Past Masters 32
Author: Various
Date: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00
Description: An anthology of sixteen short stories and novelettes collected from newspapers and magazines, all in the Life+70 public domain. 1: The Premiere Danseuse / Arthur Somers Roche 2: The Dayless Diamonds / Arthur Somers Roche 3: A Flutter in Finance / Arthur Somers Roche 4: The Crafty Jerko-Slovaks / Guy Gilpatric 5: The Caleso Murders / Raoul Whitfield 6: The Brightest Jewel of Them All / S. B. H. Hurst 7: Rogue's Legacy / Headon Hill 8: The Attack from Moscow / Clarence Herbert New 9: The Island of Heaven and Hell / Clarence Herbert New 10: It Might Have Happened Otherwise / Hugh Pendexter 11: Th

PAST MASTERS

THIRTY-TWO

June 2021

Produced by Terry Walker ("Pulpmeister")

Contents

1: The Premiere Danseuse / Arthur Somers Roche

2: The Dayless Diamonds / Arthur Somers Roche

3: A Flutter in Finance / Arthur Somers Roche

4: The Crafty Jerko-Slovaks / Guy Gilpatric

5: The Caleso Murders / Raoul Whitfield

6: The Brightest Jewel of Them All / S. B. H. Hurst

7: Rogue's Legacy / Headon Hill

8: The Attack from Moscow / Clarence Herbert New

9: The Island of Heaven and Hell / Clarence Herbert New

10: It Might Have Happened Otherwise / Hugh Pendexter

11: The Veiled Idol of Kor / Charles J. Mansford

12: Désirée / Lewis Ramsden

13: With the Eternal Fires / Meade & Halifax

14: Beauty Dear / Mrs. L. T. Meade

15: The Yellow Dragon Vases / Mrs L. T. Meade

16: The Lady Detective's Story / Anonymous

Cumulative Index to Past Masters Series

___________________

1: The Premiere Danseuse

Arthur Somers Roche

1883–1935

The Sunday Star, Washington, D.C. 3 June 1923

The characters Pelham, Tryon, the Gray Ghost et al first appeared in the novel "Loot", 1913

JIMMY PELHAM folded the newspaper, propped it precariously against the coffee pot and read again the article that had attracted his attention.

FAMOUS DETECTIVES

SEVER RELATIONS

James Pelham, one-time millionaire and amateur detective, but more recently a declared professional opponent of crime, and former Police Lieutenant Jerry Tryon, head of the private detective agency which bears his name, have formally announced their separation.

Police circles will be interested in the news, as will the general public and the Gray Ghost, the arch-criminal who for years has avoided the clutches of the police of all the world, will probably be elated. No reason is given for the withdrawal of Mr. Pelham from the Tryon agency. Mr. Tryon refused to be interviewed yesterday, and Mr. Pelham could not be located.

There was another rumor In circulation around the city hall which intimated that his honor is contemplating asking for the resignation of the commissioner and will offer the place to Mr. Pelham. Politicians, maintain that this would he a wise move.

DICKENSON, the former Maine guide who was now Pelham's confidential  man of all work, entered the room.

"Read the Star, Dickenson," Pelham said, handing the editorial to the lean woodsman.

Dickenson read it slowly. Bewildered. he stared at his employer. "It ain't true, is it?" he demanded.

"That I'm to be police commissioner? The job hasn't been offered me," replied Pelham.

"I mean about you and Mr. Tryon not doing business together," said Dickenson.

"Oh, that." Pelham's voice was bitter. "Yes; I've quit the Tryon agency."

State of Maine people do not make good servants. They maintain an independence of spirit that sometimes irks their employers.

"I think you're makin' a fool play," declared Dickenson.

Pelham's face hardened, but the ringing of the telephone postponed the reply to impertinence. Dickenson crossed the room and answered the call.

"It's for you, Mr. Pelham," he said. "Mr. Tryon talking."

Pelham almost snatched the receiver from the hand of the surprised Dickenson, and his voice breathed fire as he said into the telephone; "Well, what do you want?"

DICKENSON had become devoted to his master. But he also liked and admired Jerry Tryon. And it grieved him that these two men should be blind to their own best interests and quarrel. And they were quarreling. Jimmy Pelham was using a tone of voice that would have justified Tryon in striking him had the ex-lieutenant been present in person. Of course, the Maine guide could not hear Tryon's speech, but after a moment's pause. Pelham spoke again.

"You say that's your last word. Well, you listen to mine. She's of age, her own boss and she likes me. I'm not going to marry her, and fifty uncles couldn't make me. She's not a child, and neither am I. You speak to me again this way and I'll thrash you within an inch of your life!"

He jammed the receiver upon the hook and turned to Dickenson.

"What were you saying a while ago?" he demanded.

"I said you was making a fool play," answered Dickenson with spirit. "Now I ain't sure, after listenin' to you. that it ain't a skunk play."

Slim, alert, Pelham stared at the sinewy figure of his servant. Fire flashed in his eyes. Then he turned on his heel. "You're fired. Dickinson," he declared.

"The —— I am! I resign," said the servant. Pelham smiled contemptuously.

"Call it what you will, but see that you're out of here by tomorrow."

"Suits me," said the other. But there were reluctant tears in his shrewd gray eyes as he cleared away the breakfast things. He'd fished with Mr. Pelham, and found him a good sportsman. He'd slept beneath the same blankets, and had drunk out of the same cup. Dickenson thought he knew men. He had set Jimmy Pelham down as the finest gentleman that he had ever known. Darn women! They'd ruin any man,

PELHAM did not visit the offices of the Tryon agency this day. He left his rooms shortly after breakfast, lunched at his club, spent the afternoon playing bridge, dined there, played some more bridge, and at about a quarter to eleven  stepped Into a taxi ordered for him by the doorman and drove to the Regal Theater. The last of the audience had just left the building when Pelham arrived. He walked down the alley that led to the stage door. The doortender recognized him and permitted him to enter.

Pelham mounted the circular iron staircase and on the first landing knocked upon the door of the dressing room of Miss Stacy Legendre, the petite and vivacious premiere danseuse of "The Nightingale." the extremely successful attraction at the Regal. A mulatto maid opened the door a trifle and peered through the crack, then threw open the door. Within the dressing room a pert-faced young lady shifted a pair of remarkably attractive black eyes from the mirror above her dressing table to the presentable young-old visitor. She extended a white hand.

"Well, old thing, you're late this evening. Usually you're here, battering at my door, before the audience has departed. It seems to me that your love's grown cold."

"On the contrary." grinned Pelham, "it grows more torrid every day. Doesn't it embolden me to defy your silly old uncle?"

The girl cast a quick glance at her maid. But the maid, busied with putting away costumes, apparently was paying no attention.

"What does Uncle Jerry say today?" the dancer asked.

"The usual thing." replied Pelham. His tone was hard. "He'll find himself in a lot of trouble if he isn't careful."

"Now, listen, Jimmy," said the girl quickly. "I won't have you fighting with him."

Pelham shrugged. "I don't want to quarrel with the old man, Stacy; but, after all, one has one's limits—"

"Don't let them become limitations, Jimmy," advised the dancer. Her face, serious for a moment, relaxed almost instantly into its usual expression of merriment. She rose and permitted the mulatto maid to place a cloak about her shoulders. Pelham gently put the maid aside and fastened the cloak himself. Also, he furtively embraced the dancer's lithe waist. The maid saw the caress, and her white teeth gleamed.

PELHAM, for a man who had just severed a business relation that had been extremely profitable, seemed quite unconcerned. And, for a man mentioned by rumor as a possible commissioner of police, he seemed quite careless of public opinion, not that there was anything particularly unconventional in supping at a fashionable after-theater dancing place. Until a reluctant management dismissed its guests, Miss Legendre and Pelham remained. Then they departed, riding in a taxi to the dancer's home on West 50th street.

Pelham dismissed the chauffeur and accompanied the young woman to her apartment. Leaving the elevator at the fourth floor, the dancer handed Pelham a key. He unlocked the door of her apartment, reached a hand into the hall, pressed an electric-light switch, and stepped aside for her to precede him. Thus it was that she saw first the stocky figure of her uncle, standing in the center of her tiny drawing room.

"Uncle Jerry!" she screamed.

Pelham, closing the door, wheeled and brushed by her. Ten feet apart, the two men glared at each other.

"I warned you," said Tryon thickly.

From her bedroom at the far end of the hall, the dancer's cook, alarmed by her mistress' scream, came running, dressed only in a nightgown and a blanket thrown across her shoulders. Standing in the doorway that led from the entrance hall to the little drawing room, her hands gripping the sides of the door frame, the dancer glanced over her shoulder at the servant.

"I'm afraid," she whispered.

The buxom cook peered into the room.

"I know you warned me," Pelham was saying, "and I also warned you. I've had enough of this nonsense."

"And I've had enough of your tricks," growled Tryon. "If my niece hasn't sense enough to protect her reputation. I'll protect it for her. You get out of this room, out of this apartment. out of this building!"

Pelham's thin lips curled in a sneer.

"And if I don't?"

I'll throw you out," snarled Tryon.

Pelham looked at the dancer. "Sorry, Stacey." he told her. "But I think we've stood enough—"

"Don't, Jimmy," she pleaded.

Pelham turned to Tryon. "For your niece's sake, I'll treat you better than you deserve, if you'll leave quietly "

"You puppy," cried Tryon. He leaped forward as he spoke. The dancer screamed; the fat cook drew the blanket across her eyes. There as a moment of struggle in the drawing room; then Pelham went down. He fired from the floor.

For a minute Tryon stared stupidly down at his former friend; his hand went waveringly to his breast and came away stained. He looked at the hand for a moment, then slumped to the floor.

Stacy Legendre rushed to his aide. And as Tryon fell, Pelham leaped to his feet. He was through the door and past the cook before she could make any effort to stop him. He ran down four flights of stairs to the lobby, and thence to the street....

THE Tryon-Pelham shooting affair occurred after the editions of the morning papers had gone to press, but the evening papers carried the story. It made a most sensational feature. Probably more than a million people read the afternoon editions, and probably the most interested reader was the man to whom reference was made in every other paragraph of every story.

Thin almost to the point of emaciation, the Gray Ghost seemed, at first glance, like one upon the threshold of death. Gray-skinned, gray-haired, and even dressed in gray, that impression of neutrality, of having no further concern with life, was banished once one looked fairly into the smoldering depths of the sunken gray eyes.

Despite his evident age and his apparent weakness, here was force, unlimited and unrepressed. He sat now, on the evening of this day whose dawn had witnessed the tragic termination of the long alliance between Pelham and Tryon, Studying each edition of the newspapers as they were brought to him, seeming to read between the lines to gather from the printed page more than was printed.

He sat in the solidly furnished library on the second floor of a house on Waverley Place. Aside from the malevolent fires in his eyes, he seemed like some feeble old gentleman, respectably placed, comfortably well off, who kept up an interest in the doings of a world from which age had retired him.

The manservant who poked the logs in the fireplace evoked thoughts of ancient manor houses in England. His very sideburns were guarantees of respectability. He was a criminal, differing only in degree from his master, yet he adhered to the fiction of master and servant even when there was no other person present.

The master, having read the last of the newspapers, ordered the servant to admit a man who waited outside.

The Gray Ghost forced an unwilling smile to his thin lips.

"Well, Beagle?" he said.

Beagle nodded in the direction of the newspaper which the Gray Ghost had put aside upon the entrance of his follower.

"It's all straight;" he announced.

"Tell me what you know," ordered the Gray Ghost. Beagle looked at his master. "We've kept a watch on both Tryon and Pelham every minute of the day and night."

The Gray Ghost gestured impatiently. "I know that; I ordered you to." Something of the natural man in Beagle, usually subordinated to his awe of his master, crept through his mask of reserve.

"And we've had a dozen chances to bump them both off," he said aggrievedly.

The Gray Ghost smiled coldly. "You don't respect our friends as much as I do." he said. "I don't doubt that as many opportunities have presented themselves, but you would not have accepted them."

"I'm not a killer," muttered Beagle.

"Exactly," said the Gray Ghost. "We have no difficulty in finding men who, in the course of business, will kill. But the only sort who will start out deliberately to murder are men of so violent natures that they are untrustworthy."

"We've had men commit suicide rather than be captured and give us away," declared Beagle.

"You have no understanding," said the Gray Ghost. "That is true; those men preferred death to imprisonment. Had I asked one of those men to commit a deliberate killing he would have refused. Killing to avoid capture, self-destruction for the same reason, killing to insure success of one of our plans— they are all different from deliberate murder. Not only can I not hire such men and have any assurance of their discretion, but I do not wish to. I am no gangster, Beagle. I am a gentleman."

"Just the same, if we'd taken a chance and nicked Pelham and Tryon a few months ago, we'd be a million to the good," argued Beagle.

THE Gray Ghost smiled once more. "You have my permission to attend to Tryon whenever you choose. As for Pelham— go on," he ordered peremptorily.

"Well, he was followed to the apartment of Stacy Legendre last night. Also Tryon was followed there. He arrived before Pelham and the girl. About ten minutes after Pelham arrived he beat it from the house in a hurry. He went home, but he came out again in five minutes, carrying a suit case. He took a taxi to the Grand Central; he paid his driver, went into the station, and came out a little later in another car. He drove to the Burchard Hotel, registered under the name of Thomas Wentworth of Boston, went to a room, changed his clothes, sand slipped out half an hour later. He went to a public telephone booth in an all-night drug store. We don't know what number he called, but from his excited manner. Hendry, who was following him at that moment, now surmises that he telephoned Miss Legendre's apartment."

"No surmises, please," said the Gray Ghost.

Beagle flushed.

"He went from there to a lunchroom, ate a breakfast, and then took a ride in the subway. He spent over two hours riding around underground, apparently just killing time. At about 7 o'clock he went to a cheap clothing store on 3rd avenue, and bought a few things. He'd left his bag at the Burchard. At a drug store he bought a toothbrush and other incidentals. Carrying his purchases with him. he went to a rooming house on 8th street. Evidently he went to bed, and stayed there until late this afternoon. Then he went out, had dinner in a restaurant on 6th avenue and went back to the rooming house. He's there now, or was there fifteen minutes ago."

"Very good work." said the Gray Ghost. "What else?"

"You telephoned me at eight this morning," said Beagle. "You told me that Kernan had learned that there was a general alarm out for Pelham. I got half a dozen men on the job at once. By the way, sir, I think Kernan is pretty reckless. He ought not to telephone you from police headquarters. If one hint ever got out that you had a man in the detective bureau—"

"Kernan didn't telephone from there. Go on." said the Gray Ghost.

"I sent Zensler out to round up the maid of Miss Legendre," Beagle continued. "Zensler posed as a reporter. The maid was loyal to her mistress until he flashed a century note. Then she loosened up. She said that she had overhead Tryon scolding her mistress for accepting Pelham's attentions. In the dressing room last night the maid heard Pelham say that Tryon would get into trouble if he wasn't careful.

"I sent Elsie Landon to call on Dr. Wetherby. You see, I'd had Ferguson go to Miss Legendre's apartment house. He couldn't get to the cook— the police were there— but he got in touch with the night telephone operator and learned that Wetherby had been sent for immediately after the shooting.

"Elsie acquired an obscure ailment that necessitated a long examination. She found out that Tryon was shot through the left lung, and probably will die.

"I went myself to Pelham's apartment. I pretended to be an insurance solicitor. I found that two plain-clothes men were there. I couldn't get to Dickenson, his servant."

THE Gray Ghost nodded. "That's all right. Kernan sent word that Pelham and Tryon had quarreled over the telephone. The police got that out of Dickenson. Had a lot of trouble making that fellow talk, too. Go on."

"I went to Pelham's bank. I recognised plain-clothes man there. Of course they might have been there for some other reason."

The Gray Ghost nodded. "Probably not. Trying to stop him from drawing funds. What else?"

Beagle shook his head. "Why, I couldn't think of anything else."

The Gray Ghost laughed mockingly. "Couldn't think of anything else, eh? Overlooked the most important thing of all, eh? Well, I've attended to the matter myself."

"Well, I don't see how there could be anything else. I don't understand why you had us do all this, anyway," grumbled Beagle.

"Of course you don't; it probably would never occur to you that Mr. James Pelham is an extraordinarily brilliant man," said the Gray Ghost.

"What's his brilliance got to do with his shooting his partner in a row over a girl?" demanded Beagle.

The Gray Ghost tilted his head back as though he were some hound upon the scent. "That, Beagle, is exactly the question that I have been asking myself since early this morning." His manner changed, from something akin to ennui to alertness.

"Get Pelham," he ordered. "Bring him here. If you've, been able to trace him, there's no reason why the police should not be able to do the same thing." He pulled his chair nearer to his table and reached for some papers.

Beagle accepted his dismissal reluctantly. "Suppose he won't come?"

"Tell him that you will inform the nearest policeman where James Pelham may be found," said the chief.

Beagle was soon, at the 8th street rooming house where Pelham had taken refuge. It was a shabby place, run by a suspicious-seeming woman. Beagle showed the woman a badge upon his waistcoat.

"I'm from the detective bureau. You let a room this morning to a thin, partly bald man, who wore a blue suit and a gray felt hat. Show me to his room."

"Go there yourself," snapped the landlady. "Second floor back."

Beagle mounted the stairs and knocked upon Pelham's door.

"Come in," said, Pelham.

Beagle entered.

"Mr. Pelham?" he asked. He found himself looking into the muzzle of a pistol, the same one that Pelham had fired earlier that day.

"Step right inside, close the door, stand against that wall, and don't open your mouth," snapped Pelham.

Beagle obeyed the first two injunctions, and then smiled at Pelham. "I'm not from headquarters. I'm from the Gray Ghost," he said.

Slowly Pelham lowered the muzzle of his pistol. "What does he want with me?" he demanded harshly.

Beagle shrugged. "How do I know? But, he said that if you didn't come to tell you that there would be a policeman here in five minutes."

"Who's going to get him? Do you think I'm going to let you go?" cried Pelham.

"I have a car outside. The chauffeur will summon a policeman in just two minutes. What are you going to do?" countered Beagle.

For thirty seconds Pelham stared at him. "I'm going with you," he said. His air of resignation, of despair, would have surprised the people who knew him only as a jaunty optimist.

Beagle held out his hand. "Give me the gun," he said.

Pelham hesitated a second; then he surrendered his weapon, picked up his hat from the dingy bed on which it lay, and followed Beagle to the street. He entered the car with the Gray Ghost's emissary.

Once inside, Beagle adjusted metal blinds that covered tightly all the windows, so that no view of the street through which they passed could be obtained Nor did he encourage talk in the hour's ride that followed, a ride that covered twenty miles of the city's streets, and yet finally deposited the passengers less than half a from, their starting point.

As a further precaution, Beagle insisted upon blindfolding Pelham before they left the car. The bandage was not removed until Pelham was standing in the library of the Gray Ghost's home.

THE lights dazzled his eyes for a moment, and he shut them quickly. When he reopened them he was able to see more clearly. Then he saw distinctly. And he looked upon the features of the man whom he had sworn to capture.

"We meet again, Mr. Pelham," said the Gray Ghost. "After ten years, we meet again."

He was older, infinitely older, than he had been on that day, years ago, when he had, as Mr. Peter Ballantyne, chartered the yacht which Pelham then possessed.

This, of course, Pelham did not know. He was looking upon the Gray Ghost for the first time. But, though he had never seen him before, he had heard him described and from the description knew the man.

"We never met before," he replied.

The Gray Ghost's lips curled. "In the flesh never, but in the spirit many times. You have been a source of great trouble to me, Mr. Pelham."

I hoped to send you to jail— to the electric chair," growled Pelham.

"And now you may go to one or both places yourself," said the Gray Ghost.

Pelham started. "You didn't bring me here for that."

"No? Then why?" asked the Gray Ghost.

"How do I know? To gratify a cheap desire for triumph, perhaps. Or perhaps— but that's silly."

"What's silly?" asked the Gray Ghost.

Pelham passed a hand over his haggard features. "To make terms. Only I'm not in a position to make terms. Not since last night. That's what's silly— my forgetting."

"Still. I must have had a reason," said the Gray Ghost. "And you do not belittle me in your thought by crediting me with a cheap desire for triumph. Not really."

"Well, what do you want."

The Gray Ghost leaned forward. "I want you. Mr. Pelham. I never hoped to enlist a gentleman. I must do with such cattle as Beagle, here." He looked scornfully at his chief lieutenant. "I want a man of imagination, of genius such as you have shown you possess. I need such a man, Mr. Pelham. Your rash infatuation for a girl has ruined you. Your world can know you no longer. Will you come to my world?"

"Turn criminal?" Pelham stared at him. "You're mad," he cried.

"Think of prison: think of the electric chair. And then think of freedom; think of life. What do you say, Mr. Pelham?"

"I say no," replied Pelham.

"Yet you came here with Beagle. Why? I'll tell you why: because you were desperate. But you are still desperate. I alone can protect you, can hide you, can save you. Will you pay the price of safety? Of course you say no now, but tomorrow— let us wait until tomorrow, Mr. Pelham. Unless you are certain you will not change and wish me to send for the police now."

Pelham stared at him. "Let me— think it over," he said slowly.

OVER the Gray Ghosts wrinkled features spread a smile of triumph. It vanished as his butler knocked upon the door and entered, the Gray Ghost's table and departed.

The Gray Ghost picked it up and read it. The smile that had been interrupted returned to his lips, with malevolent cruelty added. He spoke to Beagle:

"Beagle. I told you that you had overlooked the most important thing of all. And you ask me what Mr. Pelham's brilliance had to do with his shooting of his partner in a quarrel over a girl. Beagle, Miss Stacy Legendre was born, as any newspaper file would Inform you. In Suntown, Mo. Suntown is not far from St. Louis, and I have agents there. The young lady lived there until she was eighteen. Let me read you this telegram;

Young woman you mention of French-Canadian descent; only living relatives mother and grandmother; both residing here. They state she has no uncle In York.

That's the important thing you overlooked. Beagle. The other thing, your question— watch him Beagle!"

But Beagle did not need the warning; a revolver had appeared in his hand before the Gray Ghost had finished reading the telegram, and Pelham knew better than to move.

The Gray Ghost smiled malevolently.

"Beagle wanted to know, Mr. Pelham— but you heard me repeat his question. Here's the answer: only a brilliant man would have conceived the idea of pretending to become a criminal himself in order to win his way to me. At least, only an extraordinarily brilliant man would have conceived this particular plan. I congratulate you, Mr. Pelham, and I regret that the association for which I had hoped can never be realized. But no falsehood can successfully impersonate a truth for long. You had a weak spot in your plan,. Mr. Pelham."

Pelham stared at him. He wondered if ever any one would succeed In mastering the genius of crime who sneered at him now. His elaborate pretense of a love affair with Stacy Legendre, who had been persuaded through promises of great publicity to pose as Tryon's niece; his realistic quarrel with Tryon; his planting evidence of the bad feeling between Tryon and himself with servants; the engaging of doctors and hospital authorities and certain police officials to assist in the pretense of a murderous assault: the realism with which the police had undertaken the task of searching for him; all these had failed.

The Gray Ghost's penetrating intelligence had reached evidence and seen the truth. And now he, Jimmy Pelham, was in the Gray Ghost's power. Unless Jerry, whose men had followed him to the rooming house. In the hope that the Gray Ghost would do exactly as he had done, had been able to keep pace with the limousine which had conveyed Pelham here, he edged near the table. If he could hurl a book, an inkstand, a paper weight through the window and warn Jerry's men, who must be outside, of his danger. But as he moved something crashed against the street door. It must be Jerry; it must be!

The Gray Ghost leaped to his feet; he glared at Pelham.

"You are a genius, Mr. Pelham. So you had yourself followed here and—"

Pelham leaped across the table. The Gray Ghost, agile despite his years and apparent feebleness, moved to one side. Beagle fired as his master moved.

"NO FAKE about this wound, Mr. Pelham," said Jerry Tryon the next day. He was sitting on the edge of Pelham's bed— a bed which held a white faced man whose scalp was covered with a bandage.  "An inch lower and he would have got you."

Pelham sighed. "And to think that he did just what we agreed he would do— investigate, be deceived,  and send for me. To think that, having been able to fool his followers who have been shadowing use for weeks, we couldn't fool him."

"Quit worrying," said Jerry, with gruff kindliness. "So long as you're alive I ain't got a kick in the world. Why, Mr. Pelham, when I heard that shot it seemed to me— aw, you know what I mean. If only I'd sense enough to watch the whole block of houses, so he couldn't slip away… We'll get him yet."

"I hope so," said Pelham. But his tone was none to confident. The Gray Ghost would not be so easily deceived again. He had been found this once;  time alone could tell whether or not he would be found again.

_________________________

2: The Dayless Diamonds

Arthur Somers Roche

The Sunday Star, Washington, D.C. 18 Nov 1923

PELHAM slipped his key into the lock, but before he could turn it the door was opened from within. Slim Dickenson stared at his master.

"This is one deuce of a time to come home, Mr. Pelham," said the ex-guide severely. "You may picture yourself a gay young buck, but you look eighty-five!"

Pelham surrendered his hat and coat and walked into the living room of his apartment. He surveyed the bubbling percolator upon a table, and rubbed his hands together in delightful anticipation. He spoke over his shoulder. "Slim, you're a jewel."

He sat down before the laden table and reached for a napkin. Slim crossed the little living room almost in a stride. Then he reappeared, bearing a bowl of oatmeal.

"I went to bed at eleven last night, but I didn't go to sleep. And at three I got up. and I've been up ever since." he said acidly.

Pelham rose with a suddenness of movement that bespoke nervous energy allied to trained muscles. His arm went around the ex-guide's shoulders.

"Some day I'm going to forget what a puny specimen you are," smiled Pelham. "And I'm going to show you what a right cross is like."

The dour look left Dickenson's eyes; his mouth parted in a grin.

"How many times have you filled that percolator since 3 o'clock?" demanded Pelham.

"Plenty," replied Slim.

"Then you're due to drink some of it."

A light of mischief appeared In Dickenson's light blue eyes. "I guess I know my place."

"Your place will be standing on your ear in a corner in about a second." Dickenson's grin grew broader.

"Oh, well, if that's the way you feel."

But he sighed hungrily as he pulled up a chair to the table. Pelham was famished, and so was Slim.

As often together in the Maine woods, ravenous from a day's fishing, they had eaten in silence, so they ate now. But finally Pelham lighted a cigarette.

"Now for a bath and ten hours' sleep," he announced.

"It seems to me that before you pound your ear, you ought to be makin' some comment on a remark of mine," suggested Slim.

Pelham's gray eyes twinkled. "Quite true," he agreed. "I've been talking, arguing, pleading, cajoling, bribing, and promising all night long, with the sweetest collection of rascals ever gathered together in one room."

"The Gray Ghost's gang?" asked Slim.

"Those of them whom, in various occasions, we've managed to capture. There isn't one of them who doesn't face at least fifteen years in prison, and yet not a single word did I get that would lead me one inch nearer to the Gray Ghost than I am at this minute. They won't betray him. The district attorney rounded them all up, and I kept after them all night."

"Didn't you get anything?" asked Slim.

"Well," conceded Pelham reluctantly, "maybe the barest possible clue— but I don't think so. And now I'm going to bed."

But on the threshold of his bedroom he paused.

"Sorry, Slim, that I didn't think to telephone you where I was."

"That's all right. Mr. Pelham," replied Slim gruffly. He was busy a few minutes clearing away the breakfast dishes. Then silence descended upon the little apartment.

IT was five in the afternoon when insistent knocking on the front door broke the slumbers of master and man. Slim opened the door, disclosing the aggressive face of Jerry Tryon, the ex-lieutenant of police, who now headed the detective agency in which Pelham was consulting partner. In his hand he bore a copy of a Sunday newspaper.

"Mr. Pelham isn't up yet." said Slim.

"Yes. I am too," called Pelham from his bedroom. The two men met in the lining room. "Haven't read the papers eh?" demanded Tryon. He unfolded the Sphere as he spoke, and showed an illustrated double-page article in the magazine section.

Pelham glanced at it carelessly, then looked at Jerry.

"What does it say?" he asked.

"This man Dayless." cried Jerry, "has described for the benefit of the world— and the Gray Ghost— every safeguard that he has used to protect his house. He has described in detail every painting, every jewel, in the collection. And when the reporter— I'll say for that lad that he has a lot more sense than Dayless— asked him if he wished the details published. Dayless replied—"

He snatched the paper from Pelham's hand and read the offensive sentences.

'Certainly,' replied the former governor. ' I'm not afraid of burglars. In fact. I'll be glad to have them warned of the uselessness of attempting to rob my home. And if these electrical alarms, and the presence of ten armed watchmen, are not sufficient to warn criminals away from my house, perhaps the fact that the Tryon Detective Agency is under contract to keep operatives here day and night will be an added deterrent.'

Jerry hurled the paper into a corner, and almost danced in his rage.

Pelham laughed at him. "I don't see anything to become excited about, Jerry," he said.

"You're afraid that the Gray Ghost will rob Dayless, and that we will be laughed at again," said Pelham.

Jerry shrugged his thick shoulders. "I don't care how much we're laughed at," he said. "But, you know, we did hope that the Gray Ghost would attempt a raid on Dayless' home. Now. read this."

He handed Pelham a letter. The younger man opened it. It read:

My Dear Mr. Tryon: I have read this morning's Sphere. In order to relieve your mind, let me tell you that plans already made by me to relieve your Client, Governor Dayless, of certain articles which he is to vulgar to appreciate, have been abandoned by me. I feel it would be unfair for me to permit you to indulge in useless worry. Faithfully yours.

Peter Ballantyne.

Pelham whistled. "Thoughtful of him." he commented. "Becoming a sportsman in his later years."

"All right, laugh if you can," grumbled Jerry. "But it would be just like him to double-cross us."

"Oh, forget him." counseled Pelham. "He's on our mind too much."

"On yours," corrected Jerry. "And that's another reason I came over here today."

He looked appraisingly at the young-old man whom circumstances had changed from a sport-loving millionaire into the keenest detective of his day, the one person who had been able to cope, with comparative success, with the Gray Ghost, whose return after years of silence to predatory activity had rendered panic-stricken the bankers: and jewelers of New York.

"You look like the devil," said Jerry severely.

"Up all night giving the third degree to some of our friends." Pelham defended. "Of course, I look tired. Who wouldn't?"

"You shouldn't," replied Jerry. "You see, I've been a cop all my days, and I ain't got a nerve in my system. I ain't a genius; I'm a bull. But you are different. You are made of steel wire, and wire snaps. Do you know what you are going to do?"

FROM the pocket of his dressing gown Jimmy Pelham produced a silver case; from it he took a cigarette which he lighted and puffed before replying. Then he said: "All right, Mr. Bones, I'll bite. What am I going to do?"

Into Tryon's blue eyes crept a gleam of satisfaction. From his waistcoat pocket he drew an envelope. He handed it to Pelham, who opened it and examined its contents. Upon the face of the younger man appeared an expression of pleasure.

"A drawing room to Palm Beach, eh?" His eyes clouded suddenly. "Hang it, Jerry, this is no time "

"The train leaves at eight tonight. This is Sunday. You'll arrive Tuesday in time for eighteen holes in the afternoon. Then you'll have dinner and you'll go to bed. Dr. Tryon speaking, If you don't mind. On Wednesday you stay In bed until eleven, then you go for a swim. In the afternoon you do twenty-seven holes and go to bed early. Same thing on Thursday. On Friday you play thirty-six holes. By Saturday you ought to be able to lick your weight in wildcats. So you stay up until nine o'clock." He raised his hand warningly. "Wait a minute; I'm not through yet. On Sunday you go over to the club, taking with you $1,000 of Tryon agency money, and invest it according to your own judgment. I myself have a fancy for red, but I leave It to you."

"Get thee behind me. Satan," said Pelham. "Never mind the pet names; get dressed and we'll go out to dinner. Dickenson will pack your bags and bring your golf clubs to the train."

Jerry was quite masterful. Into Pelham's eyes flashed a light of excitement. He looked away from his friend and partner when he spoke.

"It's early yet, Jerry," he said. "I'll have to write some letters after I'm dressed. Suppose we meet at seven."

They dined in a quiet little restaurant. Jerry accompanied his friend to the train. He sighed with relief as the car disappeared in the direction of the tube to Jersey.

Jimmy Pelham was not merely the greatest detective In the world, to Tryon's thinking, but he was also the finest man alive. Jerry had been worrying for weeks about his partner. And when in Saturday's papers he read that Pelham had qualified for the first sixteen in the play for the Lake Worth cup, Tryon was overjoyed.

A WELL TRAINED servant, deft, yet whose deference suggested to the caller his thoroughly British contempt for his vulgar American surroundings, ushered the visitor into the presence of the Hon. George Dayless.

"Mr. Reginald Minturn," he said, stepping aside to permit Mr. Minturn's entrance into the Dayless library.

Dayless looked up from behind the onyx table at which he sat. He was a gross-seeming person, very bristly of mustache and red of neck. Yet his face was kindly. He pushed back his chair and heavily gained his feet. He thrust out a fat hand.

"Glad to see you, Minturn," he said. Then he sat down and rubbed his hands together. "I've been an ambitious man all my life, but I never hoped to have a duke's nephew working for me. It certainly would make my father laugh!"

Minturn smiled. He was a well set-up man of about thirty-five, immaculately dressed. He looked around the library.

"I say, there isn't much order to it all, now is there, what?"

Dayless chuckled. "That's what you're here for, young feller, me lad. You've catalogued and appraised sixty or seventy museums—"

Minturn raised a protesting hand. "Two, or perhaps three, Mr. Dayless."

"Well, you got the gaudiest references I ever saw. Go to it, kid, and let me know just what I have in this place, and how it all should be arranged."

Minturn smiled pleasantly; he had a charming, ingenuous air. "Thank you: I'll look around a bit first, what?"

"Nice boy," said Dayless to his wife that night. They had dined en famille, and the new secretary had charmed his employer's wife.

AT eleven that night a knock sounded sounded upon the door of Dayless' library. He was seated again behind the onyx table, a medieval piece of furniture rendered bizarre by the filing oases on one end. He looked up, calling: "Come in."

The door opened, and Minturn entered the room.

"Sorry to disturb you, sir," said the young Englishman, "but there was something I wished to ask you."

"Not disturbing me at all." said Dayless. His small eyes twinkled approvingly at his visitor. "I wish to goodness that I could get a valet who knew bow to fasten a dress tie. You English certainly have the knack."

Minturn smiled. "Let me show you."

Dayless sat up straight, his head tilted back. Minturn stepped behind him. His hand flashed into the pocket of his dinner jacket, to reappear holding a handkerchief. There was the faint tinkle of broken glass, and then the chloroform-saturated bit of linen was thrust against the nose and mouth of Dayless.

Beyond one convulsive struggle, Dayless offered no resistance. He grew limp: he slid from his chair.

But his watchful assailant, slipping his hand under his employer's arms, eased his fall so that no sound could be heard in the hall beyond the closed door of the library.

For a moment Minturn stared down at his victim. His eyes showed alarm. He bent swiftly over and felt the heart of Dayless. Dayless, although unconscious, was alive.

And now Minturn showed a brisk alertness very different from the methodical manner which seemed to belong to him. From Dayless' pocket he drew a key ring. He walked directly to a huge safe in a corner of the great room.

The Englishman tried several keys. He was finally successful. The heavy door swung silently open, disclosing numerous compartments, each labeled. He attacked the compartment which bore the superscription "Jenny's Necklace." The third key which he inserted, opened the drawer. He drew out a  limp object wrapped in tissue paper. He opened it, glanced at the jewels that sparkled in the electric light, and thrust his booty into an inside pocket. He inserted another key into a lock above which were the words "Unset Rubies." The lock did not yield to his pressure; he turned the key violently, and it broke in his hand. The same thing happened with the next compartment which he endeavored to open.

And then Dayless moved and groaned.

Like a flash Minturn crossed the room. He opened the door, passed through It, and closed it softly behind him. He walked along the hall to the great stairway that descended to the street floor. Leisurely he walked to the lower floor. There he encountered the footman who had admitted him earlier in the day. The man ventured a smile.

"Anything I can do for you, sir?" He recognized in Minturn that superior clay which he so rarely encountered in America.

"No thank you," replied the latest addition to the Dayless household. "I'm  ways a bit restless my first night in new quarters, and I thought I'd take a look at the avenue before I turned in."

"Quite so," said the servant.

He fetched Minturn's hat and coat and assisted him in donning the latter. He opened the door and ushered Minturn out of the house.

Across the street a man woke from watchful inactivity. He gained the front steps before the door was closed. But the footman smilingly reassured him.

"It's all right; this is Mr. Reginald Minturn, secretary to Mr. Dayless."

THE outside guardian of the Dayless palace scrutinized the young Englishman carefully. He saw a plump-faced young man, whose hair was quite black and whose tiny mustache was equally dark. He nodded respectfully.

"All right, sir: we have to be careful, you know," he said.

"And quite right too." agreed Minturn. "If I were Mr. Dayless, I'd keep an army here."

The man grinned. "Well, we don't need quite that." He was tolerant and affable in his manner. Evidently Dayless' new secretary didn't know that the Tryon Detective Agency was guarding this house.

"Where's the nearest entrance to the park?" asked Minturn.

"Sixty-fifth street," was the guard's reply. "But I wouldn't advise any one to go strolling there this time of night. There've been too many hold-ups there lately."

Minturn laughed. "How exciting! I fancy I've nothing on me worth a footpad's time and trouble. And I wouldn't mind a little tussle."

"You could take care of yourself, at that," said the Tryon operative. He looked over the lithe figure of the secretary with admiration. "Still, don't look for trouble."

"I won't," promised Minturn.

"Nice chap," said the operative to the footman, who lingered at the open door.

"His uncle's the Duke of Bournemouth," said the footman.

"I don't care; he's a nice chap just the same," said the free-born American citizen. Then he walked across the street and ensconced himself on the low stone wall that guarded the park, hidden in the shade of a great tree.

Motor cars were not yet returning from the theaters. In a quarter of an hour the street would he noisy, filled with bustle, but now it was quiet.

It did not remain so. Exactly seven minutes after Minturn had left the house the footman discovered his master, in a semi-conscious condition on the library floor.

Within three minutes after that men on motor cycles were scouring the park in search of Reginald Minturn. But they were exactly eight minutes too late. For two minutes after the secretary had left the footman and the operative he had entered the 65th-Street entrance to the park, stepped into a waiting limousine and sped away.

A little later he changed to another car, which machine deposited him five minutes afterward in front of a house on Stuyvesant Square whose recent renovations had made it extremely suitable for bachelors.

Mr. Minturn alighted from the car, bade a cheery good night to his chauffeur, opened the outer door with one latchkey, entered and a moment later opened with a second key the door to a snug apartment on the second floor.

He awoke at nine the following morning, rang a bell, and in fifteen minutes, bathed and shaved and attired in a dressing gown, was attacking breakfast and the morning paper simultaneously.

Glaring headlines leaped at him from the front page. Dayless had consented to receive newspaper men shortly after the police had been summoned to his house. He was weak and pale, but emphatic in his belief that his secretary was an emissary of the Gray Ghost. His credentials had been flawless, but doubtless forgeries.

The reporters agreed with Dayless. Only the fact that the robber had been content with one hit of loot argued against the theory that the Gray Ghost had been responsible for the crime. For it was not the Gray Ghost's way to be content with a fraction of the whole, even though that fraction was worth half a million dollars. Still, the broken keys in the locks of the safe compartments tended to show that the robber had had but little time in which to effect his purpose.

Minturn smiled. Having breakfasted, he dressed leisurely, with extreme care, avoiding any article of apparel which had been worn in the Dayless household. Somehow he seemed no longer an Englishman. He might have passed, minus the mustache which he removed, as an alert but indistinguishable broker or lawyer or certified accountant.

FOR a man sought by the whole city he seemed quite confident in his bearing. He crossed Stuyvesant Square and turned to the west. He made his way to Broadway, and at 14th street engaged a taxi, in which he drove to Maiden lane. There he dismissed his driver, walked half a block and darted suddenly into a shop on whose window were printed the words "F. H. Lewis, Diamonds."

A suave, olive-skinned youth greeted him. Minturn was brusque.

"I want to talk with Mr. Lewis." he said.

The clerk looked at him doubtfully. "Mr. Lewis is busy," he stated. He glanced toward a door on which appeared the word "Private."

Minturn acted in a decisive fashion. He strolled by the clerk, reached the door, opened it, and entered the room. A bearded man, short and fat, looked up from the table at which he sat. A magnifying glass that was screwed, monocle-fashion, into his eye, fell to the table. He was a man of as quick decision as his caller. With the lightning motions of a prestidigitator his hand opened a drawer and reappeared holding a revolver. The unset jewels on the table amply justified his precaution. Also the clerk had followed the visitor into the private office, and he was armed.

But Minturn laughed. "Send your clerk out of the room," he said. "Keep your gun trained on me if you like. But do I look like a robber?"

Lewis motioned to the clerk, who promptly stepped across the threshold and closed the door.

"What do you want?" asked Lewis. His weapon was ready, and his small black eyes stared at his visitor.

"I am going to put my hand in my pocket, but I'm not going to produce a gun." smiled Minturn.

Lewis shrugged. "You won't if you're wise," he stated.

His visitor took the words as permission to go ahead. From the inner pocket of his coat he produced the tissue paper parcel that he had taken the night before from the Dayless safe. He placed it upon the table and opened it.

Lewis glanced at it; drops of moisture appeared suddenly upon his forehead. His tongue showed between his thick lips, as he moistened them.

"My foot is on a button," he said. "All I have to do is press it, and in less than five minutes the police will be here."

Minturn smiled again. "But you aren't going to press it," he retorted confidently.

"Get to the point," snapped Lewis.

"These are the Dayless diamonds; you know that without my telling you. If you deliver me to the police, you may get ten thousand dollars as a reward. If you buy them from me, your profit should be a quarter of a million. You don't look like a fool."

"Do I look like a thief?" said Lewis.

"Do I?" continued Minturn. "I can't see that our appearances matter particularly. Do we do business?" He carefully rewrapped the necklace and placed it in his pocket.

"Well?" he demanded. "Come back this afternoon," said Lewis hoarsely.

MINTURN nodded, and without another word left the office. He walked toward Broadway, but a few doors from that street he stepped into a taxi drawn up at the curb.

So it was that, when the olive-skinned clerk emerged, a few moments later, from the jewelry establishment, he was followed by a taxicab whose driver, having some difficulty with his carburetor, could proceed only at a snail's pace.

The clerk was watchfully suspicious, but it never occurred to him that if he were followed it was by a person in an automobile. And Minturn's taxi man was clever. Although the clerk, entering an automobile near Park Row, dodged and doubled and retraced his course, when at last he entered an apartment house in West End avenue, Minturn was close enough to note the number.

He was then driven to Union Square. There he dismissed the taxi man, and walked rapidly toward the apartment which he had left a couple of hours earlier. He was whistling as he unlocked the door of his apartment. But the whistle died away as he entered the room. For three men awaited him and were upon him. One of them was the Tyron operative who had conversed with him the previous night. Handcuffs were on his wrists before he could utter a word of protest.

"Not so clever as you thought, Mr. Minturn," said one of the men.

Minturn held out his hands.

"Take these blasted things off," he ordered. "I'm Pelham."

One of the men ran his hands over his clothing and brought to light the Dayless necklace.

"Sure you ain't the King of Spain?" he laughed.

Their prisoner gave up protest.

"All right, rush me down to headquarters as fast as you can; I won't argue with you."

"Sensible man," said his acquaintance of the night before.

Now, detectives are ordinary human beings; It was not to be expected that, having achieved so brilliant a capture, they should fail to inform the newspaper men whom they found loitering in the corridor outside the  detective bureau of their triumph. By the time that Important police officials had finally yielded to the urgent messages sent to them by the prisoner and had consented to see him, extra editions were upon the street proclaiming to an applauding public that the Dayless robber had been captured, and that he professed to be James Pelham of the Tryon Detective Agency.

And when released, Pelham sped in a police automobile, to the address on West End avenue, he found that a hurried exodus had been achieved fifteen minutes earlier by the tenants of the apartment on the second floor. And the description which the apartment house employees gave him of one of those tenants fitted the Gray Ghost perfectly.

"I'm sorry, Jerry," said Pelham, a little later in the day. "Here's what happened. The Gray Ghost had written that he would make no effort to rob Dayless. I knew, from a hint dropped by one of the Gray Ghost s men during course of the third degree I put them through that Lewis was acting as 'fence' for the disposal of much of the Gray Ghost's plunder. I decided that if I robbed Dayless and showed the result to Lewis he would at once ask the Gray Ghost's advice— that Lewis could lead me to his hiding place.

"You see, when you left me that Sunday we talked about my going to Palm Beach, I saw two people. One of them was my cousin, Freddie Thurlow. He looks something like me, so I took the chance that there'll be no one at Palm Beach Just now who knew either of us.

"Then I went to Dayless. I told him frankly what a fool he'd made of himself by  his interview, and explained to him my plan. He's a roughneck, but a regular fellow. Just the same. In fact, he insisted that I actually chloroform him so that there'll not be a suspicion aroused in the minds of the servants or detectives around the place. He went through with it like the good sport that he is. And then you, confound your ugly face—"

"It wasn't me." said Jerry ungrammatically. "It's just that you didn't give due credit to our men. You see. I'd issued orders, after all that publicity, that if Dayless was robbed I'd fire the whole staff. And so every man in our employ was combing the city. It happened that a taxi man had seen the number of the car that waited for you in Central Park. The driver of that car told of leaving you outside a hotel. The starter happened to notice you. Oh, the boys had luck, but even so it was slick work. If only you'd told me what you were doing— why didn't you telephone me the minute you saw where Lewis's clerk went?''

"I wanted to be certain; I'd only suspicions. I intended waiting until afternoon, then calling again upon Lewis, making sure that he really did deal with the Gray Ghost."

"But why the deuce," demanded Jerry in exasperation, "didn't you tell me what you planned to do?"

Pelham grinned feebly.

"Hang it all, Jerry, you were so dead sure that I was on the verge of a nervous breakdown that I couldn't stand the gaff any longer. I wanted to show you how wrong you were."

"Much obliged." said Jerry dryly. Then he relented. "It's all right, Mr. Pelham, only I don't think you ought to forget again that we are partners,"

"I won't," promised Pelham humbly.

Jerry sighed. "A fine laugh the Gray Ghost is having at us, and the whole city is joining in with him."

Pelham flushed.

"He laughs best who laughs last," he reminded Tryon.

"I've heard that before," grunted Jerry. "But I think I'm getting a permanently cracked lip."

_________________________

3: A Flutter in Finance

Arthur Somers Roche

The Sunday Star, Washington, D.C., 23 SEP 1923

ACROSS the breakfast table, Mrs. Jonathan Cornwallis looked furtively at her husband. The trim maid— the Cornwallses refused to employ menservants—had left the room. In accordance with her custom, The Cornwallises liked to have the last few moments of the morning meal to themselves.

"I wanted.” said Mrs. Cornwallis, timidly, "to talk about Mary." Her timidity was entirely assumed, as was the furtiveness of her glance. It was a well established fiction between them that Jonathan was gruff and grumpy and must be approached delicately, circuitously.

“Well, now, what is it this time?” demanded the husband.

"It seems to me that ever since Mary married her worthless professor I've done nothing but contribute to their support.”

“Jonathan Cornwallis, you ought to be ashamed of yourself," his wife rebuked him. "You know that you're prouder of Mary for having married Tom Curtiss than If she'd married the President. The most distinguished explorer In America!”

"And what does the distinguished gentleman's wife want now?” demanded Jonathan.

"Well, the university can't send out the expedition to the south this year. Mary thought—”

“Oh, she thought, did she?" Jonathan's sarcasm was unconvincing.

“And I think,” went on his wife. Ignoring the Interruption, "that it would be a very fine thing If you presented the university with half a million in order that the expedition should not be delayed.”

"Humph! Haw!" grunted Jonathan. “It’s a lot of money."

"Cant you spare it?” asked his wife.

"Permit me, madam, to finish my sentences. As I was about to say. It’s a lot of money. but not enough. By tomorrow morning I expect that a certain matter, the details of which would bore you, will be settled. The first thing that I shall do will be to write a check, payable to the university, for one million dollars.”

His wife rose, went around the table and kissed him.

“Make it two million if you'll kiss me again like that,” he said.

"You get sillier every minute.” declared Mrs. Cornwallis.

"You get prettier,” he countered gracefully.

"For a silly man you have amazing judgment." she told him.

"I wish you'd be more respectful. Mrs. Cornwallis,” he said sternly.

"Good morning, Mr. Cornwallis; it’s time you went to your office and I attended to my day's labors,” said his wife. But she accompanied him to the front door, patted him on the shoulder as she helped him into his coat, and gave him. gratis, a million dollar kiss before he left.

So that he was smiling, greatly contented with the world and his place therein, as he entered his waiting limousine.

TODAY, although his wife did not know it— it was a surprise which he held In reserve for her— he expected to retire from the active management of his business affairs. For months he had been negotiating for the sale of his Interest In the Federated Motor Patents Company. A combination of that concern with several other similar companies was almost effected. Once the final papers were signed, he would retire.

It was a matter that involved payment to him of some fifteen million dollars in bonds of the new holding company, and it had taken months to get affairs In shape. Now they were in order.

He planned to take his wife aboard a certain huge yacht, and set sail for the South Seas. Dreams, that devotion to business had made it impossible to realise, were coming true at last. So he smiled, his eyes half closed; and so he was unaware of the sudden threat toward his life that the carelessness of two chauffeurs created.

Seeing an opening between a taxicab and a truck in front of him, Cornwallis’ chauffeur made for It. He blew his horn thrice as he did so, but instead of turning in toward the curb the driver of the truck turned outward, to the left. And the driver of the taxicab, glancing back over his shoulder, seemed to lose his head completely. He applied the brakes to his car, and It came almost to a stop.

Not even the quick braking by Cornwallis’ chauffeur could prevent the limousine from being jammed between the two other machines. Even so, the slow rate of speed at which the three vehicles were moving seemed to have precluded the possibility of accident.

The policeman at the next street intersection was amazed when Cornwallis’ chauffeur, who had leaped from his seat and opened the door of the car, and leaned inside, emerged and wildly waved his hands. The policeman ran to assist. He waved the taxi and truck to the curb, and, noting that, beyond a crushed fender and some scraped paint, the limousine had suffered no damage, he looked inside the body of Cornwallis' car.

"Shock, I guess,” said the chauffeur.

The officer looked at the financier, whose form had slumped to the floor of the ear, and whose face was white. He saw that the eyes were closed.

"Better rush him home.” he advised. He returned to the chauffeur, but that person was in the middle of the street, holding both hands high in the air, stopping an approaching ambulance. A white-jacketed man swung down from the interior and ran to the limousine. He laid a finger on the wrist of the unconscious financier; his face grew grave: he leaned farther inside, loosened Cornwallis' collar, and placed his ear over the victim's heart.

“Lucky I came along when I did,” he said. He spoke to the chauffeur. "Help me carry him into the ambulance. I'll rush him to the hospital."

"Serious?” asked the policeman.

The ambulance physician shrugged. "He's an elderly man, and you never can tell what shock will do.”

The officer produced a notebook.

"Who is he?"

"Jonathan Cornwallis,” replied the chauffeur.

The policeman whistled.

“Well, It wasn't anybody's fault, really, but I think I'll have to arrest all three of you chauffeurs."

The ambulance was driven away, bearing the still unconscious financier, and the early afternoon newspapers proclaimed to an interested public that Jonathan Cornwallis lay in the private hospital of Dr. Morgan Leclerc, and that his condition was serious.

THE stock market responds instantly to certain news. The exchange closed in the middle of a furious bear drive upon Federated Motor Patents stock. When the closing hour came to the rescue of the bulls, who, in view of the prospective amalgamation had been active with the stock, they had suffered a loss of five points. In a thirty-million-dollar corporation this amounted to a million and a half. For all the world knew that, in the event of Cornwallis’ death, the proposed amalgamation would be indefinitely postponed, and his stock would not be worth nearly so much as its recent quotations.

Not merely as a financier, but as a philanthropist, Cornwallis was of interest to the public. It read every bulletin issued by Dr. Leclerc and Dr. Madison, the private physician of the millionaire, who agreed with Leclerc that it would be fatal for Cornwallis to be moved from the hospital, and who even refused admittance to the sick chamber to Mrs. Cornwallis and her daughters.

Next morning Cornwallis' associates in the amalgamation rallied to the defense of their stock, but shortly before closing hour a drive of sales depressed the price badly. It closed two points worse than the day before. On the next day the stock rallied in the early hours, but after luncheon It reached a new low level. During all this time Drs. Madison and Leclerc issued bulletins, and the world learned that Jonathan Cornwallis seemed to be losing steadily in his battle for life. He had not recovered consciousness. His wife had finally been admitted Into the sick room, but was permitted to remain only a moment; her own condition was near to collapse.

On Saturday, at closing time, Federated Motors had dropped twenty-five points, representing a loss of over seven million dollars. Those men interested in keeping up the price visited the physicians in charge of the unconscious financier and pleaded with them to issue more favorable bulletins, or to cease issuing any reports whatsoever concerning the condition of Cornwallis.

The doctors indignantly refused. Justly replying that Jonathan Cornwallis was a national figure, and that the right of the public to receive information concerning him was superior to the rights of a clique of stock traders. Even the representation made to them by Cornwallis' attorneys— that they were costing their patient millions— failed to move them.

"THE most ethical bunch of throat-cutters I ever ran into,” declared ex-Senator Devine of Devine. Bellows, Devine & Devine, attorneys for Cornwallis. He was speaking to his nephew, the Junior member of the firm, Anthony Devine. They were dining at their club.

The young man grinned. "If I weren't a practicing lawyer, and didn't know better. I’d say that there ‘ought to be a law.’ Certainly doctors ought not to be permitted to ruin their patients.”

His uncle spilled wryly. "Not financially, anyway.” He called to an Immaculately dressed gentleman, with graying hair, keen eyes, and a thin, sensitive nose. “Hello, there, Pelham,” he cried. “Why not show a friendly spirit?”

Smilingly Jimmy Pelham, the silent partner In the Tryon Detective Agency, approached and dropped into a chair at the table of the two Devines.

“I dislike to seem to offer advice to a distinguished member of the bar, but if I were you I'd gag the loquacious physicians of your client, Jonathan Cornwallis. I hoar talk to the effect that their garrulity has cost their patient, and your client, millions already."

“You hear truth,” declared the senior Devine. “If the accident to the old gentleman had been foreseen, and his doctors bribed, it couldn't have worked more strongly to his disadvantage.”

“Who's behind the bear raid?" Pelham asked.

Devine shrugged. "Simmons & Leidy are the brokers handling practically all of the selling in Federated Motors. Why?”

Pelham’s forehead wrinkled. “What Sort of firm are they? Seems to me that I’ve heard rumors about them.”

"Well," replied the elder Devine, cautiously, "I respect the libel laws highly. But I will say that If they hadn't had excellent counsel they'd have been suspended last winter.”

“Who are their clients in this attack on Federated Motors?” asked Pelham.

Young Devine laughed grimly. "If we could answer that, don’t you think we'd have been to see them?”

"Why, we'd have arranged some sort of compromise,” ejaculated the elder lawyer.

Young Devine vented some of the anger within him. "You'd think that Simmons & Leidy knew the exact moment when old Cornwallis was going to have his accident. They'd been selling quietly from the moment the exchange opened, and the minute that news of the mishap reached the exchange their floormen began unloaing with both hands. Itc ouldn’t have been timed prettier.”'

