The Million Dollar Certificate
Author: H Bedford-Jones
Date: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00
Description: These stories were originally prepared for the "Past Masters" series of anthologies, and appear in them. Bedford-Jones was such a prolific author that "Calenorn" of this forum suggested that I might have enough for another stand-along Bedford-Jones collection to add to the seven others I have edited and uploaded. Well, there were more than enough: 130,000 words. Two of the stories are quite long. : Gallegher of Beaver 2: The Four Red Circles 3: The Trail of Death 4: Captain Rose and the Bullfrog 5: All Talk 6: Coastwise Murder 7: The Million-Dollar Certificate 8: A Scriptural Quotation 9: A Ha

THE MILLION DOLLAR

CERTIFICATE
and other stories

H. Bedford-Jones

Edited and produced by

"Pulpmeister"

June 2021

Contents

1: Gallegher of Beaver

2: The Four Red Circles

3: The Trail of Death

4: Captain Rose and the Bullfrog

5: All Talk

‘6: Coastwise Murder

7: The Million-Dollar Certificate

8: A Scriptural Quotation

9: A Harbor Hazard

10: Much Lost, More Won

11: The Devil is Dead

12: Lady of the Evil Eye

13: Sons of Kalewa

14: Apache Gold

15: The Fog at Fiddler's Green

16: The Devil's Fire

17: He Who Sets a Trap

18: The Luck of a Cowboy

________________

1: Gallegher of Beaver

The Sunday Star, Washington. D. C. July 1, 1923

EDDIE "BOWERY"GALLEGHER had come home from his summer's steam-boating. A big, overgrown boy he was, for all his mate's ticket, with a wide grin and a hearty laugh that would charm response from the sphinx. No one had told him yet about Gisli Gislison— not even his brother, Big Joe, had dared to tell him.

Bowery was in high spirits, and no wonder, having come home to the  loneliest yet most cheerful place on the lakes— Beaver Island. We all sat  around the stove—the McCann boys, old man Dunlevy, Salty Gallegher and  Hughie Big Biddy Gallegher, Tight Gallegher and Willie Boyle, and a few more. There was a drop to drink and the dance to follow, and the perch had begun to run.

"Ye know how scarce jobs were and men laid up?" Bowery leaned forward with his hearty laugh. "I was on the dock when the Menominee come in. and I went aboard her and struck the old man. 'Give me anything from mate to wheelin', but no lookout,' I tells him. He looks me over, sour and hard, and says: 'Gallegher, hey? I'll bet you're one o' them condemned Beaver Island Galleghers that's holdin' down berths on half the lake-boats this minute.' Delany, who was second mate on the Manitou last year, he was standin' by. and he begun to grin. 'I got two Beaver Galleghers aboard here now,' says the old man. 'and I reckon I can stand one more, so git aboard and go to wheelin'."

Bowery ceased speaking. A queer tension had fallen upon the group of us, and he was quick to sense it. He saw the stranger standing to one side, arms folded— a long, gaunt, flaxen-haired man with a face like molded iron he was; he looked once at Bowery Gallegher, then he turned and went out with a lithe and silent step.

'Where did that blow in from?' ejaculated Bowery.

Hughie Big Biddy leaned forward and spat into the stove. "Wash'n'ton Island— one o' them Icelanders from the Wisconsin side," he said awkwardly. Bowery glanced from face to face, then spoke:

"Well, what is it? You fellers ain't lettin' them square-heads run over here?"

Willie Boyle smiled in that queer, knowing way of his. "Goin' to fish this fall. Bowery?" he asked gently. "With your brother Joe. maybe?"

"Uh-huh. Dad's goin' to give us the Eleanor. Joe and I go half on the nets, and we'll get in on the perch in a couple o' weeks. What's that feller doing over here? Bayin' over?"

"Something like that." said Willie Boyle. "He's got out trap nets here and there— nobody knows just where. He don't flag 'em. He just seems to feel where they are."

"Huh?" Bowery stared, frowned perplexedly. "You don't mean he's fishin' over here? Who's with him?"

"Nobody," grunted Emmet McCann. "The Steelhead is campin' on Pismire Island; he's runnin' his own nets."

"I'll be blowed!" ejaculated Bowery, staring around. "Everybody got paralysis or something? Does Joe let this feller alone, too?"

A grin flitted about the circle of faces.

"Joe interfered," said Willie Boyle dryly. "He got laid up for a week and lost a six-hundred-dollar pound net. The two McCafferty boys interfered, and so did them Danes over to Garden Island. They landed on Pismire one night and warned Gislison off. He come over to the dance the next night and cleaned the whole of them— proper! He's come over for the dance tonight, I guess," said Willie Boyle, who was Mary's uncle. "It's a free country, ye know, Eddie."

Bowery came to his feet, all the laughing good-humor gone from the face of him. "Any man," said he, "who camps on Pismire, and fishes lonely, and don't flag his nets, is 'crazy! I s'pose you buy his fish, James?"

His cousin James nodded. "Being the company's agent. I play square.  He gets fish too! Eight hundred pound today, a hundred an forty bucks. Uses a net some, but mostly hooks. He has miles an' miles of the hooks, they tell me."

"See you later," said Eddie Bowery, and went stamping out of the store.

There was a space of silence. All were regretting that Bowery had not waited. They had first dwelt upon the good qualities of Gisli Gislison; there were other things to be said.

"Bowery's nobody's fool." said Salty Gallegher. "He's warned."

Willie Boyle rose. "I'm not missin' the dance this night," said he, smiling. "I've got ten dollars that says Bowery cleans the Icelander."

"Which way?" quavered old Dunlevy. "Wid his fists— or wid Mary?"

"Both ways," said Willie Boyle. "Ten each way. "

Willie Boyle was ten dollars poorer within the next two hours.

MARY BOYLE lived on her father's farm, four miles out of St. James on the Barney Lake road. Tall and straight was Mary Boyle, deep-eyed, with a laugh In her glance and a sob in her throat when she sang the Irish songs beside her mother's melodeon, and gray witchery under her black brows that had stirred the heart of more than one man.

Back from school had come Mary Boyle to help the sisters teach the youngsters their reading and writing, and she could handle a boat with any  man. or gaff and pull as the motor roared and the lifter brought In the lacy nets and the big whitefish went hurtling into the tub below.

On the white Grand Road came striding Gisli Gislison, and turned in at the gate. Mary came running from  the kitchen. When she saw who it was she paused in the doorway and the sparkle died out of her eyes.

"Good morning." said Gisli Gislison. He came forward to the veranda and halted by the step.

"Is it my father you'd like to see?" asked Mary with a lift to her brows.

Gisli Gislison smiled at her. "You know well enough, my dear, that it's not." said he. Have you time to talk a little?"

Mary bade him to a chair. He refused that, but stood by the veranda post and looked at her.

"Mary. I've no man helping me." His voice was smooth and inflexible. "I've a few trap nets and a tub of gill nets In the boat, and miles of hooks, which is the only way I can fish alone. But I can feel the fish. That's a living and more, my dear. I can buy a farm on Garden Island from the Injuns―"

"Please!" broke in the girl, pleadingly. "No, no, Gisli—please don't! You must not."

"And why not?" be asked, ice gleaming in his eyes.

"I—I  don't love you," she returned.

"Love makes love, my dear." he said.

The girl shook her head. "No."

"You will not?"

"It's impossible. Don't ask me. "

"Then I'll not. I'll come and take you."

For a moment she was in shaking dread of him. Then the blood came to her cheeks, and anger.

"How dare you!'' she flashed out. "If my father heard you he'd take the whip to you―"

"And I'd break Ills neck." said Gisli Gislison. calmly. "Listen, my dear. All these weeks you've walked and Talked and danced with me. and now that your man is home again you  think you can forget it. But you can't. I'll come and take, you— like this."

He put -out a hand to her arm. and his fingers were like a steel band encircling it. And at that she gave him a man's blow, drawing blood from his lips and cutting her knuckles on his strong white teeth. Gisli Gislison smiled at the blow and nodded.

She shrank.

A FLIVVER rattled to a halt before the farm and Bowery Gallegher jumped out. The car drove on. Gisli Gislison loosed the girl's arm as Bowery came up to them.

"What's goin' on here?" snapped Bowery, seeing the look In Mary's face and the blood on the Icelander's lip. "Is he botherin' you, Mary?"

"It's my affair, Eddie." she said, quietly. "Gisli, get away from here. I never want to see you again, understand?"

Gisli Gislison smiled and turned to Bowery, who met his gaze with a black scowl. "You heard her," he said. "Get out o' here!"

"You're a nice boy," said Gisli. imperturbably. "But you get mad too easy. Next time you get mad— look out! I'm a better man than you are, and I take what I want. Good-by."

"Better man than I am, is it?'' said Bowery. "Off with your coat, then—"

"Enough o' that!" Old Tom Boyle had come out to the door, and a dour man he was. "You, Bowery! I heard how ye did be fightin' this felly for an hour until he put ye out wid a kick— and I'll have none of it. You, what's-yer-name! Git off'n this place and stay off'n it. and keep yer eyes off'n my girl or I'll be puttin' a load o' duck shot into yer carcass. Git!" growled Tom Boyle.

Gisli Gislison smiled a little and walked, away,

"Come up to tell Mary that we got 800 pound yesterday, first trip," said Bowery, and laughed.

"Come in and eat dinner!" said Tom Boyle.

FOR three weeks Gisli Gislison held his lonely camp on Pismire Island.  He was not a good man to bother or disturb. One day a fish tug from Cheboygan came drifting past the  harbor and Emmet McCann went out  to her and brought her in with two battered men abroad, one of them  with four ribs broken. Gisli Gislison had found them at one of his trap nets, robbing it of perch. There was  some talk of getting the sheriff from  the mainland, but nothing came of it.

Bowery and Big Joe made luck with their fishing, and the second September gale was well due to arrive, when Big Joe caught his foot between boat and wharf. On Sunday Big Joe eat with his foot in a chair and a week's rest ahead.

In the afternoon Bowery was visiting at Tom Boyle's farm, and told of the bad luck.

"It's not the week's layoff that I minds but the loss of the gear and a big  haul we'd counted on Monday. We've had two traps out for a week up the Garden Island shore, and we left a new gill net out over Sunday, and if a storm comes up we'll never see that net again. Besides which, some o' them blasted Charlevoix men set a trap for bass near the wreck on Hog Island, and two boxes of fish from that trap would mean a hundred clear. Not a man to be got to help me, neither."

"You mind yer eye. Bowery," growled Tom Boyle. 'Vishin' bass is agin the law, and robbin' other men's net―"

"They've no right in our waters." said Bowery, "and as for the law, ain't this Beaver Island" How about you slaughterin' them mallard two weeks ago?"

Tom Boyle grinned at that and said no more. But after a little Mary spoke up, a flash in her gray eye. 'Eddie, what about taking me to help you? I've not been on the lake all summer, and I can handle the boat or haul nets while you gaff' I'll go tomorrow if you'll say the word!"

To the cheeks of Bowery crept a rich glow. For well he knew that he had only to speak his heart on the morrow to come home with finer fish than any lying in the tub.

"Done with ye!'' he exclaimed. "We'll get off at six, and by noon we'll be done and go ashore on Garden to have dinner with the Danes."

That afternoon Bowery Gallegher walked back to town singing at the  top of his voice. At the cross roads he met the priest, who gave Bowery a hard look. "Eddie Bowery." he said, "is It drunk you are?"

"Mighty nigh it, father." and Bowery laughed with all his heart.

"When will you give over these wild ways?" said the priest sternly.

"Tomorrow night, praise be!" said Bowery.

That night Bowery told his brother, Big Joe. about taking the boat In the morning. "It's two men's work," said Joe.

Bowery came to his feet. "And it's two men's work to carry the likes of you, ye big elephant!" says he. and stoops over with his two hands to the seat of Big Joe's chair. Then he came up. and Big Joe with him, and a laugh on his lips.

"If we had Tight Gallegher here to fiddle. I'd do a step with ye," said Bowery, and set Big Joe on the floor again, and never a puff from him.

At six in the morning Bowery had the Eleanor clean as a whistle when Mary Boyle came down to the wharf. Bowery stood in the boat below.

"Jump for it!" said he, and Mary  jumped. He caught her and swung her down, and seated her in the stern.

"Take her out, while I mind the engine." and he shoved out, and in two seconds the open boat was heading down the harbor.

A GRAY morning it was, the wind switching from west to south-west and kicking a bad sea up the channel.

"Head for Pismire," said Joe, when they had cleared the light and were reaching for the Garden Island channel. "We'll get right over to H ; Island and attend to them bass, then work back under the lee of Garden where our own nets are."

"It'll be blowing before noon," said Mary.

"Let her blow," and Bowery grinned as he primed the pump. "I'll give ye some oilskins in a minute— hello! Look who's yonder!"

The girl glanced off to port, where a gray speck was creeping in through the channel toward them. At her question. Bowery chuckled. "It's the Icelander—he's been over to High Island gettin' nets in from the blow."

His pumping done, Bowery brought oilskins for the girl, and took the helm himself. Mary Boyle marveled, for Bowery was sitting beside her,talking and laughing, and hardly taking his blue eyes from her face; yet the boat was like a horse that feels the band of a master on the reins.

Bowery held well out beyond Pismire, which was a mere tree-studded dot of sand, and at the spar buoy came about for the end of Hog Island reef. Two miles north of Beaver was Garden Island, and due east of that was Hog, with Pismire down below and between them. All inside this triangle and outside St here and there was shoal water, studded with bowlders and long reefs, so that a man would have heavy sorrow on his hands if he took a boat hereabout, and he all ignorant of the channels.

The Eleanor was soon past the Hog reef and rounding up for Hog Island, while behind them the Icelander drew in and vanished behind Pismire.

They came into Belmore bay. and Bowery shut off the engine and stood up with the hook, as she drifted before the waves. A heavy sea it was, too, so that the boat pitched high and rolled wide. Down came the hook and pulled up the slimy black net, and over the side leaned Bowery, arms under water as he hauled in until he came to the trip rope, and so loosed it. and the next moment he was at the trap and loosed the cord and had the bass under his fingers.

A box of the big bass they had there, and that was fifty dollars. Mary throwing the small ones back. That was two hours gone and twelve miles behind them, when Bowery threw over the flywheel and pointed west for Garden Island and his own nets. There was a scud of mist and gray slime that hid Garden from sight, so Bowery got out his compass and laid it between the feet of him, and laughed into Mary's eyes.

"It'll be storm by afternoon." said Mary, taking the tiller, her cheeks flushed with the sharp wind.

"Hear the fog whistle from Squaw-Island driftin' on the gale? Let her blow." Bowery's rich laugh broke out.

"We'll be drinkin' coffee with old Nels,  and if ye don't like the weather he'll take you home in his big tug, Mary."

"Oh, will he?" She laughed back at him. "Speak for yourself, Eddie Bowery! I'm satisfied where I am."

It was an hour or more before they picked up the Garden shore and Bowery  got his bearings: then there were the nets to be got in, and the traps to be opened, and the line to be knotted again under the water. Because Mary was with him. Bowery had brought boxes for the fish, and he stacked them up forward with the tub of nets atop them.

"Four hundred pound and that's a hundred and twenty," said Bowery, as he took the tiller and headed for the Danes' cove. "Listen to the wind howl outside! It'll be sweet work crossin' the channel back to Beaver!"

"And you soaked to the waist," said Mary. "How long will it be, Eddie, before the life will go out of your big shoulders?"

"Never, praise be!" said he, and laughed out. "Dad's near seventy, he— and has he ever said a word o' rheumatism? Not him. The Galleghers are a tough lot."

Near noon they came into the little cove midway the east side of Garden, where old Nels and his two Sons had held ground for thirty years. There were the three of them mending nets by the ice shed, and their big. fast boat at the dock.

A hearty greeting they had from Nels and Pete and Ole, and all trooped up together to the house under the singing cedars. Now there was laughing of women and killing of chickens, while the good beer that Nels brewed was fetched in, with heady sand cherry wine for the table. Coffee, parched black and made strong, and new bread hot from the oven, and butter golden from the churn; never was a better or more open-to-all table than the Danes set forth when visitors came.

But it was neither beer nor wine that held Bowery Gallegher' spirits high. When the cigars and pipes were lighted and the dishes cleared off, Mary spoke up.

"My mother wanted me to bring home two of your big red hens and a rooster with them, if you could spare them," said she.

"Ja, sure!" said old Nels, and rose up from his seat. "Aye see dem birds down to de Ice house—you come?"

So they went out. while Bowery was telling about the fine French barometer that he won from Delaney in a craps game.

IT was a cry from old Nels that brought them out as he came staggering up among the trees, and blood black in his matted whiskers.

"Dot Icelander!" he yelled. "He's ban take her―''

Bowery was the first down to the dock, with old Nels and the boys and the women all streaming after him.

The boat of Gisli Gislison was heading out to clear the bowlders, with never a soul showing aboard her.

Once she lurched and yawed about, then righted to her course, and Bowery knew that Mary had done her best In that moment and could do no more.

He stood gazing, while old Nels cried out how the Icelander had leaped on him and struck him down, and had lifted Mary aboard and gone. Bowery crooked his finger at the two boys.

"Give me a hand here," said he, and the three of them lifted the boxes of fish to the dock. Then Bowery lifted old Nels in his arms, and carried him to the boat, dropping him in the stern.

"Ye'll not catch him." yelled Pete. "Nor will we!"

"Go after him, you and Ole!" roared out Bowery Gallegher, throwing off his lines. "Go after him In your own boat, for I'll stop him or drown doin' it. "

The two boys jumped to their big boat, and when Bowery headed out of the cove he looked back to see her following. Then he set the tiller, and laid old Nels against  it, while he poured oil into the engine and screwed down the cups over the bearings.

He peered at the boat ahead, seeing that she was low in the water and steady as a rock.

"He'll circle into the channel, knowing well that few men would follow him that way," Bowery muttered.

He came back to the tiller and headed in along the Garden shore. He knew that Gislison must travel two legs of a triangle, so he himself  was taking the third leg across the shoals and through Stony Reef, though it was six years since he had taken a boat that scary way.

BOWERY filled the gas tank, heaved the rest of the spare gasoline overboard and followed It with everything he could tear loose except the lifebelts. Then he came back into the stern.

Under the drive of the spray old Nels had come back to life and was lifting his red dripping whiskers over the rail to see.

"Ye ban fool!" he sang out. "Not wan foot water on de reef!"

"There'll be less than that under us when we get there," said Bowery, as he threw down a lifebelt beside Nels. He took the tiller while Nels got his arms Into the belt and tied the straps.

The slow time dragged along, and now they were past the eastern tip of Garden and heading for Stony reef ahead. Even here in shelter of the reef the waves ran high.

"Ye'll not catch him!" yelled old Nels.

"He ain't around Pismire yet— we got him!" sang out Bowery. "Mind the tiller while I con the way."

He went leaping forward to the bow, where he stooped and threw out the lifebelts in a loose mass, then stood up on the prow watching the bowlder-strewn water ahead.

Straight for Stony reef they drove, a long line of shoal running out from Garden island and ending off to the left in two shallow sand spits where the waves burst high.

The Eleanor wallowed over the shoal water, and began to zigzag back and forth, with Bowery standing up on the tossing prow and putting out his arms to right or left, while old Nels shoved his weight against the tiller.

A wild yell came from Bowery as I he sighted the Icelander's boat at last. Back aft came Bowery, pausing at the engine to pour in oil, then jumped to the stem and seized the tiller. He put the Eleanor square at the reef.

"Over with ye!'' he shouted to old Nels. "Over and make the sand spit—ye can wade it!"

