behind the thick clouds. The air shuddered with distant gunfire.

Neither man spoke. Upon Carrick was a heaviness, a fear, an actual terror of what he was about. He had glimpsed it all quite clearly as a thing to do, but doing it was something else; he really was horribly afraid. The night, the reflected glow of huge fires from the Russian camp, the thin drift of snowflakes in the air, the bitter cold and the silence, weighed upon him. He had not told Lonnrot his plan. If it failed, then it would fail. If it succeeded, time enough to talk about it.

ONCE away from the camp, the ice was clear, windswept of snow. White from head to foot, the two figures were practically invisible; they made no sound. It was a short mile. Once up in the danger-zone by the heights, the ruddy glow of fires and the voices of Russian sentries showed their peril. A broad waterfall, where the stream came over the cliffs, stood frozen like a silvery white wall.

They were close, within rifle-shot. To the right, the ground fell sharply off in what must be a steep valley; thither, in ancient days, the stream had dropped away and continued its fall. There was the clump of white birch trees, all alone.

Carrick touched the Finn's arm; the two men halted, their breath steaming in the bitter air, and freezing on the edges of their white hoods.

Carrick estimated swiftly. Under the coating of snow and ice, with the clump of birch as guide, he could trace quite clearly where the dam must lie. The reflection of the Russian fires, the dim glow of the Lights through the clouds, lit the night. Carrick stepped forward, and Lonnrot followed. When he judged that he must be halfway along the line of the hidden retaining wall, he halted. Must not frighten the fish now! He smiled grimly to himself as he set the big auger in the ice and leaned his weight on the handles. It would have been impossible to use axes here. The Russians were alert. A burst of machine-gun fire stuttered to the right, and fell silent, emphasizing his thought.

To stand here in the open and bore away, with the voices of enemy sentries so crisply close that even a low laugh carried clearly, was a difficult thing. Carrick turned his back to the fires, that his white cloak might blend more perfectly with the snow and ice. The big auger bit and sank in. Was that three-foot iron shank long enough to pierce the ice? Perhaps not. No matter. Dynamite sends its force downward. Any hole would serve.

The ringing "spang-g-g!" of a Finnish rifle, then half a dozen more, jarred the night stillness. Two machine-guns leaped into life in response. From somewhere at the head of the falls, just above, an automatic rifle sent a hysterical burst of lead down the river-ice at imagined enemies. Carrick could hear the whistle and whine of the bullets. He bored on, until Lonnrot, who had set down his burden, touched his arm, offering to relieve him.

Carrick got the charges ready. The wrapped, watertight bombs he regretfully laid aside, as far too big for any holes he could make; after all, this ice would be too thick to bore through. His holes would take a couple of sticks, anyway. The rest could be connected by fuse and would go off even if the first explosion missed the detonators; yes, all of the dynamite could be used here very handily, but some at least must be sunk.

HALF an hour, an hour; the holes were well down. The two were sweating in their furs. Occasional shots and bursts of gunfire told of Finnish snipers and alert Russians. From the camp close at hand came an occasional chorus of voices; a vodka party, no doubt, celebrating their victory of the morrow in song.

No victory, if the Finns appeared suddenly in their camp! That would be slaughter. Kindly as Finnish men were, in this war they had become frightful. The Russians could not stand against them hand to hand, even with the favor of great odds. Let those machine-guns be silenced, and—

Carrick stiffened, at a grunt from Lonnrot, who had the auger. A circle of holes had been completed— now to break clear the central block of ice. Not a large one at all. The two put their weight on the steel tool and prized with it. A snap, a crackle; the central sliver of ice came free. Here was a hole two feet down or more, six inches across. No water; the ice was solid beyond.

That faint cracking and rending of the ice was heard. Voices leaped sharply. A rifle yammered, and a stream of bullets was sweeping the air. "Damn those automatic rifles!" thought Carrick, forcing himself to stand quiet as Lonnrot did. Then the crisis was past.

They worked together, stuffing the dynamite into the hole. Lonnrot had caught the idea now and was trembling like an eager dog, whispering things to himself. The fuses were ready; the ice-dust was tamped down; the fuses of the extra sticks were ready— all to light at one touch of a match.

Carrick spoke softly at the Finn's ear.

"Take cover. My job. There'll be hell let loose when this goes off. If it works, our men can come up here under the ice roof— a covered road, where the water was. They'll take the Russ by surprise. All right, get away! "

LONNROT disappeared. Carrick waited, removed a mitten, fumbled for matches. Wax vestas he had brought from London— they would work, all right. He got out the box, struck one, cupped the tiny flame and lowered it to the waiting fuses. A sputter leaped instantly. The match dropped, and Carrick was off.

He made downstream and headed for a group of stumps on one bank. When he got there, he found Lonnrot ahead of him. They crouched together; the roaring crash came before Carrick could ready himself for it. The stumps shook; the earth and snow and ice shook; a sheet of flame spouted up the sky. Intense blackness followed, and things dropping, and the stabbing spurts of machine-guns at work. The Russians were taking no chances. Bullets swept the whole river and the snow-expanse around.

"It worked, it worked!" Carrick caught Lonnrot's arm. "Listen!"

They could hear the gurgling rush of water, off to the right. With a little more light they could have seen the flood spreading down those snowy slopes; Carrick fancied he could see it anyway. The burst of firing lessened.

"Get off, get off! " exclaimed Carrick. "Separate. We must get in the word.

Bring every man up under the ice before dawn. Off with you!"

Lonnrot rose and sped away, too excited to speak. Carrick rose to follow; a final vicious burst of firing sounded from above, and fell silent. Carrick found himself slipping, and caught at the stump beside him; he was not slipping, after all. His knees were buckling. He came down, sitting, his back against the stump.

There was no pain, oddly enough. He could feel the blood inside his clothes, and then he could feel nothing whatever. As he realized the truth, swift terror stabbed at him; it passed almost at once. What matter, after all? This was the future for which he had sought, and the unhappy past was well forgotten and atoned.

IN the snowy air something was moving; indistinct figures, hurrying past, moving upstream as though to attack. His own men, he thought. Strange! They should be under that frozen arch, under the ice, moving up the emptied river-bed!

He found voice at last and ventured to speak. No answer came, but one man turned aside and stepped over to him; he spoke, and Carrick understood the words.

"So you see clearly, my friend! You don't mind what's ahead?"

"Of course I do," said Carrick. "Here, give me a hand. I'm hit— badly, I'm afraid."

"Oh, that's all right." The other wagged his head. "I never supposed you would lose your life in this business. Sorry I got you into it. But we don't know everything, do we?"

"What the devil are you talking about?" Carrick demanded heatedly. "Give me a hand up, will you?"

"Certainly. That's what I'm here for," the other said calmly, and stooped above him. "There's nothing to worry about. I should think you'd feel rather good about it; all the mistakes and tragedies and misunderstandings of the past swept away in this good work that you've done—"

Carrick glimpsed the face, close to his. It was the wrinkled, age-withered face of the countryman who had told about the river. It was the wizened old man of his dream, the one whom Lonnrot had identified with the hero Wäinämöinen, the ancient of days! In other words, this was merely another hallucination.

A burst of incredulous laughter shook Carrick....

He was still smiling when they found him next morning, after the destruction of the 32nd Division; but now his smile was no longer incredulous.

___________________

6: Apache Gold

H Bedford-Jones (as by Gordon Keyne)

Blue Book, May 1940

LIEUTENANT MARTIN BOWSER leaned against his dead horse and scribbled on the leaf of his field notebook. The Apaches, fearing to ride in upon his service revolver, held off. He had time in which to write.

His enormous mustache white with alkali dust, his eyes baked in his swimming head, all his being one intolerable twitch of pain, he laboriously pushed the pencil:

CONFIDENTIAL.

To C.O. Fort Adams,  N.M. Ter. Dec. 25th.

Colonel: The location we have in view — you, wife, self, boy—4s a basin in shallow valley of Padernal Mts.

He paused, gloating on the words. The Colonel would understand perfectly, but no one else could steal the secret. For the first time in dreary years, Martin Bowser was filled with glorious hammering exultation; wild blazing triumph that dwarfed life and death and pain and destiny. Triumph!

Christmas Day, too! A gift from heaven, no less. And how he had cursed the orders sending him from Fortress Monroe to New Mexico territory— an artillery officer, condemned to lone duty amid cactus, rattlesnakes and nimble Indians, his command one mountain howitzer!

Easing himself against the dead horse, he thought back. Fort Adams, in the Mescalero Apache region. One mountain howitzer. And he had to obey. He had commanded a battalion when the Civil War ended. Now, fifteen years later, he was a second lieutenant, fifty years of age.  Promotion was slow in the artillery,

There were only five skeleton outfits, mainly at healthy seaboard posts. The officers were long-lived.

Resign? He was too old, too set, for business in the civilian world. And there was the boy in Harvard; that cost money. So he had headed west. Well, this was Christmas Day, and here was wealth to be poured into the boy's lap. His future was golden! The thought sent a fresh blaze of triumph through Bowser, He resumed writing, slowly.

—valley of Padernal Mts., running n.e.-s.w., about 10 miles —

Ten miles? Yes. He must make everything clear to Peterkin. Thought of the Colonel brought a chuckle to his lips. By gad, he could well afford to laugh now! He thought back to the day of his arrival at the post, on a wagon-seat, two hundred miles from Santa Fe.

A little man scant five feet five; shoulders a trifle wearied, doggish brown eyes, grenadier's mustache. Fort Adams! A damned mud post for infantry... And then Peterkin— Major and Brevet Colonel John G. Peterkin, a pompous old boy He paused, gloating upon the words, of the Civil War period. And their first Colonel would understand perfectly the interview, explaining for the first time this strange transfer.

"Been expecting you, Mr. Bowser. I applied for an artillery officer to be detailed to this post, for the purpose of putting the battery-piece in efficient state."

"Battery-piece, sir?" echoed Bowser blankly.

"A twelve-pounder mountain howitzer, Mr. Bowser. You'll have a squad of infantry to act as artillerists. I desire, sir, that you instruct them and have the gun ready for instant service."

The Colonel paused, and pawed his goatee and pursed his lips,

"You have— er— been in the artillery branch some years, Lieutenant ?"

"Quite so," assented Bowser. "I noticed a piece mounted on the east side of the parade. That's the howitzer, sir?"

"Pointed at the main gateway as defensive measure. The Mescaleros are always uncertain. The post is here to protect citizens of the Territory. We must be prepared to take the field with all equipment; my application emphasized this argument."

Peterkin was throaty, important, picayune in attention to needless detail.

"We have an old brass three-pounder as sunset gun. The howitzer, with a few shells, was found among the post ordnance stores when I took command in '66. It has not been discharged within my knowledge. It seems to have been listed I.C., Inspected— Condemned, but it needs only a little overhauling by a competent artillery officer."

Bowser went forth from the interview with his head reeling.

A mountain howitzer was not essentially of the artillery arm; it could be attached to any column, foot or mounted. The Colonel must have influence in high quarters, to get an artillery officer detailed to Fort Adams for this petty job. So much the better! Such influence must be cultivated, decided Bowser.

AT mess, he learned more about the Colonel.

He was not blind to facts; he had faced unpleasant facts all his life. One pair of red stripes challenging the white stripes all around. One wizened second lieutenant, among striplings who at his age would wear the gold oak leaves of a major. An artillery officer for one I.C. howitzer— but not I.C. himself. Not by a damned sight!

"Not a bad life out here, Mr. Bowser," the infantry captain was saying affably. "The water's vile, pay generally three months overdue, mail from the States irregular, and a newspaper ten weeks old rents at a dollar an hour— usually by I.O.U. No women at the post, except Mexicans or Indians. We're down to one deck of cards till the next express comes in. We blister all day, freeze through the winter months; otherwise, you'll find Adams a prize post, sir!"

"Quite so," murmured Bowser, with a swallow of coffee and a swipe at his mustache.

"Have you heard about the gold mine?" asked a youngster.

Bowser stared. "Gold mine?"

"Yes. Colonel Peterkin's mine. He doesn't know where it is, but he gets nuggets—"

"Gentlemen!" the captain intervened sternly. "The topic is not one for discussion. Mr. Bowser will no doubt get his information when he dines at headquarters."

At first, Bowser had thought they were chaffing him; not so. He discerned an undertone, a hint of envious irritation. So the Colonel had a gold mine! ...

Now, sitting under the blazing sun, about to write down the exact location of that gold mine, he knew he must make it clear to Colonel Peterkin and no one else. In case the Apache arrows finished him off, the secret must be made known. He squinted at the paper in his hand, at the last words he had written:

—about 10 miles due n.e. of Post.

All correct so far. Now for the exact location! The effort to pick the right words hurt like blazes; shafts of pain from his hurt head blinded him. He closed his eyes, to rest them; his heart expanded with glorious happiness.

Dodging ill luck all his life— and now came this, on Christmas Day! Wealth, triumph, security, all in a moment. His mind went back to the first time he had heard about this mine, at his courtesy dinner with the C.O. Just the two of them present.

Glimpses of the Mexican woman cook. An enlisted man as striker, shaved and scrubbed, who served the meal. The old colonel was a thorough host and the meal was excellent. At the close they sat over decanter and cigars, and the striker withdrew. The Colonel, a bit mellowed, unbuttoned with a sigh of relief.

"The War Department shoves us old fellows away and forgets us, but there's always hope, Mr. Bowser. And dash it, sir, I have a look ahead. My own future is settled. One moment, if you please."

The Colonel ambled heavily into another room, returning with a small buckskin bag.

"Are you familiar with native gold, Bowser?" he asked, more intimate in his manner.

"Not at all, sir."

"Nuggets, Bowser! Just look at 'em— nuggets! " The Colonel dumped his sack. Blackish pebbles? No. Heavy, glinting where scratched. Gold! He went on speaking, complacently.

"One was traded to the sutler, who passed it to me. I had the Indians informed that I'd pay a dollar for every such curious stone. The redskins are, of course, acquainted with gold, but not in this form. You'll observe that the nuggets are coated with some sort of blackish mud, so hard it must be chipped off. Very curious. A vast deposit somewhere near by, Bowser! As you see, the Indians have brought in many of the nuggets."

Bowser fingered them wonderingly, enviously. What luck some men did have!

"A fund for your retirement, sir! Do you know where these come from?"

"The Indians refuse point-blank to say," replied the Colonel sadly. "Somewhere in the Mescalero country. Now I fancy the Padernals; again I incline to the Cerro Montoso in the southwest. Tantalizing to think this untold fortune may lie within a day's march of us, eh? As to retirement— hm! You understand the situation yourself, no doubt?"

"Only too well, sir."

"The limitations, Bowser! Retired officers limited to four hundred, by the act of 1872. Applications must wait till deaths reduce the list. I'd retire a poor man; an invalid wife in the States, doctors' bills and all that. But now, egad! I can resign and be sure of an income. If I locate that gold, my days and those of my dear wife will be finished in comfort. What d'ye think of that, Bowser?"

"IT'S wonderful, sir, wonderful!" And Bowser's eyes shone with such sincere warmth that the Colonel's heart was touched. "You have my very best wishes and congratulations!"

"Ha! It's not accomplished yet."

Peterkin leaned back. "We're two old soldiers, Bowser. I dare say that as a second lieutenant, with a boy in school, you're— hm! I understand, Bowser; but you stick with me. Do your duty, win approval, and we'll share that gold. You have my word, sir! Four shares. You, I, wife, boy!"

The Colonel closed the buckskin bag with its pucker strings.

"Now let me hear about the howitzer. The Mescaleros are uneasy. I look to you, sir, to offset the deficient infantry force. Mention in dispatches, Bowser; by the Lord Harry, you'll retire with the title of major and a share of the gold mine, I trust! "

A heartening man, Colonel Peterkin. When he left, Bowser wore captain's bars, in prospect; promotion, retirement with honor, the boy well established— that is, if the mine were located. God bless the Colonel! The deadlock of fate had been broken!

NOW, under the blazing sun, how strange this same fate seemed in its workings! Sprawled against the dead horse, Bowser rested his notebook on the hot saddle. He shot a glance around the horizon. No sign of the Apaches; they were holding off, now.

He read over what he had written, nodded, tore off the leaf, copied it with racing pencil. He tore up the first draft, and blinked the dazzle out of his tortured eyes. His exultation was almost choking in its intensity. Today, Christmas, of all days! A Christmas gift for the boy— wealth! And queer, too, how it had come about.

He thought back to his own room in the adobe row, his artillery manuals on the shelf. Nothing in them about mountain howitzers, but he had the special War Department pamphlets covering their operation. He had worked like a dog on that mountain howitzer, getting the piece cleaned, the men drilled, infantry mules wrangled from the quartermaster and trained. And, by Jasper, he had made a proper show of it! He smiled proudly to think of that exhibition before the fort.

Light artillery practice, the straddled mules twitching the gun hither and thither, cannoneers riding the trail or bolting after, his own red stripes glued against his horse, saber flashing. Unlimber— mules to rear— load— fire! Cheers from the officers and soldiers. Compliments from the Colonel, and another dinner invitation.

But, behind all that, was a growing unpleasantness that irked him pitifully. It was nothing new, of course, but he had somehow thought all that was left behind him. When he overheard the name, without stopping to reflect that men in the ranks possibly preferred officers of their own stripes, he summoned the sergeant to book.

"I caught a remark or two among the men, Sergeant. Something about Old Bow-wow— I fancy, in reference to me?"

The sergeant coughed behind his hand. "Oh, that, sir! Sure, it's not to be minded, sir; no disrespect intended. You know soldiers, how they put a name to each other and to officers as well! "

Bowser smiled. "Very good, Sergeant. The men will address me properly. That's all."

Still, it rankled, all of it. His own niggardly counting of pennies hurt. Mails were slow, pay was irregular. Expenses were high, and with sutler's goods freighted in by wagon, the mess extras cost heavily; and the boy was always writing for money. He faced the facts calmly, doggedly, as ever.

Still, there was new hope here, for the Colonel had influence. The howitzer was in perfect shape, a report had been forwarded, the Colonel was pleased; promotion for "distinguished service" might come now at any time. So ran the optimistic heart, though reason spoke against it....

A ribald set, these infantry officers; Bowser had caught snatches of talk not meant for him. They laughed at the idea of a mountain howitzer here on the desert; a howitzer for Apaches, whom not even the cavalry could sight! Mules, packing a dead weight of gun and shells across sand and rock where only lizards and 'Paches could live.

Lieutenant Bowser was abruptly jerked out of his reflections by a savage yell, a swish, a stir of hot air about his head. He sat up, blinked, jerked up his revolver.

Apaches? An arrow? Not at all. Merely a buzzard, now sailing on like a dark shadow, to settle beyond him with uneasy twitching shoulders. His revolver fell again, and he croaked out a laugh.

"Ha! You blasted scavenger, you'll get nothing from me on Christmas Day! When luck turns, it turns completely. I'm the one to do the laughing, from now on!"

As though assenting to his words, the bird lifted heavy wings into the air. Bowser chuckled. The little incident had cleared his head. He looked at the notebook, still resting on the hot saddle, and caught up the pencil. Now to locate the gold for Colonel Peterkin's eye.

"Angle of fire—" No! He scratched out the words, as too technical for an infantry officer. Better refer to the reddish rock cliff above. "Objective" was the word.

"Objective designated by reddish cliff at head of valley."

The very thing! The Mescaleros were lurking somewhere around that cliff; he darted a painful gaze toward it, but discerned nothing moving except heat waves. Now he could go on to locate the water-hole more exactly; he must be careful of the wording, however.

His thoughts drifted. Strange, how the years had culminated in a moment, how little things had suddenly converged to spell destiny! It all began when the orderly summoned him, when the Colonel cleared his throat and finally came down to business.

"A dispatch from department headquarters at Santa Fe informs me that a party of recruits assigned to the post have arrived there." Colonel Peterkin puffed out his cheeks. "Your duties here have been arduous, Mr. Bowser; You need a little relaxation. You will leave by horse in the morning and proceed to Santa Fe by the most direct route north."

"Christmas Day, sir?"

"Ah, so it is, so it is! You will bring the recruits by the most convenient way. You may obtain a wagon from the quartermaster at Marcy. There should be artillery timber among those recruits, Bowser! Keep a lookout for roving Apaches, of course. You'll find Mexican ranches along your route—"

So there had turned destiny! Now he sat here scribbling, and the world was his!

Not a day's march from the post, indeed. He recalled the sudden alarm— the gleeful Apache whoops, the bursting forms of redskin horsemen, the smart whistle of shaft and ball and his own revolver speaking. Then the frantic race for cover in the fluted hills, with his canteen banging and his saber clashing at every jump of the horse.

God! To think he had been sent alone, without a corporal's guard of escort! The old Colonel had not dreamed, of course, that the Mescaleros were actually on the warpath.

"Just my bad luck, as usual," thought Bowser, and chuckled. "My bad luck— the very tag end of it, leading to the turn and the change of luck."

THE redskins outdistanced, the horse at a labored gallop, terribly harsh of breath. Water! Find water and hold out until relief came! Up the shallow, blistering valley. The horse pricking up ears. Sure enough, a water-hole, bones whitely gleaming, just short of the high reddish cliff that buttressed the valley end. The horse had plunged down just before reaching it. A bad fall among the rocks, a terrible fall, the poor animal breaking its leg. One cartridge used there. Like a symbol, reflected Bowser; this had been the tag end, the absolute finish of his years of ill luck, running to its very close....

The fall had hammered him frightfully, taking him headlong among the rocks. The blood was dry and caked in his hair, his leg was badly twisted and hurt. Thank God, the Apaches had been too afraid of his revolver to follow! This marked the turn of fate's wheel. They were back there, watching, but they feared to come on.

SO he finished the poor horse and crawled to the water-hole, dragging leg and saber, mouth under his mustache in a pucker of agony. The scant hole was surface-dry. Balancing, he dug with the saber. He got into the seepage, found water, moistened his tongue. He dug on, for more. The sun-cracked muck was black, and came away in friable chunks. And then the wild thrill of discovery, of recognition!

Blackish nodules studding the chunks, breaking from them. Nuggets, by Jasper! Heavy blackish pebbles, glittering gold to the saber-scratch. The Colonel's Apache nuggets! Here, after all the circumlocution of fate, was found the gold!

No wonder he had gone out of his head at first. Now, thinking about it, he chuckled again and hefted the first nugget, the one he had kept out. It was real. He jabbed at it with his pencil, laughing. Promotion be damned! Now he could resign and snap his fingers at life and luck. Christmas gift for the boy! He and the boy were fixed for life.

And if anything should go wrong before help reached him, the boy was fixed. Nothing else mattered.

His head jerked up suddenly. What was that? Figures— his howitzer squad, standing there watching him, laughing at Old Bow-Wow ? He passed a hand across his eyes. No. Just buzzards, perched between loose wings.

"Here, here, this won't do!" he muttered. "Must get back to work."

A little water in his canteen, more gathering in the blackish hole. He drank the warm drops and made a wry face. No danger of death from thirst; that damnable crack over the head was what hurt. He had worked hard covering up the nuggets, all except one that would prove his find. One was enough to prove everything. ...

Relaxing against the dead horse, he scribbled hard, finishing the note. It was sweltering here; the pain in his head was blinding, made him gnaw his dusty, brittle mustache. The sun, aslant, blazed down as upon a furnace. He found it hard to focus his gaze on the paper; his head throbbed with every heartbeat. However, he got it done:

Resp'f'ly rec'mend investigate waterhole approx. 500 yards below cliff. Notify boy, my expense, out of next pay.

Done, at last! He must make certain it was right. This note was more important than life itself, for the boy's future was bound up in it. What did life matter, now? Not a damned thing. It was dwarfed to nothing by exultant triumph, by failure and ill-luck at last overcome. Fortune's wheel had turned, with Christmas Day!

Bowser focused his eyes again on the paper. He signed it laboriously, with shaking pencil. Then he studied the words carefully:

CONFIDENTIAL. To C.O. Fort Adams,

N.M. Ter. Dec. 25th.

Colonel: The location we have in view — you, wife, self, boy—is a basin in shallow valley of Padernal Mts., running n.e.-s.w., about 10 miles due n.e. of Post. Objective designated by reddish cliff at head of valley. Resp'f'ly rec'mend investigate waterhole approx. 500 yards below cliff. Notify boy, my expense, out of next pay.

Martin Bowser, Lieut. 3rd U.S. Art.

A nod of approval. He wrapped the paper about the blackish nugget; and with fumbling fingers stuffed them into his pocket. A sigh of happiness, and he relaxed.

"Life's well paid, well paid! " he muttered, and smiled. "To fight a long, hard fight and never weaken— and then triumph at the end I Nothing's sweeter. No reward's any greater. Well paid! Even if those damned redskins get me, the boy's fixed."

He sat with revolver ready. If they came, he must save one bullet for himself, to avoid scalping, torture, mutilation. According to the newspapers, the Indians had not touched Custer, for a certain reason. Good! They must not touch him, either, if the worst happened. He could save that message, must save it, even at the final cost!

The pain in his head suddenly ceased. It was blessed relief. A surge of joyous ecstasy swirled in upon him, and he closed his eyes. Life was well paid, well paid!

WHEN the detachment of hastily mounted infantry came hammering up, they dismounted with a blare of excited voices.

"There he is! Gad, he's smiling! Never knew Old Bow-wow could smile like that—"

"Ah, those damned Mescalero boys! They said they chased him for a lark. Sergeant! Any water in that hole ?"

"Yes, sir, but it's bad water. Is the Lieutenant bad off, sir ?"

The assistant surgeon, who had been kneeling beside Lieutenant Bowser, rose and glanced around at the men amidst sudden silence.

"Poor old chap! He's gone. — Here, look at this, Captain. A paper wrapped around a stone in his pocket."

The Captain eyed the stone, carelessly tossed it away, and smoothed out the paper. He scanned it frowningly.

"Odd! Marked confidential, and addressed to the C.O. He must have started to write his will, perhaps. Hanged if I can make out another word. Just a meaningless scrawl. Take a look at it! "

The assistant surgeon looked, shook his head. The captain crumpled up the paper and dropped it.

"Drank the bad water and went off his head, eh ? Damned shame. I can't get over that smile of his; wonderful! All right, men! Gently, now— gently!"

________________________

Webster's Unabridged Dictionary gives the definition of Fiddler's Green as: "The imagined Elysian Fields of sailors and vagabond craftsmen, where credit is good and there is always a lass, a glass, and a song."

7: The Fog at Fiddler's Green

H. Bedford-Jones (as by Gordon Keyne)

Blue Book Aug 1941

AS THE swarm of men came bursting into my hotel room, I fell back in angry dismay. One newspaper man had asked permission to come up; here were a dozen or more, voices all barking at once, cameras and flash-bulbs in evidence.

"What the devil!  You must have the wrong party!" I exclaimed. "Don't all talk at once; pick a spokesman."

"Okay." A brisk young man assumed the job. "You're John Bolton, and you've just inherited an island in the South Seas near Bali. Right?"

"Wrong," I rejoined. "It's much nearer the Philippines."

"Well, Bali's better for our purposes," came the reply. "You're American-born, twenty-two years old, unmarried; for the past six years you've been attending medical schools in this country. Are you the right man ?"

"Yes, I suppose so, but it's nothing to cause all this excitement."

"Now, brother, get wise," broke in the other. "In any other city you're just a celebrity passing through; but this is San Francisco. Here you're front-page stuff," the newspaper man asserted, "— or anyhow a column inside."

"But why?" I demanded. "I only got here from St. Louis an hour ago."

"The South Seas are San Francisco's back yard, Mr. Bolton. Now let's see. Your father's dead, eh ? You haven't seen him for six years. He was big-time stuff in the South Seas— the King of Kerang Island— is that right? Of course, if it's all the same to you, we'd sooner have him a sultan. Makes a better story."

"Don't be absurd," I retorted. "He was just a trader. The island's nothing but an atoll. It doesn't produce anything. It's all nonsense to call him a king."

The news man grinned. "Maybe. Still, you're going to the South Seas to take over an island kingdom and a whopping big inheritance; you're a rich man. Now, give us a good story and we'll meet you halfway. Get on your high horse, and we'll give you a spread full of Bali gals and harems. Which will you have?"

This time I got the idea, and relaxed. "Okay. Shoot away; I'll be good! "

I made an honest effort, too. There was nothing to conceal; they knew all about me. I had been called home suddenly to an island I had not seen in six years. It was true that my father, Captain "Spike" Bolton, was famed as a character in the South Seas; he had made a fortune in pearls and other things. My mother was dead, and I had no other relatives.

"No, I've no picture of him with me," I said patiently. "Is it hard to reach Kerang? No. I'm going by the Clipper to Manila. From there, by an island boat."

My eye had been caught by a man who had appropriated the chair at the writing-desk, and who remained silent and immobile. A man with hat pulled over eyes, and a brown, sharp face with bony jaw.

Now this man said quietly: "The Clipper won't leave for several days."

I nodded. The statement meant nothing to me; the man did not speak again. The others babbled away. One of the photographers wanted to fetch a girl to pose with me, which I refused.

All the while, I was thinking of that grim man, my father. It was six years and more since our parting; yet he had bulked large against the whole background of my life, like a gigantic retaining-wall. Gone, now— no more letters, no more hard-headed affection.

"Is it true that Spike Bolton was a pearl pirate?" someone asked. A touch of anger whipped at me.

"You're damned cheeky to ask such questions! " I said.

He merely grinned.

"Well, let it pass. What about your mother? I understand she was a Berkeley girl. Want me to deny that she was kicked out by her family for running away with a pirate?"

One thing led to another; I did not realize that they were deliberately leading me on. Then I lost my temper completely and knocked my chief tormentor galley-west. At this, they simply piled on me. Someone hit me and doubled me up; when they got all through and departed, I was sitting on the floor propped against the wall.

"Good Lord! " I muttered. "I certainly showed myself to be one damned fool! "

"Correct the first time," said a voice, and it jerked my head up.

IT came from the quiet man sitting at the writing-desk, hat still over eyes, cigarette in hand.

"Get out of here with the rest of your gang!" I snapped.

He shook his head and said placidly: "Your mistake, Bolton; not my gang at all. They used to be, when I was on the city desk. Now I'm out of a job and broke and hungry, but if you say the word, I'll depart. And your luck will go with me. I can save you from a terrible lot of grief if you'll give me the chance."

"Okay, then; show me how." I rose, went to the door, locked it, and with a grimace of pain dropped into a chair. A cigarette eased my nerves. "Who are you?" I asked.

"Harper, James E.— for Endicott," he rejoined cheerfully. He held up a little sheaf of papers, and laid them down again. "Your letters; the other lads would've grabbed them if I hadn't snaffled them first. You don't realize what a story you are in this town! I gave you one tip already, and you missed it."

"I? A tip?" I repeated.

"Yeah. I said the Clipper wouldn't leave for several days."

"How was that a tip? I don't get it."

"LORD, is your brain stuffed with straw?" Harper exclaimed impatiently. "You're a story. Those boys teased you into being a better story. Don't you see the consequences?"

"No," I said, really puzzled.

"Okay. In about three hours from now your phone begins to ring, and half of San Francisco climbs on your tail— a few hundred thousand people, notoriety-hunters, autograph fiends, plain beggars, society nuts and so forth. Among them are maybe fifteen or twenty swell guys and ravishing dames of another sort— crooks, and classy ones, out to nick your wad. Fine, slick, educated crooks. You've no bodyguard; not even a valet or a secretary. Boy, what chance will you have?"

"Well," I rejoined, "I suppose the hotel will take care of all comers."

Harper sighed. He shoved back his hat, revealing piercing dark eyes and a good-humored, cynical face.

"You're a good guy, Bolton, and I'm for you," he said. "Right now, the hotel's being watched; you'll be played for follow-up stories, see? This is no fancy hotel; it can be cracked right and left. You're a romantic figure. Wealthy, an island king, pearls and girls! All the furies wall be after you."

"I see what you mean," I said. "I'm nothing of the kind, of course."

"But you'll be built up to it before you know it. There are two remedies: First, go to one of the luxury hotels, hire a couple of dicks, and surround yourself with a wall built of money bricks. I don't suppose you'd know how to go about it?"

"No," I said honestly. I had not been brought up to throw money away; putting on side was foreign to me. "What's the alternative ?"

"Trust to me. Employ me; I'm stony broke," said Harper. "Put yourself in my hands; put me on salary until the Clipper takes off with you aboard. It'll be money well spent, and I'll guarantee you all the amusement you want, and thrills if you want 'em."

I chuckled. "Apparently you're the first of the furies, eh?"

"Right!" He grinned widely.

I was beginning to like him. Also, I vaguely glimpsed some of the difficulties that might lie ahead of me. Still—

"Tell me what scheme you have in mind," I told him, "and I'll give you a yes or no."

"Fair enough! Give your pal Harper a hundred bucks," the prompt response came. "In an hour it'll be dark; fog's coming in heavily now. I'll return for you at five o'clock, with a handbag for a few things. Send the rest to the Clipper offices, later."

"And where do we go ?" I asked.

"We'll get out of here before the storm breaks, and go to a joint up the beach where I live when I'm flush. It's more like a club than a boarding-house—just a small place. We can stay there quietly, or go after the bright lights if you hanker for 'em. And until you step aboard the Clipper, I'm your errand-boy, watchdog, and good companion."

I pretended a hesitation I was far from feeling; actually I could have asked nothing better than this proposal.

"It's a deal, Harper," I decided.

"Swell! " Beaming suddenly, Harper stepped forward and we shook hands. "By the way, since you come from the South Seas and so forth, do you know anything about pearls?"

"About babies? Well—"

"Babies, hell! I said pearls"

I chuckled. "And I said babies. That's the slang name for 'em, down under. Yes, I used to know pearls from the ground up, intimately.... However, don't get excited," I added, seeing his face light up. "I've been away from home and pearls for six years, remember."

"But," Harper exclaimed, "if there's a real pearl in a dish of imitations, can you pick it?"

"Nobody can do that; no expert can do it," I said. "Imitations are so perfect, these days, that they answer every test except that of the electric needle which illumines the interior of a pierced pearl. If it's not pierced, only careful study can pick the genuine, and not always then."