Pelham’s brow came closer together.

“Unless this accident, which prevented the closing of the amalgamation. had occurred, the stock would have gone ’way up, wouldn’t it?”

"Bound to,” assented Tony Devine.

“No sane trader, then, would have tried to bear the market on Federated Motors?” asked Pelham.

“No sane one,” answered the elder Devine, emphatically. “And it didn’t look like a spontaneous movement, this selling? It looked like an organized plan, eh?”

The two lawyers exchanged glances. “What are you driving at?” demanded the older man.

Pelham ignored the question. "Since they were so close to bankruptcy and suspension last winter, have Simmons & Leidy numbered any big operators among their clientele?"

The Devines shook their heads. Tony answered; "They’ve barely kept above water.”

“It wouldn’t be possible to find out whom they were acting for?" inquired Pelham.

"We’ve tried," said the elder Devine, "but there are no leaks In that office.”

“Suppose I try?" suggested Pelham.

“What are you driving at?" asked the senior lawyer again.

“I made a suggestion; do you wish to retain me?" fenced Pelham.

“You're retained,’’ said the former senator.

THE more Jimmy Pelham thought about the bear raid on Federated Motors, the more he became convinced that design, not coincidence, had timed the beginning of the selling operation. If Pelham could find out who had learned of the accident at about the moment of its occurrence, he would be near to knowing who was behind the bear raid.

Of course, some stock speculator, passing in his own motor, could have seen the collision between Cornwallis’ limousine and the other cars. But even had he recognized the old man and seen that he was unconscious, he would hardly have assumed that his accident was serious. No sensible man would have risked hundreds of thousands on such a chance.

And yet, according to further Information given him by the Devines. thousands of shares of Federated Motors had been offered for sale the minute the exchange opened, a good two hours before news of the accident had become public. The accident had occurred at 9:50. The old man must have been In Dr. Leclerc's hospital by 9:45. Between that time and 10 o’clock. Information as to the financier’s condition must have retched the client of Simmons & Leidy. Who had given that information?

By Tuesday morning he had learned that only one telephone call had been recorded in the central office as having been made from the hospital between the hours of 9:30 and 10 :46. That call had been put In at five minutes of 10 and was to Mrs. Cornwallis. And the Cornwallis telephone had not been used, for an outgoing call, until after eleven o’clock. Clearly, then, the information as to the injury to the financier had come from neither the hospital nor his home.

Senator Devine, by Tuesday, was close to nervous prostration. For the attacks on Federated Motors seemed to have gathered new vigor over the week end. The stock slumped badly on Monday and sank even lower on Tuesday. At first almost jesting in his retaining of Pelham's services, the lawyer, catching at a straw, was frantic in his appeals to the detective to “do something."

Pelham went to the police station to which Cornwallis' chauffeur and the drivers of the taxicab and truck had been taken on the morning of the accident.

Here he learned that, in view of Cornwallis’ condition, the three chauffeurs had been held on heavy bail, ten thousand dollars in each case.

Downtown he found out the name of the lawyer who had represented the drivers. And now his pulse began to quicken, for the same lawyer had represented all three men.

Pelham called upon him and plumped a question at him.

"Who retained you to act for the chauffeurs involved in the accident to Jonathan Cornwallis?”

The criminal lawyer lost his smile. “That's funny,” he said. "I've been puzzled myself. I wonder why the same man was interested in all three. However, he had a fairly plausible reason. Said that he was representing a new Insurance company. Said that these three men all had policies protecting them, guaranteeing them lawyers In case of trouble that arose from accidents that occurred in the line of their employment. He paid me a fee. and put up thirty thousand dollars in cash as ball.”

”I don't see anything in that to puzzle you. Casualty insurance Isn’t anything new,” Pelham asserted.

The lawyer grinned.

“That's what I thought, until, quite by accident, I learned that the Chauffeurs’ Interstate Casualty Company has no existence."

Pelham uttered an exclamation of dismay. He left the lawyer's office and raced uptown in a taxi, inwardly moaning because he had not got to work on this case— is it really proved to be a case— days earlier.

That there had been clues he was certain after an interview with the housekeeper at the home of Mrs. Cornwallis. The financier's wife was unable to receive him, but the elderly maid who attended to the domestic management informed him that Gaffney. Cornwallis' chauffeur, had not been around the premises since the accident.

A visit to the rooming house where Gaffney had been living revealed the fact that the chauffeur had not been seen there since the morning of his employer's last ride. Another visit to the police station gave Pelham the numbers of the taxi- cab and truck which had figured in the collision. He telephoned Jerry Tryon and suggested that Jerry put men to work running down the owners of those cars, and also finding, if possible, their chauffeurs. Then he went to the bank where Simmons & Leidy kept their account.

BANKERS are very reluctant to divulge information concerning their patrons, but in these days the name of Pelham had a magical effect. He told what he wanted, addressing Pelham leaned eagerly forward.

"That's exactly what I want to hear. To whom have their checks been payable?”

"To cash,” replied the banker.

"But that's Incredible,” cried Pelham. "Nevertheless, It’s true. They've deposited, In one afternoon, cheeks from fifty brokerage houses. On the next day they have come to the bank, one or the other of the partners, accompanied by bodyguards, and have withdrawn as much as a million dollars in cash.”

Pelham stared at him.

"Why?” he demanded.

The banker smiled. "You're the one to answer that, not I.”

Pelham sat up. late that night, going over the matter with Jerry Tryon.

“The only thing,” said Jerry, toward the end of their talk, “that seems to shed any light on the situation is the mention by Carey, the banker of the Gray Ghost.”

“I don’t see where he comes in,” objected Pelham.

"That's exactly the point,” retorted Tryon. “When you don’t see his hand, you can sort of figure that it's there, somewhere.”

Pelham chuckled. “Jerry, you’re an old woman."

"Maybe so." Jerry was stubborn. “You and I certainly do differ on the Gray Ghost. One day you see him everywhere, and he don't even creep into a corner of my eye. Next day I spot him In something, and you’re color-blind, so far as he's concerned.”

Pelham laughed again.

But long after Jerry had left the apartment Pelham sat staring into the flames in his fireplace. He admitted to himself that he had suspicions that something crooked lay behind the bear raids on Federated Motors.

The speculation of the Gray Ghost would be such only in name; in reality it would be an operation conducted with the certainty of an engineer repeating a proved problem. The Gray Ghost would pick his stock; he would make its fluctuation, its rise or fall, absolutely certain. He would pick a stock of which great things were expected along a certain line and cause opposite things to happen. But why not be specific in his dreamy theorizing? The Gray Ghost picked Federated Motors; he arranged for an accident: he planned to capitalize that accident...

Pelham rose from his chair, laughing at his own absurdity; this was a little too far-fetched.

NEXT morning he ordered Slim Dickenson, the Maine guide he had brought from the woods as his persona] attendant— and friend— to go to the offices of Simmons & Leidy end open an account.

“I want to find out who Is the client that is raiding Federated Motor*,” he told Slim, “and why Simmons & Leidy make such tremendous cash withdrawals from their bank.” He himself sought the scene of the accident and made himself known to the policeman on duty in the neighborhood, who was properly impressed at meeting the Gray Ghost's great opponent. "A private matter, officer,” Pelham explained. "We've been trying to trace the drivers of the truck and taxi. It seems that they either had false numbers or you didn't read them correctly.” _ Tryon's operatives had reported that the numbers given by the policeman were registered as belonging to owners of private cars up state. The officer shook his head. "I got those numbers right,” he declared. “Catch me making a mistake when a person like Mr. Cornwallis is injured. Say," he added, “that ambulance surgeon dropped something out of his pocket. So long as you are working for Mr. Cornwallis or hie wife you probably will see the doctor before I’ll find time to get around to his place. Would you give him this?”

He handed Pelham a small leather case.

Pelham took it and thrust It carelessly into his pocket.

"Of course I will,” he promised.

"I'd say that old boy Cornwallis must have a terrible case of heart trouble to be unconscious this long,” declared the policeman. “He wasn’t even touched."

"Well, he’s an old man,” said Pelham.

Dickenson returned to Pelham’s apartment that afternoon with a report of his experiences.

"There's a bunch of workmen in the offices of Simmons & Leidy. Makin'  alterations. Busy there all the time, tearing down partitions and building new ones. Well, I took a look around. They have a couple of safes, but, believe me, I  wouldn’t trust a nickel of mine In one of them. Old-fashioned affaire that any yegg could blow.

“And yet Simmons & Leidy are bringing about a million dollars a day in cash to their offices.

"But they don’t trust those safes.” He paused dramatically.

Pelham paid him the compliment of excitement.

"Go on, Slim!”

“The workmen tall quit at noon; they all had lunch boxes with them. You’d have thought they’d eat in the hall or on the stairs. Well, sir, they all went downstairs, carrying their lunch boxes. I followed them: sort of thought I might mix in and get acquainted.”

“Did you?" asked Pelham.

“I did not," answered Slim, with emphasis. "Why? Listen. One of those carpenters tripped on a stair; his lunch box fell and the lid flew open. Do you know what kind of sandwiches those workmen eat? Yellow ones.”

“Get to it, Slim,” ordered Pelham.

“Big yellow bills! The lunch box was jammed with money. That's where the cash goes! Well, I telephoned Mr. Tryon; he rushed a couple of men right over. They followed the workmen into a cheap restaurant, just a coffee place. They all ordered coffee, and the waiters there, when they brought them the coffee, managed to get the money out of their boxes and substituted food. Oh, according to Mr. Tryon’s men, every last one of them was a sleight-of-hand artist.”

"Pickpockets are," commented Pelham.

“You're getting it,” cried Slim. “Well, I watched the waiters. Leastwise I  watched a couple of them. The operatives tipped me off as they came out. They wore carrying suitcases, and they took them, riding in a taxi, to a house on 23d street. One of the those houses set ’way back from street, with a yard and fence. They went in, and they’re there yet, so far as I know."

FOR a long time after Slim had finished Pelham was silent. How could the Gray Ghost have foreseen, with certainty, that the financier would be immediately rendered unconscious by the accident, and that he would remain so for the better part of two weeks?

He jammed his hands into his pockets; the fingers of one hand touched something. And he knew!

He could not act without further evidence; but that came to him at nine o’clock that night. For at that hour Dr. Leclerc alighted from a taxicab before the shabby house on 23rd street, looked furtively about him, and swiftly went through the gate and up walk. As he was admitted to the house whither the waiters of the lunchroom had carried the money Tryon and Pelham, leading a score of the bravest of their operatives, smashed down the door, and entered the building....

"WHEN,” asked Jerry Tryon, late that night, "did you begin to agree with me that the Gray Ghost was in this matter?"

"When I discovered this,” said Pelham. He held out the little leather case that had been given him by the policeman.

"Know what it Is?"

Jerry wrinkled his forehead. "It might bold a fountain pen,’’ he said.

Pelham laughed grimly. "It might, but it didn’t. It held a hypodermic needle. The policeman said that Dr. Leclerc had dropped it. But if Leclerc hadn’t dropped it, and if the chauffeur of Cornwallis had dropped it, it explained everything.”

"Of course,” cried Jerry. "The missing link in the plot. The chauffeur leaned through the limousine door and jabbed the old man—”

“Exactly," said Pelham. "I had to find a connection between Leclerc and the speculators. And when Leclerc showed up— well, we know the rest. He’s confessed, and so has Madison, to being bribed to keep Cornwallis drugged. But If we could only find the man who bribed them —”

"Who is the Gray Ghost,” declared Tryon.

"Or an agent of his.” amended Pelham. He sighed. “If only he'd bring suit to recover the millions in cash we found in that 23rd street house.”

"Well,” said Jerry, “this is one time the Gray Ghost loses.”

Pelham’s face grew grave. “Think of the times he’s won," he said soberly. "Also, think of Cornwallis, drugged for a fortnight: of his wife— Jerry, the Gray Ghost owes more than he can ever pay."

“He'll settle his debts some day,” declared Tryon savagely.

"Perhaps,” said Pelham.

________________________

4: The Crafty Jerko-Slovaks

Guy Gilpatric

The Saturday Evening Post  9 Jan 1932

AS ON THAT FEBRUARY forenoon a tugboat chuffed the Inchcliffe Castle into her berth at the foot of East 15th Street, she was for once in her grubby career a thing of beauty. Six days overdue from Trieste and the Adriatic, she had been buffeted by seas, smothered by snow, stung by sleet and lashed by gales, until her rust, her scars, her dents and her dirt were mercifully, nay, magically concealed beneath a whitely glittering robe of ice.

Coming up through the Narrows in the early morning, when the smoke haze of night still drifted lazily over Manhattan, she had looked like one of those ships of spun sugar which pompous owners bestow upon retiring sea captains who would vastly prefer bonuses to banquets and cash to frosted cakes. But now that the sun had climbed above the factories, gas works, and general squalor of Long Island, the Inchcliffe Castle was no longer a mere pretty confection but a priceless jewel washed up by the sea. She was a fairy craft, a vessel of frozen flame, a diamond ship a thousand times more splendid than Nineveh's most royal quinquireme.

"Yus, gor blyme, just look at 'er!" snarled Mr. Montgomery, the chief officer, sliding down the foc'sle ladder and joining Mr. Glencannon beside the forward winch. "Did yer ever set h'eyes on such a mess? 'Ow in the 'ell are we going to get it orff 'er, hey? We can't work cargo with h'icycles 'arpooning us, and the decks like blooming 'ockey rinks!"

"Oh, weel, 'twull no' be sae vurra complicated," the engineer predicted, thumbing a charge of nigger-hair shag into his pipe and borrowing a match from a passing deck hand. "I fancy that a mite o' steam and a modicum o' elbow grease will soon hae her thawed oot and back to her noormal self again. The steam I will glodly supply fra' the boilers, but the elbow grease, being mere onskilled labor, is o' coorse beyont the juties o' the engine room."

"Oh, and is it?" retorted the mate. "Well, I'll leave unsaid wot I 'ave a mind to say about you and yer greasy elbow bending, but I'll bleddy well remind yer that clearing orff this h'ice is a job fer orl 'ands and the cook, h'engine room and black gang h'included. We're six d'ys lyte in port, remember that, and if yer think it ayn't h'up to everybody to do 'is bit so's we can start unloading immejitly, yer well mis—"

Like Damocles' sword, a three-foot fragment of ice came hurtling from aloft and knocked Mr. Montgomery flat.

"A-weel," said Mr. Glencannon, calmly surveying the prostrate form, "that deesposes o' that. Hughes!" he summoned the bos'n with a lordly gesture—"Hughes, do ye carry Muster Montgomery to his room, and fra' the eencident whuch has just tronspired, lairn that an uneering Joostice hovers on high to hoomble the maleecious caloomniator." Whereupon with pious mien and humming the air of "The Church's Firm Foundation," he picked his way across the slippery gangplank and headed westward into the city.

Now, although in the pursuit of his calling Mr. Glencannon had acquired a certain familiarity with the cities of the world, his knowledge of the Port of New York was by no means up to date, and was, moreover, restricted to the waterfront regions of Brooklyn between Gowanus and the Bush Terminal. To him, Manhattan was like a sealed book; or, rather, like a bottle for which he lacked a corkscrew. A biting blast was blowing through the streets, and as he permitted his thoughts to dwell upon a steaming hot toddy, his somewhat rheumy nose twitched at the imagined spicy fragrance, and his sense of desolation became acute.

"Guid losh!" he shivered, pausing uncertainly beneath elevated tracks along which ramshackle trains rushed thunderously. "If this is New York hospitolity, gi' me Reykjavik, Iceland, ony day! I ken there must be grog deespensaries hereaboots—aye, and amuckle o' them. But where, oh, where, oh, where?" He ran his eye along the stores which lined the avenue, without seeing anything which even remotely resembled a pub, saloon, cantina, estaminet, brauhaus, four-ale bar or gin cellar.

Sadly he turned into a side street and plodded on his way.

"Weel," he said, "just so's I'll hae an excuse for tipping back my head, I'll gae and gawk up at a skyscraper."

Suddenly, a few paces ahead of him, he saw a vaguely familiar figure. At first he was unable to identify this person, but then, by the flare of the ears and the spreading angle of the feet, he recognized young Mr. Levy, the Inchcliffe Castle's wireless operator.

Mr. Glencannon speeded his pace to overtake him. "Weel, weel, Muster Levy," he greeted, with an enthusiasm bred of loneliness, "ye're such a natty spectacle i' yere shore clothes that I a'most mistuk ye for a race-track tout, dom if I didn't!"

"Oh, yus?" beamed Mr. Levy, flicking the brim of his pearl-gray hat with a yellow chamois glove and glancing down approvingly at his camel-hair overcoat. "I'm flattered to 'ear yer speak so 'ighly of my tyste. Yer see"— he tapped a cigarette on the back of an enameled silver case— "I've so many relatives 'ere in town that I orlw'ys tries to put h'up a good h'appearance whenever I comes ashore."

"I'deed!" said Mr. Glencannon. "Why, ye seem to be richt at hame i' this great meetrupolis. But tell me, Muster Levy, do ye hoppen to be sae fameeliar wi' the toon that ye cud deerect me i' the deerection o' a drink?"

"Drink? Haw, d'ye mean do I know a speakh'easy?" chuckled Mr. Levy, with a patronizing cosmopolitan air. "Good lawks, do I? Oh, not arf! Why, look 'ere." He passed Mr. Glencannon several cards. "'Ere's the nymes and h'addresses of some of the coziest little plyces I've 'appened h'upon in New York. I recommends 'em orl most 'ighly—yus, and they're orl right 'ere in the nyber'ood, so's yer can tyke yer pick."

"Weel," said Mr. Glencannon, "it's still airly i' the day, sae I micht as well tak' them a' and veeseet aroond a bit."

The first of the establishments to be favored by his presence was called the Downstairs Yacht Club, and was located in a cellar beneath a butcher shop in Second Avenue. Despite its name, the place was innocent of all nautical atmosphere, its decorative scheme consisting of laboriously autographed photos of young gentlemen with cauliflower ears, accoutered for the prize ring. The prevailing tone was informal, homely, and Mr. Glencannon approved it.

"Well, bud, what'll it be?" inquired the combination manager-waiter-bartender, strolling over and scratching his back against the hooks of the coat tree beside Mr. Glencannon's table.

"A drap o' Scotch," said Mr. Glencannon unctuously, squinting his eye and indicating with his fingers a depth of approximately three inches in an imaginary tumbler. "Aye, a drap o' Duggan's Dew o' Kirkintilloch wud be mogneeficent!"

"Well, we got some Duggan labels," said the other. "Yair, and we even got some Scotch. But lissen, buddy, I'll tella sumpin: The Scotch reely ain't quite ready yet, y'understand? It only come over from the plant this morning, and we wanna run it through the charcoal once 'r twice to age it fer the supper trade tonight, git me?"

Mr. Glencannon looked at him blankly.

"How 'bout a li'l' slugga Boibon?" the waiter suggested. "Yair, 'n' we got some lovely apple 'n' corn, too; all smoothed out with glycerin. But, hey, wait, lissen, buddy; tellya what. Whyn't cha lemme mix y' up our Club Special, hey? Yair, Club Special! Boy, it's sumpin wunnerful, I'm tellenya!"

"Yoong mon," said Mr. Glencannon, "I dinna ken yere noshionolity, nor e'en a seengle word ye're speaking. As a rule, I monage to mak' mysel' onderstood among the ootlondish furreign races, but, frankly, yer lingo boffles me. Noo, the point o' the whole thing is: I want a drink. Drink, snort, dollop, spot, bebida, boisson, schloppka. Whusky hi-hi makee-pidgin! You boy fetch 'em bottle, can do. Sahib pull-cork, drink-drink, him feller too much go down, hic-hic pairdon me, all come-uppee. You catch 'em savvy?"

"Okay," said the waiter. "Okay, pal, I'll mix y' up a Special."

ii

HAVING had a bit of lunch and five or six additional Specials which he took aboard at the crowded bar, Mr. Glencannon felt that he really ought to go out and see something of the city. He consulted the cards which Mr. Levy had given him, and decided to move on to Benny's Little Lido, which was only a block away. The Lido was a charming place, with three bullet holes in the ceiling; but after several hours of it, the old, restless spirit once more asserted itself, so Mr. Glencannon went around the corner to The Reading Room. Fifteen or twenty gentlemen were lined up against a bar, but it chanced that none of them was reading. In the course of his visit in this establishment Mr. Glencannon was prevailed upon to sing and was then prevailed upon to stop; whereupon, in a fit of pique, he betook himself over to Ye Olde Pickwick Taverne. Here a dozen Italian gunmen were engaged in a crap game, and so great was the uproar that he was able to pour forth his soul in song without anyone hearing him.

What with all this sight-seeing, it was midnight before Mr. Glencannon realized it. It had been a strenuous day, and he felt himself beginning to droop. Also, peculiarly enough, his stomach was not what it might have been.

"Weel," he decided, "'tis dootless the effect o' the exotic native cooking. Aye, come to think o' it, I had the same trooble i' Borneo."

The streets being icy and his step uncertain, it was not without difficulty that he made his eastward way through the empty, echoing blocks to the waterfront. Above the roofs of the docks he saw the Inchcliffe Castle's funnel, and around it, great clouds of steam which billowed whitely in the glare of floodlights. Winches were chattering, and to his nostrils was borne the acrid stench of blazing salamanders.

"Braw!" he muttered, blowing upon his chilly fingers. "Still unloading! Weel, I'm sae fatigued that e'en the shouting and the tumult canna mar my beauty sleep tonicht!"

The stevedores were working the after hold, and as Mr. Glencannon skirted the piles of crates and boxes on the edge of the pier, the derrick jerked a packing case up through the hatch.

The ropes of the sling were ice-stiffened and slippery. Somebody shouted a warning. The case fell, crashed upon the stringpiece, and bounced off into the cold blackwater between the dock and the vessel's side, where it sank with a sigh and a gurgle.

Observing that Mr. Swales, the gifted second officer, was in charge, Mr. Glencannon paused for a moment to give ear to the language which the incident was certain to bring forth. It chanced that Mr. Swales was in rare voice, and Mr. Glencannon stood nodding his admiration through full three minutes of the recital. Here was virtuosity! Unfortunately, then, the second overreached his powers. He fell to padding his oration with inadequate hells and damns, so Mr. Glencannon turned away. He was about to step up to the gangplank when he beheld in his path a neat wooden box, some six inches long and two inches deep—evidently, he realized, part of the contents of the ill-fated packing case.

With a quick glance toward the watchman, whose back was turned, he stooped, slid the box into his sleeve and strolled nonchalantly aboard the ship.

Once in the seclusion of his room, he saw that his find was labeled:

Trade Samples Only

Not Imported For Sale

Made in Czecho-Slovakia

"Weel," he said, breaking the seals and sliding back the cover, "It doesna look vurra promising, but it's a'ways a guid idea to— Foosh!"

Horrified, he cast the box from him. It fell upon the berth, and out of it, across the coverlet, rolled four human eyes! Mr. Glencannon recoiled into a corner and pressed his ashen brow with a hand that trembled.

"Dinna stare at me!" he muttered hoarsely. "Keep yere insolent gaze to yersel'! Stop yere gawking, I say, or I'll squash ye wi' my boot heel lik' so mony grapes!"

The eyes gleamed at him malevolently.

"Oh ho, so ye perseest deespite my warning, do ye?" he growled threateningly. "Weel, if I cud only be sure ye're real, and no' a mere hallucinotion induced by rot-gut Yankee leequor, I'd tromple ye flot this vurra minute!"

Finally taking courage, he approached the staring orbs, and was immeasurably relieved to discover that they were made of glass.

For a moment he was slightly embarrassed. Then, "Losh!" he chuckled, gathering them together. "I knew ye were gloss a' the time! But—haw, haw!—ye must confess I threw a scare into ye, didn't I noo?"

The eyes ranged from pale blue to deep brown, and included the meltingly romantic, the coldly calculating, the keen but honest and the bibulously bloodshot. Mr. Glencannon parked them in an orderly row along the edge of his dresser and went about preparing for bed.

He was hanging up his jacket when he was dismayed to discover that the right breast of it, the exact area covering the inside pocket, had been neatly slit open, apparently with a razor blade. Here, indeed, was calamity!

"My wallet!" he gasped, plunging his hand into the hole. "My money!" The wallet was gone. Mr. Glencannon hurled the jacket to the floor and jumped upon it.

"Oh, the feelthy swundlers!" he shouted. "The treecherous blackhearted snook thieves! Aye, and me sae careful to hae only enough loose money i' my troosies for current needs, and carrying the boolk o' it i' my inside pocket for safety! Theerty-one quid it was—a hoonderd-and-fufty-odd o' their ain Yankee dollars. Alock and aloss, Glencannon, they've mulcted ye proper!"

Thoroughly miserable, he crawled into bed, where he lay tossing and turning. "If I only knew i' whuch one o' the dom dives I was robbed I'd gae back tomorrow wi' a set of bross knuckles and lay waste to it," he groaned. "Aye, a shuddering ruin I'd leave it, e'en though I had to mossacre half the gongsters o' New York!"

Fruitlessly he strove to relax, to compose himself. Sleep would not come. The chattering of the winch was the mocking laughter of ten thousand imps. The creaking of the derrick was the sneers of malignant spirits come in swarming hosts to torment him. He spelled his own name backward, he recited Tam O'Shanter, he counted imaginary sheep jumping over a stile, but before he reached ten, the sheep turned into one-pound notes fluttering dismally out of a wallet.

A beam of light from the porthole fell full upon the four glass eyes, and their unwinking gaze made Mr. Glencannon more than ever uncomfortable. He turned on his side and pulled the blanket over his head, but was still painfully conscious of their sinister inspection. With a snarl, he jerked himself upright, reached across, and brushed them into the upper drawer.

"Noo, then!" he told them, "ye willna' stare through that, ye impairtinent Peeping Toms, ye!"

At first, he believed that he had outwitted the eyes, but after a while he wasn't so sure. He pictured them taking turns at the keyhole. He felt them leering at him through the cracks. It was annoying. It was maddening. It was insupportable!

"Horns o' the deevil!" he bellowed, kicking the bedclothes to the floor. "It's into the reever ye go!"

Clutching the glass orbs, he yanked open the door and stepped out upon the icy deck. His feet slid from under him, and he landed with a mighty thud. The eyes arranged themselves before him in a semicircle like the front row of an audience. They gazed intently up at him; but now, strangely enough, their look was one of profoundest sympathy. Mr. Glencannon was touched.

"I'deed," he said, rising painfully to his feet and pressing his hand against the seat of his injuries, "pairhops ye're no' so discoorteous after a'. For my ain part, I apologize to ye for my recent bod temper, resoolt o' the loss o' theerty-one hard-airned poonds. If I could only think o' a way to swundle yon swundlers, I'd—"

Oblivious of the cutting wind which fluttered the tail of his nightshirt, he stood and pondered deeply. He wrinkled his brows and chewed the fringes of his mustache. At length a slow smile lighted his face.

"Weel, weel, weel!" he murmured. "It has worked before and pairhops it will work again! Come along, little bright eyes, while I tuck ye to sleep beneath my ain downy pillow!"

iii

IT WAS the slack of the afternoon and the Downstairs Yacht Club was almost empty. The waiter strolled over to Mr. Glencannon's table and flicked away the bread crumbs with a dirty napkin.

"Well, bud," he greeted, "howya feelin' today?"

Mr. Glencannon looked up at him with a melancholy stare— a stare which he delivered with his right eye only. The left he held tight shut.

"I feel vurra deeprussed," he answered dismally. "Vurra, vurra deeprussed." He wadded up his handkerchief and pressed it against the closed left eyelid.

"Oh, yair?" the waiter sympathized. "Whatsa matter, bud— sumpin wrong witcha eye?"

"There is," said Mr. Glencannon. "Something vurra wrong i'deed. As a matter o' fact, I lost it yusterday."

"Lost it!" exclaimed the other, horrified. "Oh, jeest, buddy!"

"Aye," said Mr. Glencannon, "'tis vurra onconvenient. I had it made to order i' Jerko-Slovakia, and ye cud hardly tell it fra' the real one."

"Oh!" said the waiter, greatly relieved, "Oh, I getcha now! You mean it was a cheater, hey—a phoney—don'tcha, buddy?"

"No," said Mr. Glencannon, "I mean it was a gloss eye, and a vurritable mosterpiece o' the eyemaker's art. I paid fufty dollars for it i' Prog, and I'd gladly gi' twice that much to get it back."

"Yair?" said the waiter, glancing around beneath the tables. "Well, a hunnert smackers is a pretty fair chunk a change! Got any idea where ya lost it, buddy?"

"No," sighed Mr. Glencannon. "Ye see, I canna tell by the feeling whuther it's in or no'. I'm only sairtain that it must ha' popped oot somewhere betwixt here and the foot o' East Fufteenth Street. By noo it's dootless smoshed to smuthereens."

"Oh, I dunno; maybe it fell on sumpin soft," the other cheered him. "Why, you even might a dropped it while you was in here. Tell ya what I'll do: When the crowd starts comin' in, I'll ask everybody did they find it. Yair, and I'll soich around careful fer it when I sweep out the jernt tonight. I could use them hunnerd plasters myself, I'll tell the woild!"

"It's kind o' ye to tak' the trooble," said Mr. Glencannon. "But if ye find it, ye'll be a hoonderd dollars reecher for yere pains."

"Okay, bud!" the waiter grinned. "Stop in here later on. And now lemme mix y' up a Special."

Having finished this drink as well as another to keep it from rattling around, Mr. Glencannon emerged upon Second Avenue, opened his left eye, and joined Mr. Levy, who was waiting for him on the opposite corner.

"Well, what-o? 'Ow'd it go?" inquired the wireless operator.

"Losh, it worked lik' a charm!" exulted Mr. Glencannon, poking him playfully in the ribs. "I tell ye, Sparks m' lad, the plon is pairfict!"

Mr. Levy licked his lips nervously. "Tell me just h'exackly wot I 'ave to do," he said.

"Weel, t'wull be reedeeculously sumple," Mr. Glencannon told him. "Merely gae into the place, sit doon at a table, and order a drink. When the roofian comes back to sairve ye, ye shud be rolling the gloss eye aroond on the table or polishing it off wi' yere nopkin. When he osks ye where ye foond it, as o' coorse he will, tell him that ye just picked it up i' the gutter as ye were coming in."

"Yus, and wot then?"

"Why, then, o' coorse, our friend will offer to buy it fra' ye at a nominal feegure, which ye will scornfully refuse. Then he'll dootless mak' a higher bid, to whuch ye'll onswer no, ye dinna care to part wi' it, as ye mean to mak' a scarf pin oot o' it, or to use it i' a dead horse ye're inteending to stuff. Oh, ony plausible excuse will do. All the time he'll be thinking o' the hoonderd dollars reward, and his greed will be his doonfall. Mak' him gi' ye fufty dollars, lad—aye, fufty dollars at the least!"

"Orl right," said Mr. Levy, squaring his padded shoulders. "Wyte fer me across the h'avenue. Well, 'ere goes!"

iv

SEVERAL hours later, as Mr. Glencannon stood in the shelter of a doorway down the street from Ye Olde Pickwick Taverne, he felt that the world was a pleasant place after all. A hundred and fifty dollars reposed in a pocket but recently occupied by a few small bills. Yes, and Mr. Levy, even now disposing of the fourth and final eye, would return with fifty dollars more. Of course, young Levy had his price, but after all, what was 10 percent?

"Haw!" chuckled Mr. Glencannon. "I've won back my ain again, and i' another five minutes I'll hae a tidy profeet besides! I foncy these Yonkee cutpurses will think twice before they rob another Scot! After a', we sturdy sons o' the North are a-muckle too keen for the oncouth louts."

His contented musings were interrupted by Mr. Levy, who arrived breathless and agitated.

"Here! What's amuss?" asked Mr. Glencannon, shaking him by the arm. "Didn't ye get the money?"

"Yus," panted Sparks, "but never mind that now! Quick, tell me where in 'ell did yer get those blarsted eyes, anyw'y?"

"Why," confessed the engineer, "they boonced oot o' the case o' Jerko-Slovak optical goods that fell overboard last nicht. But—"

"I thought so!" nodded Mr. Levy, wiping the perspiration from his brow. "Ah, they're crafty beggars, them Jerko-Slovaks! D'yer know wot they'd 'idden h'inside of them eyes?"

"No," said Mr. Glencannon hoarsely. "Dinna keep me i' suspense!"

Mr. Levy peered around the edge of the doorway before he answered.

"There's diamonds h'inside of them," he whispered. "Smuggled diamonds, don't yer see? Smuggled diamonds as big as pigeons' h'eggs, worth a h'emperor's ransom. Yus, gor blyme, and 'ere's us, a pair of bally idjits peddling 'em orff fer a mere spittance."

Mr. Glencannon leaned against the shop window and fanned himself with his cap. "Diamonds!" he breathed. "Guid losh, lad, how did ye deescover it?"

"Well," explained Mr. Levy, "I'd just palmed orff the larst eye on the bloke in that Old Picnic plyce, and was myking ready to be on my w'y, when I sees 'em showing it to a couple of other coves at the bar. They're passing it from 'and to 'and when one of 'em drops it. It falls on the tiles and busts to pieces, and out of it rolls the most h'enormous sparkler I ever be'eld. They grabs it h'up and starts gloating h'over it, and I grabs my 'at and nips out. They looked like 'ard customers, yer see, and I was afryde they'd shyke me down to see if I 'ad any more."

"Aye, but what aboot the other ones—the other ones?" barked Mr. Glencannon. "How can we get them back? Great swith, there's no' a seecond to lose!"

"Yer ruddy right there ayn't!" agreed Sparks. "Yer'll 'ave to close yer eye, go back to them other plyces, and fork up the 'undred-dollar rewards. And if they arsks why you don't put yer eye in when they gives it to yer, tell 'em you need a special shoe 'orn or something."

"Exockly!" agreed Mr. Glencannon, slapping him on the back. "Ye're richt, lad— ye're richt! But feerst I must roosh doon to the ship and borrow some money. Hoot, Muster Levy, our foortunes are made!"

Captain Ball and Mr. Montgomery were seated at the breakfast table.

"D'ye know, sir," said the mate; "Mr. Glencannon's acting a bit strynge of late."

"Strange?" repeated Captain Ball. "Er— that is, I mean to say, has he stopped drinking or anything?"

"Well, I'd 'ardly go as far as that," said Mr. Montgomery. "But just the syme"— he leaned across the table and lowered his voice— "just the syme, I believe 'e's orff 'is nut. Larst night I 'ears a bit of a noise from aft, so I creeps back to see wot's hup. There 'e was, sitting on the deck outside 'is room, busting glass marbles with a 'ammer, and vainly 'unting fer something among the pieces. Lawks, 'e was swearing 'orrible!"

Captain Ball smiled, winked, and nodded his head reassuringly. "Oh, I fancy he'd had a drop too much of this Yankee liquor— that was all that ailed him. He's been going ashore with Mr. Levy quite a bit, and I understand that Levy's brother-in-law owns four what-you-m'call-'ems, right here in the neighborhood."

"Speaklies?" suggested Mr. Montgomery.

"No, speaklies are a sort of a noisy cinema; I'll think of the word in a minute," said Captain Ball, reaching for the condensed milk.

____________________

5: The Caleso Murders

Raoul Whitfield

Black Mask Dec 1930

JUAN ARRAGON stood before the Island detective, his dark eyes narrowed, perspiration streaking his brown face. He was breathing heavily— he had run up the wooden stairs to Jo Gar’s office. Few natives of Manila run up stairs during the hot season, and the lieutenant of the Manila Police was not a fool. There had been a reason for his haste.

“Palerdo has escaped!” he said in his husky voice. “It is the first escape from Bilibid Prison in years. The guards at the Work Gate have become careless. Palerdo choked the driver of an ox cart into unconsciousness dragged him to a ditch the prisoners had been marched away from a few minutes before, and stripped him of his clothes. The ox cart driver wore a big sun helmet— Palerdo hunched beneath it and drove through the Work Gate. His escape was discovered almost immediately.”

Juan Arragon stopped and drew a deep breath. Jo Gar half closed his gray eyes and smiled a little.

“Almost immediately,” he repeated. “They did not find him?” Juan swore in his native tongue. He shook his head.

“He has vanished,” he said. “We were notified almost immediately. Palerdo is very strong— and very fierce. We sent men to Señora Mantiro’s house— she was not there. A servant informed the men she was driving in her carriage, and might be found on the Luneta. Men were sent there—”

He paused, swore again in his native tongue. Jo Gar made a clicking sound with his colorless lips pressed together.

“Almost immediately?” he finished mockingly.

The lieutenant of police frowned. He wiped perspiration from his face with a large, soiled handkerchief.

“It is not too humorous, Jo,” he stated. “You remember what Palerdo swore, when he was taken to Bilibid, after the trial?”

Jo Gar nodded, rose from his wicker chair. He moved his diminutive body so that warm air circulated by the ceiling fan got inside of his white shirt.

“Palerdo is strong— and desperate,” he agreed. “You were wise in getting men directly to Señora Mantiro’s establishment. If she is out riding— so much the better. I think Palerdo will wait for darkness. Perhaps he will not seek to harm her.”

Juan Arragon smiled coldly. “He has never forgotten to hate her,” he stated. “If he is not caught— he will kill her.”

The Island detective nodded. “I think that is so,” he agreed. “Before he worked in Señora Mantiro’s house, as gardener, he did business bringing plants down the Pasig, from the high country. He sold them in a little store off the Escolta— yes?”

The lieutenant of police nodded. “While you were in Nagasaki half of that block burned,” he said. “Señora Mantiro owned most of the buildings. It was strange.”

Jo Gar widened his eyes. “Perhaps Palerdo did not at that time plan to escape,” he said slowly. “He has always possessed many friends. Señora Mantiro had insured the property?”

Juan Arragon nodded. “And her life,” he said in a peculiar tone. “But I’m worried, Jo. Palerdo hates her—”

Jo Gar nodded. “Protect her— that is the most important thing. I will go down along the Pasig and talk with some natives who have sharp eyes.”

Juan shook his head. “They may have sharp eyes, but if they have sharp brains they will not have seen Palerdo, Jo,”

The Island detective spoke musingly. “It is one thing to murder a man—and another to murder a woman,” he said.

Juan Arragon shook his head.

“Palerdo should have died for the killing of Carlos Mantiro,” he stated. “The widow interfered, wanted mercy for him. But he hates her as much as a human can hate.”

Jo Gar said slowly, as he reached lazily for his pith helmet:

“That case always puzzled me, Juan. Palerdo knifed Carlos Mantiro, in his garden, after the Señor had struck his wife. It is strange that he should hate her so much. His act was one of passion, you would think.”

Juan Arragon smiled a little. “The Señora is very beautiful,” he said. “Palerdo would never talk. He would never even state why he threatened to kill Señora Mantiro. But he did threaten. And now he has escaped.”

Jo Gar moved towards the stairs that led down from his tiny office.

The Manila police lieutenant followed him.

“I hope my men have found the Señora,” he breathed, and sighed heavily.

Jo Gar turned his head slowly and half closed his almond-shaped eyes.

“I hope they have found her— alive,” he said simply.

The Island detective was talking with Sansino, the dealer in crawfish, when he heard the screaming of the police car’s siren. There were few police cars in Manila, and only two of them were equipped with sirens. Jo Gar hurried from the ill-smelling store, held up a hand as Juan Arragon’s little machine swerved towards the curb to avoid hitting a carromatta whose driver was too excited to be of much help.

Brakes squealed— Arragon snapped open the rear door. Jo widened his eyes, questioned the police lieutenant. Arragon nodded.

“Hurry!” he urged.

“An overturned caleso has been found, near the beach, beyond the Rondo house!”

Jo Gar got inside, frowning. The police driver drove from the Luneta, towards the Army and Navy Club. The Manila Hotel lay in a haze near the Bay. It was terribly hot.

Jo Gar said above the shrilling of the siren:

“It was— only the overturned caleso?”

Juan Arragon nodded. “But it was Señora Mantiro’s caleso,” he said grimly.

The police car turned to the right, towards the Bay beach. The houses were scattered in this section; there was thick foliage between them. The driver of the car made a sharp turn— they were suddenly upon the overturned caleso. They descended. Filipinos made room for them. The horse that had drawn the carriage stood quietly, near the vehicle. A native policeman came to Juan’s side. He said a few words in his native tongue— both Juan and Jo Gar followed him to the palms that fringed the beach, perhaps a hundred feet from the spot where the caleso was overturned.

The body lay with the eyes staring. The mouth was slightly opened; there was no color in the lips. A black lace shawl of fine workmanship lay a few feet from Señora Mantiro. A short, English looking man stood a little distance away. He spoke as Jo looked at him.

“I am Doctor Potter. The officer stopped me as I was driving past this spot, along the beach road. The woman is dead— she was strangled with the shawl. I loosened it, of course, but I should say I was ten minutes or so too late.”

Juan Arragon looked down at the dead woman and muttered a prayer in his native tongue. When he finished Jo Gar said slowly:

“There has been no trace of Palerdo?”

Juan shook his head. “No trace” he said. “And he has murdered the Señora.”

Jo Gar smiled a little. “You are always so sure— you police,” he said. “What you mean is that Señora Mantiro has perhaps been murdered.” Juan Arragon stared at Jo Gar. “He threatened her— he hated her. He has great fingers, and was known as a strangler. It is said that he—”

Jo Gar frowned. “He did not strangle the Señora’s husband,” he interrupted gently. “He used a knife. Where is the caleso driver?”

The khaki uniformed police officer shook his head from side to side. His dark eyes looked stupid.

“I come this way,” he said in stiff English, “and here is the caleso. I have seen him before— it is Señora Mantiro’s. I go quick and telephone. I return— I think I go to beach. Find the body. I stop the doctor. Some others come— and then you. I do not see driver.”

Jo Gar nodded. Juan Arragon said: “He was a Filipino— and is probably hiding.”

Jo smiled with his gray eyes. “Or still running,” he said. “He is important, Juan.”

The police lieutenant frowned. “Palerdo— he is more important,” he said slowly. “You learned something, Jo?”

The Island detective shook his small head. He narrowed his almond shaped eyes on the body of the dead woman.

“Nothing” he said steadily. “He has not been seen along the Pasig.”

Juan Arraron shrugged. “Of course he has not been seen—”

He stopped. There was a shrill cry from a brown-faced native, beyond the spot where the body lay, in the palms. Juan Arragon led the way towards the one who had shouted; when Jo arrived at his side he was kneeling beside a form that lay motionless.

“The caleso driver!” he told Jo. His voice was excited. “Strangled— dead. His belt has been used. Palerdo is— a double murderer, this time!”

Jo Gar’s eyes were expressionless. He spoke in a toneless voice.

“You are always so quick, Juan,” he said quietly. “It is too bad you did not give the Señora protection more swiftly.”

The police lieutenant rose from his knees and frowned at the Island detective.

“It is too bad Palerdo escaped!” he snapped.

Jo Gar looked down at the body of the dead caleso driver.

“This man— this woman— I do not think they were murdered by Palerdo,” he said quietly.

Juan Arragon stared at him. The native policeman made a clicking sound.

Juan said: “You are mad, Jo Gar— it is the work of that strangler—” The Island detective shrugged. “Perhaps you are right, Juan,” he said softly. “But remember, Palerdo knifed the woman’s husband. These are stranglings. There are other matters—”

Juan Arragon narrowed his dark eyes. He said fiercely:

“We will have Palerdo— and the murderer of these two. I must send all of the men—”

Jo Gar smiled with his lips pressed together. He looked down at the dead caleso driver again.

“After Palerdo?” he said calmly, mockingly. “That is very nice— for the real murderer, Juan!”

The street wound from the Escolta, main business avenue of Manila, towards the Pasig. Jo Gar traveled very slowly along the narrow cobbles; he wiped his brown skin continually with the large handkerchief. He had been talking to only a few natives, but those few were important ones. They were ones who had known Palerdo before the big Filipino had stabbed the husband of Señora Mantiro to death. Jo Gar smiled a little, showing his white teeth, as he thought of that case. Palerdo had confessed. Señor Carlos Mantiro had beaten his wife. She had cried out— Palerdo had stabbed him three times. The defense had not been sufficient— he had been sentenced to life imprisonment. And in prison, during one of his outbursts, he had threatened the life of the Señora. After that, he had remained silent. He had great hands— huge for a native. There were rumors of past stranglings. And now Palerdo was free— and the Señora and her caleso driver were dead, strangled.

Jo Gar narrowed his gray eyes, shrugged. He was thinking that for once Juan Arragon might be right. Palerdo had committed the crime. But there was no certainty. In an hour it would be dark— Palerdo was still free. It was as though he had vanished into the black water of the Pasig. Not once since his escape had he been seen.

The Island detective stood near the narrow entrance of a nut store and watched a short Filipino come to the street from a store a hundred yards distant. The man was nervous; he moved his head from side to side— watched people. A uniformed policeman was across the street. The short Filipino turned his back to the officer. When he was gone he hailed a carromatta. There were bags in the short one’s hands— and he was poorly dressed. Yet he rode in a carromatta.

Jo Gar hailed one that came along behind the other. He ordered the driver to follow, not drawing too close. The ride was to a squalid part of the city—the short Filipino descended before a series of bamboo shacks close together. Jo Gar paid his driver, dismissed him. He pulled his soiled, pith helmet low over his eyes and followed the man. He was quite close when the short one stepped suddenly through the entrance of a shack that seemed ready to fall apart. Jo Gar hesitated— then acted quickly, almost blindly. He stepped inside the shack almost on the heels of the brown, short one. He heard breath sucked in sharply— heard a man say in hoarse English:

“Fool!”

The light was dim inside the shack, but the sun had been sinking and there had not been too much glare outside. Jo Gar stared past the short man—saw the figure half crouched in the far corner of the shack. The man’s hands hung at his sides— they were big hands. The fingers of the right one held something that gleamed in the faint light of a smoking lamp.

Jo Gar smiled a little. He said slowly:

“Do not you be a fool, Palerdo. Your friend was anxious— but he did look around. And I am not of the police.”

Palerdo straightened a little. His right hand came up slightly. Jo Gar turned the palms of his hands towards the man, spread his short fingers.

“I have no weapon,” he said. “I do not come to take you back to prison. I am Jo Gar.”

Palerdo muttered something that Jo did not quite catch. He spoke sharply to the short native, in the Filipino tongue. He told him that he was a fool—that he should not have come to the shack until after dark. Jo Gar said quietly:

“Señora Mantiro is dead, strangled. Her caleso driver is dead, also strangled.”

Palerdo had a big head for a native. His dark eyes were expressionless. His grip on the knife was unrelaxed.

“That is not news to you,” Jo said quietly. “I will be very honest. I do not think you strangled Señora Mantiro. You were waiting for darkness. Perhaps you would have strangled her. But there was another before you. I will make a bargain. Give me the murderer’s name— I will go from here. You will have the chance to escape.”

Palerdo laughed sharply. In the semi-darkness of the Filipino shack he looked like a giant, facing the diminutive detective. The short Filipino stood to one side, his eyes wide on Palerdo’s face.

“How should I know— who murdered Señora Mantiro?” Palerdo asked huskily.

Jo Gar smiled a little. “You do know,” he said quietly. “You have friends. But you have enemies, too.”

Palerdo sucked in his breath sharply. He spoke in a low tone:

“How do you know I did not murder those two?” he demanded, after a little silence.

Jo Gar said quietly:

“If you had murdered Señora Mantiro you would not have killed the caleso driver. You would have been satisfied— and there would have been nothing to hide. Whoever strangled the woman— strangled the driver to prevent him from giving a description of himself, of the killer.”

In the semi-darkness the Island detective caught the gleam of Palerdo’s eyes.

“I did not murder her,” the big man said slowly. “I did not kill the driver. The killer wants the police to think I did.”

Jo Gar smiled again. “Yes,” he said slowly. “You escaped to kill her— but one was ahead of you. An enemy. One who feared you— and wanted to be sure the police would hang you, this time. Who was it, Palerdo?”

The big native shook his head. He laughed in a throaty, grim way.

“Why should I say?” he asked. “If I do not escape—”

Jo Gar watched the knife in the big man’s right hand fingers. He spoke slowly, calmly.

“I will make a bargain with you. Tell me the name of the enemy who murdered Señora Mantiro. You will have the chance to escape. I do not think you can do that. I will not aid the police. I will find the murderer and if you are caught you will not be blamed for these crimes. You will not hang.”

He read indecision in Palerdo’s eyes. The big man was breathing heavily. Filipino laughter, shrill and loud, reached the interior of the thatch-roofed shack. A baby cried. From the distant Pasig came the faint whistle of a river boat. The shack reeked with odor. It was very hot.

Palerdo shook his head. He raised the knife.

“I know of you,” he said. “You are Señor Gar. You work with the police. You will trick me.”

Jo Gar shook his head. “I would not have blundered in this way—unless I came to help you,” he said simply. “I want the murderer of the woman and the driver— not you.”

Palerdo drew his body erect. “It was— Mona Taloy— the Malay!” he breathed sharply. “She is strong—”

Jo Gar shook his head. “It was—not a woman,” he said slowly. “You are not telling—”

There was a swift movement of Jo Gar’s body to the right. The right hand of Palerdo came up— the knife hissed through the air. It struck with a thud against the inner wall of the shack.

Jo’s right hand fingers tugged at the grip of his automatic. Out of the corners of his eyes he saw Palerdo leap towards him— he squeezed the trigger— the bullet ripped through the pocket of his palm beach suit. Palerdo’s body jerked to one side— he fell heavily.

There were cries from beyond the shack. Jo Gar stared down at the body of the big man. He backed away from it, towards the doorway of the shack. The big man was tricking him— he had not been hit. Jo had seen that the bullet had struck across the room! And his aim had been too hurried.

The short Filipino cried out in a half wail. Jo Gar leveled the gun on the prostrate body of Palerdo.

“You are not hit,” he said grimly. “But now— I shall kill you. I shall kill you, Palerdo, and say that you resisted arrest—”

Outside there were shouts. The shot sound had attracted the attention of natives. The baby was screaming.

Palerdo pulled himself to his knees. His dark eyes were wide on Jo Gar’s almost colorless ones. There was fear in them.

“The Malay— Mona Taloy!” His voice was uncertain, hoarse. “I swear— it was—”

He collapsed suddenly. Jo Gar swore very softly, as he saw the red that streaked the soiled shirt the prisoner had taken from the ex-cart driver. Palerdo lay on his back, motionless. His eyes were half opened.

The Island detective leaned down and touched a wrist. There was no pulse. In the left hand fingers of the dead man was a short, curved knife. Jo Gar sighed a little. Palerdo had flung one knife— and when it had failed to strike the mark he had ripped his heart with the short, curved one. He was dead— and before he had died he had lied. The Island detective was sure of that. He had preferred death to a prison return. Señora Mantiro was dead. Palerdo had been sure he would be taken prisoner again. Yet he had lied.

Jo Gar kept the muzzle of his gun pointed towards the short Filipino. Perspiration streaked his face. He shrugged.

“We will go outside,” he said to the short one. “I was wrong. Palerdo murdered the woman— and the driver. I have done well. We will go outside— and seek the police.”

JUAN ARRAGON came into Gar’s office at eleven o’clock. It was a bright night, with a moon and the sky filled with stars. But it was very hot. The lieutenant of police dropped into a wicker chair and frowned at the Island detective.

“That native swears that Palerdo did not murder the woman and the caleso driver. He swears by all the saints that Palerdo told you that, before he stabbed himself to death. He says that a Malay woman— one Mona Taloy— committed the double murder. He is lying, of course.” Jo Gar nodded. “Of course,” he agreed. “I was wrong in thinking Palerdo did not strangle the two. I was trying to bluff him, in the shack— so I tried to bargain with him. The native lies.”

Juan Arragon was watching the Island detective closely. He smiled.

“Then why— did you go to the Malay woman’s hut— an hour ago, Jo?” he said suddenly.

Jo Gar narrowed his eyes a little. “Loose ends of the rope,” he said casually.

Juan Arragon shook his head. “Under the third degree— Filipinos are all the same,” he said slowly. “When you say that this native is lying I do not think you believe that, Jo. You were lucky— and he led you to Palerdo. But now it is I who have changed my mind. I do not think Palerdo murdered Señora Mantiro or the driver.”

Jo Gar smiled. “You are becoming wise, Juan,” he said slowly. “Well, I will be honest with you. I have never thought that he did. But I wanted the native who led me to him to think that I thought him the murderer.”

Juan Arragon said: “Why?”

The Island detective chuckled. “So that he would swear to you that the Malay woman was guilty— and perhaps tell you more than Palerdo told me.”

Juan Arragon looked puzzled. “And yet you were trying to throw me off the track a few minutes ago,” he said softly.

Jo Gar lighted a brown-paper cigarette. He smiled with his eyes almost closed.

“I like to work alone,” he said. “The Malay woman did not murder Señora Mantiro. Palerdo was lying to me, before he died. That short native— what is his name?”

“Santos Costios,” the police lieutenant replied.

“Costios— he lied, also,” Jo stated. “We have not found the murderer of the woman and the driver.”

Juan Arragon frowned. “You have seen the Malay woman?” he said slowly, “You are sure she is not lying.”

Jo Gar inhaled cigarette smoke and smiled with his thin lips.

“You do not pay much attention to native accidents, Juan,” he said quietly. “Yes, I have seen the Malay woman, Mona Taloy. She lies in the morgue. Two hours before Palerdo escaped she fell and was crushed between sampans, while selling nuts on the river.”

Juan Arragon swore softly. His eyes were wide on Jo Gar’s.

“And Palerdo did not know that!” he breathed. “But why did he name her—”

Jo Gar sighed heavily. “Perhaps if we could learn that answer,” he said simply, “it would be easier to find the killer of Señora Mantiro— and the caleso driver.”

TORCHES AND LAMPS flared lights from the decks of the river boats. It was almost midnight, and for thirty minutes Jo Gar had been following the short form of the native, Santos Costios. It had taken much persuasion to have Juan Arragon release the man. But he had done so— and Jo Gar had been trailing along behind since Costios had strolled along the Escolta, had wandered carelessly along the curving streets near the Pasig— and then had come more rapidly to the docks near the market.

It had been difficult work. Costios was suspicious. He was constantly turning about, doubling in his tracks and retracing short distances. But the Island detective moved swiftly and quietly. He was a half-breed, and the instincts of a half-breed were his now. And he knew that Costios was not being careless, as he pretended. The short Filipino was going to a place of importance. This time he was making sure that he was not followed.

The sampans were tied one to another, near the marketplace. From the shadow of one Jo Gar watched Costios leap to the deck of a craft with a curved roof of thatch. He vanished from sight. Jo Gar waited a little, then followed. There were four sampans, side by side. He stood near the thatch roof of one, and smiled a little.

“The Malay woman— sold nuts— to sampan men,” he breathed softly. “Perhaps Palerdo—”

He broke off, shrugged his narrow shoulders. There was the sound of a stringed instrument on the water— in the distance a man’s voice sang huskily.

Jo Gar moved towards the flat deck of the second sampan. When he jumped from one craft to the other it was with a cat-like lightness. He pressed his body close to the roof of the craft, listened for several seconds. And while he was listening his eyes were moving about. In the distance he could see the Bridge of Spain, curving low across the black-watered river.

“It was near this spot— that the Malay woman— died,” he murmured softly. “It is strange—”

Many things were strange. It was strange that Palerdo had hated Señora Mantiro. Men killed women’s husbands because of love for the wife, not because of hatred. Jo Gar shook his head a little.