Just then she struck, came free, struck again with a rending smash and stayed where she was. Bowery leaned forward and threw the engine into neutral, then came up and gripped the arm of Nels. "Over, or I'll throw ye!" he roared.

Nels scrambled outboard and with his weight gone the boat lifted. Bowery threw in the clutch and she began to forge ahead though she was taking in water fast from the crash. Nels gained his footing and scrambled toward the spit of sand, and the boat slid off into deep water and headed out into the channel welter.

Straight south across the bow of the Icelander's boat Bowery held her, while the waves thundered down, and broke over her with every crashing impact of the bow. Bowery hung a tarpaulin over the engine.

"Better  man than I am. hey?" he yelled. "Prove It, ye yellow-haired devil!"

The larger boat drove straight for him while he still headed down across The only opening aboard her was aft, where Gisli Gislison sat at the tiller.

The two boats held steady, unswerving, while up before Bowery a rose a veil of driving mist as the whirl of the flywheel churned up the rising water. The larger craft hurled down at him, and suddenly above her box appeared the yellow hair of Gislison, he standing with foot on tiller and looking ahead with the ice-cold eyes of him, since from below he could not see under her bow. Not forty feet of water held the two boats apart, and the Icelander's craft was headed to strike the Eleanor fair amidships, for Gislison would give no warning of his Intent.

Then, holding his upper body unmoving, Bowery slid out his foot through the sloshing water, and when his toes touched the clutch lever, he shoved with all the strength In him. That reversed the engine checking the boat's speed and pulling her back, and at the same instant Gislison swung tiller with his foot to strike the Eleanor astern and send Bowery under with her.

At that play the Icelander lost. The Eleanor seemed to jump backward  under his very eyes, then the bow of his boat rose above her on a sea and came down upon her gunnel, and the open boat rolled with the crash, but drove her engine into the bow of the other and ripped the planks out.

Bowery Gallegher was not under that bow as the Icelander wanted him, for the crash came forward of his seat, and he was In the air and  leaping for the bow space of the larger boat, forward of her house.

Bowery hauled himself over the rail, and looked up to see the Icelander
whirling at him, with foot upraised. He took the kick, for he had to, and came to his feet with hurt ribs and a fist flung out, a moment the two men stood In that little space of deck and swung at each other, while the boat drifted about in the trough of the sea and rolled under their feet the bow slowly going down Into the water.

"Better man than I am, hey?' said Bowery,  and laughed as he struck. "Prove it, then!"

A wave burst their feet and legs. Startled by that the Icelander flung up his head, and a fierce look came into his cold face as he saw they were going down, than he sickened Bowery With a cruel blow under the belt, turned, and went leaping toward the stern along the side of the box, and Bowery staggering after him with white lips. By now the rollers were bursting clean over the bow of the craft, and In her lee floated, the scattered life belts from the Eleanor, as Bowery had figured when he loosened them.

GISLISON disappeared under the box and Bowery came at last to the opening. There in front of him was the Icelander and beyond the figure of Mary Boyle, stunned and motionless.

A net spread wide in his hands, Gislison came erect as he made to fling the net over Bowery. The net flew, but wide of the mark, for Bowery let himself go feet first beneath It and kicked the Icelander's legs from under him, himself falling   across the hot cylinders of the engine until his ribs were seared with the heat and he jerked himself clear.

Barely In time was the Jerk, for Gislison was erect and whirling on him, but Bowery kicked the feet from under the man once more and sent him sprawling across the tubs of nets and the long coils of line with the bloater hooks. In that instant Bowery caught at Mary, lifting her with one arm, and scrambled back to the rising stem of the boat. What happened after that he was not sure, for around them swelled a black tide of water.

But as he went he thought of the Icelander down below— and a laugh was on the lips of him.

The Danes' boat came up and they pulled Bowery out of the water with Mary in his arms and a life belt clenched in his fingers, and, letting the boat drift, they rolled the water out of the two. Bowery was the first to come around and he swung himself over, coughing, until he stood on his two feet, "What are ye waitin' for?" he said to the boys.

"For the Icelander," said Fete, squinting at him.

With that Bowery thought of the man down below and the bloater hooks and the lacy nets spreading out with the water. So he caught up the coiled line that was by him and over the side he went, a laugh on his lips as he vanished.

Mad the boys thought him, and loud they cursed as the boat drifted in the fog and mist and the waves drove them. Then Bowery was up again and reaching for the gunnel. They dragged him in, and he so exhausted that he could only grin at them and  Jerk his hand at the line. They pulled it In. and there was a heavy  weight on the end. and that same was Gisli Gislison.

A full half-hour It was before they brought the Icelander round. Bowery rose and looked down at Mary and saw the flush on her cheek. Then he looked at the boys and his eyes twinkled.

"Off wid ye!" says he. "Turn her over. We'll pick up Nels and go back for them chickens, not to mention a warm fire and a cup o' hot coffee and a bed for Gisli Gislison. Glory it's a fine day!"

The boys stared at him. "Crazy Gallegher!" said Ole.

"Sure!" A great laugh bubbled on the lips of Bowery. "Sure! The Beaver Island Galleghers are all crazy! Let's go. I told the priest I'd be taking the pledge tonight and I'd not keep him waiting."

_____________________

2: The Four Red Circles

Blue Book, Nov. 1924

CORALIE SMITH, like a good many women in these degenerate days, knew too much for her own good, was proud of the fact, and was very attractive to the average man. Certainly Captain Maignan found her so, as she stood in all her trim, alert beauty at the gate of his lonely Saharan outpost and chaffed him about the four red circles. If he had been astonished by her appearance, he was stupefied and astounded by her departure, for Captain Maignan knew very little about her ability. Her mention of the circles, however, drew a swift protest from him.

"Mademoiselle, I beg of you!" he exclaimed in dismay. "Such words must not be heard by my men here, by your own men. Above all, you must not go to Bou Saffra, as the town is called on our maps. It is horribly unsafe, particularly just now—"

"Must not?" Coralie surveyed him with that dazzling smile of hers, thrice dazzling by reason of her starry eyes and golden skin and sun-bleached red-gold hair. She had long since passed the stage of mere sunburn, and was richly tanned.

"You forget, I am a seasoned explorer, and even speak some Touareg; moreover, I am interested in these four red circles which have caused so much consternation in your district. You promised to tell me what you know— all you know— about them. Please!"

Poor Maignan threw out his hands, helpless before such a woman. He swept his glance around the courtyard where the Senegalese of his detachment lounged, looked at the camels which Coralie's men were loading, wiped his brow, and began his recital.

"No white man has been to Bou Saffra— the Itessan tribe of Touareg live there, as you know, the oldest branch of the Touareg. The family uses four circles as a brand, for all their animals and livestock—"

Coralie laughed. "My dear Captain, I have written two monographs on the Egyptian and Tripolitan cattle-brands! And I know of the four-circle brand— the circles in a line. So, proceed."

"Yes, in a line," repeated Maignan. "Men have died, and there has been talk of these four red circles; it is a mystery, even to the manner of death. As you know, here in the A-ir district, the sultan is only a puppet. Each Touareg clan rules absolutely in its own region—"

"You have said that I know all this, and I do," said Coralie. "Pray come to the point. All the northern tribes are afraid of these four red circles, and there is some singular connection with Bou Saffra and the Itessan family brand. Just what do you know about the place?"

"The Itessan family possesses there a spot which all the Touareg believe to be holy ground, and they admit no visitors," said Maignan simply. "I know nothing more. Rumor tells how men die and babble about four red circles. That is all. The whole A-ir country is uneasy, and my five-and-twenty Senegalese are very unhappy men."

"You know nothing about a holy man there named Belkho el Bagdadi?"

"No," said Maignan, giving her a curious look. She smiled brightly, and gave him her hand.

"My dear Captain, I know more than you do, then. Come, I must leave— my camel is waiting. Thanks for your hospitality, for your kindness—"

"I beg you, wait here only a few days!" implored Maignan. "When that detachment of the camel-corps arrives, it will include many Touareg; I will go to Bou Saffra with you—"

"I am sorry; to delay is impossible," she returned. "Au revoir, dear monsieur!"

She turned to the gateway. The ten mehari, fine racing camels, were ready; that of Coralie was kneeling. She mounted in approved desert fashion, was neatly pitched into the saddle as the bubbling beast heaved, and waved her hand at Maignan.

He stood watching the line of beasts depart. Six of them bore supplies; Coralie Smith rode the seventh. The other three carried Abdul, a masked Touareg from Ahaggar, and two of his masked slaves. Under escort of Abdul, she was reasonably safe; he was well known to the French, being a prominent noble, and a man of great authority here in A-ir. None the less, Captain Maignan sadly shook his head, for he had served through the local insurrection of 1917, and knew a few things.

"A beautiful creature, and I am sorry for her," he reflected. "I would give something to know why that woman is going to Bou Saffra! She has one reason in her heart, and announces another reason openly."

He sighed, as he looked out across the great empty plateau where the caravan route of the central Sahara had worn great tracks ten feet deep in the course of centuries—the immense desert uplands where his tiny tricolor waved above a mud fort.

"A woman always has a reason," he said; "yet she is always unreasonable. Hélas!"

"THERE is the place, ya lella," said Abdul, pointing. "This is your last chance to turn back; and as Allah liveth, I advise you to turn! These people are not Inghad, of the slave tribes. They are of the Imajeghan, the very noble clans, oldest and most secret of all our people, the Kel Tagilmus."

Thus the Touareg call themselves, from the veil or tagilmus which hides their fierce Berber faces from all eyes. Coralie Smith, however, appeared not to hear the warning; she gazed down the rocky slope at the valley beyond, her blue eyes bright and eager. Beside her the Touareg's eyes smote sharply from the slit of his dark blue veil and headcloth; his two slaves, veiled and armed like himself, followed his uneasy glances. One would have said that the white woman was less afraid than were these three riders of the secret tribe.

They looked across a narrow, stony valley set between sharp ridges of rock that formed high walls, abrupt on the opposite side, sloping more gently on this. Although the afternoon was advancing, shadow and sunlight were intensely black and white. Down below in the gorge was a pool of water, motionless as an azure mirror, with a few date-palms and acacias scattered about its verge and drainage; camels, mules and horses were in evidence. Beyond this pool was the village itself, stone-built, consisting of a large flat mosque and several dozen houses. Beside the mosque was a larger house than the others, to which Abdul pointed.

"There lives Belkho el Bagdadi, the holy man, who came from Bagdad bringing to the Itessan family a new Tariq or law of salvation. So, at least, is the report."

"I thought you said he had been captured as a slave?" asked Coralie quietly.

"Allah alone knoweth all things," was the grave response, evasive enough.

"You are sure that the name might not have been— for instance, Belcombe?"

"Belkho is a Tamajegh name," said Abdul, and transliterated it into Arabic and French, as he had done twice before this. Then he glanced at the sun, which was westering. "Do you wish to proceed, or to turn back? I have brought you here as I promised; Allah alone knoweth what the event will be, either to you or to us. I can promise you nothing, for these people are not of my family."

Coralie smiled. "On!"

ABDUL silently led the way, her camel following his. As she let the beast pick its own trail down the winding, rocky slope, Coralie Smith looked down at the pool and village, and noted carefully the path; yet her thoughts were of the man who had vanished into the Sahara three years previously. The world had given Roger Belcombe up for dead; the army lists had posted Flight Commander Belcombe as missing; but Coralie Smith could never visualize the dead face of the man she loved, the man who had gone away into the empty air of the Sudan and vanished. To think this man dead was impossible.

So she came to Africa, spent long months learning the language, studying the people, and thereafter went on fruitless voyages into the desert. It was now a year since, in the bazaar at Khano, she had one day heard mention of Belkho el Bagdadi; she had been twelve months in tracing down that name, in .reaching this spot in the almost unknown plateau of A-ir, the country of the Touareg. She knew only too well how bitter might be the truth, how unlikely it was that this holy man could be Roger Belcombe; but because Belcombe had served on the Bagdad front and knew his Moslems thoroughly, the clue could not be idly passed by.

Then had come Abdul the faithful, bringing her rumors of this saint. Mystery surrounded him; he dwelt afar in the desert, Allah had endowed him with powers of life and death; the jinn obeyed him, for he had brought from Bagdad the mystic Seal of the great Suleiman, of three triangles interwoven in a star—and so forth.

Nothing definite, but men died and babbled of four red circles, and bazaar gossip linked this with the Itessan family, and the holy saint of Bou Saffra. There was nothing definite, but the French were disquieted, and there was talk of an expedition to Bou Saffra, as the place was mapped, to properly overawe the Touareg before a new Mahdi should arise.

As the ten mehari filed down to the valley floor, sunset was drawing near. The arrivals had been seen and were awaited; a dozen horses were pricking toward them, bearing blue-veiled riders whose lances and rifles glittered in the reddened light. There was no hurry, no confusion. The Itessan riders came forward calmly, others following in smaller groups, without shouting or powder-play. Abdul hastened his beast and presently addressed the Touareg in their own peculiar pre=Arab language. They listened to him, made no response, only wheeled their horses and left him to follow. He made a signal to Coralie Smith and rode on, the mehari trailing behind.

So they came into the village, and from the mosque ascended a quavering singsong voice, the call to sunset prayer. Coralie looked about at the unveiled women, the Touareg dismounting, the thronging children; then these were on their knees, Abdul and his two fellows joining in a short two-bow prayer and adding a ratib for their safe journey. Coralie did not dismount, for she never made any pretensions to being one of "the enlightened," and usually gained a corresponding respect from the men of the desert. She sat watching, her gaze flickering to the recessed windows of the house where lived the holy man from Bagdad; but those recesses were empty.

Now the prayer was over. Coralie's camel knelt, and she joined Abdul and his two men. The Touareg thronged about in silence, and she thought that Abdul seemed uneasy before this reception, before the lack of all response to his words. After a little time the door of the house of the saint was opened. From it came a tall man who uttered a few short, sharp words. Abdul replied, and was given a peremptory answer. He turned to Coralie, and spoke in French:

"I have told them that you came to see the man of Bagdad; they say he sleeps now and you must wait until morning. This is the chief of the village. I do not like the looks of all this, mademoiselle. If there is trouble, mount and ride while we hold them. There has been no threat; yet—"

He shrugged, and at a word from one of his own men, turned. The tall Itessan chief came forward to him and threw back his burnous, then placed something in the hand of the astonished Abdul. Coralie leaned forward to see what it was, and was amazed to behold an ordinary white paper envelope, upon which were scrawled four irregular circles in red, newly done.

The crowd suddenly fell back, leaving the new arrivals in a group. Abdul turned over the envelope, which appeared quite empty, with an air of perplexed dismay. Then, as though coming to a decision, he tore swiftly at one end of the paper, and peered into the empty envelope. It was empty, yes; and yet—

From Abdul broke a wild, sudden cry of unbearable anguish. He clapped both hands to his face, ripped away his veil and headcloth— the greatest shame of a Touareg man—and with a frightful scream plunged into a blind run. He ran only ten steps, then staggered and fell prostrate in the sand, and lay there motionless.

The crowd surged forward, without a word, and weapons slithered out. Abdul's two slaves tried to fight, but before they could pull trigger were shot down and knifed. Coralie Smith found herself held helpless in the grip of two men, and the tall chief came to her. In that same ominous silence he deliberately searched her, removed her pistol and belt, jerked the watch from her wrist. Then she was bound and shoved into the same house from which the chief had emerged— the house of Belkho el Bagdadi.

Like most real Touareg houses, this one was orientated and had two rooms; unlike most, it had also an upper room, attained by a ladder and trapdoor, situated above the room in which Coralie Smith lay bound upon a mat. And while she lay there waiting for the swift sun to plunge over the rim of the world and draw tropic night in his train, Coralie observed certain things. Her observation was singularly close and accurate.

Fortunately for herself, Coralie was no heroine of fiction— somehow these heroines never observe things on the desert. They do not know that Arabs are keener trailers than any Mohawk; they fail in the knowledge of tremendous trifles, such as the ablutions and the eating-hand of an Arab; they are not alive, in a word, to the realistic side of their desert sojourn. Coralie was fully alive to it. She had seen Abdul die, and his two men murdered at her side, but she was not particularly overcome by horror or hysterics; one never is, in real life, unless the horror goes too far. However, she was keenly sensible of two things; first, her own position, and second, that of the man from Bagdad in the upper room. So, instead of bothering her head about theoretical problems such as that of the four red circles, she concentrated on actualities.

Shortly after her enforced sojourn began, she perceived the chief of the village and two of his men come into the house. These three carried her personal belongings, but none of the provisions or other luggage, and bore them up the ladder. Of the room above, she was unable to see anything. The three men came down again; the trapdoor closed behind them; and they stood conferring in low tones.

Coralie watched them closely, finding something singular in their conversation.

Unable to watch their faces, unable to comprehend their language, which was not like the little northern Touareg she had picked up, Coralie had only their gestures on which to base an opinion; yet she formed one. This opinion was that these three men here stood in active hatred and fear of El Bagdadi up above. Then, presently, the three stood farther apart, drew back from one another. The chief took from beneath his burnous an envelope duplicating that given Abdul— an envelope on which were clearly marked the four red circles. A last word; then, with a sudden air of decision, the chief darted to the ladder and climbed it, thrust up the trapdoor with one hand, and with the other slid the envelope into the upper room. Then he descended, and after a careless glance at the captive woman, all three men left the house.

Coralie waited for a scream, the sound of a fall, from above. None came. She was far from comprehension of the whole matter; yet she had formed an opinion. This in itself was a distinct achievement.

TWILIGHT was gathering when two strapping Touareg women entered and came to her. One set down a bowl of kouskousu while the other untied her arms. When she spoke, they shook their heads and pointed to the bowl; so she began to eat mechanically, her nerves in suspense, her thoughts still busy with what had so recently transpired, as she waited for some sound of death from above. None came. When she had finished the bowl of food, the two women stooped over her to tie her wrists again. Coralie submitted meekly, but held her arms out in front, fists clenched, for the operation. The two women, evidently in high contempt, drew the lashings tight, left her ankles unbound as before, and departed. Darkness, swift night of the desert, was falling.

Coralie smiled slightly. In wandering to and fro across the face of the Sahara, she had picked up a thing or two not found in novels. For example, it is difficult to cast an efficient lashing about one's arms, short of dislocating them, when they are held out in front with rigid muscles, and her arms had by no means been dislocated.

Coralie fell to work with sharp teeth, and in ten minutes her hands were free. Her sole obvious weapon had been removed, but now she opened the trim khaki shirt below her burnous and bared her bosom to the darkness. Between her breasts, comfortably snug and safe from any but the most careful search, was fastened a tiny, ugly little automatic. She took the pistol from its holster, freed herself of the holster, and then searched her pockets. Nothing remained to her except a few loose French sulphur-matches and a packet of Algerian cigarettes.

For a space she sat in silence, reflecting. Why had that message of mysterious death been given the man in the upper room? From jealousy of his power and sanctity, no doubt; it had not been done by general consent of the tribe, certainly. The furtive movements of the village chief and his two men pretty well explained themselves.

Suddenly, in the silence, Coralie caught a slight sound from above—the
shuffling tread of a foot. So, the man from Bagdad was not dead? She rose, drew her dark burnous tightly about her, went to the ladder. From the village outside came no sound; all was dark, silent, abandoned to the night. She set foot on the ladder and started up. Scrutinizing the trapdoor above, she found no glimmer of light around its edges.

"Boldness is the only possible course," she reflected, and got out her matches. "Either that man is Roger— or he is not."