"Well, listen!" Harper betrayed an excited, tense earnestness. "I'm not talking about imitations made to deceive experts. Suppose there's a string of real fine pearls in among some strings of the cheapest kind of imitations: Would you gamble five hundred smackers that you could pick the real string offhand?"

"In a minute! That's very different."

"Glory be!" Harper rolled his eyes ecstatically. "Boy, I'm packing myself a Santa Claus! Well, time enough later for all that. Know any folks here in town?"

"Only my father's agents. I haven't seen them, yet."

"Do it by phone. Got your ticket for the Clipper?"

"I did that before I left St. Louis."

"Fine. Then slip me a hundred, and I'll be off. Your expenses won't amount to much where we're going, if it irks you to spend coin."

I got out my pocketbook. "I'm no miser; don't figure me wrong. But I'm not used to handling wealth."

Harper pocketed the banknotes, came close to me, and tapped me on the chest.

"If I didn't know you were a regular guy, Bolton, I wouldn't be doing this. A regular guy; yeah! But if I'm any judge, you haven't knocked around much, under the lower edge of the world. Well, see you at five sharp! "

The door slammed; he was gone.

DURING six years and more, I had been practically on my own, with a comfortable allowance, no great worries, a chosen career beckoning, and a smooth road ahead. All the world of atoll and coral bud, of flashing seas and monsoons, of pearls and action, had become vague and far-away and unreal.

Now, by this freak of fortune, my present world had become unreal, and a new one was ahead. I looked forward to it with a certain excitement.

It was two minutes of five when a tap came at the door, and Harper walked in.

"Well, how's the King of Kerang Island?" he exclaimed blithely. "Had any visitors?"

"No— haven't seen a soul."

"Fine; the buzzards are flocking, down below." He chuckled. "I paid till tomorrow for your room, out of my hundred, when I left; said I was your manager and you were not to be disturbed till six o'clock. Here's a paper; read it later. You're in it. And you can sling this under your overcoat."

He handed me a folded newspaper, and a cheap zipper musette bag.

I hurriedly stuffed a few toiletries into the bag. He was eying me sharply.

"You've got a good build. Hard-headed guy. Pleasant but square in the face. Ever do any boxing?"

"A bit," I replied. "I'm fair at it. Why?"

"Oh, I was thinking of Jerry Peterson," he said vaguely. "D'you know, Bolton, I'm pitchforking you right slap into an epic story of hearts and kisses and brickbats and murder? Might be, anyhow. Now listen to me."

He tapped me on the chest again.

"For tonight, at least, let me do all the talking. Play the game my way. Pretend that you're dumb, savvy ? These folks at Fiddler's Green are real, so darned real that their shadows bite a dog! So just be agreeable and watch your tongue. Okay?"

I assented, puzzled but curious.

"Okay it is! Fiddler's Green— is that the name of your hotel ? Odd name. According to the old sea legends, Fiddler's Green was where all the dead people went."

Harper gave me a quick, sharp look, showing no surprise.

"Yes. Maybe that's how this place got its name, too! Ready?"

I slung the bag over my shoulder and donned hat and coat. Harper went to the door and paused.

"You keep six steps back of me and don't talk, even if the hotel's afire! You're stepping out of one world into another, but don't worry. It's a darned good world if you treat it right; remember that. Let's go."

He opened the door and walked out.

Six steps. A clever distance, I realized. No one could be sure whether we were together or not, if anyone saw us. As I followed along the brightly lighted hall, I unfolded the newspaper. I was curious to see what the reporters and camera men had done to me.

When I reached the stairs, down which Harper had vanished, I was no longer curious; I was burning up. This evening paper was that of the man I had smacked. There was a picture of the smacking; there was another of the "Sultan of Kerang" being put down and out.

We reached the second floor. Harper plunged straight into a beauty-parlor and on through. With a wave of the hand and a cheerful greeting to the startled females, Harper led through another door, on to a flight of stairs, and down into the open air.

"There y'are! " He turned proudly to me. "Mission Street, the grandest street in the world! Follow close, now. I'll have to find the car."

I was appalled by the fog. The whole world had turned to a swirling sea-vapor.

"This newspaper story is libelous!" I exclaimed.

"So are lots of things. Be your age!" Harper said shortly. "Hang on to my arm and stop squawking. This way! "

THE chill fog certainly had a dampening effect on wrath. I let myself be pulled across the sidewalk. Car lights blinded; horns were blaring. Swearing luridly, Harper darted at taxicabs ranged along the curb; none was right. Then a voice barked at him, and with an exultant cry he shoved me into a car, and climbed after.

"All right, Jemmy, all right! You know where to go!" he bawled at the driver, and closed the window between. Then he sank back beside me. "Well, well, the fog made it a cinch. Now we'll slide over the long hills to the sea and forget our troubles. Got a cigarette?"

I produced a package.

"About a name—" said Harper. "I'll call you Mr. Smith; I engaged a room under that handle. Suit you?"

I laughed. "Why not? Anything goes!"

"That's the ticket! Not that it'd matter if they all knew your name; they're safe. We'll be far from a car or bus line, but can always rent a car. We're expected, and dinner will be ready by six. Bang-up feed, too. Regular boarding-house heaven; and the meal goes right on, no matter if one of the gang is just pinched or killed. Food is important, and Ma Webster is a cook to knock your eye out! "

QUITE plainly, we were headed for a singular sort of hotel, and I warmed to the thought.

"You'd be surprised," Harper said reflectively, "what queer things and places and men can be found tucked away in this village. A foggy night— that's the right time to go to Fiddler's Green, too. You'll like Jerry. She worked in a bank and was a big shot, knew everybody; now; she's dead."

"Eh? Not literally ?" I queried.

He broke into a laugh. "I was exaggerating. Doc Means has his points too, but probably Red Conners takes the cake. To look at him, you'd never dream that he traveled with a circus and a bill show, that he was a champion pistol-shot and knife artist! A thing as fantastic as life itself."

"Is life fantastic, then?" I asked.

"When one is disillusioned, yes. This morning we were done for; tonight you put a fortune in our hand. Why, Fiddler's Green itself is the height of fantastic lunacy!"

He paused, until I prompted him to explain.

"The place was built a long while ago by some rich nut who thought he was Napoleon in exile. He went the limit on putting all kinds of contraptions into the place— secret passages and that sort of junk. In those days it stood slap on the beach, with no other house around for miles; there were some strange stories about corpses washed up on the sand. Well, he finally died, and Ma Webster took over the property and made it pay dividends.... So you like the South Seas better'n this country, huh?"

"No." I was startled by his abrupt change of subject.

"Then stay here. Let the lawyers collect your dough and run the place. You stay here; I like you." In the dim, momentary flash of a street light, I saw Harper's face, thin and eager and earnest. "We could go places. Why, look! If you were to put a little money into Fiddler's Green, Ma Webster would make a real profit for you! "

"Afraid not," I rejoined. "I have to get out to Kerang and settle the estate, and all that sort of thing."

"Don't take yourself too seriously, partner; that's the whole gospel of how to live," said Harper. "If you had me on your hands for a few months, you'd be a new man. You're a regular guy. But remember not to take yourself seriously! Don't matter a damn in the world's economy— you don't, I don't; the King of Siam don't. There's always a better man to fill our boots.... Hello! Looks like our street."

He was peering out of the window; the taxi was curving around a corner. He pointed to two of the new yellow gas fog-lights, placed close together; these, it seemed, marked the place.

"Just between you and me," he went on with a confidential air, "I'll be glad to get home. I've got a crawly feeling; it's this blasted fog, I expect. I've been nervous as a cat all day. There's a guy in this town who'd sure like to have me rubbed out! But tomorrow it'll be a different story, with your help. Well, we're here!"

The cab halted. We had arrived.

The yellow fog-lights were over a gate barely visible in the thick fog. I got out, and Harper's voice pulsed at me.

"The gate's open— go right in! Hop along up to the house. I'll be with you as soon as I get this shark of a Jemmy paid off."

I crossed the sidewalk to the gate and the yellow lights. These showed me a graveled path, as I opened the gate, and the loom of a house thirty feet back from the street; the entire place seemed surrounded by a hedge of unusual height.

Walking up the path, I wondered for the first time whether I had perhaps let myself fall into the hands of some crooked sharper, but I dismissed the notion. Harper was definitely friendly, and I liked him.

Halfway to the house, which seemed large but was all in darkness, I heard the roar of the taxicab engine as it turned and sped off into the darkness. Halting, I glanced back at the dim yellowish swirls around the gate; no sign of Harper appeared. The sound of the car died away.

The place must be close to the sea, very close, I thought. The vibration of the surf and its dull recurrent thunder were distinctly felt. I felt a slight irritation that Harper did not come along. It flashed across my mind that he might be playing some joke.

So thinking, I turned and walked back to the gate, swung it open, and stepped out on the sidewalk. My first thought was that Harper had departed altogether; then I saw my mistake. At the curb stood a telephone pole, very faintly lighted by the yellow fog globes overhead.

Harper was standing against it, a cigarette between his lips.

I saw him open his lips and apparently spit out the cigarette.

"Well ? Why don't you come along?" I said.

He made no reply. A sound like a gasping sigh came from him. His head fell forward, chin on chest. Wondering what on earth was the matter with him, I stepped up close— and then froze, a clammy finger sliding up my spine.

Here, close up, I could see the knife- haft beneath Harper's chin—the haft of the knife that was driven through and through the man and deep into the wooden pole behind him.

I SHALL never forget the stark horror that thrilled in me as I stood there and realized the truth.

Yet my brain was automatically at work. I had seen Harper die; this I knew instantly. That gasp when the cigarette fell, that sigh of escaping breath, that falling head— Harper had died then. I reached forward and felt his wrist; there was no pulse.

Therefore the murder had happened after the departure of the car. Someone had been lurking in wait, and had driven home this knife as the taxicab sped away. It had been done while I was standing on the path, irresolute. I might almost have seen the murderer as I came back and shoved open the gate.

Yet I had seen nothing. And I saw nothing now. Through drifting swirls of thick fog, I caught a vague cluff-cluff of running feet, as though the killer had slipped away and then broken into a run. The sound lessened and was gone.

I stood frozen still, a frantic hammering query in my head; what now, what now?

There was nothing to be done for the dead man. I had the entirely natural impulse to clear out, to get away and do it rapidly. This was murder. It was no affair of mine. The sane and sensible thing was to keep from being implicated.

Sensible, yes, but cowardly; my instincts revolted against it. And Harper had been helping me. The decent thing to do was to call the man's friends. Despite murder or arrest, he had said, dinner would go on just the same.

An eerie chill grew upon me as I recalled the things Harper had said about this place, his own fear of some violence, the very name of this darkly silent structure— Fiddler's Green! The place where all the dead folk of the sea came, in ancient lore.

I blamed myself for having stepped away and left Harper alone; otherwise the poor chap would be alive now. Had the knife been thrown? He had mentioned someone who was an expert at this sort of thing. I looked closely. No; it was too firmly driven in. And its haft was heavy, of solid metal; it was not the balanced type that an expert knife-thrower would use.

Turning, I swung the gate aside and strode on up toward the house.

Where all had before been dark, lights were springing. Above the entrance burst forth a floodlight: another gas fog-piercer that lit up the path. The building seemed of goodly size, but there was nothing to indicate a hotel, no sign of any kind.

As I came to the threshold, the front door was swung wide open, with a blinding flood of radiance. The figure standing there was that of a woman.

"Good evening," I said. "Is this the place known as Fiddler's Green?"

"I'm Ma Webster," was the reply in a harsh voice. "Who are you? What d'ye want ?"

"My name's Smith, John Smith." I thought of it barely in time. "I was coming here with Mr. Harper—"

"Oh! You're the one!" she broke in upon me. "Come in. Where's Harper now?"

"Outside the gate." I hesitated, then plunged regardless: "I'm sorry to say that he's dead. He must been killed as the car drove away."

I was prepared for anything, as a result of my news, but not for what happened. The woman, who was tall and ungraceful, leaned forward and caught my arm. Before I knew what to expect, she had jerked me in across the threshold.

Behind me sounded a clang and a reverberant thud. The door had swung shut. Inside it, a steel shutter had slid up. I had a confused glimpse of Ma Webster, massively built, and of a heavily ornate hallway in which we stood. Then a younger woman appeared.

"This is the guy, Jerry," said Ma Webster. "Smith's the name. Take him up to the suite and learn what you can. He says Harper was bumped off, outside the gate. We'll attend to all that. You see to him. Brace up, now!"

STRANGELY, there seemed to be no excitement; her voice was calm. It gave me the air of being in a dream.

The younger woman, who beckoned me to a wide stairway, astonished me by her alert blue eyes, her air of cool frankness; she seemed to radiate vitality, was my thought as I followed her up the stairs. Then, at the top, she halted and turned to me, and my heart leaped.

She was clutching the stair-rail desperately, sagging against the wall, almost falling. Her eyes were wide with terror.

"It was— it must have been— a joke!" she said under her breath. "Tell me so! He's not dead! It's impossible! "

"I'm sorry, very sorry," I said awkwardly. "It was done in the fog, by a knife. Who? I have no idea. I saw no one."

"Oh!" Her voice was a wrenched, moaning sound. She caught her breath. "Come along. Sorry I took it that way."

Part way down the hall, she stopped and flung open a door.

"These rooms were for you both; you'll be alone now. I expect you need a drink. I know damned well I do. Drop your bag anywhere. Poor Harp! If he'd only listened to me!"

I entered a large living-room boasting the heavy drapes and enormous walnut furniture of a past generation; off this room opened two bedrooms.

Everything was clean and comfortable; magazines and books lay on the table; a radio stood against one wall. Steam heat buzzed cheerfully in the radiators, and the open tantalus, to which the girl went, was well stocked. She turned; a pleasant voice, a pleasant young woman. I accepted the proffered highball, and our glasses clinked.

"I suppose you're the Jerry Peterson he mentioned?"

"No doubt." She was appraising me quite frankly. "You're not an old friend of his?"

"I met him this morning. We took a liking to each other, and he invited me to come here." Tacitly dismissing myself as a subject, I switched neatly and described what had happened outside the gates. In spite of the drink, her face grew whiter and whiter as she listened.

"I've got to hang on— can't afford to fly into tears and hysterics," she said. "He wouldn't like that. This is no matter for the police, of course. How long shall you be staying here?"

I was puzzled by her words and air; yet those clear, shrewd eyes tempted me to trust her. Reason told me that my wisest course was to get out of this place as quickly as possible. On the other hand, Harper had been a friend; and I was conscious of adventure pulsing in the air.

"Didn't Harper tell you people anything about me?"

She shrugged. "He vouched for you. That's enough."

"Well, to be frank about it, I'm a bit over my depth," I said. "I don't want to know too much; I'm not curious. This Is Monday, and on Thursday I'm leaving town. Until then, I'm at loose ends. Harper did me a good turn; can I do anything to repay it? I think he'd like me to help."

Her eyes warmed suddenly. "How far do you mean that?"

"All the way."

I got out my cigarettes, then remembered that Harper had last dipped into this package. The realization jerked at me, steadied me.

AS she accepted one, I became more aware of the terrific tension gripping her. She puffed the cigarette alight, and for one instant her self-control slipped. Her cheeks paled again, her lips quivered, a queer mirthless laugh came to her lips.

"I seem to be shakier than I thought," she said. "Hard to realize a thing like this; it hits you after the first shock wears off. I warned Harp this would happen; he thought he could beat it out. Did he tell you that we— he and I— were going to merge once the clouds blew over?"

I was thunderstruck.

"Good Lord, no! Look here, I'm terribly sorry—"

"Don't," she intervened sharply. "Cut out any sympathy! "

"Okay.... He mentioned Doc Means, and someone named Red Conners."

"Yes. Red is in the affair— our affair. I'm in it. Now you may be in it, if you mean what you say." She went on: "There's work to do. It may be a crazy idea, but there's just a long chance that you might provide the two things which would nail the murderer of—of the best man I knew."

"When I said 'all the way,' Jerry," I rejoined gravely, "I meant just that. Count me in."

"All right. And now, mind that you don't get to talking about Harp, in front of Red Conners." She spoke with a fiercely incisive manner that denoted her tension. "Crooks can blubber like any other fools. Well, here are the two things which neither Red nor I can supply at a pinch: First, five centuries— five hundred in cash."

She paused inquiringly. I nodded.

"I have travelers' checks and can cash them anywhere; one of the big hotels. So that's taken care of. What next?"

She smiled faintly. "Maybe you're an angel all the way. Would you know enough about pearls to tell real ones from false ones?"

The question startled me. I recalled Harper's queer exclamation, "Boy, I'm packing myself a Santa Claus!" and his questions about pearls.

"That's odd," I said. "We discussed that; yes, of course I can— at least, I think so."

Her face lit up. A flame came dancing into her eyes; she caught her breath.

"Why— why, you are an angel! I might have guessed it.... See here! You can go along with me and Red Conners tonight, this very night, and we'll take care of the whole thing! Are you game?"

"Of course; but mind, I told you I'm in over my depth! I don't know what it's all about."

"You will, you will! " she exclaimed vibrantly. "It means taking chances—you understand that much?"

I nodded, feeling my pulses thrill again.

"Then it's settled. Brush up and come on down to dinner. And don't talk; just smile and look wise. If the Professor opens up with his line, keep on smiling and yes him, and say nothing. Understood?"

"I guess so."

When she was gone, I finished my drink, lit a cigarette, and took my bag into one of the two bedrooms. A bath was adjoining. I looked at myself in the mirror, passed a hand over my chin, and decided I needed no shave.

What was it all about? Impossible to say. Was she a crook? Not by a long sight! Why was I in this thing at all? Because a man, now dead, had said I was a regular guy! I nodded gravely at my mirrored reflection.

"I may be a sucker," I muttered. "I may be making the biggest mistake of my life by sticking around this joint— but I'm going to play my hunch and see it through! So laugh that off, Bolton."

Somewhat more cheerful, I went down to the strangest dinner I had ever eaten.

I DISCOVERED that this place was precisely what Harper had said it was: a boarding-house. Ma Webster, harshly dominant, headed the table; a mousy little man in a greasy apron, Pa Webster, acted as waiter. Mr. John Smith was introduced by Jerry Peterson to the company assembled.

Miss May Webster was a maiden lady with gray bangs and a sharp nose, occupying the foot of the table. Doc Means was a mournful-looking gent with a discouraged goatee and a furtive eye. Professor Fuller was a brisk little man who, like many little men, exerted incredible audacity trying to show himself the equal of larger men. Mr. Brown— obviously an alias— was a sardonic man with a challenging gaze, and a bulge under his left armpit. And last, to Red Conners.

He too was a small man; small and gray, softly gentle in the voice, and nothing red about him except his red-rimmed eyes. He said little; just sat trying to gulp down food, and staring at me. I read him for a dangerous man, a vicious man and one to steer clear of; those eyes were eloquent.

Yet I knew him to be a friend and ally.

THERE was no mention whatever of Harper; there was no empty chair. Fiddler's Green was where the dead people went; maybe, Harper had said, maybe that was how this place got its name! Just what had those words meant? I could only guess that some if not all of those at the table must be "dead" in one sense or another.

As the meal progressed, however, I noted one thing; no one seemed out of place here. Even the sardonic Mr. Brown evinced a certain savoir faire. If these people were crooks, I reflected with some astonishment, they neither looked nor talked it. Harper's words came like an echo: "Under the lower edge of the world." Jerry, then? I looked at her, met her clear fine eyes, and did not know what to think.

Amid the general talk, Professor Fuller leaned across the table and briskly apologized to me for so small a company. Usually, said he, there were more present. And could Mr. Smith favor him with some personal trifle— a pencil, a cuff-button, a handkerchief, anything at all? I stared somewhat blankly.

"What he's driving at," intervened Ma Webster with a sniff, "is that he wants to tell your fortune. Some say he's good at it.... Oh, I know, I know, Professor!" she added, as the little man bristled. "Crowned heads of Europe and all that; but there are mighty few crowned heads left these days."

I laughed. "I'm sure, Professor, that if it will give you any satisfaction, it'll be a real honor! Here's my cigarette-case. Will that do ?"

The Professor beamed, and I went on eating. I was hungry, and the dinner was excellent. So rapidly had things piled up that the death of Harper was already losing its poignant sting. Red Conners, I perceived, was studying me intently.

The Professor held the cigarette-case between his palms for a few moments, then closed his eyes. Doc Means, with a wink at the company, hastily dumped the pepper-shaker on the Professor's potatoes. There was a grin at the boyish trick, but Conners did not grin.

"I see something very singular," said Professor Fuller, his eyes still closed. "My young friend, you are destined for great things. My vibrations tell me you are born to command, to rule, to a heritage of power and wealth in distant places. I see women in your life— not one, but many. I see feathery palms leaning against the sky, and white, white sand, in an island in the ocean—"

He broke off, intent, muttering to himself. Somewhat astonished, I glanced around and caught another wink from Doc Means, who seemed amused.

"I see danger close to you," went on the Professor abruptly. "Very close. It is connected with a young woman. Everything is vague, as though in fog—"

ACROSS the table came a soft voice l that bit like a knife:

"D'you want to take a walk down the shore, Professor?"

Fuller opened his eyes with a start, and changed countenance. I looked to see who had spoken; it was Red Conners, whose gimlet gaze was fastened upon the Professor. Hastily and in utter confusion, Professor Fuller came to his feet; stammering something inarticulate, he shoved the cigarette-case across the table at me, and hurriedly walked out of the room.

"Confound it, Red, look what you spoiled!" complained Doc Means, pointing to the Professor's forgotten plate.

"Shut up," snapped Conners, and stood up. "Jerry! Fetch him to my room when you're through," he said, with a nod toward me. "No time to lose. I'll arrange about a car. Sorry, Ma, sorry. The Professor gets on my nerves."

With this half-apology, he also departed.

Ma Webster spoke up, about the fog and the bus service; the incident was passed over. All this time there had not been a mention of Harper, and it was a fantastic lack. Where was Harper now, I wondered; what had been done with the body?

"The Professor," I observed lightly, "seems to have something on the ball, at that. I'm bound to say that he seemed to have a surprising—"

My voice trailed off, before the cold looks directed toward me. I caught a warning in the eyes of Jerry. I remembered the admonitions not to talk. Damn it, what had I said amiss? No telling. The others ignored me. Perhaps strangers were supposed to keep quiet.

Jerry glanced at me inquiringly; I nodded, and we rose. I turned to Ma Webster, thanking her, and she eyed me frigidly.

"Don't thank me, Mr. Smith," she rasped. "I'll collect from you in the morning; pay for room and board is always in advance. Good night."

I followed Jerry from the room.

She led me up the stairs and down the hall to a door, which was opened at her knock by Red Conners. We walked in. Conners looked me up and down, aggressively, and spoke in his curiously soft voice.

"A minute more, and that blasted Professor would've spilled the beans! Why did you let him get started?"

"Why not?" I stared at him. "I don't get your point. He did pretty well; he came close to the facts about me."

"Of course he did!" exclaimed Conners. "D'you think it was by accident? He'd read the evening papers; your picture is plastered all over 'em! You're not the sort to be hiding out under this roof. What are you here for, anyhow?"

Jerry was about to intervene, but I forestalled her; the man scarcely knew what he said.

"Listen, Red: I was invited here. I'm not hiding from the law, but I'm hiding just the same. If I was good enough for Harper to bring here, I'm good enough to help you run down the man who murdered him. I want to do that, if I can."

Conners turned, his mouth working.

"Dammit, I'm sorry!" he groaned. "I'm fair wild, with him laying dead and all."

"Well, get yourself under control," Jerry Peterson said bitterly. "I'm not having any circus myself, am I? Sit down, both of you, and let's get to business. Red, don't be a fool! Bolton is putting up the five hundred to bribe the Smoker. And he knows all about pearls, too."

There was a silence. Red Conners stared at me.

It was no secret who I was, eh ? I had fooled nobody here. The Professor had been on the point of giving away some affair. What? Never mind. Conners had prevented it; let all that go with the fog, then, and get down to business!

"I'm sorry," Conners said suddenly. "I didn't know. Jerry, you didn't tell me this. You just said he was going along."

"So he is," I struck in, and laughed. "Now tell me something. Where's Harper's body? Come on and face facts. Has he been taken care of ?"

"Certainly he has," Conners answered with some asperity. "He has friends who'll take care of everything. By the time the police get sniffing on the murder trail, I'll have the low-life who knifed him. Here's the knife that did it."

He laid something on the table. It was the knife, cleaned and polished; I recognized the metal haft. The blade was long and deadly.

"Why did you touch it ?" I demanded. "There might have been fingerprints."

"Oh, for God's sake, be your age!" said Conners impatiently. "Prints! You talk like a fool. Nobody leaves prints. This was a professional job. Anyhow, we know who did it; all we got to do now is to reach him. I can't do it alone. The three of us can, with the pearls. Do we have to gab all night to make you understand ?"

I saw now, with pitying comprehension, how this little man was driven by an inward storm of passionate grief and fury, goaded and lashed by emotion. So was the young woman.

"I told you I was in over my depth, Jerry," I told her. "Just the same, I'm in; and I'm beginning to understand the two of you. You knew Harp a lot better than I did; you thought a lot of him. Now, give me credit for playing along with you because I liked him and he liked me— that's all. Let's go, and you can talk later. I don't ask to understand the affair; I can trust you. Whatever it is, I'm with you."

JERRY reached out and touched my arm with her fingers.

"You're all right," she said, her eyes warming. "Red, what about the car?"

"I told Jemmy to bring it and leave it; so it must be waiting now. Jemmy didn't know a thing about what happened," Conners said. (They were talking about the man who had driven me and Harper here, of course.) "He said Harp paid him and was all right when he left."

"I think that's true," I said.

"Of course it is; Jemmy doesn't lie to us," snapped the little man. "Well, what we waiting for? Let's go."

As he spoke, he caught up hat and overcoat. I bethought myself, and said:

"I'll get my travelers' checks and coat, and meet you downstairs."

From the door, I glanced back in time to see Conners slide that murder-knife up his coat-sleeve. It seemed to fit there, to vanish, to be absorbed.

In my own room, I got hat and coat, and my travelers' checks. To go where? I neither knew nor cared, frankly. My pulses were thrilling again. Here was a compelling mystery of fog and life and death, a strange world of strange people.

"I may be clear off my nut," I reflected, "but be damned if I don't like it! "

And switching off the room lights, I was on my way.

The car stood idle and empty, a phantom shape at the curb— the same car that had brought me and Harper here. We got in, Conners sliding under the wheel.

"Palace Hotel first," said Jerry. "Bolton wants to cash his checks."

"Right," Conners replied, and we were off into the fog.

I turned to the girl beside me. "If you know who did the work, Jerry, why not go straight to him? And how do you know he's not hanging around here watching the place?"

"My Lord! I suppose you think we're going to hand him over to the cops!"

"I haven't stopped to think," I rejoined. "I don't care particularly what you do with him. Only, I'm in over—"

"Aw, save your breath! " came the voice of Conners. "G'wan— tell him. Get it over with."

She laughed nervously. "Well, Bolton, we know the guy, but it's impossible to reach him. Or at least, it can only be done in one way. He's not the one who knifed Harp, but he had it done."

"Oh, lay off!" came the soft but piercing voice of Conners again, sharp with impatience. "Let me tell him myself.... Bolton, there's a guy named Albers, a lawyer. He's tops in every way—law, society, wealth, politics. If he wanted a span out of the Golden Gate bridge for his watch-chain, he could have it; he's just that good. He's nuts about pearls."

"And about women," put in Jerry. Her voice was harsh, bitter unnatural.

"Albers wanted Harp to do something for him. Harp wouldn't do it," said Conners. He paused to swing the car around a corner, cautiously. How on earth he could find his way was a mystery, for the fog was thicker than ever.

"So Harp lost his job," he went on. "Lost everything else he had. And tonight, lost his life. That's why we're after Albers right now. I warned him. I warned him to leave Harp alone!" The soft voice shrilled, taking on a peculiarly venomous effect. "The actual killer doesn't matter; Albers is the one responsible. He's the one we want."

"Just what did he want Harper to do?" I demanded, with a touch of incredulity.

"Do you have to know everything?" broke out the girl at my side, almost fiercely. "For God's sake, use your brain!

A few guesses won't hurt you. We can't give you a checkerboard map of the world in five minutes.... Red, you fool, are you going over Twin Peaks in this fog?"

"It's all right; that's the shortest way, Jerry, and safe enough," Conners rejoined soothingly. "You're too nervous. Ease off everything! "

I got out cigarettes; my own nerves needed a touch of tobacco.

"Do you mind," I asked mildly, "if I ask just what all this has to do with the matter of pearls?"

"Yes," rejoined Conners. "Remember, Albers is nuts about pearls. Well, Harp learned where there was a gorgeous necklace; it had been stolen long ago, time of the earthquake. He had meant to get it and skip out, or else to compromise with Albers, who's crazy to get this necklace. It would have meant the end of all trouble for Harp, see?"

"Too bad," I observed, "that he could not have had a day or two longer. He had counted on my knowledge of pearls to get these."

It was merely a polite little interlude to cover my own vague bewilderment. This affair was like a puzzle picture with the key pieces missing.

"As it stands now," Conners went on, "those pearls give us our own chance to reach Albers; he's better watched than the U. S. Mint. We'll have to do it tonight, pretending we don't know anything has happened to Harp. It'll take all three of us to create the proper illusion; maybe I'll be with you; maybe I won't. And then I'll give that fellow what he gave poor Harp."

"The pearls," spoke up Jerry, "are on a statue in the Japanese joss-house. Not the big one in Chinatown, but a little one for Jap sailors. The Smoker's the man in charge of it. He doesn't suspect that one of the necklaces is real; for five hundred he lets us take one of the necklaces, which are supposed to be sacred. So there's everything."

Was it? I tried to make sense of the whole business, and it still remained vague. The essential thing, of course, eluded me; the one supreme thing, the reason why Harper had been killed.

Well, let it go! At least, I knew the night's program. We must get the pearls in order to reach Albers; when we reached him, Red Conners would kill him. The enormity of my share in this task escaped me.

The car was downtown now, dodging traffic in the fog-thick streets.

"Red, I'll go with Bolton," said Jerry Peterson. "Drop us at the hotel, then go on and meet us at the joss-house and have everything understood with the Smoker. We'll take a taxi there from the hotel."

"Okay," replied Conners. "Bolton, just one thing: You must point out the necklace to me and leave me to get it— don't grab it yourself. It's no cinch to remove a necklace from a big statue; I'll have to cut it, wrap chewing-gum around each end to keep the pearls from losing, and slide it off the statue."

Evidently Mr. Conners was an artist at more things than knives and pistols.

The car slowed at the curb. I got out; Jerry followed and took my arm; we felt our way through the surging fog, and the hotel entrance loomed ahead.

In this long corridor of the Palace, I came back to myself, to my own environment, with a jerk. The fog was gone. With it was gone all the lower edge of the world. In the mirrors, I saw myself with a strange woman on my arm; a woman in a gorgeous cloak of black and scarlet, tipped with gold. I had scarcely noticed her clothes until now, but now I stared. Her lips curved slightly as though in scorn.

"It came from Magnin's; it's ultra ultra. Does it suit you?"

"You," I replied, "would suit anyone, whether in silk or in rags."

She really smiled at this, and squeezed my arm.

"Thanks. You sound as though you really mean it and aren't making a pass. So taken, so accepted! There's the cashier's window."

When I had cashed the checks, we walked back to the entrance. There I paused for a brief instant.

Outside was the swirling fog again, and the lower edge of the world with its incredible surroundings and people. An ordinary night would have held no mystery, but fog lends enchanted touches and bizarre terrors to everything.

"Makes me think of the Professor," said Jerry. She must have shared my thought. "The old boy is actually more than half off his nut; a shut-eye, as they're called in the trade. He claims a fog like this is the safest place there is, because spirits can't navigate in fog."

I smiled. "Why can't they?"

"Search me! I don't believe he knows, himself! But he doesn't like spirits; that's one of his queer streaks. Well, let's go!"

A moment later were back in fantasy, as our taxicab plunged into the mist.

I stared at the darkly swirling vapor, and thought of the odd little Professor and his fear of spirits, made me smile. So spirits couldn't navigate in a fog, eh?

Unexpectedly, the cab slowed at a dark corner; where we were, I neither knew nor cared. We alighted; I paid the driver; Jerry pulled her gorgeous cloak about her; and we walked for half a block up a dimly lighted alley. Under an immense colored lantern a figure materialized— it was Red Conners.

"All set," he said. "Gimme the cash. The Smoker has a party of tourists in there now; he says to look around until they're gone."

I handed over my roll of bills, half-inclined to wonder whether the whole thing were not a plot to get my five hundred; suspicions floated into my mind, and were gone instantly, unreal as was everything else this night.

We turned in at the not imposing entrance, to be swallowed up by an entirely different fantasy.

This was a dimly lit place of clear air and fragrant incense aroma. There was a wispy, cadaverous figure in Oriental robes; a clump of tourists with a guide whose voice rolled crisply. There were paintings and statues of all kinds. Last came the Buddha— a huge gilded sitting image with many little lights and votive offerings around, and over the gilded chest and swelling stomach looped string upon string of pearls.

"Here, use this." Into my hand Conners pressed a pencil flashlight. "Tell me which one is the real string, that's all."

The tiny ray in my hand shot a clear illumination upon those many ropes of glistening pearls. I leaned forward, intent and curious. Almost instantly the genuine gems leaped into sight.

Here was a glorious double string, not large but of perfectly graduated beauty and obvious value. Even in the artificial light their white luster told that they came from the Ceylon coasts. Conners could not distinguish them from the other strings.

"The fourth and fifth loops— count from the outside," I told him. "Only Ceylon pearls have that peculiar sheen."

"I get it, but they all look alike to me," Conners replied. "Four and five—okay. You folks go on. Stay over by the door, Jerry, give the Smoker this roll and talk to him."