Voices reached him, very faintly. They did not come from the shore, the market— but from the last sampan in the line of four. One was guttural, louder now. The other had a flat sound that the Island detective recognized. It was pitched low, but it was the voice of Santos Costios.

Jo moved to the third sampan. It was uncovered, and he bent his body low as he went across the deck. He was straightening— ready for the leap to the last craft, when he heard the sound of faint movement behind him. His body swung around— he dropped flat on the deck. A figure moved slowly around the roof of the second sampan— jumped to the deck of the one on which Jo was lying.

The Island detective gripped his gun with his right hand fingers, lay motionless. A voice said, in a whisper:

“Jo!”

The Island detective raised his head. He swore beneath his breath. The river water made gurgling sounds along the stern of the sampan. The figure of Juan Arragon was crawling towards Jo now.

The Island detective lay motionless, a frown on his face. Arragon reached his side, got his head close to Jo’s. He spoke softly: “This is the spot— the Malay woman—”

Jo Gar cut in very quietly. “You followed— me here—”

The Manila police lieutenant said: “You followed— Costios here. You may— need me—”

Jo Gar made a low, clicking sound. His face was very close to Arragon’s.

“You are— thoughtful,” he said with irony.

They lay in silence. In the craft beyond there was the murmur of voices. Juan said in a whisper:

“I released— Costios. I am responsible— for him.”

The Island detective smiled faintly in the semi-darkness. He said in a very low voice:

“You do not trust me, Juan. Why?”

The Manila police lieutenant was silent for several seconds. Driftwood— a heavy piece of it— struck against the stern of the sampan, on which they were lying. It bumped along the side. Arragon said in a whisper:

“I do not know what happened— before Palerdo died.”

Jo Gar sucked in his breath sharply. “You think that he told me more than I have told you,” he said. “And that I desire credit— for myself.”

Juan Arragon did not reply. Jo lay flat on the sampan deck, his eyes half closed.

“You came to me— in the first place,” he reminded. “You come to me— so often. And you are always afraid—”

He broke off as a voice rose, from the last sampan. It was not the voice of the short Filipino, Costios. It had a deeper, throatier tone. The dialect Jo Gar did not understand. Beside him, Arragon lifted his head.

“Malay, I think,” he said softly.

Jo Gar narrowed his eyes on those of the police lieutenant.

“It is you who have held back, this time, Juan,” he breathed. “You left me in the dark— it is a wonder I got this far. But I was sure Palerdo would not have murdered the caleso driver, had he killed the woman. Why did Palerdo knife Carlos Mantiro?”

He asked the question sharply, heard Juan Arragon’s breath sucked in. There was a little silence except for the raised tones of the man speaking in the fourth sampan from shore. Then Juan whispered:

“Mantiro struck his wife— Palerdo was present. He was hot tempered—”

Jo Gar said softly: “You do not lie well. Why did he hate Señora Mantiro?”

Juan Arragon said very slowly. “There was the Dutchman, Bucher. She loved him. She was clever— she led Palerdo to believe that she loved—”

Jo Gar sighed softly. “And you kept that from me, Juan. She used Palerdo, to murder her husband— so that she could have Bucher. And Palerdo learned of that— and hated her.”

Juan Arragon said quietly: “And Bucher left the Islands. We got that much— but there was no evidence. The woman played on Palerdo’s emotions. That is why he got off with life.”

The Island detective listened to the droning voice that sounded from the last sampan now. It was the voice of Costios. The Island detective frowned.

“And why did you hold this back?” he asked softly.

“Palerdo had friends— and you have clients,” Arragon said in a whisper. “I did not know— how you stood. You trapped Palerdo, but he killed himself. I could not— be sure.”

Jo Gar swore softly. “It did not matter— your distrust,” he said. “But Palerdo did not murder the woman— or the driver.”

Arragon lifted his head higher, stared towards the thatch roof of the last sampan.

“Costios swears— that Malay woman—”

He broke off. A voice sounded shrilly from within the covered space of the last craft in the line of four. It died— then rose again. There was panic in the tone— shrilling fear!

Jo Gar got to his knees, pulled himself to his feet. He got his automatic in the fingers of his right hand, leaped to the deck of the covered sampan. Arragon was at his side as he made his way towards the opened end of the craft, at the stern. The sampan swayed slightly to the current of the Pasig.

They came to a narrow portion of the deck; Jo Gar led the way. The automatic was held slightly before him and low. His body was crouched. He was smiling a little at the thought of Juan Arragon fearing that he might be working for Palerdo’s friends. The Manila police lieutenant never completely trusted him.

The voice that had shrilled fear was silent now. Jo Gar stopped smiling, moved towards the stern of the sampan more slowly. The sudden silence might mean one of two things— that Juan and he had been heard, or that one man had silenced another.

Jo muttered under his breath: “Under the roof of this sampan we will find the murderer of Señora Mantiro and the caleso driver. We will learn why Palerdo lied even as he was about to kill himself.” Back of him he could hear the swift breathing of Arragon.

And then, suddenly, there was the roar of the explosion. The sampan seemed to lift from the water— the thatch roof shot into the darkness— red streaking through it!

Jo threw his left hand before his face, twisted his body to the right. He felt a force lift him from the deck— heard Juan Arragon cry out hoarsely in his native tongue. Then the warm water of the Pasig was closing over him—he went underneath the surface!

He came up slowly, fighting for air. He was not a strong swimmer, but he was calm. There was a numbing pain in his left arm and shoulder— where a section of the sampan’s roof had battered him. Twisting his head, he saw the red flames licking through the remaining section of the sampan’s roof. There were shouts— torches were moving along the other craft. They were trying to cut the burning boat loose.

Jo Gar sucked in deep breaths of air— struck out towards the bank on left. He heard Juan Arragon call out shrilly— from some spot nearer the bank. There were other shouts, from coolies and natives on the river craft.

The red flare of the flames lighted the dark-colored water. The sampan being shoved out in the river now—it was drifting away from the other craft. Flames streaked up from it— over almost the entire length. The bank was close to Jo now— he swam with his uninjured arm working— the other useless at his side. He was tiring rapidly.

Then feet from a low barge-like river boat, he saw the other figure. For a second he thought it was Juan— and then the man’s face was twisted towards him. His hands were half closed— the fingers were clutching at air. It was Santos Costios!

The short Filipino went under as Jo got his own body close to him. The Island detective gripped him as he came up— the Filipino was drowning. He tried to grip Jo’s throat, failed. The Island detective struck him heavily with his right fist. His own body went under. When he came up Costios was sinking— Jo saw two figures on the flat boat ahead. One man was stripped to the waist— a coolie. He tossed a rope.

Jo Gar got an arm around the sinking body of the Filipino. The rope struck him across the face. He moved his numbing left arm and wrapped it around his body. The flat boat was close now. Red flames danced before Jo’s eyes. He felt hands gripping him, muttered hoarsely:

“Take— the Filipino— first—”

Jo Gar was kneeling beside the form of Santos Costios—the coolies were bending over him. A lighted torch shone on the twisted face of the Filipino. The Island detective said slowly:

“The saints— will be kind— if you talk— before—”

He stopped, breathing heavily. The Filipino spoke in a barely audible, broken tone.

“I kill— the— caleso driver. I choke— with belt. I wait for— Palerdo—”

Jo Gar stared down at the twisted face of Costios. There was a puzzled expression in his gray eyes. He said grimly:

“Do not— lie! You are dying—”

Costios widened his dark eyes. He shook his head slowly from side to side.

“I tell—truth,” he breathed weakly.

“The Señora— she love Dutchman. She get Palerdo to— kill her husband. He learn— hate her. He escape— come to me. We go to house— he kill her with shawl—”

Jo Gar narrowed his gray eyes. “At her house— Palerdo murdered her!” he breathed.

Costios said hoarsely: “I help him— Palerdo my half brother. I take her to caleso— ride with her. Make driver go— to Bay. Make him upset—caleso. He run— I catch him— choke—”

He stopped. Jo Gar swore softly.

“It was Palerdo, after all!” he breathed. “But why did he tell me the Malay woman—”

Costios said very softly: “Palerdo— he knew she was dead— he think you believe— not catch me—”

The Island detective looked down at the Filipino. Costios said slowly:

“Palerdo— he no care— after he kill. He no go back to— Bilibid. The caleso driver— he with Señora Mantiro long time. He bad— he know of Dutchman. And he know of Palerdo. I kill—”

Jo Gar said quietly: “What happened— on the sampan?”

Costios closed his eyes. “Police— let me free. I go to coolie— want him to take me— up river. He say, no. We fight— he have powder for make ditch in high country. Lamp fall down—”

He stopped talking. Jo Gar smiled with his lips. There were voices beyond the coolies bending over him— he looked up to see Juan Arragon standing close to him. The Manilla police lieutenant spoke in a breathless tone:

“Powder— in that— sampan. It let loose. You got— Costios?” Jo Gar got to his feet. He looked down at the Filipino.

“He was bargaining for an escape,” he said slowly. “Quarreled with the coolie who owned the sampan. He thinks he’s going to die, but he isn’t.”

Juan Arragon stared at the Island detective. He looked down at Costios.

“The coolie’s dead,” he stated. “Badly burned. We were lucky to—” The Filipino was staring at Jo Gar and cursing in a stronger voice. He was accusing the Island detective of tricking him. He was not going to die, after all.

Jo Gar interrupted, sighing. “I should have said, you’re not going to die yet,” he corrected. “For the murder of the caleso driver— you will die, of course. You are pleased?”

Costios cursed in a weaker tone. Juan Arragon turned puzzled eyes towards Jo Gar.

“He murdered the driver?” he breathed. “But who— murdered— Señora Mantiro?”

Jo Gar smiled. He narrowed his eyes on those of the police lieutenant.

“Congratulations. Juan,” he said in an amused tone. “You see, you were correct. Palerdo murdered the Señora. In her home— before your men arrived. He had thoughts of escape, until I ran into him, and tried to throw the police off by having his half brother, Costios, drive with the body to the Bay. When he failed to knife me— he decided a return to prison was not worthwhile. Costios strangled the caleso driver when the poor devil ran.”

Juan Arragon frowned. Then he smiled a little. “I was certain it was Palerdo,” he said simply.

Jo Gar felt his injured arm and smiled with his lips.

“You did very well,” he said, “under all the circumstances. Several things happened— and in one of them you were right.”

___________________

6: The Brightest Jewel of Them All

S. B. H. Hurst

1876-1937

Adventure, Oct 1919

CALCUTTA drowsed to the intense heat, the hottest hour of the day— between two and three in the afternoon. Those Europeans who had to be abroad traveled in covered vehicles and wore immense solar hats. Natives slipped along unconcerned and wore no hats— unless they wore them for ornament.

This business of carriages and hats describes the majority. Necessarily, there were exceptions— generally sailors, ashore from the many sailing vessels moored along the river, who had either obtained liberty or “cleared out.” These sought native dives furnishing the two amusements, with a species of music added— as a sort of aural advertisement.

Among these exceptions were yet other exceptions. Men who were not sailors; men, even, who had lived in Calcutta for a long time, unattractive specimens; among these one who realized that an excellent disguise is to act unexpectedly.

He had no need to be out in the sun— so he went out in the sun. He could afford a conveyance— so he walked. Usually, in fact always, he dressed well— therefore, he was shabby. Invariably clean shaven, now he presented an unkempt appearance. And he walked swiftly.

To the occasional policeman he was one of the sailors from the ship. To the sailors he was anything or nothing at all. To curious natives he might be a gone-native Englishman—a good man to avoid. To himself he was a man engaged upon a very important enterprise, about which he had no desire to be communicative. If successful, there was money in it.

Had he gone upon his adventure later in the day he would have been missed from his usual haunts, and he did not wish to raise the least breath of suspicion by taking that chance. Earlier in the day would have been just as inconveniently conspicuous. Thus, much as he disliked it, he was compelled, or believed he was, to travel the streets of Calcutta when travel was most unpleasant.

Of course, he may have been merely egotistical— merely have imagined his absence would create comment and breed suspicion. He was aware even of this. Indeed, he believed that he had taken into account everything. He wanted to be quite sure that he left no trail. And, whatever his reason for walking during the hot hour, it was not business of an European nature. He seemed to be careful to avoid the districts where white men did their business and presently plunged into a maze of narrow streets, lined with little native shops and houses, with the many-odored smell of the place intensified by the heat— which increased as the streets became narrower.

Yet, if any one had followed him, it would have seemed to such that he was engaged only upon a very innocent errand, and his unusual hour for making it, as well as his unusual appearance, would have been attributed, the first to a newly discovered eccentricity and the other to a natural wish to lead native pickpockets astray by his apparent poverty.

For he stopped at the doorway of a native blacksmith, where the blast from the forge mingling with the sun-heat made a veritable next-life of temperature; and the blacksmith looked at him without friendliness or recognition, as he would have looked at any unpromising white stranger, and went on with his work after a slight mutter of an uncomplimentary nature.

“There are three legs on my horse,” the white man spoke Hindustani, “and it needs a fourth. Do you make legs for crippled horses?”

The effect of this idiotic speech upon the smith was peculiar. He neither laughed nor threw things, he neither suspected the stranger of being drunk or insane— hot as it was, he never thought of the effect of sunstroke. He had been waiting for those words to be addressed to him for some time, but they came from so unexpected a person that he dropped his hammer in amazement and danced around the shop in agony, because the heavy tool fell on his bare toes.

The white man laughed, but as his face was lacking in change of expression the native did not know just what the laugh implied, even if his natural suspicions were justified.

“It was written,” he said sullenly, partly to elicit some clarifying remark from the white man and partly to excuse his surprise-induced clumsiness.

“Yes—” the white man’s face was still unmoved— “it was written. But tell me about the horse.”

“It is a crippled horse, you said?” The native had at last become as placid as his visitor. “I said so— and do you doctor such horses?”

“It depends upon their color,” responded the native with entire equanimity.

“So; and mine is a black horse— all black is my horse,” gravely answered the white man.”

“Of what age is he?”

“She is a mare, five years old, the dam of two colts.”

“A valuable animal, eh?”

“Some may think so!”

“One would go far to buy such a horse?”

“Farther if on her back.”

The native leaned close to the white man, after a hurried glance around. “Five doors to the right when you come to the second street to the left after leaving this place, sahib,” he whispered and at once returned to his anvil, hammering violently.

But almost before the native’s hammer had commenced its resounding clatter the white man was on his way, walking along the left side of the street hastily—dodging men and animals with more or less success, leaving a trail of bad language behind him of which he took no notice.

AND as he walked it came to him— as if he were a dust mote blown over it— that the hum all about was the sound made by the great loom, weaving mystery, with men and women its threads, after the ancient and-encyclopaedic patterns stolen by Calcutta from every city in the world. The swiftly moving shuttle lay like the panorama of a factory with its roof removed so that he could view it, drenched in desire, colored with a million passions, shot by loves and hates. And the most complex pattern, the deepest mystery, the most sinister design was being woven swiftly in a corner of the factory.

The man shook his head and the vision vanished. Once again he was pushing his way through the crowded, narrow streets, men and women cursing him as he jolted them. But he knew all the same that the just-seen loom in the comer, weaving the most wonderful pattern, was “five doors to the right when you come to the second street to the left after leaving this place!”

And it had drawn him— a lure he could not resist— as a magnet draws iron filings. He no longer needed profit from his hours of living— he had enough to spend them in amusement, in idleness. But what amusement could equal this? What sport offered such thrilling risks? What gamble that was not as tame as pitch and toss with pennies compared to this—when his very association with the other threads of the mysterious pattern meant, if it were known to the authorities, his speedy arrest and, without doubt, lengthy imprisonment? Oh, well, he had been a free man for a month— and very tiresome had he found it! But that, no doubt, was because he had also been respectable!

And the pattern woven of human passions— and he only saw one tiny plot of the weave— was that of the virile, changing, colorful doings of the criminal societies of India, which touches and affects every one of the two hundred million crawlers on the face of the Queen of the East.

For the criminal in India does not work alone. In fact, he could not—and live. So from time immemorial there have been criminal societies. Lesser and greater societies and within them different degrees— from the entered apprentice of crime to the past grand master. And, again, a society so exclusive that membership in it is regarded as being a patent of nobility. And this somewhat shabby white man, shouldering his way through the tangle of humanity after a short but weird interview with a native smith who had no need to work but who craved an excitement which he could not cull from respectable living, now, after a month of freedom following his release from the Andaman penal colony, sought admission to any one of these societies which would have him.

It seemed a sordid ambition, but the craving for criminal excitement demanded satisfaction. Besides, although one of the most clever of white criminals, these native societies were new to him. Until his incarceration at the Andamans he had merely heard of them. In the beginning he had been an officer in an English cavalry regiment, bearing the name Menzies; but the majority of the years of his life had been spent in adventurous criminality— and very remarkable years had they been. He had been taken to the Andamans under peculiar circumstances— but that is by the way. While there, he had been in charge of the boat carrying the milk between the islands, having under him a dozen natives, whom he found excuses for changing frequently.

Some were lazy, some were untrustworthy and he feared some might poison the milk. Being the only white convict and having once been a “gentleman,” he was accorded much kindness and consideration, and whenever he asked to be allowed to discharge a helper and take on another man no difficulty was made about obliging him— and no one suspected his real reason.

Now it is fairly well known that life convicts at the Andamans manage in some mysterious manner to communicate with their friends at home, but the Government has never found out how this is done. Neither does the Government know very much about the different native criminal societies. All this, of course, was known to Menzies, who, being a criminal, obtained the confidence of the criminals who worked for him and who, expecting release, promised to do certain things in exchange for certain information.

He was therefore enabled to learn all about the criminal societies from his helpers, and when one had told him all he knew he discharged him, to learn more from that one’s successor. It was all very simple. Menzies left the Andamans in possession of knowledge never before given to any white, after promising certain things. To his credit— or perhaps he was too wise to do otherwise— he kept his promises, but he found it increasingly difficult to keep his promise to himself— never again to engage in crime and not to put into use that wonderful knowledge he had gained from the other convicts. So one hot afternoon— after becoming established in Calcutta as an independent gentleman— he went for the walk, gave the right knock to the smith on outer guard and proceeded. The smith, through that underground channel of information mentioned, had expected a white man to do this—for why would the native convicts at the Andamans think the white man would mend his ways?

AS WELL try to describe a picture by making a list of the different colors composing it as to attempt to take the words and show them as of moving humanity, the strange-shaped houses and shops, the smells, the colors, the sky— but the mazy lanes of the city of Calcutta baffle analogy.

Men and women of all stations from every part of India jostled and chattered, and every scent known to earth ascended through the heavy, steamy air to a heaven that had become immune to it. Dogs, composed of every known breed and several as yet unclassified by science, snapped and bit at scraps and heaps of offal and cringed from threatening bare feet.

The blended howl of thousands of voices blurred into an orchestral hymn, athwart which shot the long-drawn cry of a peddler of sweets and little cakes. Bells clanged into an angry discord of different creeds, and among that medley of created humans a seeker might well have wondered if the potter’s hand had not slipped all the time— or else his own image savored of a humility much overdone.

But, then, Menzies was on his way to the fifth door to the right, down that second street, and his going had to be indicated.

He was somewhat surprised when he came to the place— that is, he was surprised for a moment; the next moment he understood, and admired greatly. Because, in that anything but Christian land, far from the printing-presses kept running by the contributions of the devout of Western lands, the fifth door turned out to be a small shop devoted to selling just one article— the Holy Bible in various dialects and languages!

Naturally, it was not largely patronized. Passing followers of the only true faith spat contemptuously if they happened to understand the nature of the ware exhibited, and few even stopped to look, much less to buy, from curiosity.

That the Universal Bible Printing Company, or whoever owned the shop, had been beguiled into establishing an agency there was obvious to Menzies, and he did not doubt that the agent every now and then found a very different use for the pages of his books than that they were intended for, but who nevertheless remitted the exact amount of their cost, less his commission, to soma-branch manager.

The thing was clever. What policeman would suspect the place? And, if suspected, what a multitude of clerical witnesses to his character could the devout young shopkeeper produce! For he was quite young— perhaps thirty— and, what was even more remarkable, he was a Eurasian.

What was remarkable was that the criminal society should trust a Eurasian, should have one for their guard— for back of the store was a meeting-place, a place, also, where the pursued thief could seek sanctuary.

It was not the most fashionable society. Its number was seven. But Menzies had been told that only by passing through— by being passed through by the members of number seven could he reach to the one that had no number at all. This was part of a very intricate system.

“I want to buy a Bible,” Menzies explained blandly in English.

“Yes, sah.”

The clerk did not meet his eyes, but Menzies felt that in some marvelous fashion the fellow was looking straight through him and memorizing him completely. “What kind of Bible?”

“The Holy Bible, of course, you puggi!”

“How do I know that?” The clerk changed to Hindustani. “By this text, which concerns the badmash wallas (wicked men),” in Hindustani. Then, in English, “ ‘Where thieves can not break through or steal.’ ”

The clerk grinned.

“And how did you enjoy your stay at the islands, sahib?" he asked familiarly.

“Chup!" the reply came sharply, for Menzies never joked or became familiar with underlings. “Shut up— you know who I am. Now take me to your master and don’t try to be smart!”

The Eurasian became humble— part of it due to fear, part assumed. He dropped the curtain in front of the store and Menzies followed him into the half dusk. The place had a smell different from that of the street, always to be found where many books are kept closely confined and said to be caused by a microbe. The password given him to this second place had been something of a puzzle to him— now he felt annoyed at having been so slow witted as not to have deduced the Bible shop, about which places every native in India has weird opinions, not the least weird being those of the Christian-wallas.

They passed through the shop and out into a small yard dividing the back of the shop from the wall of a dwelling. Crossing this, they reached a door, which the Eurasian opened. The door opened into an empty room, which again opened into another yard. This led them to a street filled with people. They turned to the left, walked a few yards and reached a rugseller’s shop. The proprietor, an elderly man, sat on the floor among his rugs, smoking a hubble-bubble. To this man the Eurasian made a quick sign, turned and hurried back to his Bibles.

Menzies, who had a good head for locality, knew that this rapid “cutting across lots” had brought him at least five streets from the Bible shop. No doubt the society had learned, from a far different standpoint, however, the dictum of a great philosopher— that a change of venue generally alters the verdict. Without a word— merely returning the bow of the other man— the ex-convict sat down native fashion upon another rug and for a while the two regarded each other gravely.

Menzies was very hot. His clothes clung to him. He was also thirsty and not a little tired. But he was thoroughly enjoying himself and tried to believe it was comfortable to sit as he was sitting. As a matter of fact, it was probably hotter in the shop than in the sun, although there was no dust. From outside— just across a pile of rugs— the roar of the stream of life flowing past smote the ear like the rushing of a cataract.

But the white can not even imitate the eternal patience of the East. Menzies began to wonder how long his host would continue to play the part of an image of Buddha. A long whisky peg haunted his imagination. His mouth was too dry to enjoy a smoke, although he wanted to drown the smell of the hubble-bubble with something more nearly approaching tobacco, as well as to soothe himself with the narcotic. Yet nothing could have moved him from the rug except a nearer step toward the inner circle of India’s criminality. Again he was enjoying himself, even if the game had not really become exciting.

“I wonder if we can trust you?” The native’s sudden words almost made the white man jump. He knew that his coming was expected and it followed as a corollary that he had been under surveillance ever since he arrived in Calcutta and likely enough had furnished food for discussion— concerning whether he would remain "straight” or again dally in the ways of the underworld. His admission to the councils apparently depended upon his being able to make the other man believe he could be trusted— the ban against white men having been lifted for his benefit for the first time in history. Without hesitation he assured his host that he could be trusted to the death— making the mental reservation that he would withdraw unless he saw both entertainment and profit, and having no fears about his ability to pit his will against all the criminal societies in India if he felt like doing so. For Menzies was as devoid of fear as he was of scruples. But it Was obvious that he was not to be allowed to join any society merely to commit some ordinary crime— the members were not altruists, were quite capable of doing their business without his assistance and would not admit him unless they were unable to bring to a satisfactory conclusion some plan of importance if he were not admitted.

It must be a big and unusual thing which they had for him to do, he thought, feeling gratified at the sense of his own importance— a feeling only explained in so clever a man by the fact of his hitherto having worked almost entirely alone, and by the craving to gratify his desire for excitement which made him forget that to an English officer the natives were a lower race.

“Very well, then,” the native spoke English without a trace of accent, unless that of Oxford, where he had been educated, can be called so, “you can now consider yourself one of us, although—” he stared shrewdly at Menzies— “you can hardly expect to be admitted to the council controlling any society until you have proved your willingness to obey that council and also proved you have no intention of betraying it.

“Words are easily spoken— we require acts as security. You no doubt pride yourself upon your skill, and we will give you an opportunity to prove it. The king will be in Delhi in two weeks from today. The matter on hand will be easier for you than for a native. You are to possess yourself of whatever of the crown jewels his Majesty brings with him from England— and I understand the most valuable will be brought, because of its being thought necessary to impress us with the wealth of them when compared to the great display of such things which will be worn by the native rajahs at the Durbar.

“As you know, it will be the first time an English king has been crowned Emperor of India in the city of Delhi. Get the jewels, which have never been successfully taken from the Tower of London— in spite of a yarn to the contrary. You can ask for all the help you wish, and— remember this, for it will be perhaps expected of you as an additional proof that you can be trusted— should you receive further orders calling upon you to do more than merely steal the jewels, you must not fail us.”

“What further orders?” Menzies was puzzled.

“None as yet. I merely mentioned them in the event of it being considered necessary to give them. I am only trying to make you see how imperative it is for you to be at all times willing to obey— only by obedience can you win to command.”

And the native dismissed him with the regality of a monarch.

THE white man went home, disappointed at having penetrated so little a distance into the maze of criminal societies, wondering who the devil the man in the rug-shop might be, a little concerned as to his genuineness, and somewhat awed by the magnitude and the risk of the task set him.

But an excellent dinner put him in better spirits. Here, at last, was a gamble which would furnish excitement. What other gamble could furnish more? To steal the crown jewels from the reigning king! A king for whom he had little loyalty and no affection. But was the thing possible? Didn’t it seem that the native criminals had realized the task was beyond them, and that they were using him as a catspaw with which to make the attempt? Aware of his release from the Andamans, of the knowledge he had obtained from the native convicts, was it not likely that they wanted to get him out of the way because he knew too much, knew more than any white man had ever known?

He dismissed this idea. If the societies had merely wanted to get rid of him, an assassin could have been procured for ten rupees or less. And the craving to do the thing grew on him. It is as impossible to describe the state of mind of the criminal—who does not steal because of need but because he needs to steal— as it is to understand it. It can hardly be called the sporting instinct which drives him, although Menzies found the gratification of his gambling desire in crime. Neither does there seem to be any wish to harm society as a whole or the individual who becomes the victim. There is something childish about it all— witness the pride of the safe-cracker over the pickpocket— and, of course, weakness. Menzies was a brave, clever, fairly rich man. Yet he practically crawled to a native in order to become a member of a criminal society and felt no annoyance at being ordered to prove himself “worthy,” and no distaste at obeying orders from members of a race he really believed to be his inferior. He began to use all his cunning and knowledge in making and rejecting various plans. It was as if he played a game of chess with possibilities, and one of his first decisions was to determine, to disguise j himself as a Eurasian after registering in Delhi at some hotel under an assumed English name.

Then he decided to ask the man in the rug shop for a mob of about a hundred ordinary-looking natives, who would, of course, be criminals, and among whom he could, if necessary, lose himself. But all these ways and means were simple compared to the actual stealing and the time of doing it. Would it be best to make the attempt during the great procession, or when the king was likely to be among the smallest number of people— say just prior to his leaving the vice-regal palace? Or would it be best to attack the custodian of the jewels— if he could be accurately located— when the king was not present? Or to try to crack the safe in which they reposed during the night? There was the difficulty of finding just where they would be kept. When the king was wearing them, with the great scepter in his hand, would seem to shorten the job. But that would be hedged in by innumerable difficulties, although the excitement engendered by the king’s apparent danger would be of help. After two days spent in seeking a workable plan Menzies understood why the job had been given to him. He was one of the cleverest crooks in the world— the job was beyond the native societies. What, then, would be his share of the loot? He reflected that it would be time enough to think of that when he had the jewels— not to speak of the trouble of disposing of them.

By this time he was absorbed by the problem. Morality and danger were outside the affair— the problem was to get the jewels. He forgot everything but the problem, as does the solver of a chess problem. But he did not forget to make his journey to Delhi as inconspicuous as possible— taking with him a letter to a certain man, which was given him by the supposed seller of rugs who eternally smoked the hubble-bubble.

THE train carried him to his destination— a veritable trip through an inferno, for it was the hot season. But his problem, kept him from troubling greatly about the temperature, as it did from studying the people.

Menzies was growing cheerful, for his problem was approaching solution. And with the approach of this solution his pride in himself caused him to wonder why he should be faithful to the society, of which he knew practically nothing.

All his life he had worked alone, and he was practically doing so now— the assistance given him being nothing compared to the task which was his. Why not, if successful, disappear with the jewels? If he were not discovered he could find some way of getting rid of them.

But as he did not need the money, why not keep them? This notion gave him much satisfaction. He, a private citizen, in possession of the crown jewels of the British Empire. And when he died he would arrange for their return to the crown. He visioned this delightful bequest. The greatest criminal in all the history of crime leaving, at his death, the crown jewels to their owner. He imagined the headlines in the newspapers. Of course, he would not be able to read them. But why not? Why not, after a reasonable time, when all hope of their recovery had vanished— why should he not pretend to die, after making his will? Then he would be able to read all about himself and about his wonderful bequest. By Jove, he would do it! Damn the native societies. What had they done, after all? He was doing all the work. Therefore, he was entitled to all there was in it.

He would retire to some quiet place. Then “die,” leaving the long-lost jewels to the crown.

He gloated over the prospect. What fun he would have reading the papers after his “demise.” He was certainly the most wonderful man that had ever lived. Never before had such a conception come into a man’s mind. And he of all the world’s criminals— “adventurers” was the word he used— was the only one with sufficient skill to do the job.

Thus, this became his settled plan: after getting possession of the jewels he would forget the man in the rug shop and what help he had given him and get away. The societies would, of course, try to find him, wanting revenge; but he was too clever for them. Then, in after years, the newspapers filled with news of him and the restoration of the jewels.

But first to interview the rug-seller’s friend in Delhi. The appointment was for night, and Menzies kept it in a mood that was a reaction from the anything but cordial reception given him by the rug-seller— a mood further stimulated by his decision to retain the fruits of his labors. But he needed all the help he could get and was too much of a diplomat to allow his feelings to interfere with business.

The city was crowded— more than ever so. It was the event of her history, this coming of the king. Not that she had not known kings. She had— hundreds of them. But this one was the king-emperor, the Burra sahib of all the sahibs, the Raj itself. Therefore, men from every part of the country had come to Delhi. Retainers by the score of native princes, rajahs and such. Dealers of wares from the provinces— curiously ignorant of the fact of it being possible to buy their produce more cheaply than they themselves could afford to bring and sell it.

But perhaps the profession most heavily represented in the influx was that to which Menzies had devoted his life. The city was filled with every kind of criminal— even bearded horse-stealers had filtered in from the north— and every one of the different societies had judiciously shifted its headquarters, because, like every other class, the police had multiplied.

And Delhi by night, even a hot night, has about her the lure of a fairy tale. There is not the seething intrigue of Calcutta but in its place is a topsy-turvy unexpectedness, a displacement of the normal which, however inconvenient it may be at times, has a charm. Then the city is so old.

Calcutta has no city gates through which the armies of centuries have marched and which still seem to echo with their tramp, as is the case with Delhi. And from the tiny tower windows what bright eyes have waited for the return of the conquerer or wept for the bringing back of the body of the vanquished? If only those night-shadowy places could tell their tales—could again reflect the emotions that have vibrated among them!

Even Menzies, on crooked business bent, felt the spell of the place and caught himself growing grave under the veneration it inspired, although he was no stranger to the capital. Besides, there was a memory— for all men love. With a curse that merged into what sounded suspiciously like a groan, he put aside the spiritual for the material. He could not afford to dally with the nebulous when the jewels of Britain were his destined prey.

He had taken great care to throw the authorities off his track— believing that his departure from Calcutta would have been noticed by the police and his subsequent movements noted, even if in some quarters his statement about settling down to a decent life had been accepted as truth.

On the train he adopted the name of McLean, labeled his luggage accordingly and gave strict orders to his servant— a new one hired for the trip— to tell all inquirers that he was on his way to England, merely going to Delhi to View the durbar.

At the hotel in Delhi he registered as McLean, but before keeping his appointment that evening he had disguised himself as a rather shabby Eurasian, registered under the name of De Silva at another hotel patronized exclusively by Eurasians, taking there a worn suitcase but leaving his regular luggage and servant at the first hotel.

He thus had two places where he could claim residence and use for changing the various disguises he might have to adopt. So rapid was he at changing his appearance that he was able to leave his palatial rooms at the first hotel, walk downstairs to the wash-room as McLean mid hurriedly leave the wash-room two minutes later as De Silva without being observed.

The suitcase he bought on his way to the other hotel. Thus as De Silva he pushed through the crowds, although he never forgot his part and never presumed to brush against a white man. Even an intimate acquaintance would have taken him for some Portuguese interpreter recently arrived from Goa.

Having taken the precaution of turning his possessions into negotiable bonds and notes, which were sewed in a belt he wore, he felt the heat more than his dirty white suit and supposed singlet would have necessitated— for in such a climate a few extra ounces of clothing make a difference.

His perspiration and his mood made him irritable and he was in no humor for the diplomatic task ahead of him. But he was a marvel of self-control, and even if he did lack their patience he felt able to handle any native living.

DOWN a narrow street, once in the dim ages gone an animal track down to the Jumna River, now shadowy with the ancient walls built high to guard unguessable secrets, Menzies made his way very slowly; never pausing until he reached the worn steps leading to the water of the stream, where even at that hour a few dhobees were washing their linen against stones.

There he stood, collecting himself for the coming interview; ticking off the various points to be gone into, the agreements to be made, the number of assistants needed and everything that made for his plan.

As he thought, he stared vaguely at the slowly moving river, shot with the faint curiosity of a wan but inquiring moon and noisy with dingy wallas.

Again he found the glamour of the old city creeping into his calculations— even found himself wondering about the many souls that had drifted down the stream, either whole or in ashes, from the burning ghats. He felt curiously superstitious and once could have sworn that the faces of the dead and gone discarded favorites of the kings of Delhi were staring at him from the ripples made in the river by passing boats. Why the ex-favorites he could not guess; but for some reason they, of all the river’s dead, had risen to taunt him.

He shook his head angrily. What an absurd idea! What had got into him, that he should be thinking of such things? He, an active man, engaged upon a great enterprise, to be thinking of death! He turned away from the Jumna but the feeling bf superstition clung to him like a cloak he could not discard. With a vast effort he forced a laugh and lit a cigar.

Yet in spite of all his will-power, in spite of all he could do to prevent himself, he again turned to watch the water, and again he could have sworn that he saw the faces of the once lovely women looking at him with eyes that plainly pitied. At whatever part of the river he directed his gaze, there were the faces. He felt his pulse. It was rapid, but while he might be getting a fever he was fair enough to own up to the fear that had gripped him. Then he resolutely turned away and managed not to look back.

Yet the echo of the Peacock Throne went with him when he walked— the echo of the dead voices of those dead faces who had looked at him— until he felt that he was walking through a picture of old days. The dark, shadowy walls gave way to bright colors, the throng of neutral-colored people became courtiers; and everywhere were the women— who looked at him with eyes of sympathy.

The feeling went, but it left Menzies so shaken that he almost decided to postpone his interview. Only his pride drove him to keep it. And the joy he had expected, the thrill of the gamble, was not in him, and he was conscious of the curious notion that he ought to be able to exorcise the entire experience by fixing his mind upon the historical fact of the Peacock Throne’s being carried away from Delhi by Nadir Shah in about 1730. Then, to his horror, he became very vividly aware that he had been observed by the favorites of kings who had never sat on that throne— how, he did not know. Then the homely realization that he was getting mixed brought him back nearly to normal. With, however, the cloud hanging over him of having touched something chilly, something beyond the veil.

But the grotesquely fat babu, who was at once a clerk in a Government office, a civil servant and the representative of the criminal societies, was at least sufficiently material to dispel any lingering touch of the occult. He met Menzies in the outer parlor of a lady with whom Mrs. Grundy would not have spoken to reach which the Englishman had to walk up a winding stone stairway that led around the thick stone walls like the defense of battlements, leading to a door of medieval stoutness, where a sinister bearded guard catechised him unsparingly before allowing him to enter. And answering the ritual served further to irritate, until the apparently shabby Eurasian was in such a towering rage that his disguise would not have deceived a small native child.

The most musical of laughters broke his stream of swear-words and the Englishman turned with a start, his nerves twittering, to find a tiny Parsee lady, almost as white as an European, among the shadows at his elbow. So greatly had the vision on the water of the Jumna affected him that he very rudely pinched the lady to make sure she was real— a form of greeting, however, which she accepted in good part as being quite in conformance with the etiquette of the house.

But the scandalized and much astonished Affridi did not intend any half-caste should call him the direct descendant of several herds of swine, and he pushed between the girl and Menzies with the view of separating the man for a well-merited chastisement. His surprise when he found himself so cunningly gripped that he could not act broke from him in gasping and bastard Hindustani, which gave the girl further cause for merriment.

“Puggi,” whispered Menzies hoarsely. “Haven’t you enough brains to understand that a gentleman may need to come here looking like something else? Get back to your door, you water buffalo; the lady does not relish the scent of you!”

Then the dense man from the north realized what a child would have realized much sooner— that Menzies’ individuality belied his appearance— and with a muttered apology he walked out of the passage.

“So?” The lady’s tantalizingly tiny hands fondled Menzies’ anything but clean coat sleeve. “So you are the clever Englishman expected, eh? I knew it at once. Don’t you think you had better change your color? This one neither hides you nor improves you. When your face was under the door-lamp I saw your eyes. No Eurasian ever had eyes like yours. If that hillman wasn’t all fool and could think of more than drink and women, he would have known at once that you were not what you pretended to be. Come, sahib— come with me and change your coat and drink some real whisky.”

“But I have to meet a man here,” protested Menzies.

“Let the fat Government clerk wait for his betters. Besides, am I not more entertaining?”

“Much more.” By this time Menzies was smiling back at her, and wishing the light were stronger. “You are much more entertaining but hardly so profitable,” he replied.

“Being less of a fool than the babu, I pay all my dividends to myself,” she retorted briskly. “But, then, I can ply my trade alone— he needs your help!”

Native repartee, as between man and woman, is in about the same stage of development as that of England was in the time of Henry the Eighth; consequently its most scintillating gems are quite unprintable. Strange it is that the literature of the country runs so much to religious philosophy and so little to the form of Boccaccio. Yet, again, it is not so strange.

Foot by foot, as he talked with the lady, Menzies had edged along the passage, until they had reached the curtains of two rooms. From the one ahead— the outer parlor— came a babble of conversation; from the one to the right came nothing— it indicated the silence of a vast discretion. The lady quietly drew the curtain of the silent room sufficiently aside for one to pass, revealing a subdued ruby light that played with the mysterious patterns of many tapestries and invitingly pointed out divans of grateful softness and comfort. A large silver waterpipe spread its tubes about the heavy floor rug like some strange species of octopus that had been converted into the ways of peace. And as Menzies looked, a small maid apparently materialized from the scented air or slipped out of one of the pictures of the tapestries— to stand, bowing silently, before him, with hands that eloquently demanded his hat.

For a moment— as an antidote to the vision of the river— he was tempted to dally. Then he laughed. It was all too palpable— the heads of the criminal society had sent this temptress to divert him from the path of strict business. It was another of their infernal tests.

He trembled with rising anger. As the most skilful criminal in India, he should have been welcomed into the inner circle of the societies; instead of which he was being treated like the veriest tyro in crime. It was all very well not to change the eternal customs— India is the most conservative country on earth— but, for all that, he resented it.

Almost roughly he shook off the delicate, restraining hands and pushed through the curtain ahead— into a large room, heavy with the smoke of mixed, vile tobacco.

The babble of talk ceased suddenly and twenty pairs of eyes were fixed upon the newcomer, who stood for perhaps a minute getting his bearings and trying to judge of the feelings of the crowd by the different breathings— an old trick of his. Then he heard a light laugh from the passage and knew that the strange Parsee lady was telling him she appreciated his strength.

HIS eyes became accustomed to the light of the room and through the fog of smoke he made out a diversity of criminals— presided over by the fat native gentleman— babu— before-mentioned. For the most part their features were so repulsive that one might have believed that they had been sent back from the underworld— refused admittance by the devil. But what struck Menzies most unfavorably was the lack of intelligence those faces exhibited. Only a low cunning, mixed with the vilest cruelty and most vicious habits— such was all the Englishman could deduce, and he was a skilled physiognomist. So those were the men he wished to be associated with. He became suddenly disgusted with himself, and while he tried to assure himself that the men in the room were only the riffraff of the societies—the sort he had known at the Andamans— and that the heads were men of intelligence, he found no comfort or surcease from his disgust in that assurance. Again, the creatures— whom he could not ask to have dismissed— would hear his plans, which jarred. He didn’t mind them knowing the plans— as members of the society they would know them eventually, anyhow— but the feeling of telling them, like a schoolboy at graduation, before such an audience hurt his pride. He was an exclusive criminal. But there was no way out. Perhaps they lacked the wit to follow him properly.

“Well?” He spoke shortly, irritated by the staring as well as by his discovery.

“Ah, sahib.” The babu laboriously heaved himself from his cushion and advanced with a waddling gait, extending his hand.

“So you know who I am?” Menzies was forced to be diplomatic and shake hands.

“Ah, yas— you are the veree clever chap who got away from Andamans by a trick, eh?”

“Never mind that. What I came here for was to arrange, I believe with you, about something else.”

And he handed the babu the letter given him by the old seller of rugs in Calcutta.

The babu’s face creased into a cavernous series of grins but he did not offer to read the letter. Instead, he slipped it carelessly among the folds of his linen and indicated a cushion as a seating-place for Menzies.

“Why don’t you read the letter?” the latter demanded as he sat down.

“Oh,” the babu laughed, “do you think we would trust anything to writing? No, sah, I was informed of your coming by a much more safe manner than a letter. And if you will suggest what is your plan, I will see if I can comply with it so far as to be of assistance to you.”

Menzies found it difficult to keep his temper. Annoyed at having believed the letter meant anything, as well as by the attitude of the babu, he raised his voice.

“I have made my plan. If you don’t like it you can say so— but I don’t intend to alter it. Now, once and for all, I am going to boss this job. Make up your mind to that and— to furnishing me with at least a hundred men, all sworn to obey me, with three of them capable of acting the parts of native army officers— not non-coms.”

As ever, his manner won. The babu wilted into a very complaisant fat man and promised to do as Menzies desired, and the Englishman took out his very carefully prepared notes of the great task of stealing the crown jewels of Britain, reading them to the babu and impressing upon him how important it was there be no mistake.

But the keystone of the arch— or the arch diplomacy through which Menzies meant to appropriate the loot— lay in the last sentence. In that it was stated that the jewels were to be passed by Menzies into the hands of an apparent Sikh guard, who in turn was to deliver them into the hands of the fat babu for safe-keeping — the latter gentleman to be waiting under his umbrella at a certain place in the vice-regal grounds. As a matter of fact, Menzies had very different intentions. But they parted friends, the babu actually believing that the “fool Englishman” intended to “play fair,” as all the English had the habit of doing.

Glad to get away from the company and out of the smoke, Menzies stood breathing deeply in the passage and felt a light touch on his arm.

“It’s only me,” whispered the Parsee lady as he started. “Come in a moment— let me tell your fortune.”

The lure of her adorable English alone would have been enough to induce him to accept her invitation, but there was more than that in it for the man—she also appealed to him like a delicious antiseptic, ready to wash and neutralize the bad taste left in his mouth by the interview in the other room. And as he followed her past the curtain— a curtain as inviolable as an iron-barred door— a troupe of the lowest order of bebees filed up the passage for the entertainment of the gang of criminals.

WITH a sigh of relief Menzies sank among the cushions, while the girl prepared the drink he so badly needed. He forgave her the part she had played in trying to entice him from the strict letter of what the societies considered his duty. After all, she was a woman, and she had done him no harm— he could even believe that if he had accepted her invitation prior to the interview— which lasted nearly three hours— she would have warned him, and advised him to go to the fat babu.

And then he began to wonder about her. Was she only just what she appeared to be? Never before had he heard of a Parsee woman in her profession. Mostly they lived together in Bombay, preserving themselves and their women from the contamination of the world. How had this young girl drifted from her people, to become the mistress of such a house in Delhi? He could understand, without egoism, she wished to entertain him— even dressed and colored as a Eurasian he was surely preferable to the other visitors. She brought the drink and sat down by his side, drawing his left hand to her. For some minutes she studied it closely, he watching her humorously, until he saw that she was growing very grave— her eyes no longer flashed with fun but were filled with a very serious expression.

“What is it— what’s the matter?” He was unpleasantly affected by her gravity— his feelings were reminiscent of the vision on the river.

“What did you make of there being all those dirty men in the room when you had your conference with the fat babu?” she asked suddenly.

“Oh, I didn’t take much notice of them— supposed they were just hangers-on.” He assumed indifference.

“Well, maybe. I trust you, for if they knew in there that I was warning you there would be another dead woman’s body floating down the river!”

“Don’t talk like that,” he shuddered. “It’s very good of you to tell me of your fears, but, all the same, I am able to take care of myself.”

“Perhaps, but this is different. Those men in there are more powerful than even the heads of the societies— they know too much and have banded together so as to be powerful. They are using you.”

He laughed lightly. “They may think they are,” he amended.

“I know all about it. You are to get the jewels of the king. Yes, that is the agreement, but I fear there is something else— something that you and I know nothing of, something forced upon the heads of the soceties by that gang!”

“Do you read that in my hand?” he asked is lightly as he could.

“There is much trouble in your hand. Oh, I don’t know why I should feel so much concern about you, but it is so. As one star shines for another, one bird sings to some bird it can not see— so does a woman mourn for a man who does not care for her, and risks her life to shield him!”

Menzies did not reply. He was wondering if the woman could be trusted. If he had been right in supposing that she had been sent to tempt him, why should she have so suddenly changed? Then, in a flash of comprehension, he understood that he had been mistaken— that she had not tried to wean him from his supposed duty, and that her laugh in the passage had been intended to disarm the suspicions of the conspirators.

She was his friend. He would trust that intuition above the most rigorous logic. Then what did it all mean? If the societies wanted to be rid of him because he knew too much, why had they taken so much trouble? Because they first wanted him to steal the jewels, which was beyond them. That was what his reason told him, but, somehow, he did not believe it. There was, as the girl hinted, something else. What could it be? After he got the jewels they meant to kill him. But he had no intention of turning over the jewels to them. Of course they did not know that. The suspicion of there being something he did not know about was upsetting him— he was getting mixed.

He sneered at himself. What did he care for a handful of dirty natives, except as they might be of use to him? He would go ahead as he had planned. In the meanwhile, the girl was a diversion.

But not a merry one. Whatever her history— and it was a strange one— she had lived in a manner little calculated to fit her to enjoy her latest venture, so that the coming of a man of refinement, such as Menzies was to her, bent her feelings toward him in the growth of easy love. Fully aware that honor among thieves was a fallacy, she guessed at the “something else” which was to be her new fancy’s undoing. The fitful passion in her breast feared its sudden quenching, and she pleaded with the cause of it, after the manner of women.

“Your hand shows me that it were better for you to go away— to leave the king’s jewels to the king, and go.” It had been on the tip of her tongue to ask him to take her with him, but her good sense showing her the absurdity of such a request, she went on unselfishly.

“Yes, go away— back to England, where the fat babu and his dirty friends can not touch you. There is too much danger here in Delhi.”

“There is always danger in taking jewels away from kings,” he suggested, frowning at the freedom with which the plot had been discussed, “particularly when so many know about it.”

“There you are wrong. They are not quite fools,” she answered. “Because I know means nothing. I know all. But no other women are told. You don’t know who my lover is or why I hate him.”

“So!” Menzies dwelt on the word, comprehending. “And what will he say if he finds us together?”

“I don’t care,” she exclaimed recklessly.

“But I do,” Menzies rose hurriedly, thankful for the sudden luminosity which had shown him so much of the woman and her relations with the fat babu. He felt that he had dipped his hands into the abysmal depths of female personality, and that he had almost slipped in out of his depth. He had been saved by an exclamation! Not that he was afraid of the babu’s jealousy, but of its complications. Did women enjoy deception more than truth? He was surprised she had not gone further. What a mix-up!

But he took his leave with many thanks for her kindness, after she had obtained a promise that he would call again at a more favorable time. Veering like the wind in the doldrums, she had switched from wishing him to save himself by going to England to desiring him to stay—  all within five minutes. She even forgot to tell his fortune. Yet there was a grain of truth in her, as he found out later.

HE RETURNED to the Eurasian hotel and there changed into a white man— not wishing to chance being refused admittance to his rooms among decent people by reaching there in his present condition. He slept badly and woke to a day of planning. The following day Delhi was to witness the coronation of the king-emperor.

It wasn’t such a complicated plan but it needed exactness in its working. So much for the ostensible part of it. Being an ex-military man, Menzies had naturally reverted to military methods. He had learned all about the guard at the palace and he was well aware of the jealousy of native pride, which demanded a native guard for the illustrious visitor. White soldiers there might be, but the immediate guard must be native— to have decided otherwise meant a slight, a want of trust in the loyalty of the Indian Empire. Consequently a Sikh guard was on “domestic” duty.

Meanwhile, with Menzies’ written instructions to guide him, the fat babu had been exceedingly busy. To obtain a hundred ex-soldiers who were also criminals was an easy matter, but the three who were to act as officers had to be carefully chosen and coached. This necessitated a meeting between Menzies and the three. On the whole, he put in a busy day.

Then there was for Menzies a very important private matter to be arranged, which was intended to deviate the purloined jewels from the hungry umbrella of the fat babu— who was to be waiting in a selected spot for them. This matter took the form of paying a gharry walla— a cab driver— the large sum of a hundred rupees— large, that is, to the cabman, who had, of course, no idea of the part he was to play— to insure his being prompt, fairly honest, and silent. Much depended on this unsuspecting person. He was to be waiting at a corner three blocks from where the fat babu was to wait, well out of the early crowd, which might hinder rapid driving. Menzies paid this person fifty rupees and promised him fifty more. After stealing the jewels, his plan was a run to the gharry— trusting to the excitement and his knowledge of the locality— reaching it in the character of a Sikh officer, with the jewels in his possession.

The driver was to be told to drive rapidly in the opposite direction to which Menzies wished to go. During the drive, the passenger intended to change his appearance again to that of a Eurasian, drop from the gharry without the driver knowing it and make his way to another cheap hotel— there to stay for a day or two. After which— when he thought it the right time— he meant to take a train to Benares. There he would become another white man, and so— home to England.

All this time the unhappy servant of the missing McLean would be waiting for his master to return to pay the hotel bill. The police would probably discover who McLean really was— if they did not know already— and perhaps believe something had happened to him— Menzies hoped so, anyway. At any rate, he saw no better way to throw them off his track. So he was very particular about hiring what seemed like a competent gharry walla. And any gharry walla would be on time if he knew another fifty rupees was to be added to the fifty already paid, if he were. Neither would he forget to bring the small but important suitcase, which contained nothing more valuable than a white-duck suit and a solar hat, with which the giver of the rupees had entrusted him.

THE officer of the guard, a high-caste native, was not unduly surprised at the note— signed by his commanding officer, apparently— which bade him dismiss his command ten minutes earlier than he had expected, so that the men would have time to get breakfast and spruce up for the procession. The tall native officer who marched to the palace with his hundred men brought the note with him, as explaining his appearance. Everything was in order, the guard was changed and certain of the newcomers detailed to relieve the men on duty in the palace halls and passages. There was, also, a small guard of English soldiers, but these had nothing to do with the Sikhs.

Thus, with incredible ease, thanks to his knowledge of drill, the commanding officer’s signature and his very efficient assistants, who had all left the army under a cloud and were being highly paid for their trouble— criminals all— Menzies obtained entrance to the palace.

Now, leaving one of his three officers with the majority of the false guard for appearance’s sake, he rapidly made for where he had learned the jewels were kept, accompanied by his two remaining “officers.” As they went the two natives exchanged significant glances, which Menzies did not observe.

But a hitch came. Of the four servants whom the societies, at Menzies’ order, had managed to smuggle into the palace in place of four who were discharged—a much easier matter, this, than in Europe or America— one had been told to keep himself aware of the abiding-place of the jewels; another, to keep in touch with their immediate custodian; another, to keep as near the king as possible; and another, an ayah, to keep in touch with the queen.

At the foot of the great stairway— up and down which men and women were passing all the time— the first of the servants managed to get to the side of the officer apparently in charge of the native guards, and advise him in a hurried whisper that the king and queen were at that moment arraying themselves with the jewels— either for the procession or as a sort of rehearsal— in what had been called the Throne Room.

This entirely upset Menzies’ plans. He had intended to act when neither the king or the queen were present. In short, his idea had been to bind and gag any one guarding the jewels who were not in his gang of hundred Sikhs.

He had expected to have to serve only one or two Europeans in this fashion, because he had succeeded in substituting his men for the real guards. Allowing fifteen minutes for the officer he had relieved to discover he had been tricked, Menzies meant to do some rapid safe-entering and get away before the robbery was discovered. To attempt the thing in any other manner looked suicidal— meant failure. Now, the jewels were no longer in the safe; and with the king and queen there would be at least a half-dozen people.

There might, also, be a servant or two— but he trusted his four importations to take care of them. However, with all the luck he could expect, he and his two ex-officers would have to bind and gag at least six people, including the king and queen. And three of these would no doubt be soldiers— generals— and armed.

What was he to do? In all his checkered career he had never thought so rapidly. He flushed under his dye— he was actually enjoying himself. What a huge lark! The extraordinary personality of the man pulsed at its highest. Figuring the risks— and even if he could grab the jewels, he saw no way of getting clear with them— he began to walk up the wide stairs, accompanied by his villainous companions. The servant conspirator had wisely disappeared.

They reached the door of the Throne Room, outside of which, with fixed bayonets, stood four of Menzies’ guard. Not a one of the four flickered an eyelid when the three supposed officers approached them. They did not salute, only waited. Menzies whispered rapidly and learned from the man to whom he spoke that the king and queen, two ladies and four gentlemen, all English, were in the room at the moment. There were, also, two footmen, English, and two English detectives, who had had charge of the jewels since they left England. In the room, then, were three women and nine men. Who the men were did not matter; no doubt the viceroy and the commander-in-chief were among them.

Menzies turned to the nearest of the fake officers:

“It’s impossible. Even if we rushed that crowd in there— and with the four men here we could perhaps do it— they would make too much noise for us ever to get away!”

The idea of killing never entered Menzies’ head. In all his career of crime he had never killed.

The two officers looked at one another. Then the most villainous spoke to Menzies.

“If you are not afraid to try it, we’re not!”

His tone was as insulting as his words, but Menzies was too level-headed to let words upset him at such a moment.

“It’s absurd,” he said shortly. “We could never get away. Best thing to do is to clear out— we may get another chance.”

But he knew they would not get another chance. The fake guard— their one sure key to the palace— would be soon discovered, and they could' never use it again. Again, the officers looked at one another. One of them grinned at the four men on guard, who grinned back. Astonished, Menzies was about to ask for an explanation, when the ugliest officer put his hand in his tunic, pulled out a letter and presented it to the Englishman.