She ascended to the trap. There, listening, she once again heard the faint thud of a footstep, but was certain that the upper room was in darkness. Deliberately she put up one hand, slightly lifted the trapdoor, verified the darkness above; then, coming to the next rung of the ladder, she supported the door on her head and shoulders and scratched a match. She held up the sliver of blue flame into the room above.

She had a glimpse of a tall veiled Touareg figure, whirling about in alarm at the light. Then, under her very hand, at the edge of the opening, she saw the envelope with the four red circles.

"For the love of heaven put out that light!" cried the voice of Roger Belcombe.

"It's really you— really you!" murmured  Belcombe in a low voice, as he held Coralie against him in the darkness. "I saw you arrive— gad, it's beyond belief! My dear, my dear, what are you doing here? Why did you come to this place?"

"To find you, of course," said the girl, and laughed softly. Then, in a few vivid words, she etched for him an outline of the past three years. Belcombe swore under his breath.

"Coralie, you're wonderful! But you don't know what—"

"Let me light that candle," she suggested. He exclaimed sharply, urgently.

"No, no! They must think I've been finished off. That rascally chief expects to find me dead in the morning—"

"Suppose you elucidate those four red circles, then," she said composedly, and touched his cheek in the darkness. Belcombe uttered a low, helpless groan.

"Three years ago! You know, dear, some of these Touareg had flooded over into the Sudan and were making trouble. I was sent to the force driving them back— was sent with a load of grenades and some cylinders of the new NX3 gas. Well, I crashed, and they got me. There was just one slim chance of getting out alive, and I took it. Told 'em that I had come from Bagdad for their benefit, got hold of the chief and outlined things; I was always up on their religion, you know. They brought me here with my load, and I've been an emissary of murder for these devils. The chief wasn't fooled, but the others were; I managed to impose on them with parlor tricks, and one thing or another—"

"But the envelopes?" breathed Coralie. "There's one here, on the floor—"

Belcombe laughed. "Until recently I kept the thing secret, but the chief finally caught on to the hang of it. He took away the last cylinder of gas and managed to fix up his own. The thing is just an envelope, carefully made air-tight except for one opening; by this opening I inject gas from a cylinder, then seal it over. When the envelope is torn open by anyone, the escaping gas is nearly always deadly—just enough of it. Takes a nice hand to do it rightly, my dear; the four red circles, the tribal brand, is only part of the hocus-pocus. These Touareg don't rightly understand; they're superstitious. They've kept me a prisoner— I haven't been outside this room in two years—"

"You poor thing!" said Coralie, and snuggled against his cheek. She perceived that he was on the verge of breakdown; his voice and manner were very shaky. "Get your veil back on, now, and we'll be going. I have a pistol here."

"Impossible. There's always a guard watching the trails, and we'd never get by. Besides, the chief is devilish jealous of me and suspects that I'd make a break. I've tried it twice—"

"So much the better. We can get camels or horses at the pool, if the guard is not posted here in the village. What about those grenades? Have you any here?"

"Yes, all my stuff was brought along; but probably they're spoiled now."

Coralie nodded to herself. She could understand perfectly that this man had been dispirited, broken down, rendered hopeless. With his wits he had fought for life, but the struggle had left him weakened; the long confinement had shattered his old fine spirit. So she thought, not knowing all the truth.

"You need me, evidently," she said calmly. "Get some of those grenades and come along. No talk, now! Is the village guarded?"

"No; the approaches to the upper plateau only—"

"Then we'll get horses, which are faster to get going than mehari. We'll ride over or through the guard, and go. It's simple enough."

In the darkness, a slow laugh broke from Belcombe.

"Yes," he said bitterly, "it's very simple. So simple that I have been here considerably over two years.

"Never mind being nasty," she retorted. "Have you no faith?"

"What I had, I lost long since."

"Then you're a fool. Hurry with those grenades, now. Sure you have 'em?"

"Quite. At times I've contemplated pitching them out wholesale at the village— have come near to it, in fact, except that it would not have helped me to escape."

"Never mind being garrulous," she said curtly, trying to rouse and spur his spirit. "No more time to waste now. Come on."

Beneath her short speech, she was horribly anxious. She realized only too well that this was not the laughing, efficient Roger Belcombe she had known in earlier days. How this long captivity had sapped his spirit! She must be the man of the two this night. No doubt something of this same thought went leaping to the brain of Belcombe himself, for when he swung up the trap and she told him not to fumble on the ladder, he uttered a low groan.

"Coralie, ha' mercy on me! You don't know all— I'm far gone."

"You poor sweet thing!" For an instant she hugged his face against her breast in a swift, incredible access of motherliness. Then, pulling apart his veil, she kissed his lips twice.

"Now, down with you!"

He went fumbling down the ladder, and presently she was down after him. They went together to the doorway that opened on the village— the house, like all Touareg dwellings, had three openings.

There was no sound, no light, save the soft tinkle of some stringed instrument drifting from some far house, and the flicker of a candle in one window. The night was cold, starry, clear, and Coralie knew that in an hour or two a glorious hunter's moon would be swinging up the sky to lade their road with peril. It could not be helped.

"Go ahead," she said softly, and Belcombe obeyed. Ah, that old, free, nervous stride of his! It was good to see. Clutching her pistol, the girl followed.

The open space before the houses, deep in soft sand, gave back no sound of their steps. Coralie's swift glances found no leaping light, no fierce yell of discovery, no tumultuous figures piling forth in alarm; the escape was, apparently, ridiculously easy. Yet she was not deceived, for with her lingered those sad and hopeless words: "So simple, that I have been here considerably over two years—"

They sluff-sluffed through the looser untrampled sand toward the pool. This hung like a mirror of black bronze under the trees, shimmering back the starlight; animals loosely strung out, not frightened, but inspecting the arrivals incuriously. Belcombe turned and spoke softly in Arabic, not to startle the beasts.

"Mehari or horse?"

"Horses," said Coralie with decision. "We must get away instantly."

"Then they'll run us down tomorrow—" he objected.

"For tomorrow, trust God!"

"W'Allah alim!" he said, bitterly. "Only God knows!"

He sat down on the sand, drew out his knife; there was a sound of ripping cloth. His toughly woven veil and headcloth ran into strips. Bareheaded, he rose, and she saw his profile against the stars; she choked a little sob in her throat, but said nothing. He had changed.

In five minutes Belcombe swung her up to the hollow of a sleek back, and got another beast for himself; holding the cloth-strip reins, tied about the jaws of the horses, they sent the beasts on. No trouble, no discovery, no alarm. It would have been incredible, had not Belcombe known only too well of the guard that was kept on the upper trail.

Coralie, who had carefully conned the descent to the valley floor, led the way up the sloping hillside opposite the village. She attempted no evasion, no concealment, but urged her beast straight on. She could not comprehend the danger. The fact that she had found Roger Belcombe, that he was riding here at her stirrup, filled her world with unrecking delight and happiness, mad exultation. No miracle was impossible, after this!

Then came rude awakening. A voice from above spat forth at them; dark shapes of men thronged the trail ahead. Belcombe made response, in that strange Berber tongue of these folk, and for a moment Coralie thought the path would clear. Then, in the starlight, they saw the bare head of the man from Bagdad. One shrill yell clipped out, and a tall Touareg leaped up with a flash of steel.

Coralie pistoled him.

Yells resounded; the horses plunged; bullets whistled. From the road ahead of them vomited a blinding concussion— a grenade that Belcombe hurled. Coralie shot again and again; somehow she controlled her frantic horse, forced him ahead. The road was clear now, and in five minutes they were galloping side by side along the winding desert trail, where only patches of camel-scrub broke the sandy waste. Gone was the village, gone the valley and the tumult; gone was everything; here were only the desert, and peace, and the white stars.

"Feel better?" asked Coralie after a time.

"Wait for the moon," he responded grimly.

She laughed, and pointed to the blur of light on the horizon.

"It's coming!"

"Do you know where you're going? Which way headed?"

"W'Allah alim —only God knows!" she returned the ever-present Arab ejaculation at him. "Allah, the Compassionate, the Merciful! Is not the fate of man written on his forehead?"

She was to remember those words later, and the deep, half-throttled groan which escaped the man; but as yet she scarcely remarked the sound.

They brought down the horses to the swift hand-gallop that could cover untiring miles— not the gallop of desert fiction, but the steady pacing of the real desert horse. The moon came up, a golden disk that imperceptibly became smaller in mounting, and donned a silvery sheen. An hour passed, and another.

"I brought a water-skin," said Belcombe. "May I have a cigarette, if you have one? It's against the custom of the Touareg to smoke— especially a holy man."

They drew up together and plodded along in a walk, smoking, taking a gulp of water from the skin about Belcombe's waist. She blessed his forethought in bringing it.

"With this moon, they'll be on the trail now," said Belcombe. "Those devils can track, I can tell you! Follow a spoor at a gallop."

"W'Allah alim!" said she, and laughed.

It was only half an hour later that her horse put foot in hole and plunged down with a broken leg.

CAPTAIN MAIGNAN, whose Bourbon blood ran still gallantly in sun-dried veins, lighted a cigarette and listened to the report of his scouts, sitting his gaunt mehari with easy grace. The two score men behind him, half of them Touareg, all of them members of the camel-corps which scoured the desert for France, waited immobile, high-strung. The scouts delivered a brief report.

"The firing came from a gully a mile to the left. We could see nothing, for the wadi was a deep one. The rifles, by the after-echo, are Mausers."

Maignan called up his stalwart, bronzed noncoms and commanded:

"Spread out. Surround. Advance."

A ripple of excitement passed through the waiting men. Mausers meant Itessan Touareg; these orders meant fight— they were free to fight, in their own fashion!

Sometimes the French are very wise.

The spindle-legged beasts stalked over the daybreak sands, ungainly, awkward, yet eating up the desert as only blooded mehari can. The swaying riders, half in Touareg veils, half in uniforms, spread out in a great crescent. The morning sunlight struck down at them blindingly, insufferably, intolerantly.

"Y'Allah!"

The yell shrilled up, was repeated, the great beasts hurtled forward at redoubled speed, swinging at the spot indicated by the scouts. From the wadi ahead scrambled some veiled figures on foot, then some plunging mehari, then a horse or two. A rifle spoke faintly; a rippling crash broke the morning as a volley thundered. With one wild, fierce yell the riders were into the wadi, plunging across it, firing after those who fled before them. The rifles ripped and crackled, then grew fainter as the mehari mounted the farther bank and raced on. The scream of a dying man died off in a gulp of agony.

Maignan, left alone on the scene, slipped from his saddle and ran forward. Among a cluster of boulders, behind a dead horse, he saw the figure of Coralie Smith, in her hand a grenade. She lowered it to the sand and stood smiling at him, bareheaded, the morning sunlight wiping weariness and pallor from her face.

"Thank the good God, mademoiselle!" he cried out, overjoyed, kissing her hand repeatedly. "I was afraid—afraid! When the detachment came, I brought them along at once. If you had only waited a few hours—"

"If I had waited those few hours," said Coralie, "my errand would have failed."

Maignan started, glanced around. Behind the dead horse, in the shadow of a boulder, he saw the figure of a man, one arm ripped naked and rudely bandaged. Now this man moved, struggled, opened his eyes and sat up.

"Who is he?" demanded Captain Maignan, meeting vivid gray eyes and starting in surprise.

"Flight Commander Roger Bel—"

A sudden exclamation burst from Maignan, checked the words on the girl's lips. She too turned to look at Belcombe, who was rising. He came erect, holding on to the boulder, smiling bitterly at them. The French officer swallowed hard, then saluted.

"Monsieur," he stammered, "Monsieur—"

Coralie was staring, astounded and horrified. It was her first sight of Roger since he had fallen to a Touareg bullet at the dawn. She had held them off, had been too busy with her automatic and the grenades to do more than hastily bandage his arm and leave him. Now her eyes widened.

Across his forehead were branded four small red circles in a line—the brand of the Itessan clan.

"You see it, eh?" Belcombe spoke slowly. "They put their accursed brand on me. You'd better go on, Coralie— leave me here. I'm a branded man."

She darted forward as he swayed, caught him, held his cheek against her own.

"You darling!" she cried, tears dimming her eyes. Captain Maignan, being a gallant man, turned his back, took out a cigarette, worked his flint-and-steel lighter for a spark.

"A woman always has a reason," he said to himself, rather mournfully. "I knew it."

_____________________

3: The Trail of Death

Blue Book, January 1927

WHEN THE TELEPHONE in Durant's room tinkled, he knew instinctively it was fate calling.

He had finished breakfast, had just closed his bags; in another five minutes he would have been paying his bill and leaving the little hostelry in the Rue Vignon. And then the sharp, insistent summons! Even as he reached for the instrument, his eyes flitted out to the old narrow Paris street below— no, escape was hopeless.

"M. Durant?" It was the voice of the hotel proprietor. "There are some gentlemen here asking for you."

The peculiar intonation made Durant divine the truth.

"Of the police?" he inquired.

"Yes, m'sieur."

"Ask them to come up to my room, if you please."

Durant laid the instrument on its rack. Caught, then! Not quick enough in getting away. He should have gone at once to Makoff's house the previous night, as soon as he learned its address. He had seen by the morning papers that Woroff the dancer, chief assistant to Boris Makoff, master of crime, had been killed the previous afternoon; his slayers were arrested, caught red-handed. The papers did not say it was thanks to Durant that they were caught— only the sub-prefect of police knew it. And now he had run down Durant!

"Enter!" called Durant, to the sharp rap at the door.

To his surprise, he saw it was the sub-prefect, but alone. M. Ducasse entered, with a bow, and stood for a moment regarding his prey. He was a handsome man—thinly bearded, his face proud, aquiline, powerful, his eyes cruelly cold; in his expression was something sardonic, as though he found the world humorous and bitter.

This man battled against all the underworld of Paris, and made a fair job of it.

"Good morning, M. Durant," he said. White teeth showed through his beard as he smiled. "You see, I have discovered your name, have found you! You did me a good turn yesterday, for which I owe you thanks, but I could not have so intelligent and able a man loose in Paris without knowing more about him."

"So you have come to arrest me?" asked Durant. The other gestured.

"I have come to barter freedom— for information."

Meeting those piercing, indomitable eyes, Durant made his decision swiftly. He was now dealing with a Frenchman, to whom the personal appeal meant everything. Defiance would only bring down violence.

"Be seated, M. Ducasse," he said, and fumbled for pipe and tobacco. The sub-prefect took a chair, adjusted the flower in his buttonhole, and smiled.

"You aroused my curiosity yesterday, m'sieur," he said. "An American, allied with thugs! An honest man mixed up with thieves! You even mentioned a gang of which I had never heard— an incredible thing, I assure you!"

Durant nodded, and smiled cynically.

"You want to know more about me?"

"I already know something. Since the war you have been employed in a bank here. Sometime ago you were called to America by the death of a relative; you are now wealthy. Eh?"

"Correct enough." Durant sat on the table, puffed at his pipe, swung a leg carelessly. "Coming over on the boat, I met a lady. I had often seen her, here in Paris; now I met her. By sheer accident, I learned that she was in the grip of a blackmailer, a criminal organizer, a man who plans and carries out large and small things. I undertook to free her from his grip. As a preliminary step, I got into his good graces, joined his gang. The lady in question is Baronne Glincka, widow of a Russian— an American girl whose marriage was unlucky. The man is her former husband's relative, one Boris Makoff."

"The Baronne Glincka!" murmured M. Ducasse, lifting his brows.

"Who is forced to assist Boris at his work, forced to pay heavily, forced to lend her position and talent to further his schemes."

"I know her, though I would never have dreamed this," said the other. "But I do not know Boris Makoff, or anyone of that name."

"He calls himself Baron Glincka—"

"Ah! That man!" The eyes of Ducasse flamed suddenly. "You mean it? Why, it seems impossible, fantastic! He is well known— wealthy, a Russian noble—"

"A criminal," said Durant. "There is my story, m'sieur, in brief."

Ducasse, inspecting him with frank curiosity, shook his head slowly.

"You have taken on an impossible achievement, m'sieur."

Durant laughed at him. "So? But he does not suspect me. I have discovered where he lives. I am going to him. Yesterday three of his best men were removed. When I have stripped away his defenses, I shall secure the documents which give him his hold on the Baronne, and my work is done."

"An impossibility." And now Ducasse spoke gravely. "But you speak of stripping! That is a harsh word, m'sieur, as you use it. It means killing."

"Exactly," said Durant, and his eyes were cold. "These men are like wild beasts, to be treated as such."

"I am interested in bringing them to justice," said the other softly.

"I am not," said Durant. "I am interested only in playing my own game— and winning. I can do it only in my own way. But you don't know everything! I've won over to my side the dope ring here in Paris, through an American agent of theirs whom I aided. They will give me every assistance against Boris Makoff."

Ducasse grinned at this. "The dope ring! I congratulate you on your friends, m'sieur. You fight fire with fire, eh?"

"With anything, to win!" exclaimed Durant vibrantly. He came suddenly to his feet. "I play this game, m'sieur, for the sake of a woman. What are you going to do about it? Interfere, and it's war between us. Hands off, and you'll be the gainer in the end. What do you choose?"

Ducasse fairly gasped, then leaned back and surveyed Durant with a flicker of admiration in his sardonic eyes.

"War! You dare threaten me— Paris— all France?"

"I dare anything," said Durant, giving him look for look.

"You, a lone American? Why, it is laughable!"

"Then arrest me," said Durant calmly, "and declare war— if you dare."

Their eyes met and held.

"Sacred name of a dog!" ejaculated M. Ducasse, and came to his feet. "You mean it! Well, my friend, I think you are a madman. And I never interfere with madmen if I can help it."

"You mean—"

M. Ducasse bowed, half-mockingly. "That you are free to pursue your own road, m'sieur, with my blessing! After all, you did me a service yesterday. Next time— we shall see."

And the sub-prefect of police departed.

ONCE ALONE, Durant called Boris Makoff on the telephone.

"Boris? Durant speaking," he said in English, which the other spoke fluently. "Thought I'd hear from you last night. According to the papers—"

"So you're still at that hotel?" said the Russian. "Don't be a fool. Cover up."

"I intend to." Durant laughed softly. "I'll be right along to your Avenue Mozart place."

Makoff swore. "Confound you! You know about it?"

"From Woroff."

"Huh! Wait a minute, now— don't come here. I'm up against it. Everything's cracked up for the moment." The Russian's voice was crisp, businesslike, alert. "I had to send the Baronne to Trouville this morning. Can you join her and take charge of a deal there? This cursed run of luck must stop, or I'll begin to think something's wrong."

Durant, startled as he was by this news that Helen Glincka was gone to Trouville, chuckled to himself. Boris Makoff might well curse— certainly his organization was badly smashed, a number of his cleverest men lost, his schemes knocked awry!

"Yes," said Durant. "But what's in it? I'm beginning to think that I won't get much by working for you, Boris."

An inarticulate snarl brought a grin to his lips. Others, probably, were saying the same thing.

"Meet me at the Gare St. Lazare in thirty minutes," returned Makoff. "You can get the Trouville express. I'll show you what's in it."

"Done," said Durant, and rang off.

He did not want to leave Paris. He did not at all want to visit the twin resort towns of Trouville-Deauville on the Normandy coast. He wanted to come to grips with Boris Makoff as quickly as possible. But Helen Glincka had gone— that changed everything. He could be with her, could no doubt get further information from her about Makoff's place in the Avenue Mozart, headquarters of the wily Russian; he might even manage a blow at Makoff or the latter's men.

"The rascal must be short-handed if he'd send us on such an errand," thought Durant. "He probably meant Woroff to go— well, we'll see! Now for Lewis."