I GAVE him back the tiny flashlight; Jerry and I strolled on. The Smoker was seeing the tourist party out. When they had gone, she approached him and fell into talk. I glanced back at the Buddha; but the figure of Conners, in front of the image, blocked out whatever might be taking place.

Two men came in at the entrance, two Japanese, their faces distinct in the light. The Smoker blocked them, asking sharp questions, holding them in talk. A quick footstep sounded, and here came Red Conners, with a nod.

"All set," he said. "Here, Smoker, buy some joss for the gods." He handed the Smoker a coin and spoke casually. "How did you like the place, folks? Come on, let's be moving."

Outside, as the chill fog clamped down around us, he spoke under his breath.

"Quick, now! That yellow devil may double-cross us. Here, turn left."

The car was standing dark and solitary. We piled in, and next moment the lights were on and the car was plunging down a cobbled hill street. A cable-car, with a clang and a lurching rattle, cut athwart our way; with an oath, Conners swung the car into the side street.

"Those blasted cockroaches have the right o' way," he grunted, and drew in at the curb. "Hey, Bolton! Take this string; careful— I had to cut it. Don't lose any. Snap on the overhead light and make sure what we got. Can't afford mistakes."

"Good idea," said Jerry.

Under the dome light, I looked at the looped string of pearls. No, there could be no question; these were the ones, for the imitations had been extremely poor in quality. I whistled as I examined them.

"A lot of money here, Red! You seldom see so many perfectly matched Ceylons. Yes, this is the right string."

"You keep 'em for the present. Jerry, I'll head right for Albers' hotel, and phone him from the hotel drugstore. He lives up on the roof, you know."

"Better pick another spot," said Jerry. "Some of his outfit might spot us."

"Let 'em! " Conners laughed harshly. "We've got Albers where we want him, now. He'll be nice as pie— long enough for me to do my stuff, anyhow."

The car roared up a hill, then swooped down the other side, and with grinding brakes came to a halt at the side of a hotel block, before a drugstore entrance. Conners got out; he was in high jubilation.

"Get on your lipstick, Jerry!" he exclaimed exultantly. "In five minutes you'll be up in his penthouse. Remember, make him think you've fallen for him at last. Think of Harp, and play the game as we've planned! "

He swung jauntily away across the sidewalk and disappeared.

"Lipstick— that's right!" Jerry, who sat on the side of the car next the curb, swung open the door. "Forgot my handbag. I'll get a compact and be right out while he's phoning."

She followed Conners, and disappeared in the drugstore entrance.

So they had agreed on some definite plan, eh? Little Conners was nobody's fool. And his parting words— I straightened up suddenly. Those words, their meaning, hit me like a blow.

By Godfrey, she was the reason herself! The whole fight was over her: Harper had refused to give her up to the other man! Yes, here was the reason for Harper's murder.

Excited, nervous, I got out of the cab and paced up and down in the fog. I had solved the secret now. She stood out among all these shabby figures that moved under the lower edge of the world, furtive, crawling things. She alone stood out clean-cut and splendid, with a bravery that wakened admiration.

My thoughts died as I saw her coming from the drugstore. A man was at her elbow; she was flinging him off impatiently, angrily— a tall fellow, a stranger. He caught up with her, said something about Albers, and seized her arm.

Just there, I slid between them. The one full crack I landed should have knocked that fellow silly; he merely swung around and pitched into me. He must have had an iron jaw. I landed glancingly; then he nailed me and sent me staggering back against the car.

Jerry was crying out something. Other figures were moving around us; the sidewalk was a movement of swirling fog and men. I was down and up and down again, battering at everything within sight and sound.

The voice of Conners came from somewhere. The scream of some woman passer-by broke through the mist. The melee became more furious— rushing figures, hot oaths, blows given and taken. Of a sudden my blind rage passed, and I discovered Red Conners hanging on my arm, blood on the little man's face.

"She's hurt!" His cry penetrated to me. "Damn you, I'm done in— get us out of this!"

I was amazed to see that, except for several sprawled or motionless figures, the sidewalk was empty. Red Conners was lifting the limp and senseless figure of Jerry into the car. I woke up; she was injured! Get her out of here at once!

Conners collapsed in the back of the car. I slammed the door on them, slid myself in and under the wheel, and the engine came to life. I had no clear-cut purpose, scarcely knew what I was doing.

Into the glare of the headlights leaped a tall, commanding man in evening attire; his arm was uplifted; he was shouting something. I threw in the clutch and flung the car straight at him. He leaped frantically aside. Shouts and police whistles were shrilling all around.

But an instant later I had the car out in traffic, blindly heading away from the pandemonium behind, and losing it. Only then did I realize that I myself was hurt. There was a warm touch of blood on my cheek, and I felt my senses going.

DESPERATELY, frantically, I turned the car at the first corner. Here showed a dark, fog-swept street of houses or closed shops. I let the car drift in along an empty curb, then shut off the engine. Silence, and fog; I got out somehow, and struggled to get the rear door open.

"Jerry! Conners! "

No reply. The door came open at last, and I switched on the dome light—only to switch it off again, appalled by what I saw. Conners was slouched senseless across the body of Jerry. Her gorgeous cloak was gone, and blood was smeared across the front of her dress.

I straightened up in the darkness, both hands to my face, fighting off the dizzy nausea that gripped me. Slowly it passed, and I became conscious of pain. I had a slight cut on the forehead and a worse hurt in the groin, no doubt from a kick. I clung to the open car door, trying to get a grip on myself.

The bulge in the pocket of my coat told that the pearls were safe. I was alone, impotent to plan or act, a fortune in pearls in my pocket. If any police prowl-car came down this silent street, I was in the soup. I had not the faintest idea where to find Fiddler's Green, except that it was somewhere at the beach or shore.

Something stirred. Conners groaned, cursed and came to life. I gave him a hand out of the car. The little man had a nasty crack over the head. It would need stitches.

"Jerry?" His voice leaped in alarm. "Where is she ?"

"In there," I replied. "Blood on her dress. You keep a lookout. I'll switch on the light and see what's wrong."

I got into the car, unable to repress a groan as I did so; I was hurt, all right. The light on, I lifted Jerry to the back seat, and alarm seized me at sight of the fresh blood. I bared her breast, and my probing fingers examined the deep cut. With my handkerchief and a strip of her dress, I got a compress made and in place.

"Red! Switch off the light. That's right. She's been stabbed, probably by accident. Are you too badly hurt to drive?"

"No. Is she seriously hurt?"

"I think not, but it's no joke. We'd better get her to Fiddler's Green and to bed. I can take care of all this, if you don't want to get in a physician; that would mean a police report, I suppose. You drive, and I'll hold her steady."

"Okay." Conners slammed the back door, slid himself under the wheel, and started the engine. "What in hell did you start that ruckus for?"

"That fellow was molesting Jerry."

"Rats! I had everything fixed up with Albers. Blast it, he'd have burned that rat himself for daring to touch her! And you had to spoil the whole works! Well, no use crying over spilled milk."

"Not a bit," I agreed. "Stop lamenting and get to moving. Will Ma Webster help take care of Jerry?"

"You'd better believe she will!" rejoined Conners, and said no more.

Fog or no fog, the car skimmed over the long hills like a bird, then swooped down at last to the salt sea air and the fresher skirls of mist that drifted thickly in along the shore. I was resentful of the accusation Conners had hurled at me. Yet, as my heated brain cooled, I had to confess there was some justice in it.

My action had certainly precipitated the trouble. A cool head and less impulsive might have served us better.

"We're here!" The car halted. I discerned the yellow fog-lights again and had a glimpse of the gate, as Conners got out and opened the door. "Has she come around?"

"No." I tried to rise, desisting quickly.

"Need a hand with her?"

"I need a hand with myself, Red," I said shortly. "You go in and get someone to carry her. And I'll want someone to help me. Tell Ma Webster to fix me up an ice-pack; cracked ice in a towel will do. Maybe I can walk later, but not now."

"You hurt?" The voice of Conners held amazement. "Why, the way you mopped up on that mob back there, I thought you were made of brass and iron!"

"Stop yapping and get gone," I snapped, and he obeyed.

After this, I had some bad moments. To myself I said that, come morning, I would get out of this whole thing and stay out. It was not my affair and only a fool would have mixed in it. Running from shadows, I had plunged into a brawling whirlwind of reality!

Things faded for a bit, when I got out of the car. I have a memory of Ma Webster lifting Jerry out, of other figures around, and of someone helping me. Inside the house I paused to rest, and found it was Professor Fuller who was aiding me. Red Conners was at a telephone in the hall; I heard his words clearly.

"Jemmy? Come get your bus in a hurry. Better change plates. May be some blood around; take care of it. Okay."

Ma Webster came and demanded whether I were able to take care of Jerry; I assured her that I was. Getting upstairs was no easy matter, however. I sank down at last on a chair beside the bed where Jerry lay.

Ma and her sister-in-law stood by; everyone else was shut out; and to my surprise, I found a completely equipped surgeon's bag at hand. I asked whether it belonged to Doc Means, whereat Ma Webster sniffed.

"Him? He's just a fake, hiding out from a dope charge up in Oregon. Somebody got bumped off by accident and they blamed him."

My head cleared. I examined the wound under Jerry's right breast, and cleansed it with care. It was nothing bad at all; a stitch or two was needed, nothing more. The bleeding had stopped, and as she remained unconscious, I lost no time in putting in the stitches. Bed for a day or so would fix her up.

This done, I had Red Conners come, and attended to his scalp-wound, while the two women watched me in open admiration. There was no one to attend to me, but twenty minutes later I was in bed with an ice-pack, and then drifted off into luxurious sleep.

MY wakening came to wan sunlight at the windows, and gray wreaths of fog about a tree-top outside. Ten o'clock said my watch; morning, then!

A twinge of pain cleared my head with sharp recollection. I examined myself with attention; I was badly bruised and discolored, but decided that my hurt was nothing serious, though it was still painful. A day of rest would put me on my feet, though I would be jumping no hurdles for a while.

"Hello! I didn't know if you were awake. Ma sent me with a tray."

I saw Pa Webster sidling in at the doorway from the living-room, bearing a tray of food. The furtive little man beamed at me, pulled up a bedside table, and unloaded his tray.

"Breakfast, and plenty of it! Here's an electric pad; Ma said you might need it. Some magazines. And how are you?"

"Well enough, thanks. What about a morning paper?"

"Nope." Pa Webster lowered his voice. "Ma says no. They got too much in them about a man named Bolton— funny stories."

"I can worry along without the papers, then. Can you lend me a dressing-gown or robe of some kind ?"

"Sure. I'll bring it here in a hurry."

"How's Miss Peterson?"

"She's setting up; says she'll be along to see you after a while."

"Fine. Tell her to have her lunch brought here with mine," I said.

"All right." The other hesitated. "And —and Ma says how about some cash on account?"

I laughed. "Hand me my clothes from that chair, will you?"

He complied, and I arranged the cash settlement desired by his provident spouse. He told me the morning had begun clear, but the fog was coming back heavily, and that Red Conners was still asleep. Also, a telephone was here on the table if I wanted one.

Left alone, I attacked the tray ravenously, lit a cigarette, and sank back on my pillow to think. I must get away from here at once, of course, and wash my hands of the entire affair. I must drop it cold. The pearls were safe, as I had just found; and in the hands of Jerry and Red Conners they would mean a fortune. In this respect I had served them well and was rid of any obligation, real or fancied, to the ghost of Harper.

To get out of here, too, was very simple. I reached to the table, took up the phone book, and looked up the number of my father's agents. They could send a car for me and handle everything quietly, keeping me under cover until the Clipper departed on Thursday. I scooped up the phone and called the number.

"I'd like to speak with Mr. Ferguson, please... Oh, hello, Ferguson! This is John Bolton."

"Thank the Lord!" came the fervent response. "We've been moving heaven and earth trying to locate you!"

"Why?" I demanded, unaccountably irritated. "Have you any need to get in touch with me?"

"No, but we were worried—"

"Well, don't worry, I'm safe," I broke in. "I do wish you'd be good enough to get my luggage from the hotel and send it to the Clipper. Any mail can go with it. I'll probably, stay where I am, until I go aboard."

Ferguson assented, somewhat grumpily, and I hung up.

WHY had I said and done this?

Why did Ferguson so unaccountably irk me, with his precise voice? He was a fine fellow. Last night I resolved to get out of this affair instantly. I had just called with that idea in mind—and lost the idea completely. Why?

I did not care a snap for the people here, of course; they amused me, but that was all. While I could admire Jerry, she meant nothing to me, as a woman. I had no sympathy with the ambition of Red Conners to murder the man Albers, whom I did not know. Then why not pull out?

"Damn it!" I said aloud. "I should quit and do it now, but I hate to lie down on a job. Particularly one where I've made one or two blunders. I'm going to see this through, if it's merely to prove that I can do a few things right!"

"You'll permit me to help you, perhaps," said a quiet voice; and I jumped.

This room opened off the living-room, which I lay facing. No one had come in that way; the bathroom door was closed; there was no other entrance. Yet, turning my head, I saw a man sitting in the other corner by the big walnut wardrobe there. It was Professor Fuller.

For a moment I thought I was seeing things.

"Don't look startled." The Professor rose, pulling over his chair. "There's nothing supernatural about my presence, although I admit to certain powers in that line. You interest me, my young friend. If I'd been let alone, I'd have warned you against venturing forth last night. The guardian spirits find it most difficult to penetrate fog, and we are at the mercy of elemental beings. That is why you had such bad luck last night."

"Oh! " said I. "The spirits don't navigate in fog, eh ? I remember. So that's where to lay the blame, and not on me! You're a comforting chap, anyhow. How the devil did you get into this room?"

The Professor chuckled, his bright little eyes sparkling at me.

"I'll show you when I leave. First, let me give you the help I came to bring. You do not believe in the spirits all around us?"

"Not a damn' bit," I rejoined. "No offense meant, Professor."

"None taken." Fuller waved his hand grandly. "Let me say that I'm entirely conversant with the errand on which you embarked last night; the spirits have kept me informed. I should add that I held Mr. Harper in very high esteem, though we were not so well acquainted as I could have desired. That is why I bring you my assistance; although, mind," he hastily added, "I shall myself take no part in the business."

So earnest and grave was all this that I did not crack a smile. The Professor took himself so seriously that he was a bit of a crackpot, like most men who do take themselves too seriously. I nodded to him.

"Thank you, Professor. Far be it from me to turn up my nose at any help. I've bungled things pretty badly."

"One learns only by making mistakes." The Professor glanced at a turnip of a watch. "I've not long to remain. Let me tell you just what to do regarding this man Albers. The spirits have given me full information."

Into my mind flashed the sane and eminently logical thought that this man might be far smarter than he seemed; that behind this talk of spirits there was probably some actual knowledge.

"The burden rests on you, says the sage; therefore, assume it." He spoke impressively and slowly. "Conners is no longer reliable; you must use the pearls. They are not Ceylon pearls, but are from the Malabar coast; don't make the mistake of calling them Ceylon pearls, to Albers. He knows better. Use the name of Jerry; you will see her picture on his desk. And when you have what you desire from him, give him the pearls and leave quickly— and do not look back!"

He nodded, beamed, and came briskly to his feet.

"That's all. Now I shall go as I came... I like to wander about this house in my own way. Do not mention my visit, however. Ma Webster objects to my using the passages. Good-by, and good luck to you tomorrow night. That's the time, you know."

He opened the big walnut wardrobe, stepped into it, and closed the door.

I stared with fallen jaw; then the truth flashed across my mind. Supernatural? Not a bit! A secret passage, as Fuller had just said. It was all quite simple.

But was it? For a moment, recollecting the Professor's words, an eerie feeling plucked at my nerves. How did Fuller know anything about those pearls ? How could he know whether they were Singhalese or Malabar pearls? If that tip of his should be true—

I swung myself carefully out of bed. Two steps took me to the chair where my clothes lay. I reached into the coat pocket and brought forth loop upon loop of pearls, spilling a few from the broken string as I did so. I eyed them sharply, critically, summoning up my long-disused knowledge of the gems. Malabar, eh? Yes, it might be so. Under daylight, they were not so definitely white as I had thought them last night.

"Well, I'll be damned!" I murmured blankly. "Then, all this information about Albers, about what to do and when to do it—"

Common sense returned. After all, I was among crooks; no ordinary run-of-the-mill scoundrels, but crooks of a distinct class. Albers was, according to Conners, at the head of various rackets. What more natural, then, than these people having all sorts of intimate knowledge about one another?

"Hanged if I know what to believe!" I mused. "In fact, I don't know yet just what it's all about—but I guess I'll gamble on the Professor and the spirits!"

I was still thinking of the queer program he had laid out for me—and of which I did not comprehend any detail.

ONE o'clock that afternoon found Jerry sitting across the table from me in the parlor of my suite, a bounteous luncheon between us, and her blue eyes somber. What she had to tell me about Red Conners was not pleasant.

"I hate to say it, but you'll have to know the truth. All this has thrown him back into old habits. A drug, yes; not happy dust, but something that soothes him. Opium, I think it is. So he's out of everything, for the moment, and I've got to know what to do, because Albers is calling me here at two o'clock."

I was wearing an atrocious purple bathrobe Pa Webster had supplied. Jerry, in slacks, showed no evidence of her hurt.

"So you're out of it, Red's out of it, and action is coming up, eh?" I said cheerfully. "That leaves me to handle it. Oh, you needn't look surprised! Today's Tuesday. I have until Thursday. Therefore, I'll see Albers tomorrow night. By that time I'll be able to move about comfortably enough."

Her astonishment was so genuine that I smiled. The decision had come to me; I would move blindly along the lines laid down by the Professor, and trust to luck for enlightenment.

Jerry let her fingers wander over the four white pearls on the table before her.

I had put them there— the ones I had spilled. She had accepted these four, with a glow of color rising in her face.

"I don't want to see Albers," she said slowly. "If you must know, I'm afraid of him."

I nodded. "I must know more than this, Jerry, before I see him."

"Eh?" Her face lifted. Her eyes held a startled glint. "You can't handle this! You can't see him! What is it you want?"

I sipped my coffee, which was an excellent French roast; I leaned back and regarded her pleasantly. It was time for a showdown. I had to bluff. There was something about a picture, eh? The Professor had given me a hint or two.

"I don't think you and Red misled me for any evil purpose," I observed amiably. "Yet you did mislead me. It's possible that both of you really meant to exact payment for the murder of Harper—"

"You know we did, and we do!" she broke in. "The man who murdered him is going to pay up for it!"

"You sang another song last night," I said. "The man higher up, you said then. Now, I mean to see this thing through to the finish. Not for your satisfaction, but for my own. Just to keep the record straight, I don't intend to murder Albers; but I shall give him the pearls— after I get what is desired. So come clean. Let's have the truth."

SHE stared at me, her bandaged breast rising and falling to swift breaths. I was glad to see that my wild shaft had gone to the mark.

"Then, you know— or you've guessed!"

"Come clean," I repeated. "Remember, we're friends, I'm getting nothing out of this. You're getting those four pearls; they're worth money. Let's have the truth."

She drew a deep breath, nodded as though to herself.

"Very well!" For an instant her eyes hardened. "I was secretary in a downtown bank. Albers wanted to take me out of it. Harp and I were hoping to get married. Albers went after us both. He got me and got me proper; I had forged a letter to help one of the bank's vice-presidents who was in a domestic jam. Albers got all the papers in the case. How? Don't ask me. He gets anything he wants.

"Do I understand, then, that you don't want these pearls?" I Inquired.

"He put the screws on me, went to the bonding company, and they dropped me. 'Anyone who would forge, would steal.' I was kicked out of the bank. Harp stood by me, so Albers went after him and made him into a tramp. He darned near got Harp sent to San Quentin on a frame-up, but Harp outsmarted him there. Harp knew Ma Webster, so we came here a couple of weeks ago. Harp and Red were old friends, too. Red, you see, had an old grudge of his own against Albers, and threw in with us. That's the story."

I finished my coffee, satisfied that things were coming clear at last.

"Now let's have all of it," I said, smiling at her. "Of course, I'm very dumb—"

"You're dumb like a fox!" she ejaculated. "What do you want to know?"

"Where the pearls really do come in. And perhaps about that picture of you on Albers' desk."

She caught her breath sharply.

"Then— then you do know!"

"A little," I assented. "But I can't afford to guess. So tell me."

She broke, all of a sudden.

"The picture, yes," she said. "In the back of it are the papers about me, and a note I wrote Albers—a crazy, wild note threatening to kill him. That was when he was trying to frame Harp. With them is something connected with Red Conners; I don't know what it is, except that it would put him in San Quentin. Albers is afraid of Red. If he gets killed, the police would get this picture and what's in it. Well, that's the thing we want, in exchange for the pearls."

So there it was, all of it.

I could scarcely choke down the astonishment that rose in me. That confounded little Professor had given me a straight tip after all. Spirits, eh ? Poppycock! Let someone else swallow that sort of stuff. The Professor simply had all kinds of information and was willing to impart some of it, but did not want to get mixed up in any private war.

"You say Albers is calling at two?" I inquired.

"Yes. He rang this morning and said he'd call again at two." Her eyes leaped to mine; she was sincere enough now. "I'm afraid of him! He's too smooth. I suppose I should pack a gun in my handbag and go kill him, for the way he's wrecked me and Harp; but I can't do that sort of thing." She shivered and looked down, miserably. "I just can't do it."

"No, you're not the sort to do that," I said quietly. "Now calm down and let me deal with Mr. Albers. Possibly we'll get back on my side of the world, where I won't be so apt at blundering. Let Red Conners quiet his nerves with opium; it won't do him any great harm, regardless of what most people think, if he doesn't carry it too far. And it'll keep him out of mischief."

THE buzz of the telephone broke in upon us. I saw Jerry start wildly, and held up my hand, checking her. A moment later I was at the instrument.

"J. A. Albers calling Miss Peterson," came a woman's voice.

"I'll take the call," I said. "I'm expecting it. This is P. T. Barnum speaking."

There was an instant of silence. I met the tense stare of the girl, and winked at her. Then came a pleasant, cultured, incisive voice on the wire— Albers.

"Hello! Albers speaking. What's this Barnum nonsense?"

I laughed. "Well, surely you didn't expect me to give my actual name? Miss Peterson has been rather badly hurt. She was stabbed, I believe by accident—"

"Good God, man!" broke in Albers. His voice held real concern. "I wouldn't have had this happen for worlds! Who did it?"

"You ought to know," I rejoined affably. "However, I'm acquainted with the whole affair; I'd like to talk things over with you, on her behalf. I have something which might be of interest to you; I believe Mr. Conners called you about it last night."

"Oh!" said Albers. "Do you mean the McGuffin necklace?"

"I don't know it by that name. It's a glorious string of pearls; I'd say, by the color and luster, they must have come from Malabar waters. May I bring them to you tomorrow evening?"

"Why not tonight?" he asked quickly. "Why not now?"

"Because," I replied smoothly, "we may not know until tomorrow just how badly Miss Peterson is hurt."

"Confound you! Let me do something about her case. What hospital is she in?"

"Fiddler's Green, as you very well know. Never mind bluffing, Albers. Is it tomorrow night or not ?"

"Yes, at eight," he snapped, and rang off.

I turned to Jerry, feeling very well satisfied with myself.

"You see? I told you I'd probably get on with him.... Here, for heaven's sake! Don't you dare faint! "

She swayed, but recovered. Then she put her head down on her arms and gave way to the sobs that shook her. She had gone to pieces at last, and no wonder.

For the remainder of this day, and all the next, I worked over that bruised groin of mine—unguents, heat, manipulation. I gradually made it improve, until I was able to walk down to the dining-room. My mental tension was relaxed, too. Things looked very different, now that I had learned the entire story.

ALL these two days, fog continued over beach and city, now lessening, now rolling in ever more thick and wet. Of my fellow-boarders, I saw Jerry from time to time, and the others at meals. Not the Professor, because Fuller had left Fiddler's Green. Conners showed up on Wednesday, gloomy and morose, asking no questions, apparently in a state of dream. He came once to my room, wandered aimlessly about, then went to the door, opened it, and paused there.

"Jerry told me about it," he said in a lackluster voice. "Go ahead and play it out for her sake. She's a good kid. I'm finished."

He slammed the door and was gone, somewhat to my relief; nor did he appear that evening for dinner.

Dinner was over at seven-thirty; I left the table, and Jerry followed me. She overtook me at the head of the stairs, halted, and extended her hand.

"Good luck," she said quietly. "I'll be waiting. And don't let him trick you; do be careful! "

"Thanks." I pressed her fingers, realizing I would not see her again. "You'll hear from me as soon as I get it."

I WAS not returning here. I phoned from my room for a taxi, pocketed the pearls, put on my overcoat and took my few belongings. I had no hat, but no matter. Win or lose, I was now climbing back to the other side of the world this night. This Arabian Nights adventure had been expensive, and the game was by no means worth the candle. I would see it to a finish and make my exit.

I let myself out of the house without seeing anyone, walked out to the gate and waited there for the taxicab. Here, with the fog vapors swirling around, my boasted common sense began to evaporate. The world became unreal and enchanted again; the massive lonely building behind me became a mount of wizardry upon a shoreless sea. The salt air drifted into my lungs; the thudding reverberation of the surf sent my blood pulsing with its hint of coral seas and flying-fish.

How the devil had Professor Fuller known about the white, white sand? Coral sand is blazing white, yes; but very few people are aware of the fact. How had he known so much about the pearls? Malabar, yes. And he had said to get what I went after and then to depart without looking back. Why? Did he really have some second sight?

Bosh! The lights of the taxicab lifted; its horn blared; and I was out of the fog of fantastic thought. All absurd! Crooks have queer information, that's all. Here was the taxicab, here was reality!

I climbed in. A moment later the yellow fog-lights thinned and died in blank mist. Gone was Fiddler's Green; gone was the gate, the spot where Harper had died; gone was Jerry Peterson— a brave, pleasant memory. I was on my way back to my own side of the world; resolutely I put all other things out of my mind.

THE hotel loomed up; the taxi dived at the entrance, brilliantly lighted, and the doorman appeared. Paying my driver, I walked in out of the fog, out of all this unreality, into a normal world that was richly luxurious.

This great hotel lobby held nothing bizarre; here all was stately dignity. To imagine that fracas of Monday night up the side-street, to imagine henchmen or gorillas of any racketeer lurking about here, were absurd folly. As I walked up to the desk, I even felt that it might be nonsense to ask for anyone named Albers. Yet I asked; the clerk, instead of directing me to a house-phone, asked my name.

"Phineas T. Barnum," I said, smiling. Looking slightly incredulous, the clerk went to a phone and spoke; he came back very affable.

"The No. 2 elevator goes to the roof," he said. "Mr. Albers is expecting you."

When I stepped into No. 2, two other men were in the elevator, and they eyed me narrowly as the car shot upward. It made no stop until the roof was reached. When I stepped out, the two followed. The car door clanged shut.

"Just a minute, buddy," said one of the two. "I'll have to frisk you for a gun. Sorry, but it's orders."

Here was sudden confirmation of everything I had been told. It was not easy to reach Albers, Red Conners had said!

"Go ahead, boys," I said, smiling. "Don't bother the beads in my coat pocket."

Making sure these were "beads," the two began to frisk me. The elevator had deposited us in a rather short, blank hallway. A door was opposite, and another door showed at one end. One of my searchers went to the door opposite, and knocked. It was opened.

"Okay. Here's your man. He's clean."

I went to the door. It was flung wide by a butler, a sharp-eyed, lithe butler with very wide shoulders, who bowed to me and spoke.

"Mr. Barnum, sir? May I have your things? Mr. Albers is in the library."

Doffing my topcoat, I passed through an entrance hall, on through a luxurious and cheerful living-room, and halted in the open doorway of a spacious library, walled half to the ceiling on three sides by books. The fourth side was all window, with drawn blinds at the moment. By day, it must have had a glorious view.

Albers was rising from behind an enormous flat-topped desk.

"Come in, come in! " he said heartily. "Ah, it's Mr. Bolton! I suspected as much, when I heard you were stopping at the Webster hostelry. Glad to meet you."

The words were pleasantly affable; the man was beaming, alive with good humor. A big man, handsome in a leonine and predatory way. A man of something under forty, with powerful lips, his eyes keen under his wide brows, his evening attire fastidious.

And suddenly I recognized him. It was the man who had tried to stop the taxicab on Monday night.

"Hello!" I exclaimed. "You're the chap I nearly ran down the other night!"

"So that was you, eh?" Albers laughed. "Sit down. A liqueur? Cigars on the desk. Make yourself comfortable."

He crossed to a tantalus against the bookcases, and I took a chair before the desk.

He recognized me, eh? I refused to let anything throw me off center, and helped myself to a cigar from the open humidor. Albers came back with two delicate Venetian liqueur-glasses. He handed me one, and took the other to his own chair.

"Here's luck all around!" he exclaimed genially. With a nod, I sipped the fluid. He extended a lighter, and I lit the cigar.

These preliminaries over, we settled back and looked at each other. The wide, masterful lips of Albers twitched, though his eyes remained alert. I caught his thought, and smiled.

"WE'RE mutually surprised— even gratified, eh?" said Albers frankly. "Mr. Bolton, it will be a pleasure to deal with you. Have you really brought those McGuffin pearls?"

I shrugged. "I've brought some pearls, at all events. Never heard of McGuffin."

"They're fabulous, legendary! They vanished at the time, of the fire and earthquake— a glorious string of the finest Singhalese pearls. By the way, the safe behind you holds the finest pearl collection in the country. One of my agents bought a marvelous necklace of pink Sunda Straits pearls from your father, five years ago."

"I'm afraid you'll be rather disappointed in these." I fumbled at my pocket. "I'd venture that they came from the Malabar coast, rather than from Ceylon."

A quick light came and went in the eyes of Albers. I wondered anew at the little Professor, and blessed his tip.

"Malabar, I should have said. Of course, the luster is close to that of Ceylon gems," he replied, "but they're infinitely rarer and finer."

I got the string from my pocket and looped it on the desk. Hawk-like, the fingers of Albers reached out at the pearls, his face gleaming with unfeigned eagerness. Curious, I reflected, that I was at the brink of life and death with this man, of whom I knew nothing whatever except the bits I had been told; his whole background was unknown to me.

A man might well be murdered for the worth of those gleaming globes of nacre; I had already discounted this peril. Puffing at the cigar, which was superb, I glanced along the polished desk and saw a large, handsomely chased silver frame to the right of Albers; but from where I sat, I could not see whose portrait it held.

"These are the McGuffin pearls, all right." Albers pushed them aside, reached out for a cigar, and bit at it. His eyes probed at me. "I'll not ask where you got 'em. But how on earth did a man like you get mixed up with that Fiddler's Green outfit?"

"The winds of chance blew me into that harbor," I rejoined, smiling.

"H-m! The name is ominous. And the place itself is dangerous in the extreme."

Apparently this was a veiled threat.

"I find it interesting, or briefly so," I rejoined. "From what I've heard, it's a far less dangerous place than this."

Albers grinned faintly. "Meaning that I might take the pearls by force? That stuff might go in a movie, Bolton, but I don't operate that way."

"You prefer a knife?"

Albers lost his smile. For a moment he became hard, polished steel.

"When I'm threatened viciously, I strike out with any weapon at hand," he said in a quiet voice. "You've no doubt been told some queer things about me; in ten minutes I could prove them a pack of lies told by gutter-rats who have inveigled you into handling the sale of the pearls for them."

"You might be making a mistake or two yourself," I rejoined amiably. "By the way, whose face does that handsome silver frame surround?"

He reached out and turned the silver frame, and the eyes of Jerry Peterson, smiling and radiant as I had never beheld them, met my gaze.

"How is she?" Albers demanded.

"Oh, she's doing very well indeed. Fine girl. Do I understand, then, that you don't want these pearls?"

"I want them more than anything else on earth— except one thing." Albers spoke slowly, intently, watching me the while. I did not pretend to misunderstand his words.

"Mind if I examine that picture?"

"Help yourself."

I took the silver-framed portrait from the desk, leaned back in my chair, and examined the reverse side. With my thumbnail I pried up the silver clamps that held the contents in place, and removed the back far enough to see that several documents were held there. Then I put it together again.

ALBERS was watching me in grim silence, and now spoke.

"I see you know what you're after. Who the devil told you they were there?"

I shrugged lightly. "What does it matter? Well, I think you arranged the swap with Red Conners, didn't you? I presume that it still holds good ?"

Albers looked incredulous. "A swap?"

"Yes. The pearls for the picture— and contents."

"Damned if I can savvy you, Bolton! What's your interest in this? What do you get out of it ?"

"It's a losing game, for me," I said. "My interest ceases as soon as we close the deal."

"You're asking nothing for yourself?"

I looked at him, trying to choke back the words, and could not.

"And nothing for Harper. Your question bears out much that I was told about you."

Albers flushed slightly. "Damned cheeky, aren't you? Well, well, we must avoid all personalities," he added, and became amiable once more. "Shall I wrap up the picture?"

"Thanks, no." I stood up. "I'll take it, and leave you to your conscience."

"What the devil are you talking about ?"

"You know: Harper, again. Thank God, this time tomorrow I'll be out of here and off to where the winds and the sea are clean! So I'll say goodnight."

I turned toward the entrance hall, scarcely believing that it was all over.

Albers came around the desk and walked with me. When the butler appeared, Albers took my topcoat from him.

"You may go, John; I'll see our visitor off," he said. The butler bowed and left. Albers stood holding the coat.

"Do you know, Bolton, I'd like to get better acquainted with you? It's a fact. Might pay us both to reach a better understanding."

"Who the devil let you in, Conners?"

"I had to see you; I want a word with you," Red Conners replied.

"I'm going far," I said. "I've touched the lower edge of the world, and I don't fancy it— any of it."

And yet, beneath the firm, steely look of Albers, I felt unaccountably shaken. I wondered whether, after all, I knew the straight of this entire story; whether this man could possibly be as he had been described to me. Then I remembered the limp figure of Harper against that telephone pole, and it hardened me.

In silence I reached my arms into the coat that Albers held, keeping the silver-framed picture in alternate hands, then buttoned the coat.