Hurriedly, surprised, Menzies took the letter. It flashed upon him that there was hardly time to read it, that he would be better occupied making his getaway. Nevertheless, he opened it and read:

It has come to our knowledge that the jewels are false. It was thought too risky to bring the real ones from England, so paste ones were manufactured. The test set for you, in place of appropriating the jewels— now known to be false— is to aid human liberty by killing both the king and queen. The men will help you to this glorious deed. R.D.

P.S.—Do not fail. Failure means you will not become member of society, and worse.

THE letter had been written by the fat babu, evidently at the orders of others in the societies, and between the lines Menzies read many things, with an anger that increased with every picture that came to his mind.

First, it was obvious that, from the very beginning, the societies had known the jewels would not be the real ones. They had used the jewels as a bait to get him— no doubt feeling sure that he would scheme to get them for himself.

They wanted him, because the societies had been paid by a certain political society, which prates of “India for the Indians,” paid to assassinate the king and queen, and so further the “cause.” Since it was no easy task to kill the king and queen, Menzies’ skill to get to them had been needed. Besides, the political society could make capital out of the killing being done by an Englishman—they could explain this to their dupes as showing that the English were with them and were against the Government.

It was all very simple, as he saw it. And he saw dearly. But did they really expect he would do it? He looked into the savage faces of the two waiting officers, and at the four guards. Yes, they expected him to do it— what was a death or two to such brutes— almost as little as it would be to the same number of Germans. And, if he failed, they were ready to do the ghastly thing themselves.

In some way Menzies kept his head. His part was to keep the natives believing that he was going to do the murder while he found some way to save the intended victims. He had ceased to be a criminal. He had become an Englishman. It was not so much that the lives of a man and woman were at stake; it was something greater, more important. Menzies didn’t quite know what it was. If he had had time, and been asked, he might have tried to explain his feelings by the word patriotism. But he didn’t have that time.

Perhaps twenty seconds had passed since he read the letter. The servant had lied at the foot of the stairs—Menzies felt sure of that; but had the guard spoken the truth about the number of people in the Throne Room? He heard voices in the room. The officer nearest handed him a revolver, which he took.

“I can do it,” he whispered, feeling   inspired. “You all go— get to safety— while I kill them!”

The officer grinned and shook his head.

“We’ll get away,” he returned. “We made plans you know nothing about. All the men have their orders. You are no longer in command. You are to obey!”

“All right, I don’t care.” Menzies spoke easily, his rage only just under control. A dirty native speaking to him that way! He gripped the revolver and raised it slightly.

“There are only two shells in it— one for each,” whispered the officer significantly, as if divining that Menzies was thinking of taking a chance and trying to shoot the six who now surrounded him.

“All right.” And then, to the white man’s delight, the officer, who had given him the revolver, motioned to the four guards, and they hastened down the stairs. It seemed that they had played into his hands. Only two of them, and he had two shells in his revolver. He stepped back suddenly, aimed, and— only the click of the hammer answered the press of his finger. They had tricked him into showing his intentions.

“So!” The villainous native sneered, then stiffened— voices were heard in the room again, closer than before. Some one was about to open the door. Were the royal couple really in the room? And, if so, were they about to walk into a death trap?

It was not remarkable that the conspirators had been undisturbed, because only servants and “necessary” people were allowed in the house. Among the necessary people were of course the guards. All this had been taken into account by Menzies when he made his elaborate preparations. And it was not three minutes since the letter had revealed to him that his brain had been used for a fouler end than mere theft. And now, what could he do? To shout for aid would be no good. If he raised his voice, some one would open the door— making targets for the false officers. And, besides, there was no one in the building to help, no one except the few faithful servants, whom the criminal guards had no doubt taken care of, who would come to the assistance of the king and queen if called for. No, Menzies’ preparations had been too complete, too carefully laid. Unless they had already made their escape, there were only the false guards to hear the cries— for help or of agony.

Only seconds had passed since the voices had been heard in the room, but during those seconds Menzies had searched his fertile brain in vain for some way of saving the intended victims. The two false officers had drawn their revolvers, loaded with no dummy shells. Even if the grounds had suddenly filled with loyal troops, there would be no time for them to reach the head of the stairs. With an agony he had never believed possible to a human mind, Menzies waited dumbly for the door to open. If he made a move, a blow on the head from one of the revolvers would put him out of business— the natives would not even have to shoot him. And upon him, upon his retaining his senses and ability to act, depended the lives of the King and Queen of England.

He wondered many things during those terrible seconds, but most of all he wondered why the natives allowed him to live. They could have killed, or at least stunned him, without alarming the people in the room. What was their motive in letting him stand there, a possible agency against them, even if a very slight one? He was disguised as a Sikh, of course. Did they in some way mean to throw the blame on him? Ah, that was it. After the killing, with no witness left to tell the truth, they meant, if caught, to strip off his disguise as a proof that he had done the murders.

That in itself would be enough to save their lives— no jury would convict them with such evidence. They were even safe from being held as accessories— in a few seconds they could change themselves into ordinary natives and swear they tried to save the very people they killed— explaining that they were attracted to the scene by the cries. And false as the statement might look to a clear thinker, what juryman would see through it? The grounds deserted by the false guard, who could say the two men did not run in from the road? He remembered how the two false officers had kept in the background when he gave the note to the real Sikh— that officer had probably never seen them and would not have one chance in a hundred of identifying them. Or they might have another plan of escape— one of which Menzies did not dream.

From the moment he had spoken the weird passwords to the native smith in Calcutta Menzies had been the simple cats-paw of the societies and had done all their heavy thinking for them. Was ever a clever man so neatly tricked?

And now, helpless, all this understanding had come to him in the space of seconds. Breathless, he waited. What could he do except shout a fruitless warning? The handle of the door moved. Some one inside was about to turn it, and open the door. The two natives grinned wickedly, their faces distorted with the lust to kill. His senses strained to the uttermost, Menzies hardly noticed that one of them was pointing a revolver at him. At that moment a sudden roar arose from the compound. The grounds were filling with troops. The substitution of the guard of criminals had been discovered. As if eager to discover what had caused the noise, some one abruptly opened the door.

What happened then was beyond thought and intention. Menzies acted, knowing nothing of what he did, except the impulse driving him to do it. In a flash of sight, through the opening door, he had seen the royal couple, among about half a dozen others. With a warning shout he flung himself at the native who was taking aim at the king, diverting his bullet. At the same instant the other native shot at Menzies— missing him by inches.

Only one assassin confronted the petrified and astonished group, for Menzies had managed to stun the other with his fist. This one, backing away slowly toward the stairs, took careful aim and fired— missing the king but hitting another man. Bewildered by unexpected failure and harried by the sound of men running up the stairs, the native ran forward—aiming and meaning to make sure of getting the king as Menzies staggered to his feet.

The officers with the king had recovered from their astonishment and unpardonable losing of their heads, but it was the king himself who rushed bravely at the assassin. They were less than six feet apart when the native stopped, took steady aim and fired just as Menzies threw himself across the chest of the monarch, bearing him to the ground and receiving in his own back the bullet which otherwise would have ended the reign.

THE king himself was there when the doctor bared the white body.

“Why, he’s a white man!”

“Yes, your Majesty, I don’t understand it.” The doctor removed the beard from the unconscious, dyed face. “Dressed and bearded to look like a Sikh, sir!”

“Will he recover?”

“Not a chance, sir— be dead in a very little while.”

Suddenly the eyes, fast glazing, opened.

“Jewels,” muttered Menzies.

“What is it—what does he mean?”

“I— have found— it— it’s— the brightest jewel— of them all!” Menzies whispered.

And he passed, leaving them wondering what he meant.

______________________

7: Rogue's Legacy

Headon Hill

(Francis Edward Grainger, 1857–1927)

Week (Brisbane) 8 May 1908

"IT'S JASPER'S LEGACY, mate.  Think of it as that," said the man on the bed in a hoarse whisper. "I've neither chick nor child, and there's no one I'd rather have it than you. We've been good pals up here in Portland, so far as the blamed  rules would let us."

The scene was the infirmary of the great convict establishment; and the actors were two of its human derelicts. The haggard man who lay sick to death was Jasper Mason, a notorious cracksman; the tall young fellow who lent over him was Fred Elborough, serving his first sentence for embezzling the money of the bank that had employed him. His time was up on the morrow, and the regulations had so far been relaxed as to allow of his visiting his dying friend.

"Yes, we've always been good pals," murmured. "This is the act of a pal, Jasper."

"You won't forget the place? You ought to have a royal time. Worth twenty thousand if a halfpenny. Goodbye old man! good—"

The husky voice tailed off into a rattle, and the surgeon and nurse, who had been hovering near, motioned Elborough away. The end had come, and Jasper Mason would crack no more safes. He had gone to do a stretch that would last for eternity.

Elborough walked down the ward, and, surrendering to the warder who had brought him, was marched back to his cell. He sat flown on his bench to think out the situation that had just been created for him. It was the outcome of many clandestine conversations carried on in the quarries and in chapel with the hardened old miscreant who had passed I away. He had learned from these disjointed confidences that Mason had been convicted for breaking into the office a Hatton Garden dealer in precious stones. Mason had got the safe open, and had extracted a diamond of enormous value, when he was disturbed at his work.

Perceiving that capture was inevitable, he had thrust the stone into a crevice behind the wainscot, and, with great presence of mind, had thrown up a window opening into a back yard.

His object had been to inspire the belief that he had not been working singlehanded, and that his confederates had got away with the plunder. He would thus be able to return at the expiration of his sentence and procure the diamond without the trouble of drilling the safe again.

All this he had from time to time during the past two years imparted to Elborough, withholding only the address of the merchant he had robbed. But, being struck down with a mortal sickness, he had now, at the eleventh hour, yielded up to his fellow-prisoner the secret by which he would never be able to profit himself.

"I had meant to try and run straight— for Elsie's sake, but it would have been a hopeless business," the young man muttered as he rose and paced the narrow confines of his cell. "The police take care that a fellow shall never get a second chance. It would be folly to throw this chance away If I can contrive to be left alone in that room In Hatton Garden we shall be set up for life."

IF ANYTHING, the temptation was stronger on him the next day when, a free man once more, the train bore him London-wards. It even eclipsed in his mind the prospect of meeting once again the true-hearted young wife whose periodical letters had been his one solace in his island prison. The tenor of those tear-stained sheets had always been the same— that in spite of his lapse he should regain the character he had lost and the respect of his fellow men— that she would help him to do so by every means her power.

He laughed bitterly as he thought how feeble the poor girl's help must he compared with the potency of Jasper Mason's dying bequest. It was true that in order to take advantage of the latter he would have to commit a fresh crime, but, once successfully accomplished, it would put an end once for all to further shifts and expedients. He would he raised to comparative affluence at a single stroke. There would he no weary search for work, no inability to produce references. He would just realise Jasper's legacy and take Elsie away to some quiet country village where they could live out their days in peace.

And as to the thing being a crime. It was hardly worthy of the name. The crime had been that of Mason in breaking open Mr. Julius Stengel's safe and in taking the diamond therefrom.

All he himself would do would be to find the diamond and keep it. Its original owner had for years grown accustomed to Its loss. He would not even break the law in getting into Mr. Stengel's office. He was no adept with the jemmy and centre bit. He had no doubt, however, that he could devise some ruse for being left alone in the office long enough to recover the gem from its hiding place.

By the time he reached London the idea of getting possession of the diamond had gripped him fast, and he decided to put the matter through before seeing his wife. He had not apprised her of the exact date of his release, fearing lest she should come and meet him at the terminus. It was significant of the weakness of his character that a false sense of shame made him reluctant to appear before his wife in the shoddy plumage served out to liberated gaol birds. It had been his intention to fit himself out with more decent clothing before going to Wimbledon, where Elsie had been living with her mother during his imprisonment.

Now, thanks to Jasper Mason's bequest, he would not only be able to present himself to her in reputable attire, but with a small fortune at his back as well. To account for the latter he would have to invent a distant relative who had left him the money, but that again would come easy.

He arrived in London in the dusk of a winter's afternoon, and having a few pounds on him, the fruit of his good conduct marks in prison, he expended most of them in replenishing his wardrobe be fore he retired to an obscure hotel for the night.

THE NEXT morning he did not sally forth till noon, knowing that during the luncheon hour between one and two o'clock he would stand a better chance of  finding fewer people at Mr. Stengel's office. Dealers in gems do not keep a large staff of clerks, their transactions being more important than numerous.

He had no definite plan in his head as he turned from Holborn into the dingy old street; indeed, he had not started out In the expectation of being able to secure the diamond that day, regarding his present expedition rather as a reconnaissance. The most he could hope for, unless some unforeseen chance favoured him, was to gain access to Mr. Stengel's office under any pretext that might occur, and familiarise himself with the personnel of the establishment. It was important to learn how many clerks, if any, the merchant employed; and, if possible, to get a peep at the private room which Jasper had described to him as containing the safe. This receptacle had no interest for him, but he was consumed with anxiety to see if the crevice in the wainscot was still in existence. The dreadful thought haunted him that the house might have been restored, or even pulled down altogether.

But as he sighted it from the opposite pavement, the last-named fear fled away. There was no doubting the age-mellowed antiquity of the building, nor did its general appearance suggest that it had , been touched by the renovator's desecrating hand. Elborough sauntered to the end of Hatton Garden and back again, and then saw a stout, elderly man, undoubtedly a foreigner, come down the steps of the house and disappear in the direction of Holborn. He was quickly followed by another, and then by a third, all of the same stamp. The inference was that the principals were going out to their lunch.

Elborough walked across the road and inspected the brass plates on the door.

There were but three of them, so that, if his inference was correct, all the principals were out of the building. Acting on impulse, he entered and mounted the stairs to the first floor, whereon Mason, as well as the plate below, had informed him that Mr. Julius Stengel carried on business. Both directions proved to be right. One of the doors on the landing bore the name of Stengel painted in black letters.

Softly turning the handle, Elborough opened the do or and walked in, finding himself in a little outer office with a counter running across it. Behind the counter was an open door leading into an inner room. There was no one in the outer office, but from the room beyond came the clack of a typewriter. Noting that the flap of the counter was raised, Elborough passed quietly through, trusting to the noise of the typewriter to account for his stealthy approach if he should be observed before be made his presence known.

A glance into the inner room showed that its only occupant was a young woman in a shabby black dress engaged in copying letters on the machine. She had her back to him, and seemed so absorbed in her work that Elborough breathed more freely. He let his eyes range round the room, and his heart thumped against his ribs when he saw the fissure behind the wainscot described by Mason. What should he do? If he could only devise some scheme for getting the girl away for a minute or two he could pull off the coup there and then.

But no ready lie rose to his lips. The only ruse he could think of was to walk into the office, apologise for having entered the wrong one, and then feign a sudden illness, so alarming that the typist would have no choice but to go for medical aid.

"I beg your pardon, but is this—?" he began, but got no farther, for with a startled cry the girl wheeled round, and in a moment, they were locked in each other's arms. It was his own Elsie who stood between him and the realisation of the burglar's bequest.

When they grew calmer, she explained that her mother had died two months before, and that being left penniless she had obtained a situation as Mr. Stengel's secretary. She had been unable to notify her husband of the change, no letter being due from her under the regulations.

"It was clever of you to find me so soon, darling, but I suppose you got at me through the house agents at Wimbledon," she said. "They had my address at the humble lodging I have taken in Lambeth. And now we must find some work— good honest work— for my boy. It will be an uphill struggle. I expect, Fred, but please God we'll win through together."

Elborough allowed her to take for granted the reason for his being there, for the devil began to pull the strings again.

Her reference to the grim future that she was cheerfully looking forward too supporting him on her scanty earnings till be could gain precarious employment — recalled to him the real motive that had brought him to Hatton Garden. His gaze strayed furtively to the wainscot, thence to his wife's face, radiant with the prospect of honest penury. And two minutes' solitude in that room would put the grisly spectre of poverty to flight for ever.

A hundred pretexts tripped to his tongue for getting rid of her, but something held him dumb. Perhaps the forces of evil were no match for the influence of a good woman striving for her rights. Be that as it may, he hesitated; and while be hesitated the opportunity was gone. A heavy step was heard mounting the stairs, and Elborough stepped quickly back through the outer office to the space beyond the counter.

"I should get you into trouble if that is Mr. Stengel, and he found me in his private room," he explained.

Elsie followed, remaining, however, but side the counter, so that when the plethoric German came fussing in his first impression was of a business caller being attended to by his lady clerk. She quickly undeceived him.

"This is my husband, sir," she said. "Would you mind my going out with him for a little? He has— has been away for some time." And she beamed on the ex-convict with a wealth of affection than touched the vein of sentiment in the merchant's heart. Elborough, too, saw that look, and it was salvation.

"Ach so?" replied Mr. Stengel genially. "You haf at sea been, perhaps?"

"No, sir— I have been in prison," replied Elborough boldly. "I bring you a  message from a man who died there only yesterday— the burglar who was convicted of breaking into these premises. It you will look behind the wainscot in your private room below the crevice in the left-hand wall you should find the diamond that he took from the safe."

Stengel rushed into his sanctum; there was the sound of splintered wood; and he was back in less than a minute holding between finger and thumb a fountain of liquid fire.

"It is the di'mon, right enough!" he panted. "But I do not understand. You haf in prison been, you say, but they should not put men like you in prison! Why you might the di'mon' haf kep for yourself— you with your wife in my office."

Elborough laughed rather drily. "Perhaps I should have done so if my wife hadn't been in your office," he said. "You will have to give me the benefit of the doubt."

"And by donner und blitzen, I will!" cried the portly German with fervour. "I will do more than that— I will find you a billet of confidence with nice fat screw, and no one shall ever ask you why you were in that prison. I, Julius Stengel, will that attend to."

And, chuckling to himself, he went to lock up his recovered property, leaving husband and wife face to face.

"Oh, Fred, I am proud of you," saw Elsie, weeping with joy.

"I am a good deal prouder of you, little woman," was the reply.

_________________

8: The Attack from Moscow

Clarence Herbert New

1862-1933

Blue Book Jan 1927

A late episode in the long-running series "Free Lances in Diplomacy"

THE great airport of Le Bourget in the northern suburbs of Paris is now the terminal for many regular services to various parts of Europe, and is occasionally used by individual aviators who have nothing to conceal from the Customs officials, and who submit to the usual examination just as they would at any of the railway terminals.

In the case of a very few privileged persons who do a good deal of traveling by air and to whom the French Government is under obligations for valuable services rendered, concessions have been made permitting them to maintain their own hangars at the further limits of the plain, beyond the Customs lines, and examination of their effects is waived as a matter of official courtesy so that they may arrive or depart by plane at any hour of the day or night without formalities.

The Earl and Countess of Dyvnaint, after finishing a Mediterranean cruise with their three most intimate friends, and finally anchoring in their home port near the estate of Trevor Hall in South Devon, had spent a couple of weeks in working out the details of a new principle in radioactivity discovered by Earl Trevor— and had then flown across to Paris in one of their own planes for a month’s stay at their beautiful Paris home on the Avenue de Neuilly.

Their Afghans were transferring the luggage to one of their own cars at the hangar when the droning of a heavy three-motor plane attracted their attention to the sky in the northeast, where a big craft was approaching Le Bourget.

Experienced aviators of these days will recognize the make, the general type and probable nationality of a plane about as far as they can distinctly make it out— just as a shipmaster will tell you a good deal about a passing steamer at sea when scarcely more than her masts, funnels and upper line of hull are visible, or a chauffeur knows the make and year of an approaching car when it is a quarter of a mile away.

Countess Nan pronounced the approaching plane a Russian one, and Earl Trevor supplemented this by saying it was a heavy bombing type built in Germany from Russian drawings. As it clearly belonged to none of the regular services, curiosity prompted them to motor up the field and examine the bus when it landed.

Being promptly recognized, no official objection was made to this, and so they were within a hundred feet when the pilot and his two mechanics climbed down from the inclosed cabin. All three were Russians of the lower middle-class, speaking understandable French— the pilot, in fact, conversing fluently in it.

He explained that they had made a non-stop test-flight from Moscow, and unquestionably could have returned without coming down had they wished to do so, but that he was to see a few of the French designers, with some of his own countrymen, concerning an order to be placed by Moscow if the estimates were not prohibitive.

Not knowing who the Trevor party were, or anything of their experience in aviation, he supposed from their being inside the lines that they were connected in some way with the Government, and willingly took them aboard the plane to explain how it worked— its flight radius with cruising petrol and the regular bomb-supply, and its normal “ceiling” when loaded.

AS the man talked, some of his nervous reactions attracted the attention of Earl Lammerford and Sir Abdool Mohammed Khan, who had made a close study of such symptoms both in Europe and the Orient until they were really scientific experts in the action of many drugs upon the human system. The Trevors had studied the subject under them, but because of the multitudinous demands upon their time hadn’t gone as deeply into the subject.

From a few minutes’ close observation, Lammerford and Sir Abdool decided that the pilot, Zherenski, was an habitual user of a recently developed French preparation of heroin which almost instantly steadies the nerves for a short space of time, relieves all feeling of frightful apprehension such as may be described by the word “horrors,” and deadens mental or physical pain— but in no way destroys the causes of these symptoms, and must be used continually to banish them.

This compound is known to its users and to such chemists as take the risks of illicit drug-selling as Lefevrin, from the French chemist who isolated the matrix. And even as heroin is more deadly in its habit-forming effect than any other preparation of morphine known before, so Lefevrin is yet more damning than heroin. It has a more instantaneously sedative effect which lasts longer than other drugs at first, but masters the victim more thoroughly. Chemists and physicians now consider the cure of any person— any real or permanent cure— impossible if he has taken four or five doses of Lefevrin within a month.

WHILE Zherenski was explaining the different features of his bus to the Trevor party, he stepped aside for a moment to give his companions instructions. Ptorvakin, he said, would accompany him when he left the field— returning a few hours later with a pass. Malanoff was to remain with the machine— there was some food left on board. If he wished to communicate with them for any good reason, he could hire one of the field mechanics to guard the bus and come to the restaurant of the Cheval Noir in the Boul’ Miche’, where the woman in the bureau would know where he was to be found.

Zherenski told the others that he expected to leave on the return trip by the second afternoon following, but that he had business with two or three men which might delay him for a day or so— in which case either Ptorvakin or Malanoff would remain with the plane until relieved by the other, in twelve-hour watches.

They had been speaking in Russian, the slurred Russian of the masses, which Earl Lammerford and Sir Abdool understood very well and the Trevors sufficiently to get most of it— having no idea that these French or English people would know what they were talking about.

And when the party drove away to the Avenue de Neuilly, Trevor asked: “Isn’t that Cheval Noir a rendezvous for most of the Russian radicals, under the rose, Lammy; particularly the soviet lot?”

“Aye. Even the Prefecture is pretty well convinced of the fact an’ keeps the place more or less under espionage when they have reason to suspect that any of the more virulent crowd are in Paris. This chap, I fancy, is not one of the regular politicals engaged in spreading soviet propaganda— may be unknown to them. But if you ask me, I’d say he’ll not leave the city without a whacking big supply of Lefevrin— which it is against the law to use, or take out of the country. Judging by his condition out at Le Bourget, I’d say it was impossible for him to fly that plane here from Moscow without a dose of the drug at least every ten hours. Of course the usual dose is a small one— a couple of tablets from a small bottle. Now, if Zherenski can procure the genuine stuff without being arrested, he can carry back to Russia enough to make several thousand men irresponsible for their actions between doses. Incidentally he can make a small fortune from the proceeds of one trip. What sticks in my mind, is the sort of men in Moscow to whom he might be taking that drug. What is the social or official position they occupy? If they happen to be men and women of any standing,—and the chances are that such a class would be the very one most likely to use it,— you’ve got a mental condition over there which would account for a good many of the brutal atrocities which have been committed, and goodness knows what devilment brewing for the outside countries at any time. D’ye know, I fancy Abdool an’ I might turn up somethin’ int’restin’ if we keep this chap Zherenski under close observation while he’s in Paris. What?”

“Faith, I’ve a notion to go with you myself, Lammy!” remarked Trevor. “Wait a bit! Suppose you, Nan and Raymond keep entirely out of it while Abdool an’ I learn what we can of the chap here— then get to Moscow about the same time an’ see what we may catch him at, there. It’s probable enough that we can get messages out to you by our private code, because every message appears to be a straight business communication with no evidence of hidden meaning to arouse the censor’s suspicions. Very good! Then if we do stumble upon a scheme of this bounder’s which means serious consequences to any of the outside countries, we can warn you sufficiently in advance to block it, probably— unless we have rotten luck. Catch the point?”

“Perfectly! It’s a good suggestion. Only—you’d best give us the names under which you’ll go to Russia, and a description of your makeup. Then if we get no word after a certain length of time, we’ll go to Moscow after you— go officially, under our own names, with authority as special diplomatic commissioners— and somehow get you out.”

“Don’t do anything of that sort too quickly. We may have to get out through Siberia, or down the Khyber Pass into India.”

VHERENSKI dined that evening at the Cheval Noir with a fellow-countryman who had lived in France long enough to become thoroughly Gallicized and pass everywhere as a Lorraine Frenchman. His ostensible business was that of a dye-stuff manufacturer, with a side-line of byproducts in commercial drugs, at which he was said to have made a fortune.

As far as the Prefecture knew, he was a thoroughly respectable member of the Parisian business world and some of its clubs— in first-class standing with the banks. Actually he owned a large block of shares in a house which manufactured medicinal drugs upon a large scale and bought crude chemicals from him.

At a table near them were a Russian university professor and a Rumanian confrere whose talk, in fluent Russian, they occasionally caught. In fact, so thoroughly were they convinced that the professor and his friend were fellow-countrymen and, as such, undoubtedly more or less in sympathy with anything they might be discussing, that they made little attempt to keep what they said at so low a pitch that the other pair couldn’t overhear at least parts of it.

“Look you, Zherenski! We are agreed upon one point as a beginning. You wish to purchase a certain amount of bur ‘Class A’ goods, and you think our price is somewhat high for so large a quantity? Very well— I agree! I will accept your price— which I suppose is fair enough for such an amount, though we never have sold as low as that before. So far, we are in accord. But we now come to the difficulty of delivery, which is a much more serious matter. If you were to send a motor-lorry to our warehouse, openly, we could not deliver you any such quantity even on the supposition that it was to be consumed in other departments of France without exporting an ounce. How do you suggest getting it into your plane?”

“Load a lorry with cases of permissible chemicals for Amiens— cases marked on the outside as such, but containing our shipment inside. You are constantly making such deliveries— nobody will stop you after a perfunctory examination at the first barrier. The lorry will leave Paris late in the afternoon, reaching Amiens next morning. Thirty kilometers north of here there is a flat plain upon which I can land without difficulty. I will be forced down by a leak in my petrol-tank—making repairs when your lorry reaches the spot, showing a single red lantern. We can transfer the stuff to the plane in less than an hour—”

“But if we’re caught at it?”

Zherenski shrugged disdainfully. “I’ll manage to get away with it— they’ll not stop me. Which leaves no proof against you. Your chauffeur can swear he was held up with a pistol and forced to let us take his load—nobody’s business what we wish to do with the stuff it was supposed to be. And you’ve influence enough with the Government to keep the whole affair quiet.”

“Possibly— but we run a serious risk all the same. I agree— upon condition that we charge an extra two per cent for that risk and send three well-armed men with the lorry— doing our best to get you safely into the air without being stopped. Apropos! When you were last in Paris, you rather hinted at pulling off some big political coup after you had tested out your big plane and knew how much actual cruising radius it had. Have you still in mind something of the sort?”

“Yes— and I’m nearer the point of actually trying it out. The Commissars wouldn’t listen, for one reason or another— were doing other things under the surface which might conflict, couldn’t think of it openly, anyhow. But the British Government is now assuming a stiffer, less friendly tone with us— we all think it is time those money-grubbers had a lesson which will pull ’em up a bit and teach ’em to respect us! It’s all rather vague as yet, but I expect a change of attitude when I return.”

When Zherenski began describing his plan for getting the drug out of Paris and went on to some discussion of his future intentions, he had dropped his voice to a confidential pitch that ordinarily couldn’t have been overheard, but the Russian professor at the near-by table was evidently a very deaf man. He held an audiphone receiver hooked over one ear and the rubber transmitter for it suspended from one of his waistcoat buttons, so that by merely turning the little adjustment screw, he was able to pick up every word said at the other table as easily as his own companion’s remarks. Incidentally he really had a very acute sense of hearing.

When the aviator and his friend went out, Sir Abdool asked the professor whether he thought there would be any point in having them arrested at the rendezvous, as they could easily do with the information in their possession.

“Faith, if M. le Préfet knew what we do about them, he’d have both those bounders behind the bars before morning! And then the deputy or senator who is getting his rake-off on the exportation of the drug would manage to make it hot for the Préfet in various ways. After which our good friend would reproach us for getting him to monkey with something we might have known was loaded. Zherenski would be released, probably get his stuff out of the country in some other way, an’ be so; cursed suspicious of everyone that we’d have difficulty pickin’ up anything in Moscow. But for one reason, I’ve almost a mind to do it just the same! If there are several men in that town holding official positions who happen to be drug-addicts, and their regular supply is cut off just at a time when they’re depending upon gettin’ at least six months’ quantity of it, they’ll simply go crazy. If there are enough of them, that might smash the dictatorship with a series of brutal murders on the inside. This, however, is all pure imagination— we’ve no evidence whatever that anyone in authority, there, is an habitual user. If Zherenski’s trade is mostly with unimportant people, we’d gain nothing by such action and lose a lot of valuable data which we’re pretty sure of getting in Russia. From what the fellow said, I fancy we’ll not get anything of importance by trying to shadow him, here— his main object is obviously a big supply of the drug. If he talks about other plans at all, he’ll say more in Moscow than he will here. My impression is that we’d best take today’s plane for Berlin and change there in the morning to one in the Moscow service, which will get us there about the time Zherenski arrives— probably a bit ahead of him, which gives us opportunity for getting in with friends of his. We’ll spot some of the drug-addicts and start an acquaintance with them.”

IT was a regular custom with the Free Lances to obtain, in ways they had found workable, a number of passport blanks whenever they spent a few weeks in any particular country. Their relations with Downing Street and the French Prefecture were so close and friendly, because of valuable services rendered, that they were permitted to see and photograph any passport turned in by a person entering the country whenever they had a good reason for doing it. So whenever they found it necessary to have in their possession a duly vised passport issued by any government it merely was necessary to use one of the blanks they had collected and have the names and seals forged upon it.

According to the passports presented for vise at the airport in the suburbs of Moscow, Earl Lammerford was Professor Sergeius Damanov, who had left Moscow three years before to accept a chair at the Sorbonne; and Sir Abdool was Gregor Larescu, a Rumanian interested in one of the French chemical houses, traveling under a passport of four years back. Each passport, of course, bore several vises from different cities in Europe acquired during that period— in fact, they were so very much the real thing in appearance that none of the officials dreamed of questioning them.

As their luggage was merely one large portmanteau for each, covered with various hotel-labels, the Customs formalities didn’t detain them over three hours, after which they were free to go where they pleased in the city and find a hotel or lodging which suited them. Had they belonged to any of the outside countries, their passports would have been held for several days before being returned to them.

During the three hours at the airport, they fraternized with some of the mechanics— telling them that they had left Paris just as Zherenski arrived, after what he claimed to be a nonstop flight. All the men at the field told them that if Zherenski claimed to have made the flight without stopping, that settled it, as he was known to have gone as far into Siberia and back without coming down.

Opinion seemed to be unanimous that, when the man was feeling in just the right condition, he not only was an unusually skillful aviator but a perfect daredevil besides. They thought he drank too much when not flying, but none of them seemed to know of his drug-habit, though they said he had frequently brought in a load of very expensive chemicals which gave him a staggering profit. When asked where he could be found when in the city, they mentioned the house where he lodged, and two of the commissars who were cronies of his.

Later in the day, the Earl and Sir Abdool had no difficulty in procuring a room on the same floor as that occupied by the aviator when he was in town. Having that part of the house to themselves for an hour or two,— it was the top floor, just beneath the steeply pitched roof,— they cut a hole through the partition at the back of a closet, having noticed that a cheap American bureau with a mirror above it stood against that wall in the pilot’s room where it would entirely conceal the hole.

The building was an old one on the Pskovsky near the river, about four blocks from the Kremlin. It had neither running water nor plumbing— there was an old and foul well in the court at the back, but little matters of that sort do not trouble the masses in Russia, and foreigners were not supposed to lodge there anyhow.

From a preliminary examination the two decided that it must serve Zherenski’s purposes very well indeed. If he had any considerable traffic with those in the Kremlin and the neighboring buildings across the Square— used for official purposes by men connected, one way or another with the Council of Commissars— it was but a step to these quiet lodgings of his, on a by-street where they would not be noticed coming or going, at night.

If he had conferences with those in power as to certain activities outside of Russia, there could scarcely be a more secluded place than his room at the top of the old building.

Even with lodgers in the front room, overlooking the street and river from its two dormer windows, it would have been impossible for them to overhear what went on in Zherenski’s quarters with the door closed, unless by some such hole as they had cut through the partition or through the planting of a dictaphone on the premises; and the old concierge, below, was supposed to know pretty well the sort to whom she rented lodgings at any time.

LAMMERFORD and Sir Abdool had learned from bits of careless talk at the airport that Zherenski had an official permit to land and remove without examination any chemicals he might bring in, upon one trip or another, so they were not surprised to hear a motor-lorry stop in the street below about eight in the evening, and looking out of their dormer, see two men fetch case after case into the building, up the four flights of stairs and into the aviator’s room, where they left it. When they had gone, he locked the door. Through the hole in the partition back of his bureau, they saw a pole working to push up a trapdoor in his ceiling— presumably communicating with a narrow attic-space between the top of his dormers and the ridge-pole of the roof. Evidently his own pole had a hook upon the end of it, for he caught it upon the coaming of the trapdoor and went up hand-over-hand until he pulled himself into the space above, and then lowered a ladder by means of which he lugged up sixty cases of the deadly drug— each one weighing almost twenty pounds. When he finally lowered himself into the room, pulling the trap shut with the hook, there was no evidence whatever that a half-ton of the drug could be possibly concealed anywhere about the place. As the small area of ceiling back of the slope past the dormers was merely of boarding, between rafters, one might have examined it for some time— in the dim light from the single kerosene lamp on the table— without discovering the trap at all, and if located, would suppose it merely a means of getting up to the ridge of the roof.

As the front room was rarely occupied by lodgers, and the two present occupants made no sound, Zherenski had fallen into a habit of considering himself alone upon that floor, and frequently left his door open to the small landing at the top of the stairs, only closing it when sounds of lodgers moving on the floor below indicated that he and his visitor might be overheard. The two recent arrivals had figured that he could scarcely get there before evening and so took the chance of going out for the best dinner they could obtain before facing the prospect of spending several hours in their room without lights, in absolute silence. When they finally went to bed about one in the morning, thoroughly tired out, they congratulated themselves that they had done this.

At ten o’clock they had heard halting steps upon the stairs— then stops, with the audible wheezing of an asthmatic trying to get his breath until, when the man finally staggered into Zherenski’s room, he dropped upon a chair, leaning forward with elbows on a table, fairly gasping with the effort to breathe. Presently he managed to jerk out a few words:

“Me— I am— a fool! My supply— medicine— getting very low! Feared accident— might delay you— or prevent— return! Hoarding my— little supply— desperately—make it last—long as possible! Increased interval—  between— reduced doses! Man— I’ve gone through— hell! You’ve got plenty— haven’t you? Say yes —damn you! Say it quick! I’m right on — the edge— now! If I—go to pieces—  shoot you and— myself too! I’ll take— four tablets— now! Curse it, I’ve got to! And I’ve only twenty left! Give me ten pounds— now— so I’ll know— how long— to count upon it! Quick, man— quick!”

ZHERENSKI looked him over in cold, ^ calculating appraisal—his hand upon an automatic in his pocket, ready to kill his visitor without mercy if he attempted to draw a weapon. And the man’s hands trembled so that it was very difficult for him to get out his little phial of tablets.

“Ten pounds, Sarnoviev, will cost you just ten thousand rubles, gold-standard— and I can’t give them to you tonight because I can’t get at the place where I’ve hidden it in bulk. Two ounces tonight— with the ten thousand rubles— and you can come tomorrow evening or the next night for the rest of it. Of course, if I try to welsh on you, it’s easy enough to have me shot. But when you get that big supply of— er— medicine, we’re going into conference about that scheme I’ve outlined to you once or twice. If you consent to it, get the council to wink at it, as something over which they have no control, get me such funds as I need for equipment, you may take the medicine away with you. If you don’t consent to all this, I’ll simply return your ten thousand rubles— and keep the medicine for somebody who is more disposed to help my plans!”

“No! No, Zherenski! You simply can’t deprive me of it! I need the stuff too desperately! We’ll talk it over! Yes— yes— But I must have the medicine!”

SARNOVIEV had furtively slipped four tablets between his lips from the phial concealed in his hand, and his breathing, though still difficult, was noticeably easier. With every moment the taut lines in his face relaxed and the congested appearance of his cheeks gave place to a more healthy color. Yet so instinctive had the course of lying and deceit become with him, the various subterfuges by which he managed to conceal the fact that he was an absolute slave to a brain- and body-rotting drug, that even as he gradually recovered a manner more at ease and responded to an almost stupefying sense of relief, he tried lightly to pass off the condition in which he had arrived as a mere temporary seizure which was largely imagination and of no real consequence. With this feeling came the disposition to haggle for a lower price, as if he actually were in a position to carry off anything of the sort.

“Really, comrade, I think you are becoming rather extortionate because you think my need puts me at your mercy! You are asking possibly a hundred times what the medicine cost you in Paris!”

“Just that! Suppose I refuse to give you these two ounces? You have but twenty tablets left. If you go to Paris by plane, they’ll hardly last until you get there. Then— what? Are you sure you could get the stuff at once— in two days— two weeks? Without a six-months’ supply, you wouldn’t dare risk coming back here. With it— you couldn’t get out of the city unless you knew the ropes and found men who might assist you— and it would take a year to make such connections. Suppose I say definitely that you’ll get no more from me at any price? Eh?”

“Oh, well— I could have you shot, as you said— and then take as much of your supply as I wish!”

“You think you know where I’ve hidden it, then? Suppose, about the time you’re raving crazy for another dose, you find that you’re mistaken, haven’t the remotest idea where the stuff really is? I purposely had a load of boxes filled with sand delivered at this house, just as a blind, while I was putting the drug in a much safer place. After shooting me, you might search this house— and see what you find. Eh? Don’t be an ass, Sarnoviev! There are too many who need the stuff beside yourself to see me shot— knowing their supply would be cut off for several months, until they can find some one else to fetch it in. And there’s nobody else with my facilities! You’ll give me ten thousand rubles, gold, tonight— or you get but two ounces! If you remain here a couple of hours, you’ll not even suggest haggling over it. Like the crazy man you were when you came here, you took an overdose— and you’ll be getting a reaction from it pretty soon— in horrors. You may breathe much easier, but your nerves will begin to kick! And let me give you a point while you’re in condition to get it fixed in your mind: In using this medicine, never go more than four hours past the regular interval— and never increase the dose! The men and women who go about their business for some time without attracting attention to the treatment use regular doses at regular intervals. In time, of course, one must shorten the interval— little by little. But all you sufferers face the inevitable wind-up which comes sooner or later according to one’s physical and nervous resistance.”

“Hmph! Humorous, are you—with that ‘you sufferers.’ Think you can fool me, Zherenski— me, who have been through a million hells with the stuff! One of the ‘regular-interval patients,’ are you? Take it or leave it, when you please! Bah! You make me sick! It was knowing you’re one of us which drove me half insane while I wondered whether you actually could fly a plane back here from Paris with a load of the stuff! Next time you probably wont, you know—or the time after that— or the next one. Some day you’ll go to pieces at two kilometers up— and then— blub l A mess on the ground— boxes with little phials of tablets which nobody knows anything about smashed and scattered all over! And those who are waiting for you, their supply exhausted, running amok— cutting every throat they see, blazing into women and children just for the pleasure and excitement of it! Anything to blot out for the moment the horrors which are creeping nearer— nearer— right at the back of their necks! You talk of my getting the horrors from the overdose I took? How would you have known anything about ’em if you hadn’t had ’em? Eh? Eh? You see? What are yours like, Zherenski?”

IT was time for the aviator’s regular dose. With a half-ton of it over his head, he thought he was sitting pretty and listening, amusedly, to this poor devil of a commissar who was so entirely at his mercy. Slipping a hand into his breeches pocket, he was going to fetch it out again with a little phial concealed in the palm, and finger his short mustache for a second or two— just long enough to slip a couple of the tablets between his lips without the other catching him at it— and then go right on with his assumption of being entirely at ease, in a superior position. But grope as he might, his fingers touched no phial in the pocket. He tried to remember where else he could have put it—realizing that unless he kept a grip upon himself he would become panic-stricken and lose control of his actions. (Ah! The two boxes he had taken out to give Sarnoviev!) They should be in his waistcoat pocket— but he suddenly realized, in a clammy sweat, that in the close atmosphere of the attic he had taken off the garment and left it up there. Unless he could think where he’d put the phial which should have been in his pocket, he was helpless. No matter what condition might come over him, he couldn’t go up into that attic with Sarnoviev in the house. It would expose his secret hiding place, and he’d have to kill the man without scruple. Wait a bit! The commissar must have his remaining twenty tablets on him, somewhere!

At this thought the aviator’s tension relaxed somewhat. He could either get the fellow out of the building long enough to reach his stuff overhead, or else simply take a few tablets from him by force. He thought he might stick it out a couple of hours more without losing control of himself, but was fully alive to the risk of not getting that far, which meant— murder. (The two listeners in the front room began to suspect the trap he was in.)

By this time, Sarnoviev was getting the first little premonition of kick from his overdose. His easy conversational manner began to slip, there were longer pauses, during which his eyes stared fixedly at the wall without seeing it— dilating with unutterable fright at what his brain did see. And presently he began describing it to Zherenski, who was fast getting into a mental condition where he saw with the clearness of a photograph what the other saw. The commissar’s voice was little above a hoarse whisper.

“One million, eight hundred and twenty-six thousand official executions—since the revolution! That’s the official Cheka record— and the devil only knows how many unofficial ones! The rest of us lost count! I am continually passing along a sidewalk, flights of slippery steps at the left, down into foul and loathsome cellars! From the darkness on every side, eyes glow at me. When my brain is reeling, and unconsciousness would be heavenly relief, I feel cold slimy hands prodding me back to a frightful wakefulness, with every sense alert! I hear a scuffling upon the sidewalk, then the sound of many feet descending the steps! The place becomes dimly lighted from two lanterns in the. hands of soldiers! Men and women— with their arms bound— are prodded up against the further wall! One of the demon girls steps out into the middle of the cellar fingering a pearl-handled automatic! Always fairly good-looking— usually expensively dressed, with breeches and boots, furs, gold bracelets! If her target against the wall looks back at her with a smile, eye-to-eye (the cursed aristocrats often did that. They’re all dead now!) she bows, and makes it an affair of but two seconds— one clean bullet through the heart or forehead. God— what shots those women are! If they grovel and beg for mercy, she laughs! I wake in the night in a cold sweat, hearing those laughs! She sends a bullet into the knee-cap or elbow— and one through the throat! They die horribly! Sometimes a matter of hours!

“At other times I walk along the brink of the sand-pits outside the city— slipping, slipping, frantically grasping at everything— but always slipping down, down, to where I land upon stiff and motionless corpses an inch or two under the sand— which gusts of wind partially uncover or bury deeper! I try to flounder out, but feel something drawing me back to the center of the pit, where there is a heaving of the mass under my feet—a clutching of hands at my ankles! Arrgh! Quick, Zherenski! My two ounces!.... Another taste of the medicine or I go crazy!”

The aviator’s eyes were beginning to have in them the glow of a maniac’s. While seeing every horror that Sarnoviev saw, he fought to control himself a little while longer. He spoke thickly—with effort:

“The money first, comrade! Have you— got it— on you?”

“A check! .... Yes— yes! Of course!”

The other growled like an enraged animal.

“I take no checks! You’d be a fool to risk them! If my trade is exposed, the check shows what manner of a thing you are— to everybody! No more talk of ‘medicine’ for your nerves— just the plain rotten truth that you’re sold, mind and body, to the devil! You can get gold notes! Go out at once and fetch them— before I change my mind!”

“At this time of night— with the banks all closed!”

“Bah! Get them in the Kremlin! There’s money enough there— you’ve always influence enough to get what you need upon a mere receipt! Go, man! Before I get tired of this— and say I’ll give you nothing— at any price!”

“And—if I say it’s impossible?”

SARNOVIEV never was nearer death than at that moment. Zherenski was fast getting to a point where he knew he couldn’t hold himself— racking his dazed, wandering mind to think where he could have put the phial which should have been in his pocket. The glare in his eyes was becoming maniacal, and in a moment the other saw it— saw the hand in the man’s coat pocket, and knew it was clutching a pistol. The commissar was swearing to himself that he wouldn’t— he simply wouldn’t touch his few remaining tablets; but he saw that he would have to if he hoped to get any more of the drug. He could get, of course, both morphine and heroin from a certain chemist in the city— in the morning; but he realized only too clearly that with any recourse to cruder forms of the drug than Lefevrin, it now would be impossible to gauge a dosage which he could still conceal but which easily might turn him into a raving maniac at any unexpected moment if he took a grain too much. So he hurriedly stumped down the four flights of stairs and almost ran to the main gate of the Kremlin, near the huge monstrosity erected to Lenin.

When certain that he had left the building, Zherenski locked his door, opened the ceiling trap with his pole, and lost no time in climbing up after his waistcoat with the two-ounce boxes, and another for himself. As he slid back down into the room, something slipped from where it had lodged in his breeches and fell upon the floor—  the little phial which should have been in his pocket— all the time within reach of his hand, yet almost causing murder when he couldn’t find it.

Sarnoviev was back in less than half an hour. It was evident that he had profited by the aviator’s warning and had taken not more than one tablet to steady himself for this second visit to the old building. Zherenski, knowing exactly where to lay hand upon means of procuring his own relief at any second it was needed, was now almost urbane in his manner. Both rather sheepishly tried to carry off the impression with each other that their previous condition was simply overwrought nerves resulting from a number of causes. The two ounces were passed over in the sealed Lefevrin boxes, each containing four little phials— the gold-ruble notes were paid over and assurance given that the ten pounds would be delivered next evening. Then Zherenski improved the opportunity for getting down to his crazy scheme.

“You know in a general way what I’ve been proposing to do as soon as I had a plane which I was certain would stay in the air thirty or forty hours, Sarnoviev. Well— this flight has satisfied me in regard to that. I can fly to London and back without coming down. If, in any unforeseen emergency I have to land, I know of one place in France and one in Germany where I’m not likely to be discovered before I’ve repaired the trouble and get up again. I fly as a private individual, with my own plane— for whom the Soviet is in no way responsible— and you can disavow anything I do.”

“Well— admitting all that— just what do you wish to do?”

“Drop enough high-explosive on the Parliament Buildings— at night— completely to destroy them and every human being inside at the time!”

“Including the Labor members?”

“Of course not! Nor any others known to even partly favor the Third Internationale! They will be warned by our agents in London to keep well away from Westminster upon a certain evening. The cursed English are adopting a stiffer attitude with us. They managed to control the big general strike in a way we had considered impossible! It’s time they were taught a lesson that if they force the workers of the world too far— sufficiently to compel ‘direct action’ upon their part— they’re going to get something which will destroy their capitalistic Government at one stroke. Can’t you see it, man? With my big plane, it’s the opportunity of a lifetime!”

“H-m-m— I’m beginning to think you’re right, Zherenski! Of course there’s no persuading the council into giving official consent to anything of the sort. But I imagine that three or four of us have influence enough to bring about an attitude in which the council assumes that such an attempt is too wildly absurd to even discuss, and takes no notice of what you appear to be doing with your own plane. It’s really a Government boat— but it can be sold to you for any sum agreed upon and receipt given for an assumed payment. I can manage that part of it so that the council will suppose it an actual sale for value— and the explosives supplied to You for certain tests over the Baltic Sea.”

TO the listeners in the front room, there was something disgusting in the air the plotters gave themselves of being thoroughly responsible men considering a certain action “for the good of the state”— when they were so very far beyond normal responsibility from drug-usage, as to be worse than paranoiacs. Within the space of a few short hours— as they and those listening to them knew beyond any possibility of doubt— they again would be abject slaves, lashed by inflamed nerves and rotting brains into recurring conditions in which there was but a hair-line betwixt them and violent insanity but for the temporary relief doled out to them by their drug-master. Yet in their fleeting false-ease they were strutting before each other as men of the world— guiding international politics behind the scenes. There are times when sober-minded, experienced statesmen wonder if possibly there may not be quite a sprinkling of drug-addicts among those who dabble in world-politics—officially or unofficially.

Lammerford and Sir Abdool knew from long experience that any statesmen in the chancelleries of Europe would simply ridicule the story if they were told what Zherenski was determined to carry out. In a time when the whole world was practically at peace? Impossible! The act of a madman! Even knowing all about the millions in gold sent into other countries to bring about labor chaos and revolution, as the two in the front room did know so very well, it was difficult for them to believe that in the Russia of today any maniac would be permitted to carry out any such brutal, senseless outrage as this aviator proposed. But after what they had overheard, they knew he would carry it out— probably with entire success, unless they managed to block him in time.

They might shoot him in Moscow before he started— that would certainly settle his attempt, even if the idea persisted and some other friend tried it afterward. But until he actually committed the crime, there was no proof they could offer that he actually would or could do it— and their act would be simply murder, undoubtedly at the cost of their own lives. The only legal way to handle it was to bring the man crashing down in his plane, either over the Channel or upon some Kentish heath where nobody else would be injured, before he got over London— which meant keeping one of the Royal Air Squadrons aloft over the lower end of the North Sea for at least forty hours after the scoundrel was known to have left Moscow. Having to conserve his petrol supply in order to get back, he would take no chances by deviating from a straight compass-line of W.S.W., passing over Rotterdam and the Essex coast.

It was extremely improbable that the Government would take their story seriously enough to order the squadron out. It was too preposterous.

NEXT morning, when Zherenski had left the building, Lammerford said: “As a supposed Rumanian, Abdool, you’re far less likely to be suspected or interfered with here than I. You’re interested in a large chemical house in Paris — came here to conclude a business deal with certain Moscow chemists— find that the Government regulations make it difficult to do so— expect to go back and lay the matter before your house within two or three days. So if you send a radio to Raymond Carter in Paris, it’s the perfectly obvious one that you’d be expected to send: ‘Leaving for Paris this morning. Larescu.’ And Raymond will at once telephone it by our own radio to George in Devon. Meanwhile I take this morning’s plane to Berlin— flying from there to Paris and London as rapidly as possible— should be at Trevor Hall late tomorrow night, with luck. I came here from the Sorbonne on report of a vacancy at the University— because I wished employment in my own country again. I’m leaving because there is no vacancy at a price I can afford to accept and because the conditions do not yet strike me as attractive for a peace-loving man. Will return when the country is more settled. Of course I’ll be questioned, but I fancy I can get away on the morning plane just the same— nothing about me in the least suspicious. We figure that it will take Sarnoviev at least a week to put through the supposed sale of the plane to Zherenski— have it thoroughly tuned up for such a racking flight— and get his explosives aboard. At least five days, anyhow, with all the rushing both of them can do. That should give George and Nan and me time enough to see what can be done with the Home Secretary or make some preparations of our own. Now— any suggestions?”

“No— I fancy you’ve covered about everything we can do, Lammy. Good workable stories— both of them! Of course you’ll understand when Raymond gets my radio that I mean it’s Zherenski who’s leaving for London at that time— and can figure when he should have flown the eighteen hundred miles. Any one of us five except Raymond will recognize that bus by the sound of her motors— if we’re using George’s patent muffler on our own; but the moon should be up just about the time he’s crossing the North Sea, if the weather isn’t too thick. You go ahead! Have your passport vised at once. I’ll be out at the air-port to see you go up, so that I’ll be sure you’re off. If there’s any hitch, we’ll just reverse the proposition— I’ll leave today myself, and you can stay to send the radio."

DOWN in South Devon, Earl Trevor and Countess Nan had been working in the laboratory and machine-shops of the big estate ever since their two friends had left for Russia. They had come over to their Paris home with the .intention of spending a month there— but the discovery which Trevor had worked out on the yacht, in the Bay of Naples, was much too absorbing to let them stay, and they had flown back the next afternoon to continue their experiments with it. In his investigations for some all-powerful weapon, preferably nondestructive, which would absolutely check an attacking force before it There was a concussion which shook air and sea and land for miles around. came within effective distance, the Earl had discovered, first, that certain discords in the music scale— when projected with sufficient force through long sections of tubing became so unbearable that no human being could stand them, becoming dizzy from the nervous shock and utterly helpless from the torture of such a sound. This was pretty effective for short distances, but useless at long range and too easily nullified by defense. It then occurred to him that if the same discords were carried, not to the ear but to the nervous system, by impulses of radio-frequency instead of audio-frequency, they couldn’t be heard—the source couldn’t be determined— and unless the exact pitch to which each human system vibrated in unison could be ascertained, there was no possible defense against them. So, in his experiments upon the yacht he had demonstrated that human susceptibility lay, in the majority of cases, in wave-lengths so short as to be merely fractions of a single meter. And he had succeeded in transmitting his discords by radio-frequency with sufficient strength completely to overcome a military parade which was being held on shore at some distance from the yacht.

In South Devon they had been experimenting with the same type of transmitting set installed in a closed motor-lorry— and running it through the neighboring shires, had halted people on the county roads, in village streets and market squares— stopping as soon as they saw the effect was indisputable, so that the people had no conception of what it was that had rendered them momentarily dizzy and powerless. The experiment they were most anxious to attempt, however— using the discovery from an airplane— was simply prohibitive as long as there was a possibility that other planes might be in the air in the direction their aerial-rod was pointing, because any pilot struck when the tuning coupler reached his own wave-length could not control his plane. If the thing proved as powerful as all their experimentation had indicated, he must inevitably crash. So they hadn’t demonstrated this— and with the conviction that the next war must be fought in the air, it was a point they unquestionably needed to demonstrate.