He called up the American dope-smuggler whom he knew, and on whose influence he might rely for help.

"I'm off for Trouville on the morning express, Lewis," he said. "Something's up, there— I don't know what. Have your friends any agent in that vicinity?"

"They sure have," Lewis laughed over the wire. "If it wasn't for Deauville in summer, where would all the money come from? Tell me where to reach you, and I'll have a wire waiting with his name. Meantime, I'll have them wire him full instructions to help you."

"Good man. I don't know where I'll be, but wire me in care of the Trouville branch of the Crédit Lyonnais, and I'll call for it in the morning."

"Right. Good luck to you!"

Leaving one of his bags here, Durant took the other and set out afoot for the Gare St. Lazare, only a few blocks distant. He delayed en route to buy a few toilet articles, so that when he entered the big gray station it was close to ten o'clock. As he mounted to the train level, he came upon Makoff, at the head of the stairs.

There was nothing small about the Russian, mentally or physically. He was a burly, powerful figure, impeccably clad in morning attire from hat to spats; his dark, dangerously eager eyes fastened upon Durant, he came to the latter's side.

"Late! You've ten minutes to make the train. Here's a ticket and first-class reservation for you. Come along— talk on the platform."

Durant nodded, took the tickets held out, accompanied Makoff through the gates, across the waiting-space beyond, and so to the train-gates. Once on the platform beside the train, the Russian took his arm and broke into soft speech.

"For the moment, my friend, things are badly disorganized here— a series of disasters, you comprehend? Well, fate evens up. Here's your car. I've put a package in your seat; take care of it. You've heard of Kaparien?"

Durant shook his head.

"One of the Greek syndicate that controls the gambling at Deauville. He's half Greek, half Armenian, very wealthy, and a scoundrel," said Boris Makoff. "His yacht is at Trouville now, and he's going north to Etretat and Ostend in a day or two. If you never heard of him, I suppose you've heard of Count Corvos, the Austrian?"

"Naturally," said Durant. "He's said to have the finest collection of uncut stones in existence."

Makoff chuckled. "Not any more— Kaparien has it. The Austrian plunged at the Deauville tables, and the syndicate took over his little collection. It happened last week. Kaparien is taking the stones with him—he's going to meet a certain actress at Ostend, and open a campaign against her virtuous scruples. No very hard matter, I imagine. My Deauville man only learned of all this at the last moment. I got Hélène off this morning, and will wire her; she'll meet you. Trust her! Things will be arranged—"

The train began to move, without warning, in the almost insensible glide of French trains at starting. Durant swung to the steps.

"Propotkin— my man at Deauville—fully trusted— all details— luck to you!" came in snatches from the Russian, and then no more.

DURANT PASSED along the car until he found his own compartment—a first-class smoker in which were ensconced two American tourists. His own seat was marked by a small, rather heavy package wrapped in brown paper. He put it in the rack with his grip, not opening it, and settled down to the four-hour trip.

Nothing could so clearly denote the fix in which Boris Makoff found himself as this emergency call upon Durant and Helen Glincka. The Russian was convinced he could trust them both— holding the woman in pawn through fear, the man through grudging respect. Durant knew that his part must be to fetch the loot safely back to Makoff, and for once he found himself quite willing to play the Russian's criminal game.

In his years of struggle, Ralph Durant had acquired a point of view which, to most men, would have been extremely perilous. For the law he cared nothing. He had seen so much of the world's injustice and misery, so much of the men who battened upon other folk, the easy schemers who evaded the law and preyed upon less clever men, that it had imbued him with a cynical disregard for the justice of men. In the present instance, he was entirely willing to see Kaparien robbed, and to have Makoff profit at the man's expense— even to share in the work. It would be robbing the vulture to pay the buzzard. Kaparien, one of the crew who sat back and profited by the gambling instinct of others, deserved no sympathy. He had taken over the gem-collection of Count Corvos direct from the gaming tables, and Durant had no hesitation in lifting his loot.

Besides, by doing so, he would win through to his objective. As he had told Ducasse that morning, the one great objective before him was to free Helen, Baroness Glincka, from the strangle-grip of Makoff. To this end he must bide his time, temporize until the chance came, risk no failure. To this end he must bend everything that turned up, with a ruthless disregard of ethics or anything else, even the lives of men. Already the trail behind him had been starred by the dead.

"We'll put it through," he resolved grimly. "We'll put it through at all costs—and come back to Paris with the end in sight! At all costs."

In this mood, avoiding his fellow-travelers, he reached Trouville early in the afternoon, and did not find Helen Glincka at the station to meet him.

He passed from the platform on through the station, and out to the front. There he set down his bag and gazed around. It was a brilliant scene that greeted him, in the hot summer sunlight.

The wide space before the station was crowded with vehicles— automobiles, huge busses, taxicabs, victorias, dogcarts. Opposite, the sidewalk cafés were crowded, and the gay sweaters and blazers of tourists were everywhere. To the right, against the green hills, spread out ancient Trouville, with the gray houses back from the esplanade and quay where the fishing craft swung in the deep and narrow port, and the casino out at the sea-end.

To the left was Deauville, garish, modern, aswing with life and action. Opposite the station, beyond the grimy coaling port, lay the yacht basin, where a dozen splendid money-wasters were moored against the quays.

Abruptly, Durant found a man at his elbow, heard his name.

"Pardon— this is M. Durant, perhaps?"

Turning, Durant beheld a queer figure— a short, extremely wide-shouldered man with luxuriant curled whiskers and high-boned face, and very long arms; in short, a man who only needed a beard-clipping to pose as a gorilla in clothes. He was soberly dressed in black, and might have been a shopkeeper.

"I am M. Durant," said the American. "You are Propotkin?"

The other bowed slightly. "I have a shop in Deauville, m'sieur— jewelry and curious things. May I take you there for a chat?"

"No one else will meet me?"

Propotkin smiled. "Unfortunately no, m'sieur. Madame is engaged."

"All right. But I have to get to the Crédit Lyonnais in Trouville at once— I'm expecting a telegram there, and the bank will be shut before long."

"Nothing simpler, m'sieur. Here is a taxi now—"

A taxicab came up, and they entered. Propotkin gave the address, then made a sign of caution to Durant, who nodded.

They rolled across the narrow bridge and turned out along the wide Trouville esplanade, on to the seaward face of the town. There, before the square fronting the casino, the taxi halted. Durant went into the bank and inquired for a telegram sent him here. One was found and delivered to him.

In the doorway, he tore open the sealed blue paper, curious to see who the agent of the dope ring here might prove to be. He read:

Our man is Propotkin, jeweler, Deauville. Good luck.

Lewis.

Durant burst into laughter as he shredded the telegram and cast it away. Propotkin! Agent both for Boris Makoff and for the Paris dope ring!

AS THE TAXI returned to Deauville, the jeweler spoke quietly:

"M. Durant has many friends in Paris, it appears!"

Durant nodded, reading danger in the situation, but meeting it halfway with his usual calm assurance. Propotkin had received a wire from Boris Makoff— and had received another from the dope ring. What had this other said?

"What did they wire you about me?" he asked, turning and looking into the man's alert dark eyes. "Not Boris— the others."

Propotkin grinned. "Only that you were to be trusted and obeyed."

"And what would Boris say," demanded Durant slowly, "if he knew you were working for others— eh?"

The shot told. Propotkin darted him a sharp, alarmed glance, then laughed and relaxed.

"What about yourself, my friend?"

Durant only smiled. He was quite certain of his ground now, and in his smile was a queer conviction as he gazed at Propotkin— a realization. This man, this human gorilla, was agent for the dope ring in Deauville, a retailer of drugs, another bird of prey who got his claws into the victims of the baccarat tables. Durant felt that he would kill this Propotkin with great pleasure. He would be doing the world a distinct service.

In Deauville now— past the public square, on toward the casino where the "fast" set of Paris, the demi-monde of France, the gullible tourists, gathered to be plucked. Before reaching the garish building, the taxi turned off a side-street, and halted before a small shop whose window was filled with cheap jewelry and tourist curios. Propotkin alighted and paid the driver, then led the way into the shop, after unlocking it. He had no assistant, then!

Durant followed him into a back room of good size, furnished as a living-room— the man's apartment obviously opened off the shop.

"You have lunched?" asked the Russian. "Good— then let us be comfortable. Here are cigarettes. We have an hour before Madame la Baronne calls for you! I suppose you know the game?"

"The general scheme, but no details."

"I have arranged all details," said Propotkin complacently, fingering his luxurious whiskers. "Kaparien, like most of his class, is eager for social distinction. Mme. la Baronne is now a guest aboard his yacht, and you are to join her there— the two of you only, to Ostend. You are an American millionaire, a friend of Baroness Glincka. She is to call for you here in an hour. So far, understood?"

Durant nodded, and lighted a cigarette. The other went on, much pleased with himself, looking more than ever like a simian as he sprawled in his chair.

"It is really quite simple— almost too simple. Two men of the crew are my men; the yacht has been lying here a fortnight, you see. There are three officers, including Kaparien himself, and four in the crew. That makes three of you against four. Two others will be aboard to act at the right moment. That makes five against four."

"I don't intend to appear in it," said Durant calmly. The other grinned.

"I don't intend you shall! Twenty minutes after you leave Trouville, Kaparien will be killed, my four men in command of the yacht, you and the Baronne presumably prisoners. You will, however, be at work. It's your job to learn where the stones are kept and to blow the safe if you can't get into it. Then pass the stones to one of our men. I'll be alongside with a fast motor-boat, and all get away, to land up the river at Villerville and scatter, unless we go on to Rouen. The yacht will go on to Le Havre or back to Trouville; you and the Baronne will be promptly set free, though you'll have to act as witnesses, and that's all."

"Hm! Very simple," said Durant dryly. "Two objections, my friend. To insure your get-away, you must pull off the affair at night; you can't do it as soon as the yacht has left port!"

Propotkin chuckled delightedly at this.

"Oh, can't I? But the yacht is in Trouville harbor and must leave at high tide, since at low tide the place is a mud-flat. In fact, she's been having some scraping done, to save dry-dock expense! Further, Kaparien always leaves harbor at night, in order to be at sea by dawn. He'll get away around two o'clock, if he goes tomorrow night."

Durant nodded reflectively. This hairy rascal seemed to have everything mapped out.

"The second objection is more important," he said. "I was sent to get the stones and bring them back to Paris— not help you get them."

Propotkin lost his grin. Seeing a quiet, steady purpose in Durant's gaze, he sat up, gasped out protests— worked himself up to explosive pitch. Durant only shook his head in silence, and waited. The Russian cursed, threatened, pleaded, but all to no purpose.

"You're wasting time," said Durant at length, calmly inflexible before all the gesticulating and torrents of words. "I'm taking orders from Boris Makoff, not from you. I'm beginning to think that you want to clean out those gems for yourself and get away with them."

"It is not so!" exclaimed Propotkin vehemently. "And you must do as I say—"

"Yes?" Durant smiled at him. "Perhaps you forget the other telegram which reached you from Paris today? I think it said you were to obey me?"

The Russian flung up his hands and collapsed like a punctured balloon.

"What do you want?" he demanded sullenly, staring at Durant.

"I'll tell you that when the time comes." Durant's eye fell upon the package left in his care by Boris Makoff, and he was suddenly reticent. He reached out for the package and tore it open. Two smaller packages fell into his lap.

He opened the first, while Propotkin watched in wondering surmise. From it he took a pistol, fully loaded, and an extra clip of cartridges. This he pocketed. The second package was extremely heavy, tied with thick cord. Propotkin produced a knife and Durant cut the cord. This package, opened, again produced two packages.

One of these contained some dozens of bank-notes, new, fresh, crisp thousand-franc notes. Propotkin uttered a low gasp at sight of them, and reached forward, his eyes avid. Durant let him take them, and opened the second and heavier packet. This, wrapped in oiled silk, contained a steel die.

Durant sat motionless, giving no sign of the amazement gripping him, while his brain groped with the problem— and reached the solution. Why had Boris Makoff given no reason for intrusting him with this burden, which meant hard labor for life if it got into the wrong hands? The Russian had been afraid to speak of it at the station, obviously; had confidently left it to Durant, or perhaps had sent some message through Helen.

"So you didn't expect this, eh?" asked Durant.

Propotkin gasped again. "Forged!" he exclaimed, dropping the sheaf of notes in his lap and staring at the die. "And that is what did it—"

"Exactly." Durant wrapped up bank-notes and die once more, then regarded the man with calm assurance. "So you see, your little scheme did not go far enough! Now you shall take your instructions from me. Agreed?"

"But yes, m'sieur," muttered the other.

"And you will not fail to do as I say?"

"Oh, si, si!"

Durant lit a fresh cigarette. "Bring these aboard the yacht yourself. Let us assume there is a safe in the cabin— eh?"

"There is one," said the other. "I have everything ready for you— to blow it."

Durant nodded. "You'll come down to the cabin where it is. I'll attend to the safe, to save you time in escaping. The stones I'll keep myself—it won't be dangerous. You'll take everything else out of the safe, and keep it for your trouble; Kaparien will be certain to have a large sum aboard. Put this die and these forged notes in the safe, and go. You'll be supposed to have taken the stones, and no attention will be paid me. It will be thought Kaparien was a note-forger. Since the Hungarian forgeries, the public is wild about such things; the murder and robbery will be quickly forgotten. It will be thought that the Greek syndicate here was behind the forgeries, using the notes at the baccarat tables; the newspapers will play it up, everything else will drop to second place—"

Propotkin leaped to his feet. "Admirable!" he exclaimed. "Here is true genius— it is magnificent! M'sieur, I bow humbly to such a brain!"

"Thank you," said Durant modestly. He had, he believed, correctly fathomed the intent of Boris Makoff—indeed, the course was obvious enough. "Then take charge of these things, and don't fail to bring them."

Propotkin nodded. He rose, took the wrapped-up die and forged notes, and disappeared with them into another room. Durant sat in growing exultation, as the thing gradually opened out before him— the whole thing, cut and dried, as though on a screen! When the Russian returned, Durant spoke:

"Who's in charge of things aboard the yacht? I'd better be in touch with him, in case anything goes wrong."

The other laughed heartily. "Who? The steward, one Jean Fougères—a Frenchman. And how did I reach him? Because he needs the little white powder, you comprehend? It is not a bad thing to have two irons in the fire, eh? It is Jean who will attend to Kaparien."

Durant nodded carelessly. "Right. I'll get in touch with him. When does all this come off— tomorrow night, you say?"

"We'll know definitely when Mme. la Baronne comes. She should be here any moment."

"By the way," said Durant, "I wish you'd give me a small bottle of the stuff, Propotkin. I don't use it myself, but I may have need of it. A few ounces."

"Eh?" The other stared. "A few ounces? Do you know what it is worth?"

Durant shrugged. "No, nor care. Charge it to me in your account with the syndicate."

"Very well, m'sieur."

The Russian disappeared again. When he returned, he was holding a small bottle, unlabeled, filled with a white powder. He extended it to Durant.

"Here you are— unadulterated, too. Is that enough? It should supply any ordinary addict for a month or two."

"Plenty, thanks." Durant took the vial and pocketed it carefully. Here was forged another link in the chain— that chain of trickery and intrigue which had flashed across his alert brain. He would fight fire with fire in this matter, and with fire redoubled! Playing a lone hand, with swift and certain death as the penalty for errors or squeamishness, he was efficient and merciless as rock.

"What about blowing that safe?" he asked.

"Wait until the Baronne comes," said Propotkin, fingering his curled whiskers. "She'll bring word from Jean—he thought he might learn the combination, which would make the work needless. If he fails, I'll send aboard a package tomorrow, containing everything from drills to nitroglycerin. You can manage it?"

"At a pinch."

Less than a minute later, came the tinkle of a bell— some one had come into the outer shop. Propotkin slipped out, and in the exchange of voices following, Durant heard the clear even tones of Helen Glincka. A thrill ran over him, and he came to his feet. The curtain across the door was pushed away, and she came toward him, hand extended. Wordless, he bowed over it in French fashion, then straightened up and looked into her eyes. She was murmuring some conventional greeting, but it was the eyes of her that spoke loudest to him, the sky-blue eyes full of questioning, mute alarm, entreaty!

"It's all right, Helen," he said quietly in English, giving her hand a quick pressure. Then, as Propotkin followed her into the room: "You have a message for us from Jean? From the steward?"

She nodded, took the chair Propotkin set out for her.

"He got the combination of the safe this morning," she returned. "Why would it not be possible to do the work without harming Kaparien? Tonight, say, when we're all at the casino?"

"No," said Durant promptly. "I've no sympathy for such a man— let him pay! Besides, we cannot change the plan; Boris has mapped it out admirably. Eh, Propotkin?"

"Oh, a magnificent plan!" exclaimed the Russian with enthusiasm. As he looked at the man, Durant smiled; and watching his cold eyes in that smile, the baroness shivered.

"I've come for you," she said simply. "The car outside will take your bag or bags to the yacht. We'll go over to the Potinière together— the café opposite the casino, you know— and Kaparien will meet us there a bit later. I've been shopping. Are you ready?"

Durant nodded. "Ready," he said, and looked at Propotkin. "Don't forget that package, when you come aboard! Then we sail tomorrow night, Helen?"

"Yes," she said. "A little after midnight."

Propotkin grinned.

HELEN GLINCKA was very beautiful— not in the fashion of the painted professional beauties to whom Deauville is used, nor that of the pink-cheeked, free-striding American girls to whom it is also used, but in a delicate fashion all her own.

A day had passed since Durant's arrival in Trouville. He had met Kaparien, had gone aboard the yacht, had settled into the swing of the business; now once again he sat under the wide shade-trees of the Potinière, with Helen Glincka across the table and an hour of privacy ahead. They were in the back corner by the cake-shop, and could talk freely.

Here, as everywhere, women looked long at Helen Glincka, men looked once and again; her very passing created a little ripple of eager interest. To Durant, her delicate features beneath their crown of pale golden hair looked strained and anxious; strongly carven as they were, they seemed a half-broken mask.

"Boris is a remarkable man," he observed, "to bend such a woman to his purpose!"

Her blue eyes rested upon him calmly, yet underneath the calm was desperation.

"Once he learns you're trying to help me— you know what will happen."

"He'll expose you? He'll tell the world that your husband tricked you, had been secretly married to an opera singer before he married you?"

She gestured impatiently. "I'm talking about you, not about myself."

"I'm talking about you." Durant smiled, and under his poised assurance her eyes lost the strained, tense expression, a little tinge of color crept into her cheeks. "I want to know where Boris keeps the proof of that first marriage."

She shrugged. "How should I know? I see little of him, hear from him only when he needs money or assistance."

"He calls himself Baron Glincka and lives in the Avenue Mozart. He is well known by that name."

Her eyes widened. "You mean it? It is his family name, but he is not a baron—"

"No matter. You haven't been inside his house?"

"No. And the other woman is to be in Paris this week— my money and influence have gone to bring her. She is to sing at the Opéra Comique."

Durant nodded, stung by the bitterness of her voice. He could realize what humiliation this woman was suffering.

"Elsa Muscova, eh?"

"Her real name is Elsa Swinger."

"I know. Well, we'll attend to her in short order, Helen. Boris must be short-handed to make such use of us."

"He is, dreadfully. He thinks he can depend on you—he imagines that you're infatuated with me—"

Durant looked at her steadily. "It's the truth. I've always loved you, since those days when you would come into the bank three times a week, and I'd look up and see you—"

She flushed, her eyes tender now.