"I'll see you into the elevator." Albers opened the door that led into the outer vestibule.

So the game was actually played out; it had finished tamely after all! Until this moment, I had been alert for some sign of trickery; there was none. I relaxed. It had passed off just as things in my own world usually did, with no fury of passion or drama.

"Nice place you have here," I observed, glancing around, as we headed for the elevator light opposite. I noticed that the door at the end of the hall stood ajar. "Where does that go? To the roof?"

"No, to the stairs and down," replied Albers. "It's usually locked—"

His voice died abruptly, as a figure appeared in that open doorway.

RED CONNERS slid forward a couple of steps, and halted, as Albers reached out for the elevator button.

"Don't do that!" he said. His soft voice held a startling quality. Yet he stood as if empty-handed. He looked small, pathetic, rather helpless, but alert.

"Who the devil let you in, Conners?" demanded Albers, his hand withdrawing from the button.

"Oh, I just came. I had to see you; I want a word with you," Red Conners replied. He seemed quite himself, no longer vague and aimless. "Bolton, you go on down the stairs and take a car below. I don't want any elevator here, not yet. I see you got the picture, so go ahead."

Albers gave me a glance. "Slipped one over on me, did you?"

I started. "No! You know better!"

He nodded, laughed, and motioned me to go ahead. Conners was moving toward the open door of the penthouse.

I approached the stair door, uncomfortable under the ugly thought that I might have been used as a tool. Albers, despite his impressive assurance, had the air of having been caught off base. Reaching the door, I glanced back.

"I wouldn't take much of your time," Red Conners was saying, humbly.

Albers nodded.

"Well, come along inside, and I'll give you ten minutes."

"Thanks," said Conners gratefully.

I DISMISSED my uneasiness, and passed down a flight of stairs leading to the hotel corridor below. I left the door open behind me, as I had found it. The stairs brought me down at the side of the elevators. I pressed a down button, and saw by the indicator that the car beside me was on the way to this floor.

Suddenly I swung around, listening. The voice of Albers, uplifted in a furious explosion, pulsed down the stairway.

"You damned little rat! What d'you mean by that ?"

"Look out!" The voice of Conners, no longer soft, was almost a shrill scream. "I'm on to your tricks— don't you try it! You won't do me like you did Harper—" An oath burst from Albers. Then, almost drowned in the opening clang of the elevator doors beside me, a shot....

Two more shots.

"Going down!"

Clutching the picture, I forced myself into the car. The operator had heard nothing. The doors clanged shut. The car pitched down and down, halted at the third floor, went on to the lobby.

There was a commotion at the desk. Two men were running, dashing for the roof elevator and calling out something. Its door clanged, and it was gone with them. I turned and passed on out of the hotel. I knew with frightful certainty what they would find when they reached the top floor. They would find Albers, but they would not find Red Conners; that spry little man would be gone.

"Nearest telegraph office," I said, stepping into a taxi. "I want a messenger."

The fog was chill, veiling the street lights. Not the streets, however, but that penthouse scene, held my mental vision. I began to feel more sure, now, that I had been duped, had been made use of; or had I? After all, did it matter? I realized that the taxi had halted.

"Wait," I told the driver, and got out.

Inside, my task was simple. I procured an envelope, and into it put the papers that backed the photograph of Jerry Peterson. I sealed it and addressed it to her. There was no Fiddler's Green in the phone-book, but Ma Webster was listed.

"Deliver this by messenger," I said. Using the phone-book again, I dialed a number; I got Ferguson at his home.

"Can you put me up tonight ?" I asked. "Or until the Clipper leaves tomorrow?"

"It'll be my pleasure," said Ferguson. "Get here on the jump! "

I went out to the taxicab again, still clutching the framed picture of Jerry.

My brain flashed back to the scene before the door of Albers' apartment; there had been three shots. And Red Conners was a champion pistol-shot. He would be gone; if the police looked for anyone, it would be for a man named Barnum.

"And," I reflected, "if I'd used my own name, I'd be in the soup tomorrow instead of aboard the Clipper! Had they reckoned on my getting traced and arrested, I wonder? Would I have been just another sucker? Or are all these suspicions unfounded— are they really a pretty swell gang, these people under the lower edge of the world?"

A PASSING glare of light pierced the fog and illumined the silver-framed photograph in my hand. The face of Jerry looked up at me radiantly, assuring me of— what? I broke into a laugh, tossed the picture to the seat beside me.

"Anyhow, I completed the job!" I muttered. "And I'll keep you, Jerry. I'll take you with me to the South Seas— just to remind me of all the things I'll never be sure about! "

But I was sure of what I would read in the morning papers.

_____________________

8: Rivals of the Clouds

Raoul Whitfield

Triple-X, January 1929

THERE was plenty of it, this gray, clinging fog. Drifting slowly down the slope just west of the tiny pursuit squadron field, dinging to the branches of the gaunt trees, then sweeping out over the field itself, the fog moved. It hung within ten or fifteen feet of the soft earth, and it was thick. Thick and cold. Twenty minutes ago there hadn't been any sign of it; now the barracks could not be seen from the nearest camouflaged hangar.

Lieutenant Ben Chapin came out of one end of the barracks and swore beneath his breath. It was almost eight o'clock and two ships were out on the dawn patrol. They had been out since a few minutes after six, and were due back any minute now.

A figure, short and chunky, emerged from the white screen of the fog, moving toward the barracks, a clap-board building considerably the worse for wear.

Ben Chapin hailed the figure.

"Who's flying the dawn patrol, Adjutant? Adams and Cole?"

The short officer shook his head, pausing beyond the reaching wisps of white stuff. He spoke in a grim voice.

"Adams and that new officer— Langdon," he stated. "Looks tough, eh?"

Ben Chapin nodded. "Not so bad for Adams," he said slowly. "He'll have brains enough to fly back out of it, and land somewhere. But this Tex Langdon— the Lord knows what he'll do!"

The adjutant swore. "Wild riding bird-man!" he muttered. "But if he tries to come down in this stuff, he may finish up his career in a hurry."

The adjutant vanished from sight into the narrow corridor of the barracks. He was hungry and cold, and not particularly concerned about Tex Langdon. Lieutenant Chapin stood out in the fog, and shook his head slowly.

"Hope Tex does use his bean!" he muttered. "Sort of like that officer. Acts like he's trying hard enough. But this'll be his first dose of—"

HE CHECKED himself. He was thinking of the clash after mess, last night, between Adams and Tex Langdon. It had been a sharp one. Lieutenant Adams was an old-timer— three weeks on the front. Tex had been up three days. In that time he had nosed over one ship, cracked another up two miles from the Squadron, in a forced landing, and then he had taxied into a wing-tip of Adam's pet Nieuport, just before mess. The old-timer had told him just about what he had thought. Tex had listened with a grin on his face, and the grin had enraged Lieutenant Adams.

"You'll get yours in about three more days, Langdon!" he had shot at him, and then, as Tex had kept right on smiling, Adams had gone the limit. "And the sooner the better— for this outfit!"

Ben Chapin, standing out in the fog with his face tilted upward, swore grimly. Adams hadn't meant that. He'd been sore; the nervous strain was telling on him. And Tex had smiled that provocative smile of his. The big fellow was calm, or had been until that second. Then his eyes had narrowed to little slits.

"Easy, Lieutenant!" he had shot back coldly. "Where I come from that's right bad talk!"

And then Adams had laughed. It had been a nasty laugh. And when he had finished laughing he had shot more words at the big Texan.

"You're not where you came from, unfortunately ! But you'll get there, Lieutenant. The first Boche that gets on your tail will send you back to where you came from!"

Tex had got to his feet, after that. There had been no color in his face; Lieutenant Adam's meaning had been unmistakable. Ben Chapin had grabbed him, and the old-timer had turned his back and moved from the mess-room.

Lieutenant Chapin listened for the roar of a ship's engine, heard nothing but the distant rumble of guns, muffled by the fog. Staff had pulled a boner, in picking the locality of the Sixteenth Pursuit's field. Every five or six days the ground fog was so bad that ships didn't get in. Once or twice they hadn't been able to get off.

The pilot turned back toward the barracks. He shook his head slowly. Somewhere in the sky, winging back toward the squadron, most probably, were Lieutenants Adams and Tex Langdon. Quite often two pilots, one winging in from the north and the other from the south patrol of the front, would meet over Chalbrouck, fly back to the Squadron together. Perfectly synchronized wrist watches helped such a meet in the air. Lieutenant Adams was an old-timer. He knew about fog; knew where it was likely to hang and where the ground might be clear. If the two ships met, he could guide Tex Langdon in. He could; but would he?

Ben Chapin swore again. He shook his head. It looked like a tough break for Tex. One more smash and he'd go back toward Blois. The Squadron needed ships too badly. And now there was fog, heavy fog. And the only pilot who could help Tex was Lieutenant Adams. Ben Chapin's lips moved slowly as he moved along the corridor toward his tiny coop.

"If Tex rides this one into the corral," he muttered grimly, "he's good! More than good, I'll say— he's perfect!"

NINE miles east of the Sixteenth Pursuit Squadron's fog-shrouded field, ten thousand feet above the front lines, two ships zoomed and dove, twisted and spun in the sky. The two ships had been engaged in combat for more than three minutes, and the battle was a tough one. One plane was a baby Albatross, very well camouflaged. The other was a fifteen-meter Nieuport, not so well camouflaged. In the narrow cockpit of the Nieuport was Lieutenant Tex Langdon. His blue eyes were rimmed with red, his lips were pressed tightly together as he handled the American ship, trying to get in position for a machine-gun burst at the enemy plane.

The German pilot was a fine flyer. Twice he had almost sent streams of tracer-marked lead into the fuselage of the American ship. The left wing surfaces showed the bullet holes of his last hit— and it was much too close for comfort. But Tex Langdon was fighting on and fighting desperately.

Two things worried him. He was running low in gas—and the damaged wing surfaces might be badly weakened. The Boche pilot had come down out of the clouds, almost taking him by surprise, as he was winging back toward the Sixteenth. Tex had kicked the Nieuport into a tail-spin, and on coming' out of it the German lead had punctured his wing fabric. Since then the fight had been sharp.

The air was bad; the earth below was obscured by drifting fog. The patrol had not been a particularly successful one and now the attack of the German pilot threatened to make it disastrous. Tex had the feeling that he was too green for the enemy pilot.

The Nieuport came up in a zoom; for a flashing second he had the Albatross in the ringsight of the Browning. He squeezed the stick-trigger of the propeller-synchronized weapon, then released pressure after a short burst. He saw that his stream was behind the slanting enemy ship, then he lost the plane in a blind spot of his own ship.

He nosed downward and caught the flash of a shape coming up at the Nieuport then went over in a vertical bank. Green-yellow tracer-bullet fire streaked through the sky close to the plane. Once again the German pilot had come very close to scoring a hit!

Tex Langdon's lean face twisted. The patrol had been a long one, a difficult one. He was new to such flying. The German pilot was more experienced. The Nieuport's gun was getting low. There was the fog hanging close to the earth; it might mean that he would have to search for the Squadron field.

The Albatross was a quarter mile away, between the Nieuport and the Allied rear lines, and banking. Her pilot banked, came out of it, zoomed for altitude. Tex Langdon wiped his goggle-glass clear of a splatter of oil, nosed down to gain speed, and banked his own ship. He could not afford to let the other pilot get altitude.

His lips moved as he squinted blue eyes on the enemy ship.

"Get sense— show tail and fly out of it! If I don't— he'll get me!"

It was the way he felt. He was fighting a losing combat. He was new at the front. There was justification for a sky retreat. Just one thing stopped him from winging out. One human—Lieutenant Adams. He would make his report and Adams would learn about it. There were few secrets in the outfit; he had learned that already. Adams would know that he had run away from an enemy pilot.

HE SHOOK his head. The Albatross was streaking in at the Nieuport now. Their altitudes were about the same; both had leveled off from zooms. But now the German pilot zoomed again. And then, as Tex pulled, back on the stick of the Nieuport, he came out of the zoom and dove.

The American pilot shoved his stick forward, to dive the Nieuport. He saw the nose of the tiny Albatross come up, knew that the enemy pilot had tried again to get beneath his plane for a shot upward. Both planes were streaking at each other now. Tex squeezed the stick-trigger. The crackle of machine-gun fire sounded, then died abruptly. But his fingers were still Squeezing the trigger. The gun had jammed!

Tex Langdon groaned, banked to the right. A strut leaped, out on the left wing. Fabric ripped; the tracer stream of the other ship was tearing through wing and wood. A shape flashed up past the vertical-banked Nieuport. Tex Langdon twisted his neck, got a glimpse of the German pilot's head. The two ships rushed past each other.

Once again Tex felt the desire to wing for it. He had plenty of reason now. His wing fabric was badly damaged— a strut had been splintered. And yet, something within him refused the chance. He swore hoarsely, banked around, leveled off.

His eyes widened. Slanting down toward earth, flames streaking up from her, was the Albatross! She was an eighth of a mile distant, and for a second he thought that his short burst, before the gun had jammed, had done the trick. And then he saw the other plane.

She was banking around, and evidently had just come out of a dive. She was a Nieuport— and bore the markings of the Sixteenth Squadron on her camouflaged fuselage. Tex stiffened in the cockpit. He forgot about the damaged wing fabric, the splintered strut. Lieutenant Adams— flying the dawn patrol! Adams had shot down the enemy with whom he had been combating!

His Nieuport was roaring toward the other ship. He cut down the throttle speed. Lieutenant Adams was dropping down toward earth, toward the ground fog. At intervals, as Tex followed him down in a mild-glide, he could see the other lieutenant's ship spurt a trail of smoke from her exhaust. The ship was all right; Adams was keeping the gas feed steady.

The German plane crashed between the lines, in a great burst of flame. Black smoke rolled up from her. And Lieutenant Adams was leveling off now; he was heading back toward the Squadron. He was ignoring Tex, just as though he had never been in the air. Even as the pilot of the damaged ship tried to level off and wing after the other Nieuport, fog swept over Lieutenant Adams' plane. She was lost from sight.

RAGE struck at Tex Langdon. His Nieuport was heading back toward the Sixteenth, but the whole sector was covered with fog. Lieutenant Adams knew that. The veteran pilot knew that Tex would have trouble finding the Squadron. He must have guessed that gas was running low. And yet he winged away from the other Nieuport; roared his ship into the ground fog.

Tex Langdon swore grimly. He roared the engine into full voice and the Nieuport rushed into the white blanket of fog. The beat of the engine increased in tone, magnified by the density of the atmosphere. Tex could barely see the wing-tips of his ship; his goggle-glass clouded instantly. He felt that he was flying with a wing droop, and there was no level gauge in his baby plane.

He pulled back on the stick. It was either that or risk going into a spin. He couldn't drop down very low to the earth, as perhaps Lieutenant Adams was doing. He didn't know the country well enough. There were hills about the sector; he might pile into one. Adams could fly by time and his sense of direction.

"He knew I couldn't make it!" he muttered. "Not without— his help. And he pulled out on me!"

The engine spluttered, picked up again, spluttered once more. Tex Langdon worked over the air and gas adjustment, his heart pounding. Then, abruptly, as he nosed the ship forward, the engine died. Tex Langdon was suddenly very cool. He banked the ship to the westward, got her into a gentle glide, stretching it as much as he could. He cut the ignition switch. The Nieuport glided downward, her wires shrilling softly, the fabric of the left wing surfaces crackling in the glide-wind. The fog enveloped her.

The altimeter was not registering at the low altitude. He guessed that the he was within fifty of seventy-five feet of the earth. He pulled back slightly on the stick; the nose of the Nieuport came up. There was a blur of dark color stabbing up through the gray stuff. Savagely he wiped the glass of his goggles for the last time and stared ahead, downward.

Something long and curved stabbed at the right wing. He saw other blurs of color, fog clinging to them, rise up before him. He jerked the stick back against his flying overalls; the nose came up. And then the ship twisted violently to one side! Fabric ripped! He threw both arms before his face, releasing his grip on the stick!

The weight of the Hispano-Suiza engine carried the Nieuport down through the upper branches of the trees. And only the fact that Tex Langdon had stalled, just before the plane struck into them, saved him. As it was, a twisting, battering branch shot through the fuselage fabric, ripping the overall material and sending a stabbing pain up his right leg.

THEN the plane was motionless, and Tex Langdon snapped the safety-belt buckle loose, slid carefully out of the cockpit. The splintered prop was in the soggy earth beneath the trees through which the ship had plunged, but it had not battered in deeply. Off to the right, as Tex dropped to earth and limped about, sounded the steady firing of a battery.

Tex Langdon smiled grimly. The ship was a wreck. Lieutenant Adams had dropped down from the skies and had got himself the Boche with whom Tex had been battling so desperately. Then he had winged on back, through the fog. It had been as though Tex and his plane had not existed.

The tall westerner shook his head slowly. It would probably mean Blois for him, though the bullet holes in the wing surfaces might help his case. He'd get over to the battery, get directions back to his Squadron. And there was one officer with whom he wished to talk, back at the Sixteenth. He wouldn't have much to say— but he'd say it in his own, particular way. He took a last look at the Nieuport, limped toward the sound of the firing. The battery would be fairly close to the front— and that meant a long trip back to the outfit. He had been lucky, perhaps, to escape as he had, in the landing. But there was no thanks to Lieutenant Adams; not for that.

Tex Langdon limped slowly onward. The woods ended abruptly, he was on soggy ground. In the distance there was the flash of red, spreading strangely through the white-grey fog. It was cold. All about him guns rumbled. But he didn't feel the cold, and scarcely noticed the rumble of the guns. He was thinking about Lieutenant Adams, and getting back to the Squadron.

CAPTAIN LOUIS JONES spoke across the crude desk between his short form and the tall one of Lieutenant Langdon.

"You haven't had the experience of Lieutenant Adams; and it was your first combat. You should have flown out before your gas got so low. Lieutenant Adams tells me that it looked as though you were in trouble. He says he dropped on your Boche and got him. He hasn't any verification because the ship fell between the lines, and there was a lot of fog, though not where the Albatross fell. Perhaps you will verify his shoot-down."

Tex Langdon nodded. There was a grim smile on his face.

"I will, Captain," he stated. "He got the Albatross, all right. Got back here without any trouble, they tell me."

The Squadron C. O. nodded. "Went around to the west, slipped under the fog and came in just off the earth. Of course, he knew—"

The captain frowned and changed the subject.

"We expect two new ships down from Colombey before dusk, if the fog lifts. You'll draw one of them. We'll try to salvage your old ship. Tomorrow morning you can stay back of the lines, working on your new gun and feeling out the ship. I'm not exactly praising your work, Lieutenant. Get that straight. But you had a bad ground fog. Bad enough to give you another crack at the front. This time—"

He shrugged his shoulders, smiling at Tex Langdon. The lieutenant nodded.

"I understand. Captain," he stated. "I've cracked up a lot of ships in a short time. But I've been trying—"

The C. O. smiled slightly. "That helps but it isn't the whole thing. Lieutenant," he stated. "I know you're trying. It isn't enough. You've got to succeed. Won't always have Lieutenant Adams around to pull you out of scrapes, you know."

Tex felt rage strike at him. But he controlled his feelings with an effort. Adams, getting him out of a scrape!

The C. O. nodded dismissal. Tex Langdon went from the captain's office toward his own coop. It was almost four o'clock; it had taken him five hours to reach the Squadron from Battery H4. He was about to turn into the barracks when he almost collided with Lieutenant Adams. That officer muttered something, turned to one side. Tex caught him by the arm.

"JUST a second, please, Lieutenant! C. O. tells me you got me out of a jam, this morning."

Adams narrowed dark eyes on the blue ones of the Texan. He nodded, standing fully a head shorter than Tex.

"Well, didn't I, Lieutenant?" he snapped. "Sorry I couldn't fly both ships—  might have kept you out of another!"

"I'm not saying you didn't get me out of a sky jam, Adams," Tex replied in a quiet tone. "But I am saying this—you didn't know you were getting me out of one!"

The other pilot stiffened. His eyes narrowed on Tex Langdon's blue ones.

"Come again!" he snapped. "Make that more clear!"

Tex nodded. "The C. O. asked me to verify your shoot-down, Adams. I did. But get this straight. You saw me sky-scrapping with a Boche. You had ceiling, and a chance to drop in. You did and you got my Boche! You didn't know I was running low in gas, or that I'd been hit twice by the enemy's lead. And if you had known it wouldn't have made any difference. You got the German ship for your record! And you winged straight for the Squadron, not giving a damn about me!"

Lieutenant Adams smiled grimly. "Think so, Langdon ?" he asked quietly.

"I know so!" Tex snapped back. "I mussed up your pet ship in a take-off, and I didn't get on my knees when you howled about it. You're sore. You knew I couldn't find the Squadron in the fog and you left me to go where you've said I came from!"

There was a little silence. Then Lieutenant Adams spoke. His voice was like ice.

"You couldn't have followed me through that fog, Langdon," he stated. "Because you can't handle a ship in the sky. Is that any reason that I should mess my chance up? My Nieuport was running low in gas, too. I wasn't sure of finding the outfit. And I dropped on that Boche because he was out-maneuvering you. I sat up in the sky and watched you. You never even saw me there!"

Tex stared at the other lieutenant. Then he laughed nastily.

"You may get in a sky jam some time," he said slowly. "You might even crack up a ship one of these days. And if I'm around—"

Lieutenant Adams swore sharply. His face twisted.

"You won't be!" he snapped. "I'll be shooting lead around the front when you're—"

He broke off, controlling himself. Tex Langdon smiled at him, his eyes narrowed. When he spoke his voice was very low and steady.

"When I'm back where I came from, eh, Lieutenant? Maybe you're right, Adams. But I'm not forgetting that you winged out on me, into the grey stuff. The captain didn't ask me to verify that fact."

The veteran smiled grimly. "If I ever get in a sky jam, Langdon," he said slowly, "I won't expect any help from you. If you did try to help you'd probably crash me in the air. It's about the only thing you haven't done since you've been up."

Lieutenant Tex Langdon nodded. "Just about," he agreed in a peculiar tone. "Except— I haven't quit a man in ground fog!"

The two replacement ships didn't come in that afternoon. Nor the next afternoon. The fog continued to hang low and thick. Most of the pilots sat on the ground, worked on their ships, lined up guns. One morning of the third day the fog lifted a bit and the two replacement Nieuports were ferried in from Colombey. Lieutenant Schafer drew one,  Langdon drew the other.

Tex worked over his Browning, got the ship off for an hour's hop back of the lines before dark. She handled well, and in a couple of bursts at the ground target south of the Sixteenth's field he didn't do so bad. But he almost cracked up setting her down, making a fast landing. He taxied her into one of the camouflaged hangars, gave the ground-crew sergeant his O. K., and moved toward his coop in the barracks. An orderly was waiting for him; he was wanted at the C. O.'s office. He washed up, hurried over. Captain Jones frowned up at him.

"Lieutenant Connors reports sick. Looks like a touch of flu. We're short pilots, and Brigade is howling for defense planes. Enemy ships are flooding the Sector air. Is your new ship all right?"

"Yes, sir," Tex replied quietly.

"Take her over until dark," the C. O. ordered. "Lieutenants Harrington and Adams are out. Head for Hill G.8. Some Fokkers are raising the devil up that way. The French may get some ships across, light help some in a dog fight, here before dark. That's all. Get me a report as soon as you get in."

Tex nodded, saluted. He went to his barracks, got his helmet and goggles, headed for the Nieuport again. The ground crew pulled her out. Adams across the line! Tex smiled grimly. That lieutenant was getting plenty of work. So were they all, for that matter.

He climbed into the cockpit, revved up the little ship's engine for a few minutes, nodded his head for the blocks to be pulled away. The pursuit plane rolled out across the soggy field, climbed into the sky. Tex headed straight for the
front. As the Nieuport gained altitude, he stared over the side. From the north-east, clinging low to the ground, white fog was drifting.

Tex Langdon groaned. For a brief second he thought of banking around, turning back. The C. O. was not pleased with his work. And he was winging toward the front with darkness and fog coming to obscure the Squadron field. If he cracked up again—

Well, orders were orders. The Nieuport climbed steadily; he banked slightly toward the north, toward Hill G.8. The fog was not yet thick, but it would grow thick. There was little wind. The beat of the Hisso was steady in his ears.

IT TOOK the plane eleven minutes and some odd seconds to reach the Hill. The fog around the rise was slight; it was much thicker back of the ship, back toward the Squadron. There were two ships in the sky, to the east, on the German side of the lines. They were, winging toward Allied territory and were flying much higher than the altitude of the Nieuport.

Tex searched the sky with his eyes, climbed the Nieuport. He saw no other planes. The American ship had reached an altitude of twelve thousand feet; he guessed that the other two planes were flying just beneath the clouds, at about fifteen thousand. There was no sun, and darkness was not far away.

At thirteen thousand feet he leveled off. The two ships heading toward the Allied lines had suddenly piqued; they were diving at his ship but then he saw that he was mistaken. Across the lines, winging back toward the Allied side, was a tiny plane. She was flying with a wing droop and it was upon her that the two other planes were dropping!

Tex dove the Nieuport. She slanted down across the lines, her nose pointed toward German territory. He could distinguish the other two diving ships now. They were both Fokkers of the fighting type. The plane below, he guessed, was an Allied ship— trying to get back across the lines,

That ship was almost over the lines, and the German pilots had stretched their drive, thus allowing Tex to gain on them. He was within a hundred yards of the nearest enemy ship before the pilot saw him. Instantly the enemy zoomed.

Tex, lips pressed tightly together, pulled back slightly on the stick. The Fokker's zoom failed. A long burst of lead from Tex's Browning streamed down into the cockpit of the enemy plane. As Tex pulled all the way back on the stick, zooming and then going over on a wing, he saw the second Fokker cease to dive on the ship below.

He pulled the Nieuport around in a vertical bank, stared over the side. The Fokker on which he had come down was dropping in an uncontrolled spin. The pilot had been hit! The other Fokker was trying to get altitude, but her pilot had been forced to pull her over level, after her first zoom.

TEX leveled out of the bank, dove on her with engine half on. She dove instantly and he saw that she was going down after the wing-drooping plane below. That plane, he saw now, was a Nieuport! And a Sixteenth Squadron Nieuport!

The Fokker gained rapidly on the crippled American plane. Tex dove with engine power adding speed. The Fokker swept down behind and slightly below the Nieuport then zoomed, leaving a tracer stream in the sky,, slanting back of the wing-drooping ship. Again her pilot had missed by a narrow margin.

But this time the German pilot pulled his ship up and over, and at the peak of the zoom, as she was on her back, he did a nice Immelman. In a flash the Fokker had righted herself. Less than fifty yards of air separated her from Tex's Nieuport now, Both guns spat streams of lead at the same second.

The German pilot's lead was low. It passed beneath the under-gear of the Nieuport. Tex zoomed as the enemy shape flashed close. Flames were shooting up from the engine of the German ship. But she zoomed, too. The Nieuport jerked sickeningly. The controls were loose in Tex's grip! The Fokker pilot, knowing he was finished, had rammed the Nieuport from below, striking the tail assembly with a wing-tip!

Tex Langdon felt the Nieuport go into a side slip. He tried to get her out of it, failed. She was slipping off on her right wing, toward the brown-grey line of the earth, almost a thousand feet below!

He jerked his head. The second Fokker was going down in a straight nose dive, flames shooting back from her. And toward the ground fog to the westward winged the crippled Nieuport that he had saved from the two enemy planes.

WIND tore at Tex Langdon's helmet. He moved the stick to the right, expecting to feel no pressure, believing that the tail assembly had been carried away in the crash. But there was pressure. He kicked right rudder. The slip ceased but the Nieuport was now diving at terrific speed, less than five hundred feet from the earth!

Slowly he pulled back on the stick. He cut the throttle speed down, held his breath. And slowly the nose of the Nieuport came up. The tail assembly was still sticking in place, although the ship answered sluggishly.

He advanced the throttle to three-quarter speed. The plane was headed toward the Squadron. She was flying less than three hundred feet above the earth, and there could be no maneuvering now. The Nieuport would have to be flown level, carefully. The slightest piece of overcontrolling might rip the damaged tail-assembly from the fuselage.

Tex Langdon stared ahead, down. He groaned. He had forgotten the ground fog. It was spread over the earth, in the direction of the Squadron, like a grey-white blanket. Even below the ship now, the first wisps of it were drifting. And far ahead was the wing-drooping Nieuport, vanishing from sight into the grey stuff.

Tex stiffened in the cockpit. Lieutenant Adams, once more winging away from his plane in the fog! He couldn't be sure of it but he could guess. He had saved Adams from going down with Boche lead in his plane and body and the lieutenant again was winging in to leave him alone. Even with a drooping wing, he might have waited. Lieutenant Harrington would have waited. It was Adams, all right.

He reached for the throttle, but then he muttered to himself suddenly. The Nieuport that had vanished into the fog was in sight again! She was banking around, coming back!

Tex held the little combat ship in level flight. He watched the other plane come on, his eyes wide. Her left wing drooped badly; she had banked around to the right. He caught sight of a helmeted head, an arm. held out in the prop wash. The two ships rushed past each other. Tex stared back. Once again the Nieuport was banking to the right. She came around sluggishly, gained slowly on the throttled down sister plane.

SIDE by side, with less than O twenty feet of grey air between the wing-tips, they flew now. And Tex recognized Lieutenant Adams. That officer was pointing toward his left wing-tip, which was in tatters toward the trailing edge, with one strut twisting back in the wind. The officer got a hand out in the prop wash, tilted it downward in a mild degree. Tex nodded. He pointed back toward his ship's tail assembly, saw Lieutenant Adams twist his head, stare back.

And then the veteran lieutenant nodded his head and banked slightly to the southward. Tex banked, too, very gently. The other Nieuport was nosing downward now and Tex moved the stick forward a bit. The movements of his plane were very sluggish, uncertain.

Fog swept over both planes. Tex flew with his head half turned, watching the wing-tips of the other ship. Several times they were lost from sight, but each time he picked them up again. Both ships were flying throttled down. Seconds passed and they seemed hours. The fog was growing thicker.

And then, very suddenly, the fog cleared. A slope seemed to rise out of it. Lieutenant Adams banked sharply away from Tex's Nieuport., His plane's nose came down. Tex banked his plane, cut the throttle. Below was a fairly level field with very little fog on it. Even as the Nieuport glided downward, he saw the wheels and tail-skid of the other officer's ship strike.

And then he was stalling the tail-damaged ship. He was within ten feet of the earth when something snapped under the strain. The nose whipped downward. There was a grinding crash as the prop splintered into the earth. Tex tried to protect his head but failed. Something battered him backward. There was a flash of yellow light and then everything went black.

TEX LANGDON recovered consciousness slowly. His head ached; he raised a hand to bandages wound about it. Slowly he blinked the dizziness away from his eyes, wet his oil-stained lips with the tip of his tongue. He looked around.

He was propped up against the wreckage of a plane. There were khaki-clad figures moving in the mud of a field, against a back-ground of drifting fog. He turned his head slightly. The eyes of Lieutenant Adams smiled at him.

"Feel rotten, eh? But you do feel! That's something."

Lieutenant Tex Langdon managed a painful grin. It was more than something, he thought, It was everything. His blue eyes narrowed on Lieutenant Adams' dark ones.

"You— came back—" he muttered thickly. "You got— me— down here—"

Adams grunted. "Didn't quite do that Tex," he stated grimly. "That tail-assembly of yours collapsed before you set her down. Figured this slope would have less fog and headed for it."

"You came back—" Tex persisted. "After you winged into the white stuff."

Lieutenant Adams swore softly. "You and I, Lieutenant— we've been acting up," he said slowly. "You may crack up your own ships, but you cracked up two other ships, today! And you saved my neck. I couldn't wing out on you, Tex. Figured I might be able to bank around, without the droop getting me into a slip. It was pretty rotten— winging out on you. Didn't know, though, that you had a crippled ship."

Tex grinned feebly. "It was damn white— after what I've said to you, Adams—" he said slowly. "We've both been— pretty thick."

He fumbled for a cigaret, found two.

Adams lighted them up. They inhaled appreciatively.

"Pretty thick—" Lieutenant Adams was agreeing. "Sort of like—"

He stopped, grinned broadly. Tex nodded. He raised his eyes slightly.

"Like the ground fog, Adams," he muttered. He closed his eyes. "But we— got out of it."

And Lieutenant Adams, smiling grimly, nodded his head,

"We cleared up, Tex," he muttered, "just about in time!"

__________________

9: A Pretty Woman

Owen Oliver

All-Story Weekly 24 Mar 1917

NOT mad? Hush! Hush! Sir, I throw myself upon your mercy. You have penetrated my secret. I am not mad; but for Heaven's sake don't tell the superintendent. He is a narrow-minded man; and inquisitive; tryingly inquisitive. Sometimes I fancy he suspects me.

You don't think so? What did he say about me? As mad as a March hare? Good, good! If he asks what I said to you, tell him that I gibbered like an idiot. An idiot! Ha, ha, ha! No! If I have any mental failing, it is not lack of intelligence, but the reverse. I am too clever. Cleverness is a net that you catch yourself in.

There's another net that catches the cleverest man. The snare of a woman! That was what caught me! Damn her! I— I— I am not mad; but sometimes I feel as if I shall be, if I don't get out to her!

What was I talking about? Oh, yes! The superintendent. You mustn't let him guess that I'm sane. If you did my last chance of escape would be gone. Better off here? Yes, yes! I know. I quite realize the position. If I escape and they find out that I am sane they will send me to prison.

I must take the risk. Foolish? Ah! It is not a question of expediency, but of right.

I have a duty to perform in the world; a plain duty. It's a painful duty, because she's a pretty woman; a very pretty woman. Just to kill her! I— I— Thank you. I will have a cigar. It soothes the nerves, as you say. Let's sit here in the sun, and I'll explain the matter. We'll wait till the superintendent has passed.

I'm going to gibber for his benefit. Ha, ha, ha! He, he, he! That's how I take him in! He's just what you might expect from an army officer. If you laid his brain open, you'd find that one hemisphere was regulations and the other prejudices. I don't blame him for being a fool; but he needn't show it by wearing a single eye-glass! This is an excellent cigar.