This was the situation when Earl Lammerford came down on the landing-field in one of their planes from the Bourget hangars. Dinner was served on the terrace overlooking the Channel while he was telling his story. When Lammerford finished with the remark that they had best run up to London at once for an interview with the Home Secretary, Trevor shook his head:

“We’ll do that as a last resort, Lammy— day after tomorrow. He may consent to let three planes from the Royal Air Force go up for a night to stop that scoundrel, but here’s what might happen if we do get him that far, and it’s even bets we won't! We may describe that Russian plane to those pilots to the best of our ability, but they’ve not heard its motors, as we have— and they can’t drown the noise of their own as we do. Chances are, they may down one of the commercial planes with several passengers, instead. There’s no possibility of hitting that fellow by ground fire even if we got permission to try it— and the commercial planes might be hit instead. It seems to me that if he is stopped at all, it’s up to us! And that’s a pretty heavy responsibility— not? We can have two light planes and a couple of our larger ones in the air for nearly forty hours— all with machine-guns and searchlights. Best of all, this is the chance I’ve been hoping for to give my radio-discord a try-out from a plane. Haven’t dared point the aerial-rod anywhere up for fear of hitting some poor devil of a pilot and killing him unintentionally. Zherenski we’ve simply got to kill— before he kills a lot of innocent people! I’ve had a powerful installation rigged on one of our big three-motor planes, with a heavily insulated compartment for the electric discord fog-horn and honeycomb transmitter. I work the coupler and rod from the upper wing—all of us insulated with rubber and wool. It seems to me the emergency is so great that I’m justified in testing out the thing on one of the incoming steamers several miles at sea—from that big plane. We’ll do that in the morning! ”

ONE of the most valuable features in Earl Trevor’s discovery was the fact of his being able to use it directionally. He had successfully demonstrated that, with the long half-inch copper rod on his transmitting set pointed in a certain direction, people fifteen degrees away from the point it was covering were conscious of but a slight disturbance— while at thirty or forty degrees they didn’t notice it. Also that, with head and ears protected by a thick felt hood, with a rubber coat and cap, those immediately around the set were but very slightly affected— as long as the rod was pointing away from them. With these results clearly demonstrated, he thought he was safe enough in making the test upon a steamer as no plane was in sight. They went up in the big boat about ten in the morning— flying W.S.W. until they were a hundred miles beyond Ushant. As every man on the estate was devoted to the Earl and Countess (they were a picked lot, too), the three mechanics who were taken along on the flight were considered very lucky by the others, who worked upon any invention of the Trevors’ as a labor of love beyond any question of their very attractive pay.

Presently they made out through their glasses one of the P. S. N. liners, due that day from Madeira and Rio. None of the crew was in the rigging— nobody in a position where sudden dizziness might send him overboard. The electric fog-horn, with its three discordant tongues of brass vibrating between magnets, was sealed up in a compartment of the cabin and connected by wires to a switch near the Earl’s elbow on the upper wing, where he was strapped fast to guard against falling. Swinging the ten-foot copper rod down until it pointed directly upon the wheelhouse of the liner, and holding it there with one hand, he switched on the electric horn, switched in all of the eight tubes in the transmitting set, adjusted the condenser and began very slowly turning the sector of his coupler. In less than a minute, the bow of the steamer fell off several points to starboard— then she yawed around in an irregular circle.

The plane was three or four thousand feet up— but through their glasses they saw the master stagger out of his cabin abaft the wheelhouse and, attracted by the faint vibration of their motors, try to look up at them. But he was too dizzy to be sure of what he saw. Along the decks, as the rod swung back and forth, passengers staggered and fell, or hung clutching the nearest object while others pitched out of their deck-chairs. A minute of this was enough. Trevor ran the sector of his coupler up to a thousand meters and cut off the current. They flew in a circle above the liner until they saw the passengers and crew on their feet again trying to find out what had happened to them. Apparently it couldn’t have been anything connected with the plane, as they first supposed. There had been no explosion, no damage done— they were beginning to feel quite all right again. And the plane disappeared as if she merely had stopped to render assistance if the ship were really out of control.

On the third day following this, Sir Abdool’s message came through: “Leaving for Paris this morning. Larescu”— relayed over their own radio by Raymond Carter from the mansion in the Avenue de Neuilly. Figuring from what they’d heard Zherenski tell the officials at Le Bourget concerning his previous nonstop flight, they thought he should be over the Essex coast about ten in the evening, and Lammerford asked his old friend if he intended sinking him over the water.

“Fancy not. Wherever he goes down, there’s a chance of his hitting somebody— some steamer or sailing craft on the Holland lanes, which are pretty well congested, or somebody walking along the Essex roads. Of the two, he’s less likely to kill anybody on those Essex marshes, at night —and there’s one point to keep in mind: It must be shown conclusively that the bus was a Soviet one— and that it was loaded with high-explosive. If we send him crashing on the land, there’ll be no doubt as to the high-explosive— and bits of the bus will prove the nationality. We’ll get the four planes into the air this afternoon an’ patrol that Essex coast. Even if he makes better time than we expect, he’ll not be over London until after dark, when the lights will give him a better mark.”

ZHERENSKI'S impressions, and those of his mechanics, during the last ten or fifteen minutes, of course, will never be known. Presumably they were highly congratulatory as the machine passed over the lower neck of the North Sea and the lights of the Thames estuary. The roar of their own motors would drown any noise from other planes. Trevor’s were all equipped with his patent-muffler and muffling screw-pitch which reduced this to a minimum. Zherenski might have known that if any hint of his purpose had leaked out, the course of the Thames up to the City, which he had to follow, must prove a trap in which no waiting planes could miss him. Just as he approached the Essex bank of the estuary, however, four blinding searchlights in the air began converging on him until every feature of his big plane stood out in strong illumination as plainly visible as the moon itself when the clouds lifted for a moment. The maniac tried to dodge them by shooting up, but the “ceiling” of his bus, still loaded with its return-petrol, was too low.

Trevor was slightly ahead of the other boats— and cohered the murderous plane with his long half-inch copper rod from the top wing. None of them was holding a stop-watch to figure how long it took him to spot the wave-length of each scoundrel’s nervous system and shoot the impulses into it with his full kilowatt of power, but it must have been less than thirty seconds when they saw the big engine of destruction go out of control, wabble in what must have been a sickening way to those on board— and go into a nose-dive.

The other four banked to watch it drop— down— down— flaming up from its own petrol as it fell. Then— there was a concussion, which shook air and sea and land for miles around.

When they had steadied their planes from the whirling air-currents, Trevor said  “Wonder if that skunk had time to swallow a couple of tablets before he struck? Not that it would have made any difference— he never knew what hit him from the second he started down! Well— that’s that! Let’s call it a day and go home!”

________________

9: The Island of Heaven and Hell

Clarence Herbert New

(Writing as "Culpeper Zandtt")

The Blue Book, May 1924

One of a series featuring Randall Barton

AS the yacht approached the Miraflores locks, one of the Administration launches which had been abreast of her across the lake from Pedro Miguel dropped back until close under her stern. The arc-electrics along the locks, and the yacht’s powerful searchlight, made a dazzling glare ahead of her, leaving everything astern in more or less deep shadow by contrast. The launch, which had a light out of all proportion to her size, shut it off when she dropped back to let the yacht precede her, so that most of the group under awning on the after-deck had no idea how close the other craft was to them until a girl left her chair and stepped aft to the rail.

“Better not get too close aboard of us!” she called. “Our screws kick up a good deal of wash when the turbines start!”

An indistinct figure in trim white drill moved forward under the launch’s awning until it stood by the helmsman forward, and looked up at the girl; another in linen, evidently some friend who was not in the service, joined the Canal officer as he replied to her:

“I was on the point of cautioning you against starting your engines so near the locks. The night-gang will pass a line aboard in a moment or two; then the motors will tow you in as they did at Gatun and Pedro Miguel. There’s plenty of room for both of us in the lock.”

Just then, to Captain Cranston’s surprise, the launch’s searchlight blazed out diagonally across the yacht’s stern— not touching the girl’s figure as she leaned over the rail, but giving enough reflected illumination to reveal her face very distinctly. After a muttered exclamation, the light was shut off.

“I beg your pardon! All my clumsiness! Don’t blame it on Captain Cranston. My hand hit that switch when I stumbled on the coaming.”

To the girl above them, it seemed that this second voice— from an impalpable ghost on the launch— was about the pleasantest she ever remembered hearing. It was deep and vibrating, without being pitched too low— the voice of a good pal who generally smiled upon the world as he found it. The officer’s voice had had something of the same quality— but with the note of authority which could be less pleasant, upon occasion. Although the light had made her jump, from its unexpectedness, she was a good sport— sure enough of herself to do and say things which the average girl wouldn’t risk.

“Oh— accidents seldom need apologies. But that one put me rather at a disadvantage— don’t you think? Seems to me it would be only fair if you switched on that light again and stepped into it while I counted ten! That’ll give me some idea of what I’m running from— next time we meet.”

Cranston—knowing who the girl’s father was, and preferring to avoid any appearance of deliberate flirtation— would have let the matter drop there, with a courteous apology upon his own part; but his old classmate at the Rensselaer Polytechnic was of a more venturesome temperament. Switching on the searchlight again, he stepped forward until side-reflection from the beam clearly revealed him. And the girl nodded in approval— thinking that he rather matched his voice.

“H-m-m— I was sure you were game enough to do it! But how about your officer-friend—why this shirking of the limelight?”

Suddenly she clapped her hands, and laughed.

“O-o-oh— I get it, now! The official complex! He’s afraid you’ll get him in Dutch— you, and your startling accident!”

The Captain immediately stepped into the glow, where she could see him distinctly, and quietly answered her.

“My friend said it was an accident, Miss Hammond. I’ll take his word for it. If you’re still disposed to doubt us, I’m Cranston of the Canal Service— Engineering Department. This is Mr. Randall Barton of Syracuse and New York— also an engineer. And we both apologize.”

“Accepted, Captain! By the way— you gentlemen should be able to give us information upon one or two points. We were told at Cristobal that there is to be a very decent ball at the Tivoli tomorrow evening. Do you know anything about it? What’s the easiest way for our party to get there?”

“Why— if you cared to spend the day at Ancon, you could go ashore, here at Miraflores— telephone for reservations, run down by train in less than an hour. Or you can motor up from Balboa after breakfast. Dances are given at the hotel by the Tivoli Club— almost entirely Canal employees— on the second and fourth Saturdays of each month. The custom lapsed for two or three years owing to the number of tourists who gave offense through their intolerance concerning the Panamanians and other Central or South American people, but it is being revived, and the balls are thoroughly enjoyable even if one doesn’t care about dancing much. Splendid music by the National Band, beautiful costumes— better dancing than you’ll see in New York. The view from the Tivoli is superb —but from the top of the hill, it is so much better that it’s well worth the climb before breakfast.”

SHE left them in order to discuss this information with the party sitting around the saloon-skylight; but though the night air was much cooler than the long tropic days, they were all too indolent for the bother of packing suitcases and going ashore at Miraflores. It seemed easier to run up from Balboa in the morning. Meanwhile the yacht had been warped into the lock, with the launch following her; and in less than an hour both were running down the Pacific stretch of the Canal, with the launch gradually leaving her companion behind. Cranston, being on official business and in a boat too small to do any damage by its wash, was not restricted by the eight-knot regulation applying to most vessels passing through. On the run to Balboa, he remarked to his old classmate:

“Your venturesome disposition will get you into a peck of trouble down here, Ranny, unless you curb it a little! You’ve always done things on impulse; some day you’ll wish your self-starter worked a little more slowly, especially here in Latin-America, where folks are equally quick with a knife or gun if you rub ’em the wrong way. What in blazes did you spring the searchlight on that girl for?”

“Liked her voice— the sureness of herself that seemed to go with it— wanted to see what she looked like! Of course I realized in a minute that I might be getting you in wrong— so pulled that accident stuff— which, by the way, she didn’t swallow for a minute. If I’d been alone, I wouldn’t have made any bones about saying that I wanted to see what she looked like.”

“Hmph! Do you know who she is?”

“No. And I don’t give a damn! I wasn’t pulling anything rough— had no intention of doing so. I sized her up as a good-enough sport to stand for a bit of illumination—;and was figuring that she’d suggest a come-back along that line when she did so.”

“She happens to be the only daughter of Thornton B. Hammond, one of the richest operators and promoters in Wall Street! Suppose he had come along aft and taken in the whole show— just as it came about? A word or two from him in Washington might start something unpleasant, if he got sore enough to bother about saying it.”

“Well—it might. But I doubt it! First place, from what I’ve heard of the man, he’s a pretty good sport himself— wouldn’t take offense at something his daughter was carrying off as all right. Then again— you had the whole play right in your hands from the start. You’re an official, with the right to overhaul and question that yacht upon any technicality you happen to think of— turn your searchlight upon the name on her stem for your official records. I thought of that before I sprung it. If he raised any sort of kick, you could have called him down for the violation of a dozen trifling regulations. Say, Billy! We ought to show up at that ball in our cleanest whites!”

“Hmph! I get more dancing than I really need in this climate—but there’ll be a lot of pretty nice girls whom you’ve met before. We can run up from Balboa as early as you like.”

“Yeah— but let’s stick around the old Hotel Central on the Plaza, during the day. That’s the place to see Panamanian life— darned few of the tourists, with their superior airs, but some of the finest Latin-Americans in this neck of woods. Along about nine or ten in the evening, we can run up to Ancon. Besides, I want to get me a couple of first-class Panamas at the Montechristi on Avenida Central. Is Tobalina there yet?”

LEAVING the launch at one of the Administration wharves, they left Balboa about seven and breakfasted in the patio of the Hotel Central on the south side of the Independencia, facing the Cathedral. Before they had finished, the Hammond party came in and sat down at near-by tables. From bits of the talk which they couldn’t avoid overhearing, another man of much the same type as the Wall Street magnate had been staying at the hotel a week or more for the express purpose of meeting Hammond as he came through and discussing some business proposition which had been one of the reasons for the yacht’s cruise to the Isthmus.

Presently, Miss Doris happened to glance toward Cranston and his friend, casually turned so that she could see their faces more distinctly— and thought she was sure enough in her recognition to venture a rather hesitating bow, which they smilingly returned. Idling over their breakfast, their cigars and newspapers, they managed to pass the time pleasantly until the Hammond party got up to leave. Then, in response to an encouraging smile from the girl, they went over to shake hands and be informally presented, to the others. In a brief chat, as they strolled through the hotel to the Plaza, Miss Hammond’s need of some working information concerning them drew reluctant contributions of biographical data— enough for her to verify, if she cared to do so, in other quarters. Then, as the Hammonds beckoned a car for the ride out to Ancon, the two engineers went after Barton’s Panama hats, spending the rest of the day about town looking up old acquaintances whom both had known while they were building one of the Peruvian railroads.

About ten in the evening they reached the Tivoli— having reserved by telephone several dances with ladies of their acquaintance. The Hammond party sat watching the ball from chairs at one side of the big room; but the men were not young enough to care for much exercise in a hot climate, and none of them had happened to run across anybody they knew among the younger set. Although the music was exceptionally fine, enough to intoxicate a good dancer, Miss Doris wasn’t having much of a time— which was apparent to the engineers the moment they entered the ballroom. Putting down their names on her card for all the dances they had disengaged, they immediately fetched some of the Canal officers and prominent Panamanians, who were apparently pleased to take most of the others. All were accomplished dancers— some of them artists in that line; but somehow she enjoyed herself most with Randall Barton. He seemed to be of her own rather adventurous type, on excellent terms with all the world— and a gentleman.

During one of the intermissions, her father leaned over to ask:

“Didn’t we meet that chap you were just dancing with, Dot? Down in the patio of the Central, this morning? Rather nice-looking fellow. Any idea what his line of business is?”

“Why— of course! He’s an engineer— a classmate of Captain Cranston’s, at Troy. They were on a railroad together in Peru after they graduated. Then Mr. Barton went out to China on one of the Yangtse Gorge surveys. Recently he’s had charge of two sections in a New York subway tunnel. Had some money left him and is taking a vacation, I think.”

“Ought to know his job pretty well after all that experience! Eh, Gunning?”— to the big saturnine man who had been waiting in Panama to meet him. “Don’t s’pose he’s had any mining work to handle?”

“He took a postgraduate course in geology at Columbia, and spent three months in the Baldwin Locomotive Works. I asked some of the Canal officers about Captain Cranston this afternoon— and pumped the Captain about Mr. Barton. So I guess the information is straight. Both are pretty well known, down this coast.”

WHEN Doris got up to dance again, her father turned to his friend Gunning with a speculative expression on his face.

“Hmph! Be a joke if this chap turned out to be exactly the man we need! Eh, Sam?”

“ ’Fraid he’s too good to fall for it! If Miss Doris has the dope on him straight, he simply wont take it! An engineer with his experience doesn’t have to— there are plenty of safer jobs that need him.”

“You’re probably right— and yet— Dot said he was taking a sort of vacation. If we made the inducement sufficiently strong, it might tempt him, at that.”

“No harm in putting it up to him. He’s prob’ly the sort of man who wont blab even if he doesn’t feel like taking us up. Have Doris tell him we’d kinda like to go over a certain matter— after he’s through dancing.”

“Hmph! They keep these affairs up till daylight, Sam! He probably wont have any time for a powwow until tomorrow afternoon or evening— But he looks like pretty near what we want!”

Barton had frequently danced through until breakfast-time in his college days, but he was now reaching years of discretion and no longer wasted much-needed vitality in that way. He hadn’t put his.name down for any dances after two a. m., as nearly as he could estimate the schedule— and so told Miss Doris he would be at her father’s service about that time, if he cared to sit up.

So, as both Hammond and Gunning had been in the tropics enough to get a few hours’ good sleep in the heated part of the day, he found them waiting for him in comfortable chairs on the veranda, overlooking the beautiful Bay of Panama with its canopy of brilliant stars reflected in the water— wine and cigars on a table by their side. It seemed to him that they were surprisingly cordial— though Miss Doris would scarcely have told them of the unconventional way in which they had met her— and laid it to a possible impression upon their part that he was an old acquaintance.

“Mr.— er— Barton,” said Hammond, “we understand that you’re an engineer of several years’ experience. Know something about mining? Eh?”

“Well— I’m a geologist, though of course not so good a one as a man who devotes his time to nothing else. And I’m something of a mechanic as well— with my regular engineering experience.”

“Know anything about New Guinea? Ever been there?”

“Papua? Yes— around the coast a bit. Made a trip on one of the Koninklijke boats, out of Sourabaya. Stopped at Port Moresby for a few hours, once, on a B.P. boat. Saw various tribes of the natives— something of the fauna and flora. But that’s about all.”

“That’s a darn sight more than most engineers appear to know of the place. Ever hear any rumors of gold, in the interior?”

“Oh, there’s more or less alluvial gold in most of the streams— in fact, I think from specimens I’ve seen, that Papua is richer in auriferous deposits than the Philippines. As for quartz, there are some outcroppings near the coast, but there must be more near the headwaters of the rivers and creeks to account for the placer-gold by ancient erosion.”

“Hmph! Guess there isn’t much use in showing you these nuggets—you’ve probably seen a good deal more of the stuff over there.”

“Wait a second, Mr. Hammond!” interrupted Barton; he had poured out some of the specimens from the buckskin pouch handed him.

“This piece which looks something like a fragment of sea-fan isn’t a nugget at all! That came from a lode— presumably white quartz! H-m-m— there are five of them, here. Whoever found these specimens cradled some of them from a river-bed and either hammered out or blasted out these others from a pretty rich lode not far from the river where he got the others. People don’t travel cross-lots wherever they take the notion, in Papua, you know! The jungle, upcountry, is almost impenetrable— full of deadly snakes and insects— full of cannibals who kill you with poisoned darts from blow-guns, or spears, when you can’t see or hear them!”

“THEN you think there may be enough gold where this came from to make an expedition and regular mining operations pay?”

“I’d say the gold is undoubtedly there— and probably other minerals worth even more. But getting them out—that’s a different matter! It’ll be done some day, of course— when the partly civilized strip along portions of the coast widens and penetrates the jungle. Under present conditions, you’d probably need more of a force than what you got might warrant. Papua isn’t a place one walks across in a day, you know— the island is very nearly fifteen hundred miles long, by four hundred and thirty wide, in the middle. In British Papua there are mountains over thirteen thousand feet high; and in the Dutch territory they reach more than sixteen thousand— the greatest altitude in the East Indies. Why—even from placer-mining, they got a hundred and ninety thousand dollars’ worth of gold back in nineteen seventeen!”

“The devil they did! But are they carrying on regular mining operations?”

“Only in British Papua— the eastern end of the south coast. Australia now owns everything east of the hundred and forty-first meridian— Holland, everything west of that. But the former German territory along the northeast coast hasn’t been developed, as yet, and the Dutch territory not at all. Don’t get the idea that there’s a gold-rush in Papua as there was in California, Ballarat, the Klondike or Coolgardie— nobody has taken any out of the interior, and it doesn’t pay along the coast unless with an equipment of dredges and washers.”

“Well, say— Barton. You’re probably wondering what we’re trying to get at. I’ll explain how we happen to be interested. A wandering sort of cuss— rolling stone, adventurer if you like— went up into New Guinea last year from some native village on the north coast. How far he got, we don’t know— he said he reached the center of the island, among the high mountains. In four or five months he got down to the coast again, all in. Gunning was cruising with a party of English friends and had gone ashore to pick up some of the native baskets and war-clubs at a little village. One of the blackies took him to a hut built on piles over the water, where this man was lying. He had temperature enough to kill an ox— said they got him with a poisoned arrow when he was rotten with fever anyhow. Gave a wandering description of where he’d been, and several distinctive landmarks around some locality where he said there was a lot of gold, like these nuggets which he gave Sam. Had no heirs that he knew of— just gave Sam the benefit of his experience because he was a white man trying to do what he could for him. Drew a rough map of his route as he thought it probably must have been. In about two hours he passed out— telling Gunning, just before he went, to file a claim at Brisbane on the district indicated, and go up there with a regular mining outfit. He was under the impression that part of the valley he’d described might be in Dutch territory— but said no Dutch official would get up there to do any kicking before he took out all the gold he wanted.

“Well— Gunning didn’t take much stock in the yarn, or say anything about it to his English friends. But through casual questioning here and there, he finally became convinced that there might be enough in it to warrant spending a little money on investigation. Without telling them the inside story, as I’m telling you, he’s asked at least half a dozen engineers if they’d go up-country in New Guinea and make a report for him, but with a single exception, they all turned the proposition down cold. There’s one man here in Panama who has been down on his luck, flat broke, talks as if he might take a chance on it. He’s just an ordinary civil engineer— might do very well as assistant to the man who goes out for us. But he’s no geologist— knows nothing about the country out there— probably wouldn’t get very far if we gave him the whole responsibility. Now— your training and experience seem to be exactly what we want. Can’t we offer some inducement that’ll interest you in going down there for us?”

“I don’t know what sort of inducement you may have in mind, but it would have to offset a fairly even chance of losing my life or coming out a physical wreck. No— I don’t think I want it, Mr. Hammond!”

“W-e-l-l— let’s look at it all round. Suppose you found enough gold or other valuable stuff to make it a really big proposition— running to millions, if worked on a large scale? Would there be much difficulty in getting a legal mining concession from the Queensland Government? From the Netherlands Government?”

“Practically no trouble at all with the Australians— that sort of thing is all subject to their Government regulations. If you comply with them, the rest is merely a matter of form, with nominal fees and taxes. But the Dutch wont give you a claim at all. They’ve got things just as they want them, with the natives subject to their rule, and they simply won't let outsiders do any developing. As far as that is concerned, however, probably not more than two or three scientists among the Dutch have ever penetrated a hundred miles inland on Papua; you might be fifty miles inside their territory, in the center of the island, and they wouldn’t find it out in the next twenty years unless some idle gossip from your outfit in the coast villages got them unusually suspicious.”

“All right! Then suppose we sent you up there with a sufficient expeditionary outfit to protect yourselves and keep your supplies steadily renewed from some base on the coast? Suppose we said that, in addition to the sum we pay for the survey and report, you and any other white men you may take along are to keep for yourselves anything of value you may pick up on the expedition— gold, precious stones, valuable minerals of any sort—as long as you stake out and duly record with the authorities, for us, a sufficiently extensive claim to cover all necessary future operations? We to foot the bills for an effective working expedition of whatever size you consider necessary. Wouldn’t that sort of a proposition interest you— some?”

“It’s a tempting one, Mr. Hammond! I really don’t want to go— because, after getting pretty well into the interior, I might decide that my chances of getting out alive were altogether too slim for the money, and beat it for the coast while the beating was good—”

Gunning cast an appraising glance over the engineer’s face— a grin wrinkling the corners of his mouth.

“Now you’ve got us thinking p’raps we oughtn’t to send you, Barton! If my judgment is any good, on a man’s looks, you ain't the quittin’ kind— you kinda aim to finish anything you start, an’ you’ll do it if hell freezes over! What would you consider about right, f’r an outfit?”

“If this engineer you spoke of has any sand at all, he and one other white man ought to be enough— the third man ought to be a good mechanic, but needn’t be an engineer. It’ll be difficult to get any of the coast natives to go very far upcountry on account of their superstitions and antagonism to the interior tribes; but if they understand that we’re going to keep relays of them going and coming along the trail with supplies, establishing camps which could be roughly fortified, about every twenty miles, I think they’d fall for it. The item of native expense will be light; it’s more a question of finding out what particular object each of them has set his heart on possessing, and giving it to him, than of big wages which he’d have no place to spend. We ought to have a thousand ton cargo-boat with a thoroughly reliable master and crew— under six months’ charter. You could pick one up by cable in Sydney or Brisbane and have it meet me at Moresby when I reached there.”

“How would you go—from here?”

“Some of the shipping agents around the Plaza will have advices of a cargo-boat for Sydney or Melbourne, due at Cristobal within a week or so— I can undoubtedly get passage on her. Then run up from Sydney to Port Moresby on a B.P. steamer.”

“That may take you a couple of months. If Hammond feels like a little vacation that’ll do him good, we could run across in the yacht and drop you there in a third of the time—his boat does twenty-eight knots in anything like smooth weather.”

BARTON’S judgment was against considering the proposition at all. He had never seen anything of interior Papua, but he had seen wrecks of men who could give no clear account of their experience upcountry when they finally did get out. The coast opinion was that the greatest danger arose from cannibalistic natives, with poisonous insects and reptiles a close second. As Cranston had said, however, one of his inborn characteristics was that of acting upon impulse— and frequently being sorry afterward. In this Papuan proposition, the lure of adventure began to grip him. If gold and precious minerals were as plentiful as they were supposed to be in certain localities, and he happened to strike one of them, he and his companions might easily make a big stake for themselves, with Hammond and Gunning footing the expense of the expedition. It was simply a question of nerve, constitution and luck— gambling with them against both known and unknown dangers which were deadly enough to make other men pass up the attempt.

When the name of the engineer willing to accompany him was mentioned to Barton, it seemed vaguely familiar— a Stevens Institute man, he thought, but some rumor which he half remembered as going about in reference to the fellow escaped him. When Williams was introduced, next day, Barton had an idea that they had met somewhere before, but couldn’t recall the circumstances. Hammond and Gunning both impressed upon the man that if he accepted their proposition, he would be absolutely under Barton’s orders— their lives and the success of the surveying expedition depending upon his much greater knowledge of the conditions they must face. After a little hesitation, the less experienced man consented to this— the pay he was to get being too attractive to refuse. In the selection of the third man, Williams suggested one who had worked with him in Costa Rica— but Barton preferred some one who would be under obligations to him, if it ever came to a three-cornered show-down— and was lucky enough to find a Canal mechanic who had worked under Cranston and was vouched for by him.

As Hammond could transact a good deal of his business by radio, he decided to run across the Pacific with his yacht, taking the three men along and arranging by cable for a small steamer to meet them at Port Moresby, with the supplies which Barton had listed.

During the run from Panama, Williams — who had education enough to make an agreeable showing when he had an object in so doing— paid a good deal of attention to Miss Doris— more, in fact, than she relished. Bates— the third of the party— was a quiet, mind-his-own-business individual who made no pretense at anything but proved to have fairly wide knowledge and experience when anyone drew him out. Barton, she liked better with each successive day they passed together. But in the case of the man Williams, she was instinctively on her guard, for no reason that she could define to herself. For one thing, she didn’t like his assumption that Barton was overcautious in his estimate of the difficulties which the expedition might encounter. He had never been within a thousand miles of Papua. Yet he took the ground that practically no portion of the globe in these modem days need be so exceedingly dangerous to a well-equipped expedition armed with the latest type of weapons— and, in fact, gave it as his opinion that she would run no great risk if she cared to accompany them part of the way into the jungle. She afterward put this up to Barton as a supposititious case— to see what he thought of it; and the expression on his face was, at first, one of simple amazement.

“You’ll remind me presently, Miss Doris, that a woman recently accompanied her husband on a big-game hunting-trip in East Africa? Eh? That was in open country, where the natives were all friendly, and the only dangers were from wild animals. I’m also quite well aware that women have gone on botanizing trips in other more or less wild country— but never under the conditions which exist in Papua. Along the coasts of their own territory, the Australians have suppressed cannibalism to a large extent— but not in the interior, where every native is a cannibal. Same proposition in the Solomons and New Hebrides— away from the shores. You’re imagining a lot of wonderful things to be seen in the jungle— which very probably exist, and will be still there when the country is sufficiently opened up to make it safe for a woman to go in and look at them. But as things are today— great Scott! Keep out!”

BARTON’S list of equipment and supplies had interested the two millionaires— confirming their opinion that they’d been lucky in getting a first-class man for the job. Among other things he had ordered a large supply of the mustard-gas used during the war, and the tear-gas invented for mob-dispersion. Fortunately, he had happened to know an officer connected with the chemical section of the Australian War Department, and with his assistance had managed to have a supply of the two gases shipped from Sydney on the small coasting steamer which they had chartered. Then— there were several rolls of steel screening with a fine-enough mesh to stop any insect from a mosquito, up. This was presumably intended for the camps along the trail— but Hammond and Gunning chuckled with surprised approval when, after accompanying the supply-boat around to a lagoon inside the Karan Reefs on the north coast, he showed them some helmets and knee-length coats made of the stuff— reinforced in some places with a double thickness. Putting one of the helmets over a stump on the beach, Barton threw a native spear at it with force enough to have gone half through the log. It dented the screening a quarter of an inch into the wood, and then rebounded. With a single thickness of the screening, it might have gone through— but with very little penetration beyond.

There was a native village on piles at the edge of the lagoon, some forty miles west of the former German trading-station Berlinhafen, and twice that distance from Humboldt Bay in Dutch Papua. By arrangement with the Queensland authorities, this village had been selected as their base for supplies. The villagers had been in sufficient contact with white men— officers of the patrol-cruisers, and others—to be trusted as long as they were reasonably well treated.

For the first day or two Barton made little progress in getting a party of them to accompany him. Presently, however, he found that one man would risk anything he had for a modern repeating-rifle and five hundred cartridges— another for a boat sufficiently well built to go through high surf —a third for a white man’s spring opera hat— and so on. In ten days a double walled corrugated-iron shack had been put up on ground a hundred feet above sea level at the foot of the cliff— under a portion of the rock which jutted out sufficiently to make attack from the top almost impossible. A spring which trickled down the face of the cliff provided excellent water for drinking and cooking. The shack was but two hundred yards from the water, and the supply-boat was anchored about as far out— just inside the reefs— with two rapid fire guns covering the village in case of any misunderstanding with the natives. Finally Barton and Williams left just after sunrise one morning—leaving Bates in charge of the shack and supplies until he could break in the steamer’s second mate to handle that end of the proposition.

AT the end of the ninth day two of the villagers came back, reporting that a couple of small camps had been constructed on the banks of little creeks— in clearings with enough open ground to prevent their being taken by surprise in case of a fight. They had been constructed on piles wedged between big stones in the creeks, so that they were protected against reptiles or insects, and while not supposed to last in the rainy season when the creeks were full, would probably stand until the expedition returned.

A week later Hammond was thinking of heading for home on the yacht when another pair of natives came down with a small package from Barton containing half a dozen good-sized gold nuggets which he had panned from a riffle in a small stream, and a lump of matrix with three beautiful opals in it which he had chopped out of a moss-covered ledge after stripping it bare. (None but a geologist of some experience would have guessed from the outcrop what that ledge might contain.) This appealed to the imagination of the two millionaires. There were a dozen matters which they felt needed their personal attention in Wall Street— though Hammond was relaying his radio orders with sufficient regularity to keep in pretty close touch with the market. The more they thought it over, the less inclined they were to leave— particularly as Barton had reported two attacks from natives which he had repulsed with grenades of tear-gas, without any casualties. His villagers had been terrorized with the masks when first trying them on, but soon learned what they were for— and were ready to worship the engineer when their enemies ran back through the jungle— blinded, dazed, thinking they had run up against a band of spirits or demons.

As Hammond put it one evening, over their cigars:

“Sam— I feel kinda responsible for those boys up yonder!” (Bates had now joined Barton and Williams.) “Barton didn’t exaggerate what they’d be up against— and I don’t believe they’ve struck anything like the worst of it, yet. Darned if I like to go away before they come out again!”

MEANWHILE, at the beginning of the fourth week, the expedition had penetrated about a hundred and sixty miles from the coast and was among the foot-hills of the great mountain range which extends, barring several breaks, the whole length of the island. In three different localities, on the way up, Barton had been tempted to stake out a big claim for his backers, make careful surveys and call it a job. In each one there were indications of rich alluvial-gold deposits in the rapids of various creeks, together with outcrops of rock which from a casual examination appeared to contain both royal metals and precious stones— that is, if the area could be worked on a large scale, there were evidences of sufficient mineral deposits to make it, apparently, a paying proposition. But if any reliance at all could be placed upon the story and rough outline-map of Gunning’s derelict, the section he had described must be a freak of nature in its concentration of mineral value. According to his last observations, they were now within two or three miles of the 141st meridian. By maintaining a parallel course to it up the mountains, due south, they would very shortly come to the valley which had been described—if it existed.

As they were smoking, after supper, Barton sounded out his companions in order to test their sense of observation and get their ideas as to farther penetration.

“Williams, I had some idea, after that first brush with the brutes, that they’d keep dogging us right along up— keeping out of sight and hearing in the jungle, but tagging along and watching for a chance to rush us. What’s your impression?”

“Nothing to it! Both of those gangs that lit into us got the scare of their lives from our tear-gas. The ones who came back for more, and got mustard-gas are rotting back there in the jungle. We’re safe enough as far as natives are concerned! The ones who got away will carry the news!”

“What do you think, Fred?”— to the quiet but efficient Bates.

“Seems to me Williams is too sure. We’re practically surrounded right now— have been for the last two days. And it’s an entirely different crowd from those who attacked us on the lower ground. They may not interfere with us immediately unless their spirit-doctors get them worked up to a pitch of reckless frenzy. But I’d say this lot up in the mountains have intelligence enough to be more dangerous. Chances are, they know nothing at all about us or our scraps with the other tribes. We’re strangers they probably think may be good fighters. We’re moving along in such a fool unguarded way, according to their ideas, that we can’t be a war-party out to attack them. Got some business of our own— they can’t see what it is— stalling along to find out before starting anything. Probably they’ve never seen a white man before, but I reckon we look as if we’d be good eating— and that’s where we interest ’em a lot!”

Williams had listened with a sneering smile around his mouth.

“Gee, Bates, you’re the old original boy sleuth, aint you! Where do you get all this dope about our being surrounded? There aint been a sign or sound of anything like that, far as I can see!”

“I reckon you’re plumb short-sighted in some ways, Williams. Have you heard any monkeys cussin’ at us, yesterday or today? Had to dodge any nuts, or breadfruit, or jack-fruit, they were throwing down? Have we flushed any birds as we came along? Egrets— pheasants— parrakeets? All those little folks have been sticking around until we were almost on top of them, because we’re different from anyone they’ve seen before— because we make a noise as we go, which arouses more curiosity than fear in them. But they’ve known the jungle-natives as enemies for centuries, known what deadly marksmen they are with poisoned darts out of their blow-guns— with bows and arrows, spears, throwing-clubs. And when the brownies come sneaking through the jungle, all these little critters hide— keep their mouths shut— keep so damn still that you can’t tell ’em from the trees or bush or vines and creepers. My suggestion is to put on our gas-masks right now— we can thank Barton for making us get accustomed to wearing the steel-screening all the time. Then— I’d get the blowers limbered up and shoot at least one flask of mustard-gas into the jungle on four sides of us— pushing on with our flashlights until we can camp for the night somewhere beyond the spread of the fumes.”

BARTON tapped the ashes out of his pipe and gave low, brisk orders to carry out the mechanic’s suggestions.

“Williams,” he observed, “this is one more case where Fred has put it all over you! If you go any farther with us, it may result in our whole crowd being wiped out just because you can’t seem to keep your eyes open and learn what has to be learned if one keeps the breath of life in him! As soon as we’ve scared this lot of savages off, it’ll be safer for you back in charge of Number Three Camp. I think the brownies got a lesson there which ought to make the trail between it and the coast fairly safe for a while. You can pan for yourself a nice little stake in gold-dust and nuggets from that creek, and keep the supply-relays moving on up to us. I don’t think we’ll have to go much farther— but we’ll need a lot more of the gas as soon as you can hurry it along. Chow we can shoot or pick from the trees if we run short— but I don’t care about going a mile without plenty of the gas for emergencies!”

TEN minutes later four of the villagers— their mouths and noses protected with tightly fitting masks— were blowing a thick smudge from the nozzles of as many flasks, with hand-bellows, into the jungle which surrounded the party. In another moment or two choking coughs echoed through the undergrowth— and there was a swishing among the bush and creepers as frantic, panic-stricken figures crashed through to reach a spot where they could breathe— a dull jarring of the ground, where they fell in the attempt. Then with their flash lamps, Barton and his party of twenty pushed through at a more leisurely pace to where they could sleep in safety. Including his constantly moving relays of natives in pairs, the expedition numbered sixty five, all told.

In the morning, Williams took the back trail with a couple of men,— after the arrival of two from the previous camp, with supplies,— and one of his native companions was the bearer of a note to Hammond, if the yacht was still at the coast-base, or the steamer-master, if not. It stated in carefully worded terms that Williams had been placed in charge of Number Three Camp in order to make sure that gas and supplies came through regularly without fail. Either the millionaire or the shipmaster was quick-witted enough to read a good deal more than this between the lines and take extra precautions which did not depend in any way upon Williams’ efficiency. And the villagers— being very far from as stupid as an inexperienced “white” might have thought from their looks— passed the word among themselves that that “Barton Fella” must get what he wanted, even if some of them were killed in pushing it through to him.

FIVE days later the chief and Bates came to the rim of a deep valley of the higher range, into which they had some difficulty in descending. At the upper end was a small lake, its outlet trickling along down as a creek, thirty feet wide, and disappearing at the lower end into an underground cavern which seemed to honeycomb the slope over which they had climbed to reach the place. Just inside the mouth of this cavern a vein of white quartz, apparently fifteen feet thick, was impregnated with gold to such an extent that, in a fragment which Barton knocked off and smashed with his hatchet, he obtained a piece resembling fan-coral as big as the palm of his hand. To what extent the gold occurred he could form no approximate estimate—but there was enough of the lode in sight to indicate an enormous sum and warrant a large expenditure to conduct mining operations in a wholesale way. Half a dozen riffles in the creek on its four-mile course down the valley yielded enough alluvial gold-dust in two pannings to indicate a fortune in that alone.

But as usually happens when Nature’s prizes are stumbled upon by man, she tantalizingly protects them in ways which mean sure death unless he can get around or overcome them. The valley seemed to be alive with snakes whose triangular heads and coloring branded them as deadly species— was fairly swarming with fever-breeding mosquitoes and other intolerable insect pests. Besides this, the first observation showed that the lake and the mountain slope above it lay west of the 141st meridian, in Dutch Papua— though the portion apparently richest in mineral treasure lay within the Australian limits.

After studying the local conditions, next morning, Barton decided that in spite of the luxuriant vegetation which filled the valley, there were enough deadwood, dry grasses and creepers to keep a fire going until the greener stuff was scorched enough to burn; and he started fires at short intervals throughout the entire depression. In three days the valley was swept practically clean, with a pretty well scorched half-mile zone around the higher ground which hemmed it in— with the reptile- and insect life obliterated. Eventually, of course, the lake and the occasional pools would breed the insects again, but not for some time; then other means could be used to eliminate them.

As soon as the ground had cooled sufficiently to work in the valley, Barton rushed his surveying and mapping— with frequent observations to check up his triangulation and fix the exact line of the 141st meridian. He figured that it would be safe enough for the operating syndicate to drive a number of tunnels under the Dutch ground, and had no doubt that this would be done— but the claim he filed was accurately surveyed on the Australian side only. When he had gotten all the data needed, it was discovered that the stock of provisions was almost out, no relay of the villagers having reached them for six days. While they were speculating upon what could have happened, four men came in, exhausted from forced marches over double the usual distances— bringing with them but a scanty addition to the supplies and but three more flasks of the gas.

They explained that Williams had talked of expecting an attack in force upon his camp at any moment, and had commandeered practically everything that had come up from the coast for the expedition. When two of the head-men among the villagers begged to go on with supplies which they knew Barton would be needing, Williams had brutally knocked them down and thrashed them until they could hardly stand— which resulted in four of them sneaking up the trail at night with all they could carry and pushing through at a killing pace to reach Barton. As they got the whole story, he and Bates looked at each other.

“Hmph! We sized up that bird about right, Fred! He’s yellow! I remember, now, some of the gossip in the Engineers’ Club concerning him. They said he had just about nerve enough to fight like a desperate rat if he got into a corner where there was nothing else to do— but that he was cocksure and careless where carelessness was simply inexcusable. Now, unless the brownies have attacked him down there, which is very unlikely, I don’t believe he’s scared enough to hold up the supplies on that account. How does it strike you?”

“Why— I’d hate to misjudge any man, but it looks to me as though he were trying to fix it so’s we wouldn’t ever get back. He figures that the farther we go, the more risks we run from all sorts of unexpected things. With a shortage of provisions and gas, the chances might be ninety-nine per cent against us. These men say he’s been working like a beaver, panning gold-dust and nuggets for himself— which he’ll take down to the yacht, presently, and put in the safe. It seems Hammond and Gunning are still there, waiting for us to come out — I kinda thought the excitement of the game might hold ’em, if we’re not gone too long.”

“Well— that’s about the way I size it up! We’ve finished our engineering work— but so far, haven’t taken the time to pick up anything for ourselves, as we’re privileged to do in our contract—”

“We ought to get out right now, when there’s a chance of pushing through on what supplies we’ve got— but do you s’pose we could feed ourselves a few days on what we can shoot and pick around here?”

“The natives can— even with the risk from using poisoned weapons. There are plenty of wild mangoes, breadfruit, coconuts a few miles down the mountains— monkeys, wild-pigs and birds for the shooting. Good water. Say we put in the afternoon hunting— see how much we can stock up? Blongo and Kutori will tell us what stuff is safe to eat. If we can keep healthy on the stuff we get, for a week, holding our regular supplies in reserve, we can take out of this place a darned sight more value in gold and precious stones than you might think. Of course, if the change of diet makes us sick, we’re probably gone. But there are lots of small sapphires— rubies in matrix— opals— chrysoberyl—”

“All right! We can tell by tomorrow whether we’re running into fever or dysentery from the stuff we eat— if it agrees with us, we can put in the week stocking up on our stake. And if we get more than we expect, I’m willing to contribute my share of enough to pay Hammond and Gunning for what they’ve spent—”

“That goes! I’ve hoped we might be able to do that, all along!”

DURING the week they remained, there had been things happening at Camp Three and the coast which would have started them hurrying back on the jump, had they but known of them. The more gold Williams panned for himself, the more suspicious he became of the natives he was holding there with him, and the more he tried in every way to intimidate them. Presently, when he had nearly two hundred pounds of gold-dust and nuggets, he dared not keep the stuff hidden in camp any longer— it was too big a stake to risk losing; and he made a forced trip to the coast with it. On the yacht that evening, when his employers and Miss Doris in silent amazement watched him pour the stuff out on the saloon table, he became overconfident— boastful. Properly managed, he said, the dangers encountered by the expedition had been largely overestimated. Danger from fevers, of course— but these had been minimized by the protection afforded from insect-bites by screen-helmets and coats. The danger from native attack was much less, after their lessons from the deadly gas. He described in detail the wonderful jungle life with its chattering monkeys, parrakeets, egrets, butterflies, orchids, alligators in the more sluggish creeks, pythons coiled upon the lower branches of certain trees or in the thicker undergrowth— the luxuriant vegetation, the cool dampness of the jungle, always in semi-twilight when there was a blazing sun overhead. After an hour or so of this, he suggested that they accompany him back to Camp Three and see for themselves— but the two millionaires shook their heads.

“Not any for mine, Williams! Not until we run a single-track railroad up through there! I play a good round of golf, but I’m not used to hiking through jungle undergrowth with monkeys grabbing off my cap and pythons falling on my neck! It’s all a question of taste, of course.”

DORIS, on the other hand, was fascinated. She began to think that, while she never could really like the man, Williams must have more cool nerve than she’d given him credit for. Next day he filled her up with more of his glowing description — minimizing any risk which might be connected with a hike along one of the trails to the interior. Finally he suggested that she run up to Camp Three with him and four of the villagers who were her devoted slaves. (She had made herself more than popular among both men and women in the village-on-stilts over the lagoon,— petting the babies, making little presents here and there,— until any of them would have defended her at the risk of life or limb had there been occasion for it.) With such protection, it seemed that she would be safe enough—and the lure of the jungle had gotten into her blood. Knowing her father would veto this proposition on general principles, she put on a tough whipcord tunic and breeches, with leather puttees, provided herself with an automatic, smoked-goggles, gas-mask and hunting knife— and had gone up the trail with the five men before her absence was discovered, leaving a note to reassure her father that she would be back in two or three days with a lot of jungle-stuff she wanted to keep.

Hammond immediately dispatched a dozen of the villagers and the supply-boat’s mate with orders to bring her back at once, but they were in such a hurry that they didn’t bother about masks, gas or screening protection. The mate died from a poisoned arrow just after leaving Camp Two —and but four of the party got back alive, some time after the expedition returned.

After leaving the first camp, the girl began to realize that she had been foolish. She could have returned then, of course, with her faithful villagers— but her breed were not quitters, in which respect they differed from the Williams type, as she began to suspect before the end of the second day. She had started out for Camp Three, with the wonderfully beautiful and deadly things surrounding it— had no real intention of turning back. Just what may have been in Williams’ mind can only be surmised. He tried to be sentimental and flirt a little— but she perforated a snake in the trail, fifty feet ahead of them, with a single shot, and then examined her automatic so carelessly that he was afraid to go near her.

That night, with a much keener sense of hearing than Williams’, she became conscious of a rustling in the jungle all around them, and woke the man up with orders to get a flask at once and blow gas all through the undergrowth— but he had carelessly piled other stuff on top of the flasks and wasted time in irritable argument with her. Before he got started toward any sort of defense, the party was rushed and captured by fiendish-looking savages, their bodies glistening with coconut-oil, their faces smeared with ochre— bones and bits of shell thrust through noses, lips and ears. How long they were tramped through narrow jungle paths, she couldn’t estimate very closely, but she was under the impression that the clearing and huts of the savages were much nearer Camp Three than the engineers had supposed, probably not over a mile or two. Before they separated, in front of the chief’s hut, Williams whispered:

“If you get a chance to escape, beat it for the coast with any of our own natives you can find! I’ll watch for an opportunity, myself. Of course you understand it’s everyone for himself in a fix like this!”

The girl whirled upon him with a look of amazed contempt. The chief and three other disgusting savages looked him over with a more gastronomic expression— pinching his arms, legs and side, appraisingly. Then they took Williams into the large sacrificial-hut which occupied the open space in the center of the clearing. There was a horrible shriek, a bubbling groan— a low jabbering, as of men gossiping over some pleasant occupation. For a moment or two Miss Hammond felt physically sick, but nobody offered to molest her, and one of the women presently took her to an empty hut in the center of the row.

NOW— this had happened on the eighth night after Barton and his party had started on their return-trip to the coast, pretty well loaded down with treasure and supplies, making much better time over the well-broken trail than they had going up. So they reached Camp Three about ten in the morning, having been hiking since five, and found two of their own villagers concealed in a pool of the creek— just able to gasp out some account of the catastrophe. They couldn’t tell what had induced “that fella Mary” to accompany “Tuan Willem” or why he had even dreamed of letting her come if the idea had originated with her— but they did know where the savages’ clearing was located and the blind trails leading to it through the jungle. They had just strength enough to make this fairly clear, and then passed out while Barton and Bates were forcing stimulants between their stiffening lips. Reasoning that the raiding-party would suppose they had killed or captured everybody at the camp, Barton figured that they would be off their guard, with no thought of being followed or attacked. So —with his best scouts among the villagers a few paces in advance, he and Fred Bates, pushed along the blind jungle-trails as rapidly as they could without making any noise. Two months before, their inexperience would have made such scouting impossible, but they had become wise in jungle ways since that time— had learned how to slip through the undergrowth without making a noticeable rustle. In a couple of hours they reached a position back of the huts which surrounded the clearing and presently discovered that Miss Hammond was, for the moment, alone in one of them. Noiselessly to make an opening through the nipa wall of the hut and attract her attention was a matter of little difficulty— and the girl was quick-witted enough, her senses keyed taut by the danger she was in, to act promptly upon what she heard without screaming at its unexpectedness.

“Put on your gas-mask at once— very carefully! Then stroll back to this rear wall of the hut!”

It took but two or three minutes to enlarge the opening in the nipa sufficiently to pull her through— while streams of deadly vapor were being blown from the spaces between four of the huts, out across the clearing. At first glance, the cannibals at their horrid feast in the sacrificial-hut thought it smoke from burning thatch— but the first breath recalled what they had heard from the two survivors of that night attack six weeks before, and they started frantically running from the smudge into the jungle on the opposite side, but hadn’t breath enough to take more than a few spasmodic bounds. The whole population of the village had been in the sacrificial hut, with its partly open sides— and not one of them survived. The whole party had time to escape along the trail to the camp before the gas backed up through the undergrowth after them— which made Barton thank his lucky stars, for he had not been overconfident in mask-protection if it were a question of traveling several hundred feet through the worst of the gas.

ALTHOUGH constantly alert, they were not molested again on the way down to the coast— in fact, a tradition is growing in that section of Papua that men with bags over their faces and great goggle-eyes belong to a race of powerful demons who kill whole villages with their breath if one of their number is injured in any way. On the journey, Miss Doris had ample opportunity for comparison between Randall Barton and other men she had known. Fred Bates was of the same breed, but didn’t appeal to her imagination quite so much. They had— obviously due to Barton’s experience, nerve and executive ability— successfully carried out an undertaking which no man, white or brown, had been able to put through before. And for the present, they’d gotten enough of it. She didn’t realize this until Barton’s talk with her father and Sam Gunning, on the yacht— supposing, of course, that the two engineers would proceed with the development of the mining-section they had staked out for their employers. The sacks of gold and rough jewels which the native bearers had carried down on their heads were dumped under the saloon table; then Barton spread out his maps for their inspection.

“That whole valley and some of the camp-sites have been staked out in your names, gentlemen— as you see. I’m fairly positive that nobody, white, black or brown, will disturb the signs and stakes in the valley, because without the precautions we took, I don’t believe one white man in a hundred thousand could reach it, and we’ve thrown a scare into the natives which will last for some time. It’s scarcely more probable that any of the camps will be disturbed. None of these villagers would go back to them without Bates or me. So all you need do is properly record my surveys with the authorities at Brisbane. Bates and I have decided to pay the whole expenses of the expedition out of what we’ve fetched down— there’s a good deal more than you may imagine—and divide the rest between us. Now— hold on! Wait till I finish! We know the stuff is all ours, according to the agreement— but we’ll have a whale of a stake left after footing the bills— and that’ll leave us free to get off this job for the present, anyhow! If you form a development company, push a single-track railroad up through to that valley (you couldn’t work it profitably or safely until you do), we may feel like considering a proposition to come back and handle the mining operations for you. But for a year at least, neither of us would go back over that trail for a hundred thousand dollars! We’re back— alive, well, and with a big stake. Another time, under the same conditions, we might stay up there permanently. I’ve heard Papua called ‘the Island of Heaven and Hell’— the name sure fits! Under certain conditions there are parts of it which are lovelier than a pipe-dream— but if there’s any worse hell than its jungles under certain other conditions, I hope I'll never go there!”

DORIS’S interest and disappointment betrayed itself in unconscious familiarity, as she spoke:

“But Randall, what are you and Bates going to do? Where are you going?”

“Well— I don’t know just what Fred has in mind, after we’ve safely banked our stake, here. He may settle down and get married— may be open for any good business proposition— or possibly, tag along with me if he feels like seeing the world a bit. I was heading for the Orient when your father and Mr. Gunning roped me into this— back there on the Isthmus. So I guess I’ll take an Eastern & Australian boat from Sydney up to Hongkong— or one of the N. Y. K. steamers to Kobe. There’s going to be a lot of big river and railway work up in that region— also a good deal of harbor-development— work that shows up a man’s ability without the risks that there are in this Papuan game. And yet— mind you— there is enough fascination in what Fred and I went through to make us feel like coming back if operations are started on a big-enough scale to eliminate most of the risks.”

Hammond took the engineers down to Brisbane on the yacht, as he wanted their assistance in filing the mining claims, and it wouldn’t have been safe to ship the gold on the little steamer he had chartered. Then, when Barton and his companion left for Thursday Island, on their way north, they regretfully parted.

As Doris stood on the yacht’s after-deck waving good-by to them, her various experiences with Barton since their first meeting in the Canal were running through her mind with the vividness of a motion-picture. Presently she perched herself on the transom around the saloon-skylight and struck a match for the cigar her father had just stuck in his mouth.

“Dad! You and Sam are going straight home, through the Canal, aren’t you?”

“Hmph! I’ll say we are! Been away too long as it is! And if we float a development company for that mining proposition,— retaining sixty per cent of the stock, of course,— Wall Street is the place to do it. May take six months or a year before we’re ready to commence work up there in Papua.”

“H-m-m— well— after you get things running all right again at home—what then? What’ll you do next?”

“Can’t tell— that far ahead. What’s on your mind, Dot?”

“Why— I was thinking that there’s nothing to really hinder your taking the yacht out to China and Japan, cruising through the East Indies for a month or so. They say that’s the loveliest cruising on the globe.”

“Hmph! I s’pose you took Randall Barton’s word for it? Eh?"

______________________

10: It Might Have Happened Otherwise

Hugh Pendexter

1875-1940

Adventure October 1915

THE GROWTH of the thing in his mind had been gradual. When it had obtruded upon his consciousness at first he had drawn back in mingled fear and anger. By degrees, however, he tolerated the thought, only always at a distance, and concluded by allowing it to make a rendezvous of his idle meditations, receiving it much as one might welcome an unwholesome but highly fascinating acquaintance. All the time he knew its real name was Theft.

For three years Parsly had served as station agent and telegraph-operator at the Junction. Each day he had observed the transient bustling by the long platform, the spectacle never varying. Long vestibuled trains halted impatiently, and always the same curious or apathetic faces peered out at him from the Pullmans.

It was the branch line, tapping the lumber country, that contributed humanism, consisting of a nodding acquaintance with timber operators and forlorn commercial travelers. The first were always in a hurry to make the big city connection; the latter lingered in his company for the sake of gaining an audience while they cursed the country.

The last because the Junction was not the liveliest place in the world to put in an hour or two of waiting. Situated where the engineering problem had been the simplest, it was surrounded by blueberry plains, dotted at intervals with scrub pine. As the locomotives annually set the pines afire, the immediate foreground continuously presented a dead, charred appearance. Far-off, the objective point of the Pullmans, loomed the cool silhouettes of mountains, guardians of inland lakes and famous fishing.

More than once Parsly compared himself with Robinson Crusoe in his isolation; only he had no man Friday to enliven his dull routine. He saw much of the passing world but was never of it. Thus, at the end of three years, the hurrying by of the heavy trains aroused a species of resentment. Everyone was at liberty to take flight but him. Then again, fifty dollars a month for his combined duties was hardly a compensating solace.

It was the matter of salary that caused the idea to germinate while he was sullenly working the semaphore one day. He had just received from the night branch some four hundred dollars express money which he must deliver to the agent on the morning city-passenger. Having just received his monthly wages he could not help but contrast its meager total with the bulking roll in his hip-pocket.