"Folly! But, my friend, delicious folly— I never thought there was such a man in the world. There's frankness for frankness. I didn't suppose—"

"Poor kid! You've run up against the wrong kind, like most of 'em over here, and you went on the rocks. Well, I'm going to pull you off," said Durant. "Then we'll go to Mentone or Juan les Pins or Pau together and forget there ever was a world. And I'm going to pull you off the rocks quickly, too— there's no time to waste! Look here, now— is Kaparien a particular friend of yours?"

"That man? A friend?" She made a distasteful motion. "How could you think so?"

Durant chuckled. "Just wanted to make sure. You buck up, now, and face what happens tonight— plenty will happen, or I miss my guess! Then we'll go back to Paris with the stones, and open up the main attack. First I'll deal with this Elsa Muscova, and through her with Boris."

"But what will you do— what can you do?"

"Fight." Durant's gray eyes were cold and hard as stone. "Just now I'm passive, twisting things to suit my purpose, waiting. Once I hit Paris, I start in to fight, with any weapons— creating weapons if I haven't any. Helen, this is an absolutely ruthless, pitiless game; to pull you off the rocks, I'm going to wreck anything in sight! And you're coming off."

"Oh!" Her eyes shone, and for an instant her breath came fast. "To be free— but no, you can't manage it. Nobody could. You'll only involve yourself, my friend—"

Durant laughed. "We'll see about that! To business, now. What's the program for today?"

"Kaparien will be here any minute— the casino's open already. There's a try-out this afternoon of that acrobatic dancing act from Stockholm, and I admit I'm interested. Then back to the yacht for dinner. One of Kaparien's partners will be with us, and an English baronet and his wife— one of the impecunious-traveling kind who stay out of England. It's a shabby business all around. Then here for the evening; they're giving Tosca tonight. An hour at the tables afterward, I suppose, and then back to the yacht. Kaparien wants to leave port around one o'clock, with the tide."

Durant nodded. "Good. And here's our friend now."

KAPARIEN came toward them, bowing and smiling here and there as he threaded his way among the tables. He was clad all in white from hat to shoes, with a glitter of diamonds; few men can wear white with any luck, and Kaparien was not one of the few. His swarthy, vulpine face, his powerful figure, his heavy-lidded geniality, were not pleasant to Durant, who found something reptilian in the man.

None the less, as it was his business to do, Durant made himself highly agreeable.

The tea-hour finished— more English and Americans were here than French— they passed across to the casino and up the stairs into the great hall. Here, about the boule or two-per-cent roulette tables in the rear was a small crowd of pikers; the main interest was centered in the stage. Kaparien, given much deference by the waiters, had a table reserved.

To Durant it was all rather a bore, but he was amused by the attitude of Kaparien, who tried to show himself a polished man of the world. To pierce this mask of culture was easy; beneath it, Durant found a typical hybrid Greek, sensuous, regarding the world as his prey, wolfish. A man who could be merciless as stone, devoid of any sympathy or regard for those in his power. At the present moment, Kaparien was doing his best to make use of the social touch given him by Baroness Glincka— he little dreamed that both the baroness and the supposed American millionaire knew all about the lady he was hoping to meet at Ostend.

Durant was glad when they adjourned to the yacht toward six o'clock. The Elektra lay in the yacht basin between the twin towns, moored against the quay. She was a luxurious craft of good size, fitted rather for coasting from port to port in leisurely enjoyment of life than for any real sea-work, and Kaparien had obviously lavished money on her.

Durant had a small cabin to himself. The three separated at once to dress for dinner, as the other guests would arrive by seven. Once in his own cabin, Durant rang for the steward; the moment for action had arrived. A moment later Jean Fougères presented himself; he was a thin, pallid little Frenchman, with enormous black mustaches.

"Come in and shut the door," said Durant. "Can you give me five minutes?"

"Certainly, m'sieur." Fougères entered, closed the door, waited. Durant looked at him.

"Do you know that I am in charge of the job tonight?"

"Yes, m'sieur. M. Propotkin so informed me today."

"Oh! Did he inform you, by any chance, that he has double-crossed all of us and intends to skip, leaving us to face the music?"

The pallid face of Fougères became ashen as death, and his eyes burned.

"M'sieur!" he exclaimed. "It— it is impossible!"

"On the contrary," said Durant coldly. He produced the vial Propotkin had given him and handed it to the steward. "There is a present for you. When that runs out, come to me in Paris and you shall have more. Is it understood?"

Fougères snatched the little bottle and examined it, caught his breath.

"M'sieur! You are generous—"

"No, I am giving orders. Do you intend to obey them?"

"With all my heart. If this is true about M. Propotkin— what shall we do?"

"Carry through all the plans as arranged. Where is the safe? I have seen none."

"Behind the painting of Venus in the smoking salon. Lift down the picture."

"The combination?"

"Is here, m'sieur." Fougères passed over a folded slip of paper.

"Good. You have arranged as to signals and so forth with Propotkin, no doubt. The men below?"

"She burns oil, m'sieur. Only three men there, one of them ours. All is arranged."

"Then carry out the plan. Give me five minutes' notice, and I'll open up the safe. When Propotkin comes aboard, shoot him and leave him. Come down, rifle what's in the safe, get away in the launch. Do you know how these gems are kept? In boxes?"

"In four morocco boxes, m'sieur."

"Very well. Make sure of Propotkin. That's all."

"Good luck, m'sieur!"

The steward withdrew, and the door closed. Durant smiled grimly to himself.

THE DINNER was informal and greedy, with the oily, bejeweled partner of Kaparien very much in evidence. Durant was relieved when they adjourned to the smoking salon and ordered a taxicab.

"Drop me at the Bûreau des Postes," he said, as they filed over the gangway to the wharf. "I have a few letters to mail— I'll walk on to the casino and join you."

So, ten minutes later, he dropped from the taxicab, which continued its way. Instead of seeking the post office, however, Durant crossed over to the prefecture of police, entered the brick building, and from a lounging gendarme inquired the whereabouts of the prefect. By sheer luck, that gentleman was now in his office, despite the hour— Deauville does not begin the day until darkness falls. Durant was ushered in, and gave his name to the fussily important prefect.

"I have a verbal message for you, M. le Prefect," he said, "from the sub-prefect of Paris, M. Ducasse."

"Ah! I know M. Ducasse very well," was the response. "A very good man indeed— what a pity that politics appoint the prefect of Paris! Otherwise, M. Ducasse should have had the position long since. A message to me, you say? Verbal?"

Durant shrugged. "A matter of suspicion only, to be confided to your delicacy and tact, m'sieur. As M. Ducasse observed to me, there were few other men in France upon whom he could depend, in a matter so important, requiring such precision of management."

The pleased prefect fingered his whiskers and beamed.

"Most kind, most kind of the great M. Ducasse!" he said. "A compliment from him— ah!"

"Perhaps you are aware," said Durant, "that a certain shopkeeper here in Deauville acts as a distributor of drugs— chiefly cocaine?"

The prefect started slightly, but he was a good actor.

"We have had our eye on one or two men for some time," he said wisely if vaguely. "Yes indeed, while we awaited positive evidence. The man in question?"

"One Propotkin, who has a small shop."

The prefect could not conceal his astonishment here. "What? You are sure? Why, I myself play chess twice a week with M. Propotkin—"

"Permit me to remind you that this is merely a message," said Durant. "It is established that Propotkin retails drugs. What is far more important, however, is the suspicion that he is connected with an enterprise much more dangerous— the forgery of bank-notes."

The prefect flung out his hands. "Ah, these Russians!" he exclaimed tragically.

"Exactly," said Durant. "M. Ducasse requests that you will, during the coming week, have this man watched— very cautiously. He must not be alarmed or given any cause of suspicion. Perhaps M. Ducasse will come here in person to give you such information and assistance as is in his power. That is all, m'sieur, and I thank you."

"But you, m'sieur?" questioned the prefect, now profoundly alarmed and disturbed. "You are not a Frenchman— an Englishman, perhaps?"

"Heaven forbid!" said Durant, and laughed. "I am an American, at present the guest of M. Kaparien aboard his yacht, leaving tonight. If you will wire M. Ducasse, I think he will tell you that I am well known to him and trustworthy."

"Oh, no, no, not necessary at all," and the prefect waved his hands. "You will not sit down and have a cigar? No? It is most kind of you, m'sieur—"

Durant was bowed out, even escorted to the front gate, and twice shook hands before he could get rid of the excited and eager prefect. Then, chuckling to himself, he headed for the casino, only a short distance away.

THE EVENING passed rapidly, furiously; Kaparien was kept busy pointing out famous actresses, courtesans, plungers, millionaires, titled folk, even a lone king more noted for his dissipation than his regal qualities. Only once came a break in the routine, before the last act of the opera being given on the wide, shallow stage before them. For the moment, Durant and Helen Glincka found themselves alone at the table. She leaned forward, her face suddenly tragic.

"Can't you stop it?" she said under her breath, imploringly. "It's terrible to think that this man who is entertaining us is to be killed before morning— that one word from either of us would stop it!"

Durant regarded her steadily. "He is a wolf, not a man," he responded, his gray eyes like ice. "His fate matters nothing to me; yours is everything. Would you prefer to let him live, then, and go on indefinitely in your slavery to Boris Makoff?"

She shivered a little— whether from the words, or from the bitter chill of his gaze, were hard to say.

"No," she said. "No. And yet— it seems—"

"It is none of your doing," said Durant inflexibly. "Instead of feeling pity for him, think of the hundreds who have been ruined at these baccarat tables in the rear rooms— to buy his yacht! Think of the women and children who have gone down into poverty— to set those diamonds on his hand! Think of the crime, the punishment that falls hardest on the innocent families of men, indirectly due to the place in which we sit— which puts the clothes on this man's back! Let him suffer. The more the better! The world's full of his kind. Killing him won't stop it, of course— but let him serve our turn, your turn! If he can serve you by dying, I'm more than satisfied."

"That's a man's viewpoint," she said. "Yet a word to him—"

Durant leaned over the table. "If you utter that word," he said quietly, "it means that you put me into prison— or else that you put a bullet into me, as surely as though you pressed the trigger. You don't know all that's coming off this night, my dear. Now warn him if you like?"

Her face paled as she met his gaze, comprehended his words, realized all they portended.

"I sha'n't warn him," she said quietly. "Would I do such a thing, when you're doing all this for me? Yet I'm sorry."

Durant shrugged. A moment later Kaparien rejoined them, and the final act of Tosca was on.

LUCK WAS with Durant that night. Then and later, in an unobtrusive manner, he exerted himself to strip the place of its artificial glitter and show it, to the eyes of Helen Glincka, sordid and naked; and chance sent a newspaper man from Paris, whom he knew slightly, to point out men and things with cynic notes. Here was a man whose brother, ruined at these very tables, had shot himself on the seaward terrace; here was an actress wearing the jewels for which a statesman had bartered honor and life; and so it went. A little later he met her sea-blue eyes for an instant, and read in them a message which drew a smile to his lips.

At one o'clock, with the night getting into full swing, they departed. Kaparien had drunk nothing, though he had gambled and won heavily; he seemed bored by the noise and confusion of the place, and on the way to the quay spoke of being at sea and the beauty of it. Durant almost liked him— for a moment. Then they were out and getting aboard the yacht, whose crew was standing by, ready. No tug was needed in this little harbor.

The Baronne bade them good night, and retired. Durant did likewise. Kaparien departed to change his clothes, and told his skipper to pull out at once; he himself would take the bridge when they were outside the jetty. So the three separated. Durant went down to his own cabin, pocketed his pistol, and waited by the open port.

Voices of men, rattle of winches, slow turnings of the engines; presently the Elektra was gently sliding out, until the houses and quay were gone as by magic. For a little the broad white beach glittered in the moonlight, then it too vanished, and as Durant's cabin was to port, the land vanished as the yacht headed out to the northward, across the broad estuary of the Seine. Behind lay Trouville, ahead and to the right was Havre with its high headland, and to the left was the Atlantic and the Channel. They were off.

The night was clear and still, with little of the usual sea running. As he stared out at the glinting water, Durant suddenly realized his own inward tumult, and anger swept him— yet there it was. He rather considered himself hard-boiled, cynical, careless of others; in reality, he could not repress his actual self, could not always fight down the rush of gentler feelings that upsurged in him. And now, all in an instant, he abruptly flung overboard all his schemes and strode out of his cabin and down the passage. He knocked at the door of Helen Glincka's room.

"Yes?" came her voice.

"Dressed? Then be ready— I'll bring a chap down here in a few minutes," he told her. "Leave your door open, key on the outside. I'll lock you in. No time to talk."

He departed hurriedly, cursing himself for a fool, and yet curiously glad of what he was about. Here, merely for a woman's whim, merely for a few words from Helen's lips, he was risking life and liberty needlessly, staking everything recklessly on a desperate gamble! Here in these moonlit waters, with the green Norman hills blended into the sky behind and the lights of Trouville dim stars along the coast— he was making a fool of himself! And yet the mere resolve to do it had lifted a half-sensed burden from his heart.

He came back to his own cabin, and as he opened the door, Jean Fougères came hurriedly along the passage.

"M'sieur! M'sieur!" The steward spoke softly, swiftly. "It is time. In five minutes I take his coffee up to him— he drinks it, dies quickly. Be ready!"

The man glided away, leaving Durant stupefied. Poison! He had not suspected such a thing. The damnable cowardice of it appalled him. This was Propotkin's work, beyond doubt.

"Thank heaven I made my decision!" thought Durant.

He turned, darted up the ladder with furious anger spurring him. To think he had been so close to condoning this work, taking a hand in it! A man's killing, in a man's way, was one thing, but this was quite another thing— it angered him, sickened him, goaded him on his swiftly chosen course.

Gaining the deck, he ran forward, heading for the wheel-house and tiny chart-room, then espied the figure of Kaparien standing at the rail, examining something ahead through night-glasses.

"That you, Durant?" said the Greek. "Looks like a boat adrift—"

Durant caught his arm.

"Here! Come below with me instantly," he exclaimed, keeping his voice down. At the urgency of his tone, an exclamation broke from the other. "Can't tell you here— quick. Your life's in danger, man— they're all in it! Thank the Baronne, not me— she discovered it— come along, now—"

Urging the other man along, he half dragged him toward the after companion. Kaparien poured out questions, then acquiesced, evidently realizing something desperate was up. A moment later they were on the ladder. At the foot of it, Kaparien turned.

"What is it, Durant?" he demanded excitedly. "You can't mean—"

"Look out— behind you!" cried Durant.

As Kaparien whirled about, Durant's fist struck him solidly, terrifically, behind the angle of the jaw. The blow had weight. Kaparien flung out his arms and pitched headlong down the corridor.

Durant dragged his senseless victim to Helen Glincka's cabin, flung open the door, and lifting Kaparien, laid him on the bunk. He straightened up and looked at the wide-eyed girl.

"Not dead but knocked out. Don't wake him up. Tell him I brought him here when he does wake up."

With this he was out again, locked the door, pocketed the key, and made hastily for the deck. Five minutes had not passed since his word with the steward, but he knew Fougères would be unable to wait out the time. And he was right. As he gained the deck, he almost collided with the steward, who bore a tray.

"No need of that now!" exclaimed Durant. "Go ahead— I've attended to Kaparien. Pass the word and strike! I'll be in the cabin. And look here! Don't be too open about shooting down Propotkin. Do it quietly, you understand?"

"Right, m'sieur!" Fougères promptly tossed his tray overboard. "Go, then!"

Durant made for the smoking-salon.

As he entered the tiny, luxurious, richly appointed little cabin and switched on the lights, a pistol-shot rang out up above. At the same instant, the throbbing turn of the engines ceased abruptly. There were no further shots. He could detect no outcry, no confusion, only dead silence. Beyond a doubt, everything had gone off like clockwork, the faithful men of the crew were taken by surprise, the yacht was captured.

Durant thought of Propotkin coming aboard from that drifting boat Kaparien had sighted, and grinned to himself. He did not intend to stave off the dope-handler's destiny.

No time to waste, now! He darted to the wall, jerked away the large painting of Venus, and laid it aside. There was revealed a large safe-knob, the safe itself being concealed by the wall-paneling. A single knob, no more— Kaparien evidently trusted greatly.

In his hand the folded paper given him by the steward, Durant worked at the knob. The combination, like the safe itself, was simple enough. In two minutes he pulled at the knob, and as the safe opened, a section of paneling opened with it. Before him was another steel door, which opened to his touch, and displayed an array of compartments and small drawers. In one compartment stood four red morocco boxes.

On these Durant seized. Spreading his handkerchief on the table, he emptied each box into it, throwing the boxes on the floor. The glittering, shimmering pile of pebbles was not large; he knotted the four corners of the handkerchief, then swiftly left the room and ran aft. He gained his own cabin, opened his bag, dropped the loot into it, then headed back for the smoking-salon. So far, so good— not a hitch anywhere. The Elektra was quietly drifting.

Back to the smoking-salon now— two men had just entered before him. They flung Durant a nod, obviously recognizing him, and plunged at the open safe.

"Where's Fougères?" asked Durant, lighting a cigarette at the table.

"Waiting above," replied one of them, stuffing bank-notes into his pockets. "That cursed Propotkin is just coming aboard. Lucky thing you warned us."

Fougères had spread the word, then!

Durant smiled and watched the two men at their work. Propotkin would be dropped, would be found later with the forged notes and die in his pockets— for he would need both hands to reach the deck of the yacht— and all would be lovely, so far as the police were concerned.

With vicious abruptness, everything changed in an instant.

Through the quiet ship tore a scream—a woman's shrill cry. Durant whirled about, jerking out his pistol— Helen's voice? A smashing, banging crash from somewhere aft; then a sudden wild outbreak of sound came from the deck— a shot, another, a man's yell cut off midway by a bullet, shouts.

"Something wrong," exclaimed Durant, to the suddenly alert men. "Get up above—"

"So this is it, eh?"

The voice of Kaparien from the doorway— he had smashed his way out of the locked cabin. He stood there, pistol covering the three men, an ugly smile on his lips. "Hands up, all three of you! Quick, Durant— up!"

Durant obeyed, pointing his pistol up at the ceiling, and the other two men followed suit. Too late, Durant saw his mistake. There was iron in this Greek, and he had not counted on it sufficiently.

"Clever American, eh?" Kaparien's narrowed, dangerous gaze struck at Durant. "I suppose she's in on it too, since you're a friend of hers. Well—"

Behind Kaparien showed a darting shape— a low, gorilla-like figure. The crash of a shot rang out. Kaparien staggered, whirled around, and jerked sideways, half his head blown away. In his place showed the figure of Propotkin, glaring into the room, pistol in hand.

"What's all this, eh?" snapped the Russian. "That damned Fougères tried to round on me— the rest of you in it or not? Speak up, you American pig—"

Durant, his arms half lowered, knew there was but one way out now.

He fired point-blank, fired a second time, the deafening reports ringing in the little cabin with stunning force. What happened next was difficult to say. Both the other men flung themselves forward at Propotkin as the latter staggered back. Then, unexpectedly, the Russian's pistol vomited flame; he recovered, uttered a roar of brute ferocity, shot repeatedly.

It was all swift— swift! Durant fired a third time. Propotkin flung out his arms, whirled about, went down across the body of Kaparien. One of the other men was down, coughing out his life. The second was gone with a leap for the deck.

Realizing himself unhurt, Durant halted only to look at Propotkin and make sure the man was dead, then he, too, started for the deck. As he came up the companionway, a medley of shouts and orders broke out forward. Durant tossed his pistol over the rail, took two steps, came upon the body of the steward. Jean Fougères lay, pistol in hand, shot through the head, beyond all further need of dope.