Now for the pretty woman. We won't have names. I'll call her just that. She had bright brown hair, and a bright little face, and a quick, bright smile, and a voice that seemed to laugh in words, and a saucy, red mouth, and mine burned for it! She was five and twenty and she had been married for three years, and she was visiting some friends without her husband. I was staying there, too. I was a clever man, as I've said, but I wasn't clever about women.

At first I took her for a pretty grown-up child. She prattled to me so innocently. " I always thought a professor was dry and horrid," she told me, when I first took her in to dinner, " and I should be afraid of him! But you're not, and I'm not!" And then she smiled up in my face.

I'd never had a woman look at me like that before. She was so pretty. Oh, Heaven! She was so pretty! I fell in love with her., and she flirted with me.

I didn't know it was only flirting till I tried to kiss her. She knew. If she 'hadn't dreamed of such a thing,' as she said, I should have had the kiss, but she knew exactly what was coming; sprang away like a little cat, and got her hand to the bell. Then she turned round to me, panting, and let the bell go.

"No, no!" she said. "I won't do that. I couldn't be unkind to you. You have made a dreadful mistake. I hadn't dreamed of such a thing. I— I love my husband, and I don't do things like that. I am very, very silly, but I am not wicked! Oh, don't look like that. Don't, don't! You are so much older, and I never dreamed of such a thing. How could you?"

I think I was nearly mad for the moment. I raved at her; told her that she had deliberately led me on, and made me love her. She cried. Crocodile tears! Some women can!

"Oh!" she sobbed. "I have hurt you! I have hurt you! I didn't mean to. I thought you understood. You seemed like a big-brother friend. I was nice to you because I liked you in that way. I do like you that way."

"And I," I said, "love you!"

"But it's absurd," she declared. "You're so much older, and—"

"Absurd?" I cried. "Absurd?"

I was very near taking her little white throat in my big hands then! I wish I had. If I hadn't been so clever I should have. But I relied on my cleverness. I didn't want her dead. I wanted her alive.

IF I am mad, I went mad then. No, you are quite right. I did not. If I had been mad I could not have formed my clever plan in those few seconds. I did more than form the plan. I began to play my part, put my hands to my face and groaned, and she cried more crocodile tears.

"No, no!" she said. "Not absurd; not at all absurd. It isn't because you're old. You're not very old." She said that like a coaxing baby. "If I weren't married, perhaps I shouldn't have thought you old at all, but I didn't ever think of it, and 1 mustn't, and I'm not going to. I do like you very, very much in a little-friend way. Will you be friends, please? I am so sorry, truly sorry. I am sure it was my fault too. I am a very thoughtless girl. My husband calls me 'little silly.' But I will be a very true friend."

She put her hand on my arm. I could show you exactly where. I seem to feel the touch ever since. I said we would be true friends. I asked for a kiss as "a consolation prize," and I got it. Don't tell me it was her innocence. She might be silly; but, if she wasn't a thorough flirt, she wouldn't have put her hands on my shoulders and kissed me back. And she did. She did!

Flirt or no flirt, she liked me. That was the one word of truth in all her lies. If I could get her husband out of the way, I knew that she would come to me. I decided to remove him.

If I had been mad, I should just have gone to the place where he lived and shot him, but I wasn't mad. I saw quite clearly that if I killed him I should be caught and sent to an asylum (I should have pretended to be mad, of course), and shouldn't get her, and besides she would be ashamed to marry me if I killed her husband. I decided that the first step was to separate them.

I made a clever plan for that; a very clever plan; but it had a flaw! I'll tell you about it presently.

The first thing was to teach her to trust me. I behaved very discreetly for the rest of the visit; took the line of the fatherly friend. I knew it piqued her that I could be so "fatherly." She was always trying to draw me on. She would take my arm and smile at me, and run about to fetch things for me; "not because you're old, but because I'm so young," she would smile at me and say, " and because I love to do things for my friend!" Sometimes she'd look up at me and say, " You're not very unhappy now, are you?" And I would struggle with myself till my muscles felt like steel. "I am quite happy, little friend," I always told her, and then she used to draw a long breath and dab her eyes quickly.

If I had been a fool I might have been taken in, and have believed that she was just an innocent, grown-up child, who had hurt me by inadvertence and wished to make amends. But I wasn't a fool, and I saw through her. She wanted to gratify her vanity by bringing me to my knees. I am not going to kill her merely for revenge. It is a duty. Women like her are cancers in society. They must be removed.

I am ashamed to own it; but you are a man of insight, and you will be merciful to human weakness. There were times when I shirked the duty. She was so— so lovable. If she had repented of her cruel coquetry, even at the eleventh hour, I would have snatched the excuse to forgive her. If she was not utterly heartless, I told myself, she must feel that she had tortured me sufficiently and dismiss me, when her visit came to an end; but she wanted to play with me a little longer.

"Your friendship is much to me," she said on the last evening; "and I want to make mine much to you. If you will come and see me at home, I shall be so very glad. Will you come?"

She touched me with her hand. If I had not been a clever man I must have thought it was sheer kindness and compassion. She looked so innocent and sweet; so very sweet. That was another time when I was tempted to strangle her.

"I will come," I said, "my dear." I called her that in a fatherly way. It made her eyes blink with anger; or perhaps it was disappointment. Sometimes I thought that if I took a kiss now she would not run to the bell! But I would not risk it. I wanted to make sure of her; quite sure. I would wait till she ran away from her husband. Then she would run to me!

I thought too much of myself, and too little of my duty. This is my punishment. You would make some excuse for me, if you saw her. She looks so sweet and lovely.

Well, she went. I kissed her forehead, just where the bright brown hair stopped, at parting; and she squeezed my hand in both hers.

"God bless you," she whispered, "dear friend, and make you happy. I shall pray it in my prayers!"

Her prayers! That was when I condemned her finally. There is pardon, I often think, for all the sins that one sets out as sins; but none for the sins that are cloaked by hypocrisy. I did not cloak mine. I prayed to play with her heart as she played with this broken, broken heart of mine. Do you know, I sometimes think I am mad! Yet it was clever, my plan. It may seem far-fetched to you, but it would have succeeded, except for one trifling flaw. No, I won't tell you the plan yet. You will see it as I go along.

I went to the town where she lived, about a month later. I was there for four days before I called. I had let her see me in the distance two or three times. That was part of the plan. I made a good many inquiries about her husband. He had what some one called "a sporting past"; but people thought well of him now. He was a long, lean, strong-featured young man; "a hard-headed chap," they said, "except about his wife." He obviously worshiped her. I did not wonder that she had taken him in, for she had done it with me, and with most of the townsfolk.

"A thoughtless little person," they said, in effect, "but good and affectionate. She looks as if she flirted a bit, but she doesn't mean anything; and she can't help being such a little beauty."

On the fifth day I called. She was tearfully petulant at my neglectful delay.

"Now I don't believe I am your best friend," she said. "I mean you don't think so!"

She pouted like a baby.

"My dear," I said, in my most fatherly way, "I could not like you so much, 'loved I not honor more.' "

"Oh!" she cried. " Oh! Don't talk of that. I thought you would forget those things, and — "

"Tut, tut!" I interrupted. "I don't mean that, little goose!" I patted her hair— the bright brown hair— "I wasn't afraid to see my little friend, although— Never mind about that. I meant that duty had a prior call for the moment."

"You say 'duty!'" She tossed her pretty head. "I suppose you mean nasty business? Business! Ugh! If money is more than friendship — "

"It wasn't money, Bessie," I declared; "and it wasn't friendship. There is none to compete with yours. I will prove my trust in your friendship, by telling you the story. I would not tell it to any other on earth."

"I won't tell a soul!" she volunteered eagerly; " not a soul. Not Jack, even!"

She was alight with curiosity, and her eyes sparkled.

"I trust you," I said. "You are transparently honest, my dear." I had a curious impulse to kill her when I said that. If only I had! "Let me make the story brief, because it hurts me to tell it. Years ago I had a sister. She married a man. Well, she thought so. The marriage was a sham."

"Oh!" she cried. "Oh-h-h!" She began dabbing at her eyes. The crocodile tears were always at her command.

"He took her away— never mind where. He defrauded his employers and had to fly. She fled with him; worked her poor fingers to the bone sewing for their bread. Sometimes he earned a little butter; by cheating at cards and even theft. There's a long history of robbery; robbery of those who befriended him. She was
ignorant of his doings for a time. Then she learned the truth about him. Then he killed her!"

"Oh!" she cried. "Oh!"

"Killed her as she lay by his side at night; fled away before the morning, and has remained undiscovered for six years. For six years I have been tracking him. I have reason to think that he is in this town of yours."

"Oh!" she said again. "Oh! You must not do anything violent, dear friend. The law will punish him. I don't want my friend to get into trouble."

She stroked my coat sleeve gently.

"'Yes, dear," I said, "Yes. I will hand him over to the law when I find him."

"Won't the police do that," she suggested, "if you tell them?"

"I don't know the name that he goes under," I said. " A friend of mine saw him here, and told me. I have been hoping to see him, but I haven't met him yet. Perhaps you might know him. He would be a few years over thirty; very tall and thin; at least he used to be thin. He may have filled out. He has a big nose, and dark eyes and hair. He used to sway a little as he walked. He was slow-spoken, but he rather surprised you by the way he always went to the point. Do you know any one here like that?"

She shook her head. The bright brown hair always seemed to glitter when she did so.

"I don't believe I should ever recognize any one from a description," she apologized. " If you hadn't told me who the man was, I should have thought you meant my husband!"

"Ah!" I said. "You told me he was a fine big man ! I must make his acquaintance, when I've settled this business. If he's on the lines of this man externally, I congratulate him, and you! Burton— that was his real name, but he's gone by many others— was an attractive scoundrel in looks; in more than looks. He had a very fine voice; a light barytone. He was particularly good at oratorio music." I laughed bitterly.

"Oratorio music?" she repeated slowly. Her lips moved restlessly I noted, and there was a startled look in her eyes. I had seen in the local paper that her husband took the barytone solos for the town choral society.

"For the matter of that," I said, "he could sing anything. I believe he once traveled with a comic opera company."

"Indeed!" Her lips were trembling violently now. I had learned that her husband was in comic opera in his careless youth.

"He was a good French scholar too," I remarked; and this also I had learned of him.

"A good French scholar," she murmured. "I— I—" She was evidently struggling with herself. "I am stupid at French," she said desperately.

"Ah!" I protested. "You aren't so stupid as you make out, my dear! You are quite a clever little lady. Well, to continue with my story, Burton got away six years ago; and ever since I have been trying to track him, without success. I was within twenty-four hours of him once. I had traced him to a mining camp. They called it the Gray Hill Settlement. You don't look well to-day."

She swayed a little in her chair.

"I feel the heat," she said in a husky little voice. "I— feel— the  heat."

"I am afraid that my story worries you," I apologized. "You are too tender-hearted, my dear. Shall I stop?"

"No, no! Go on! I am all right. Go on!"

"He went by the name of Holbrook there, and— You are not well, my dear. I am sure you are not."

"But I am. It is just a passing faintness. It is gone now. Go on! I am so interested."

She pulled herself together and smiled. I was glad to see that she could smile, for I took it as a sign that she did not really love her husband. If she had, I reasoned, she must have fainted. For the mining camp was where he had spent two years of his "sporting past"; and the name he gave then was Holbrook. Oh, no! There was nothing against him, except a young man's wildness; nothing at all!

"I don't know if it was chance, or if the detective who was assisting me was in league with him and sent warning," I continued; "but he left the camp by the Tuesday train, as I arrived on the Wednesday. The reason they suggested for his hasty departure was that he feared they might lynch him on account of a curious run of luck at cards; but as a matter of fact, they meant to catch him in the act first, and they hadn't succeeded yet, though they felt 'morally sure' that he did cheat. They may have been in league with him, too, and have made up the story to deceive me. Anyhow, I missed him for six years.

"As you say, it's hard to identify a man by a description; but there's a good identification mark if I can catch him. He has a ship tattooed on his right forearm, a kind of Chinese junk, and a flowery circle round it. My sister— My dear, I am sure you are faint! You really must see a doctor. Shall I ring for some water?"

"I am not— very— faint," she denied. Her face was ashen. "It is— it is only my heart— I think."

"Oh, my dear!" I cried. "Don't say that!"

"There is nothing wrong really," she protested. "Don't— don't worry, my— my dear friend. Ring, will you? We will have some tea. That will set me right. Oh, you've brought the tea, Mary! Thank you. It's one lump of sugar and the tiniest drop of milk, isn't it? You see, I remember. It is such a sad story. So dreadful!"

"So dreadful!" I assented.

I said no more for some time; neither did she. She kept shivering; tried to keep still by holding the arms of her chair.

"I must come in and meet your husband," I proposed presently. "Do you expect him soon?"

"No, no!" she said quickly. "Not soon. I think he will be quite late. Are you sure that he murdered your sister? The man you are looking for?"

"Quite sure, my dear; but we won't talk of it any more. I didn't know that you weren't well, or I wouldn't have worried you."

"I— I am not well," she cried. Her voice was almost a wail. "I suppose there was a quarrel, and he struck a hasty blow, and didn't mean to— to— "

"My dear," I answered, " there was no quarrel and no haste. I often wonder whether she anticipated anything of the sort. I pray and pray that she did not; but sometimes I picture her lying beside him night after night, afraid to sleep, fearing every movement. No,' no! She could not have done it. She must have run away and come to me, if she had suspected that. She must have run away, don't you think?"

"Yes!" she cried. "Yes!"

Her voice was almost a scream, and I rose to go. My clever plan had succeeded, I told myself. She believed the story, and she would run away before her husband came home that night. One little hint where to run, and the mine was laid.

"If she had only come to me!" I remarked, as I held the pretty woman's hand for good-by. "I should have guarded her from him. She was the dearest of all women to me, until— But we have forgotten all that. Forgive me. When I see you ill it makes me want to—to comfort you. If ever you need help— But of course you would come to me. I shall be in town to-morrow afternoon, at my office; but I shall see you soon. Good-by, my dear."

"Good-by," she said. "Dear, dear friend, good-by!"

She clung to my hand for some time. I think she was half inclined to ask me to take her away then; but presently she released my fingers.

"I shall see you soon," she said— "very soon!"

"Very soon!" I echoed as I went. I smiled as I walked along. She would come to my office the very next afternoon, I predicted, and I should keep her! I smiled and smiled at the thought. She was such a pretty creature!

I had no doubt that she would come to me, or that she would let me take her away; but a day was long to wait, and it seemed surer to take her that night. If I could meet her on her flight, when she was wild with fear, and saw her husband in every shadow— when she wan ted. a strong arm to protect her— she would fall readily into mine.

She would come with me more readily than to-morrow, when she had had time to think of other friends. She would not betray her husband to me, and she could not conceal her desire to escape from him. So she would probably say that she was flying from him because she loved me— and with my arm round her she would— and I would offer to put the seas between them. Yes, I must meet her on her flight.

I made sure that she was going that night. I will not bore you with details of my inquiries. They really were made very cleverly. I found that she was packing trunks, and gave out that she was called away to a sick cousin. She was going by the seven twenty-two.

She went by it; so did I. I lurked at the far end of the platform till I saw her. Then I got into the train. Twenty minutes after we had started I walked along the corridor.

I found her in a compartment, alone except for one man. He was her husband, and she was clinging to his hand! You may think I was mad to do what I did. Perhaps I was. God in heaven! Hadn't I cause to be?

But I could not have been mad, for I reasoned the whole business out in three seconds; constructed what had happened, just as it was told at the trial. She had not told him of my accusation, but had declared that her nerves were upset, and she would be ill if he didn't take her away that very night; and he had humored her, as he always did.

She believed him a thief, a cheat, and a murderer; believed that her own life was in danger from him. She denied that at the trial, but she lied! And she cared only to save him from me. She did not love me at all ; and she loved her husband. I did not think of that. It was the one flaw in a very clever plan!

There was an error in the charge that they made against me at the trial. I did not shoot at him, but at her. That was my second great mistake. She thought I should aim at him, and sprang in front of his great body. The bullet went exactly where the bright brown hair had been a moment before.

If I had wanted to shoot him, I could have done it before he was on me; but I tried to get round him to shoot her, and he had me down and twisted the revolver from my hand. My face was cut and bleeding, and he had dislocated my wrist; but she didn't think of me, only of him.

"He is mad," she cried to the people who gathered round. "He is mad! If he says things about my husband, don't believe them! Don't believe them!"

I jeered at her then.

"There is no one in the world who would be fool enough to believe such things of your husband, except you!"

"Oh!" she cried. "Oh, thank God! Thank God! It's not true!"

Then she fainted, and he caught her in his arms. I often picture her like that. It is how she will look when I have killed her.  Her hair had come loose. It looked so beautiful hanging down; her bright brown hair— when I have killed her I shall take a piece of it.

Do you know, I wavered in my intention of killing her even then, until the trial. She loved her husband; she had flirted heartlessly with me. They were crimes, but I wondered if they were quite unforgivable crimes. Heaven, I think, forgives a deal; and who was I to judge? Well, at the trial she committed the crime that is not to be forgiven here or here-after— the crime of hypocrisy. She pretended to plead for me.

"I was to blame," she said, with the tears running down her cheeks— she held them at call, as I have said. "I was so foolishly careless. I loved my husband, and I never dreamed of flirting; and I never thought that any one could think it of me.

"But I ought to have seen how he felt about me, and afterward I ought to have gone away. It was my thoughtlessness that led him to do this. He is a good man really— a kind, good man. He just went mad for a moment. I'm sure he wouldn't do it again. I do feel I am to blame; but I meant it for the best. I— I tried to be kind! "

"My dear lady," the judge said, as if he soothed a child, " I don't believe there is a person in the court who thinks badly of you!"

"Yes!" I shouted. "There is one!"

They regarded that as conclusive evidence of my insanity, I think. She deceived them all— all!— as she had once deceived me.

The jury added a rider to their finding. "We wish to record that we consider Mrs. Markham's conduct in the matter irreproachable."

My counsel added a crowning insult.

"It was my duty to my unfortunate client to put certain questions to Mrs. Markham," he said; "but I hope these cannot be construed as any reflection upon her. I entirely agree with the jury's rider, and consider that the fact that my client so misunderstood her kindness is a further proof that he was not responsible for his actions, and should not suffer any punishment other than detention in a comfortable asylum, where his friends are prepared to place him. I earnestly urge that the sentence may take that form."

I tried to reach him; but the warders were too strong for me. When I escape perhaps I shall kill him, too, but I shall not let private revenge interfere with my public duty. It is a painful duty, a very painful duty. She is such a pretty woman!

____________________

10: The Strange Case of Captain Gascoigne

L. T. Meade and Dr Clifford Halifax, M.D.

Strand Magazine, Sept 1895

[This story is based on the results of a series of investigations made in France with the modified virus of malignant disease. There is every reason to believe, from the experience gained, that in this direction lies the future cure of maladies of this nature.]

IT has for some time seemed to me that in the treatment of many diseases the immediate future holds a great secret in its hands. This secret is becoming more, day by day, an open one. I allude to the marvellous success which has already attended the treatment of disease by the elaboration and discovery of new forms of inoculation of serotheropic virus. The following story may serve as a proof of this theory of mine. One evening at my club I came across an old college chum; his name was Walter Lumsden. He had also entered the medical profession, and had a large country practice in Derbyshire. We were mutually glad to see each other, and after a few ordinary remarks Lumsden said, abruptly:—

"I was in a fume at missing my train this evening; but, now that I have met you, I cease to regret the circumstance. The fact is, I believe your advice will be valuable to me in connection with a case in which I am much interested."

"Come home with me, Lumsden," I replied to this; "I can easily put you up for the night, and we can talk over medical matters better by my fireside than here."

Lumsden stood still for a moment to think. He then decided to accept my offer, and half an hour later we had drawn up our chairs in front of the cheerful fire in my study, and were enjoying our pipes after some port. The night was a chilly one, in the latter end of November. The wind was roaring lustily outside, under such circumstances that the comforts of one's own home are fully appreciated.

"You have done a good thing with your life," said Lumsden, abruptly. "I often wish I had not married, and had settled in London— oh, yes, I have a large practice; but the whole thing is somewhat of a grind, and then one never comes across the foremost men of one's calling— in short, one always feels a little out of it. I used to be keen for recent discoveries, and all that sort of thing in my youth, now I have got somewhat into a jog-trot— the same old medicines— the same old treatments are resorted to, year in, year out; but, there, I have not come to talk of myself."

"You want to give me particulars with regard to a case?" I said.

"Yes, an anxious case, too— it puzzles me not a little."

"Have another pipe before you begin," I said.

"No, thanks; I don't want to smoke any more. Now, then, this is the story."

Lumsden had been leaning back in his chair taking things easy; he now bent forward, fixed me with two anxious eyes, and began to speak forcibly.

"The case, to put it briefly, is as follows," he said. "One of my best patients and staunchest friends in the parish of Wolverton is Sir Robert Gascoigne. He is a rich man; his people made their money in iron during the latter end of the last century. His great-grandfather bought a fine estate, which goes by the name of 'The Priory.' The old man strictly entailed the property, leaving it in every case to the eldest son of the house, and failing direct succession to a distant branch of the. family. The present baronet— Sir Robert (the title was accorded a couple of generations ago)— is between fifty and sixty years of age. His wife is dead. There is only one son— a captain in an infantry regiment. Captain Gascoigne is now thirty years of age, as fine-looking a fellow as you ever met. For many years the great wish of Sir Robert's heart has been to see his son married. Captain Gascoigne came home two years ago on sick leave from India; he recovered his health pretty quickly in his native land, and proposed to a young lady of the name of Lynwood— a girl of particularly good family in the neighbourhood. Miss Helen Lynwood is a very handsome girl, and in every way worthy to be Captain Gascoigne's wife. His father and hers were equally pleased with the engagement, and the young couple were devoted to each other. Captain Gascoigne had to return to India to join his regiment, which was expected to be ordered home this year. It was arranged that he should leave the Army on his return— that the wedding was to take place immediately, and the young people were to live at 'The Priory.' All preparations for the wedding were made, and exactly a fortnight after the captain's return the marriage was to be solemnized. All the reception-rooms at 'The Priory' were newly furnished, and general rejoicing was the order of the hour. Let me see: what day is this?"

"The twenty-fourth of November," I answered. "Why do you pause?"

"I thought as much," said Dr. Lumsden— "this was to have been the wedding day."

" Pray go on with your story," I said.

"It is nearly told. Gascoigne appeared on the scene looking well, but anxious. He had an interview with his father that night, and the next day went to London. He stayed away for a single night, came back the next day, and went straight to see Miss Lynwood, who lives with her father and mother at a place called Burnborough. Nobody knows what passed between the young couple, but the morning after a hurried message arrived for me to go up at once to see Sir Robert. I found the old baronet in a state of frightful agitation and excitement. He told me that the marriage was broken off― that his son absolutely refused to marry either Miss Lynwood or anyone else— that he would give no reasons for this determination beyond the fact that he did not consider his life a healthy one, and that no earthly consideration would induce him to become the father of children. The whole thing is a frightful blow to the old man, and the mystery of it is, that nothing will induce Captain Gascoigne even to hint at what is the matter with him. There is no hereditary disease in the family, and he does not look out of health. By Sir Robert's desire, I ventured to sound him on the subject. It seemed impossible to associate illness with him in any way. I begged of him to confide in me, but he refused. All I could get him to say was:—

" 'An inexorable fate hangs over me— by no possible means can I avert it. All I have to do is to meet it as a man.'

" 'Do you mean that your life is doomed?' I asked of him.

" ' Sooner or later it is,' he replied; ' but that is not the immediate or vital question. Nothing will induce me to hand on what I suffer to posterity. My father and Miss Lynwood both know my resolve.'

" 'But not your reason for it,' I answered.

" 'I prefer not to tell them that,' he replied, setting his lips firmly.

" 'Have you seen a doctor? Are you positive of the truth of your own statement ?' I ventured to inquire.

" 'I have seen one of the first doctors in London,' was the reply. 'Now, Lumsden,' he added, giving me a wintry sort of smile, 'even an old friend like you must not abuse your privileges. I refuse to answer another word.'

"He left me, and returned to 'The Priory.' This conversation took place yesterday morning. I saw Sir Robert later in the day. He is completely broken down, and looks like a very old man. It is not only his son's mysterious conduct which affects him so painfully, but every dream and ambition of his life have been bound up in the hope that he could hand on his name and property to his grandchildren. Captain Gascoigne's unaccountable attitude completely crushes that hope."

"Why do you tell me this story?" I asked, after a pause.

"Well, with the vain hope that you may perhaps help me to get a clue to the mystery. Gascoigne refuses to fulfil his engagement on the ground that he is not in a fit state of health to marry. He refuses to tell his ailment. By what means can I get him to speak?"

"There is no way of forcing his confidence," I replied. "It seems to me that it is simply a matter of tact."

"Which valuable quality I don't possess a grain of," replied Lumsden. " I wish the case were yours, Halifax; you'd soon worm the captain's secret out of him."

"Not at all," I answered; "I never force any man's confidence."

"You possess a talisman, however, which enables you to effect your purpose without force. The fact is, this is a serious matter— Gascoigne looks miserable enough to cut his throat, the old man is broken down, and the girl, they tell me, is absolutely prostrated with grief."

"Do you think by any chance Gascoigne has confided the true state of the case to her?" I inquired.

"I asked him that," said Lumsden— "he emphatically said he had not, that his determination was to carry his secret to the grave."

I sat silent, thinking over this queer case.

"Are you frightfully busy just now?" asked Lumsden, abruptly.

"Well, I am not idle," I answered.

"You could not possibly take a day off and come down to Derbyshire?"

"I cannot see your patients, Lumsden, unless they wish for my advice," I replied.

"Of course not, but I am on very friendly terms with Sir Robert. In fact, I dine at 'The Priory' every Sunday. Can you not come to Derbyshire with me to-morrow? As a matter of course, you would accompany me to 'The Priory.'"

"And act the detective?" I answered. "No, I fear it can't be done. If you can induce Captain Gascoigne to consult me I shall be very glad to give him my opinion. But I can't interfere in the case, except in the usual orthodox fashion."

Lumsden sighed somewhat impatiently, and did not pursue the subject any farther.

At an early hour the following morning he returned to Derbyshire, and I endeavoured to cast the subject of the Gascoignes from my mind. Captain Gascoigne's case interested me, however, and I could not help thinking of it at odd moments. The fact of the man refusing to marry did not surprise me, but his strange determination to keep his illness a secret, even from his medical man, puzzled me a good deal.

As I was not Gascoigne's doctor, however, there was nothing for it but to try and cast the matter from my mind. I did not know then that it was my fate to be mixed up in the affair to a remarkable degree.

On the following evening a telegram was put into my hand. I opened it and gave a start of surprise. It ran as follows:—

Sir Robert Gascoigne suffering from apoplexy. Wish to consult you. Come to 'The Priory ' by the first possible train.

— Lumsden.

Harris waited in the room while I read the telegram.

"The messenger is waiting, sir," he said.

I thought for a few moments, then took up my A. B. C, found a suitable train, and wrote a hasty reply.

With you by nine to-morrow morning.

The messenger departed, and I went to my room to pack a few things. I took the night train into Derbyshire, and arrived at Wolverton Station a little after eight o'clock the next morning. A carriage from 'The Priory ' was waiting for me, and I drove there at once. Lumsden met me just outside the house.

"Here you are," he said, coming up to me almost cheerily. "I can't say what a relief it is to see you."

"What about the patient?" I interrupted.

"I am glad to say he is no worse; on the contrary, there are one or two symptoms of returning consciousness."

"Why did you send for me?" I asked, abruptly.

"Well, you know, I wanted you here for more reasons than one. Yesterday Sir Robert's case seemed almost hopeless— Captain Gascoigne wished for further advice— I suggested your name— he knows you by repute, and asked me to send for you without delay."

"That is all right," I answered. "Shall I go with you now to see the patient?"

Dr. Lumsden turned at once, and I followed him into the house. The entrance-hall was very large and lofty, reaching up to the vaulted roof. A gallery ran round three sides of it, into which the principal bedrooms opened. The fourth side was occupied by a spacious and very beautiful marble staircase. This staircase of white marble was, I learned afterwards, one of the most remarkable features of the house. Sir Robert had gone to great expense in having it put up, and it was invariably pointed out with pride to visitors. The splendid staircase was carpeted with the thickest Axminster, and my feet sank into the heavy pile as I followed Lumsden upstairs. We entered a spacious bedroom. A fourpost bedstead had been pulled almost into the middle of the room— the curtains had been drawn back for more air; in the centre of the bed lay the old man in a state of complete unconsciousness— he was lying on his back breathing stertorously. I hastened to the bedside and bent over him. Before I began my examination, Lumsden touched me on the arm. I raised my eyes and encountered the fixed gaze of a tall man, who looked about five-and-thirty years of age. He had the unmistakable air and bearing of a soldier as he came forward to meet me. This, of course, was Captain Gascoigne.

"I am glad you have been able to come," he said. "I shall anxiously await your verdict after you have consulted with Lumsden."

He held out his hand as he spoke. I shook it. I saw him wince as if in sudden pain, but quick as lightning he controlled himself, and slowly left the room. The nurse now came forward to assist us in our examination. My patient's face was pallid, his eyes shut— his breath came fast and with effort. After a very careful examination I agreed with Lumsden that this attack, severe and dangerous as it was, was not to be fatal, and that in all probability before very long the old baronet would make the usual partial recovery in mild cases of hemiplegia. I made some suggestions with regard to the treatment, and left the room with Lumsden. We consulted together for a few minutes, and then went downstairs. Captain Gascoigne was waiting for us in the breakfast-room, a splendid apartment lined from ceiling to floor with finely carved oak.

"Well?" he said, when we entered the room. There was unmistakable solicitude in his tones.

"I take a favourable view of your father's condition," I replied, cheerily. "The attack is a somewhat severe one, but sensation is not completely lost, and he has some power in the paralyzed side. I am convinced from the present state of the case that there is no progressive hemorrhage going on. In short, in all probability Sir Robert will regain consciousness in the course of the day."

"Then the danger is past?" said the captain, with a quick, short sigh of relief.

"If our prognosis is correct," I replied, "the danger is past for the time being."

"What do you mean by 'the time being'?"

"Why, this," I replied, abruptly, and looking full at him. "In a case like the present, the blood centres are peculiarly susceptible to dilatation. Being diseased, they are soon affected by any change in the circulation— a slight shock of any kind may lead to more hemorrhage, which means a second attack of apoplexy. It will, therefore, be necessary to do everything in the future to keep Sir Robert Gascoigne's mind and body in a state of quietude."

"Yes, yes, that goes without saying," answered the son, with enforced calm. "Now, come to breakfast, doctor; you must want something badly."

As he spoke, he approached a well-filled board, and began to offer us hospitality in a very hearty manner. My account of his father had evidently relieved him a good deal, and his spirits rose as he ate and talked.

At Lumsden's earnest request I decided not to return to London that day, and Captain Gascoigne asked me to drive with him. I accepted with pleasure; my interest in the fine, soldierly fellow increased each moment. He went off to order the trap, and Lumsden turned eagerly to me.

"I look upon your arrival as a godsend," he exclaimed. "The opportunity which I have sought for has arrived. It has come about in the most natural manner possible. I am sincerely attached to my old patient, Sir Robert Gascoigne, and still more so, if possible, to his son, whom I have known for many years. Of course, it goes without saying what is the primary cause of the old baronet's attack. Perhaps you can see your way to induce Captain Gascoigne to confide in you. If so, don't lose the opportunity, I beg of you."

"I am extremely unlikely to have such an opportunity," I replied. " You must not build up false hopes, Lumsden. If Captain Gascoigne likes to speak to me of his own free will, I shall be only too glad to listen to him, but in my present position I cannot possibly lead the way to a medical conference."

Lumsden sighed impatiently.

"Well, well," he said, "it seems a pity. The chance has most unexpectedly arrived, and you might find yourself in a position to solve a secret which worries me day and night, and has almost sent Sir Robert Gascoigne to his grave. I can, of course, say nothing farther, but before I hurry away to my patients, just tell me what you think of the captain."

"As fine a man as I have ever met," I replied, with enthusiasm.

"Bless you, I don't mean his character; what do you think of his health?"

"I do not see much amiss with him, except―"

"Why do you make an exception?" interrupted Lumsden. "I have, metaphorically speaking, used magnifying glasses to search into his complaint, and can't get the most remote trace of it."

"I notice that his right hand is swollen," I answered; "I further observe that he winces when it is touched."

"Well, I never saw it," answered Lumsden. "What sharp eyes you have. The swollen state of the hand probably points to rheumatism."

"Possibly," I replied.

At that moment Captain Gascoigne returned to us. His dog-cart was at the door; we mounted, and were soon spinning over the ground at a fine rate. The mare the captain drove was a little too fresh, however; as we were going down hill, she became decidedly difficult to handle. We were driving under a railway-bridge, when a train suddenly went overhead, rushing past us with a crashing roar. The mare, already nervous, lost her head at this juncture, and with a quick plunge, first to one side and then forward, bolted. I noticed at that moment that Gascoigne was losing his nerve— he turned to me and spoke abruptly.

"For goodness sake, take the reins, " he said. I did so, and being an old hand, for in ray youth it had been one of my favourite amusements to break-in horses, soon reduced the restive animal to order. I turned then to glance at the captain— his face was as white as a sheet— he took out his handkerchief and wiped some moisture from his forehead.

"It is this confounded hand," he said.

"Thank you, doctor, for coming to my aid at a pinch— the brute knew that I could not control her— it is wonderful what a system of telegraphy exists between a horse and its driver; in short, she completely lost her head."

"I notice that your hand is swollen,"

I answered. "Does it hurt you? Do you suffer from rheumatism?"

"This hand looks like rheumatism or gout, or something of that sort, does it not?" he retorted. "Yes, I have had some sharp twinges— never mind now— it is all right again. I will take the reins once more, if you have no objection."