If he had four hundred dollars, all his own, he would throw up the job and use it in one delicious round of travel. By the time it was exhausted he could obtain another position in a pleasing environment. In logical sequence he decided he might as well allow his imagination a wider range and play at taking a vacation with the largest sum ever entrusted to his care for a single night. He remembered this to be an even thousand dollars, sent down by a big operator in payment for horses in the lumber camps.

A thousand dollars offered his fancy vastly more possibilities to work with. The four hundred became insignificant. As his duties permitted him much time for reflection, he carried the thought back to his dingy office and entertained it by consulting maps in the railroad folders. In this fashion he took a hurried excursion across the continent and spied out the land. Then he became critical and weighed and balanced different localities.

The Southwest, free from cold, gray Autumnal rains, howling snows and Spring inundations, finally appealed to him as being ideal. Of course, there might be two thousand dollars entrusted to him any night, especially now that it was Autumn and the lumbermen were stocking up for the Winter campaign.

It was at that precise point that his cheek reddened and he felt a touch of alarm as he angrily told himself such imagining was immoral, for it was based on the suggestion that he steal the money. He condemned the suggestion wrathfully as he walked a quarter of a mile to the lonely home where he boarded, and yet he was more downcast than ever over his colorless place in life.

On returning to the station to close up for the night, which meant a weary wait for the up-passenger to pull in, he returned to the suggestion abruptly and recklessly. It was the sight of the porters making up the berths, the comradeship in the smoking compartment, that plunged him into full revolt; only now he proceeded on the theory the money was legitimately his.

“Well, I guess I’ve earned it. What if I should take it, providing I could get away with it? How would I spend it?”

This surrender eased him much. Of course he wouldn’t take it, not a penny; but it’s impossible to picture a career of spending until the imagination has logically furnished the requisite possession. Now he had mentally satisfied his imagination as to possession, although the technique was illegal. Fortunately there is no law punishing a man for inwardly discussing the possible assets of a crime.

Of course, Parsly merely intended to pursue his day-dreams unhampered by any irritating self-criticism. He had systematically arranged his data and could spend a million a day, should he choose. That was where he erred. His imagination became a hard taskmaster, very exacting. Once he accepted the suggestion that the money was to come to him through theft, his methodical mind insisted on reviewing the possibilities of detection before permitting him to enjoy the fruits.

“Wouldn’t you be caught and arrested before you could make a beginning?” was the cautious query he was forced to put to himself.

Such nagging is very annoying, and to satisfy his mysterious Pyrrhonist and continue with his Spanish architecture, he set himself about planning how the trick could be done without his being detected.

This was a hopeless morass at first, and very unpleasant; for instead of picturing innocent expenditures he found himself sweating and struggling with the problem of how he could keep the money once he secured it. The more he labored the more nimble became his other self in raising pertinent objections, exploding seemingly sound theories and ridiculing his most astute hypotheses.

To merely appropriate the money and disappear was quickly shown to be the height of idiocy. That spelled a life of slinking and fear, the flying from phantoms. It took some thought to clear the foreground of discarded theories and plans and approach the realm of finesse; but at last he seemed to be building on a firmer foundation.

Probably the frequent raids by yeggmen on rural post-offices and isolated railroad stations stimulated this office of his imagination. For in reading the paper, presented him gratis each evening by the newsboy on the up-passenger, he noted the yeggmen always securely tied whoever stood between them and loot, cut the tell-tale wires and escaped.

Then came the great idea; and slapping the paper he glanced apprehensively around the small office, and whispered:

“If I faked a holdup the yeggs would get the credit and I’d get the dough. It would be a cinch, if a man wanted to play crooked.”

Stay! Was it so easy? The various precautions necessary for counterfeiting a robbery, each simple in itself, quickly loomed into mountains. Then he derided on just how the furniture should be broken and overturned to approximate realism; just when the wires should be cut; whether the station door should be left open or closed, and the condition of his clothing and pockets. As there was no safe in the office the agent carried the moneys upon his person. At first he imagined his pockets turned inside out, then repudiated the thought as being too clumsy.

But what about the tying-up portion of the programme? Could a man tie himself so as to convince his rescuers that his predicament was genuine? Of course, there was a chance, rather a good one, too, of his landlord, foreman of the section crew, coming to his aid and cutting the cords without making any particular observations. Still, only perfection of detail would satisfy his exacting critic.

Now, Parsly, if slow of thought at times, was dogged in his persistence once he grappled with a problem. He now gave his spare time to studying ropes and knots.

The newspapers had charged up the various robberies to Fresno Red and his gang, and had dwelt at length on the method used in each case in tying up watchman or agent. Invariably one end of the rope was made fast about the feet and ankles of the captive, then passed up and around the waist, the hands being caught and tied behind the back; the loose end finally being made fast about the captive’s neck in a slip-noose.

It was done very quickly, each victim had averred, and so hampered a man that the more he struggled the more he endangered his life by self-strangulation. It was a method worthy of the redoubtable Fresno Red, and one Parsly now attacked to satisfy his insistence on correct detail.

THAT NIGHT he surreptitiously carried a piece of new rope home. He had already discovered that new rope would not slip like old, smoothly worn rope. In the secrecy of his small chamber he essayed the simple task of tying his own feet. His heart beat rapidly as he pulled the knot tight; then he laughed vacuously and told himself it was all a game. It ended where it began, merely a pastime. He did not attempt to duplicate the yeggmen’s knots further that night.

He would not concede that he stood in fear of the trooping suggestions now besetting him and eagerly offering aid. Yet he fought hard to put the thoughts from his mind during the morning hours and felt extremely virtuous as he handed the down agent the customary parcel of money.

That night he relaxed and deftly tied his feet, passed the line about his waist and clumsily wound it around his wrists. He remained awake more than an hour trying to solve the rest of the problem— how to fasten the rope about his wrists so it would be impossible to free himself and then secure the end about his neck. He decided it couldn’t be done, and fell asleep.

Toward morning, when but half awake, he heard a voice advise—

“Tie the rope first about the neck.”

He popped up to a sitting posture and stared wildly about the dark chamber. He knew it was a suggestion from his inner self, yet so distinctly did he hear the words it seemed as if they must have been voiced aloud. Throughout the early morning he brooded over the suggestion. At first he could not discern any sense in it. Subconsciously, however, he had often noticed the lumberman’s trick of using a dove-hitch— two half-hitches— and gradually the recollection thrust itself above the threshold of consciousness. He believed he had succeeded.

He must make the rope fast about his neck while standing, then secure it about his ankles with practically no slack, continuing the loose end to his waist and tying it, taking care to have it pass outside the rope running from neck to heels. Then by throwing back his head and heels he would obtain enough slack to make the two double loops, or half-hitches, through which he could work his wrists.

The last operation, he realized, would demand great care, as he must thrust his hands in from opposite directions until wrist overlapped wrist. If it would work he would dismiss the matter and resume the pleasing visions of spending the money.

The morning’s paper contained a glaring account of a daring yegg robbery at the Centerville station. The agent had been trussed up and some fifteen hundred dollars taken.

“Those guys certainly got the nerve,” commented the newsboy as the agent was reading the item. “Didn’t even gag Roberts. Just corded him up like a bale of hay, copped his roll and beat it. Roberts is so scared he’s working his notice.”

That afternoon Parsly was curious to examine all baggage fastened with ropes. Several parcels of sample dowels, sent by express from the up-country mill, held his attention the closest. They were tied with new rope and the dove-hitch held tightly, even when he worked an end loose. Just before he closed up for supper the branch train brought in a hundred-odd dollars, but the agent confidentially assured:

“Tomorrer’ll be a record breaker. Two parties I know of are going to send down a thousand per. Together with the other money you’ll have close to three thousand bones to nurse over night. The danged company ought to put a safe in your office.”

Off duty for the night, he hastened to his room where the supreme test awaited him. If he succeeded there was nothing to prevent a man from robbing himself and leaving no clues. When from the open door he could catch the sound of his landlord’s heavy, regular breathing, he removed his shoes, seated himself on the edge of the bed, and began experimenting with the cord.

He fastened the noose about his neck and stood up and noted where the rope in a direct line touched the floor. Then seating himself he tied it tightly about his ankles and brought the loose end up to and around his waist. There was scarcely any slack when he straightened out his legs. At first he feared he had drawn the cord too tight and, anxiously turning on his face, threw back his head and heels.

With a thrill of elation he found the slack would enable him, by an effort, to form the hitch. After a moment’s fumbling he succeeded, and even wriggled his hands through the loops until the tips of the fingers rested on the upper forearm. It wearied him, and with a sigh of physical relief he extended his legs.

In an instant his tongue felt too large for his mouth, and with a gasp of horror he decided he was choking to death. He did not lose his nerve as he remembered the remedy, and he drew back his legs. But although this gave a bit of slack to the rope he could not induce the hitch to loosen. From the satisfaction of having proven his theory he quickly glided into the fear that he had calculated too nicely.

Had the rope been old and smooth, or had his hands been imprisoned palm to palm, finger tip to fingertip, he might have secured a leverage and by working them apart have succeeded in wrenching one free. But the new rope refused to give, and for a minute he lay quiet, panting for breath, and taking great care to bring no strain on his neck.

Down-stairs the old clock was ponderously ticking off the seconds; and he remained a prisoner. His heart chilled as he feared he must summon the foreman to come to his rescue. But how could he explain his peculiar plight? What suspicions might not his predicament arouse?

This dread quickly gave way before one more chance. The noose seemed to be tightening about his neck, and he remembered the foreman was a heavy sleeper. His wife occupied a room with her small children at the other end of the house. He doubted his ability to call help; if he did not he might slowly strangle to death.

Already the cold sweat was trickling into his eyes and it required a mighty effort of the will to restrain himself from thrashing about. He knew, however, that the moment he lost control of his nerves and moved incautiously his wind would be shut off. Gritting his teeth he drew his heels far back like an acrobat. He was lying face down with the bedclothes half smothering him. Then he gently picked at the rope with his finger tips. Useless. The cords held his wrists like bands of iron.

Finally he managed to work the cord between the fingers of his left hand and exert a pressure upward, hoping to loosen the hitch. His essay was barren of results for some moments, and it was not until he was about to collapse that he felt his right hand moving more freely. With an inarticulate cry of triumph he wrenched his wrist smartly, and instantly felt the cord renew its grip like a sentient thing. It was like a cat playing with a mouse.

Breathing in dry sobs he slowly sought to recover the lost ground and persevered until he again was pushing upward on the cord. For the second time he felt the right hand move a bit; this time he worked it back and forth most gently and at last managed to pull it free. Even then it required some minutes to remove the rope from his throat.

“——the thing!” he choked, sinking back exhausted. “It nearly got me!”

That night he dreamed of the money brought in by the branch train; only there were cars and cars loaded with it, and it was all in gold, and men were removing it with huge scoops, just as they shovel out yellow corn.

By morning he had regained his normal tone and even felt inclined to laugh at himself. After all, had he not done what he set out to accomplish— to prove a man could effectually make himself a prisoner? Had he been engaged in a bona fide robbery he would not have attempted to free himself. His success in escaping detection would be his utter inability to do so. In that case, of course, he would expect to endure the torture till help reached him.

What odds if a man suffered a few hours of physical agony, if it resulted in supplying him with several thousand dollars? He now clearly appreciated that had his experiment been less successful he would have been grievously disappointed; the problem would have remained an obstacle to his imagination, and his dangerous, although alluring, fancies needs must be postponed. On the whole he felt rather proud of his achievement.

All day the great idea kept pounding through his head. He had it in his power to obtain more than two thousand, possibly three thousand, dollars without being suspected. His temples throbbed and ached as the thought assailed him. Once or twice during the afternoon he was called to the baggage-room to check a trunk. Each time his gaze involuntarily sought the coil of new rope hanging behind the door.

It was well known to students of crime that yeggmen pick up their tools on the premises of the place robbed, traveling unhampered by the burglar’s usual outfit. How natural that they should appropriate a piece of this very cord to bind him with! That would necessitate the shattering of the lock, but the door was old and weak and a well-delivered kick would smash it loose. He had no appetite for supper and heard but little of the foreman’s gossip.

“I was saying I’d like to play you a game of crib tonight if you feel in trim,” repeated the foreman.

“Crib? Oh, of course. Sure, Danny. I’ll play crib. I’ll be home right after the up-train pulls out. I’ll be home in good season,” eagerly promised Parsly, suddenly realizing the foreman might get impatient waiting, might take alarm at his boarder failure to reach home, and go in search of him. That would eliminate long, slow hours of torture on the office floor.

“Yes, I’ll be home right after the nine-o’clock goes up,” he said. “I won’t keep you waiting.”

While returning through the woods it suddenly came home to him that he had planned to steal the money. For a moment he felt strongly moved and made a feeble pretense of denying the accusation. Then with a drawn face he muttered:

“——it! Why sidestep? It’s been in my nut for days. I’ll never get another chance like this—so much dough and the yeggs near.”

He sought to distract his mind by bitterly assailing the railroad and express companies and assuring himself the thought would never have occurred to him had he been paid something beyond a starvation wage for a fourteen-hour day. It really wasn’t robbery. Laws were made by men. It was reprisal. When it came to the ethics of it— only Parsly didn’t know what the word meant— he’d earned the money, at least a part of it.

The night connived at his purpose, blowing up cold and desolate and on the verge of a storm. By the time the branch pulled in, the platform was streaming rivulets from the heavy downpour, and the express agent made the office on the run.

“Here’s the stuff!” he yelped, tossing a package on the table. “Nothing to hold us and we’re going right back. So long.” Parsly breathed more freely. Sometimes a mixup over freight, or a hot-box, kept the train, with the men careless of the passing minutes, as they had no schedule to make on the return run to Waverly, the first station, where they would hold the siding for the night.

Outside, the rain was falling with a thunderous clamor, smearing the window panes till it was impossible to make out the switch-lights directly in front of the station. Parsly rose, his eyes glittering. The money must be concealed safely till the morrow.

He had never read Poe’s story of the purloined letter, yet instinct urged a simple hiding-place. He decided on the greasy canvas coat, hung back of the door. He wore it only when cleaning the switch-lamps. The package fitted nicely into one capacious pocket. No one would ever find it there. Now to arrange the stage settings, the overturned furniture, the open door—

The door opened. Four men were crowding in through the miniature waterfall released from the loaded caves. Parsly eyed them as one entranced, his gaze frozen with horror. It was no physical fear he dreaded, but for the moment it seemed as if his evil purpose had escaped him and now stood crystallized into tangible shapes, each a unit of wickedness.

“Nail the mutt!” sharply ordered the leader, a man with a heavy shock of red hair.

One of the men twisted Parsly’s arm behind him and thrust an iron wrist under his chin. Two others stood near, one holding a revolver, the other caressing a “life-preserver.” The leader was glancing about the office.

All this occurred in a single motion, yet it seemed to cover ages to the stupefied agent. It was the red-headed man’s prowling gaze that brought Parsly to his senses. They were yeggmen—Fresno Red and his gang. They were after the money and the leader was seeking the safe.

The man who had seized the agent was deciding he had never in all of his strong-arm jobs encountered so thoroughly frightened a victim as now, when Parsly’s chin hugged in and his strong teeth bit deeply into his captor’s wrist, causing him to scream with pain. At the same instant, the agent’s long leg kicked out, overturning the table and the one lamp.

The room was plunged in darkness and the man with the revolver discharged his weapon, evoking a shriek of mortal agony, but not from the agent. Fresno Red called loudly for a light while he attempted to strike a match. Parsly had the advantage; he knew one of the robbers was dead or seriously wounded, and while every man was his enemy in the darkness, the yeggmen feared to injure a pal.

“Block the door and window!” roared Fresno Red.

During this brief leeway Parsly’s groping hands found, the office stool and he swung it around his head in a deadly circle. By the sickening crunch he knew at least one of the enemy was off the active list. Then a match flared up for a second and the leader’s revolver exploded, the agent experiencing a stinging sensation in the side.

For an instant Parsly felt strangely numb; then the stool rose like a flail and the man with the “life-preserver” sank to the floor.

Somehow the agent now felt a riotous elation. Fear was a very distant emotion. His veins were filled with molten lead instead of blood. He breathed hate rather than the smoky air. It was a monstrous thing that these murderers should seek to rob his employers.

With a wild howl of rage he plunged into the remaining two men, lucking and smashing like a maniac with the fragment of the stool. Out through the door they poured, another of the gang falling with a fractured skull. Then Parsly discovered he was alone.

He stood stupidly for a few moments, weaving back and forth. He aroused himself as his dull ears caught a familiar sound. A hand-car was being pumped down the grade. His mind cleared to supernormal lucidity. He saw his advantage. He had been brutally attacked and seriously wounded. The one man escaping would be charged with having stolen the money; they wrested it from him in the struggle. He had fought hard; he’d earned it. And yet, should he pull the lever close by his right hand, he could throw open the switch down the line and send Fresno Red crashing into the empty coal-cars on the siding.

“You’ll never get a better chance! It simply can’t be known and—”

“No!” he yelled, springing to the lever and pulling it back with his last ounce of strength.

“No,— you! No!”

Within the next minute he heard a dull crash and knew the yegg leader had collided with the coal-cars. Then he concluded the wet platform would be an ideal place for a red-hot body to rest on.

“FOR THE love of Mike! Parsly down and out! One man groaning and another dead in the office, one stiff out here! Good Heavens!” exclaimed the horrified foreman as he held up the lantern. He had come because Parsly had failed to keep his promise as to the game of cribbage.

As he read the full story in the four prostrate forms he collected his wits and dragged Parsly into the office, meanwhile begging him to “Wake up,” and “Get back his nerve.”

“What’s the row?” feebly asked Parsly. Then he remembered.

“I’ve been shot. Find the instrument and see if the wires are O.K. Hold me up where I can reach it. I must send in the alarm. The leader is down on the siding somewhere. I shunted him off into the empties.”

“The desperate devils was going to make sure,” panted the foreman as he hunted for the instrument. “They fetched two coils of rope.”

The papers made a great hero of Parsly. Fresno Red, who was found with a broken shoulder, gave him a brave record for being game. The railroad sent a superintendent to tell him he was in line for promotion and the express company guardedly considered presenting him with a reward.

“I don’t want any money,” growled Parsly as the agent sat by his bed in the little house. “Cut that out. I did nothing but what’s in the day’s work. But I’d like the Centerville job. Roberts, they say, is going to quit. That pays a hundred a month.”

He was appointed two days later. Only now he hates the sight of coiled rope and looks upon express money as so much junk.

_____________________

11: The Veiled Idol of Kor

Charles J. Mansford

1863-1943

The Strand Magazine Jul 1895

"HASSAN," said my companion, Frank Denviers, to our Arab guide, " what is your candid opinion of that curious yarn which Kass, our chief Wadigo follower, told us by the camp fire last night?"

The Arab, who was resting close by the awning of our tent, looked up from a well- thumbed copy of the Koran, which he had been reading aloud to us, then gravely asked:—

"What does the sahib himself think of it?"

"Well, Hassan," responded Denviers, "I always thought you could spin a tolerably tall yarn, but Kass would beat the Great Prophet himself."

"The story which Kass told is as true as the Koran, sahib," answered the Arab, closing the book and glancing reprovingly at Denviers.

"We agree with you there," assented my companion with such emphasis that Hassan quickly retorted:—

"What a sweet well in the desert is to the thirsty, so is a believing listener among men; the mighty Mahomet himself has so declared."

"Which is the reason why every follower of his believes that interesting and truthful account of the moon wandering up the right sleeve of the Prophet's robe and then coming out by the left—"

"Never mind about Mahomet and his wonderful adventures," I interrupted; "so far as I can remember, Kass was too much engrossed in his story of the veiled idol of Kor to notice Hassan's additions to his narrative while he was telling it."

"Kass does not know the entire story," responded the Arab, gravely; " if the sahibs so desire, I will tell it to them."

"Very well, Hassan," said Denviers, smiling at the Arab's persistence; "go on with your yarn, but remember that in less than half an hour we must start on our day's march. Don't exaggerate more than you can help, for Kass is approaching the tent. He has mixed too much with Arab slavers not to understand every word that you say."

A shadow fell upon the waste of sun-dried grass which stretched before our tent, and, glancing up as Denviers spoke, I saw Kass, the Wadigo, fronting us. In his right hand he held a heavy spear, the butt of which rested upon the ground, while in his left he grasped the centre-piece of a great shield of hide, above which rose the hafts of a number of splendidly-balanced assegais. In height Kass was fully six feet, differing little in this respect from the rest of our Wadigos, but easily distinguishable among them since he alone wore a peculiar gum wattle not much unlike that of a Zulu brave. Save for his loin-cloth, the body and limbs of Kass were bare, the only ornament which he wore being a string of beads about his neck.

We obtained the services of Kass and his fellow Wadigos in rather a strange way. On completing an extended tour in Asia, under the guidance of Hassan, we eventually made our way to Calcutta, where we remained for some time. Denviers, my companion, had long projected a journey across Africa, and persuaded me to accompany him. The natives whom we engaged for the expedition on reaching the African coast deserted us when a convenient opportunity presented itself, and generously saved us the trouble of increased burdens by bolting with whatever they thought most valuable. Entering a Wadigo village, we chanced to be of service in leading the natives against some Arab slavers infesting the district. In return for this, Kass and a number of his tribesmen volunteered to join our expedition; the usual exchange of presents took place, and so we pressed on our way through the Dark Continent.

In obedience to a gesture from Denviers, Kass threw himself down beside the Arab, whereupon the latter began his version of a story which resulted in a stranger adventure than any that we had previously engaged in.

"In the fifth year of the Great Prophet's mission, sahibs," began Hassan, "his daughter Rokaia and her husband were sent into Abyssinia to escape the perils which surrounded Mahomet. With them went several others, all of whom were well received by the Najashee or King, then ruling. As the years went by, the Moslems increased and became a power in the land of their voluntary exile, until the time came when the reigning Najashee sought the hand of a certain Ayesha the Fair, in marriage. She, as a descendant from the Prophet's daughter, refused the alliance; whereupon the enraged Najashee decreed that every Moslem should be driven from his kingdom. Despoiled of all their wealth, with a supply of food sufficient only for a few days, the miserable Moslems passed out by the great gates to wander aimlessly through desolate wastes and hostile tribes. At their head walked Abu, the lover of Ayesha, behind whom his beloved was borne upon a litter.

"One night, when the condition of those who still survived was at its worst, a certain Moslem had a strange dream, which so impressed him that he rose and set off in the moonlight to test its truth. At dawn he returned, and, hastily rousing the rest, gathered them about him to listen to the substance of his dream and how it had been verified."

"What was it that he dreamt, Hassan?" asked Denviers. "Was it anything to do with this idol we are waiting to hear about? "

"Patience, sahib, and you shall hear," our grave guide responded.

"His gaunt, famished listeners thought the Moslem's utterances only the ravings of a madman, but he grasped his beard and affirmed by it that every word he had uttered was true."

"A most convincing testimony, Hassan," remarked Denviers. "Of course, everyone believed him immediately!"

"Doubtless, sahib. Led by the Moslem, the exiles passively followed. They found themselves entering an excavated way which led through the heart of a mountain. Following their guide, they at last emerged from the rock-hewn way to see facing them―"

"The veiled idol, I suppose, Hassan?" said Denviers, irreverently interrupting the Arab's story.

"Not so, sahib," replied our guide; "but something almost as strange. Hemmed in by mountain spurs, whose sides rose rugged and grand, they saw before their wondering eyes a vast colonnade, whose every pillar was carved with the grotesque heads of giant men and gods, and nameless beasts, which stared and -gaped askance in stone, till awe and fear held each Moslem spellbound.

" 'Pass on and fear not. Allah and the Prophet have led our feet hither!' cried Abu at last, and so, with many a curious backward glance, the exiles marched on until a great city appeared, and they passed wonderingly into its streets. No one stood forth to bar their way, nor to ask whence they came. At last some of the exiles, bolder than the rest, ventured to enter a few of the dwellings. The shimmer of gold and the glitter of brilliants, set in bracelets and rings, caught their glances as they stooped over little heaps that may have been mortal dust. Securing these treasures, they passed out to rejoin the rest, one of their number grasping in his hand a snake of brass, with many a mystic symbol graven upon it.

"In the centre of the city was a great paved square, from which rose a temple, hewn so as to represent the body of a lion with the head of a man supported on huge pillars, its forepaws alone rising to a height of twenty feet. Upon these latter also were varied symbols which none of the exiles could read. Standing before the great temple, Abu declared to his followers his belief that, at some far remote period, the inhabitants of this strangely discovered city had perished from pestilence, and he claimed the city for them and theirs, since they, true Moslems, had discovered it.

"Eventually Ayesha was declared Queen of the city, and becoming the bride of Abu, he was raised up to share her throne. Although centuries have passed away, the city, sahibs, is still inhabited by Arabs, for its buildings and temple stand almost untouched by the finger of Time. Yet the pestilence which once came upon it is as nothing to the fate which has recently befallen the city, for now comes the strange part of its history. A few years ago―"

"We are getting to modern times at last then, Hassan," said Denviers, whose incredulous smile somewhat disconcerted the Arab.

"As I said, sahibs," Hassan continued: "A few years ago a stranger visited the city, bringing with him his daughter, their features and dress plainly showing that they were of Egyptian origin. The stranger settled in Kor, as the inhabitants had named it, and at once devoted himself to a close study of the strange symbols cut within and without the temple. What secrets they revealed to him none can say, but certain it is that he ransacked the bazaars of the city, examining with infinite patience every curio displayed, and showing his disappointment more keenly month after month as his search proved fruitless. At last he fell ill, and the quest was left for his daughter Cai to carry on. Strange to say, sahibs, within a few days she discovered and purchased for a few coins the identical brazen snake which was first found when the band of exiles entered the deserted city so long before.

"Sahibs, the people of Kor declare that the symbols upon it unlocked the secrets of all the mystic hieroglyphics about the temple. All the past lore of long-forgotten ages was revealed to these strangers, who used it to attain their own evil ends, and again the city passed into the power and under the heavy yoke of the Egyptian. The Queen who reigned then was deposed, and became the handmaid of the Egyptian's daughter— as she is even to this day. Before his death, the stranger from the Nile raised an idol within the temple, and men whisper that it is the very counterpart of his daughter Cai, who holds the people fast in bondage. Before the idol hangs a veil; whoever disobeys the Queen in aught is thrust into the temple, the veil parts, and at a glance from the idol, the victim shrieks and stiffens and dies! Sahibs, by the teachings of the lore which the Egyptians alone discovered, the stone idol is endowed with life and with power to sear and destroy whoever Cai wills to perish. No marks of violence can be seen upon those who after death are carried out for the awe- stricken Moslems to look upon. So comes it then that a strange fear subdues all dwelling in that great city, and they bend to the slightest wish of Cai, who rules them with a rod of iron."

"With a snake of brass, you mean, Hassan," said Denviers, laughing at the Arab's profoundly grave countenance. "Cai has probably learnt something of the old magian's art, and is clever enough to turn her knowledge to her own advantage. As to your yarn about a live stone idol, well, it is as true as the famous moon story I mentioned just now."

"Listen yet, sahibs," Hassan continued, "and hear the rest. An Arab who managed to escape from this strange city told these things to a Wadigo. The latter laughed them to scorn, then, roused by curiosity, went in search of the city; he never returned to his tribe again. A month later two other Wadigos set off thither— neither was seen afterwards. Then the brother of Kass, famous alike with spear and assegai— as is he who rests before us— went forth to search out the truth of this narrative; he, too, was lost to his tribe from that day."

The Arab stopped, for Kass suddenly sprang to his feet and shook his spear threateningly towards where a mountain ridge was faintly discernible far across the scorched plain. Beating his shield in wrath, he cried:—

"Strong as the lion, stealthy as the tiger, subtle as the snake that whips the swishing grass through which he goes— such was my brother, yet from Kor came he not back."

"Kass," asked Denviers, "do you know the way by which this city of Kor is reached?"

The Wadigo answered in the affirmative.

"Well, Hassan," said my companion to the Arab, " when we reach the mountain spur we will leave you in charge of the rest of the Wadigos, while, with Kass as guide, Derwent and I will try to enter this city. You agree, Harold?" he asked, turning to me.

"By all means," I answered.

"The sahibs will never return," the Arab said, despondently.

"We shall see, Hassan," responded Denviers; "strike the tent and bid the Wadigos begin the march across the plain."

ii

IT WAS still early morning when we set out to traverse the great sweep of grey, tangled grass which rose knee-deep about us. At the head of our column walked Kass, bearing his great shield and spear, as we advanced in single file. Rifle in hand, Denviers and I followed next, while Hassan posted himself rearward, to keep watch upon the Wadigos, who alternately carried burdens or arms for our defence, if attacked on the march. The fantastic mists that hung about the plain gave way to a white heat, as we steadily pushed on our way. About mid-day we halted for a brief space, then, in spite of the intense heat of the sun, we resumed the march until, some two hours afterwards, the mountain spur rose up tawny and precipitous before us. Pitching our camp at a spot where Kass pointed out, we left Hassan in charge of the Wadigos, as we had decided, and followed Kass. For fully another hour we plodded on in silence, until the base of the mountain was reached, when we began to realize the full extent of the difficulties before us.

East and west of where we stood ran the mountain, while sheer above us its top towered high in the air, seeming to cleave the sky with its jagged crest. The Wadigo pointed with his spear to where a ledge of rock high above us projected from the mountain side.

"See!" he cried, "there begins the way; beyond it is the colonnade, then is Kor entered."

"You don't mean to say that the entrance to Kor is up there, Kass?" said Denviers. "If it is, I am afraid your energy in leading us here has been thrown away. No doubt, if Hassan were here, he would explain how the exiles climbed up there, for it is more than I can pretend to understand."

"The Wadigo who loses his way takes the next best road," responded Kass; "the ledge is but a spear cast or two from here. The death snake will find a man even if he hide under a mountain; if it seeks him not, he goes unhurt ! "

"That's poor consolation for us if we get dashed to pieces in attempting to reach that ledge of rock, Kass," Denviers retorted.

The Wadigo, after some demur, set himself to work and plaited a long grass coil, and with this substitute for a rope about our waists, we began the perilous ascent, leaving our rifles hidden in the grass. Kass went first, Denviers followed, and I was last. For some thirty yards or so we found the task easier than we had expected, then its dangerous nature showed itself in real earnest. Slowly and painfully we climbed upwards, lacerating our hands and feet badly as we clung desperately to the slightest projections that presented themselves. Half-way up we came upon an outstretched piece of rock, and upon it we crouched together to rest

Just as we were about to continue our ascent, a great bird, feathered like a golden eagle, rose from a crag, and, circling in the air, swooped down upon us, striking at me with its powerful wings and talons. I thrust at it blindly with my fists, forgetting the narrowness of the ledge we were huddled upon, lost my balance, and fell headlong from the supporting rock.

I felt the jerk of the rope about my waist as I reached its limit, and clung to it with my hands as the oscillations sent me with a dull thud against the rocky wall. Helplessly I swayed in mid-air, to and fro, as Denviers and Kass hauled me slowly up, a few inches at a time. Happily the coil bore the strain, and with a sigh of relief at last I found myself drawn safely upon the shelving rock. When I had sufficiently rested, we scaled the remaining space between us and the entrance of the rocky passage. We could make nothing out as we groped our way blindly along the excavated way, until finally we reached the colonnade, and stared at the uncouth figures carved there, almost in dismay. The wildest flight of Hassan's fancy would fail to describe what we saw as we passed into that strange city, wondering and almost fearing what the end of our adventure would be.

We met but few people in that strange city— those whom we did were richly clad in Arab guise. No one ventured to address us, no surprise at our strange appearance could be seen upon a single countenance. Denviers ventured to accost a passer-by in Arabic, who returned no answer: he merely pointed to the great temple and palace, too, of Kor, as we afterwards found it to be, and then was gone.

A strange feeling of dread came upon us, disguise it as we would; then my companion, serious, as he rarely was, glanced at me gravely as he said:—

"Well, Harold, this is a queer position to be in. We had better go on, I suppose, and see how things turn out." Kass, who understood the remark, at once turned and crossed the great paved square. We glanced curiously at the carvings and hieroglyphics of the building which confronted us, and, seeing a hanging door at the foot of one of the paws of the monolith, Kass thrust it aside with the butt of his spear, and we entered.

On either side of us, between carved pillars which supported the roof of a great corridor, we saw a long line of mighty images of the ancient rulers of Kor, sculptured in red granite, the brow of each being gilded. By the flicker of the dim lamps which hung above our heads we could distinguish little else, for there the light of day did not enter. As the end of the passage was reached, a foreign slave, dressed almost like a priest of ancient Isis, glanced inquiringly at us for a moment, then, without speaking, drew back a richly-woven curtain and motioned us to pass on. In silence we obeyed his gesture, and a second afterwards stood, not where the idol was said to be, but in that part of the temple which formed the Queen's palace.

We halted abruptly. There, upon her throne, with a bodyguard of slaves about her, we saw the one before whom each Arab of that city bent his will like the reed to the gale— the mysterious Egyptian, Cai!

iii

I CAUGHT my breath as we advanced and bent lowly before the Queen; then, venturing to look up, I scanned her closely. The warm tint that the land of the Nile gives was upon her face; feature for feature I saw that she was Egyptian, as her strangely lustrous eyes were turned searchingly upon us. Behind her hung a head-veil; her garments, richly jewelled, were in accordance with those of the race from whom her descent was, and there, twisted about her forehead, we saw the brazen snake of which Hassan had spoken!

Kass instinctively tightened his hold upon his spear, a movement which Cai, the Queen, was quick to understand. Stooping, she raised from before her sandalled feet what seemed to us, at first, to be a yellow ball of wool. At her touch the object woke, and we saw that in her hand the Queen held out a tiger cub.

"See," she cried to Kass, "the tiger that has no fangs is harmless!"

"The Wadigo whose spear is broken fits another to his hand and pursues his foe to death," our guide answered, quickly, as he watched the face of Cai grow dark at his reply. Denviers, who saw how badly matters were likely to turn out for us unless the Queen could be propitiated, motioned to Kass to lay down his shield and spear, which the Wadigo reluctantly did.

"Ye are quick to understand," said Cai, with a mocking glance at Kass which brought a cry of resentment from his lips. Then turning her head towards Denviers, the Queen asked:—

"Why come ye here unbidden?"

"We are travellers who wished to see thee and this strange city, O Queen," he answered; "for these reasons alone have we entered Kor."

"A false reply," she cried, sharply; "or else the lore of Egypt, which it is mine alone to know, now fails me as never yet it has done. Ye know full well that I am of another race than those I rule, and so ye come here foolishly thinking to probe to its core the secret of the idol by which I reign as Queen, and which brings death to those who long to depose me."

Before Denviers could reply, Cai motioned forward two of the slaves about her, and they, after prostrating themselves at her feet, stood silently awaiting her commands. The Queen pointed to the shield of Kass as it lay upon the ground, and indicated that they were to remove it. They had barely raised it between them, when Kass, divining their purpose, dashed the nearest slave to the ground, and, snatching up his mighty spear, dealt the other a stunning blow which sent him reeling. Denviers and I glanced anxiously at the Queen, having little doubt but that she would use this most unlucky incident as an excuse for slaying Kass, and doubtless us also, when we attempted to save him. We were mistaken, however. Waving back, with an imperious gesture, the slaves who were about to assist their discomfited fellows, the Queen asked Kass, abruptly:—

"Are all the men of thy race as stout of heart and limb as thou art?"

" Four of them already have entered this city, and each has died at thy relentless hands; surely thou hast seen how a Wadigo can meet death!" he replied.

"Bravely answered, slave," cried Cai; "but of the four none have faced the fear of the living idol and come scatheless through the ordeal. Yet greatly it has pleased me to see how hardly the two slaves fared who raised thy shield and whom thou cast down like straws. How do those of thy race name thee?"

"He is of the Wadigo tribe," interrupted Denviers; "and is called Kass, which in their tongue, O Queen, means He-of-the-Strong-Heart. He has acted as our guide here into thy presence. Doing no hurt to thee, surely he and we should be suffered to return from this city unharmed when we have seen its wonders."

"Ye know not the full meaning of your words," the Queen answered, "nor understand the craft of the people whom I rule. Were strangers suffered to live in this city, my throne would not be safe for a single hour. If ye were permitted to depart, one day a foreign host would come led by ye and despoil me of what empire I possess. Uninvited ye came into the city, spies for aught I know, and, so surely as ye stand before me, death by the idol shall be yours."

"Why should we die?" I asked, impetuously. "If we have committed a crime, say, O Queen, what we have done!"

"Ye have entered the hidden city; therein lies your folly for which death shall surely come upon ye," Cai calmly responded, in a tone that convinced us of her full intention to carry out the threat. "To-morrow, in the temple before the idol, my handmaid, whom I have doomed to a like fate, shall perish in your sight. Long have I striven to spare her, since she was deposed to make way for my rule. The sun has not set twice since another plot of these crafty Arabs was made known to me by the lore which I alone can understand. But of these things there shall be an end at last, for though she were of my own kindred, yet should she cease to live. After her ye three shall perish; yet I would that this slave whom ye call Kass might live to command my own. Come nearer, slave, and answer. Wilt thou serve me with thy spear?"

To our consternation, as the Queen glanced into the Wadigo's face, Kass bent lowly before her and gave the reply she desired. Stretching forth her hand, Cai touched him and ordered him to take up his spear and shield. Denviers attempted to resume the conversation which had turned so disastrously against us— but in vain. Not another word would the Queen hear in our defence, whereupon we refused to follow her slaves when bidden to do so. At once they threw themselves upon us and, in spite of our struggles, we were dragged away, each in a different direction, Kass making no effort either to intercede for us or to keep off our captors.

We saw no more of each other till morning, when we were conducted unbound into the temple. A low, weird chant struck upon my ears as I was led forward. Denviers was already in the temple when I was taken there, and so placed apart from where I stood that we could not communicate with each other, save by glances. It was impossible to pierce the gloom far, which enshrouded much of the temple, for the only light that it received came from a brazier, the embers in which threw a flickering gleam before a sombre curtain. About us on every side thronged the slaves of the dreaded Cai, while, apart from the rest, and near to the glowing brazier, knelt Kass, whose shadow fell strangely and gigantically upon the temple floor. He resolutely avoided the reproachful glances which Denviers and I darted at him, convinced as we were that by his treachery the Wadigo had saved his life.

A strange hush fell upon all as there came into the temple, clad in a simple robe, the maiden whom the insatiate Egyptian, Cai, had doomed to be first to meet the fate of death. From out the gloom she slowly emerged, and, as she approached near to the light which the embers of the brazier gave, I saw her face, framed with a wealth of dishevelled hair, grow ashy grey as unutterable despair came upon her.

The great curtain before us parted, and there, raised up before us, the dreaded idol, the very counterpart of Cai, the Queen, met our view, as still and rigid it stood. I struggled desperately to cast off the slaves who held me, as I looked in awe upon the idol and saw its face become animate with life, while its eyes searched out and drew its victim unresistingly forward until she reached the brazier. A half-choked cry came from the maiden's lips as her whole form stiffened with the horror of mortal fear, even as Hassan had said and we had refused to believe. Almost paralyzed with unaccountable dread, I watched the idol as it slowly raised one arm and beckoned its victim to approach yet nearer!

Suddenly through the temple another cry rang out— Kass had started to his feet and thrust his spear with all his force at the idol!

Casting off the terrified slaves who held us, we ran forward. No idol of stone with mystic powers lay there, but, in its stead, the inanimate form of Cai, the Queen, whom the Wadigo's spear-thrust had slain!

When the slaves of Cai learnt how even they had been deluded by the craft of the Egyptian, they broke forth from the temple, bearing the body of the Queen with them that the Arabs might see her reign was ended. Taking from the brazier a flaring, half-burnt ember, the faithful Kass, whose stratagem had saved us, held it up as we slowly examined the various idols of the temple of Kor. Strangely enough, we found in one part of it an idol so wonderfully fashioned to represent Cai, that we easily understood how, by an interchange with it, the Queen had mystified and slain by fear whom she would.

We left the City of Kor on the following day, after bidding farewell to its restored and rightful Queen. Passing once more under the strange colonnade, we proceeded by a way which led to the base of the mountain, instead of the one by which we had entered the city, being guided by one of the men of Kor. When we reached the camp, Hassan, who came out to meet us, asked:—

"Did the sahibs not find out that the Arab's words were true?"

"Let that answer your question, Hassan," replied Denviers; and he held out a curious present which had been given us on leaving Kor. It was the brazen snake of Cai!

_________________

12: Désirée

Lewis Ramsden

(Arthur Charles Lisle Dowding, 1864-1936)

World's News (Sydney)  17 April 1920

FROM the very day of my leaving Avignon I found his Eminence had not warned me needlessly when he had told me that my journey would be beset by dangers of no uncommon sort. Twice had I, and the six trusty fellows I had chosen so carefully from my command, been attacked on the highway, once at night and once in the day time. Then we had, by vigilance, escaped an ambush, and lastly, there had been the affair of the supposed rich merchant of Ghent, who, after a failure to corrupt my men with gold, had offered me, for a sight of the document I carried, a sum of money which would have gone far to restoring the fortunes of my house. Perhaps I was over-merciful in letting this man go, on account of his pleading and his grey hairs, without the sound drubbing, or worse, which my fellows would have awarded him.

Had I not considered it no part of a soldier's duty to inquire into the why or wherefore when obeying a clear command, I should have wondered how it came to pass that so many knew I was bearing the despatch, and were seemingly aware of its purport, which I was not. But I contented myself with the knowledge that I, one of the youngest officers of the Cardinal-Duke's guard, should have been chosen in a matter so important.

Then came my meeting with the Countess du Barlas, at Nevers. At flrst I refused, with due courtesy, her request that I should escort her to Paris, whither we were bound. True, his Eminence had told me, at starting, that speed on my errand was not such a consideration as safe delivery of the despatch into the hands of his Majesty, yet I was naturally anxious to accomplish my mission without delay. But when the countess produced a letter, signed by the King himself, giving her the right to demand the escort of any troop she might meet on her way, I had no choice but to obey.

Madame, however, who was a lady of mature age and haughty manner, did not appear to take my first refusal in good part, and I saw no more of her until, resuming our journey the next morning, I assisted her into her coach.

It was then I first properly beheld her maid, a slender, graceful creature, who modestly hung her head. To her. in turn, I proffered assistance, whereupon she looked up, and I saw a face marvellously pretty, which I had a fancy I had somewhere seen before. There was a frightened lock in her fine eyes, yet she gave me a smile which strangely thrilled me, and which haunted me as I rode with my men. I tried to think where I could possibly have seen this charming waiting-maid before, and could only conclude my impression was mistaken.

We came to the halting-place for our midday meal, a fair spot overlooking some portion of the valley of the Loire. Here madame elected to remain in her coach, and I, presently withdrawing from my men, heard the voices of mistress and maid, though not able or wishing to catch the words. It sounded, however, as though the girl was being persuaded and commanded to something in which she was not willing. Then the carriage door opened, and the maid looked to where I was standing, hesitated, and finally came toward me.

"Madame would sleep for a while, and has given me permission to enjoy the view and the air," said the maid with a smile which was bewitching because of her beauty, yet speaking as though such forwardness was not natural to her.

"Both the fine view and the fresh air may be better enjoyed in pleasant company," I answered.

"So I was thinking, monsieur," she replied, with more self-confidence.

"Well, you will find my men pleasant, agreeable fellows, mademoiselle,"

"Your men?" she questioned, the red flushing her delicate complexion.

"Yes, you can hear how merry they are," and, as I spoke, Jean's lusty voice sounded in a verse of a well-known song:

"Le bon Roi Dagobert

Fut mettre sou bel habit vert;

Le grand Sant Éloi Lui dit:

Ô mon roi,

Votre habit paré

Au coude est percé.

C'est vrai, lui dit le roi:

Le tien est bon; prête-le-moi."

No smile of hers answered my laugh, and I continued:

"But, though they are merry, you will find them polite, as brave soldiers should be, and they will be delighted with your company."

"Thank you, monsieur: I do not desire such friends," she replied, disdainfully, the red still glowing on her cheeks as she turned away.

"What is your name, my girl?"

"Désirée. if it please you. monsieur."

''The name is very suitable, and pleases me well enough, so does the owner— save that she is too pretty for her station. And how long, Désirée. since waiting-maids have disdained the company of soldiers?"

She gave a startled look, but seemed reassured when she saw my bantering smile.

"Am I disdaining such company?" she retorted saucily.

"Ah, but—"

"You are not a common soldier, of course, monsieur. I am sensible of the honor you do me in speaking to me: you of the noblesse, and I of 'ces canailles de domestiques,' " she said mockingly.

"If a noble sought conversation with a maid of your station, would you deem it for her good?"

"Ta, ta, ta!" she exclaimed, flushing and angry. "If you have been to Court, monsieur, you have not yet fallen in with its manners."

"Have you been to Court yourself, Désirée?"

"No. I— that is— why do you ask?" she inquired, as if in alarm.

"Because, although of the South, you speak without a trace of its patois."

"I— I have been a long while with madame," she murmured.

"Ah! that explains it. and there is no need for you to appear so confused over my simple question. Still, your blushes make you look even more charming, Désirée, and. if you will walk with me under the shade of the trees, I promise to make love to you as well as any gallant of the Court could do it."

"I do not wish you to make love to me." she said indignantly, the red glowing even more brightly than before.

"Pardon the mistake," I laughed. "But do not let it prevent us, from walking together, for I will promise not to make love to you."

It was evident that it was her inclination to refuse; but as she looked towards the coach, she changed her minu, and turned to accompany me. I  related an amusing incident of adventure, not connected with my mission, with which I had met the day before. Her constraint quickly passed away, and she became as charming in manner as she was in appearance. Yet. though admitting her attraction, I was not so blinded by it as to fall to observe how. after a while, she carefully turned the conversation to the matter of my journey to Paris.

"You speak as though you were well acquainted with the object of my journey," I presently said.

"That is no wonder, since it was openly talked about at Nevers," she answered readily.

"What was said about It there?"

"It was said that the Cardinal-Duke had selected you, from all his officers, to bear a despatch of great importance to the King."

Someone had certainly been indiscreet, and, as l have already said, this had caused me some inconvenience. Yet I did not now regret it, since the knowledge must give me consequence in Désirée's eyes. But she must have been quick to read what passed through my mind, for into those lovely eyes entered a gleam of mischief.

"And, further, some persons said—"

"What?"

"That they could not understand why his Eminence employed, upon a matter of such moment, one so youthful and inexperienced as M. Arnand de Beaujolais."

"There are older and more experienced men who may have failed where I have so far succeeded," I replied, a little nettled.

"The good luck of the novice, perhaps," she laughed.

"Others may credit me with some little skill and forethought, as well as good luck."

She laughed again, and I was foolish enough to feel annoyed.

"Have you spent much skill and forethought in concealing your precious despatch?" she asked teasingly.

"Those who have sought it have not yet found it," I said grimly.

"I wonder if I could guess where you carry it?"

"I cannot prevent you from trying."

"Will you tell me when I guess rightly?"

"I do not promise to do that." And at this she looked so disappointed that I further said, "Would it please you so very much if I could tell you?"

"I have a womait's curiosity, of course; but I also wondered whether you would dare to tell me-whether you would be afraid."

"Afraid! Why, what could you do if you knew? I have a great mind . But can I trust you?"

"Tiens! I said you would be afraid."

She spoke in a tone of playful banter, but I saw signs of nervousness— the changing color, heaving breast, unrest of the white, shapely hands.

"Allons donc. But can I trust you, Désirée?" And I sought to meet her eyes, but she would not.

"Why should you fear to do so?" she murmured.

"True. I have known you but a very short while, Désirée; yet I am sure that you are no Delilah. A maid like you would not cozen and coax a man to his ruin; therefore I will tell you, if you wish, where I keep the letter which bears the seal of the Cardinal-Duke."

"To your ruin, monsieur?"

"Yes. I am now high in my master's favor; but he is without mercy to those who fail him. Still, since you have dared me—"

She shrank for a moment: then she forced herself to make a laughing reply.

"Yes, I dare you."

"Well, then, it is sewn in the lining of this cloak I am wearing."

I could not see her eyes, for she turned quickly away with a seeming carelessness.

"Ah, that is one of the places I should have guessed, so your hiding-place is not so clever, after all," she laughed, with a merriment which appeared somewhat forced. Then she commenced talking about matters of another kind, keeping up a gaiety which I once or twice fancied was slightly hysterical.

As she thus chatted, she suddenly exclaimed upon the beauty of some wild flowers growing on a bank beset with brambles, and I climbed a few steps to secure the blossoms for her. As I descended I felt my cloak tearing. Désirée was so close to me that, for a moment, suspicion crossed my mind she had actually placed the briar on the place where I had indicated the letter was concealed. But I was quick to prevent the rent from being more than a very slight one, and I made concern over the pricing of one of her own dainty fingers, which she had tried to conceal.

At another halting-place on our day's Journey I had another pleasant conversation with Désirée, though she had then lost her high spirits.

Arrived at the inn where we were to lodge for the night, the countess, she now appeared in a better humor, invited me to sup with her. Désirée was with us, being, Madame explained. more a companion than an ordinary maid, which might have accounted for her good speech and manners.

Soon after supper the countess and her attendant retired. I did the same with little delay, leaving my cloak on the back of the chair, where I had thrown it when entering.

In my room, however, I sat, after putting out the light. Later, when all was quiet, I heard without surprise a light footstep pass my door, and in a little while I quietly descended to the room where we had supped. A light was burning, and I opened the door.

"Désirée!" I exclaimed, in pretended astonishment.

She had risen to her feet, pale and agitated. On the table were needle and thread, also my cloak, which she had not time to replace.

"I— I have been mending your cloak, monsieur."

"So I see. It is very good of you. But why lose your beauty sleep when the morning would have done as well? Had I been of a suspicious nature, now, I might have thought that, taking advantage of my carelessness, you had designs upon my concealed papers. But no; here they are in the lining, and my faith in you is justified."

She shrank from me, her lovely face pale in the candlelight, as I laughingly rustled the papers, and she made no reply.

"Well, your industry must not go unrewarded." And I offered a piece of silver.

"So, no, monsieur."

"Ah, then, your service, if not for money, must be for love, and should be more suitably rewarded."

Before she could be aware I took her in my arms, and implanted a kiss upon her cheek.

"How dare you, monsieur— how dare you?" she cried, her face staining, her beautiful eyes darting indignant fires.

"Is it so very daring an act for a gentleman to kiss a pretty waiting-maid?" I laughed.

"Let me go instantly, monsieur, or I will raise the household upon you," she cried in a fierce whisper.

"I think not, my pretty one— truly named Désirée. What would be thought if we were found thus together?"

"Coward!" she panted. "Coward!"

"Ah, you say that now; you thought me a fool before. A pretty maid must be taught not to play with edged tools."

"What— what do you mean?" she gasped, fear in her wide-opened eyes as they watched my mocking face.

"You have trifled with love, and you should learn what love is."

She gave another gasp, and this time there was something of relief; but she struggle! silently— desperately— to escape from my arms.

"I will teach you," I said, and held her in spite of her efforts, seeking her lips, and detaining them in a long kiss. For a moment or so of this thrilling contact she still resisted fiercely: then I felt the quiver of her warm body: the crimson tide receded from her face, and the slender form grew heavier in my arms, as a choking sob came to her throat.

I released her then, and she sprang from me, to turn with a face blazing with shame. She strove for words, and when they did come, it was a bewildered cry of reproach.

"Why did you do that— why?"

I looked at her, full of a strange elation, yet in some degree ashamed.

"When we meet again, Désirée, I will tell you, and will seek your pardon."

She dashed indignant tears from her eyes.

"I hope I shall never see you again. I hope I shall forget that I ever saw you."

"That is neither a true nor a possible wish. You will never, so long as you live, forget that kiss," I declared, feeling it was so with myself also.

She turned and fled without another word, and though I arose fairly early next morning, it was to find that she and her mistress bad gone. The countess had left a formal message, thanking me for my escort, and saying there was no further need for it, as a matter had arisen which demanded her immediate return home. I was not much surprised at this, though I had not expected they would have taken their departure so early.

After this I made quick progress to Paris, and arrived at Court without further adventure. I had the honor to be immediately received by the King, and alone in his Cabinet. He glanced through the despatch I delivered to him, and writing some notes, handed them to an officer he summoned. Then his Majesty graciously expressed a desire to hear a full account of my journey, and I related the perils which had beset me— all excepting that arising from my meeting with Désirée, though I mentioned how I had given the countess the escort she had demanded.

"A modest account of a very excellent performance," graciously remarked his Majesty. "But I asked you for the full story. M. de Beaujolais, and you have omitted the incident connected with that very charming waiting-maid of Madame du Bartas."

To say I was utterly confounded is no more than the truth, and the King laughed loud at my evident confusion.

"Sire, how is it possible that you can know ?"

"Kings should have eyes everywhere, M. de Beaujolais, and if I have any lack it is well supplied by your master, the Cardinal-Duke. But how did you contrive to cheat the fair siren into believing her wiles had succeeded? That, to my mind, is the most surprising of your escapes."

"It was simple enough, your Majesty. A false despatch had been prepared, and sealed with the seal of his Eminence. It was that which I carried in the lining of my cloak."

"Ventre bleu!" laughed the King. "And did you pretend not to miss the packet from the lining?"

"It was easy to do that, Sire. She had replaced it with another."

"Ma foi! A pretty pair you two would make. But did you know the maid was other than she would appear to be?"

"I suspected. Sire. Indeed it crossed my mind, and I am more sure of it now. that she and I had met before, though I cannot remember where."

"No wonder, for the circumstances of your former meeting must have been very different."

"Perhaps your Majesty can tell me who she is?" I asked eagerly.

"No; you must find that out for yourself: but I can tell you that she is the heiress of a rich and noble house. And now, M. de Beaujolais, of my own pleasure, as well as by the request of the Cardinal-Duke, who seems to take a fatherly interest in you. I give you the privilege of naming your own reward for your service."'

"I am deeply grateful, Sire; but the knowledge that what I have done meets with your Majesty's approval is in itself a sufficient reward."

"It seems that the Cardinal's service is a good school for courtiers as well as for brave men." said the King with a smile. "Have you any knowledge of the contents of the despatch you carried?"

"None whatever, Sire."

"It contains proof, and a list of names, relating to a plot for the downfall of your master, and for a curtailment of my own power. I have now issued instructions for the arrest of the conspirators. There will be sorrow in many a noble house, and the Bastille will receive some distinguished guests. I will tell you the names of those principally implicated: The Duke de Marsan, the Duke de Chaumont, the Count de Dodez, the Count de Auch, the Viscount de Beauvais, and the Marquis de la Vars. What do you think of that list, M. de Beaujolais?"

"Sire!" I cried, excitedly.

"What is it, M. de Beaujolais?"

"The very mention of that last name has restored the memory which had eluded me. I remember years ago visiting, in company with my late father, the chateau of the Marquis, and being charmed, boy though I was, with his little daughter. Is your Majesty's gracious offer of a reward still open to me?"

"It is still open. M. de Beaujolais."

"Then, Sire. I would beg your royal clemency for M. de la Vars— a full pardon, if possible; though on condition, of course, that he pledges himself to engage no more in such plots."

The King laughed softly.

"I consent to your request, M. de Beaujolais. The more willingly because I have reason to believe that M. de la Vars is less culpable than the others. A free pardon is granted— with conditions. This shall be immediately set forth in a letter. Probably you would wish to be yourself the bearer of this letter."

"With your Majesty's gracious permission," I answered, and it was plain that the King possessed the truly royal gift of reading a man's very thought.