The quick explosions of a motor broke out upon the moonlit night, and from the side of the Elektra shot a small craft, heading away from her at high speed. Those who remained of the gang were off and away in Propotkin's craft.

Somewhere aboard must be two officers and two faithful men. Durant moved forward, and came upon them all in the bow, lashed side by side to the rail. They greeted him with a burst of shouts, and he worked at their lashings— not too rapidly. He did not want that small boat overhauled.

"Locked in a cabin—broke out," he exclaimed. "There was shooting below— what's it all about, captain? Where's M. Kaparien?"

"Murder, piracy, robbery!" said the skipper, rubbing his wrists. "And they're off— here, come below, m'sieur! We must see where M. Kaparien is— and the lady—"

They hastened below, and in the passage encountered Helen Glincka. A cry of relief broke from her at sight of Durant, and she swayed. Durant caught her, murmured a low word in her ear, and with a nod she went to her cabin. Durant followed the captain, the other three men at his heels, to the smoking-salon.

All four of them stood surveying the red scene before them, and the captain crossed himself as he stared. He turned to Durant. "You see, M. Durant? This hairy stranger came aboard in his boat; a gang was at work and had us trussed up. M. Kaparien came upon them as they rifled the safe, and opened fire. He killed two of the rascals— another shot him from behind. Ah! A brave man, this poor m'sieur! And now— what?"

"Back to Trouville at once," said Durant. "This is a matter for the police."

In five minutes the Elektra was heading south again to Trouville.

IN THE COLD light of dawn, the prefect of police at Trouville stood in the smoking-salon of the Elektra. Two of his men were busy writing; on the table were ranged loot taken from the dead thief, with the die and the packet of forged notes that had been found in Propotkin's coat pockets. Durant motioned toward Helen Glincka, who stood by the door.

"Mme. la Baronne, I presume, may retire?" he asked. "Since she was locked in her cabin and knew nothing, she might better be left out of the proceedings, m'sieur. It would be a graceful act of courtesy, such as has made the name of Frenchmen renowned."

This is a touch which not even a police official can resist. The prefect turned to Helen with a bow.

"By all means. We have Madame's story, we have her Paris address in case of need— that is all. Madame, if I can be of any assistance in this regretful crisis—"

"I'll accompany her to Paris by the morning train," said Durant. "That is, unless you have need of me—"

The Baroness departed. The prefect fingered his voluminous beard a moment, then shook his head.

"I think not— you did not break out of your cabin and release the prisoners until after it was all over. What need of evidence? The thing speaks for itself. This poor M. Kaparien was brave, but foolish. He should not have attacked these others. See! He put two bullets into Propotkin, killed another man with his third. What valor! If, M. Durant, you will take a message to Paris for me, there is no need of detaining you except to get your statement."

"Gladly," said Durant. "The message?"

"Tell M. Ducasse what has happened here. If he wishes to put his men to work on these forged notes, if he wants to get in others of the gang, well and good; I shall keep this phase of the matter from the newspapers until tomorrow, by which time I shall hear from him. Eh?"

"Excellent, m'sieur. Then, with your permission, I'll pack."

Durant went to his own cabin. He pulled out his bag, looked into it, saw the lumpy bundle of his handkerchief at the bottom. He quietly drew other things over it, then straightened up. A smile touched his lips.

"So all's clear, here are the stones for Boris— to buy my way into his den!— and by this afternoon I'll be on the inside of things. But I wonder— I wonder what M. Ducasse will say when I telephone this message to him!"

His smile became a grin.

_____________________

4: Captain Rose and the Bullfrog

Adventure, March 1st, 1930.

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

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

Others than the bullocks knew it also.

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

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

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

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

Hermant inspected him half amusedly.

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

"Eh? Deputies?" queried the skipper.

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

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

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

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

Hermant laughed a little.

"A singular joke, Captain—"

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

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

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

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

Captain Rose turned and stared blankly at him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But you'd smuggle," said Hermant.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hermant looked astonished.

"What are you talking about, Captain?"

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

A laugh broke from Hermant.

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

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

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

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

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

Hermant bowed again and withdrew in silence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

These things had an important bearing upon events.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The mild little man smiled at this.

"Koh Prap, m'soo—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hermant nodded.

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

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

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

Hermant chuckled.

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

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

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

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

Hermant got his promised reward.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Surest thing you know," answered the skipper.

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

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

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

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

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

The door slammed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The door was unlocked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Put up your hands, you fool!"

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

"Huh?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_____________________

5: All Talk

Adventure, March 15, 1930

KENNEDY WAS a mystery, as he stood there in the Messageries office in Saigon, pocketing his ticket for Singapore; but his papers were correct and he was so evidently a man of the right sort that the polite Frenchman behind the counter took a chance.

"Messieurs, you will both be on the same boat; you are both alone— may I assume the honor of making you acquainted? Monsieur Kennedy— Monsieur Dudevant."

The two men bowed, shook hands and adjourned to a table at the Café de Paris for drinks.

Kennedy scrutinized the Frenchman quietly. He himself was brown, level eyed, tight of lip and thin of nostril; a man of forty-five, to judge by graying hair and lined features. Lines or not, the innate strength of those features made women look twice. Even when he smiled, Kennedy's face preserved a certain gravity, a hard and inflexible purpose. Yet he was extremely likable.

Dudevant was gay, carefree, handsomely dressed. His face was lean and sallow, with a long waxed mustache, gray hair at his temples, and alertly eager eyes, ever bright and dancing. For the past six years he had been upcountry, an official of the Compagnie d'Indo-Chine. Now he had resigned, was going home to Paris. He had made his pile.

Kennedy had been traveling about for a month past, seeing the country. He said no more, except that he was alone in the world; one inferred that, like many another tourist, he was seeking in travel to forget a loss. Of money, he had a great supply. He had been across the border in Siam and was now going to Singapore; after that, he did not know. Perhaps back home, he said with a shrug, perhaps on around the world. Life seemed rather a blank to Kennedy.

The Singapore boat would not be in for two days. Kennedy accepted Dudevant's offer to put him up at the club; they drifted about together, became better acquainted, liked each other. Beneath Dudevant's gay demeanor was a nervous hardness, a bitterness against the world; he told Kennedy many a tale of the hill-country, and they were cruel stories as a rule. Yet his bubbling vivacity, his eagerness for France, were good to see; he had enough money to see him through the rest of his life and he was joyously happy about it.

Dudevant spoke good English, liked Americans and made Kennedy at home in Saigon. He learned that Kennedy had been a banker— not surprising to one who noted the thin lips. By the second day the two men were good friends.

That afternoon, as they sat sipping apéritifs on the cool, tree shaded terrace of the Café de Paris, a young Frenchman went staggering past—a boy in the colonial infantry, fresh from St. Cyr and France. Kennedy watched him half cynically, half pityingly.

"Drunk, eh? Too bad," he commented. "First time I ever saw one of your officers in that shape."

Dudevant shrugged.

"Why not? The boy's homesick, touched with fever, lost in some hell hole upcountry; he tries opium, perhaps takes a native woman, comes to himself, believes his life and honor are smirched, tries to forget it in liquor— and voilà! A bullet through his brain some day. The young fellows, they are made that way, my friend."

"Not ours," said Kennedy. "Not Americans. And yet—"

"Oh, yes!" Dudevant laughed, with a wry and mirthless grimace. "Youth is alike the world over. I remember— that is to say, there was—"

He paused, his gaze following the lurching figure of the young officer. Then he smiled and looked at Kennedy.

"But perhaps it would be offensive, this story about an American?"

"Not a bit of it." Kennedy beckoned the waiter and laughed. "Why? I'm not taking offense where none is meant. You think you can prove your case?"

"That youth is the same the world over? Absolutely." Dudevant settled back in his chair and lighted a jaune. "There was a young American who came out to Bangkok— his name, I believe, was like an overcoat; oh, yes, Mackintosh. That was it."

Fingering the fine points of his mustache, his brilliant eyes fastened upon the passing figure of a charming golden skinned Eurasian girl, Dudevant sat half retrospective, half in dream. He did not observe the sudden sharp flush that leaped in the brown cheeks of Kennedy, to be gone next instant.

"You knew him, then?" asked Kennedy, his voice very negligent.

"I? Oh, no, not at all!" Aroused by the words, Dudevant laughed and turned. "No, but I have heard the tale from those who did. He came to Bangkok on some important mission for a teak lumber firm— a chance to open up his career. Three months later he was a wreck— and why? One night did it. You know, they have some remarkable gambling places in Bangkok, yes? You have seen them, perhaps."

Kennedy nodded. He was fingering his glass, staring down at it, as though but half hearing the story. Puffing at his cigaret, Dudevant pursued the thread of his story.

"Mackintosh, it seems, got drunk one night, and gambled. He lost some enormous amount. He was hooked by some English or German chap from Canton, I think. He became very drunk. Well, that was all! A little thing, to you or me, a mere youthful trifle. True, he rather made an ass of himself and the American consul had to intervene; but in all, a trifle. To him, however, it was no trifle. He felt he had disgraced his whole life, himself and his family and so forth. So he, who until then had drunk seldom, plunged into gambling and liquor— perhaps attempting to retrieve the sums he had lost. Some woman, too, got hold of him."

Kennedy watched the liquid in his glass intently. A deep crease had appeared between his brows; his eyes, beneath their lowered lids, seemed to flame and glitter.

"This poor young man," pursued Dudevant, "had entirely ruined himself in another fortnight— entirely. He fought with two or three men, one the head of his company. He was fired from his position. He lost his own and the company's money. His affair with the lady became scandalous, even for Bangkok, which is no ways particular. You have been in Siam; you have seen the temples there, the Golden Wat and the others, with their enormous treasures? Well, this Mackintosh probably became utterly desperate. One night, having laid his plans, he got into one of the temples, killed one priest and hurt another, and got away with bulging pockets— jewels of all kinds. He disappeared."

Kennedy started to speak, checked himself, then asked an odd question.

"Was it known that he was the guilty party?"

"Oh, no! He was never suspected." Dudevant laughed a little, ironically. "Others were suspected; there was a great scandal. He disappeared; and because no white man disappears easily in Bangkok, he was thought to have jumped into the river— killed himself."

Kennedy looked sharply at the Frenchman, then lifted his glass and sipped at it.

"Odd," he commented.

"Was it not? That a foreigner, an American, should have pillaged one of those temples, which not the cleverest thieves in all Asia have been able to enter!" Dudevant's voice was admiring, his eyes were eager. "Weeks later, this young man turned up at one of our frontier posts, disguised as a native. He was in terrible condition— emaciated, wounded, starved; he died a day or two afterward. The official in charge buried him decently and kept his secret."

"Where was this?" asked Kennedy, an odd steely inquiry in his tone.

Dudevant shrugged and waved his cigaret lightly.

"Who knows? I heard some gossip; but one does not inquire too closely into the doings of a brother official. It was at one of the hill stations."

"And his loot? His jewels?"

"Ask of the jungle, of the natives, my friend; he had nothing left. You see how my case is proved? One little youthful folly, one evening gone wrong, and imagination led him on. He thought his life was ruined; so he went on and ruined it."

Kennedy nodded. He produced a cheroot, bit on it and his eyes gleamed.

"By gad, you've got to hand it to him! He got away with a man's job, eh? I've seen those temples and how they're guarded. Then he lost everything, staggered into French territory and died from his hardships. That it?"

"So." Dudevant smiled. "You see? And this young colonial officer who just passed— he drinks, he commits some trifling breach of discipline, he drinks more, and some day he is found with a bullet in his brain. All for nothing. Excuse me a moment. I will telephone to the club about the wine for dinner."

He rose and strode inside, a tall, lean man who walked with lithe steps. Kennedy looked after him, face like iron, and took the cheroot from his lips.

"So!" he said, half aloud. The sound of the word was like an animal's snarl.

THE MESSAGERIES boat came in, took aboard its south-bound freight and passengers and went back downstream in the curious way boats have of leaving Saigon.

Kennedy and Dudevant had obtained a cabin together. As though the safe departure and the free air of the sea had unsealed his lips, Kennedy almost at once became less taciturn, treated his companion to little confidences, displayed a new and very pleasing side of his nature. He, a hardboiled financier, had his weaknesses; and the trust of such a man is always flattering.

He told Dudevant, for example, just what he had been doing in Indo-China and upcountry. The Frenchman listened, at first astonished, then with thoughtful, reflective eyes fastened on the sea horizon to port.

"So you collect gems, eh?" said Dudevant slowly. "For those who can afford it, a pleasant pastime, and perhaps profitable. And you had no luck?"

Kennedy shook his head.

"Not a scratch; never found a stone. Wasted my time and money, not to mention my arrangement with a customs guard at Singapore. You see, that's how I could make it profitable. No duty to pay here, no duty to pay when I got home. Such things can be arranged if you locate the right men. I had hoped to take home at least fifty thousand pounds' worth of stones— and I haven't found a dozen decent ones the whole trip."

Dudevant commiserated with him, and presently changed the subject. That evening they sat in a bridge game with two Englishmen, and Kennedy lost quite heavily. He settled up from an amazing roll of fifty-pound Bank of England notes, and Dudevant's eyes lingered on this display of cash with gathering cupidity in their dark depths. Some men are like that; the sight of much money seems to waken latent greed within them.

It was on the following afternoon, as they sat together beneath the after bridge deck awning, that Dudevant turned to Kennedy and spoke with very sober air.

"The compliment you have paid me, in your confidences, my friend, is not only deeply appreciated; more, it is an extraordinary coincidence. I know that you had no ulterior motive in telling me about your hobby— because I am the only living person who could know that I am interested in it."

Kennedy gave him a slow, surprised glance of interrogation.

"Eh? I'm afraid I don't quite get you, old man."

"No?" Dudevant laughed gaily and jerked his chair closer. "You desire to buy stones. I have stones, good ones. You could not know that, of course; not a living soul even suspects it. Listen, my friend. You know it is forbidden for officials to meddle with such things; they must live on their miserable pittance of pay, and hope some day to go home on a pension, when they are old and broken— but not many ever enjoy their pensions."

Kennedy shrugged.

"Naturally not. If an official is honest, he's damned to the extent of letting virtue be its own reward— a cursed poor one out here— while other men get rich all around him. If he's dishonest, so are most of the others; the only crime lies in getting caught."

It did not occur to Dudevant that this sort of philosophy was a bit strange on the lips of an American financier. Probably, indeed, it was just the sort of philosophy that coincided with his Gallic notions of American financiers. He nodded earnestly, shrewdly, and lighted a fresh cigaret.

"Of course, of course," he agreed. "You have expressed it exactly, my friend. You may not know the extent to which the life of a small official is plain and undiluted purgatory. The endless red tape, papers, papers, papers! The small salary, the fear and enmity of his superiors, the inability to trust any one around him, the secluded life off at some hill post surrounded by natives. Perhaps twenty years of it lies ahead of him, before he can hope for civilization, for repose, for France. Small wonder if that man seeks to feather his nest as he sees his superiors do every day."

Kennedy's face was quite blank as he nodded tacit approval of these sentiments.

"So— you comprehend."

The Frenchman spread his hands eloquently, leaned back, fingered his thin pointed mustache for a moment. Kennedy looked at him, then smiled thinly.

"And you've managed it, have you?"

Dudevant's expression was sardonic.

"I have come into an inheritance, yes," he said. "It allowed me to resign my post and go home; the explanation was sufficient. And now I am going to France. In another month I shall be comfortably established in a small pension. I shall set about locating a wife with the proper dot. I shall have ahead of me an easy and quiet life, with small luxuries in plenty, a few large ones— all of life. But wait. I go to bring you something, something to show you, my friend. I think you will find it of great interest."

He rose and departed with his lithe, sure stride. Kennedy darted one glance after him— one glance from eyes that were shaggy browed, fiercely grim.

"Yes, all of life— luxurious, easy, comfortable!" he muttered. "You've got it all ahead of you, sure; never bothers you a bit that other men had life ahead of them, too— well, you're hooked, or I'm a Dutchman!"

He sat unmoving, looking out at the glittering horizon; their little portion of the bridge deck was to itself, cut off from other passengers.

Presently Dudevant came back, carrying with him a cane of square bamboo, a stick Kennedy had noticed him carrying in Saigon. It was lightly carved between the joints, which as in this variety of bamboo were quite far apart, and each joint bore a neat little ring of yellowed ivory about it, inconspicuous, but also lightly carved.

The Frenchman sat down, looked around to be sure they were alone, then took hold of the stick and turned. It unscrewed from the handle at the top joint; then a second and a third joint came apart in like fashion. It was cunningly made.

"Here we are."

Sun helmet upside down in his lap, Dudevant placed in it little twists of paper which he took from the hollow sections of bamboo; each twist of paper held something. He fingered them, counting them over, and nodded. One or two he put aside in his pocket. Then he handed the helmet and contents to Kennedy.

"There, my friend," he said with great frankness. "Look at these and tell me what you can give for them. I had that stick made, but I am not so sure about such a concealment. I fear it might not get me safely into France, after all. And, you understand, France must be attained. I have gambled heavily and can not afford to lose. I have, indeed, just enough money to reach Marseilles comfortably."

"Stones, are they?" demanded Kennedy, his fingers fumbling at one of the paper twists. "Where'd you get them?"

"Here and there, over the past ten years." Dudevant shrugged. "Some were pledges for loans made with Chinese traders. I had most of the Chinese in my district on the lookout for bargains. Others I got at odd times and places. They're all native cut, if you'll notice. May have to be recut."

Kennedy's face was like stone, giving no hint of belief or disbelief.

One by one he unrolled the paper twists; one by one he carefully examined in his palm the gems thus revealed; one by one he twisted them up again and laid them by. Dudevant sat smoking, watching him closely, nervously, all absorbed attention. There were only eighteen stones in all, but they were very fine ones— four diamonds of old cut, the rest rubies and sapphires.

When he had seen them all, Kennedy frowned a little and looked at Dudevant with the air of one who had expected great things, only to find small ones.

"Not bad, not bad," he said. "Unfortunately, I would have to buy them all in order to get the diamonds. And I must confess to you that I seek diamonds above all else. Yes, I find stories in diamonds, queer tales, odd anecdotes— but I am not so fond of these antique cuttings. If you had picked up any more modern stones, now—"

Almost reluctantly, it seemed, Dudevant's fingers went to his pocket.

"Well," he admitted, "there is one such diamond here. I could not well remove it from its setting without risk of damaging it. I got it from a native chieftain a couple of years ago, still in the lump of gold that held it. The gold has value, and the stone is fine, though very small— so small that, on the whole, I left it in the gold. Look at it."

Kennedy took the paper twist handed him. It was heavier than the others. He opened it and disclosed a bit of gold in which was set a small, fine diamond. He examined the gold attentively. What it had been was hard to say. Gouges in the back showed where initials had presumably been hacked out; yet there was a certain symmetry about it. Near the diamond in front were a few tiny flecks of black, which had escaped the file or knife scratching the whole thing.

Letting it fall among the rest in the helmet, Kennedy looked up. His face was very bleak and cold; his eyes glimmered strangely.

"My friend," he said in a level, controlled voice, "this diamond indeed tells me a story— or do I fancy it? You got it two years ago, eh?"

Dudevant nodded.

"From a native," he said, a little uneasily.

A harsh laugh broke from Kennedy.

"You are not acquainted with the customs of American universities? No. I thought not. They have societies which they call fraternities. The members have gold pins, some of them set with jewels. This was one such. It was worn by that young man of whom you told me in Saigon— you recall? Young Mackintosh. It bore his initials on the back—"

"No, no; impossible!" said Dudevant swiftly— almost too swiftly. He caught the gleam in the eyes of Kennedy and turned pale.