"If your hand hurts you, shall not drive?"

"No, no, my hand is all right now."

He took the reins, and we drove forward without further parley.

THE COUNTRY through which we went was beautiful, and winter as it was, the exhilarating air and the grand shape of the land made the drive extremely pleasant.

"It is your honest conviction that my father will recover from his present attack?" said Captain Gascoigne, suddenly.

"It is," I replied.

"That is a relief. I could not
leave the old man in danger, and yet it is necessary for me soon to join my regiment."

"Your father will probably be himself in the course of a few weeks," I replied. "It is essential to avoid all shocks in the future. I need not tell you that an attack of apoplexy is a very grave matter— that a man once affected by it is extremely subject to a recurrence; that such a recurrence is fraught with danger to life."

"You think, in short," continued Captain Gascoigne, "that a further shock would kill Sir Robert?"

"Yes, he must on no account be subjected to worry or any mental disquietude."

I looked at the man at my side as I spoke. He was sitting well upright, driving with vigour. His face expressed no more emotion than if it were cast in iron. Something, however, made him pull up abruptly, and I saw a dark flush mount swiftly to his cheek. A girl was coming down the road to meet us; she was accompanied by a couple of fox-terriers. When she saw us she came eagerly forward.

"Take the reins, will you, doctor?" said Captain Gascoigne.

He sprang from the cart and went to meet the young lady. I guessed at once that she must be Miss Lynwood. She was a very slight, tall girl, with a quick, eager expression of face. Her eyes were dark and brilliant; the expression of her mouth was sweet but firm; her bearing was somewhat proud. I was too far away ,to hear what she said. Captain Gascoigne's interview with her was extremely brief. She turned to walk in the opposite direction; he remounted the dog-cart and suggested that we should go home. During our drive back he hardly spoke. When we reached "The Priory" I went at once to visit my patient, and did not see much of the captain for the remainder of the day.

The sick man was making favourable progress, but I thought it well not to leave him until the following morning. Towards evening, as I was standing by the bedside, I was surprised to see Sir Robert suddenly open his eyes and fix them upon my face. Lumsden and Captain Gascoigne were both in the room. The old man looked quickly from me to them. When he saw his son a queer mixture of anxiety and satisfaction crept into his face.

"Dick, come here," he said, in a feeble voice.

Captain Gascoigne went immediately to the bedside and bent over his father.

"What's up, Dick? Who is that?" He glanced in my direction.

"I have come here to help to make you better," I said, taking the initiative at once. "I am a doctor, and your old friend Lumsden wished to consult me about you. I am glad to say you are on the mend, but you must stay very quiet, and not excite yourself in any way."

"No, no. I understand," said Sir Robert. "I have been very bad, I suppose? You have done it, Dick, you know you have."

"Pray rest, father, now," said the son; "don't think of any worries at present."

"Tut, boy, I can't rest— I'm a disappointed man, Dick— I'm a failure— this is a fine place, and it will go to the dogs— it is all your fault, Dick, and you know it. If you want to help me, you will do what I wish— get Helen here and have the marriage solemnized as quickly as possible. Oh, I know what I am saying, and I won't be silenced— there needn't be a fuss— everything is ready— the rooms furnished— the place in order. You can be married by special license— you know you can, Dick. I sha'n't rest in my grave until this thing is set right. You get Helen here and have the wedding by special license, yes, yes. There'll be no rest for me, Dick, until I know that you and Helen are— yes— that you and Helen are man and wife."

"Stay quiet, sir; stay quiet, I beg of you," said Captain Gascoigne, in a voice of distress.

"I can't while, you are so obstinate— do you mean to do what I wish?"

The old man's tone was very testy. "I will talk the matter over with you presently," was the reply; "not now— presently, when you are stronger."

There was something in the captain's voice which was the reverse of soothing. An irritable frown came between the patient's eyes, and a swift wave of suspicious red dyed his forehead.

"I must ask you to leave the room," I whispered to the younger man.

He did so, his shoulders somewhat bent, and a look of pain on his face.

"Has Dick gone for the license?" said Sir Robert, looking at Lumsden, and evidently beginning to wander in his mind.

Lumsden bent suddenly forward. "Everything shall be done as you wish, Sir Robert," he said. " Only remember that we can have no wedding until you are well— now go to sleep."

I motioned to the nurse to administer a soothing draught, and sat down by the bed to watch the effect. After a time the patient sank into troubled sleep. His excitement and partial delirium, however, were the reverse of reassuring, and I felt much more anxiety about him than I cared to show when I presently went downstairs to dinner.

"There is no immediate danger," I said to Captain Gascoigne, "but your father has evidently set his heart on something. He has a fixed idea— so fixed and persistent that his mind will turn to nothing else. Is it not possible," I continued, abruptly, " to give him relief?"

"In short, to do as he wishes?" said Captain Gascoigne.  "No, that is impossible. The subject can't even be talked over," he continued. "Now, gentlemen," he added, looking from Dr. Lumsden to me, "I think dinner is ready."

We went into the dining-room, and seated ourselves at the table. A huge log fire burned in the grate. The massively-furnished room looked the picture of winter comfort; nevertheless, I don't think any of us had much appetite— there was a sense of tragedy even in the very air. After dinner, as we were sitting over wine, Dr. Lumsden's conversation and mine turned upon medical matters; Captain Gascoigne, who had been silent and depressed during the meal, took up a copy of the Times and began to read. Dr. Lumsden asked me one or two questions with regard to recent discoveries in preventive medicines. We touched lightly on many subjects of interest to medical men like ourselves, and I did not suppose for a moment that Captain Gascoigne listened to a word of our conversation. He rose presently, and told us that he was going to find out how his father was now. When he returned to the room, I was telling Lumsden of one or two interesting cases which I had lately come across in my hospital practice.

"I am certain," I said, "that inoculation with attenuated virus is to be the future treatment of many of our greatest diseases."

Captain Gascoigne had come half across the room. When I said these words he stood as motionless as if something had turned him into stone. I raised my head, and our eyes suddenly met. I observed a startled, interested expression on his face. Quick as lightning an idea came to me. I turned my eyes away and continued, with vigour:—

"Such inoculation is, without doubt, the future treatment for consumption. Even granted that Dr. Koch's theory has failed, there is every reason to hope that in that direction the real cure lies. The new anti-toxin treatment for diphtheria proves the same thing; even now there are not unknown cases where certain forms of cancer have been completely eradicated— in short, the poison eliminated from the body by means of inoculation."

"We medical men accept such theories very slowly," said Dr. Lumsden. "It will be many years before we can confidently employ them."

"Why not, if by so doing you can cure disease?" said Captain Gascoigne, abruptly.

We both looked at him when he spoke.

"Why not, if you can cure disease?" he repeated.

"Why not?" repeated Dr. Lumsden— " because we doctors dare not run risks. Why, sir, we should be responsible for the deaths of our patients if we attempted to use means of cure which were not proven, in short, established by long precedent."

"Well, gentlemen," he said, "I can't attempt to argue with you. It is my firm belief, however, that the general run of medical practitioners are over-cautious. I allude, of course, to cases which are supposed under the ordinary treatment to be hopeless. Surely if the patient wishes to try the chance of a comparatively immature discovery, it is allowable for him to do so?"

"Such a case is uncommon," I replied; "as a rule, the sick man prefers to go upon the beaten track— in other words, does not trouble himself about the treatment of his disease, leaving it entirely to his doctor―"

"How have you found the patient, captain?" interrupted Dr. Lumsden.

"Asleep, but restless— the nurse thinks there is an increase of fever."

"I will go and see for myself," I said, rising.

My conversation with Lumsden was broken up, and was not again resumed. We both spent an anxious night with the patient, whose case was the reverse of satisfactory. As the hours flew on, the restless wanderings of mind seemed to increase rather than diminish. The fixed idea of an immediate marriage for his son was again and again alluded to by the sick man. He was restless when Captain Gascoigne went out of the room. When he was present he was even more restless, calling him to his side many times, and asking him in strained, irritable tones if the special license had been applied for, and if Helen— as he called her— was in the house.

Towards morning the delirious and excited state of the patient became so alarming that I felt certain that if nothing were done to relieve him, fresh hemorrhage of the brain would set in. I went out of the room, motioning Captain Gascoigne to follow me.

"I fear," I said, "that the evident anxiety from which your father is suffering is acting prejudicially. In short, unless something can be done to relieve him, I must modify the favourable opinion which I have already given you of his case. Unless his mind is immediately relieved, he may have another attack before many hours have gone by. Such an attack will be, in all probability, fatal."

I looked hard at the captain as I spoke. He had folded his arms, and stood very erect facing me.

"What do you propose?" he said, abruptly.

"You have evidently given him distress," I said. "Can you not reconsider the position?"

He gave a short, irritable laugh. "Good heavens, doctor," he exclaimed, "don't you suppose I am man enough to accede to my father's wish, if it were possible? Can you not see for yourself that the present state of affairs is agony to me?"

"I am certain of it," I replied.  I must not urge you further. The fact is, Lumsden has told me something of your story. Only a very grave cause would make you refuse to fulfil your engagement with Miss Lynwood."

"You are right. The cause is very grave."

"You can't tell me what it is? It is possible that I might be able to counsel you."

"Thanks; but I am past counsel— the end is inevitable— unless, indeed— but, no— I must not bring myself to entertain hope. The person now to be considered is my father. You say, doctor, that if his wish in this matter is not gratified, he will die?"

"It seems extremely like it," I said. "He has evidently set his heart on your marriage— in his present diseased state the longing to see you married has become a mania."

"There is nothing whatever for me to do then," he said, "but to lie to him."

"I would scarcely do that," I exclaimed. " Yes you would, if you were me. I must pledge myself; he must be saved. Not another word— my mind is made up."

He left me before I could expostulate further, and returned to the sick room. The old man's arms were flung out over the bed-clothes— he was muttering to himself and pulling feebly at the sheets.

Captain Gascoigne went and sat down by the bed— he laid one of his hands on his father's, holding it firmly down.

"Listen to me," he said, in a low voice. "I have reconsidered everything. I alter my determination not to marry. I swear now, before Heaven, that if I live I will marry Helen Lynwood."

"Do you mean it, Dick?" said Sir Robert.

"On my honour, yes, father; I have spoken."

"Good boy— good boy; this is a relief. That queer scruple about your health is laid to rest, then?"

"Quite, father. If I live, Helen shall be my wife;"

"You never told me a lie yet, Dick— you are speaking the truth now?"

"On my honour," said the soldier. He looked his father full in the eyes. The sick man gave a pleased smile and patted his son's hand.

"I believe you, Dick," he said; "I am quite satisfied— when can the marriage take place?"

"We need not fix a date to-night, need we?"

"No, no; I trust you, Dick."

"Perhaps, sir, you will try and sleep now— your mind being at rest."

"Yes, my mind is quite at rest," said the baronet— "Dick never told me a lie in his life— thank the Almighty for His goodness, I shall live to see my grandchildren about the old place— yes, I am sleepy— I don't want a composing draught— keep at my side, Dick, until I drop off. We'll have Helen here early in the morning— how happy she will be, poor little girl— I should like to see Helen as soon as I awake."

The patient kept on mumbling in a contented, soothed voice— all trace of irritation had left his voice and manner. In less than half an hour he was sound asleep. He slept well during the night, and in the morning was decidedly better— the anxious symptoms had abated, and I had every hope of his making a quick recovery.

One of his first inquiries was for Miss Lynwood.

"I am going to fetch her," said the captain.

I saw him drive off in the dog-cart. In about an hour and a half he returned with the young lady. I was standing by the patient's side when she came in. She was dressed in furs, and wore a small fur cap over her bright hair. The drive had brought a fresh colour to her cheeks— her eyes sparkled. She entered the room in the alert way which I had observed about her when I saw her for a moment on the previous day. She went straight up to the sick man and knelt down by his side.

"Well, dad," she said, "you see, it is all right."

I marvelled at her tone— it was brisk and full of joy. Had Captain Gascoigne told her the truth? Or had he, by any chance, tried to deceive this beautiful girl, in order more effectually to aid his father's recovery? Watching her more closely, however, I saw that she was brave enough to play a difficult part.

"Yes, Helen, it is all right," said the baronet. "Dick is well, and has come to his senses. That illness of his turned out to be a false alarm— he had an attack of nerves, nothing more. We'll have a gay wedding in a few days, little girl."

"You must get well," she answered, patting his cheek. "Remember, nothing can be done until you are well."

"Bless you, child, I shall be well fast enough. Your face and Dick's would make any man well. Where is that nurse? Why doesn't she bring me food— I declare I'm as hungry as a hawk. Ah, doctor, you there?" continued the baronet, raising his eyes, and fixing them on my face. " Remember, you didn't cure me. It was Dick's doing, not yours. Dick, bless him, has set the old man right."

I left the room abruptly. Captain Gascoigne met me on the landing.

"You play your part well," I said; "but what about the denouement?"

"I have considered everything," said the captain. "I shall keep my word. If I live I will marry."

I looked at him in astonishment. A glance showed me that he did not mean to confide further in me then, and I soon afterwards returned to town. Lumsden promised to write to report the patient's progress; and, much puzzled as to the ultimate issue of this queer story, I resumed my town work. I arrived in London early in the afternoon, and went immediately to visit some patients. When I returned to my own house it was dinner-time. The first person I met in the hall was Captain Gascoigne.

"Have you bad news?" I cried, in astonishment. "Is there a change for the worse?"

"No, no, nothing of the sort," was the reply. "My father mends rapidly. The fact is, I have come to see you on my own account. In short, I have made up my mind to consult you."

"I am right glad to hear it," I answered, heartily. "You must join me at dinner now, and afterwards we will go carefully into your case."

"I am anxious to catch the night mail back to Wolverton," said the captain; "but, doubtless, you can spare an hour to me after dinner, and that, I am sure, will be quite sufficient."

During the meal which followed, Captain Gascoigne was silent and distrait. I did not interrupt him with many remarks, but as soon as it was over we went straight to the point.

"Now," he said, "I will tell you what is up. I had made up my mind to carry my secret to the grave. The strange state of affairs at 'The Priory,' however, has induced me to break this resolve. I have a double reason for confiding in you, Dr. Halifax. First, because of what occurred last night— second, in consequence of some words which you let drop in conversation with Dr. Lumsden. These words seemed very strange to me at the time, but the more I think over them, the more anxious I am to talk further with you on the subject. In short, they have inspired me with the ghost of a hope."

"What is the matter with you?" I said, abruptly. "What is your malady?"

The captain had been seated— he now stood up.

"Help me off with this coat, doctor, if you will," he said.

I removed it carefully, but notwithstanding all my precautions I saw him wince as I touched his right arm.

"You notice this hand," he said, holding out his right hand as he spoke; "you noticed it the other day when I was driving?"

"Yes," I replied; "it is much swollen."

"It is. That could be set down to gout or rheumatism, could it not?"

"It could," I answered; "it has, doubtless, another cause."

"It has, Dr. Halifax. You shall examine my terrible disease for yourself— but first let me tell you what ails me."

He leant against the mantelpiece as he spoke— his face was very white. One or two beads of perspiration stood prominently out on his forehead. When he began to speak he looked straight at me with a frown between his eyes.

"God knows I never meant to whine about this to anyone," he said; "I meant to take it as a man— it was the state of the old governor and Helen's grief and her wonderful bravery that upset me. Well, here's the case. You must know that my mother died of cancer— the thing was hushed up, but the fact remains — she suffered horribly. I recollect her last days even now. I was a small boy at the time. The dread of cancer— of having inherited such a fearful disease— has haunted me more or less all my life. Two or three years ago in India I had a bad fall from my horse. I came down with great weight on my right shoulder. The stiffness and soreness remained for some time, and then they passed away. A year later the stiffness and soreness began to return— my shoulder-bone began to thicken— I could only move it with difficulty. I consulted some doctors, who set down the whole affection to rheumatism, and gave me ordinary liniments. The pain did not abate, but grew worse. The shoulder began to swell and soon afterwards the arm, right down, as you see, to my finger-tips. These painful symptoms set in about six months ago. I was expected home, and all the arrangements for my wedding were complete. I was seized, however, with forebodings. As soon as ever I landed in England, I went to see the well-known specialist for tumours, Sir John Parkes. He was not long in giving his verdict. It was concisive and conclusive. He said I was suffering from osteosarcoma of the shoulder— that the disease was advanced, that the removal of the entire arm and shoulder-bone might save my life, but the disease was in such a position involving the bones of the shoulder girdle, and having already invaded the glands, that the probabilities were almost certain that it would return. I had a bad quarter of an hour with the surgeon. I went away, spent the night in town, and quickly made up my mind how to act. I would break off my engagement and go from home to die. I shrank inexpressibly from my father or Miss Lynwood knowing the exact nature of my sufferings. It would be necessary to tell them that the state of my health forbade matrimony, but I firmly resolved that they should never know by what horrible disease I was to die. That is the case in brief, doctor."

"May I look at your shoulder?" I said.

I carefully removed the shirt and looked at the swollen and glazed arm and shoulder. There was little doubt of the accuracy of the great Sir John Parkes's diagnosis.

"Sit down," I said; " from my heart I am sorry for you. Do you suffer much?"

"At times a good deal— the effort to keep back even the expression of pain is sometimes difficult; for instance, in driving the other day— but, ah, you noticed?"

"I did— I saw that you winced— little wonder. Upon my word, Captain Gascoigne, you are a hero."

"Not that," he answered. "In some ways I am a coward. This thing humiliates me as well as tortures me. I have had the instincts of the animal ever since I knew the worst; my wish has been to creep away and die alone. After what occurred last night, however, matters have changed."

"What do you mean?" I said.

"Can you not see for yourself what I mean? In a moment of extremity, I promised my father that I would marry Helen Lynwood, if I lived. You see for yourself that nothing will save me from the consequences of that promise except death."

"Still, I don't understand you," I answered.

"I can soon make myself plain. Do you remember what you said to Lumsden about an immature discovery— a discovery which has been known to cure diseases such as mine? You both spoke of this discovery as in its infancy— never mind, I want you to try it on me."

"My dear fellow, you must be mad."

"Not at all; this is my last chance. It is due both to Helen and my father that I should take advantage of it. In a case like mine a man will submit to anything. In short, I have quite made up my mind. Whatever the risk, I am willing to run it. The treatment may kill me; if so, I am willing to die. On the other hand, there is an off chance that it may cure me— then I can marry Helen. There is not an hour to lose, doctor. When can you operate?"

"You astonish me more than I can say," I answered. "I almost wish you had never overheard my remarks to Lumsden. I only talked over the new treatment with him as one medical man would mention a possible discovery to another."

"But you believe in it?"

"I do believe in its ultimate success."

"It has been tried, has it not?"

"In France, yes."

"And with success?"

"I am given to understand that there has been success."

"That is all right— you will try it on me?"

"My dear fellow, I am inclined to say that you ask the impossible."

"Don't say that— in my extreme case, nothing is impossible; think the matter over, Dr. Halifax. Try and picture the horrible dilemma I am in. I am suffering from an incurable complaint— I have the prospect before me, at no very distant date, of a terrible and painful death. I am my father's only son— the property goes from the direct line if I die. In order to save my father's life I promised him to marry if I lived. There is, therefore, no thought for me of a prolonged life of ill-health. I must either get well quickly or I must die. Surely a desperate man may risk anything. The treatment which I beg of you to adopt is kill or cure, is it not? Then kill or cure me."

"The treatment which you beg me to adopt," I repeated, quoting his words, "is undoubtedly death from blood poisoning, if it does not effect its end of killing your disease, not you."

"I am willing to take the risk— anything is better than the present awful state of suspense."

"Does Miss Lynwood know of this?"

"She does— God bless her ! I shrank from telling her the truth— I did not know what mettle she was made of. This morning, in my despair, I confided everything to her. You don't know what stuff she has in her. She bore the whole awful truth without wincing. She said she was with me in the whole matter— it is as much at her instigation as my own desire that I now consult you. We have both resolved to be true to my father, and to keep the promise wrung from me last night by his desperate state. If I live we will marry. You see for yourself that it must be a case of kill or cure, for I cannot run the risk of bringing children into the world in my present terrible state of health. You see the situation, do you not? My father is recovering, because his mind is relieved. Everything, in short, now depends on you. Will you, or will you not, help me?"

"I ought to say 'no,' " I answered. "I ought to tell you frankly that this is not a case for me— I ought, perhaps, to counsel you to put yourself into the hands of one of those French doctors who have already made this matter a special study— but―"

"But you won't," said Captain Cascoigne— "I see by your manner that you will give me the advantage of your skill and knowledge— your kindness and sympathy. On the next few weeks the whole future of three people depends. The thing will be easier both for Helen and myself, if you will be our friend in the matter."

"Can you come again in the morning?" I said. "I must think this over— I must make up my mind how to act."

"You will give me a definite answer in the morning?"

"I will."

Captain Gascoigne rose slowly— I helped him into his coat, and he left the room.

As soon as he was gone, I went to see a very able surgeon, who was a special friend of mine. I described the whole case to him— gave him in brief Sir John Parkes's verdict, and then asked his opinion with regard to the other treatment.

"It is a case of life or death," I said. "Under ordinary circumstances, nothing could save Captain Gascoigne's life— he is anxious to run the risk."

"As I see it, there is no risk," replied my friend.

"What do you mean?"

"The man will die if it is not tried."

"That is true."

"Then my opinion is— give him a chance."

"I agree with you," I said, rising to my feet. " I know you have studied these matters more carefully than I have. I will go to Paris to-morrow, and make all necessary inquiries."

In the morning, when Captain Gascoigne arrived, I told him the result of my interview with Courtland.

"In short," I said, "I am prepared to treat you by this new method, provided my investigations in Paris turn out satisfactory. I shall go to Paris by the night mail, returning again the following night. Let me see— this is Thursday morning. Be here by ten o'clock on Saturday morning, and I shall have further news for you."

"I have no words to thank you," he said. "I am going back to Derbyshire now to see Helen, and to tell her what you have done."

"You must not build absolute hopes on anything until after I have seen the doctors in Paris."

"I will not."

He smiled as he spoke. Poor fellow, I saw hope already returning to his eyes.

I went to Paris— my investigations turned out satisfactory. I saw one of the leading doctors of the new school, and talked over the anti-toxin system in all its bearings. His remarks were full of encouragement— he considered serotherapie as undoubtedly the future treatment for cancer— three cases of remarkable cure were already on record. He furnished me with some of the attenuated virus, and, in short, begged of me to lose no time in operating on my patient. Having obtained the necessary instructions and the attenuated virus, I returned to London, and prepared to carry out this new and most interesting cure. Captain Gascoigne arrived punctually to the moment on Saturday morning. I told him what I had done, and asked him to secure comfortable lodgings in Harley Street, as near my house as possible. He did so, and came back that evening to tell me of the result.

"To-morrow will be Sunday," I said. "I propose to begin the new treatment to-morrow morning. I shall inoculate you with the virus three times a day."

"How long will it be before the result is known?" he asked.

"I shall very soon be able to tell whether the new treatment acts as direct blood poison or not," I answered. " Your business now is to keep cheerful— to hope for the best— and to turn your thoughts away from yourself as much as possible. By the way, how is Sir Robert?"

"Getting on famously— he thinks that I have come up to town to make preparations for my wedding."

"Let him think so— I begin to hope that we shall have that wedding yet. And how is Miss Lynwood?"

"Well, and full of cheer— she has great faith— she believes in you and also in the new remedy."

"Well, Captain Gascoigne, if this succeeds, you will not only have saved your own life and that of your father, but will have added a valuable and important contribution to modern science."

He smiled when I said this, and shortly afterwards left me.

I began a series of inoculations the following morning. I introduced the attenuated virus into the shoulder— inoculating small doses three times a day. The patient required most careful watching, and I secured the attendance of my most trustworthy nurses for him. His temperature had to be taken at short intervals, and his general health closely attended to. The first day there was no reaction— on the second, the temperature rose slowly— the pulse quickened — the patient was undoubtedly feverish. I inoculated smaller doses of the virus, and these unfavourable symptoms quickly subsided.

In a week's time the treatment began to tell upon the arm— the pain and swelling became less, the arm could be moved with greater freedom, the hand became comparatively well. Captain Gascoigne appeared in every other respect to be in his usual health— he ate well, slept well, and was full of hope. I began to introduce larger doses, which he now bore without serious reaction of any kind. I had begged of Courtland to help me in the case, and he and I made interesting and important notes evening after evening.

From what I had learned from the French doctors, I expected the cure, if successful, to take about forty days. On the twentieth day the patient suffered from great depression— he suddenly lost hope, becoming nervous and irritable. He apprehended the worst— watched his own symptoms far too closely, and lost both appetite and sleep. His conviction at that time was that the cure would not avail, and that death must be the result.

"This inaction kills me," he said; "I would gladly face the cannon's mouth, but I cannot endure the slow torture of this suspense. I told you that in some respects I am a coward— I am proving myself one."

During these anxious few days all my arguments proved unavailing— Captain Gascoigne lost such hope that for a time he almost refused to allow the treatment to be continued. I watched over him, and thought of him day and night. I almost wondered if it might be best to send for Miss Lynwood, and one day suggested this expedient to the patient.

He started in irritation to his feet.

"Do you think I would allow the girl I love to see me in this condition?" he said. "No, no, I will fight it out alone. You said it would, be kill or cure. I hope, doctor, that I shall face the worst as a soldier should."

"But the worst is not here," I answered. "If you would but pluck up heart, you would do splendidly. The cure is going well; there is every reason to hope that within three weeks' time you will be as well as ever you were in your life."

"Do you mean it?" he said, his face changing.

"I do— if you will but conquer your own apprehensions."

He looked at me. The colour dyed his forehead. He abruptly left the room.

My words, however, had turned the tide. In the evening he was more hopeful, and from that time his spirits rose daily.

"The chance of cure is excellent," I said to him one morning.

"The wedding can soon take place," was my remark a week later.

At last a day came when there was no tumour to treat. The arm and shoulder were once more quite well, nothing appeared of the disease but a comparatively harmless induration. I injected large doses now of the virus without the slightest reaction of any sort.

One morning Captain Gascoigne came early to see me.

"I saw a look on your face last night which told me something," he said.

"What?" I asked.

"That I am cured!"

"You are," I said.

"Quite, doctor?" he asked. "Is the poison quite eliminated from my system?"

"Wonderful as it is to relate, I believe that this is the case," I replied.

"Then I may safely marry?"

"You may."

"My children, if I have any, have no chance of inheriting the horrors which I have gone through?"

"It is my belief that the hereditary taint is completely eliminated," I answered.

"Good," he replied.

He walked abruptly to the window, and looked out. Suddenly he turned and faced me. "My father is an old man," he said. "The illness through which he has passed will probably leave its sting as long as he lives."

"Probably," I answered.

"Then I have made up my mind. He must never know the storm through which I have passed. I promised him, when he was apparently dying, that I would marry Helen if I lived. Helen tells me that my mysterious absence from home during the last six weeks has puzzled and irritated him much. He has even threatened to come to town to look for me. I mean to put this suspense at an end in the quickest possible manner. I shall immediately get a special license— Helen will come to town if I telegraph to her. We can be married to-morrow morning. Will you attend us through the ceremony, doctor, and so see the thing out? We can then return to 'The Priory' and set the old man's fears at rest for ever. Will you come, doctor? You owe it to us, I think."

I promised— and kept my word.

____________________

11: The Victim of Amnesia

Arthur Somers Roche

1883-1935

The Elks Magazine Sept 1923

THE Sergeant peered over the tops of his steel-rimmed spectacles. He twirled the huge blotter around on the slanting desk before him, and dipped his pen in the inkwell.

"And here I was thinkin' to meself that the dove of peace was roosting— do doves roost, Officer McCarthy? Or do they perch? You don't know. Well, God forgive me for being soft-minded enough to think that a harness bull would know anything about ornithology! Ah, do not blush, Officer McCarthy. Your ignorance is in no way remarkable. It is me own knowledge of science and mythology that's remarkable. Me, a student and scholar, ordered by Fate to put down arson and riots and other breaches of the peace, when I should be hold presidency of a university. Well, roost or perch, the dove has flown away. Here it is midnight, and I was congratulating myself because not an arrest had been made in this precinct. 'Tis the millennium, I was telling myself. And then you come in here with this evil-looking person faith in human nature and the efficacy of good example, as instanced by meself, and the value of brute force, as exemplified by you."

His bushy eyebrows drew together in a portentous frown, which could not, how ever, entirely hide the good humor in his blue eyes.

"What's the charge against the prisoner?" he asked.

Officer McCarthy grinned.

"There ain't none, Sergeant Ryan."

"Ah, the gentleman dropped in for a little social relaxation? Or is he here to make complaint against some one else? Introduce us, Officer McCarthy."

"That's just it." said the policeman. "He don't know who he is."

Sergeant Ryan adjusted his glasses. He shifted in his chair in order that he might get a better view of McCarthy's companion.

He saw a well-built man of medium height, with extremely keen gray eyes. They were deep-set below a well-shaped forehead above which grew black hair that was as straight as an Indian's. Indeed, the sharp-edged, high-bridged nose, and the high cheek-bone, bore out the impression that here was some one in whose veins ran the blood of the American aborigines. His mouth, though wide enough for good humor, was thin lipped. His chin was bony and aggressive. And his skin had that leathery look which comes to those who live and labor out-of-doors.

But his clothing seemed to have nothing to do with the plains or hills from which he might reasonably have been assumed to come. For an expert tailor had cut the blue flannel lounge suit which he wore; an English tailor, Sergeant Ryan decided. And the slightly brogued low tan shoes could have come from the British Isles. The hat which swung from his hand was a gray felt of delicate and expensive texture. His scarf was a golden brown, and beneath it Ryan could see a shirt of soft fine linen.

The sergeant added the face and the clothing together and reached the sum:  "wealthy sportsman English."

"So you don't know your name?" he said wonderingly.

The stranger laughed embarrassedly.

"Sounds jolly rot, doesn't it?"

Sergeant Ryan mentally complimented his own shrewdness. He had guessed the man's nationality correctly, for his accent was indisputably British.

"Well, it does seem strange for a young fellow in the pink of condition, like you seem to be, to forget who he is. You talk like an Englishman. I don't know how it is in dear old Lunnon, but it ain't exactly healthy to spoof the police over here. Not in my precinct, anyway. So, just out of the kindness of my great big generous heart, I'm telling you that if you came here for a laugh you picked the wrong spot."

The stranger smiled deprecatingly. "If there's any laugh in this, it's on me, not you. I assure you, I never felt less like laughing in my life."

Sergeant Ryan stared at him. But this was not the impertinence or the brazenness of the practical joker; it was the ingenuous frankness of a bewildered man. Indeed, there was more than bewilderment in the stranger's manner: there was a hint of fear.

Sergeant Ryan's sympathetic heart softened.

"Well, it's a tough position you're in, young man," he said. "It'd give me the willies."

The stranger wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. Sergeant Ryan noted that it was of expensive linen.

"It makes me feel a little ga-ga," said the young man.

" 'Ga-ga'? Now, that's a new one on me. Does it mean the willies?"

The stranger smiled. "Something like that, I imagine."

"Well, I don't blame you," said the sergeant. But suppose you tell me the whole story."

The stranger shrugged his well-knit shoulders.

"There's very little to tell. I suddenly found myself walking on a broad avenue along the edge of a park. I didn't know how I got there, where it was, or who I was." He smiled rather winningly.

"It's a dreadful sensation."

"I believe you," declared the sergeant with emphasis. "You don't suppose you'd been drinking a little boot-leg liquor? It does strange things to people, you know."

"Now, that's a funny thing," replied the stranger. "While I don't know my name, or where I come from. I do remember many things. For instance, I know that I never drink, and smoke only occasionally. No, it wasn't liquor."

"What did you do when you found out your memory'd gone?" asked the sergeant.

The stranger looked embarrassed. "Well, at first I went into a blue funk; got in a regular state of panic. You know, it isn't a cheerful situation. Then I said to myself. 'Look here, old man, this will never do. Won't get you anywhere except completely ga-ga.'

"That 'ga-ga' is a grand word," commented the sergeant. "Go on."

"Well, across the park I could see tall buildings, bigger than anything that I'd ever seen in London."

"You remember London then?" interrupted the sergeant.

"I seem to know, somehow, that London is my home. But where I lived there, I couldn't possibly tell you. Also, I remember Paris and Brussels and the Riviera and Rome quite as well as I remember London."

"Polly-voo Francy?" asked the sergeant.

"Ah, oui. Monsieur. Mais je ne suis pas Francais. No, I'm not French. I'm English."

The sergeant nodded. "I believe you. Go on."

"Well, I looked for a sign, and discovered that I was on Fifth Avenue. I walked into the park and sat down on a bench. I did my best to rouse my recollection. But after two hours I hadn't learned anything about myself. I couldn't go back of the moment when I found myself strolling on Fifth Avenue. And so, finally, seeing this officer here, I walked up to him and explained my predicament. He advised me to come to see you. He said that you were not merely his superior officer, but a man of science."

Sergeant Ryan cast a glance of approbation at Officer McCarthy. The latter hid a grin. He felt that he would be a roundsman soon if Sergeant Ryan's influence had any weight.

"Amachoor only," disclaimed the sergeant modestly.

"However, I know something about your trouble. I've come into contact with similar cases before. Usually, the person's memory is restored in a very short time. Sometimes, there's no medical treatment at ail required. Just a little rest, a little time, and the memory comes back. You've probably been under some heavy strain. You don't look as though you'd been sick."

"I feel fine," said the stranger. "I can't believe that I've been under any strain." The sergeant shrugged.

"Maybe not. Sometimes a blow on the head— are you hurt anywhere?"

The stranger shook his head.

"Have you any money? "

The young man pulled out a purse. From it he took several hundred dollars.

"Don't seem as though you've been robbed," said Ryan.  "You haven't looked through your clothes?"

"For letters or other papers? I haven't a thing of the sort on me."

"I meant for marks on your clothing," explained the sergeant.