"Then I give you leave to depart at once, for my officers are already well on their way to make the arrest."

Within an hour I had left Paris well behind me. and, riding hard, reached the Chateau de la Vars towards the close of the second day, arriving hard upon the heels of the King's officers. The great house wag in confusion, and I learned that the Marquis had already bidden farewell to his wife and daughter, and was now in the custody of the Captain de la Motte, being by his courtesy allowed to make some small arrangements. The two were together when I was announced.

"This is an unexpected honor, M. de Beaujolais," said the Marquis. "I fear I must add, as you will see for yourself, that your visit is untimely."

"Pardon, M. le Marquis, but I venture to think you will find to the contrary," and I handed him the King's sealed letter.

The Marquis read with amazement; then, to my surprise, he looked at me coldly and haughtily, and passed the letter without a word to Captain de la Motte.

He, also, looked astonished: then laughed.

"You will accept the conditions, I trust, M, le Marquis?" said the captain.

"I must at least consider them," replied M. de la Vars.

"Then I will withdraw for a while." De la Motte said, adding in an undertone as he passed me: "You must have been born under a lucky star, De Beaujolais."

Somewhat mystified, I waited for the Marquis to speak.

"I understand. M. de Beaujolais, that it is to your influence I am indebted for this conditional pardon."

"I had the great good fortune to gain the ear of his Majesty."

"Also that conditions were attached in accordance with your suggestion."

"Certainly. M. le Marquis," I answered, my own demeanor stiffening in response to the haughty manner he saw fit to maintain.

"Mardieu! I am amazed at your presumption, M. de Beaujolais."

"I fail to see the presumption. M. le Marquis. When a sovereign is gracious enough to pardon an offence, it is only fair to expect the offence will not be repeated."

"You must very well know I am not referring to that, but to the further condition."

"The further condition?" I questioned, blankly.

"Read that, M. de Beaujolais," said the Marquis, his tone changing at the sight of my evident astonishment, and handing me the King's letter.

Underneath the formal order for pardon and release, I read the following:

"This pardon has been granted through the personal intercession of M. de Beaujolais, who attached the wise condition that you should engage or enter into no further plot against me or the Cardinal-Duke. There is also the further condition that you shall forthwith bestow upon M. de Beaujolais the hand of your daughter in marriage. I may point out that there is some advantage to you in this alliance, as although the young man's fortune is small, his advancement is certain, owing to the esteem in which he is held both by myself and the Cardinal-Duke."

The reading of this message, though it was so gracious in tone, covered me with confusion.

"I assure you, M. le Marquis, that— that—"

"I see, now, that you had no full knowledge of the conditions." said M. de la Vars, breaking in upon my halting speech with a smile which emboldened me to take advantage of the royal message.

"Yet it is true that his Majesty must have read, by some rare insight, a hope that was in my heart."

"Pardieu! But how can that be, M. de Beaujolais? You have not seen my daughter since you and she were children."

"Pardon, M. le Marquis; but mademoiselle de la Vars has been lately away from home."

"Yes; on a visit to her aunt."

"It was in the company of the Countess da Bartas I lately met mademoiselle, and was charmed by her beauty."

This was clearly a matter of surprise to the Marquis; but he did not then question me.

"To come to the point. Arnaud," he said, now calling me by my name. "I can have no objection to marrying my daughter to the son of my old friend, and I certainly have no wish to become an inmate of the Bastille; still—"

"I honor your scruples. M. le Marquis," I interrupted eagerly. "But I only beg your permission to at once urge my suit in person. If Mademoiselle de la Vars does not willingly consent, I pledge my honor to return to his Majesty, and to do my best to induce him to withdraw the condition."

"Like your late father, you are the very model of chivalry," said the Marquis, with a smile. "After my daughter was permitted to take leave of me she retired to the pavilion. Do you remember the way?"

"Perfectly, monsieur," I answered, and was soon hastening through the beautiful gardens to the rose-covered pavilion which I recollected had been her favorite retreat.

"Mademoiselle de la Vars— Désirée!" I called, and the slender, graceful figure, though not now clad in the garb of a waiting-maid, sprang up, startled, from an attitude of grief.

"You," she cried. "You!"

"Did I not say we should meet again?"

"And you knew— all the time?"

"I knew you were no serving-maid, but not who you were until my memory was stirred by the sight of your father's name in that list."

"So I was doubly fooled, and you have come to triumph in the result of your work," she said, resentfully.

"My work?"

"Yes; for had not the countess been deceived by the false despatch, my father would have been warned, and would have fled."

"Do you blame me for doing my duty, Désirée?"

"I cannot blame you for that. Yet— oh! is it generous of you to come and triumph over a girl who was humiliated in doing her best for her father's safety?" And, though pride would have restrained her tears, they overflowed her beautiful eyes.

"Désirée. I am not so base as you think. I have some to bring you good news. His Majesty graciously permitted me to name a reward for my service, and I asked that your father should be pardoned."

"You asked that, monsieur— and was it granted?"

"On conditions. But, before we enter into that. I must speak to you upon another matter. That night at the inn I said I would ask you to pardon my offence when we again met. I sue for your forgiveness now. Désirée, will you grant it?"

"I— I brought it upon myself." she answered, with drooping eyes, her face flushed with the tints of the rose. "Besides, you have procured my father's pardon."

"Upon a certain condition."

"A condition?" she questioned, with a quick look of alarm.

"Yes, but you must not blame me. His Majesty, by some means, guessing what has, since I met you, become the dearest wish of my heart, attached it without my knowledge."

"What can it be?" she murmured, though the look in her eyes as she gave one quick glance, and her tell-tale blushes, seemed to show that she already guessed.

"Désirée, do you not know? Did not that kits tell you? I am here with your father's consent. If you cannot willingly grant my ardent desire—"

"Yes?" she questioned, breathlessly.

"I have pledged my word that I will return to the King and beg him to forego the condition."

"Is it so little to your liking?" she asked, with feminine perversity.

"No; but I love you so dearly that I could not force myself upon you."

"It is a long Journey back to Paris," she said, without looking at me.

"And I should bear with me a heavy heart."

"Would you conceal it so well as you did the despatch?" she laughed.

"Désirée, do not jest with me, though I may deserve it."

"My father's release would be delayed, and I, ungrateful, would be left with a memory which you have assured me I shall never forget. What a miserable creature I should be!"

Again she laughed; but now with such a look that I snatched her to my arms. That long, passionate kiss was repeated, and this time it was returned to me in kind.

AT THE OUTSET of this narrative I said it was not for a soldier to inquire into the why and wherefore of a duty given him to perform. Though keeping to this rule, I am not without suspicion that the carrying of the despatch with which I had been entrusted was of less importance than the settling of a wager between his Majesty the King and his Eminence the Cardinal-Duke. I have now reason to believe that the subject of this wager was whether or no an officer so young and inexperienced as myself would be able to withstand certain dangers and temptations.

"From whom did you learn the nature of the despatch I carried?" I once asked Désirée.

"From my aunt, the Countess du Bartas."

"Did you of your own wish play the part of waiting-maid?"

"No; my aunt persuaded me to it, to save my father's liberty, perhaps his life."

Now I have since seen, in the cabinet of the Cardinal-Duke, the names of those employed in his secret service. Some were ladies of high rank, and amongst them the Countess du Bartas.

It has been declared that his Eminence, the greatest master of intrigue, loved it for its own sake, and would often confer his favors by its means. Even if that be so, it is certain that I have no cause to complain.

________________________

13: With the Eternal Fires

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

L T Meade 1844-1914; Edgar Beaumont 1860-1921

The Strand Magazine, October 1895

This story is founded on a true incident.

I WAS sent for one day towards the end of a certain very hot June to see a boy who was ill at a large preparatory school in the neighbourhood of London. The school was in the country, about an hour's drive from town. My message was urgent, and I did not lose any time in attending to it. I had but a very few minutes to catch my train, an express, and had at the last moment to make a rush, first for my ticket, and then for a seat in the railway compartment. I opened the door of a first-class carriage just as the train was moving, and found that I was to take my brief journey to Wickham in the company of a single fellow-passenger. He was a man inclining to the elderly side of life, and when I got into the carriage his head was buried in a large sheet of the Times. He just glanced up when I appeared, and then, quickly looking down, resumed his reading. I did not interrupt him, but sat leaning back in my own seat lost in anxious thought. I had several bad cases on my visiting list just then, and was in no mood even to read. Presently I observed that my fellow-traveller had folded up his paper, and sitting so that I could get a view of his profile, was looking steadily out at the landscape. Hitherto, I had regarded him with the most scanty measure of attention, but now, something in the expression of his face aroused my keen and immediate interest.

He was a handsome man, tall and well-developed— the outline of his face was delicate and finely carved. The nose was slightly aquiline— a snow-white beard hid the lower part of the features, but the forehead, nose, and finely-shaped head were magnificently proportioned. It gives me pleasure to look at perfection in any form, and this man's whole appearance very nearly approached my ideal. He must suddenly have observed that I was paying him marked attention, for he turned swiftly and glanced at me. His eyes, of a bright hazel, seemed to lift and lighten for a moment, then they filled with a most impenetrable gloom, which was so marked as to be almost like despair. He opened his lips as if to speak, but evidently changed his mind, and once more confined his gaze to the landscape, not a feature of which I am sure by his expression did he see.

Soon afterwards we arrived at Wickham, a small country town, after which the school was named. I saw that my travelling companion was also getting out here. We found ourselves the only passengers on the platform, and the next moment I heard the stranger inquiring, in somewhat testy tones, for a conveyance to take him immediately to Wickham House. The doctor's brougham was waiting for me, and as Wickham House was also my destination, I stepped up at once to my fellow-traveller, and offered him a seat.

He stared at me as if he had only seen me then for the first time.

"I am extremely obliged to you, sir," he said, recovering himself with a start; "the fact is, I am anxious to reach the school in order to catch an early train back to town. I will accept your offer with pleasure."

"Step in, won't you?" I said.

We both entered the brougham, and were soon bowling away in the direction of the school. As we were driving through the antiquated little town, my companion roused himself to be animated and talkative, but when we got into the more country parts, he lapsed into silence, and the stupor of dull despair once more spread itself over his features. I endeavoured to keep the conversation going, touching lightly on many topics of general interest, but he scarcely responded.

As we approached the house, driving up to it through a winding avenue, he heaved a profound sigh, and cast a glance up at the many windows. The building was a fine old gabled mansion of the Elizabethan period— the main part of the house was completely covered with ivy.

"Wickham House looks quite imposing," I said, with a smile; "this is my first visit― can you tell me if there are many boys here?"

"A couple of hundred, I believe," he replied. "It is a fine building, and the situation is exceptionally good. You would suppose that a lad would be safe here, would you not?"

"It seems to me that boys are safe nowhere," I replied. " I am a doctor, and am coming here to-day to see a little chap who has fallen on his head and hurt himself badly."

"Ah!" he answered, "I did not allude to that sort of ordinary danger. Sir, there is something in your face which makes me willing to confide in you. I am the father of an only boy— if he is alive now, he is fourteen years of age— as fine a lad as ever stepped, strong and hearty, with all the athletic propensities of the best order of young Britain. I sent him here, to prepare for Eton; he would have gone there at the end of the summer holidays. Two months ago he vanished— yes, that is the only word. Ah! here we are."

We drew up at the front door. My companion got out first, and I followed.

I was met on the threshold of the house by the local doctor— a man of the name of Hudson; he was waiting for me anxiously, and took me off at once to see my patient. I had no time, therefore, to observe my fellow-traveller any further.

The boy whom I had come to see was very ill— in fact, in great danger; and my attention was completely taken up by his case until late in the evening. In the interest aroused by this acute illness, I had forgotten all about my strange companion, but just as I was leaving, Dr. Hudson, who was taking me through the hall of the great house on my way to the carriage, spoke abruptly.

"By the way, Halifax, I saw that you gave Mr. Cavendish a seat to the school. He has spent the day here, and is returning to London now. You have no objection, have you, to his sharing your conveyance back to the station?"

"None whatever," I replied. "He is a fine-looking man— I did not know his name until you mentioned it. There is something about him which interests me. By the way, he told me a queer story— he said that he once had a son here, but that the boy vanished about two months ago.

"That is perfectly true. The case is a terrible one, intact, quite a tragedy. The boy was, without the least doubt, the victim of a horrible plot. The circumstances of his disappearance were as follows: One day, Dr. Hughes, our head master, received a letter purporting to be written by the boy's father. It was to all appearance in his handwriting; the paper was headed with his crest and his private address in Essex. The letter was a very brief one, and requested Dr. Hughes to send Malcolm up to Paddington the following day, in order to see an aunt whom the boy had not met since he was an infant.

" 'Either his aunt or I will meet him at the bookstall on the arrival platform,' wrote Mr. Cavendish. ' In case, by any chance, I am not present, let him wear a red tie— Lady Seymour will recognise him by that. Send up one of the masters with him, and do not fail to let him be there— he shall return to school the following day.'

"Naturally, after the receipt of such a letter, there was nothing for Dr. Hughes to do but to comply. He sent the boy to town accompanied by one of the junior masters, Mr. Price— they went as directed, and stood near one of the bookstalls. Presently a well- dressed, middle-aged lady came up— she embraced the boy tenderly, told him that she was his aunt, Lady Seymour, and took him away with her in a hansom. Price, quite satisfied that all was right with the boy, returned here, and it was not until the following day, when Malcolm failed to appear, that the first idea of anything being wrong entered Dr. Hughes's mind. He telegraphed to Mr. Cavendish at his place in Essex, but received no reply. He became possessed with a sense of uneasiness which he could scarcely account for, and went himself to Essex that night. On his arrival at 'The Howe,' Mr. Cavendish's place, you can imagine his consternation when he heard that the house was shut up, that Lady Seymour was still in India with her husband, and that Mr. Cavendish was somewhere on the Continent, address not known. What followed can be better imagined than described. The letter was, of course, a forgery; the woman who took the boy off had left no address behind her, nor has Malcolm Cavendish from that hour to now been heard of. Such is the pitiable story. There was a short delay in getting Mr. Cavendish's address; but as soon as possible the distracted father returned to England, and not a stone has been left unturned to try to obtain a trace of the missing lad. Up to the present all our efforts have been unsuccessful. The boy is an only son, the heir to a fine estate; the poor father's agony of mind I leave you to conjecture. In short, unless something happens soon to relieve the tension of anxiety and despair, his mind may be seriously overbalanced."

"It is a terrible story," I said. "What an awful villain that woman must be. Who is she?"

"Nobody knows. When questioned, Mr. Cavendish always shirks the subject. Even the detectives can get nothing out of him. If he does know anything about her, he refuses to tell."

"Well," I said, "your story quite accounts for the expression on his face. I wish with all my heart that something could be done to relieve him."

"Get him to confide in you if you can, doctor, on your way to town; you will be doing a good work, I assure you; one of the saddest features of the case, as far as the old man is concerned, is that he keeps his grief so completely to himself. If you can manage to break the ice, you will be doing him a service."

"I will do what I can," I answered.

Soon afterwards I had left Wickham House, and in Mr. Cavendish's company returned to London. Our compartment was full, and if I had wished to draw my companion out, I should not have had the opportunity. During our short run to town, he sat nursing his grief, staring straight before him, apathy if not despair in his eyes— he was evidently at present in no mood to confide in anyone. We reached Paddington in good time, and I turned to bid him "good-bye." He looked at me with a queer expression on his face.

"They spoke of you at the school to-day," he said; " they told me one or two things about you— you do not quite fulfil the role of the ordinary physician— I wonder if it is possible for you to administer to a mind diseased."

"That is the priest's mission, as a rule," I said; then I added, suddenly, "but try me— come home with me now, if you like."

"There is no time like the present," he answered.

My carriage was waiting— I conducted him to it, and in a short time we found ourselves at my house in Harley Street. I took him at once into my study, offered him refreshment, and then waited for him to speak.

"Do you make brain disease your special study?" he said, abruptly.

"Not my special study," I replied; "but I have given a good deal of attention to mental disease."

"Then what do you say to this? I told you this morning that I once had a boy at Wickham House-— a fine lad, well-proportioned, sound, brave, and good in body and. mind. Owing to the strangest and most diabolical stratagem, he was entrapped away from school— a forged letter was used, and the name of my sister, Lady Seymour, brought into requisition. It is two months now since the fatal day when the boy was taken to London— since then, not the slightest clue has been obtained of his whereabouts. In short, as far as he is concerned, the earth might have opened and swallowed him up."

"The story is most tragic," I replied.

"Ah, you may well call it that. Such a tragedy happening to a man in connection with his only son is enough to— eh, doctor— enough to turn his brain, is it not?"

As Mr. Cavendish said these last words, his face suddenly altered— the look of despair gave place to a curious expression of stealthiness mingled with fear. He rose to his feet and gazed at me steadily.

"I should like the truth from you," he said, coming a step nearer. " Is it true that I ever had a son? For the last few weeks I have seriously considered every circumstance of this most strange case, and have almost come to the conclusion that I am suffering from a very queer state of illusion. More and more, as the days go by, I incline to the belief that I never had a son. It is true that I carry the photograph of a boy in my pocket— I often take it out and look at it— I gaze at it sometimes for nearly an hour at a time, and say to myself, over and over, 'I have watched your face since you were an infant. Yes, I have certainly seen you— I have held you in these arms. I have seen the look of intelligence growing in your eyes. I have observed your progress from childhood to boy-hood. But, no, perhaps you are only a dream-child— perhaps I never possessed you. Here is a photograph, but may it not represent another man's son? 'My mind is in this state of torture, Dr. Halifax; always vacillating from belief to unbelief, until I scarcely know what I am doing. Can you not see my point for yourself? How is it possible for me seriously to believe that a lad of fourteen could vanish from the face of the earth leaving no clue behind him?"

"The case is most mysterious," I replied; "but with regard to its truth, I can absolutely and completely relieve your mind. You are not suffering from an illusion— you have really had a son— nay, I firmly believe him to be still alive. It so happens that Hudson, the doctor who attends the boys at Wickham House, told me your story to-day. Your boy was certainly at school there— he certainly did exist. Your mind is slightly unbalanced by the terrible grief and anxiety you have undergone. Your duty now is to turn your thoughts resolutely from the idea that you are suffering from a case of delusion."

"The story of the disappearance is too unaccountable to believe," said Cavendish.

"Have you a photograph of your boy about you?" I asked.

"I certainly have a photograph in my pocket, but whether it is a photograph of a stranger or of my son, I am unable to tell you."

As he spoke he produced a thin morocco case, touched a spring, opened it, and placed it in my hands. It contained the photograph of as frank and handsome a lad as any man could desire to possess— the eyes, the face, the smiling lips, the open, courageous expression of the brow, all showed that there was no duplicity or anything mean in the boy himself. One glance at his face, as it was reflected in the photograph, was quite sufficient to dispel any doubt as to his having connived at his own disappearance. What had happened to the boy? Whose victim was he? How and by what means had he been kidnapped so effectually as not to leave the ghost of a trace behind?

While I was looking at the picture of the lad, the father's eyes were fixed on me. I looked up suddenly and encountered his gaze.

"This is a splendid boy," I said, "and," I continued, emphatically, "he is your son―"

"Why do you say that?" he asked.

"For the simple reason that he is like you— he has got your eyes, and the expression you must have worn when you were happy."

"I never thought of that," he answered.

He took the photograph into his hand and studied it carefully.

"I suppose he must be my son," he said. " I see what you mean. I used to have those particularly bright hazel eyes when I was young."

"You have them still," I said; "you have transmitted them to your boy."

"Well, be it so. It is a relief to hear you speak, for you speak with confidence; but when I am alone the intolerable delusion invariably returns that I never had a son— all the same, I am as tortured as if I really possessed and lost a boy like that."

"The thing to cure you is simple enough," I said.

"What is that?"

"We must find your boy and bring him back to you."

"Ah, Dr. Halifax— ah, if you could!"

"Sit down," I said, "let us talk the matter out carefully."

"I have talked it out carefully so often," he said, pressing his hand to his brow in a bewildered manner. "At first I was all on fire— I was nearly distracted— I spent money wildly, here, there, and everywhere— I was full of hope. Although I was nearly mad, my hope of finally discovering the lad never deserted me. But of late the queer feeling that the whole thing is a delusion comes to me whenever I attempt to take any steps to find the boy. Granted that you have cured me for the time being, I shall go back to my rooms at the Albany to-night, and assure myself once again that it is useless to fret, for I never had a son."

"We will not encourage that delusion by talking of it," I said. "Rest assured that you had a son, that in all probability you still have one, and that it is your bounden duty to search the earth until you recover him."

"Do you say so, indeed? With what energy you speak."

"It is necessary to speak with energy," I replied; "the case is pressing, you must move Heaven and earth to get back that boy. It is impossible for you to tell what fate may now be his."

"I cannot do more than I have done, doctor— at the present moment there are two detectives working day and night in my service. From the moment Price, the junior master at Wickham House, saw the boy step into a hansom with a woman who pretended to be his aunt, he has vanished as completely and utterly as if he had never existed."

"The boy has been very cleverly kidnapped," I said. "The woman who pretended to be his aunt is, of course, at the bottom of the whole affair. There is no reason to suppose that money has had anything to do with this strange case; the boy was also much too old to be trained as an acrobat— in short, the case plainly points to revenge."

"Revenge," said Cavendish, fixing his eyes on me, and giving me a startled and astonished glance— "Who could possibly hate a boy like that?"

"Not likely," I replied; "but someone could hate you. Have you an enemy?"

"If you ask me if I have an enemy, I think I can honestly reply 'No,' " he answered, after a little pause.

"You speak with doubt," I said. "I will slightly change my question. Had you an enemy in the past?"

"Oh, the past," he repeated, thoughtfully. "You are half a detective, doctor."

"Only so far a detective," I replied, "that I have made human nature the one study of my life."

"Doubtless such a study gives you clues to men's secrets," was the answer. "Well, I can give you an unpleasant history, but before I speak of it, I will just tell you one or two things with regard to my present. I married late in life. Shortly after the birth of the boy my wife died. Almost immediately after her death I came in for a fine property— an estate in Essex worth some thousands a year. The place is called 'The Howe,' and my boy and I have spent some happy Christmases there. The boy was the brightest creature— I could never be dull in his society— I was glad to feel that he would inherit my acres some day. When with him my past ceased to worry me."

"I am sorry to have to ask you to rake up unpleasant memories," I interrupted.

"Yes, yes, I will tell you all. The fact is this:—

"I was once obliged owing to strange circumstances to act in a very unpleasant, and what appeared to be almost a vindictive, way towards a woman. She was a Creole, a passionate and strikingly handsome creature. She had made the acquaintance of a young fellow, who was at the time one of my greatest friends— she induced him to promise her marriage. I doubted and distrusted her from the first, and moved Heaven and earth to keep my friend from committing himself to such a disastrous step as a marriage with her. All my expostulations were in vain— he was madly in love; and this woman, Thora, had a most unbounded influence over him. Unexpectedly, it was given to me to put a spoke in her wheel. Even at the altar I was just in time to save my friend— I discovered that Thora had a husband already, and brought him to the church at the critical moment. All was up for her, then, of course; but I shall never forget the look on her face. My poor friend died of yellow fever two months afterwards, and Thora's husband himself fell a victim to the fell disease. But I had made an enemy of this woman, and during the remainder of my stay in Jamaica she was a thorn in my side. One day she forced her way into my presence, and asked me if I would give her compensation for the injury I had inflicted on her. I asked her what she meant. She suggested that I should marry her myself. I refused, with horror. She bestowed upon me a glance of the most unutterable hate, and told me that I should rue the day when I had ever interfered with her.

"Shortly afterwards I went home, and sincerely hoped that I should never see her or be troubled by her again. Judge therefore of my feelings when on the eve of my marriage I received a most intemperate letter from her. She again repeated the words which she had uttered when parting from me: 'You will rue the day you interfered with me.' She wrote to me from Jamaica, and being so far away, I did not think it possible that she could carry out her threat, although from what I knew of her character I believed her to be quite capable of any mode of revenge. I married, and was happy. Some years afterwards I received a newspaper with a marked passage; it contained an account of this woman's marriage to a Swede. Since then I have heard nothing about her. Let us forget her, Dr. Halifax— she could not possibly have had anything to do with the disappearance of my son, and the subject is most distasteful to me."

"Nevertheless, from what you have told me, it is more than evident that if this woman is still living you have an enemy."

"I had an enemy at the time, no doubt— but I scarcely think that even Thora would keep up her evil feelings for fourteen or fifteen years, and then suddenly rise up as if from the grave to do me a fearful injury. The greatest dare-devil that ever lived would surely not allow her revenge to slumber so long."

"That may or may not be," I said. " I consider what you have told me a most important clue to the recovery of your boy. In short, not a moment should be lost in finding out where this woman now is."

Mr. Cavendish shrugged his shoulders.

"If she is really at the bottom of it," he said, after a pause, "we shall never find her. She was quite the cleverest woman I have known. In short, she was capable in the old days of outwitting twenty detectives. I have no reason to suppose that her talents have rusted with years. If she is at the bottom of this affair, the boy is hopelessly lost."

"You have no right to say so," I answered, with some indignation. "However bad and unscrupulous a woman may be, it is possible, surely, to outwit her. In short, you will forgive me for saying that this story should have been confided to your detectives some time ago."

Mr. Cavendish looked at me fixedly.

"If you think so, I will tell them," he said. "It did not occur to me to connect her with the affair. My belief is that she is in all probability dead— she comes of a short-lived race. Yes, I think you are mistaken, but, as you say, no stone should be left unturned, and I will have a talk with one of the detectives this evening."

Mr. Cavendish left me soon afterwards. I felt that our interview had at least done this much good— it had shaken the terrible delusion which made him doubt that he had ever been the father of a son. I was glad at least of this, and wondered if it would be my fate to hear anything more of this strange story.

The next day, to my surprise, Mr. Cavendish called again upon me.

"Well," I said, "I am glad to see you. What does your detective say? How is the affair progressing? What steps are being taken to find the woman Thora?"

He gave me a queer and somewhat unsteady glance.

"The fact is this," he said: "I have said nothing whatever about that woman to the detectives employed in my service."

I could not help feeling regret, and showing it.

"Are you not aware," I said, "that there is not a day to be lost if you are ever to get possession of your boy again?"

"Ah, there's the rub," he said, slowly. "Had I a boy?" He folded his hands tightly together, and looked straight out of the window. Then he turned suddenly round and looked me full in the face.

"It is useless for you to argue the point," he said. "When I left you last night, that thing occurred which I told you would happen: I went to my rooms in the Albany, ordered dinner, and telegraphed to the detective MacPherson to call upon me. I had no sooner done so than I laughed at myself for my pains. I felt the delusion, or whatever you like to call it, coming upon me in full force. How could MacPherson recover for me what had never existed? How could I who never had a son embrace one? I sat down to dinner, ate with appetite, refused to believe that I was suffering under any grief whatever, and when the detective arrived apologized for having troubled him, told him that I had nothing fresh to talk over, and dismissed him. No sooner had he gone than I regretted my own action— I perceived that my mind was verging to the other end of the pendulum. I spent a night of agony, bewailing the boy whom I then believed in— cursing myself for having dismissed the detective; but now, again, the belief that I have no son is with me— you see for yourself what a state is mine— I am incapable of taking any efficient steps in this matter."

"You are," I said, abruptly. "May I not take up the case for you?"

"You?" he said, opening his eyes. "Good heavens ! what has a doctor to do with it?"

"I undertake it for you, because you are ill," I said, "because the story is peculiar, and because I am deeply interested."

"You are good," he said. "Yes, act as you think well."

"Give me your detective's address," I said — "I will have an interview with him this evening— and as you know that a woman called Thora certainly did exist in the past, give me what particulars you can with regard to her appearance."

"She was dark and handsome," he answered— "a tall woman with flashing eyes. That was the description of her in the old days— if she is still alive, she is probably past recognition, her hair would in all probability be snow-white— I am an old man, and she is older. Oh, she is dead, doctor; do not let us waste our time in thinking of her further."

I made no reply to this, but took down in my note-book several particulars which I almost forced Cavendish to give me. He left me after a time, and in the course of the day I saw the detective, MacPherson. The man was a shrewd fellow, and I thought it best to take him completely into my confidence. He believed the fresh clue which I was able to furnish him with of the utmost importance— said that the name Thora was in itself so uncommon as to be a valuable guide, and promised to let me hear from him in a few days.

A week passed by without anything fresh occurring— Cavendish was beginning to haunt my house— he came each morning and evening— his mind was still in a terrible state of unbalance— verging one moment to the extreme limits of despair at the thought of the lad he had lost— half an hour afterwards doubting not only that he ever possessed a lad, but even that he himself really existed. I waited anxiously for news from the detective, but day after day passed without any clue whatever being forthcoming.

One morning, early, I received a telegram which upset my own arrangements considerably— the telegram was from a very wealthy patient who was travelling in Russia, and who had been taken seriously ill. He believed himself to be dying in an out-of-the-way place called Bakou. He begged of me to come to him without a moment's delay. Expense was of no moment; he urged me not to delay an hour in setting out on my long journey. The sick man was not only a patient of some years' standing, but was also a very old friend of mine. I could scarcely desert him in such stress, and, after a brief reflection, decided to go to him. I wired to him to expect me as soon as train and steamer could bring me to his side, and then went to Cook's office to get particulars with regard to my unlooked-for journey. Bakou is a small town on a tongue of land jutting into the Caspian Sea— it is on the west coast. I found, to my dismay, that it would not be possible for me to reach this remote corner of the world under ten days' hard travelling. I might slightly shorten my journey by going from London to Vienna, and then on to Odessa by train— but, travel day and night as fast as I could, it would be impossible for me to reach my poor friend under nine to ten days. I telegraphed to him again to this effect, but his reply, which reached me in the course of the evening, implored me to set out without an hour's delay.

"I am alone in this horrible place," he telegraphed; "no English doctor within reach. My last chance of life depends on your coming."

I had scarcely read the words of this long foreign telegram, before the detective, MacPherson, was ushered into my presence.

"Well, sir," he said, doffing his hat as he spoke, "I am sorry to have kept you and the other gentleman waiting so long, but I do think I have got a bit of a clue at last."

"Pray be seated," I said, "and tell me all about it."

MacPherson seated himself on the edge of a chair, holding his round, soft hat between his knees.

"It is a queer business altogether," he said, "but the fact is, I have traced the boy to Vienna."

"Vienna!" I said, startled. "What do you mean?"

"What I say, sir. After very careful inquiries, I have found out that a lad, exactly answering to the description of Master Cavendish, went in the company of two women, one young, one middle-aged, via Calais and Dover, to Vienna about ten weeks ago. Let me see, this is the 5th of July; the day the boy went to London was the 26th of April. A fair and a dark lady accompanied by a lad in all points answering to the photograph, a copy of which I hold in my pocket, started for Vienna on that day. From there they went straight on to Odessa. I can't trace them any farther. One of the women would answer to the description Mr. Cavendish gave you of the Creole whom he used to know in his early youth. She is a handsome, tall woman, with a slender, well-preserved figure— flashing, dark eyes, and hair which is only slightly sprinkled with grey— she evidently had an accomplice with her, for a fair-haired woman, much younger, accompanied her and the boy. Now, sir, I propose to start for Odessa to-night, in order to follow up this clue. In a case of this kind, and in such a remote part of the world, only personal investigation can do anything."

"You are right," I answered. "Now, I have something strange to tell you. I am also starting for Odessa this evening."

The man gaped at me in astonishment.

"Yes," I replied, "I am going to Odessa en route to a place on the Caspian Sea of the name of Bakou. After what you have just informed me, I shall endeavour to persuade Mr. Cavendish to go with me."

The detective rubbed his hands slowly together.

"Nothing can be better for my purpose," he answered, after a pause— "only Mr. Cavendish must be quite certain to keep himself dark, for if this woman Thora really kidnapped the boy, she will be able, in a Russian town like Odessa, effectually to hide him or even to take his life, if her object is revenge and she knows that his father has arrived."

"What can have induced the boy to go with her?" I said. "A lad of fourteen has surely a will of his own."

"Oh, she made up something, sir— the matter seems to me plausible enough. The lad was sent for to town on the pretext of meeting his aunt. This woman would tell the unsuspecting boy that his father, who was then on the Continent, had desired her to bring him out to him. Of course, the lad would follow her then to the world's end, and be only too pleased to do so. Well, doctor, I will leave you now, and prepare for my long journey."

I bade the man "good-bye," and sent a wire to Mr. Cavendish, to ask him to call on me at once. He was at home, and arrived at my house between six and seven o'clock.

"I have news for you," I said, the moment he appeared.

I then told him of the sudden journey which I was obliged to make, briefly related the interview which I had just had with the detective, and then proposed that he should accompany me to Odessa.

"I feel full of hope," I said. "Your presence on the spot may be necessary in order to identify your son, can you be ready to join me?"

He had been looking depressed and full of despair when he entered the room, but the news which I had for him acted like champagne. His eyes brightened, he clenched his hands in a thoroughly healthy manner, used some strong words with regard to Thora, and then said that he would accompany me.

"Go back to the Albany at once," I said; "pack what is necessary for your journey, get some money, and meet me at Victoria at a quarter to eight. We can talk as much as we like en route, but now there is not a moment to lose."

"You are right," he said. "I am a new man; the terrible delusion seems to have left me completely. I will be at Victoria at the hour you name."

He had drawn himself up to his full height. Already he looked ten years younger. He left my house, and, punctually to the moment, I met him on the departure platform at Victoria Station. We took our seats in the train, and were soon steaming away at a rapid pace towards Dover. I need not describe the early part of our journey— it was absolutely uneventful. Travelling right through, we reached Vienna in about thirty hours from the date of our departure from London. At Vienna I got my first glimpse of the detective, MacPherson, who was travelling in the same train, but second- lass. He was dressed in a rough tweed suit, which completely metamorphosed his appearance.

We reached Odessa at night, and I found, almost to my relief, for I was completely tired out, that there were no means of continuing my journey until the following morning. On making inquiries, I found that I must now take steamer and cross the Black Sea to a place called Batoum. The journey by steamer would take some days, as the only boats available would coast a good deal. My duty, of course, lay straight and clear I was on my way to my sick friend, but I found rather to my dismay that Cavendish, left alone, would be almost incapable of guiding himself. His mind was without any doubt in a weak state. Full of hope as he was during the greater part of that long journey, the painful illusion that he was following a vain quest, a will-o'-the-wisp, the dictation of a dream, came over him from time to time. Left alone at Odessa, he would in all probability spoil MacPherson's game.

"You had better come with me," I said; "you will do no good here. MacPherson is as sharp a fellow as I ever met. As soon as he gets a real clue, he can telegraph to you, and you can return. Your best plan now will be to come with me, and give him a clear coast."

"I see no good in that," he replied; " it seems that a boy answering to my son's description has undoubtedly reached this place. I should know that woman among a thousand— I should know the boy— whether he is a dream-boy or my own son, God alone can tell; but I should know his face again. Why should I leave the place?"

"You must please yourself, of course," I answered; " my own course is plain. I must take steamer for Batoum at nine o'clock tomorrow morning. If you like, you can accompany me, and I shall be glad to have you, but if not, I trust you will telegraph to me as soon as anything transpires."

"I will do so assuredly," he answered.

Almost immediately afterwards we both retired for the night. In the early morning I received a note from Cavendish.

"I have made up my mind to remain at Odessa for a week at least," he wrote.

I tore up the note, and prepared for my own journey— I was to be on board the steamer at nine o'clock. When I went down to the quay I saw MacPherson standing there looking about him with all an Englishman's curiosity. In his rough suit, he looked like the typical traveller; he touched his hat and came up to me.

"Mr. Cavendish stays behind," I said to him, briefly; "you will look after him, will you not?"

"Yes, sir; but it is best for me not to appear to know him."

"Have you made any plans for yourself?" I asked.

"I believe I have got a clue, Dr. Halifax, but I am not quite certain yet. I know a little of many languages— even a few words of Russian. At a café last night I met a Russian who knows the part of the world where you are going. There is a great colony of Swedes there— that woman married a Swede."

I nodded.

"Well, there are Swedes at Bakou— in fact, the most important part of the population consists of that nationality— the great firm of Nobel Brothers have their kerosene works there —theirs are much the largest kerosene refining works in the world. My Russian friend knows all about them. He informed me that there is a woman there who speaks English— the wife of one of the overseers. The point for us to find out now is: Who is this English-speaking woman? Can she be the one whom we are seeking? I shall not leave Odessa until the next steamer starts, in order to search this place thoroughly, but it is more than probable you will see me some day before long at Bakou."

"If you come, you had better bring Mr. Cavendish with you," I said.

"I must be guided by circumstances," he answered.

It was now time for me to go on board the steamer, which almost immediately afterwards got under way.

I shall not soon forget the tedium, and yet the wonderful beauty, of that voyage— the steamer coasted almost the entire way, and in consequence our progress was slow, but in process of time we reached the large town of Batoum. From there I took train to Tiflis, and in course of time found myself at Bakou. My journey had, as I anticipated, quite covered ten days. A more desolate-looking town than Bakou it would be difficult to find. The place at one time belonged to the Persians, but is now owned by Russia— it is built on a sand hill, and overlooks the Caspian Sea. High winds and clouds of sand scour the little town from morning to night. Of trees or green of any sort, there is none. I drove straight to the Hotel Metropole— the best in the place, where my friend, General Morgan, had rooms. The hotel was built, as is usual on the Continent, round a courtyard, and the sick man, of course, occupied the best rooms. I found him very ill, and my hope that I might be able immediately to bring him home was frustrated— he was suffering from a sharp attack of typhoid fever, and although the worst symptoms had now abated, there was little chance of his being moved for many weeks to come. When I entered his bedroom, I was surprised to see a woman dressed as an English nurse seated by his bedside. She rose when I entered and stood respectfully— when I spoke, she answered me in English— the patient's state had evidently filled her with alarm, and she was much relieved at seeing me. General Morgan was too ill to enter into any conversation, and after a short time I left the room, beckoning to the nurse to follow me.

"I am glad that you are here," I said; "my patient is fortunate to have obtained the services of an English nurse."

"Oh, I live here," she replied, speaking with a slightly foreign accent; "my home is here; I am the wife of a Swede of the name of Nehber. I happened to hear that an Englishman was very ill at the Metropole, and came a week ago to offer my services. I have been well trained as a nurse, and was glad of the chance of earning a little money on my own account. My patient told me that he had telegraphed to his English doctor to come out to him, so we have been expecting you, sir, and I took the liberty to engage a room in advance. May I show it to you now?"

She led the way as she spoke along a gallery, opened the door of a spacious but not uncomfortable bedroom, and left me. When she had done so, I went straight to the window and looked out. The sight of this woman had aroused my keenest interest— her appearance on the scene was absolutely unexpected— she had doubtless saved my patient's life; but, thankful as I was to her for that, it was not on General Morgan's account that my pulse beat faster than usual at the present moment. Was this by any strange chance the woman whom Cavendish had known long ago? She spoke English well, she was extremely well preserved, but several signs showed me that she was no longer young— her figure was upright, she was well made — in her youth she was doubtless handsome. I felt disturbed, and at first regretted that neither the detective nor Cavendish had accompanied me. But on second thoughts I began to believe that I might manage this matter best by myself. Fru Nehber, as she was called, had no reason to suspect me. I was in very truth a bona-fide English doctor, who had come at great inconvenience to visit my patient. I might be able to draw her out— it might be my mission to rescue the boy. My heart beat high at the thought.

After refreshing myself with a bath, I went into the town to collect my thoughts. The foreign and peculiar aspect of the place would at any other moment have filled me with interest. Almost every Eastern nationality seemed to be represented in the streets. Turks in green and rose colour, Persians with long, yellow silk coats, Tartars in their white tunics, small caps, and yellow boots— the place was alive with colour and vivacity. The cries of all sorts of nations— in short, a confusion of tongues— resounded through the streets. I entered one of the bazaars, and tried to make myself understood, but found it impossible, as the only languages spoken were Russian or Persian, with an occasional mixture of Swedish. I came back to the Metropole, and entering my patient's room, sat down by his side. The nurse— dressed quietly, as an English nurse should be— stood now by one of the windows; the casement was open to let in some air. My patient had awakened after a long sleep; he turned his eyes and fixed them on my face.

"You are good to come, Halifax," he said. "I am more grateful to you than I can say. I feel now that, what with Fru Nehber's care and yours, I have every chance of recovery."

" Yes, you are very fortunate in securing the attendance of an English nurse," I said.

"I should have been dead long ago, but for her," he replied, speaking in a thin, weak voice. "In short, I owe my life to her."

He gave the nurse a grateful glance, which she did not return— her hands were tightly locked together, her black eyes seemed to be watching the crowd, ever changing, but always present, who wrangled and chattered in the courtyard. A cart rattled in, making a loud noise— it was slightly built, with very high and slender wheels— some travellers alighted and entered the hotel— Fru Nehber left her position by the window, and came into the centre of the room.

"Have you noticed our peculiar and interesting streets, doctor?" she said, speaking with a low, rather strange, intonation, as if she weighed each word before she uttered it.

"I have been in the streets," I replied. "I have never visited an Eastern town like this before— it is full of strange wonder to me; but, of course, being unacquainted with any language spoken here, I am rather at a loss how to proceed."

"You will permit me to be your interpreter," she said again— "I shall have pleasure in helping you in any way in my power."

"That will be kind of you," I answered.

"The patient will sleep after he has had his composing draught," she continued. "Will you come with me and see the place by moonlight?"

I responded in the affirmative. I went down stairs presently to supper, and by-and-by Fru Nehber, who now wore a long grey cloak, and a neat little nurse's bonnet, also grey, joined me.

She took me out with her and explained much of the strange scene.

"This is a queer place to live in," she said suddenly, clasping her hands; "in short, it is death in life; you can imagine, can you not, how I hate it?"

"I suppose you have a good reason for staying here," I said. "This is certainly the last place in the world in which I should expect to see a trained nurse and an Englishwoman."

"An Englishwoman never knows where she may go," was the reply; "and then, have I not told you that I am married? I am married to an overseer of the great kerosene works."

"By the way, where are they?" I asked. "I have heard a good deal of them from different travellers on my journey, and would much like to see them."

She was silent for a moment, and seemed to hesitate.

"You shall see them," she said then; "but first tell me if it is your purpose to remain here long."

"I shall probably stay for two or three days," I answered. "Of course, it is impossible for me to remain long out of London, but now that I have come so far, I must see my patient right through the crisis."

"It is past, I assure you, doctor; your friend will live."

"You seem to know a good deal about illness," I answered, giving her a keen glance.

"There are few things I do not know," she replied; "I have travelled much; I understand life. Sorrow, regret, bitterness, have been my portion, but through these things we learn. You are doubtless a great doctor, and a clever man, but you do not understand our Eastern illnesses. Your friend would have died but for me— now he will live, have no fear for him."

"Well, I shall stay here for a day or two," I answered. "I will then return home and send out a friend of mine, also a medical man, who can bring General Morgan by easy stages to England when he is fit to travel."

"That will be a good plan," she replied. "That will relieve me."

"Then you do not nurse as a profession?" I said.

"Not now. But I was glad to nurse the Englishman, for he will pay me well."

"Is not your husband well off?"

"Oh, yes, and I have plenty to do at home— still, the news that an Englishman was sick unto death drew me to his side."

"Have you children?" I asked.

She looked hard at me; her black, piercing eyes seemed to read me through.

"No," she said; then abruptly turned aside.

"It is very kind of you to trouble to show me this place," I continued, after a pause.

"I am pleased to help you," she answered; "you seem good and strong. I don't care for goodness, but I have a great respect for strength."

I made no answer to this, and soon afterwards we returned to the hotel. I noticed that she said nothing more with regard to my request to see the kerosene works, but the next day when I alluded to the subject I found that she had not forgotten my wish.

"I have arranged everything," she said; "your patient is better— you need not fear to leave him. You can spend an interesting day. It is impossible, of course, for me to accompany you; but I have a friend— a young girl— who lives with me in my home. My home is not here, but five miles distant, just on the borders of the great kerosene works. I have asked my friend to meet you there. She speaks very little English, but she is a good French scholar— you understand French, do you not?"

"I can speak French, of course," I answered.

"Oh, then, that is excellent. There is a Swede here who speaks French. He will drive you straight to the works of the Brothers Nobel. Doubtless, after you have seen them, you would like to go on to the great feature of this place."

"What is that?" I asked.

"The Eternal Fires— they are wonderful! No one ought to come as far as Bakou without seeing them. Now go— your patient is in my charge— have a pleasant day."

She waved her hand to me in a somewhat theatrical style, and I left her.

Half an hour afterwards, I was driving in one of the queer native carriages in the direction of the great refining works of Nobel Brothers. My driver, who was also to act as my interpreter, understood a few words of the French language. The country over which we went was extremely desolate. After driving about five miles, I saw in the distance a hill, crowned with many tall, black, pyramid-shaped objects, looking something like a pine forest. As we came nearer I quickly discovered what they really were— numberless chimneys, out of which the liquid naphtha was rising, sometimes to the height of two or three hundred feet into the air. Fru Nehber was evidently inclined to be kind to me, and had left no stone unturned to provide for my comfort.

When I arrived at the works, I was met by her husband— a n elderly man, with a great white beard and heavy moustache.

He took me all over the kerosene works, gave me a carefully-prepared meal, and showed me every attention. It was late in the afternoon— almost evening — when I parted from him.

"By the way," I said, suddenly, "your wife told me that I should meet a young French lady here."

"Oh," he answered, with a start; " she alludes, of course, to Felicia La Touche, a girl who has been staying with us for some time; she is away to-day: important business called her suddenly from home."

I noticed as he spoke that, simple as his words were, a look of irritation and annoyance crossed his face.

"My wife is a peculiar woman," he said, slowly; " she takes whims, Monsieur le Docteur, and sometimes those who are with her suffer, but Felicia means well. I presume, sir," he added, breaking off abruptly, "that you are now about to visit the old Temple of the Fire Worshippers?"

"That is my intention," I replied. "It is surely worth seeing?"

"It is. The fires at night make a weird and fantastic spectacle. I will now say farewell."

He shook hands with me as he spoke, and a few moments later I was continuing my drive. The distance from the kerosene works to the Fire Worshippers' Temple was a matter of about twelve miles. The sun was now sinking beneath the horizon, and a night of great darkness was ushered in.

The road was of the roughest, and I quickly perceived the advisability of using the queer carriages built of withies, with their very high and slender wheels— the wheels could sink deep into the sand, and their height kept the travellers at a respectful distance from the choking dust. We had gone some distance when I suddenly saw on the horizon what looked like long, low, white walls; in short, what seemed to be the inclosure of an Eastern city. I asked my guide what these walls were, and he informed me with a nod that they were the white walls which surrounded the old Hindu Temple of the Fire Worshippers.

As we came nearer, little tongues of fire shot out of the ground at short intervals— they rose from a foot to two feet high, spouting up suddenly, and then dying away. Our horse, a very strong animal, was evidently accustomed to this subterranean burning, and was not in the least alarmed, moving quietly aside when the fire sprang up directly in his path. My guide and charioteer drove with care— he was now absolutely silent— I also sat quiet, musing on the strangeness of my present situation, wondering if an adventure were before me, and if it was really to be my happy lot to rescue Mr. Cavendish's long-lost son.

By-and-by we reached the white walls— my guide jumped down from his driver's seat, and pulled a bell. The custodian of the deserted temple— for the fire-worshipping had long ago been given up— now appeared. He held a lantern in his hand, which lit up his weird and wrinkled face. He was dressed in the garb of a Russian soldier, and took care quickly to inform me, my driver acting as interpreter, that he was one hundred and nine years of age.*

_____________

* A fact.

We soon found ourselves in a large courtyard, surrounded by very broad and fairly high walls. Piercing these walls at regular intervals were small doorways, which I discovered led into low, dark rooms. In these rooms the monks used to live. The centre of the court was occupied by a building raised on thick pillars. This was doubtless the ancient temple. On one side of the surrounding walls rose a heavy, square building, surmounted by two low towers. Out of each of these ascended now high columns of flame, lighting up the entire place, and giving it a most strange and weird appearance. The flames rose to several hundreds of feet, and shot up clear and steady into the night air. My guide, having tied up the horse outside, quickly joined us and began to interpret as well as he could the old custodian's remarks, but his knowledge of any language but his own was extremely slight, and the scene spoke for itself. I soon left the guide and custodian, and walking across the court, began to make investigations on my own account. The men stood together, talking in low tones just where the light fell fully upon them, but behind the temple in the middle of the court there was deep shadow. I had just approached this shadow when I was startled by the touch of a light hand on my arm— I turned quickly, and saw a girl standing by my side.

"I have been expecting you," she said; " I have been hoping you would come— you are the English doctor, are you not?"

"I am a doctor," I replied, "and who are you?"

"Felicia La Touche— oh, I know Fru Nehber will kill me, but I don't care— I have waited for you here all day, when I heard you were coming; I brought the boy here on purpose. Oh, he is ill, very ill— he will die if something is not soon done. My God, I can't stand it any longer— his cries, and the way he wails for his father ! I think his mind must be wandering a little— he thinks that his father is coming to him— he has been thinking so all day. Oh, can you do anything— can you save him?"

" One moment first," I said. "What is the boy's name?"

She clasped her hands together with some violence— her agitation was extreme.

" He is an English boy," she said; " Malcolm Cavendish. I helped to kidnap him a couple of months ago. Oh ! how wretched I have been ever since ! But this is not the time for me to talk of my own feelings. Come; come at once. Oh, you may save him yet!"

As she spoke she pulled me forward— she was a young girl, and very pretty, but her fair face was now absolutely distorted with misery and terror. She opened a door in one of the walls, and the next moment I found myself in a tiny room in which I could scarcely stand upright.

"Here I am, Malcolm," said the girl; "I have brought a good doctor to see you."

"I don't want any light, Felicia," was the strange reply. "When my eyes are shut, I can see father— I know he is coming to me. Don't bring a light, I shall see the horrible faces, and all the queer things, if you do— let me be, I am quite happy in the dark."

"You must bear the light; you will be better soon," she replied.

She struck a match, held it to a candle in a swing lantern, and motioned me to come forward. A boy was lying stretched out flat on the ground at one end of the Fire Worshippers' cell; a rough sackcloth covered him— a bundle of the same was placed under his head— his face was very white and thin— his big, dark eyes, which were looking up eagerly, had an unmistakable pathos in them which stabbed me to the very heart.

"Who are you?" he said, half sitting up, and gazing at me in a kind of terror. "Are you— is it true— are you father?"

"No, my boy," I replied, "but I know your father, and I have come to take you to him. Fear nothing now that I have come."

"Oh, take him, take him away," said Felicia, " take him at once. I don't care if I die afterwards, if only his life is saved. He is so sweet— such a dear boy— he has been so brave— he has kept up his courage through so much. I don't mind giving up my life for him. Take him away— take him away."

The boy lay back exhausted on his rough pillow. The relief of seeing me and of hearing my voice was evidently great, but he was too weary for the least exertion. The atmosphere of the wretched little cell was terribly oppressive, and I thought that he might revive in the open air.

I lifted him in my arms and took him outside.

"You are very brave," I said, looking down at the French girl. "This boy's father will thank you for what you have done some day."

"No," she answered; "I shall die— she will kill me— you don't know what her powers of revenge are; but, never mind— never mind; take him and go."

"I will take him," I said; "there is a carriage outside, and he shall return with me to Bakou to-night, but I cannot leave you in extreme peril. Can I do anything for you?"

"It does not matter about me— take him away, go."

She was evidently beside herself with terror and anxiety.

"Why are you delaying?" she said, stamping one of her feet. "Herr Nehber is a good man; but, listen— he is afraid of his wife. If he knew what I am doing, he would frustrate me; take the boy and go— go before it is known. I have been waiting for you here all day long. I feared beyond words that you would be prevented coming. The man who drove you here is a friend of mine; he will take you safely back to Bakou. Stay, I will speak to him."

She left me and ran quickly across the court— the boy lay in my arms half-fainting— weighted with such a burden, I was obliged to follow her slowly.

"It is all right," she said, when I came up; "my friend will take you safely to Bakou. He is glad— I think we are all glad— to know that the English boy has a chance of escape. Don't fret about me— old Ivan will take care of me, and there are hiding-places here. Good-bye, Malcolm; get well, be happy, and don't forget Felicia."

She flung her arms round the boy's neck, pressed a quick kiss on his forehead, and the next moment had vanished into the great shadow and was lost to view.

It was past midnight when I found myself back again at the Hotel Metropole. I had thought much during that drive, and resolved by a bold stroke to take the lad right into the enemy's camp. In such an extremity as mine only great daring could win the day. I resolved for the sake of the boy to brave much. I would meet this terrible Fru Nehber on her own grounds. I felt, however, that the odds were against me. As far as I could tell, I was the only Englishman in the place.

I was mistaken. The first person I saw when I entered the courtyard was a tall traveller bearing the unmistakable air and dress of my own country.

"You speak English?" I said, the moment my eye met his.

"Yes," he replied, coming forward; " can I do anything for you?"

"Have you taken a room here?"

"Yes."

"This boy is ill— he is an English boy. I have just rescued him from a most terrible situation. May I take him straight to your room? I can't explain anything now, but the case is critical."

"I will help you, of course," he said; "my room is at your service."

"May I rely on you to watch the boy, and not to leave him a moment by himself until I go to him?"

"I will do all in my power."

I placed the lad in his arms and ran upstairs at once. Almost to my relief, for I was anxious to get the crisis over, I saw Fru Nehber waiting for me in the long gallery which led direct from my room to that occupied by General Morgan.

"I hope you have had a pleasant day, Dr. Halifax," she said, coming forward, and speaking in that low, rather monotonous, voice, which was one of her peculiarities.

"I have had an exciting one," I replied. "Can I speak to you for a moment?"

I saw her brow darken, and a peculiar expression fill her dark eyes— -she swept on before me with the bearing of a queen, entered the salon which led into General Morgan's bedroom, and then turned and faced me.

"Will you eat first," she said. "I have had supper prepared for you here; or will you tell me your adventures?"

"I will tell you my adventures," I answered. "I visited the Fire Worshippers to-night."

"Ah!" she said. "The effect of the fire rising straight up out of the earth is fine at midnight, is it not?"

"It is weird," I replied, "weird and terrible— the place is the sort of place where a crime might be committed."

"My God, yes," she said, slightly moistening her lips.

"I was just in time to prevent one," I said, giving her a steady glance.

She did not reply— her arms fell to her sides; she advanced a step to meet me, and flung back her head.

"Yes," she said, after a very long pause, "you prevented a crime! That is interesting; of what nature was the crime?"

"You will know all that you need know," I replied, "when I tell you that Malcolm Cavendish is at present in this house, under the care of an English gentleman, who will effectually guard him, and prevent your kidnapping him again. I know all, Fru Nehber. I know who you are, and what you have done. Had I not gone to the Fire Worshippers to-night, you would have had that boy's blood on your head; as it is, I believe he can be saved. You are aware, of course, what a grave crime you have committed; even in Russia such a crime would not be tolerated. You have failed in your object, for the boy will live, and it will be my happy task to restore him to his father."

"You can have him," she said, suddenly. "I do not wish you to lodge a complaint against me with the authorities."

"I will certainly do so, if you do not leave this hotel immediately."

"I will go," she said. "When I saw you yesterday, I had a premonition that you would defeat me."

"You thought that I suspected you?"

"I had a premonition. Do you know Mr. Cavendish?"

"Yes."

She was silent again, and walked to the window.