"Impossible, and shall I tell you why?" said Kennedy. "Because it was barely six months ago that young Mackintosh disappeared. You got this diamond two years ago; hence, impossible. Provided you told the truth. But you did not. You are the official to whose station this unfortunate young man came. These stones are the ones he looted in Bangkok."

"My dear sir," intervened Dudevant, coming to his feet, a deathly pallor in his face, "I do not understand why you talk to me in this manner. I do not understand your insinuations or charges."

"Nonsense!" Kennedy laughed and leaned back in his chair, so that the Frenchman frowned down at him, puzzled by his manner. "You'll understand them all in another moment, my dear fellow. You see, my name isn't really Kennedy at all; I only took that name after hearing about my son's tragedy and presumed death. I didn't think he was the sort to commit suicide, and I was right. My name is Mackintosh."

Dudevant took a step backward. His face was livid, greenish, and horror sat in his eyes. He tried to speak, wet his lips, could say nothing.

And in this moment Kennedy calmly lifted the sun helmet with its contents and flung it out, over the steamer's rail.

A moment later Kennedy sat there alone, lighting a fresh cheroot, looking out at the horizon. His face was like stone, his eyes held no emotion. He remembered the low and terrible cry which had burst from Dudevant, how the Frenchman had turned and rushed below.

"Should have gone after him, I suppose," he reflected. "But why? It'd do me no good to kill him. I punished him enough. He—"

He glanced up as a shadow fell; it was the purser of the boat, a kindly, bearded old Frenchman. Kennedy motioned to the empty chair, and the purser sat down. After they had exchanged a few amenities, Kennedy turned to the officer.

"Tell me what you think about something, monsieur— what you think would be the reaction of a Frenchman under certain circumstances!"

"With all my heart, monsieur." The purser laughed amusedly. "Your case?"

"That of a man of, say, forty-five," said Kennedy slowly. "A small official out here, who has in a manner sold his soul to get sudden wealth. He gives up his post, burns his bridges, starts for home. He visions Paris, France, awaiting him— a life of comfort, of ease, of retirement. The fact that in order to get his future he has allowed another man to die does not worry him at all. Then, unexpectedly, like a bolt from the blue, he loses every bit of the fortune for which he sold his soul. He also perceives, or rather dreads, exposure, vengeance, punishment. What would such a man do?"

Under the slow words, the laughing face of the purser grew very sober.

"Ah, monsieur," he rejoined, "I am afraid, very much afraid, that such a man would see only one thing to do— Mon Dieu! What was that?"

A sudden sharp sound came from the cabins below them— the sharp, bursting crack of an automatic pistol. Kennedy took the cheroot from between his teeth.

"That, monsieur," he said calmly, "was probably proof that your discernment is most excellent!"

The purser had not stayed to hear his comment, however.

____________________

6: Coastwise Murder

Adventure, 1 April 1930

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"The man."

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

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

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

King glanced over his shoulder at the covered figure.

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

Carson's eyes lingered on King.

"Macao?"

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

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

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

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

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

"Where are we?" King turned, scrutinizing the coast. "Anywhere near shelter?"

Carson shook his head.

"No, but it might be worse. We can land on one of the islands; all islands along here. When the blow's past we can haul up for Macao— ought to make it by to- morrow night, unless we speak a ship first. We sailed on the tide yesterday afternoon and hadn't gone a great ways by midnight— not above fifty knots. We can haul up for the north tonight, unless weather comes. Looks like squalls, but they may pass over by night."

King bit at a cigar and relapsed into silence. The Chinese lady sat leaning against the weather gunwale of the boat as it heeled, and she must have felt that Carson was scrutinizing her, for she turned and met his eyes.

"Feeling all right?" he asked.

"Yes, thanks," she returned in English.

He smiled.

"So you haven't lost your tongue, eh? What's your name?"

"Lady Ming," she said, and Carson read in her eyes that she lied. Carson was nobody's fool.

"That dead man was your husband?"

"No," she said. "I never saw him before."

"Oh, hell," said Carson disgustedly.

He was glad when presently she turned away again; somehow, he felt better with her back toward him. There was some white blood in her, he decided. Certainly she was beautiful in her way; at the same time, he felt uncomfortable with her looking at him. He was no saint, and he had been in many ports. He could imagine what a blazing creature she would be with passion stirring in her and all that statuesque poise departed.

"Hell!" he reflected. "Let them as likes 'em have 'em! King, for instance. Something between the two of them, all right."

The weather wrinkles deepened about his eyes as he squinted ahead, and his thin lips became set in a line. It was none of his business, of course; yet he began to think about that Chinese gentleman with the knife wound in his back, lying dead on the thwart, eyes wide open. Perhaps the knife thrust had been given in the jam aboard the sinking coaster, perhaps the yellow man had quietly bled to death—perhaps not. Hard to say.

"Wish I had the pilot here now— I'd know all about these islands in a minute," muttered Carson. He was thinking about his job; but the subconscious part of his brain was still thinking about the three others who had been in the boat.

And, even before he realized it, even while he watched the first burst of rain sweeping down across the water, the thing was getting all straightened out in his mind. Guesswork, of course. He forgot he had given Lady Ming the lie direct.

THE DRENCHING downpour had passed them over, soaking them to the skin, happily filling the water breaker, leaving ankle deep water sloshing around in the bottom of the boat. She heeled over a little more as she turned to the tiller, rounding the point of the island, making for the sheltered patch of sandy beach.

King crouched, eyes all for the shore. Lady Ming had not moved; the thin drenched silks clung tightly to her supple body, outlining every curve and contour of its slim length. Carson looked from her to the water and back again to her. When her coat blew back for an instant, he was looking at the bulge by her hip, and had a clear glimpse of it; he knew sharkskin when he saw it. He smiled thinly and bided his time. He had conceived a mounting dislike for Lady Ming.

They were safe enough now; there would be squall after squall, perhaps until sunset, but there was no hurry. Sunset would bring peace, and they could embark again without danger of rain and waves filling the boat. King, oddly enough, had removed his coat when the first burst of rain came and had rolled it up into a tight bundle below the thwart, as though to preserve something from the water. Carson saw that, too, and shrugged. None of his business, of course, yet it was in keeping.

These islands here were all slabs and spikes of rock, some bare and sandy, some overgrown with grass, some merging with the inland hills. This one was small, grassy, uninhabited. The strip of beach gave no shelter from great combers rolling in over the sea, but there were no combers now, with these squalls. The rain kept the waves down, and all the wild trouble lay up above in the sky, not in the water. So, with no surf to hinder, the boat's nose ran in and touched the sand with a jar, but she was still a few feet out from shore.

"Over, King, and haul her up!" rose Carson's voice. "I'll bring the lady. Here, Lady Ming, take my hand, now—"

She rose obediently, when King had jumped awkwardly over. Carson rose also. Something happened— a boat lurches quickly, beyond any warning. Without a sound or a cry Lady Ming pitched into the water. Carson was after her instantly, waist deep. She was struggling now; he gripped for her, seemed to have difficulty in locating her. His right hand slid something into his hip pocket, and then he had her in his left arm, holding her up as she choked, lifting her well above the water.

"Sorry," he said, but with a smile in his eyes. "No great harm done. There you are!"

He set her on the sand and turned back to help King with the boat, unshipping the tiller, unstepping the mast, laying aside everything not lashed down. Between them they got the boat up sufficiently and tipped her over.

"Better carry those stores up to the rocks," said King. "We'll have a fire, eh?" "Good idea," approved Carson. "The smoke will draw native boats, but we'll be gone before they venture out to us."

Lady Ming followed them up to where great rocks jutted from the sand, giving shelter from wind and rain. The two men carried up the stores, load by load; she sat down in the sand and watched them, her face placid as the dawn in which her glowing jewels of eyes were set. Once, and once only, her hand went to her thigh and slipped along the silk, and her eyes widened a little and then fastened upon Carson. She said nothing, however.

King had fetched up his coat, still wrapped in a ball, and set it by a rock aside.

"Got a knife?" asked Carson idly. "I'd better look about and shred up some dry sticks. Not many matches to waste in that waterproof box. Must have a knife, though—any kind."

King hung fire for an instant, then fumbled in his wet pocket.

"Sure, I've got my old faithful here," he said. "There y'are. I'll be getting after some dry wood, too. Better have a drink all around, with this soaking?"

Carson pocketed the large knife and nodded. He went to the stores; the brandy was intact, and he measured out a stiff drink all around. Then he went off up among the jutting rocks, out of sight. When he was gone, Lady Ming abruptly lost her statuesque silence, her calm poise. She came to her feet, color leaping in her cheeks, and caught at the wrist of King.

"He knows!" she said, a species of gasping utterance behind her words. "He knows! He— he took them; he tipped the boat purposely! He took them while I was under water—"

King started, staring at her. His eyes widened in a moment of fright, then his face altered and hardened suddenly; the hot blood ebbed out of his cheeks and his hands clenched into two hard knots.

"No!" he said thickly. "You— you're wrong. He couldn't know; you said when he came aboard he slumped down and was unconscious!"

She nodded.

"I thought so. Perhaps I was wrong. He says I'm a liar, Charley. He knows who I am after all. He's been playing with us— and he took them." Her ivory face was gray now, her eyes wide and luminous. King shook himself, freed his wrist from her grip.

"All right," he said harshly. "Leave it to me." He went to the pile of stores and gulped at the brandy. Then he strode over to the ball beside the rock and lifted his coat, shook it out, took something from within the folds and shoved it into the pocket. He put the coat on, smoothed it out carefully and waved his hand to Lady Ming.

"My job," he said. "You've done your part. Be back soon."

He strode away, walking with swift, resolute strides, in the direction which Carson had taken. Another squall was sweeping down, the wind whistling among the rocks that jutted from the sand and merged with the backbone of the island.

THERE was no lack of small stuff among the upper rocks, all sorts of dry stuff in nooks and crannies, but Carson was in no hurry to garner it. Once well away to himself, he took out the knife King had given him and examined it with a slight grimace, as though the touch of it were keenly distasteful. It was a large, heavy knife of peculiar pattern; Carson had seen this pattern before. The main blade worked on a spring, and shot out suddenly under his pressure; a three-inch shaft of steel, worked to a razor edge on both sides— a knife, perhaps, but also a poniard.

Holding it up, Carson examined it closely and grimaced again. All the blade was clean and shining; but at its base, and in the notch of the haft that had enclosed the blade, was a minute discoloration that flaked away under his finger nail. Carson closed the knife and put it in his pocket.

"Hm!" he said, looking up at the sky. "Hard to wipe a knife clean in the dark. eh? And Chinaman's blood is just the same as mine, I guess. Blood's blood, when it comes to that."

He reached around to his hip pocket. Now there came into his hand a case, not unlike a cigar case in shape, but longer. It was a rather beautiful thing of sharkskin— not coarse shagreen at all, but worked into fine and lissom shape, yet so stout as to protect whatever lay inside. It was in two parts, so made that one fitted over the other, not too tightly, yet just tight enough. Carson pulled them apart and inspected the one which was the cover. As he had thought, Chinese characters were brushed on the lining of one side; and on the other, in English, was written, "Quong Li, Macao".

"So!" muttered Carson musingly, and his eyes darkened. "Pretty good guesser, eh? None of my business, of course; just the same, that fool had to blab. Smart! They have to prove how smart they are, eh? Let's see, now— "

He prodded the cotton which filled the inner part of the case, prodded it with his finger, felt harder globules within the cotton. He did not examine to see what they were, however; there was no need. He reflectively telescoped the shagreen case together again and then, after a moment, glanced up. He saw King coming toward him, but the contempt and anger which filled his salt rimmed eyes quite blinded him to the fact that King was now wearing his coat. Otherwise, Carson would have observed it. He made no effort to hide the case, but stood with it in his hand as the other man approached.

"Well?" said King, with assumed geniality. "Finding much?"

"Yes," said Carson. "A good deal."

King stopped short, looking at this thin featured, inflexible man whose eyes burned out at him so contemptuously. Danger here, acute danger; King wet his lips, hesitated.

"Let me tell you something," said Carson, quite without any heat, in a dispassionate way. "None o' my business, of course, but I'd like you to know what a ratty little brute you are, King. I want to tell you what happened last night— I've remembered about that gun going off so damned fast by the No. 3 boat. It goes back beyond that, back to Macao— quite a good friend of Quong, weren't you? Visited in his home, met his No. 1 wife and so forth. Yeah. Took the same boat with him for Kwangchow."

A mortal pallor had stolen into King's features.

"What you talking about?" he growled. "You," said Carson calmly. "Luck helped you no end last night, didn't it? You got Quong and his wife into that boat— drunk, my eye! You had the liquor, but you were cursed sober. Whatever you had framed up with her, luck played into your hand, eh? You bet. And you got away with the boat, the three of you, drifting there. And Quong went to sleep on the for'ard thwart— and then you bit him like the rats you are. She took him by the neck and held him there and you put the knife into him; right place, too. That's why his eyes stayed open and his hands were so queer. Held him till you pulled it out, and smeared blood on her coat to boot. Then you guzzled the brandy and fell asleep, while she looted him."

"You're crazy!" said King, in a shrill, thin voice. His hands were shaking. "You're stark mad—mad!"

"Not a bit of it," said Carson. "None o' my business, but— "

"You damned sneak!" cried out King. The voice, the cry, seemed to come from him like an explosion. His right hand fumbled in his pocket. "You sneak— "

The automatic pistol leaped out and vomited a jet of flame, even as Carson realized his peril and leaped forward. Again came the crash, and a third staccato report echoed up among the jutting rocks. Carson was jerked around as by an invisible hand and plunged down head first, and lay there.

"You damned fool!" said King, panting, looking down wide eyed at his victim. "None of your business—no, I guess not!" He dabbed sweat from his eyes, thrust the pistol into his pocket, then stooped and caught up the shagreen case, which had fallen at his feet. Then he turned and hurried away, broke into a run and was gone.

Lady Ming— a much more decorative name than the commonplace Mrs. Quong Li, and related to more aristocratic families— had regained her usual composure and was sitting in the lee of an overhanging mass of rock when King approached. The sky had blackened, and another burst of rain was threatening down the shrieking wind.

She watched him draw near, only the suggestion of an inquiry in her liquid dark eyes. He too had mastered his emotions; he came striding up vigorously, with the resolute air of one who has trampled down all fears and menaces, and there was a gay swagger in his manner as he halted and chucked the shagreen case plump into her lap.

"There you are!" he exclaimed, and laughed. "And now we don't have to be so damned careful any more— What do I get, eh?"

She lifted her face and smiled— the curiously transforming smile which was like a flame breaking through those delicate features of old ivory. King stooped and pressed his lips to hers; but a patter of rain swept down—it was no time for romance.

"Did you—" she hesitated. King laughed again, confidently. "Sure. We had a talk. He knew, all right. Blessed if I can see how! But he had the whole thing laid out as though he'd seen it. You were right—he was a deep 'un. Well, he's safe now, and so are we. I plumped three bullets into him, took the pearls and everything's jake."

"You are wonderful!" she said, in smilingly drawled accents. King sniggered and got out a cigar and crowded into the shelter beside her.

"I'll light a fire as soon as this rain lets up," he said. "Then we can be comfortable. Look at the sky! It's clearing."

The sky to west and north was, indeed, turning into a vivid blue; but the squalls would not cease for a long while. Lady Ming looked at her protector and smiled again. "You are wonderful!" she said for the second time.

"The boat—can you manage it?"

"Sure, sure," he said confidently, but his eyes were not confident as they shifted toward the shore. The boat was out of sight; they were in among the jutting masses of rock, and the strip of beach could not be seen from this point. With the downpour of rain, in fact, one could not see fifty feet away. "No trouble about that," said King.

"We ain't fifty mile from Macao. He said so himself. Nothing to do but follow the coast north, see? I'll manage it, all right. You've done your part, little lady, and I'll do mine."

"You are wonderful!" she said again, and her ivory face touched his unshaven cheek.

THE FIGURE of Carson lay motionless among the rocks, the left side of his shirt all crimsoned. The downpouring rain soon washed away the crimson, however, until it was only a faint reddish stain. Blue sky showed in the west and north, and the cloud wrack slowly scattered and drove out of the sky; another and an- other squall beat down, but they were only final efforts of the elements. The wind would be puffy, uneven, dangerous, all through the evening; but by morning it would be back to normal monsoon. Later in the afternoon the sun was blazing forth as though nothing had happened at all.

It fell upon the drenched, bloodless figure of Carson and dried it, enveloped it in a mantle of warmth and wakened it into life; for there was still life in the lean body. In fact, Carson was snoring as he lay there, until the warmth brought him out of his slumber.

He stirred, opened his eyes, came to one elbow— and groaned. His face, a bloodless mask, contorted in agony; but he sat up and took stock of himself; he still had King's knife in his pocket, and he got this out and opened it, cutting at his shirt.

Presently he was naked to the waist, except for grotesque patches where his shirt was fastened to his body. He left these alone, after exploring them gingerly. Two bullets had struck him; one had missed. Of the two, one leaden pellet had hit high up, raking a nasty gash across his neck and shoulder, but doing no great damage. The other had struck lower down, tearing through the tissues of his side. He was not certain, but thought one rib at least was broken. Fortunately, the bullet had ripped clear of him, leaving a gash as though made by a butcher's cleaver.

Rain had cleansed the wounds and washed away the blood; the later bleeding had coagulated so that the shirt was stuck hard and fast. The wounds were now well stopped by the patches of shirt Carson left in place.

With what remained of the shirt he contrived a bandage about his body to hold the lower and more dangerous wound as it was. The scrape across his shoulder he disdained to bandage. When this was done he came to his feet— and staggered.

Only then did he realize his stiffness, his weakness. Blood had drained out of him. His whole left side was so stiff that any arm movement was torture— yet he could use his arm if necessary. He looked up at the sun, which was close to the western hills.

"Half an hour of daylight, eh?" he reflected. "Question is, do I want to find that ruddy blighter or not? I'm in no shape to jump him, even if he didn't have his gun. However, must do it— the only hope I have is that boat."

He did not waste any breath or energy on curses, but he thought a good deal. A hollow among the rocks held a little pool of rain water. He staggered to it, painfully lowered himself and drank his fill. Then he got to his feet again and headed for the beach.

His progress was slow, for it hurt him even to walk; but he forged doggedly ahead, now and again pausing to lean against a rock. The boat meant escape; its stores and water meant existence. Even without the food and drink, the boat would do— he could last for a day or two on the resources of his body. Dragging himself along, he came at last to where he had left King and Lady Ming, and the stores. Nothing was here except the still warm ashes of a fire, and foot- prints that had been made when the sand was wet.

Carson compressed his lips and went on, heading now for the beach. After a time he got glimpses of it between the jutting rock masses. He plodded on until at length it came clearly into his sight.

And it was empty.

Calm, complete calm had fallen; in the glory of sunset everything, rocks and mountains and water, was bathed in dazzling golden light. Carson leaned back against a rock and squinted at the water. There was no boat, no sail in sight.

Sudden puffs of wind struck across the water in sharply edged catspaws, then were gone again. Carson, recovering from the shock of this emptiness, glanced at the promontory to his right.

"She's probably out there, heading for the north. I could see her if I got across to that sand spit," he muttered. "But what's the use? I don't want to see her. Better make sure, though— they left good tracks— must ha' got off as soon as things cleared up. Currents like mill races all along here, too."