A light gleamed in the Englishman's eyes. "I hadn't got around to thinking of that. Perhaps "

"Let's go in an inside room," suggested the sergeant. But, strangely enough, there was not even a laundry mark upon the stranger's linen. The label that should have been sewed in his jacket was missing. His hat bore no maker's name. His shoes had no identifying label.

"Well, I don't know what to do for you " admitted Sergeant Ryan as the stranger clothed himself. "If you acted nutty I could ship you over to Bellevue. But you haven't created any trouble, and it ain't a crime yet in this country for a man to forget his name. Of course, they'd take you in at Bellevue if you went there by yourself. What do you say?"

"It seems so absurd," said the Englishman. "If I knew of some private specialist—"

"I know the very man for you. Thaddeus Conkling, on Central Park West. He's the biggest man in the country on mental troubles. If he'd take you, you'd be in the best possible hands."

"Is he terribly expensive?" asked the stranger.

Ryan shrugged. "Lord knows. But when I was a traffic cop I yanked him from in front of an automobile, and every Christmas he sends me a box of cigars. And he passes the time of day mighty pleasantly whenever we happen to meet. For a friend of mine he'd be reasonable in his charges."

"You're extremely kind," said the stranger.

Sergeant Ryan waved a pudgy hand. "You're a likely looking lad, and it's little enough I'll be doing for you. We'll go to see him in the morning. Where do you plan to spend the night?"

"I haven't the vaguest idea," admitted the stranger.

"I'd take you home with me myself, only what they pay a police sergeant don t rent any palaces. There isn't an extra room in my flat. But McCarthy here will take you around to the Ballston; it's a decent quiet place, and you can send a bell-boy out for the toilet articles you'll need."

"I don't know how to thank you, said the Englishman.

"Don't try," said Sergeant Ryan. I'll call around for you about nine to-morrow morning. And don't worry. Mind that. You'll be all right in a few days."

"Do you really think Conkling can cure him?" asked Officer McCarthy, after he had returned from piloting the victim of amnesia to the hotel.

"The Lord knows," replied the sergeant. "But I hope so. I took a fancy to that lad. I never saw a smarter looking young man. It's a shame if a brain like that wont function."

"It is that," agreed McCarthy.

THE ENGLISHMAN was up and dressed and had breakfasted when Sergeant Ryan called the next morning.

"How are you feeling?" asked the sergeant.

"Couldn't be better, but the old bean is just the same. It's a most amazing sensation, Sergeant."

"Save your symptoms for Dr. Conkling, my boy," said the sergeant.

The camel would have hardly more difficulty in passing through the eye of a needle than a patient would in reaching the presence of Dr. Thaddeus Conkling without an appointment. But the physician was evidently a man who remembered his obligations. Sergeant Ryan sent in his name, and a moment later a white-robed nurse ushered the sergeant and his companion past a line of waiting and disapproving patients, into his inner office.

He greeted Ryan cordially, and the Englishman had a chance to observe the man who, according to the sergeant, stood at the head of his profession.

A huge man, several inches above six feet and wide in proportion, with a tremendous red beard, bold blue eyes that were slightly protruding, and a great scimitar of a nose, he looked more like the reincarnation of an ancient Viking than a practitioner of medicine. There was something about him that seemed to suggest elemental, disciplined forces, and that was not at all like a man of healing. He seemed destructive, not constructive. But his manner, bland and soothing, assorted better with his profession than his appearance.

He greeted the Englishman courteously, and when Ryan had explained their presence, his protruding eyes looked interestedly at his new patient, and not without kindness or its close simulation.

"Well, I guess we can fix this young man up soon enough. The examination will take some little time. Sergeant."

"I didn't expect to wait,'' said Ryan. He shook hands with his protégé. ''Let me hear from you soon."

"Indeed I will," said the Englishman. "And I'm certainly grateful to you."

He turned to Dr. Conkling as Ryan left the office. Into his eyes came an expression of anxiety.

"Doctor, this condition of mine can't last, can it?"

"Strip," said Conkling. The kindliness in his eyes was replaced by the absorption of the man of science. The Englishman obeyed him.

Twenty minutes later his physician ordered him to put on his clothes. While he was doing so, and for an hour there after, Conkling questioned him on every conceivable subject. At the end of that time, he confessed himself baffled.

"Yours is a most unusual case. Ordinarily, in cases of aphasia, or amnesia, there are abnormal symptoms that go along with the disease itself. But in your case there is absolutely nothing save the fact that you have forgotten your identity. I have questioned you in every possible way of which I can think. But none of those questions seem to strike a note upon the chords of memory. Physically, you are in perfect condition. Mentally, aside from this blank spot in your brain, you are one of the most alertly intelligent patients I have ever examined. I imagine that we must publish discreet advertisements, hoping in that way to find your family. The sight of your father, or a brother or sister, or even an ordinary acquaintance, would probably do more for you than all the medical treatment in the world."

"What reason do you assign for my condition?" asked the patient.

Dr. Conkling shrugged his massive shoulders. "A great grief, a prolonged mental strain, the after-effects of a severe illness, or a blow would induce your condition. That is why I'm puzzled. Your physical condition indicates absolutely that you have suffered none of these. Except possibly a blow."

"But you can't find even the slightest trace of a blow upon me," objected the Englishman.

"That is true," admitted the physician. "But the blow might have been suffered a long time ago, and its effect be felt only now. You have nothing to worry about. I assure you that the trouble will go no deeper than it lies now. Unless my entire professional experience is at fault, your condition, if it changes in any way, will do so for the better."

"That's not very encouraging, is it?' commented the Englishman, a shadow of anxiety crossing this face.

"I can't work miracles, said Conkling. "If you were highly nervous, or if your physical condition were bad, I would not hesitate to recommend an operation. Some where in the skull a piece of bone is pressing upon your brain. But, without knowing where the spot is— its approximate position— we would have to rely entirely upon X-rays. I would not care to do so in the case of a perfectly healthy man.

"Then you can do nothing for me?" asked the patient.

"I suggest that you advertise, said the doctor The patient stared at him. "What sort of a man would you take me to be, Doctor?"

"You mean your character?" asked the doctor. His bushy eyebrows lifted in surprise.

"Exactly," said the Englishman. Conkling's eyes half-veiled themselves behind lids whose veinous redness lent a terrifying aspect to his countenance.

"Your features would indicate that you are a man of imagination and recklessness. Your body bears two scars. Either or both might have been wounds received during the war. Unquestionably you were of military age. But they might have been received in brawls of one sort or another. My only reason for thinking this latter is the fact that your right hand has been broken in two places. They are exactly the sort of breaks that might have been caused by the delivery of a blow by the hand. Your complexion indicates that you have lived greatly out of doors. I should sum up by saying that you probably have an adventurous and reckless nature."

"But my morals, Doctor?" persisted the patient.

Conkling lifted his lids.

"I would say, my friend, that you are not a man scrupulous in the ordinary sense of the word."

The Englishman nodded.

"That's what I'm getting at, Doctor. Suppose that advertising for my friends should bring me enemies?"

"You are not speaking at random," said the doctor.

"I don't know what I'm driving at," was the other's reply. "I only know that I woke up last night, tiptoed to the door of my room, opened it and found myself trying the door of the room next to mine. I wasn't walking in my sleep; I was wide awake. I intended to rob that next room. Now, I know that is wrong. I may not have been a thief before I lost my memory. But how do I know? Wouldn't it be better for me to abandon any effort to reestablish myself under my own name? Might it not be possible that I would find the police waiting for the owner of that name?"

"You are very frank," said the doctor.

"A doctor's office is like a confessional, isn't it?" retorted the patient.

"This one is," said Conkling grimly. "But I have told you that I would not risk an operation."

"And I'm not sure that I'd consent to one," said the patient. "I'd like to know who I am, but I'd like to find out quietly. I don't want to stir up any hornet's nest."

"You are a very remarkable man," said Conkling. "May I ask what you intend to do when you leave this office?"

"Heaven knows. I have nearly five hundred dollars. After that's gone— I have no trade, no profession, no means of earning a livelihood, and no friends."

Dr. Conkling drummed upon his desk with great spatulate fingers.

"You interest me," he said at last. "I gather that you do not look with equanimity upon the prospect of starvation."

"You're exactly right," said the other. "According. to what little I've found out about myself in the last fourteen hours or so, your diagnosis of my character is correct. That I am more than reckless, a law breaker, I don't know."

Conkling ceased his drumming.

"You have, of course, no plans. And you interest me. You are a rare type. A man of evident culture who is apparently completely normal. I believe that I would be over looking a scientific opportunity if I did not keep you near me. I have need of a sort of secretary-companion. The pay will be ample for your needs. You will live here with me. you work for me you will also be under my medical observation. What do you say?"

"I may be the most vicious criminal at large; I may be a murderer," objected the Englishman.

The physician smiled, exposing great white teeth, sharp like those of some carnivorous animal.

"You are an extremely well-built young man," he said. "But though I am at least twenty years older, I would back myself in  any contest of skill or strength with you. For your own sake, I would advise you to restrain any homicidal impulses toward me."

The Englishman grinned. "I was only suggesting something."

"I was making more than a suggestion; I was uttering a warning," rejoined Conkling. "What do you say?"

"What can I say, except that I am extremely grateful," replied the Englishman.

"It is settled, then. One of the servants will show you your quarters. You will dine with me. Your other meals you will take in your room. You will be paid fifty dollars a week. I will explain your duties in a few days. In the meantime, I would suggest that you familiarize yourself with the city. That will be all for now."

He Made a gesture of dismissal, then called the patient back.

"Oh, I can't call you 'you' all the time. Have you any choice of names? " The Englishman shook his head. "I will call you, then, McFarlane, Philip McFarlane. That will be all, McFarlane."

THE DUTIES of McFarlane were not at all onerous. They consisted for the most part in ac companying the doctor on long walks after office hours, and in affording an audience to the physician in the evening when he ordinarily played the violin for a couple of hours.

The new secretary had plenty of leisure, and he improved it in an odd fashion. He studied the habits of the whole household. He learned what servants were light sleepers, what they did on their nights off, at what hours they might be expected to return. Also, he learned by heart the plans of each floor. And he took it upon himself to oil certain locks and hinges that had a habit of squeaking.

And exactly three weeks after his entrance into the Conkling household he crept, at two o'clock in the morning, into the bedroom where his employer slept. With an uncanny deftness he took a bunch of keys from the pair of trousers which Conkling had hung over the back of a chair. Kneeling before a house-safe in one corner of the bedroom, he opened it. He had abstracted a great wad of bills when a slight noise from the bed made him turn.

His employer was awake.

He leaped for the door; Conkling intercepted him. The two bodies clashed with a noise that woke the household.

Savagely McFarlane tried to break the grip of the giant who had grappled with him. Working free, he struck his employer a half-dozen trip-hammer blows in the face. The physician shook them off; his great arm circled through the air, his fist collided with McFarlane's jaw, and the secretary went to the floor completely knocked out.

He awakened some time later to find himself seated in an arm-chair, his feet and hands bound, while before him, drinking coffee from a cup that stood upon a table, sat Conkling. The physician grinned; he seemed, in his pajamas, with his hair and beard awry from the recent struggle, like some great hairy ape.

"Feeling better?" he asked cheerfully

"What are you going to do with me?" demanded McFarlane.

The doctor's grin grew broader.

"The butler, his wife, who is the parlor maid, the cook and myself are all witnesses to your at tempt at robbery and your assault upon me. What do you think I'm going to do?"

"Send for the police, I suppose," said McFarlane hoarsely.

Conkling set his coffee-cup down.

"You interested me from the moment you came here. My interest has been increased by your activities of the past week. It was a touch of positive genius, oiling the doors."

"You knew that?" cried McFarlane. "Certainly. Exactly as I knew why you were questioning the servants. You thought the cook and the butler would be out to-night didn't you?"

"Why didn't you discharge me, let me go, when you knew what I planned?" demanded McFarlane.

The doctor shrugged. "Wherever you went you would be a criminal. Your own frank confession, plus my accurate observation of you convinced me of that fact. Why not let you commit your crime amid friendly surroundings?"

"Is that your reason? Pity for me?"

Conkling lighted a cigar. "That, and the fact that, being a scientific man, I hate to see good material go to waste. Unmoral men, men without a single scruple and possessed of great physical courage, have their uses. I was not sure of your courage. If you dared put up a fight against me you would be a brave man. So then, you have certain qualifications valuable to me."

"In what way?" asked McFarlane.

"Before I answer let me remind you that no less credible a witness than Sergeant Ryan can testify that you came to me as a patient suffering from a well-known mental ailment. Three witnesses beside myself can testify as to to-night's occurrence. Anything that you might say about me would be discounted in advance . You are a criminal and, if I choose to say so insane."

He puffed at his cigar. "Do I make the situation, your situation, extremely clear?"

"Go on," said McFarlane.

"There are, then, a certain group of men in this city who resent the inequitable distribution of wealth, and occasionally make efforts at readjustment. Have you heard of the Malbron gang?"

McFarlane shook his head sullenly.

"Of course not; there has been nothing in the papers about them recently. And you have no recollection of events in this country before you came to me. Well, the Malbron gang as the police vulgarly term them because of the name by which their leader is known to the police, is the most efficient group of criminals if one cares to use so crude a word— in the world. Their leader is always on the lookout for promising recruits. Not low thugs, but men of manner even though not of tradition. Men of culture who can understand the justice that lies behind the Malbron activities. For it is unjust that traders should glean the profits of the world, and men of science like myself should slave for money to live and carry on their experiments.

"We are gentlemen and men of great intellectual attainments. Unfortunately some of us run more to brain than to body. We need athletes like yourself. I shall now go to sleep. You may think over the offer which I now make you: to join our association. In the morning you may join us, or go to jail as a common thief. Good-night. Oh, by the way, I am Malbron."

He turned out the light and McFarlane heard him climb into bed.

"Don't leave me here tied up all night, said the prisoner. "Of course I'll join!"

THE new recruit to the Malbron gang walked by the side of his leader across Central Park to Fifth Avenue. Dr. Conkling was in a mood of bloodthirsty cheeriness that would have made a lesser man than McFarlane tremble with fear.

"The house to which we are going is the home of Thomas Bretton, the famous inventor. You will meet there to-night our entire personnel. In the week that has elapsed since I disclosed my identity to you, you have been under close observation. You have passed all tests. Tonight you will be admitted to full membership in our society. And I wish to give you a last warning. Betrayal means death. And it means a most unpleasant death. I assure you that there is no one of our association who would not gladly kill a traitor."

"Why should I be a traitor?" asked McFarlane.

The doctor shrugged. "I can't think of any reason; but I am warning you."

As he spoke they emerged from the Park onto Avenue. A newsboy thrust a paper almost in Conkling's eyes.

"Paper, boss?" he cried.

Conkling pushed him aside, but McFarlane spoke to the boy.

"I'll take them all," he said.

"Thanks, boss," said the urchin. The transaction took only a moment; McFarlane stuffed wad of papers into his overcoat pocket and fell into step with his employer. Two minutes later they entered a house on the opposite side of the street.

McFARLANE had rarely seen a more intelligent-seeming group of men than the half-dozen gentlemen who awaited Conkling and himself in Bretton's library. And yet, as Conkling's eyes protruded in an abnormal fashion, so each of the others had some physical characteristic which spoke of a mentality, or a morality, at war with society. And atmosphere that these abnormalities garnered around themselves was a hint of terror.

Outwardly they were all affable, but behind their courtesy he could feel their appraising scrutiny. He realized that he was in the meeting place of the most dangerous group of criminals in the world.

They adjourned shortly to a dining-room, where suave servants waited on them. After dinner, a most excellent one, they repaired again to the library, and there the business of the meeting began. Plans were advanced for the robbery of a bank, plans that called for the participation of at least seventy-five men.

"You see, McFarlane," said Bretton, "you have become one of the leaders of our association. To you our plans may be made known, for you may suggest improvements."

"I think I can," replied McFarlane boldly. "For instance, your idea of decoying the police away from the scene, is not feasible."

The servant who had admitted McFarlane and Conkling to the house, entered the room without knocking, with the appearance of great haste.

"Deegan has just telephoned. He says that he followed Dr. Conkling and McFarlane to the house. On the way McFarlane bought some papers from a newsboy. It looked all right but Deegan followed the boy. He says that the boy went to Madison Avenue, stepped in a taxi and drove to the offices of the Holland Detective Agency."

McFarlane was standing by a window; he backed into the embrasure; his left hand shattered the glass, and his right raised a revolver.

Conkling broke the silence.

"Clever, exceedingly clever, the whole business, especially taking all the boy's newspapers." I suppose that meant that we'd all be here to-night."

McFarlane bowed. "Your deductions do you credit, Doctor."

"And you are young Holland, son of the founder of the agency, eh? The youth who was supposed to have entered the cattle  business in South America."

McFarlane bowed again. "You are a brilliant man, Doctor, and it was necessary to take elaborate precautions."

Conkling sighed,

"You would have been admirable an asset to us. It is too bad."

His mild speech had been assumed to hide his almost insane wrath. That he could think with calm cunning at such a moment proved his marvelous self-control. He deceived the young man standing in the window.

For when Conkling drew a revolver, McFarlane thought that he in tended to use it against his captor. So he ordered Conkling to drop his weapon.  The doctor never raised it. He simply pressed the trigger as the muzzle pointed slantingly downward.

The bullet hit, McFarlane later discovered, the electric light switch in the wall, the box-like closet where were the fuses that regulated the lighting of the house. The room was plunged into darkness. And in that darkness the misguided genius who headed the Malbron gang, who had foreseen this or a similar situation, and knew exactly how to meet it, escaped.

The rest were captured. For as the shot sounded, detectives in the street broke down the outer door, and Conkling's associates surrendered without a struggle.

But it was a barren victory. For while Conkling kept his freedom the Malbron Gang could be reorganized and led into new depredation.

"SON," said the elder Holland that night, "I'm going to retire. You were right and I was wrong. You said that the Malbron Gang must be composed of men unique in criminal annals. You were right. I thought you were bizarre in your method, and mad to suspect a man like Conkling. But you've proved your case. I wish that Conkling had been captured. I'd like to talk to him. What would you have done if he had wanted to operate on you for your mental trouble?"

Young Holland laughed. "A perfectly good semblance of an Englishman suffering from amnesia would have been transformed instantly into a Yankee detective, Dad."

Old Holland shook his head. "The world is filled with madness. Old police methods will not avail against the brilliant minds that have gone in for crime. What next, son?"

The younger man shrugged.

"Sleep," he said emphatically. "I've been on my guard for three weeks. To-night I'll sleep without fear of talking in my slumber, and betraying myself to a watching and listening man of genius."

_________________________

12: "Illimore!"

Arthur Somers Roche

The Sunday Star, Washington. D.C, 13 May 1923

ELIAS MANNERING rose from his place at the head of the long table. If pride shone from his still clear and penetrating eyes, it was pardonable. For he was one of the few multimillionaires in the country into whose life no scandal had crept, upon whose named no agitator heaped scorn.

On each anniversary of the wedding of Elias and Rachel, his wife, the children and their children gathered in the great  Westchester castle. On these occasions the women wore their more wonderful jewels, their newest gowns. Upon the table stood the famous gold service, presented to old Elias twenty years ago by an Indian potentate whose finances he had reduced to order. The sons and grandsons and their wives vied with each other in friendly rivalry to see which one might present to Elias and Rachel the rarest present.

And on this fiftieth anniversary of the marriage of the old couple their descendants had outdone themselves. Moreover, the whole world knew of these family gatherings. Just now, before Elias rose to speak, his oldest son, Elias 2nd, had read the names of the senders of more than 200 telegrams. A king and two presidents were among them.

The sideboards were piled high with gifts from three continents. There must have been in this room the equivalent of not less than a million dollars in gold and precious stones.

Elias raised his glass. "I am going to give you a toast," he said. "You all know to whose health I shall ask you to drink." His smile seemed to caress the sweet, mild features of his wife. "But before I give that toast, I want you to join me in thanks. As I look over my life and see the prosperity and happiness that has come to me and mine. I feel that God has been very good to me."

"Too good," said a voice from the door.

NOT merely the words, nor their cynical connotation, caused the gasp of amazement from the men and the cries of fear from the women. It was the pistol in the hands of the speaker. He stood framed in the doorway, long and lean, thin-lipped and cruel-eyed.

Even as Elias 3rd, an ex-aviator and football player, kicked his chair from under him, the intruder crossed the threshold. Behind him came half a dozen men, each armed and menacing.

The butler, French and excitable, dropped a bottle of wine to the floor. Its loud explosion galvanized into activity the butler's four assistants. Weller, stocky and active, leaped at the leader; a bullet caught him full in the chest, and he went somersaulting to the floor. Johnson, older than Weller, threw a sliver tray on which were coffee cups. The liquid damaged only a priceless tapestry. A shot from another of the bandits sent Johnson to join Weller.

Elias 3rd, a yard from one of the bandits, went down. His father's cry of agony was cut short by a fourth bullet. Before this merciless attack the others hesitated. Old Elias, his face ashen with grief, not fear, faced the intruders.

"What do you want?" he cried.

"What do you think we want?" jeered the lean leader. "Everything you have, old fossil."

The French butler sprang forward, but the leader easily evaded him. The butler went sprawling upon the floor. One of the bandits bent over and his pistol muzzle crashed upon the butler's forehead. He crumpled into unconsciousness.

The leader walked to the side of old Elias. Threatening the old man with his weapon, he ordered the women present to strip off their rings and necklaces.

"I forbid you to." cried old Elias. Outraged pride made him give the order.

Callously the leader struck the host. The old man fell across the table. The two remaining servants were shot down without compunction.  And when Elias' grandsons would have continued the unequal struggle, their wives and mothers and their white-faced grandmother restrained them.

Within forty minutes after their arrival the bandits had departed, taking with them, in sacks the gold plate, the jewels of the women, and certain ornaments from the drawing rooms and chambers upstairs. Behind them lay two dead men. six badly wounded men, and a dozen hysterical women.

All the unwounded were tightly bound and gagged. A similar situation obtained in the servants' hall.  Outside In the garage and stable were men who struggled vainly at their bonds or moaned from the pain of injuries. And in the lodge at the gates of the estate lay another dead man, above whose body, In a great cage, chattered indignantly a green and yellow parrot.

IT was half an hour before little Elias 4th wriggled free of the ropes that secured him; ten minutes more before he had released his mother; another quarter of an hour before she had cut the bonds of the rest; another five minutes before the chief of police of the nearest village had been aroused from his early slumbers by frantic ringing of the telephone; another hour before he had arrived at the sane conclusion that he must ask help of the New York Detective Bureau; and nine hours after that Jerry Tyron called Upon Jimmy Pelham and dragged him sleepily from bed.

"Wake up," cried Tryon.

"Go 'way," grumbled Pelham. "I wouldn't get up for anyone in the world. "Played bridge till three this morning."

"Not even for the Gray Ghost?" asked Tryon quietly, Pelham's sleep-fogged eyes cleared, he leaped from the blankets, with a vigor that denied the evidence of thinning hair.

"Tell Dickenson to get breakfast," he said as he made for the bathroom.

A minute later Tryon, speaking to the former Maine guide, who was now Pelham's cook, valet and general factotum, heard Pelham splashing in the tub.

The ex-lieutenant of police now owner of the Tryon Detective Agency, smiled grimly.

"Of course," agreed Pelham, when Tryon gave him the story as it appeared in the morning papers, supplemented by private advices from the detective bureau. "We knew that he'd be heard from soon. The same Gray Ghost! The same far-reaching plans, the same daring, and the same bloody disregard of human life."

He puffed at an after-breakfast cigarette. "Who's engaging us?"

"Mannering," replied Tryon. "Of course, as you and I are the only people that ever got anything on the Gray Ghost, the New York police will help us in every way, but it's a private job. Fifty thousand retainer, fifty thousand If we get the men who committed the robbery, one hundred thousand for the return of the stolen property, and a half million for the Gray Ghost himself."

Pelham whistled.

"Mannering must believe in the Gray Ghost."

Tryon colored. "Every one does now. I don't know why I was fathead enough ever to believe that he was dead. But old Mannering had me on the phone at my house before breakfast. His doctors called me up and told me that he was in no shape to talk, but insisted on doing so. The old boy's voice was certainly feeble,  but his spirit isn't. He's mad clean through, and his bank roll is behind us. That Interest you?"

"Lots," replied Pelham. "But it doesn't interest me as much as the mere fact that we have another chance at the Gray Ghost. Let's go."

They made their way downstairs to Tryon's waiting limousine.

They were an oddly assorted pair. Jerry Tryon was the typical policeman, stockily built, heavy-footed, possessed of great physical strength and with an amazing tenacity of purpose. Pelham, thin, tall, and restless-seeming, looked the imaginative person that he was. At a casual glance one would have taken Pelham to be the planner and Tryon the doer, but Pelham's imagination was combined with executive ability. That executive ability had gone to waste during most of his life, but the recent renascence of the Gray Ghost had caused Pelham, at the moment facing impoverishment, to accept the offer of Tryon to join his organization. Tryon had made such offers repeatedly, but the younger man had refused, feeling that they were made out of gratitude for old favors. But almost by accident Pelham had discovered that he possessed the detective instinct.

THEY talked of other things during their hour-long ride to the Mannering estate. Both of them wished to arrive at the scene of last night's tragic affair without too many preconceived ideas. Neither Tryon nor Pelham had ever been there before.

They had come to look at a palatial home, and they found themselves in a hospital. For doctors and trained nurses dominated the place, and the odor of anesthetics filled the air.

In his study, a round room on the second floor, they found old Elias, restive under the ministrations of medical attendants. A bandage was wound around his forehead, and his fine old face was pale. Indeed, a lesser man would have been in his bed. but Elias Mannering sat sturdily in a swivel chair. His keen old eyes rested a moment on Tryon, then shifted abruptly to the face of Pelham.

"You're Pelham, aren't you?" he demanded. "The man j that almost landed the Gray Ghost last month?"

Pelham smiled deprecatingly. "My friend. Mr. Tryon did as much as I."

Tryon caressed his blue chin. "I'm a cop, Mr. Mannering, and my friend is a genius. If the Gray Ghost is ever found. Pelham will find him."

A wry smile flitted over the face of their host.

"I like modesty. Mr. Tryon. I believe what you say about your friend. Also I believe that when Mr. Pelham finds the Gray Ghost, you'll grab him and never let go."

"Much obliged, sir," grinned Tryon.

The doctor approached his patient.

"Anything that these gentlemen wish to know can be told them by others, Mr. Mannering, '' he said, "You must avoid excitement."

Old Elias stared at the physician. "If I can't survive a little excitement after what I went through last night I'm so close to the grave that nothing can save me from tumbling in. The murderous hound behind last night's attack killed three of my servants and wounded my son and grandson."

He turned to Pelham, "Ask me anything you want."

Pelham smiled. "I think we'll look around a bit first," he said.

"All right." said old Elias. "But don't leave me out of this," he ordered.

Pelham promised to keep the old man in touch with each development as it occurred, and then he and Tryon left the room. Downstairs they met the village chief of police, a surprisingly alert individual.

"I've got all the servants lined up In the hall, gentlemen," he said. "I suppose you want to get their stories."

"Good work," said Pelham. He turned to Tryon. "Suppose, Jerry, that you have a talk with them, while I look around outside. I want to go down to the lodge."

"All right," agreed Tryon. He followed the chief to the servants' hall in the rear of the house, while Pelham walked out the front door.

For a moment Pelham drank in the beauty of the scene, the well-kept lawns and trees, the beautiful pool half hidden by shrubbery, the river and the hills. Then he walked down the drive up which they had come a few moments before.

THE road ran in and out between lawns and flower beds and avenues of trees, until, a half mile from the castle, one arrived at the lodge and the great gates that barred the public from the grounds. These gates had been opened by a village constable upon the arrival of Pelham and Tryon, and the man had closed them after their car passed through. Pelham noted the great high walls which inclosed the grounds; he nodded, pursed his lips and approached the lodge.

The constable, already informed of his identity, admitted him without question. It was a quaint, ivy-covered building, with but two rooms on the ground floor and three on the second. A small hall admitted one to the living and dining room. Pelham paused on the threshold, his attention attracted at once to a green and yellow parrot, chattering upon his perch in a great cage that hung from the center of the ceiling. The bird's words were indistinguishable.

"Illimore," it seemed to say. And it shrieked the word over and over again, pushing its great beak between the bars of the cage, eyeing Pelham malignantly, and shaking the cage in the manifestation of what was either wrath or terror.

Pelham looked at the bird. If it could only talk! As though in answer to his unuttered wish. It shrieked again: "Illimore, Illimore."

"Like Poe's raven," muttered Pelham. "Uncanny creature. I suppose it's chattered about nothing for years, and now that it ought to have something to say it can only utter gargon."

He left the lodge and proceeded to the garage and stables. A little later he entered the house, examined the dining room and went to the servants' hall. The chief of police and the county coroner were seated beside Tryon, at a long table. In other chairs, or standing, were at least thirty servants.

Tryon was talking to one of them, the butler, as Pelham entered.

The ex-lieutenant looked at his ally.

"l've got the dope up until the moment that the gang entered the dining room, Mr. Pelham," he said. "Want to question the others?"

Pelham looked at the butler. His head was bandaged, and his face was white. His snapping black eyes seemed to glow.

"Suppose you tell us what happened?" suggested Pelham.

The butler shifted from one foot to another.

"All I know, m'sieu, is that a man suddenly appeared in the door. Other men followed; there was shooting; I jumped for them, fell, and was struck. Nex' thing the doctaire was attending me."

"You are French?" asked Pelham.

"Oui, m'sieu."

"Been employed hers long?" asked Pelham.

Tryon interposed: "I have the pedigrees of every one, Mr. Pelham. Unless, of course, there was something particular—"

Pelham shook his head. "I just wanted to get all the facts in the shortest possible time," explained Tryon.  "I think we can talk to some of the family now."

HE arose, leaving the coroner to continue the examination, and. followed by Pelham, walked from the room. Outside, Pelham stopped at his friend.

"Why the sudden change of front?" he asked.

"A hunch," said Tryon. Pelham smiled.

"You Just discovered that some of the servants were part of the bandit crew, eh?"

Tryon stared at his slender ally.

"How did you know that?" Pelham laughed. "The minute asked how long the butler had been here, you interrupted. My question put into form a suspicion that had been shapeless in your brain. And you didn't want the butler's suspicions aroused, or the suspicions of any of the other servants."

"Go on." said Tryon. "What else do you know?"

"Well, I know that the lodge keeper was murdered by some one whom he took to be a friend. The newspapers told us that the car containing the bandits was admitted toy the lodge keeper."

"The papers said nothing of the sort," exclaimed Tryon.

Pelham grinned. "The papers said that the bandits arrived in an automobile and departed in one. Now, it's obvious that the lodge keeper would not have admitted a party of strangers. There is a telephone in the lodge. Before unlocking the gates to strangers, especially late at night, the keeper would have phoned the house. And quite obviously he didn't telephone, because no one, servants or family, knew that a car was coming up the drive. At least no one has mentioned knowing it." He shot a glance of interrogation at Tryon.

"Their arrival was a surprise to every one, according to what they say," said Tryon.

"Well, then, the lodge keeper opened the gates to a friend," observed Pelham.

Tryon shook his head. "No good. The keeper was a crabbed old Scotchman: he hadn't been out of the grounds in two years. Hadn't a relative or friend on earth. His only acquaintances were the servants here."

"And we both agree that this was partly an inside Job," said Pelham. "The keeper unlocked the gates because some one whom he knew asked him to, or else—"

"That some one took the key from him," said Tryon.

Pelham smiled again. "Something like that, eh? For certainly no one could have forcibly entered his house without leaving some mark of entry. But the doors and windows are uninjured. And if a stranger had climbed the wall and rung his bell, he would have telephoned the house before opening the door. So we must assume that some one whose voice he recognised summoned him to his door."

Tryon whistled. "Which one?"  he asked.

A sudden thought came to Pelham.

"Any of the servants named Illimore?"

Tryon pursed his lips. "How do you spell it?"

Pelham blushed. "I don't know. But the lodgekeeper's parrot keeps shrieking the word over and over again, and I thought it might be a name."

Tryon chuckled. "No. there ain't an one with a name anything like that. Shall we go and examine the family?"

"Which one of the servants knows all about the others?" asked Pelham.

"I suppose that the housekeeper, Mrs. Barney, would know more than any one else," answered Tryon.

"Well, you send her to me and I'll talk with her. You question the family."

Two hours later Pelham met Tryon in the library.

"What have you learned?" asked the ex-lieutenant.

Pelham made a wry face.

"Nothing except that every servant in the house or grounds has been here at least five years, and that all of them are exceptionally trustworthy. What have you found out?"

"Nothing beyond what we already know," replied the ex-lieutenant.

"Old Elias Mannering is fit to be tied. He seems to expect that detectives ought to catch a guy like the Gray Ghost in ten minutes. He forgets that the Ghost has been at large for the last ten years. A fine old scout, though."

The chief of police joined them.

"Any objection to the inquest taking place this afternoon, gentlemen?" he asked. Tryon shook his head. "None at all. We'll be there."

THEY were there when the coroner examined the servants and members of the family. Tryon conveyed a hint to the coroner which caused that worthy to refrain from asking personal questions of the servants. So that the only new bit of information the two detectives acquired was to the effect that the huge touring car which supposedly had been used by the bandits had been overturned in a ditch a couple of miles from the lodge gates, and abandoned.

"And that," said Tryon to Pelham, "doesn't get us anywhere.... I wonder how they carried their booty away. That gold plate was pretty heavy."

The neighborhood where the bandits' car had been found was thoroughly searched but no trace of the loot was discovered.

"It looks to me," said Tryon, late that afternoon, "as though it's going to be a long job of watching the servants."

"I wish that parrot could talk sense" was Pelham's response.

Restless, he left Tryon and wandered out into the grounds across the lawn to the swimming pool. Here he sat smoking for an hour when Tryon came to him.

"I've talked to every one," said Tryon . "Every one of the servants prove, by several other servants; that he was nowhere near the lodge gates last night. That upsets our theory that one of the servants got the key from Hardy."