"I have lived so long in this world," she said, suddenly, "that the unexpected never astonishes me. I have tasted some of the sweets of revenge, but you have thwarted me, and for the time being I acknowledge that I am powerless. Take the boy back to his father; but take also a message from me. Tell Mr. Cavendish that I bide my time, and that I never forget."

With these last words she abruptly left the room. I never saw her again.

THE BOY had a bad illness, and my stay at Bakou had to be indefinitely prolonged, but when Cavendish and MacPherson arrived, matters became far easier for me, and in the end I had the satisfaction of bringing back two convalescents to England. The boy is now quite well, and his father has long recovered his mental equilibrium, but I do not know anything about the fate of Felicia.

________________________

14: Beauty Dear

Mrs. L. T. Meade

Daily News (Perth, W.A.) 28 Feb 1902

HE WAS the most disagreeable man on board, and if it had not been for the child, there was scarcely another passenger who would have troubled to speak to him.

His name, was entered on the ship's log as 'James Stirling'— 'James Stirling and child!'— but beyond the fact that Stirling was the man's name, and that a child was with him, no one knew anything whatever about him. Our ship was the Arethusa, of the P. and O. line, and I was the ship's doctor.

Stirling and the child came on board at Bombay. The man wore shabby clothes, and was very rough to look at. He was the sort of person who might have gone as steerage passenger, but, strange to say, he travelled first. He had a four-berth state-room on the first deck for himself and the child, and this room was in the most central position.

The child was scarcely three years old, and Stirling made himself a regular nurse to her. She was not a bit afraid of him, although he was as repulsive  looking a man as I have ever seen. His face was horribly marked and seamed with smallpox, his nose was wide and turned-up, his mouth was still wider, with great coarse lips. His eyes were so deeply sunk into his head that they were scarcely visible, his forehead was very low, and his hair coarse and grizzly. In addition to the homely nature of his features he had a most forbidding expression, and a constant scowl between his brows.

The child was a very bright little creature, a perfect contrast to him. She was shrewd and clever for her tender years, and could talk quite well. It was the most pathetic and at the same time comical thing in the world to see her curling herself up in this ugly brute's arms, and calling him 'beauty' and 'beauty dear.' Then she would stroke his disfigured; cheeks, and press her velvet lips to his. As she sat on his knee, her baby chatter went on incessantly.

Stirling was entirely devoted to the child— he was her playmate, her nurse, and father in one. When he entered the dining saloon, little Victoria always sat perched up on his shoulder. It was useless to suggest that babies dined at a separate table. Victoria sat with Stirling and dined with him or not at all.

During meals she sat on his knees while he fed her with the daintiest tit-bits he could lay hands on. She made a perfect picture seated thus with her fair head pressed against his breast. The man was dressed roughly, but little- Victoria was dainty in her clothing, and the ladies on board were all much attracted by the bright little creature.

It was useless, however, to lavish affectionate or friendly words on her. To all endearments she had but one form of reply.

'No, no— go way, natty lady, Vic stay with Beauty-Dear. Vic not go to natty lady.'

Neither bon-bons nor seductive words would induce her to stir from the safe shelter of 'beauty dear,' and by-and-by the ladies on board the Arethusa left her alone.

But one day a strange thing happened. Little Victoria lay and cried in her stated cabin— she cried incessantly and softly to herself, and at last the stewardess came in search of me.

'Dr. Grant,' she said, 'there is something, wrong with little Miss in cabin 94. You know the baby child who belongs to Mr. Stirling? She is lying in her berth with her face turned to the wall, and won't speak to anybody; she cries all the time and is quite alone.'

'But where is Stirling?' I asked.

'I don't know, sir. I never saw the child deserted before. She won't touch her breakfast— they are a queer pair, both of them.'

'It is odd that Stirling should have forgotten the child,' I made answer. 'I will go and look for him— he is probably on deck or in the smoking-room.'

But though I searched the smoking-room, there was no Stirling, and though I went from end to end of the deck, neither could I find him. At last, just as I was about to return to inform Mrs. Harris of my non-success, a rough hand stretched itself out from an unexpected hiding-place between the upper and the lower deck, and Stirling dragged me towards him.

'For God's sake come and speak to me, Dr. Grant; I did not care to send a messenger for you. I have got it, and the child must have nothing more to do with me. Put me anywhere, away from the other passengers. I am sure to die, but that does not matter, I am only thinking about the child. She is not infected so far. I hoped we might reach England first, but it was not the will of the Almighty; For God's sake find some corner for me where I may be isolated.'

'But what is wrong with you?' I asked.

'Look at me, doctor,' he made reply' 'What do I look like? Healthy and handsome, eh?'

'You look ill, very ill,' I replied. 'But what do you fear?'

He bent forward and whispered a word. I started and felt myself turning pale.

'No,' I said, 'impossible!'

'Possible, very. In fact— certain: I was exposed to the infection just before leaving for England. A friend of mine died of it. He left the child in my care. The child was not infected then, and she is not infected now. Will someone else look after her?'

'Then she is not your child ?'

An expression of agony crossed, his face, 'I am taking her home to her mother,' he said. 'Once she is put into her mother's care my sorrows cease; I— I cannot tell you any more, doctor. No, she is not my child, but I love her as I love no other creature on earth. Let someone take care of her, and put me where I can be out of the way!'

'Stay there where you are for a moment or two,' I answered.

I rushed off to where Mrs. Harris, the stewardess, was waiting for me.

'Do what you can for the child,' I said. 'I'll be back presently.'

I saw the captain in his state-room, and told him briefly what had occurred.

'What,' he cried, 'a case of bubonic plague on board— Good God!'

'Whatever happens, captain,' I made answer, 'we must keep panic at bay. There is that cabin in the stern of the lower deck which is unoccupied— State-room No. 4; it is quite out of the way. I'll have Stirling conveyed there.'

'He had no right to come on board after subjecting himself to infection,' said Captain Ross. 'The whole thing is disgraceful— and the child— you say the child was subjected to the same infection?'

'He says the child is safe.'

'Safe!' said the captain; 'he would say that to screen her. She must be closely watched, and if there is the slightest symptom of indisposition, she must be quarantined at once.'

'I will do all that is necessary,' I answered. 'I have promised the poor Fellow to look after the child, and I must keep my word. After all, he is terribly to be pitied. From what I have seen of him, he is not likely to live.'

'Ugly brute,' said Captain Ross. 'He has put me into a fine mess. Well, do what you can, Grant. I can depend on your discretion.'

Accordingly I had Stirling conveyed to an empty cabin on the lower deck. It was a large, roomy apartment, but seldom used on account of its bad position. Having seen to the sick man's comfort, I went back to the luxurious state-room where little missie queened it in royal fashion over the stewardess.

'Come, Miss Victoria,' I heard Mrs. Harris say. 'You must get up; it is very naughty for little ones to lie in bed all day.'

'Go 'way, natty ting,' was little Vic's response.

'You will get up for me, won't you?' I said, touching her on the shoulder. 'Stirling would wish it.'

The pretty blooming face was raised from the pillow; the bright- eyes were fixed-on-mine.

'Vic go to Beauty Dear. Take Vic to Beauty Dear,' and the mite stretched up her arms.

'Get up, then,' I said, temporising in quite a wicked fashion. 'Let Mrs. Harris dress, you at once; I can do nothing while you stay in bed.'

At the thought of finding Beauty Dear, Victoria allowed herself to be put  into her clothes. When she was fully dressed Mrs. Harris clasped, her in a passion of motherly love to her breast.

'Take Vic to Beauty Dear,' said the child.

Murmuring some inaudible reply, the stewardess took her into the dining salon, where the servants were enjoying their belated breakfast, but although the good woman coaxed and petted, little Victoria, shut her lips tightly, and refused either to speak or to touch food. At first this conduct on the part of the child-was put down to a fit of baby sulks, but when it continued all through the day, and no one could induce the poor mite to eat, or to play, or to be happy, matters began to look serious.

She was a very patient baby, and after the first trouble she ceased to cry. She crept back to the luxurious cabin, which she and Stirling had shared together, and crouching on the floor clasped her broken doll in her arms. She sat there hour after hour, a most pathetic and hungry expression in her eyes.

Meanwhile, the plague-stricken man grew worse. As the night approached, he began to get delirious. I resolved to sit up with him, and in company of a sailor, who had already suffered from plague, and was supposed to be immune, kept watch during the long hours of darkness.

Seldom had I spent a more dreadful night, in his mad delirium, the man was giving, himself away, and his revelations of his past life were terrible. There were few deeds of lawlessness at which he had stopped. He had injured and oppressed most of those he had come in contact with, he had lost money by gambling, and defrauded his friends.

In especial, there was one man whom he hated; his bitter hatred of this, man was apparent in his delirium and caused him sometimes to give rent to wild and terrible screams, and even shrieks. Beyond doubt there was a very black-sin on his soul in connection with this man.

As Stirling raved and struggled, and tossed himself about, I had to exercise  all my force to keep him quiet. By the morning, however, the fell disease had to a great extent done its deadly work. The giant lay quiet as an infant, perspiration streaming off his face.

'He is quieter now, David,' I said to the sailor. 'I can leave him in your care for an hour or two. I will just go and have a disinfecting bath, and change my things— then I will come back and relieve you.'

I rushed off to my cabin; the dawn was breaking. If all went well, we should arrive at Malta in twenty-four hours— we were now steaming across the Mediterranean, which was smooth as glass. I had just finished my toilet when there came a tap at my cabin door.

I opened it, and Mrs. Harris stood without.

'If you please, sir,' she said, 'have you taken, the child to Mr. Stirling?'

'Heaven forbid !' I answered.

'I hear, sir, that the gentleman is very bad.'

'But what about the child ?' I queried.

'Little Miss is nowhere to be found, Doctor. I thought of course she had gone, to the gentleman's cabin.'

'She must not go near Stirling's cabin —do you hear, Mrs. Harris? You must keep the child in this part of the ship.'

'Well, sir, I'll do my best— but I can't promise what may be impossible. The child is contrary and a bit stunned. Never a bite did she put inside her yesterday, and last night, sir, when I went into the state-room to undress her, she was fast asleep on the floor, her cheeks all stained with tears, and that broken doll of hers, "Sally," she calls it, clasped in her arms. I popped her into her berth, and I hoped she would be safe all the morning. Well, she slept, and I went and had a bit of supper, and when I had seen to my ladies, I thought I would go and sleep in the cabin with little Missie.'

'Quite right, Mrs. Harris,' I answered.

'I went to bed right enough, sir, and to sleep, and the last thing I saw was the glint of little Missie's golden hair on her pillow, and I heard her breathing gentle as a lamb, but towards morning, I awoke all of a sudden, and I looked across to Missie's berth, and she was not there. I went and searched for her and called her name, hut none of them could find her, and none of them knew where she was. One said that maybe she had gone to find that harum-scarum man whom she is so taken up with, and I thought I would ask you, sir.'

'She is not there, and what is more, she must not go there,' I answered. 'Just speak to the purser, will you?— he will give you orders to have every corner of the ship searched. Now I must go back to my patient.'

I snatched some food, and went downstairs to the large cabin occupied by the plague-stricken man. The worst manifestations of this awful disease were now making themselves apparent. The deadly weakness continued, and got worse, and, strange to say, it had a sort of refining influence on the coarse face. The voice so rasping and loud was reduced to the merest whisper. I gave a sigh of relief when I saw that little Victoria was not in the room. Motioning to my sailor that he might leave me for the present, I sat down by the dying man.

'Come closer,' I heard him whisper. 'I have something to tell you.'

I bent towards him.

'How soon shall we reach Malta?'

'By this time to-morrow,' I answered.

'Twenty-four hours,' he muttered. 'Shall I live till then, doctor?'

'Hard to tell. I will do what I can for you, Stirling.'

'Thanks. I should like to know that the child was safe in port, and delivered over to her mother. She was to meet us at Malta.'

'Can you tell me anything about the little one, Stirling? You may live, but you may not, you know— it is best to be prepared. At present, I do not even know the child's name.'

He smiled feebly. 'A lady will meet you at Malta, and will come on board, and if— if I am not there give her the child. The lady will be the child's mother. The little one's name is Angelo, Victoria Angelo.'

'And what am I to say when I give the child to Mrs. Angelo?'

'Say that Stirling brought her across, and that he has atoned'.

'I don't understand.'

'Nor will she— but that does not matter. She need never know. Angelo is dead, and she gets the child. Look at me, doctor. You do not know the wicked  sort of person you have on board. I killed Angelo.'

'What!' I cried.

'Yes, practically, I did. I did it on purpose. I hated him. He and I were partners in the same business, up country about two hundred miles beyond Bombay. The plague came, and I brought some infected sheets from a man who died of it, and put them on Angelo's bed. He took it and died; I killed him. I did every bad thing I could to that man, defrauded him, stole his property. The reckoning day was near, and I had to get him out of the way. It was either he or I to go under, and I had the choice, and I chose him. He is dead, and I was taking the little one back to her mother. Now, I will tell you something strange. You see a devil before you, a devil— neither more nor less, but that mite fell  in love with me— would not be happy with anybody else— liked to stroke this awful face of mine, liked to get into my arms, liked to kiss me; well, she bowled me over, doctor, I can't tell you how or why, I can bear a good bit, but just the love of that little innocent was the straw too much. The mother had gone to England a year ago, broken down by the climate, but Angelo would not part with the child. That child could bowl any man in all the world over. Well, my punishment and my redemption too was to bring her home, and put her into her mother's arms. But it is not to be. I hoped that I might have reached Malta before the disease broke out for I guessed, of course, that I was infected. I am dying now, and I'll never see that little angel again. I atone for everything when I die without seeing her. Oh, God! to a man like me could any punishment be more? She is the one bit of humanity that ever touched me.'

His voice trailed away to the faintest whisper. I gave him a stimulant, and after a little he said:

'Do you ask if I repent?— no, not a bit of it.'

I SAT with Stirling for hours. By-and-by, I went back to my cabin. Mrs. Harris met me with her face quite white, and tears in her eyes.

'We cannot find her anywhere, doctor. Do you think the poor little dear could have slipped overboard?'

'Oh, no, Mrs. Harts, she must be on the ship.'

'Well, sir, every sailor on hoard is searching high and low; we are all in a taking.'

The panic about little Victoria spread rapidly, and by lunch time the saloon passengers were in a state of excitement. They knew that Stirling was ill, although the real nature of his illness was carefully kept from them. One lady came to the Captain with tears in her eyes.

'My little Doris is Victoria's age. If the poor baby could be found, she might come to my cabin to play with Doris.'

But Vic's chosen playmates were of a different sort, a broken-down and battered doll, and a broken-down and battered man, black as pitch except for that little streak of gold which his love for her caused to shine through his nature. Towards evening we entered some of the cross-currents off the coast of Malta. The wind rose and the Arethusa was tossed on the waves. In Stirling's cabin the motion was felt a good deal.

The dying man was now in a state of stupor, and could scarcely be roused to take nourishment. I arranged once again to spend the night with him. By six o'clock in the morning we should reach Malta. Could he possibly live so long?

Night settled down over the big liner, and Stirling breathed heavily. About an hour after midnight, he dropped into a still deeper slumber. His breathing-became fainter, and once I bent towards him, wondering if the last moment had come. As I did so he started up, fresh strength animated his frame, he opened his eyes and looked around him— then he uttered a laugh.

'It is time for the Pussy-call,' he said, 'How queer that I should have forgotten. Little Victoria will wonder; well, never mind, Victoria, better late than never.'

He half raised himself on his pillow, and forming his lips into an 'O,' he began to make the queer purring sound of a large cat. This curious noise had not continued more than half a minute before there came a rustling from under the berth, and the next instant, to my horror, a little white face and a dirty white frock appeared in view, and a baby girl, clasping a broken doll in her arms, looked straight into the ghastly face of Stirling.

'I'se come, Beauty Dear,' said little Victoria. 'Pussy's come; take I in your arms, Beauty Dear, 'cause I's so tired.'

Before I could prevent him, the man leapt forward, snatched at the baby, got her into his arms, and pressed her to his heart.

'Stay close to Beauty Dear, little Vic,' he said. 'Send Beauty Dear to sleep.'

'Hush, hush, Beauty Dear, go sound asleep,' said little Victoria. But with that last embrace, and those last words, Stirling's spirit departed. It was with some difficulty I could take the child from his arms. Wonderful to relate, the poor baby never took the plague.

We reached Malta the next morning. Owing to quarantine laws, no one could come on board, and Victoria's mother could only be seen on the neighboring quay. But all in good time the little girl, well and hearty, was pressed in the loving arms of Mrs. Angelo. When this took place, the child looked very solemnly at her mother.

'Beauty Dear, as'eep. Don't talk too loud, mummy. Don't wake Beauty Dear.'

_______________________

15: The Yellow Dragon Vases

Mrs L. T. Meade

Western Mail (Perth, WA) 30 July 1892

LUCILLA was standing ruefully with her head a little on one side; she was surveying the jam cupboard.

Lucilla's husband, the Rev. Arthur Field, was very fond of strawberry jam— there were only three pots left. It seemed an absurd thing to fret over, but Lucilla felt unhappy because the strawberry jam had run so low.

She had more reason for this than appears at first sight. Jam, good home made jam, such as Lucilla was famed for making, often took the place of pudding in this humble home. Arthur Field was quite contented if Lucilla gave him strawberry jam and bread and butter instead of pudding after meat. She had saved many shillings in the week's housekeeping by thus humouring her husband's simple tastes. Now the favourite jam was nearly exhausted. Lucilla looked sorrowful, the corners of her mouth drooped pensively.

"You there, my love?" a masculine voice called from downstairs; steps were heard ascending quickly, and Arthur Field stood by his wife's side.

"Here is a letter for you, Lucy," he said.

Lucilla turned at once from contemplating the strawberry jam, held out her hand for the letter. She was a tall, dark young  woman with fine eyes and an expression about her face which most people described as pleasant. Her husband seemed to think so now, as he looked down at her from his superior height.

Lucilla opened her letter eagerly and began to read its contents; as she did so her cheeks flushed, her eyes flashed indignant fire, her whole charming, face was transformed. The anger which filled it soon grew to utterance in her voice.

"Oh! Arthur, to think that I should be treated so! My great aunt Lucilla, after whom I was named, is dead!"

"Is she indeed, my love? Poor soul! I am sorry. When, did it happen?"

Mr. Field spoke in a distressed voice; death in itself was such a solemn thing to him that he could not understand anger in connection with it. Yet Lucilla, whom he knew so well, so very well, was absolutely trembling with anger.

"When did your aunt die, Lucy?" he repeated.

"l can't tell you, Arthur. Oh! let me see, nearly a month ago. Of course, the Vincents, Mary and Ellen, did not want me to know any sooner. No wonder! no wonder! Anyone could see through their devices— they wheedled, they— coaxed, they petted, they flattered, and they got their desires. Oh ! I would not be them—"

"Lucy, your words quite alarm me— your words and your anger. May I see that letter?"

"Certainly Arthur."

Lucilla gave her husband the. open sheet of notepaper which she had been holding, deliberately shut and locked the jam cupboard, and then walked past him into her own room, the door of which she closed behind her.

He gazed after her retreating form in astonishment, then bent his gaze on the letter which had caused all this disquiet.

He read the following words:

Red Cross House, 10th May.

My dear Lucilla,

You will be surprised and sorry to learn that poor Aunt Lucy passed away quite suddenly on the night of the  11th of April. She must have died in her sleep, poor old dear, and evidently early in the night, for when her maid found her she was cold.

Aunt Lucy was ailing for some time, and as she was past 80, even her warmest friends can only speak of her death as a blessed release. Our rector, Mr. Martin, preached a very beautiful sermon about her, and we had a nice obituary notice inserted in The Haven, our local paper. The funeral, too, was both suitable and expansive, and Ellen and I have quite the proper mourning we are wearing crape to our knees. Of course, I don't mean on our every day dresses, which, however, look as deep, being of a capital wearing stuff called crape cloth.

Well my dear Lucilla, the will was read, as is customary, after we bad returned from laying poor Aunt Lucy in the grave. It was a pouring wet day, and, I, am sorry to tell you, our new crapes, on for the first time, got a good deal spotted and injured standing by the open grave. But to return to the will, Mr. Johnson, Aunt Lucy's lawyer, read the contents to us. Of course we were not the least surprised, nor will you be when you get this letter. We are left everything; we knew this would be the case when you displeased all your relations by marrying Mr. Field. I do not suppose anyone felt your marriage more than dear Aunt Lucy did, although she never stormed nor raved nor said angry words. You know the proverb, Lucilla, that "still waters run deep;" this must have been the case with Aunt Lucy, for when the will was read we found she had not remembered you at all, except— but I shall come to that presently.  I want, first of all, to let you know how Ellen and I are left. We shall have, when everything is sold, exactly £10,000 apiece— by no means fortunes in these expensive days, but still enough to be comfortable on. To be frank, I did really think that Aunt Lucy was much better off. She gave herself quite the airs of wealth, which she had no right to do, for what is £20,000? But, of course, as she has left us literally everything we must not complain. Did I say everything? No; you are not quite forgotten. Do you remember those yellow jars— those frightful things which always stood on a shelf over the drawing room door— the yellow dragons we used to call them?  Well, you are now the happy possessor of the yellow dragons. I think, and so does Ellen, that this fact, more than anything else, shows how your marriage wounded dear Aunt Lucy.

Please, Lucilla, forgive me for not writing to you sooner, but you can imagine what a whirl Ellen and I are both in, and as you were not left anything to speak of, and had practically turned your back on all your relatives, we did not think there was any hurry in letting you know about the vases. Red Cross is to be sold as soon as possible, and, of course, all the furniture; Such old fashioned furniture would be quite useless to Ellen and me.  We have decided to take a house in London, for we feel that after the long weary years we spent with Aunt Lucilla, it is due to us to have what fun we can. I will write again, of, perhaps, Ellen will write next, to tell you our new address. Believe me, my dear Lucilla, your affectionate cousin,

Mabel Vincent.

P.S.—I had almost forgotten to mention that the yellow dragons, very carefully packed, are even now on their way to you; we are sending them direct by passenger train, carriage prepaid.

Mr. Field read this letter through without the smallest change of countenance. If he felt anger his face did hot show it. When he had read to the very end he folded the letter and returned it to its envelope, placed it for safety in his pocket, and walking across the landing tapped at his wife's bedroom door.

"Can I come in, Lucilla?" he asked.

"Not now, Arthur," she answered from the other side of the door. "I am particularly engaged, but I will be down to give you your tea in ten minutes."

"Very well," he replied in his gentlest voice. He went downstairs without another word. A nice and appetising tea was spread on the dining room table. Some strawberry Jam graced the board; there were home-made cakes, some crisp, tempting looking salad, well made toast, fragrant coffee, and, last, but not least, two poached eggs in a little silver dish.

When Lucilla entered the room she went straight to the head of her table; and poured out her husband's coffee. She did not say another word about the obnoxious letter; her face was more pleasant to look at, but there were traces of tears about her eyes, and, although she tried to prevent it, her pretty lips took a sad curve whenever they were in repose. She chatted brightly, however, and even laughed when the Reverend Arthur Field gave utterance to a small witticism or made a pun. He was fond of the relaxation which puns afforded, and Lucilla would hate thought herself altogether wanting in wifely duty if she did not cheer her husband with smiles of approval after he was guilty of these intellectual efforts.

Tea was nearly over when there came a ring to the front door. The servant (they only kept one servant, her name was Jessie), entered the room to announce the arrival of a box.

"It is prepaid, ma'am," she said, addressing Mrs. Field; "where shall the man take it?"

"Let him leave it in the hall, Jessie," answered Lucilla. The maid withdrew. Mrs. Field glanced at her husband.

"I don't want that box," she said.

"On the contrary, my love, I shall be very glad to see these dragon vases your aunt was so kind as to leave you," he replied. Then he took the letter out of his pocket and gravely returned it to her.

"Arthur," said Mrs. Field, "you don't think I am fretting because of the mere money's loss."

"You can scarcely speak of money as lost, which you have never had, Lucilla," replied Arthur Field, with his slow, sweet smile.

"I had a right to some of it, however," she replied, her eyes flashing angrily once more.

"My dear," he said, "you knew what you might expect when you took me."

On hearing this speech, Lucilla rose from her seat, ran over to her husband, put her arms round his neck and kissed him.

"I would rather have yon than a thousand fortunes," she said with enthusiasm.

He kissed her back again.

"I know that well," he said. "Now, Lucy, I am going out. I shall be back in an hour. We will then unpack the vases and consider in what part of the drawing room, they will be seen to the best advantage."

"They are hideous things," said Lucilia, pouting; "they are much better remaining in the deal box."

"We will look at them, at any rate," said Mr. Field.

He was a very hard worked curate, and had very few varieties in his life. Lucilla was devoted to him. It occurred to her while he was out that the excitement of opening a rather small deal box might be good for him. She determined to push all her ill temper out of sight, and be very agreeable about her vases.

She lit several candles in her drawing room, and placed a pretty shaded lamp in such a position as to show off the tiny but tastefully furnished room to the best advantage. Between them, Jessie and she pushed the case which contained the vases into the dining room. Lucilla fetched a hammer and chisel, and quite worked herself up to a pitch of expectancy by the time her husband returned.

He took off his coat and made a fuss about opening the box— he perpetrated two puns while he lifted the lid, and Lucilla's mirth was no longer forced.

The vases had been packed evidently with great care, and Field lifted them tenderly out of their high receptacle. They were tall— quite two feet high— their shape was very peculiar, their colouring, a rich and deep ambher. The dragons which climbed round the stems of the vases had something brilliant about their colouring which gave them the effect of being set in jewels.

Arthur Field said, "I never, saw any china like this before. I should not be surprised if it was valuable. When Power comes home I will ask him to take a look at it."

"Oh, it is hideous," said Lucilla; "it is not the least valuable."

"I don't know that," replied her husband; "but valuable or not, it is very quaint. I think it will give our drawing room a decidedly unique appearance. It will just fit, too, on that carved oak shelf which I put up last week. If you know, Lucilla, I told you the ornaments which you put there were altogether inadequate to the size and depth of the shelf. Now these vases will furnish it to perfection.

Lucilla made no further comment and, the vases were deposited with great care on the shelf. Field dusted them when he put them up, and then walked away to the other end of the drawing room to contemplate the effect.

"They are very quaint," was the solitary remark.

As time went on Lucilla got accustomed to the vases. In the course of a ten months she got so accustomed to them that she absolutely forgot their presence. The fact was she had other and more important things to occupy her attention.

Field was a very poor man, and that thing presently happened to him which always disagreeable, but especially so when it comes in the train of an empty purse. Arthur Field got into bad health.

He was not dangerously ill, but he began to suffer from what mar be termed the complaint of the age— his nerves got out of order. Like most curates in large towns, he was overworked, and in process of time overwork began to tell on him. His tired nerves made him irritable; he slept badly, he ate little, he had always a pale face, the lines round his mouth although sweet, were also at times somewhat worn; now they were painfully so.

Field, although in the prime of life began to look old; He was just in the condition when, had the purse been full instead of empty, his health might be  completely restored to him by a long sea voyage, by three or four months in Switzerland, by change of scene and rest of mind. The poor man can neither take change of scene nor do his cares often slip off his shoulders. Field was obliged to stay in town, and whether he liked it or not, whether it was good for him or not, he had to work.

Lucilla fretted a good deal in private but she was a brave young woman, and she never allowed any of her secret anxieties to become apparent to her husband. She did not allude again to her aunt's fortune, nor was the subject of money often discussed between this pair.

One day Field came in and said, with a shadow of his former brightness:

"By the way, Lucy, I ran up against Power today in High Street; he is staying here until tomorrow. I asked him to come in this evening and look at the vases."

"What vases?" said Lucilla. She hat absolutely forgotten her old aunt's yellow dragon vases.

"Those that your aunt left you, my love," replied her husband. "The more I  look at them the more certain I am that they are irresistibly quaint and uncommon. Power is a judge of china, and I should like his opinion of them."

"Very well," said Lucilla; "only nothing will ever change my view with regard to those ugly things,

"Ugly, I grant," said Field; "but in their ugliness also lies their charm"

Lucilla raised both brows— she sad nothing further— she was making a mental calculation with regard to ways and means. She wanted to have something very nice for Mr. Power's supper, and she had scarcely any money to buy delicacies with.

AT THE appointed time the guest arrived. He was a little man, with red hair, a keen intelligent face, and a bright, brisk, manner. He and Field had been at Trinity College, Cambridge, together. Power was a much more successful man than Field. He had been called to the Bar and was doing well in his profession. He lived in London, of course. After a few words of conversation, Field fetched a stepladder, and mounting it, carefully removed the two vases from their shelf. He took out a silk handkerchief and dusted them tenderly; then he turned to his friend and looked anxiously at him for his verdict. Lucilla, seeing the solemn expression on her husband's face, began to laugh.

"Arthur is quite romantic over those frightful things," she said to Power. "Pray put him out of his misery at once; it is only merciful to quench false hopes. The things are hideous, are they not?"

"Not at all," said Power. He lifted one of the vases in his hand, turned it to the light, tried to discover some sort of inscription on the base of the stem, twisted it round and round, and finally replaced it on the table.

"Well," said Field.

"They are valuable," said Power, suddenly. "How valuable I cannot tell you. I should like to take them up to Christie's."

Lucilla clasped her hands'.

"What!" she exclaimed, her colour coming and going. "Do you mean— do you think those— those frightful things would fetch money?"

Mr. Power turned and looked hard into the face of his friend's wife.

"They may," he said slowly. "Yes I am inclined to think they will fetch something."

"But how much? Do— do tell me."

"It is impossible for me to say."

"A ten pound note, perhaps?" queried Arthur Field.

Power gave him a lightening glance.

"I feel confident you may reckon on that sum," he said. "If they are valueless from a collector's point of view, the colouring is so rich that they are sure to be bought for purposes of decoration."

"Oh, Arthur," said Lucilla. She went over to her husband and impulsively laid her hand on his shoulder.

Field smiled into her eyes.

"Do you want to sell them, my love?" he asked.

"Yes, yes," she replied. "If they fetch £10 we can go away for a little holiday."

"You are certain to get £10," said Power. "Field, you do not look well. Are you in need of a holiday?"

"My wife says so," replied Field.

"Then why not go?"

Field made no answer at all to this, but leaving the room, he returned in a few moments with the wooden case in which the vases had been sent from the Red Cross House some months ago. The two men packed them with extreme care, and the next day they travelled up to London under the care of John Power.

There was a good deal of illness in the large manufacturing town where Field worked, and. he was so busy just now visiting the sick, and soothing the agonies of the dying and of the bereaved that he quite forgot the yellow vases. Lucilla, however, who remained at home, had time to think of them.

She did think of them. Now that there was a possibility of money being forthcoming through their means, she began to build castles around these vases. Full of hope were these airy palaces of Lucilla's. They were all homes for her husband— health resorts for him— delightful dwellings when poverty and care should never touch him. She felt herself turning pale when a week after the vases had been sent to London, the post brought a letter from Power— it came by the last post— and Field and his wife were together at the moment. He opened it with languid interest, read its contents, and passed it on to his wife with the smile which came more and more seldom now to his face.

"Power says we are certain of our £10," he remarked.

Lucilla read the letter greedily. Its contents were as follows :

Dear Field,

Christie and Mansot so far approve of your vases that they will put them up to auction. This fact speaks for itself, for articles of vertu have to be up to a certain standard for Christie's to admit them into their auction rooms. It is a pity you can discover nothing with regard to the pedigree of the vases. Much depends upon that, but in any case you are certain of your £10.

Yours sincerely,

John Power.

"Arthur!" exclaimed his wife, "I have made up my mind."

"Well, dear," he replied, "you often do. What result have you arrived at this  present moment?"

"We will go to Christie's and see the vases sold," exclaimed Lucilla.

"My dear!"

"Yes," she continued. "Mr. Power says we are certain to get £10 for them. Ten pounds will pay all our expenses for a week in London; with economy it will also enable us to go to a good doctor and get an opinion about you. We will go, Arthur. We will start to morrow."

" My love," he answered, looking at her in his tenderest way, "even if we do get this money; would it not be best to save it?"

"We will save it," she answered; "We will save it best by spending it. Don't oppose me, Arthur; my mind is made up."

"Very well," said Field.

"Then you will come with me to-morrow ?"

"I will. I own I should like a change. If I can make arrangements for my work here, we will go."

Two day later the Fields found themselves in lodgings, rather uncomfortable ones, in West Kensington. They chose this out of the way neighbourhood because a friend of theirs had once lodged in one of the new suburban houses in this most uninteresting region; they paid a small price for their rooms, however, which was a consideration in their present straightened circumstances. Power came to see them and spoke hopefully about the £10. Once, indeed, when Lucilla's eyes looked with even more pathos than usual into his face, he found himself venturing to add to the sum.

"You may get £20, but for heaven's sake don't build your hopes on it."

"Oh, I won't," replied Lucilla; but her looks contradicted her words, and Power found himself obliged to turn away from their pleading glance.

The Fields went to see a doctor, a great man, who charged them two guineas, and gave a considerable amount of advice. Field was to rest, have complete change, and as luxurious, living as it was possible to procure for him.

When they left the house of the great physician, the curate turned to his wife, and said gravely, "I only wish I had not wasted those two guineas. You know, Lucilla, as well as I do, that l can neither rest nor live the life of the wealthy."

"Still I am glad we have gone," she said. She was thinking of Power's words with regard to the vases, and her castle far the air was growing larger and more beautiful than ever.

Suppose they got the £20? Twenty pounds seemed a sum full of infinite capacities to the poor soul at this moment.

"We will go to Christie's in good time," Field said to his wife that evening. "Power has not an idea of what time the vases will be brought to the hammer; but I imagine that the whole auction will be interesting. We shall probably see some very beautiful object of vertu, and you like pretty things, yon know, Lucilla."

"Not better than you do, Arthur," she answered. But then, she added with a smile, "I always thought you had perfect taste, my love, until you admired those hideous yellow vases of my great aunt's."

Field smiled back at her when she said this.

"We shall soon know what other people think of the vases," he said, in a placid voice, which showed that his mind was really dwelling on a different subject, but his words chimed in so exactly with Lucilla's own hopes that her heart beat high.

The next morning early Mr. and Mrs. Field prepared to start off to Christie's. Power had not only given them full directions— for they were a very ignorant couple, and knew nothing of London, either its geography or its ways— but had promised to meet them at the great auction halls.

They were leaving the house, when Field suddenly turned faint and sick. His wife, who was standing by his side, seemed to recede away from him, the walls of the room turned round, and the floor on which he stood ceased to be solid. He held out his hands imploringly, a mist came to his eyes.

"I cannot go, Lucy," he said, and he sank into a chair in the dingy little lodging house parlour.

"Oh, no, you must not go," she said, terror in her face and voice.

Field did not speak for a few minutes. His wife ran to fetch brandy to revive him, but he pushed it away.

"No," he said. "No, I cannot touch it; let me stay quiet, Lucilla; I only want to rest."

She remained perfectly motionless at his side. After a little he looked up at her with his usual expression.

"I am nearly well again, he said ; "shall we go to the auction after all P"

"No," she answered; "no, we will go for a drive instead."

"A drive!" he said. "My dear, you forget our nearly empty purse."

"I do not forget," she replied. "I will take the risk. This is a lovely day; you shall drive, Arthur, we will hire a carriage and go into the park."

He looked at her with an expression which seemed to say, "You are taking leave of your senses."

"We ought not to do it," he said, in a weak, low voice.

"We will do it," she replied. There was a fire in her eyes, her cheeks were flushed, her lips looked determined; she rang the bell, and the little lodging house servant answered the imperious summons in hot haste.

"There are livery stables near here, are there not?" questioned Lucilla.

"Oh, yes, ma'am, not three doors down."

"Send for an open landau, please; let it be here in half an hour— a nice one."

The girl stared for a moment; she did not expect the parlour lodgers to be capable of such extravagance. Her respect for them rose immensely.

"Yes, ma'am," she answered in a soft, surprised voice to Lucilla, and closed the door gently after her.

The landau turned out a success, and the Fields enjoyed their drive. They were out for two hours. They went into Hyde Park, and for a short time their carriage occupied a position in the line of rank and fashion. No woman in that gay assembly looked prettier than Lucilla in her hired carriage, with her shabby last year's bonnet on her head. No woman had so intense a light in her beautiful eyes, nor such a glow of fervent hope and love in her heart.

The Fields not only took their drive, but they went to lunch at a fashionable restaurant. Lucilla ordered choice meats, a certain bottle of fragrant wine, and ices ad libitum. She paid the heavy bill with the manner of a princess. She had come to a point in her history where she was indifferent, absolutely indifferent, to the fact that she was breaking into her last sovereigns, and that to-morrow morning she and her husband might be penniless.

"Now," she said to Field, when they once more seated themselves in the landau, "I am going to the nearest post office to send off a telegram to Mr. Power."

"What about, Lucy?"

"I want to know what the vases have fetched," she replied, looking brightly at him.

Field felt far too weak to argue with his wife. Truth to tell, he enjoyed his day of luxury— he was both mentally and physically in the condition when it was a comfort to lean on any one. In short, in spite of his sober convictions, he began in a sort of intangible way, to share Lucilla's hopes.

It was very late in the afternoon when the pair returned to their shabby lodgings in West Kensington.

Field could not help uttering an exclamation of astonishment when he saw Power standing on the steps. Lucilla, on the contrary, felt no amazement, for one glance into the little man's face made her hopes become certainties. She flashed a bright glance at him, then descending from her comfortable carriage, turned to the driver and inquired his fare. He mentioned it, and Lucilla nearly emptied her purse into his hand.

"We shall want you again to-morrow," she said. "Be here by 12 o'clock, and be sure you bring a comfortable carriage; the springs of this one are by no means perfect, speak to your master, please, and let us have the very best landau in his coach house."

When they got into their sitting room, she turned at once to Power.

"Well," she said, "I know by your face that you have brought the £20."

"Not exactly," he replied.

Field turned pale when Power said this. The horrible thought that he had scarcely money enough in his bank to pay for Lucilla's unwonted extravagance, flashed through his mind.

Mrs. Field, however, whose eyes were fixed on Power, had no such qualms at her heart.

"I know you have good news," she said in her brightest voice. "Perhaps the ugly things are valuable— perhaps they have fetched more than £20."

"They have," replied Power.

He put his hand into his pocket, took out a book, from which he extracted an envelope, and handed it to Mrs. Field.

"The vases were your property," he said, "left to you by your aunt, were they not?"

"Yes, left to me by my great aunt, Lucilla Vincent, after whom I was named."

"Just so; then this envelope, with its contents, belongs to you."

Power's eyes looked full of meaning when he said these words, and his voice had such a ring of delight to it, that Mrs. Field found herself suddenly turning faint and almost sick; her heart beat too fast; its great throbs almost choked her; her eyes grew misty, her hands trembled. She went up to her husband and gave him the envelope.

"Open it," she said in a husky whisper, " I can't— I— I'm afraid."

"My darling, you look quite ill," said Field in alarm.

"Oh, never mind me; do open that envelope," she said, crushing it into his hand

He obeyed her at once. The envelope contained a draft on the Bank of England, payable to Lucilla Field for £10,000.

"Great heavens, Lucy! Lucy, you are crying!" cried her husband. "What is it? What is the matter, my dear?"

He scarcely took in the contents of the note: his eyes were fixed on his wife's face, for she had read the amount of the cheque payable to herself, and joy made her faint away.

"I WISH you had been there," said Power, a few hours later; "there was quite a furore over the vases. You and I thought them quaint and valuable, Field, but we had little idea what they were really worth. I had not been ten minutes at Christie's before I perceived that the Yellow Dragon vases were much the most valuable of the many treasures which were to be sold that day. Their history had been ascertained, and their pedigree established. Lohmann, the great Jewish china maniac, was present. It did not take him long to prove that your aunt's dragon vases, Mrs. Field, were once the highly-prized treasures of the royal house of Siam. When and how they were stolen it was impossible to say, but certain marks round their base made Mr. Lehmann certain of their identity. The vases are perfect, without any chip or blemish of any sort, and are the only specimens known to be in existence of that particular china.

"After this explanation, you may imagine that the bids ran high for the Yellow Dragon vases. I had hoped to bring you even a larger cheque."

Power told this marvellous history to the husband and wife late that evening, Lucilla wore a white dress, and the roses still bloomed on her cheeks, and the fire of love and joy glowed in her deep, dark eyes. With her lips she said very little; her feelings were too strong to find utterance in speech. Her hand rested on her husband's shoulder. When Power stopped speaking, Lucilla turned slowly and looked at Arthur Field.

"I always said these vases were very quaint," he remarked in a somewhat slow fashion. "We shall miss them out of the drawing room."

_________________

16: The Lady Detective's Story

Anonymous

Traralgon Record (Vic) 28 Dec 1900

'I DON'T QUITE understand you, Beth. Surely you don't mean to say that you have spent the last few months in trying to solve the Cannon Street robbery, and then, when you get the right man in your clutches, you allow him to go scot free?'

'Don't condemn me any further until you hear all the particulars.'

Beth Bathurst was one of the smartest lady detectives at Scotland Yard. The only person to whom she confided the secrets of the profession was her brother Ned, and on the night of my story she has been relating to him some of the details of the case, when Ned suddenly broke in with the above rebuke.

After a few minutes silence Beth Bathurst continued:

IT IS JUST three months ago since I received instructions. Our chief told me that I would probably receive a visit from a lady who particularly wished me to take up the case. She called on the following morning, and told me that she had received a corn municaticn from the Home Office Informing her that her brother, who had been a convict at Portland, had died suddenly. The circumstances of the case were briefly these:

Fifteen years ago her brother, whose name was Harry Percival, was cashier to Messrs. Iremonger and Co, a large business house in the City. In the same office was another clerk, named Wentworth. These two young fellows were very chummy, but, strange to say, they had each fallen in love with the same girl. It appeared that my visitor's brother was the favored one. He proposed and was accepted, and in a short time they were to be married. Wentworth on hearing this news, almost t went mad with passion, and secretly swore to be revenged on Percival for what he called his underhanded work.

A week before the wedding London was startled with the news of a great and daring robbery at the house of Iremonger and Co. Many thousands of pounds were involved, and, for a time, the perpetrator could not be found. At last, however, everything seemed to point to Percival being the culprit. He was arrested by the police, and, after a long hearing. was found guilty, and sentenced to fifteen years' penal servitude.

'The reason I come to you now,' said Miss Percival, is that I received a letter from my brother some few r days before he died, begging of me to clear the stain that rested on his name. Harry always told me that he was sure Wentworth was at the bottom of it all.'

'Well, of course, that is a matter of speculation, at present. I will say, however, that Wentworth's evidence was decidedly black for your brother, but, to my mind, evidence of the watchman, Stiggins, was the most damaging. This man swore most positively he saw your brother on the premises a short time before the robbery was committed, and the only reply your brother had to offer was that he certainly was there, but at the instigation of Wentworth. What Wentworth deliberately swore was false, so, you see, there is not much for me to work upon. Can you tell me what became of either of them?'

'I am afraid I cannot. I was told that both of them disappeared soon after the trial, and I know it excited a little suspicion at the time.'

'I will do what I can, Miss Percival, and if, in time, I think there is any chance of being able to trace the real culprit I will notify you.'

About that time I was very busy on the Baker Street mystery, and one night I was in a den in Whitechapel trying to trace the whereabouts of a man I particularly wanted to clear up that business, when suddenly I overheard my name mentioned.

'Bathurst, I tell yer-a regular scorcher she is; and if old Thompson don't come to his senses afore long I'll put her on his track, blow me tight if I don't. He thinks he's safe in Throgmorton Street, but he ain't going to ignore me in this way, I can tell yer. Joe Stiggins is no mug.

Stiggins! I whispered to myself; why, that's the name of the watchman of the Cannon Street robbery. I listened intently, expecting to hear more, but I was disappointed. All was quite still again. I tried to find out where the conversation had come from, but, of course, I got no satisfaction.

A few days later I was persuing the advertisements in the 'Times,' when my eye dropped on the following :

WANTED, at once, a young lady with knowledge of book-keeping: shorthand and typewriting esserntial. Apply F. Thompson, Throgmorton Street.

This must be the Thompson, I thought, Stiggins referred to; but, at the same timne, I knew Thompson's name by repute. He was considered very wealthy, well known on the Stock Exchange, and moved in the best society. I thought a long time that night, with the result that I decided to go in for the appointment possibly it would be a chance of finding out more about the imysterious Mlr Stiggins.

Two days later I received a communication from Mr Thompson informing me that my application had been successful, and that I was to present myself at Throgmorton Street on the following Monday morning at nine o'clock.

At nine o'clock on the Monday morning I duly presented myself at Mr Thompson's office. I must say he was excecdingly kind to me. My salary was to be £2 per week— not bad, I was told, for a beginner.

I should think two months passed away, and, although I was exceedingly careful to notice any little detail both in Mr Thompson and in his affairs, there was nothing to lead me to suspect that he even knew of the existence of Mr Stiggins, and I was beginning to think I was wasting my time when one day, as I was putting some old correspondence in order, I saw a dirty piece of paper fall from the bundle on the floor. I hastily picked it up, and as I looked at it fairly jumped with excitement. It was a short note, written in black lead, threatening Mr Thompson, if he did not 'copper up handsomely,' and it was signed 'Joe Stiggins.'

A week passed without my being able to gain any further information, but one morning as Mr Thompson was dictating his letters to me tihe office boy came in and announced Mr Stiggins. I think I never saw a man's face change so suddenly. It was fiendish to look upon, and, as he rose from his chair, he muttered: 'Curse the fellow what does he want here?'

Then he seemed to suddenly remember that I was watching him, and he turned to the boy and said: 'Tell Mr Stiggins I'm very busy, and can't see him to-day.'

The next moment I overheard a terrible oath.

'He carn't see me, carn't he; well we'll see about that,' and the door closed with a bang.

Mr Thompson heaved a sigh of relief as he came back to his desk, and he added in a changed voice :'That man pesters the life out of me. He's a regular nuisance.

'I think we'll go on, Miss Dagmar. What have you got last?'

I would have given a lot to have had a look at the mysterious Stiggins, but, of course, I had to play my part, and the slightest show of inquisitiveness would have upset everything. I must wait patiently.

About half an hour later Mr Thompson left the office, saying he would not return until after lunch. He had not been gone many minutes when a letter was brought in and placed on his desk. I recognised the writing at once. It was from Stiggins.

The next thing was to see what was inside, but how? I turned it over, and found it had been imperfectly sealed; without much difficulty I succeeded in opening it, and read :

Yer thought yer got rid of me nicely this morning, didn't yer, but you've not. If Yer won't see me at yer office I must arsk you to meet me to-night at the usual spot, "Bushes," at ten o'clock, and don't forget to bring the splosh. I ain't going to be played with any longer.

Stiggins.

I carefully replaced the letter in the envelope, and, after satisfying myself that no one could detect that it had been tampered with, I placed it back again on Mr Thompson's desk. When he came in he opened the letter, and, after reading it, immediately tore it up and placed it in the fire.

Of course, I was at the 'Bushes' at the appointed time, safely concealed behind a partly demolished wall, with two police officers within call, if necessary. The 'Bushes' was a lonely spot, about three miles outside the City, and well suited for a secret meeting. Stiggins was the first to arrive, and walked up and down the path restlessly. A few minutes later I saw Mr Thompson coming towards him, and the two men met right opposite where I lay concealed.

'Good evening, Mr Thompson,' said Stiggins; 'I'm sorry to—'

'Quick, man!' broke in Mr Thompson; 'what. do you want with me? More blood money, I suppose. How much this time? Come, hurry up! I have no wish to be in your company any longer than I can help.'

'No, I daresay not,' replied Stiggins; 'but there was a time, Mr Thompson, when yer wern't in such a hurry to get rid of me. Of course, I was of some help to yer then, and it was Stiggins this and Stiggins that ; but now yer Mr Thompson, the well known City merchant. Nobody guesses yer were known' (and his voice sank to a whisper) 'in yer early days as Philip Wentworth, clerk of Messrs Iremonger and Co.'

'Silence, man, or, by Heaven! I'll shoot you like a dog.'

'Come, Mr Thompson, none of yer blarney, yer know; two can play at that game.' And he produced a revolver, which he deliberately pointed at his companion.

'How much do you want?' said Thompson, in a slightly altered voice: 'Here, there's notes for a thousand.'

'Not enough,' said Stiggins, sourly. 'I was yer catspaw ; I did yer dirty work; I lied before the judge for yer; yer know as well as I know that Harry Percival was innocent, and that yer planned the whole business yerself.'

'Now, look here, Stiggins,' said Thompson, 'if I make it two thousand, will you promise to leave England for ever and leave me in peace?'

'Ah, I see yer little game,' replied Stiggins, 'yer a deep un, Mr Thomp son, and no mistake— get rid of me, eh ? All right, hand over the splosh, and I'll clear off.'

After he had placed the money in his pocket he said: 'Good bye, Mr Thompson, and good luck to yer.'

Without a word in reply Mr Thompson turned his back on Stiggins and walked away towards the City.

'Nice sort o' pal,' muttered Stiggins. 'Carn't even condescend to wish a mate goodbye.'

At that moment one of the police officers, who was some distance in the oackground, must have slipped over something in the darkness, for he fell rather heavily. The noise caused Stiggins to look around quickly.

'What's that?' I heard him mutter. 'Guess I'd better make myself scarce.'

As soon as I saw him prepare to go I blew a whistle I had with me. The officers at once went in pursuit, but they must have been clumsy over the business for they allowed him to escape, and from that day to this Stiggins has not been heard of. I suppose he must have succeeded in getting out of the country.

On the following morning I made my way to Mr Thompson's residence, a beautiful house in the WVest-end of London.

'Can I see Mr Thompson?' I inquired of the footman who opened the door. The man appeared to hesitate, but I added: 'Kindly tell him Miss Dagmar wishes to see him.'

I was immediately shown into a magnificent drawing-room, and a few minutes later Mr Thompson entered, looking careworn and weary.

'Good morning, Miss Dagmar,' he said; 'why are you here so early? Has something gone wrong at the office?'

'No, sir,' I replied, quite calmly; 'it is not upon office business that I wish to see you-it is more of a private matter, I think. I believe you had an interview last night at a place called 'The Bushes' with a man of the name of Stiggins.'

He gasped, but in a few moments he regained his composure and said 'Well, and if I had, Miss Dagmar, what business is that of yours?'

'None of mine, sir, I'll admit; but I think it will be of great importance to a lady known by the name of Percival, who wishes to clear her brother's honour, although he may have died a convict's death.'

'But I don't understand,' he continued, after a time. 'Who are you, and what business is it of yours ?'

'I'm a lady detectivre from Scotland Yard; and my name is Bathurst.

'Bathurst!' he repeated, with a groan.

'Yes. I could have had you placed under arrest last night, but I didn't wish to do that. Some time ago the sister of the man you sent to such a terrible death paid me a visit, and begged of me to do my best to unearth the villain who had robbed her brother of life, of love, and honour. That was the reason why I entered your office as a typist. I soon tracked you through your friend Stiggins, and last night you yourself completed the chain of evidence. Philip Wentworth, in the Queen's name, I arrest you for the Cannon Street robbery.'

I had no sooner said those words than I saw two heavy curtains at the bottom of the room drawn quickly on one side, and a young lady slowly came in. She appeared to be guiding herself by the chairs towards where I stood. At first I could not understand, but in a few moments I could see that she was blind. When she reached the centre of the room she stopped suddenly, and called out, excitedly:

'Father, father!' but there was no answer. Again that terrible cry rang through the room: 'Father, tell her it's false; tell her that you are Mr Frank Thompson, and that you know nothing of this horrible charge. Oh, dad, do speak— do say something—  Lady, it's not true.'

Still there was no answer to her pleading beyond a heavy groan. Then she came to where I stood, and said:

'Have pity, spare him for my sake; I have no one else in the whole world, and I love him so. Lady, if he is guilty, spare him— don't, for the love of Heaven, drag him away from me, a prisoner and a felon. Have mercy—have mercy,' and then she fell down at my feet in a swoon.

I picked her up gently and laid her on the couch beside her wretched father. He looked ten years older since I entered the room, and when I moved his eyes sought mine like a tiger's who had been beaten into a corner, and was expecting every moment to receive its death thrust.

What could I do? It looked again like a death-like countenance of that poor blind girl, and that decided it, Ned. Beth Bathurst was only a woman after all, and, without another moments consideration, she tore the warrant in two and placed it in the fire. Now, Ned, you know all the particulars of the case, and the reason why Beth Bathurst kept the authorities in ignorance of the real perpretrator of the Cannon Street robbery.

___________________

Cumulative Index

To June Past Masters 32, 2021

An Author Index to the short stories in the Past Masters series of anthologies produced by "Pulpmeister", in which the issues are identified as follows:

P:  Past Masters

M:  More Past Masters

3:  Past Masters Three

4:  Past Masters Four
etc

__________

Cleve F. Adams

Flowers For Violet 4

Forty Pains 4

Punk 22

Shrinking Violet 22

A.J. Alan

The Diver  5

My Adventure at Chislehurst  5

The Hair  5

H2, etc.  5

My Adventure In Norfolk  5

W. L. Alden

Hopkins' Safe  15

Monty's Friend  15

Starkweather's Circular Hotel  15

Grant Allen

The Conscientious Burglar  P

Raymund Allen

Allah Knows Best  13

The Black Knight  13

A Happy Solution  16

The Winning Move  13

Mark Allerton

Price of Office  17

Mary Raymond Shipman Andrews:

The Butler  6

Anonymous

Adventure of the Rubber Pipe  11

The Banshee 21

By a Miscalculation  12

A Detective's Story  12

The Fatal Trapdoor  15

Martin Guerre  12

My Gifted Young Friend 25

The Lady Detective's Story 32

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

The Crafty Jerko-Slovaks 32

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

Rogue's Legacy 32

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

S. B. H. Hurst

The Brightest Jewel of Them All 32

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

Charles J. Mansford

The Veiled Idol of Kor 32

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

Beauty Dear 32

Warned by a Mouse 10

The Yellow Dragon Vases 32

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

With the Eternal Fires 32

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

Clarence Herbert New

The Attack from Moscow 32

The Island of Heaven and Hell 32

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

It Might Have Happened Otherwise 32

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

Lewis Ramsden

Désirée  32

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 Dayless Diamonds 32

The Dummy-Chucker 28

A Flutter in Finance 32

"Illimore!" 31

Legerdemain 28

The Premiere Danseuse 32

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

The Caleso Murders 32

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 Premiere Danseuse / Arthur Somers Roche

- 2: The Dayless Diamonds / Arthur Somers Roche

- 3: A Flutter in Finance / Arthur Somers Roche

- 4: The Crafty Jerko-Slovaks / Guy Gilpatric

- 5: The Caleso Murders / Raoul Whitfield

- 6: The Brightest Jewel of Them All / S. B. H. Hurst

- 7: Rogue's Legacy / Headon Hill

- 8: The Attack from Moscow / Clarence Herbert New

- 9: The Island of Heaven and Hell / Clarence Herbert New

- 10: It Might Have Happened Otherwise / Hugh Pendexter

- 11: The Veiled Idol of Kor / Charles J. Mansford

- 12: Désirée / Lewis Ramsden

- 13: With the Eternal Fires / Meade & Halifax

- 14: Beauty Dear / Mrs. L. T. Meade

- 15: The Yellow Dragon Vases / Mrs L. T. Meade

- 16: The Lady Detective's Story / Anonymous

- Cumulative Index to Past Masters Series