"l suppose it does," said Pelham, reluctantly. "But I know that the theory is right, just the same."

Tryon laughed. "Go to it, Mr. Pelham. But all work and no food is bad business. Let's eat."

They dined in the same great hall in which the tragedy had occurred the night before with members of the family, subdued and horror-stricken.

And after the meal was over Pelham walked to a French window. He saw a light shining through the trees, and beckoned to Pierre, the butler. That bandaged gentleman informed him that it shone from the lodge which, in a direct line across the lawn and through the trees, was less than 300 yards away. Pelham nodded.

"By the way, Pierre, you had a bottle of wine In your hands when the bandits entered. Had it just come from the cellar?"

The black eyes of the butler sparkled.

"But yes, m'sieu. Why?"

There was an alertness in his manner and speech that betokened a quick intelligence.

"Because there is still glass upon the floor here, and the glass is dusty," replied Pelham, "as though the bottle had just come from the cellar."

"M'sieu sees everything," said the butler.

Pelham laughingly, disclaimed the compliment.

"Not everything, Pierre."

He stepped through the French window upon a small terrace. There he stood for a while, smoking, then walked to the swimming pool, and stood staring into its moonlit shallows. Somehow the sense of peace and security that had been in the atmosphere while the sun shone had departed. Pelham shuddered; he felt an indefinable menace. Angered at himself, he moved restlessly to one side.

THAT movement saved his life. For from the shrubs behind him some one rose and hurled at him a heavy stone. Had it landed upon Pelham's head a dead man would have been found some hours later in the pool.

But he had moved far enough to one side for the missile merely to grass him. The shock precipitated him into the water, and the second shock of the cold plunge brought his wits, that had been wool-gathering, to a sharp focus.

Behind those shrubs lurked a murderer, waiting for his victim to re appear. But at the far end of the pool were steps that led into the water.

Until his lungs seemed bursting Pelham swam beneath the surface. His outstretched hands touched something, some bulky object incased in cloth. His hands slipped over it, and reached the far wall of the pool.

Cautiously he let his face appear above the surface. His assailant either dared not risk the sound of a shot, or believed that his first attack had so stunned Pelham that his death by drowning was inevitable.

Before climbing: out of the pool, Pelham dived once below the surface. Despite the fact that his head ached from the grazing impact of the stone, and that he was soaking wet, he was smiling as he walked across the lawn to the castle.

Pierre met him in the front hall. His black eyes gleamed in the electric light.

"Sacre, m'sieu! What has happened?"

"Some one tried to drown me in the pool," Pelham replied.

"But who. m'sieu?" cried Pierre. Pelham shrugged his shoulders. "I didn't see him," he replied. "Can you get me some dry clothes?"

Pierre could and would. He brought them to a bedroom to which he had shown Pelham.

After he had left the room, Tryon demanded a full explanation. Given it, he asked Pierre's question: "Who?"

"You don't speak French, do you. Jerry?"

The ex-lieutenant shook his head Impatiently.

"Not a word," he answered.

"I'll give you a lesson by and by," chuckled Pelham. "What time is it?"

Tryon consulted his watch. "Nine-thirty."

"Most of the servants have gone to bed, then." said Pelham. "While I'm  finishing dressing, suppose you get Mrs. Barney and make a round of the servant's quarters. Get a shoe from each one of the men."

"What's the idea?" asked Tryon.

"Footprints," grinned Pelham.

"That's the biggest bunk in the world," scoffed Tryon.

"Of course it is. but the servants won't know that no one was ever convicted on a footprint.

Tryon raised his eyebrows. "You want me to tell them the reason we want the shoes?"

"Exactly," said Pelham.

"Why?" asked Tryon. "Because the man who tried to drown me tonight will try a bullet or a knife next time. And I want to find out before that next time comes."

Half an hour later Tryon returned bearing a clothes basket filled with shoes.

"It's too dark to try and fit these shoes to any footprints, even if you were crazy enough to try," he grumbled.

"But it's not too dark for some one to try to obliterate footprints that he might think one of these shoes would fit," said Pelham.

The ex-lieutenant of police stared at his ally.

"And to think," he said, "that I've been trying for years to get you to join me, and you only consented a month ago."

IN the shadows of the great stone castle, crouched on the terrace outside the French windows of the dining room, they watched. And then, just before the false dawn was due, the French windows opened softly and through the aperture stepped the figure of a man. Even in the darkness they could see the white bandage about his head.

Across the terrace the man walked and across the drive. Then, upon the lawn, he knelt down. They saw the hands working upon the grass.

"Wiping out footprints that would never hang any one," said Tryon with saturnine humor.

Pelham stood upright.

"Pierre," he called sharply.

The kneeling figure on the lawn leaped to its feet. A flash of flame stabbed the darkness. Bent low, the two detectives raced at the butler. He fired twice again, missed, and turned his weapon against himself.

The Gray Ghost's followers preferred a bullet to the electric chair.

ELIAS MANNERING, awakened from slumber by the sound of the shot, insisted on a full explanation. Pelham gave it.

"Pierre had gone down to the cellar for wine. That would lake several minutes, time enough for him to run three hundred yards to the lodge, gain  admittance, kill Hardy, and unlock the gates. He could, then have ridden almost to the house, dropped off the bandits' car, re-entered the house and proceeded to serve the wine. The whole job need not have taken more than five or six minutes, in which time he would not be missed.

"He would be alarmed at news that we were going to examine footprints on the grounds. He would know that his were the only footprints leading to the lodge. He would not know that such faint traces as a running man might leave would be valueless as clues. Alarmed, he would try to obliterate them. You see,  he was so alarmed already that he had tried to kill me. For, of course, he was the man who tried to drown me. I was sure of that."

"Why?" asked old Elias eagerly. "He is the only Frenchman in your employ, and Hardy's parrot kept crying: 'Illimore!' "

"I don't get it," said Tryon.

"The parrot has been in a perfect frenzy since his master was murdered. His tiny brain retained only one thing, and that was the exclamation that the murderer, who had gained admittance on some specious plea, had uttered.

"It was the parrot's rendition of words that he had never heard before: 'Il est mort!' Only a Frenchman would cry 'He is dead!' in French.

"Pierre had the opportunity to murder Hardy; Pierre was the one servant who could have said over the body of his victim words that sounded like the shriek of the parrot. But this was not evidence; If I could trick him into betraying himself that would be evidence."

"I said that I'd pay fifty thousand dollars for the capture of the men who committed the robbery," Elias Mannering said. "You got one of them, the traitor in my house, and I feel that you have earned that fifty thousand."

Pelham shook his head.

"I don't think so, but if you feel like writing a check, write one for a hundred thousand."

The old man's jaw dropped. "What do you mean?' he asked.

"The bandits' car overturned in their haste to get away. They could hardly have carried their loot in their hands without attracting attention. Yet, although the woods have been scoured, there's been no trace of the stolen plate or other bulky objects. Moreover, the Gray Ghost knew that it would take his men at least an hour to return to New York. In that time the alarm might be given, the car stopped and the stolen property recovered. He takes no chances. He would leave the stuff here, taken away months later, perhaps, when the hue and cry had died away."

"Where?" gasped old Elias.

Pelham smiled. "While I am not a gambling man, I will wager my share of the retainer you have already paid us that the cloth-covered object that my hand touched as I was swimming under water was a sack containing your gold plate. And If the plate is there I will wager that the jewels are there too."

"I won't take the bet," said old Elias. "I'm afraid I'd lose."

HE would have lost, too. In the morning— in the sacks deposited in the deepest corner of the pool— the stolen property was found.

"The crafty devil," commented Tryon, as they rode into town. He knew that at this time of year no one would go in swimming. But if Pierre had succeeded in drowning you the stuff might have been recovered as we sought for you."

Pelham laughed. "That cunning scoundrel would have found my body himself and brought me ashore before the pool could have been dragged."

"I wish that we'd caught him alive," grumbled Tryon.

"He might have been persuaded to talk."

"Think so? A man who will serve as a butler five years in order to lay plans for a robbery, who will willingly suffer a wound in order that his part may not be suspected, who will kill himself rather than be captured, is hardly the sort to turn state's evidence. What a man, what a man!"

"Pierre?" asked Tryon.

"The Gray Ghost," said Pelham. "To be able to Inspire such devoted service— I'll feel safer when he is behind the bars."

"We'll put him there yet," snarled Tryon.

"Maybe," said Pelham thoughtfully. "If he doesn't kill us first

_____________________

13: The Robbery at the Café Ravasan

Arthur Somers Roche

The Sunday Star, Washington, D.C. 15 July 1923

JIMMY Pelham opened the envelope on which was engraved the royal crest of Malthuria. A grin of amusement was superseded by a frown as he read the invitation.

"Bad news!" asked Dickenson, his valet, secretary and man of all work.

Dickenson was emphatically not a servant. Having, In his former capacity as Maine guide, drunk from the same cup and slept beneath the same blankets as his employer, and having, furthermore, that decent feeling of equality that is inherent in state of Maine men, he neither looked upon himself as a menial nor permitted any one else to do so. His manner toward Jimmy Pelham, once an idling millionaire, but now the consulting partner in the Tryon Detective Agency, was that of an admiring friend.

Pelham tossed the letter to the ex-guide.

"Slim," he said, quizzically, "many and many a time, permitting your snobbishness to get the better of you "

"Huh! Me a snob! Why, if a king asked me to kiss his hand I'd make him kiss my fist," declared Slim.

"Proving my case," chuckled Pelham. "You'd hit a king to brag about it. Well, as I was saying when you interrupted me, for many years you have shown a womanish curiosity as to the doings, the manners and the appearance of what are vulgarly known as aristocrats. Now, if you wish to meet a real scion of royalty in his rather unattractive flesh, here's your chance. I will lend you evening clothes; I  will even tax myself to the extent of providing a limousine to convey you to the party given by his royal highness Prince Ladislaus of Malthuria."

DICKENSON'S eyes gleamed. He read the invitation, signed by an equerry, inviting Mr. James Pelham to attend a dinner dance at the new Ravasan on the following night.

"But they won't let me In. I ain't you," protested Dickenson.

"Merely show the card of admission; no one will question you; it will be too big an affair," said Pelham.

"Suppose they find out I ain't a real guest?" argued Dickenson.

"In that case a couple of oily Malthurians will throw you out on your neck," grinned his employer.

Dickenson clenched two knotted fists. "I'll be doing' a little throwing' myself about that time."

Pelham laughed.

"Ordinarily, Slim, I'd not turn over an invitation. But his highness is not a person for whom I care particularly."

"How'd you happen to know him?" asked Dickenson.

"Met him at a club in Paris. He's royal, all right, but he has no kingdom. After the war Malthuria became a republic. They kicked out the prince's father, who shortly died. The prince, when I knew him, had borrowed from every money-lender in Europe, and I heard that ha wound up by being barred from decent houses and clubs. Forgot to pay his gambling debts."

"Pretty much of a skunk, hey?" commented Dickenson. "Where does he get the dough to give parties like this?"

Pelham shrugged. "Search me. Where did Jake Ravasan get the capital to finance a Park avenue café?"

"Who's he?" asked Dickenson.

"Besides being the ostensible proprietor of the Café Ravasan, he's one of the filthiest crooks unsung. I've heard Jerry Tyron mention him. He was a witness in that big gamblingmurder case a dozen years ago."

"And society goes to a party given by a booted-out prince in a case run by an ex-crook," said Dickenson cynically.

Pelham laughed. "Ravasan isn't an ex-crook, either. From what Jerry Tryon told me, Ravasan has been about a yard ahead of the police all his life. Where he got the capital to start this new venture nobody knows. His entertainers, even if you discount their press agents, must cost twelve or fifteen hundred a week—"

He smiled. "Well, if every one in New York had to explain where he got it, nobody would dare to admit that he had it. Go to your party. Slim. Shake the royal hand of his royal highness, and step on Reason's toes if you have the chance."

"I'll do all those things, only if the prince gives me an ugly look and says to his friends to toss me out, I'll bust some one on the way," said Dickenson.

JIMMY PELHAM came of an old New York family. Behind him was a tradition that included not merely money but culture. He resented with all his aristocratic soul the intrusion into the circles of the elect, the fat profiteers and their red-knuckled wives. That his own present profession was perhaps not one honored by all men did not affect his attitude toward the parvenu. He was waging warfare against the greatest crook of the day— the Gray Ghost— and was rendering a service to society. He considered his profession honorable and worthy of a gentleman.

Although Pelham had not been present when scandal broke about the royal head of the prince, the claimant to Malthuria's throne knew that Jimmy Pelham must be cognizant of the hushed-up opprobrium. It was an impertinence of Ladislaus, then, to invite Jimmy Pelham to the party. And now that one came to consider the matter, Prince Ladislaus had added gaucherie to impertinence. Pelham's Invitation seemed like an after-thought, issued only a day before the event was to take place.

He shrugged. What difference did It make? He wasn't going, anyway.

And on the following evening he chuckled as he assisted Dickenson with his tie.

"Enjoy yourself, Slim," he exhorted. "And don't forget the things that you have my permission to do."

The ex-guide chuckled. "I won't," he promised. "I only hope I get a chance. If the folks down in Juno, Me., could read in the paper that I busted a prince a couple on the jaw they'd send me to the legislature."

PELHAM, himself dressed in a dinner suit beneath his overcoat, accompanied the resplendent Dickenson downstairs to the waiting limousine. Of late It happened that the garage, from which he frequently rented a machine, had sent him the same car and the same driver on many different occasions.

The chauffeur knew Pelham's reputation and was thrilled at driving the one man who had been able to meet, with at least a measure of success, machinations of the Gray Ghost. He felt himself an ally of the detective.

Now, as he threw open the door of the car, he whispered hoarsely to Pelham: "I been followed here tonight, boss."

"Are you sure?" asked Pelham. "Absolutely," replied the chauffeur. "They're In a car that went by when I stopped here. Probably waiting around the corner."

Dickenson's lean, gaunt face colored angrily.

"Looka here, Mr. Pelham," he snapped. "You been takin' too many chances. I don't think I ought to leave you."

Pelham slapped him on the back. "Nonsense, Slim! It's easy to hire cold-blooded murderers, but it's not easy to hire discreet ones, who will refuse to turn state's evidence when the electric chair confronts them. When the Gray Ghost tries to get me it will be at a time when there will seem to him no danger of his emissaries being captured. You needn't worry. Have a good time."

He chuckled as he walked off. Nevertheless, despite his mirth, he was watchful, wondering at. the espionage maintained upon him. Of course so long as Pelham lived the Gray Ghost must know that there was danger that he would be apprehended. But inasmuch as he had made no effort thus far, through his followers, to kill Pelham, save at a time when Pelham was actively engaged in recovering loot destined for the Gray Ghost's coffers, Pelham could see no reason for alarm now. Nevertheless he carried his right hand in his coat pocket: the snug way in which the butt of his automatic pistol fitted into his palm was a more potent argument than all his theories as to the motives actuating the Gray Ghost.

HE started for his club. He was conscious, before he had walked two blocks, that he was being followed.

Once inside he telephoned the offices of the Tryon Agency and talked with Jerry. "The Gray Ghost is taking an exceeding interest in me tonight, Jerry," he said. "My car was followed from the garage and a couple of men on foot followed me here. I'm at the club," he explained. "I'd have tried to land them, but know that I couldn't do it alone. But why not send a few men up here to nose around?"

"I'll do that little thing," said Jerry. "What's the idea?"

"You can search me." replied Pelham.

"Well, take care of yourself," said Jerry. Into his gruff tones crept earnestness that was evidence of his affection for his younger coadjutor.

It was a reciprocated regard. Between these two men, of different ages, traditions and temperaments, existed a devotion based on mutual respect and liking. Knowing that he could be of no assistance to the operatives who would be rushed up to the club by Tryon, and who would endeavor to find out the identity and residence of the men who were shadowing Pelham tonight, the object of the Gray Ghost's attentions devoted himself to an excellent dinner and later to a series of rubbers of bridge.

It was eleven o'clock when Pelham descended the stoop of the old-fashioned building which housed his favorite club, and was accosted by a man whom he Instantly recognized as Graham, one of Tryon's most trusted employees.

"Can't locate any one that seems suspicious, Mr. Pelham," said Graham. "Connolly and I got up here within ten minutes after Mr. Tryon gave us the word. But every one that's passed here tonight seemed to have legitimate business. If there were any  'shadows,' either Connolly or I would have tumbled."

"I'll bet you would," said Pelham, his voice flattening. He had away of being generous with praise.

"If you don't mind. I'll walk along with you, just for luck," said Graham. "Connolly will trail us a block behind."

But they all reached Pelham's apartment without incident.

Pelham laughed. "Maybe I'm getting nerves." he suggested.

"It you were," said Graham, "nobody'd blame you. But I don't think you are."

PELHAM climbed the stoop, passed through the small lobby of the remodeled residence in which was his apartment, and mounted the flight of stairs to his rooms on the second floor. He opened the door, stepped through, placed his hat and coat upon a hook in a closet off the tiny entrance hall and walked Into his living room, to pause abruptly on the threshold.

For a moment he thought that Dickenson, whom he knew to have been a "teetotaler" all his life, had yielded to the seductions and blandishments of Prince Ladislaus' party.For, sprawled upon a couch, his dress coat lying half upon a chair and half upon the floor, and the silk hat, which he had borrowed from Pelham, resting upon its dented crown on a rug, Dickenson certainly looked the part of the drunken reveler, even to the wet towel about his forehead.

The grin which he assayed at sight of his employer was sickly.

"I got mine, Mr. Pelham," he said sheepishly. His tones were clear, unthickened by liquor.

But Pelham thought of another explanation, and at the thought he grinned.

"Well, did Malthuria win over America in a round?" he asked. "Slim, you amaze me. I didn't dream that you'd take me seriously."

Slim's cheeks grew redder still. "You got me all wrong, Mr. Pelham. The Gray Ghost raided the party."

Pelham stared at Dickenson. Then he rose, walked into the next room, and telephoned Jerry Tryon.

He returned to Dickenson, hut refused to let the man talk until, breathless and excited, Jerry Tryon arrived. Then Dickenson talked.

"I got in all right." he said. "A guy in uniform asked my name, and I told him— gave him my own name; so many people there that they never checked up. I guess— and he led me up to His Royal Nibs. And I want to say that for real class give me a Tammany alderman. Why, if this Prince Ladislaus didn't have a title, he'd be lucky to get a job selling neckties."

He rubbed a hand across his forehead,  disarranging the wet towel that covered it, and affording Pelham and Tryon a view of a great discolored lump over his right temple.

Pelham leaned eagerly forward. "Better let us do something for that bruise, Slim," he suggested.

"Ain't nothing anybody can do," replied Slim. "Only way to make it well Is for me to get a crack at the guy that done it."

His expression was suddenly ferocious. Slim Dickenson was a good friend; he was also a bad enemy.

"Well," he resumed, "the party looked kind of stiff until about eight men In uniform began circulating around the room with trays and glasses. After the booze had got everybody all meller, dinner was announced. I'd sort of got talking with some folks and breezed in the dinner with them. I'll say this for Ravasan: he has a good cook." He smacked his lips reminiscently.

"TOWARD the end the dinner there was singing and dancing and Juggling; a regular vaudeville show. Well, Just as the dinner ended, and the folks was all gettin' ready to dance, there's a commotion at the door of the dining room. Ravasan appears, arguin' with a couple of gents. Behind them I can see half a dozen more. Hard-lookin' customers too.

"Everybody is watchin' Ravasan— l knew him because I'd heard a waiter call him by name— when suddenly he marches down the room to the Prince. He whispers to him a minute, and then the Prince lifts his hand and speaks.

"He grins and shrugs and says that he is sorry that in this free country it seems that a gentleman can't give a little entertainment to his friends without the Government's buttin' in. There's a bunch of prohibition enforcement officers at the door, and they say that they've got to search everybody. Even the ladies, the Prince explains. And with that I noticed that behind the group of men in the doorway are two women.

"Well, I'll get to it. With the ladies, some of them almost hysterical, herded into an adjoining room, and with us men, all of us ugly and fightin' mad, left in the main dining room, the doors are locked. And then, suddenly, we all got wise. For the first thing these prohibition officers do is belt a waiter one on the jaw, and he takes a nice quiet snooze under the table. Then these here enforcement officers flash a flock of guns."

He shrugged.

"What's the use of goin' on any further? You can guess the rest. Pocketbooks, watches, everything: they clean us right. Screams come from the next room, and in about ten minutes the woman gangsters came through the doorway with sacks full of plunder. They locked the door on the ladies, but we could hear them still screaming.

"Well, there was nothing we could do. The bandits, men and women both, backed to the door and made their get-a-away. Ten minutes later the cops had arrived; they kept us an hour or so, telling all about the raid and finally let us go. I came straight home."

"But how about your forehead?" demanded Pelham. "Did you try to put up a battle?"

DICKENSON colored. "I'm game enough, boss," he said. "But I'm not crazy. That bunch, men and women both, were ready to kill. They didn't get anything from me, except about eight dollars and a gold-plated watch worth about fifteen more."

"Then how did you got the bruise?" asked Jerry Tryon.

"That's the important thing," replied Dickenson. "As I handed over my wallet the guy that took it gave me a nasty look. Says he: 'Your boss didn't come eh? Well, take this home and show it to him.' "And with that, before I could dodge, he lifts the gun that he's been stickin' in my stomach, and soaks me over the head."

Quietly, Pelham remarked: "That seems to put it up to the Gray Ghost, Jerry." Tryon's heavy brows drew closer together as ho frowned.

"A darned lucky thing you stayed away. They'd have killed you, Mr. Pelham."

"That's what I think," cried Dickenson. "I been tellin' him that crazy goin' around alone! Here they follow him—"

Pelham sat bolt upright; his gray eyes grew intent. "Jerry, listen to me, I've teen followed before, but only when actually working on a specific case. Tonight la the first time that I've been followed when the Gray Ghost was about to commit a crime!"

"You've got me," replied Tryon, puzzled.

"But it's simple just the same," declared Pelham. "The Gray Ghost thought that I might stumble upon his plans; he wanted to know where I was and what I was doing."

"But how would you stumble on his plans? We never have," retorted Tryon.

"Perhaps he wanted me to stumble on these plans," said Pelham.

"What do you mean?" asked Tryon.

"Never mind about theories now, Jerry. I don't want you to laugh at me if I'm wrong. Do you know anyone in the Prefecture's office in Paris?"

Tryon stared at him.

"Why?"

Pelham smiled. It was a stern smile. "It's a Gray Ghost stunt, Isn't It? You'll concede that?"

"Surest thing," agreed Tryon.

"Well then, whom do you know in the Paris police force?"

"I know Jean Derlat very well indeed," Tryon said. "The year before the war I did a bit of traveling and I studied the London, Vienna, Berlin, and Paris police departments. Derlat is rather high in the French department."

PELHAM looked at his watch.

"It's twelve o'clock." he announced. "That means It's four in Paris. If you send a cable now, Derlat will get it the first thing in the morning. If we have luck, we'll get a reply from him by noon tomorrow."

"What'll I say to him?" asked Tryon.

"Ask him to let you know the source of any money that Prince Ladislaus may possess Find out from his Paris bankers what checks he deposited recently."

Tryon whistled.

"You mean that—"

Pelham ignored the question and Interrupted it. "This man Ravasan: get busy on him. Find out immediately where he got the money to finance this restaurant of his."

Tryon stared at him.

"Through this thick cop's skull of mine an idea occasionally percolates. Mr Pelham. Do you know. If you're right, I'm just going to take off my hat every time I see you, and walk backward when I leave the room you're In."

Jimmy Pelham laughed loudly. "Well, backward or frontward, it does not matter tonight, Jerry, so long as you beat it now, and let me put our interesting invalid to bed."

HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS Prince Ladislaus of Malthuria frowned as he stared at his visitor. The prince was dressed for the evening.

"I received you, Monsieur Pelham, because you were so extremely insistent. But I must tell you that, while I am glad to renew an old acquaintance, time presses this evening."

"I won't be over five minutes," promised Jimmy Pelham. His eyes were harsh and his lips thinner than ever.  "Times have changed for both of us, your highness. When we met before, you had prospects of some day regaining your throne. I was a man of wealth."

The prince's olive cheeks reddened.

"I still expect to be restored," he said hotly.

"Well, I never expect to be a millionaire again," said Jimmy Pelham, "I wonder which of us has the more sense?"

"You are impertinent," said Prince Ladislaus. He reached out his hand to touch a bell upon the table before him. "And I am also honest." said Pelham. "Don't touch that bell, prince, unless you wish your servants to hear what I am about to tell you."

The prince forced a smile. "I will be lenient with you. Mr. Pelham. You speak of having lost your money, your misfortunes have perhaps rendered you irresponsible."

"Perhaps" said Pelham grimly. "I would like your highness to listen carefully as I read this cablegram which was received by my partner— in a very famous private detective agency. I may inform your highness— this afternoon. It comes from one Jean Derlat, a name not unknown to your highness. Permit me."

The flush had left the cheeks of Malthuria's claimant. His eyes gleamed, and his lips twitched as Pelham read;

To J. Tryon,

Tryon Detective Agency, New York:

Ladislaus of Malthuria deposited at his bankers four days before sailing for New York draft from America purchased from Western and Eastern Bank of New York for 120,000. Owes 2,000,000 francs in Paris alone and as much in London and Madrid. Only former exalted position has saved him from jail. Trust American police have not same leniency toward persons of royal birth.

(Signed) JEAN DERLAT.

"But this is infamous!" cried the prince.

"Indeed it is," agreed Pelham. "A scoundrel should be granted no immunity because of his birth."

"I will stand no more of this."

"I am perfectly willing that this conversation should become public. Shall we summon your servants?"

Ladislaus bit at his lower lip.

"What further insolence do you wish to offer?"

"That's better," said Pelham pleasantly. "And, by the way, your highness, you might, if you wish, instruct a servant to notify whoever is expecting you that you will spend the night at your hotel."

He waited a moment. "No? You prefer to believe otherwise? Very well."

His voice became sharp. "On receipt of this cable, inquiries were made at the Western and Eastern Bank. It was found that the draft payable to your order was purchased by a man unknown to the bankers, who brought currency with him to pay for the draft. Because of the unusual circumstances, the bank officials noted him carefully, His description answers to that of a person known among other noms de plume as Beagle. Mr. Beagle is a trusted associate of a gentleman known to two continents as the Gray Ghost."

The prince rose.

"You dare to insinuate "

"Sit down, my princely scoundrel," snapped Pelham. "I don't insinuate; I charge! I charge you with being the willing and venal tool of the Gray Ghost!"

"THERE is law, even in this savage country," cried the prince. "I will appeal to it to protect me from such Insults,"

"Thoroughly admirable." said Pelham. "But permit me to relate certain other facts. One Ravasan, at whose café you entertained last night, was killed this morning. It seems that investigators discovered that the same gentleman who financed your trip abroad also financed Mr. Ravasan's business venture. Accused, Mr. Ravasan was so incautious as to draw a revolver. The detective who talked with him was prepared. In the ensuing duel Mr. Ravasan was killed."

"You have no proof," cried the prince, hoarsely. "Why should I not accept a loan?"

"That is a question to which you may give the answer in court."

The prince's eyes gleamed.

"I am royal," he said. "Your barbarous country has never recognised the Malturian republic. It still accords me de jure recognition. I cannot be put to trial in this country."

"Unfortunately, your highness at last makes a statement that has a certain amount of truth in it," said Pelham. "However, the papers, which have printed so much today about last night's robbery, will be cheerfully ready to print as much more about your highness' intimate relations with the Gray Ghost."

"I never saw him!" cried the prince. Pelham knew that he spoke the truth. He had hoped that Ladislaus,  under threat of exposure, would disclose the whereabouts of the archcriminal. He knew now that this could not happen. He rose.

"I cannot speak officially, your highness. But I do happen to know that in the present state of the world this government does not care to seem to take sides with either political party in any European state. Unofficially I can state that your connection with last night's affair will not be printed in the newspapers if your highness sails tomorrow morning for Europe."

Prince Ladislaus stared at the detective.

"I will go," he said thickly.

With a bow Pelham left the room.

In the lobby Tryon was waiting.

"Well?" he asked eagerly. Pelham led the way to a waiting taxi. Not until they were in his apartment did Tryon's ally make answer. "Couldn't talk for a minute, Jerry," he said. "That man was born to a throne. To think that such a one would sink so low! Well, he's leaving America tomorrow."

"Guilty!" cried Jerry.

Pelham assented vigorously.

Jerry Tryon filled a pipe; he lighted it and puffed until it was drawing smoothly.

"l haven't bothered you with questions up to now," he said. "But I'll bust If you don't tell me."

Pelham smiled quizzically. "Jerry, I didn't get my invitation to Ladislaus' party until the day before it was to occur. That was mighty funny. I was followed the night of the party. That didn't mean much then. Later it meant that the Gray Ghost was anxious to know, in advance of the robbery. If I were to be there."

"Why?" demanded Tryon.

"He'd like to have me killed. And any one of his men would do it in the middle of a robbery. Also, they knew that I knew Ladislaus. If I, by any chance, suspected anything, the Gray Ghost wanted to know it.

"And when Dickenson told me that the man who struck him had mentioned me I knew that I had been expected. How could the Gray Ghost know the list of Ladislaus' guests?"

"Simple enough," Jerry answered the rhetorical question. "He could bribe a servant."

"Quite possible," agreed Pelham. "But don't forget that my invitation came later than the others. Now, Ladislaus, everything considered, could hardly invite me to a party unless there was a reason. He didn't intend to; then probably he happened to let some one connected with the Gray Ghost know of his old acquaintance with me. Then he was told to ask me."

"That's theory," objected Jerry.

"Of course it is," agreed Pelham. "That's why I wouldn't tell you why I wanted you to wire Paris. I was afraid you'd laugh at me."

"I ain't laughing at you now," said Jerry fervently. "Why, we know that the Gray Ghost backed Ravasan in the café and got Ladislaus over here to give a party, so that he could raid it and get about a million dollar's worth of jewels."

"Not much of a victory. Jerry," said Pelham. "Do you realize that this is the first time since the Gray Ghost reappeared that he has been able to hang on to the profits of a crime? This is one time he's beaten us "

"Well, you can't win all the time," said Jerry.

"We'll never have won until we've captured him," said Pelham wearily.

"We'll do it yet," cried Jerry.

"Maybe," said Pelham. Sometimes it seemed to him that only by a miracle could the Gray Ghost be permanently defeated. And Pelham was no miracle worker; he was a detective.

End

Cumulative Index to

Past Masters Thirty-One

May 2021 Part 4

An Author Index to the short stories in the Past Masters series produced by "Pulpmeister", in which the issues are identified as follows:

P:  Past Masters

M:  More Past Masters

3:  Past Masters Three

4:  Past Masters Four
etc

__________

Cleve F. Adams

Flowers For Violet 4

Forty Pains 4

Punk 22

Shrinking Violet 22

A.J. Alan

The Diver  5

My Adventure at Chislehurst  5

The Hair  5

H2, etc.  5

My Adventure In Norfolk  5

W. L. Alden

Hopkins' Safe  15

Monty's Friend  15

Starkweather's Circular Hotel  15

Grant Allen

The Conscientious Burglar  P

Raymund Allen

Allah Knows Best  13

The Black Knight  13

A Happy Solution  16

The Winning Move  13

Mark Allerton

Price of Office  17

Mary Raymond Shipman Andrews:

The Butler  6

Anonymous

Adventure of the Rubber Pipe  11

The Banshee 21

By a Miscalculation  12

A Detective's Story  12

The Fatal Trapdoor  15

Martin Guerre  12

My Gifted Young Friend 25

A Penny a Word 27

The Walled Chamber  15

The Wehr-Wolf: A Legend of the Limousin 27

Arthur Applin

Overdue  17

Paul Arène

Uncle Sambuq's Fortune  15

Alice and Claude Askew:

Aylmer Vance and the Vampire  M

The Empty Chair  8

In Masquerade  16

Francis Henry Atkins

The Broken Sword  9

The Third Figure 10

Stacy Aumonier

George  M

A Source of Irritation  7

Where Was Wych Street?  8

F Britten Austin

An Affair Of Honour  5

Buried Treasure  5

Diamond Cut Diamond  11

The Fourth Degree  5

The Inca's Treasure  5

The Other Side  5

Well Lost?  11

W. E. Aytoun

The Glenmutchkin Railway  M

John Kendrick Bangs

Mr. Homes Shatters an Alibi  8

Robert Barr

The Great Pegram Mystery  M

H Bedford-Jones

All Talk 20

Apache Gold 31

Coastwise Murder 29

Captain Rose and the Bullfrog 30

The Devil is Dead 31

The Devil's Fire 21, 31

The Fog at Fiddler's Green 31

The Four Red Circles  4

Gallegher of Beaver  4

Harbor Hazard 21

He Who Sets a Trap 30

Lady of the Evil Eye  31

Much Lost, More Won 30

The Luck of a Cowboy  4

The Million-Dollar Certificate  23

A Scriptural Quotation  26

Sons of Kalewa 31

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

The Strange Case of Captain Gascoigne 31

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 Pretty Woman 31

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

"Illimore!" 31

Legerdemain 28

The Robbery at the Café Ravasan 31

The Victim of Amnesia 31

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

Rivals of the Clouds 31

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: The Devil's Fire / H Bedford-Jones
- 2: He Who Sets a Trap / H Bedford-Jones
- 3: The Devil is Dead / H Bedford-Jones
- 4: Lady of the Evil Eye / H Bedford Jones
- 5: Sons of Kalewa / H Bedford-Jones
- 6: Apache Gold / H Bedford-Jones

- 7: The Fog at Fiddler's Green / H. Bedford-Jones

- 8: Rivals of the Clouds / Raoul Whitfield
- 9: A Pretty Woman / Owen Oliver
- 10: The Strange Case of Captain Gascoigne /

- 11: The Victim of Amnesia / Arthur Somers Roche

- 12: "Illimore!" / Arthur Somers Roche

- 13: The Robbery at the Café Ravasan / Arthur Somers Roche

- Cumulative Index to No 31