He followed the tracks toward where the boat had been at high tide; the tide was out now. The sun died out as he came to the tracked up sand at high water mark. Day was almost done. A pair of oars lay on the sand; the others had been lashed beneath the thwarts, probably were still there— King had no knife now.

Carson smiled grimly at the thought as he studied the sand and its marks. They had worked together, King and the Chinese lady, getting the boat over and shoved down to the water—no light job for them, either. He could see their heel marks, proving how they had tugged and shoved. Making up the coast, probably; and Carson's grim, ironic smile came out again at the notion of it.

He had discovered during the morning that King knew less than nothing about handling a boat. Much less a boat under sail. So they had put out together, had they— out where the wind puffs were still flicking down from the hills? Well, King would have a sweet time of it with those currents that set in around the island!

"And me— huh! Looks like I'll have a sweet time of it, all right," thought Carson, as he stared out across the darkling waters. "Blazing sun tomorrow; no grub, no shirt, no water, no matches to make a signal smoke, no nothing. The damned lousy murderer! He'll go away with his woman and his pearls and tell a fancy story and be a blasted hero with money in his pocket—" He laughed bitterly and turned away.

His foot struck against something, lying near the discarded oars, that he had not previously observed; sand had been dashed over it, so that one would not readily notice it. He kicked at it, stared down, and a long, slow whistle came from his lips. This object was the tiller of the boat, which he himself had unshipped.

Carson uttered a laugh which racked his body— a low and terrible laugh that rose into a shrill spasm of ironic mirth. King had put off without this tiller, doubtless had never seen it lying there. He might steer with an oar, except that he had left his knife ashore and the oars were lashed fast. Besides, it takes a seaman to handle a boat with an oar for rudder. There were any number of things King might do, but small probability that he would do any of them.

"Ho-ho!" cried out Carson, holding his sides, tears upon his cheeks. "Ho-ho! This a rich one, this is— the two of 'em— the owl and the pussycat goin' to sea—"

He felt his knees weakening and cared not a whit. Exhaustion, shock, weakness, all at once claimed him, as though with the daylight his strength had ebbed also. He quietly dropped in the sand and lay there, above high water mark, as the night drew down; and his coma passed into a natural and deep slumber.

Dawn came again, and daylight, with the spears of sunrise threatening the eastern sky. Carson sat up and rubbed his eyes, until twinges of pain in his side recalled him to reality. It was the day he had dreaded to see break; another hour, and the merciless sun would be high enough to smite him down. He must hunt shelter among the rocks, perhaps a pool of rain water remaining—

He stiffened, staring amazedly at the water, then rose to his feet. Something was floating there, swinging slowly along at the edge of the current— something like a dead porpoise.

But it was no porpoise, nor any other fish. Carson rubbed the sleep from his eyes, blinking out at the water, a scant twenty yards from shore, where the thing floated. He visualized it abruptly— a boat, capsized, floating bottom up, a half submerged tangle of gear alongside betraying where mast and dragging canvas were adrift.

A boat? No, by the gods! His boat!

Not hesitating, Carson walked down to the water, walked into it, threw himself forward and began to swim. Half an hour afterward he had the boat on the sand. For all the effort, for all the pain it caused, he presently got her turned over. And now he saw something else. The plug was clear gone out of her bottom, and the hole was stoppered in an agonized sort of way with the fragments of an embroidered silk coat. Carson looked out at the water. Nothing there. Nothing here in or about the boat to tell of what had happened; but what more did he need?

The rudderless craft, the puffs of wind, the plug somehow knocked out and lost in the darkness—

"Well," he observed, recovering from his stupefaction, "maybe Providence does know its way around after all! Now, if the fool had sense enough to put the grub and brandy into the locker—"

He opened the watertight compartment. Yes, King had had sense enough for that— and an abrupt oath fell from Carson's lips as his fingers touched something else and drew it forth.

It was the shagreen case, with contents intact— and a pearl necklace added.

LATER the following appeared in the Hong-Kong Daily Press:

The sole survivor of the ill fated Feng Shan arrived in port last night aboard the Tenyo Maru. James Carson, first officer of the luckless craft, was picked up in an otherwise empty boat; he was badly knocked about, and had incurred two bullet wounds in the course of the scrimmage following the striking of the ship. His full story, which has been secured exclusively for the Daily Press, will be found upon another page.

The story related by Carson, to the press and the underwriters and the owners and the admiralty court alike, was absolutely true in every detail. Human nature being what it is, however, one is not certain whether to regret or to rejoice that there was no mention whatever in this story of Lady Ming or of the man named King— and above all, no mention of the shagreen case. No inquiries were ever made about it, however, or about its content.

____________________

7: The Million-Dollar Certificate

Blue Book, October 1932

CARTER was a long, lean, supple man with friendly blue eyes and, in rainy weather, a slight limp; a lion in Rhodesia had given him the limp; but he had the lion's pelt on the floor of his apartment in the Fifties, so the honors were his. Like most hunters, Carter did not look the part. He did not look like a detective, either; and although on the books of Headquarters he was listed as a plain, ordinary detective, he was really, nothing of the sort. He drew no salary, and Headquarters never applied to him unless they had a hunting job demanding his peculiar abilities.

At eight o'clock on the evening of Wednesday, November eleventh, Carter was just leaving for the opera when his telephone rang insistently. He picked up the receiver. The caller was Drummond, the police commissioner.

"Can you come straight to my office, Carter ?"

"Yes," said Carter. "Important?"

"Of course. Gavin."

"I'll be there in twenty minutes."

HE had been reading about Gavin in the evening papers— a peculiar but not sinister case.

Gavin had dropped dead that morning while playing golf at the West Franklin Club. Close to the eighth hole was the range of the Suydam Rifle Club, whose members were that morning holding an elimination meet for the national tournament. A wild bullet had struck Gavin in the heart— perhaps a deflected bullet, since the range was most carefully placed not to endanger the golf-course. Gavin's enormous wealth, his vast publishing and banking interests, gave the story tremendous publicity value.

Carter walked into the commissioner's office, found Drummond alone, and lighting a cigarette sank into a chair beside the desk.

"The bullet wasn't wild?" he asked.

Drummond regarded him sardonically. "Nobody knows. Apparently it was. The ground's been searched, with no result. There are wooded patches near by, but it's not easy for a man with a rifle to sneak into that place and sneak out again afterward, without being seen. Those are all private grounds."

"It could be done," said Carter laconically. "You've tested the bullet?"

"Exactly. All afternoon the ballistics experts have been comparing bullets from every one of the rifles used on the range this morning. The bullet that hit Gavin came from none of those rifles."

"Then there was not the element of chance that the papers declared," said Carter, and frowned. His blue eyes lost their friendly gleam as his shaggy dark brows drew down; they became thin, alert, glittering.

"Search the ground again."

"In the morning, yes," and Drummond nodded. "But there's more. We'd have accepted the finding, except for Gavin's widow. She called me in a couple of hours ago, and told me a queer story. You know the Treasury recently issued five hundred banknotes of a million dollars each?"

"For its short-term financing, primarily," assented Carter. "Quite a large number of them came to New York— weren't Gavin's banks interested in government loans?"

"Exactly," said Drummond. "Negotiable securities— as readily cashed, theoretically, as a dollar bill. Anyone with a million in cash could purchase one."

"The fool!" exclaimed Carter, realizing the truth.

DRUMMOND only shrugged. "Why not? He had the money. For several days he's been carrying it around showing it to friends, winning bets, and so forth. A million-dollar certificate isn't seen every day, you know, even by the class of men whom Gavin ran about with. His wife thinks he had it with him this morning when he went to the golf club. It wasn't found on his body, or in his locker; she hasn't found it at home. She suspects it was stolen, or lost."

"Suspects is the right word,"— and Carter smiled thinly.

"Anyhow," went on Drummond, "she has demanded that we get on the job. She's inherited almost the whole of his estate; she's an alert, vindictive, hard-eyed woman, Carter."

"I see," said Carter. "And the Gavin newspapers could raise hell, couldn't they? So she has exerted enough direct pull to make you put me on the job— eh?"

"If you'll take it. I don't want a soul to know that we're doing it; I don't want a hint to get out that an accidental death finding hasn't been accepted fully. I've taken over every detail of the case. I'll give you every authority, every latitude."

"All right," said Carter. "Information handy?"

"Shoot!" Drummond indicated the sheaf of papers before him.

"His companions in the game?"

"His nephew Hartley Hollister; Flood, of the Dominion National; old Martin Anders, the octogenarian oil man; and Gavin's chief partner, Sunderby."

"All but Hollister very wealthy men. Rule them out," said Carter, and Drummond nodded. "Hm! Any chance of the wife having swiped the certificate?"

"No. Married seven years, never a quarrel— a devoted couple. She had money of her own, plenty of it."

"Who handled the body?"

"No one. Hollister was the first to reach him, held Gavin's head until the others came up. No one else touched the body, finding him dead instantly."

"Looks bad for Hollister," said Carter. "Is he well fixed ?"

"No. He's a minor partner in a brokerage firm, has lost heavily lately, sold out his partnership three days ago," returned Drummond, glancing over his papers. "Unmarried. There's nothing particularly against him— he enjoys life. Twenty-six."

"Did Gavin carry the certificate loose in his pocket?"

"No. It was four times as large as a dollar bill, engraved on the same paper; Gavin carried it in an empty gold watch-case attached to his key-ring and chain. Ring, chain and watch-case have vanished completely."

"Hollister could have slipped it out of Gavin's pocket as he held him?"

"Certainly. The others were at some little distance. Gavin's caddy was close by."

"The certificate can be traced by number?"

"Yes. Three-eight-two." Drummond hesitated, frowning. "But, Carter, don't you get the point? Hollister could flourish it in the streets tonight, and we couldn't touch him. Gavin apparently pocketed the certificate and replaced it with cash. There's no record of the note being his property, any more than if it were a mere dollar bill."

"Would its possession prove theft, if Hollister has it?"

"No. We don't know that Gavin didn't lend it to him to play with. We don't know that Gavin didn't lose it, give it away, or leave it lying around home." Drummond waved his hand impatiently. "There can't be a definite charge. Mrs. Gavin merely thinks, supposes, guesses, infers, dammit! She may yet find the thing around the house."

"Then what the devil," inquired Carter, "do you expect me to do about it?"

"I expect you to act on the assumption that Gavin was murdered," said Drummond curtly. He rose and picked up his light overcoat.

"I'm going home. You can take this file and go over it at leisure. The sky's the limit. There'll be questioning to do—the job was done very hurriedly today, naturally."

Carter glanced at his watch. "Thanks. I'll just make the second act of Tristan— which, after all, is the only important act. Do you know that the love duet takes exactly twenty-nine minutes to sing?"

Drummond merely snorted something and departed.

NEXT morning Carter obtained a private interview with Mrs. Gavin, who had gone completely to pieces. She was little better than a nervous wreck, but Carter learned the surprising fact that, only half an hour since, she had found her husband's key-ring, chain and empty watch-case, still extremely empty. The million-dollar note was not in it.

She had found it on her dresser, where Gavin must have laid it before departing to his last golf match. Mrs. Gavin was entirely incapable of considering whether any of the servants might have taken the certificate from the watch-case. The more he talked with her, the less Carter liked her; as Drummond had suggested, she was rather harsh, yet her breakdown seemed sincere.

He left abruptly, after getting a list of the servants from her.

At noon, Carter, who was now in complete charge of the case, received a telephone message. He got into his own car and went speeding out across the miles to the West Franklin Club, where two Headquarters men had been working, very quietly. Their news was startling.

The rifle that had fired the fatal shot was found, in a dense clump of brush sixty yards from the point where Gavin had fallen. It was a light rifle of ordinary make, with silencer attached. The men had said nothing to anyone about their find.

"No doubt the ballistics experts will prove that the bullet came from it," said Carter quietly. "You boys run along with it. No footprints?"

"We've gone over the ground with a fine-tooth comb, and there's not a thing," was the emphatic rejoinder. Carter nodded, and took their word for it.

WHEN they had departed, he went into the club and demanded the boy who had caddied for Gavin on Wednesday morning. The lad was at the caddy house now, and was summoned. When he arrived, Carter took him out on the terrace and settled comfortably into a chair.

"Your name's Malone, eh?" He surveyed the freckled, sharp-eyed youngster. Those alert, half-suspicious eyes, he noted, were heavy-lidded, close together....

Malone listened to him attentively, then shook his head.

"No sir, not a thing out of the way," he replied. "Mr. Hollister sliced into the rough and was hunting around for his ball; his caddy had lost it and was hunting away off the line. The other two gentlemen had driven, and they were walking up along the right of the course, because they didn't go far. Mr. Garvin laid out a beauty straight down, but thought his club head was loose and waited to look it over. That put him back of everybody else. I was pretty close behind him when he keeled over— never said a word. He fell forward on his face. I let out a yell and tried to get his head up; he was sort of slumped up. When I saw blood on my hand, I was scared. Then Mr. Hollister came along."

"So." Carter lighted a cigarette, to keep from showing any exultation. He had found something at last! "You heard no shot?"

"No sir. Not a sound. I'm positive."

"Had you seen anyone on the course?"

"No sir. Mr. Gavin usually came mornings so he'd have the course to himself; he'd send a phone-call ahead for me. I always caddied for him. I live over in West Franklin— my mother and me— and I could get here early."

"Nobody else was on the course, then, from the time you left the first tee?"

"No sir. Not a soul, except Mr. Hollister's chauffeur."

"Eh? When was this?"

"At the sixth tee, sir. He came up after us from the clubhouse with a sack of clubs. I remember he showed them to Mr. Hollister— said they were his old clubs that had been lost for three weeks or so. He had just found them in the luggage compartment of the car. Everybody laughed about Mr. Hollister having put them there after too many drinks."

"Then what?" queried Carter.

"That's all, sir. Mr. Hollister said he preferred the new ones, and the chauffeur went back."

"Did you see him go back all the way?"

"Say, was I getting paid to watch him or the ball?" demanded Malone. "He started back."

"So! Didn't you say when the first questions were asked, that Mr. Hollister was the only one to touch Mr. Garvin's body?"

"No sir!" returned the boy emphatically. "Mr. Hollister said so. I guess he thought I didn't count. He took up Mr. Gavin's head and shoulders in his arms, spoke to him, and then laid him down again."

"Did you see him take anything from Mr. Gavin's pockets?"

Malone started. "No, sir! No, I didn't. I wasn't looking for things like that. I had seen a dead man once, and I knew Mr. Gavin was dead the minute I touched him. It— well, sir, it scared me a lot."

Carter nodded and rose.

"I don't blame you, Malone. That's all, thanks."

HE returned to the city, thoughtfully enough. There might have been no robbery after all, then—except for one point that worried him, in the boy's story. Mrs. Gavin had found the empty watch-case herself. The certificate might have been taken by one of the servants, for Gavin had flourished it around among them all, enjoying his little jest.

For the rest of the day, and that following, he contented himself with a thorough and unhurried investigation of the Gavin domestic staff, but said nothing to anyone about his findings. Also, he spent much time over the map of the West Franklin course, after discovering that the sixth tee was close to the dense patch of rough and brush where the rifle had been discovered. And that rifle had been proved to have fired the death-shot; but all endeavor to trace it to any owner had failed signally.

On the conventional third day, Gavin was buried. Carter attended the funeral, which, as a plain-clothes man observed to him, did not begin to have the pomp and circumstance of Louie the Lip's burial favors. Carter gathered that Saints Simon and Jude, looking down from their high stained-glass perch, must be distinctly disappointed. Mrs. Gavin was quite hidden beneath her heavy veil, which thus served its exact purpose. She was still in a state of semi-collapse, and was physically supported at the ceremony by Gavin's nephew.

Carter regarded Hollister curiously. A young man, well-groomed, his carriage was firm and erect, his features were strong, vigorous, massive. Black hair, dark eyes, heavy brows. No nervousness, thought Carter; well poised, and a hard man to work upwind from, if he were being hunted. Watching closely, Carter saw that Hollister did not glance at the woman who clung to his arm, drooping beneath her veil; he gained the impression that this clinging was distasteful to the man. Then they passed from his range of vision.

In Carter's pocket was an interesting report on Hollister's activities. He inhabited an apartment in an exclusive and expensive club building, maintaining his own car and chauffeur there. He had been on friendly, even intimate, terms with his uncle for years past, and dined with the Gavins on an average of twice a week. Within the past month Hollister had lost heavily in the market, had drifted about town and indulged in a good deal of drinking.

CARTER rose from his pew at the rear of the church and departed. Outside, he sauntered along the line of cars waiting behind the hearse. Chauffeurs stood about in groups, smoking and chatting. Carter stopped beside a large car whose chauffeur reclined behind the wheel, absorbed in the pages of a magazine, and with quick interest, Carter noted that it was a publication devoted exclusively to society and fashion. As the chauffeur divined his presence and glanced up, Carter nodded pleasantly and threw back his coat to give a scant glimpse of his police badge.

"Reporter from the Herald," he said."You're Mr. Hollister's chauffeur, aren't you? I'd like to get hold of some information, if you'd care to earn a ten- spot. Nothing to affect your job, of course. What say?"

"Yeah?" The chauffeur, named Redfern, was young, with powerful but pleasing features, and he surveyed Carter smilingly.

"It doesn't worry my job. I'm quitting tomorrow, so shoot ahead with your questions."

"Retiring on your income?" asked Carter whimsically.

"Not much. I'm going back to Kansas where I came from. Going into business. Well, what do you want to know?"

Carter produced and handed over the promised ten-dollar note. "I'm merely running down a few rumors," he said. "Your boss was on pretty good terms with his uncle, wasn't he?"

"I've always thought so, sure, until their row on Sunday night."

"A quarrel ?"

Redfern shook his head. "You can't drag me into it, partner. I only know what Sally told me. I didn't hear or see a thing myself. She said they had a whacking row about the boss owing a lot of money at Geehan's club."

"Who's Sally?"

"Mrs Gavin's Maid— her personal maid."

"Thanks for the tip," said Carter eagerly. "I'll not drag you into it. Will she talk?"

"If you show her some money, sure," Redfern, forgetful of his own pocketed bribe, showed his contempt by a grimace. "That girl is the original gold-digger! She sure chisels it out of the Gavins, too."

"When is her night off?"

"Saturday— tonight. There's some talk of closing the house, though."

"Oh! Mrs. Gavin's going away, is she ?"

"Search me," said Redfern, closing up suddenly. He picked up his magazine.

Carter glanced at it again, nodded farewell, and sauntered away. He knew just where and when to find Sally McAfee if he wanted her....

Something else intervened, however. When he came to a corner news-stand, Carter bought a copy of Redfern's magazine, and turned to the page Redfern had been perusing with such absorbed attention. It was devoted to an illustrated article on "What the Well-dressed Man Will Wear After Six."

A note gave the name of a fashionable and expensive tailor on Fifth Avenue who would cheerfully furnish the requisite garments for the well-dressed man to wear after six.

As the tailor in question was only a few blocks uptown, Carter gained the Avenue and was presently speaking with the proprietor of the establishment, after properly identifying himself.

"Yes, Mr. Carter," said the tailor, after obtaining the order cards from his assistants, "I see that Charles Redfern was in on Tuesday, and again on Friday, yesterday, for a fitting. He was measured for the usual correct evening clothes, also for several sack suits, four in all."

"To be delivered in the city?"

"No, to be sent to him in Big Bend, Kansas."

Carter met the eye of the tailor, who returned his whimsical smile.

"I don't know Big Bend, Kansas," observed Carter, "but it is possible that one should wear only the correct thing there. How was payment made?"

"By check on the Chase Provincial."

The Chase Provincial, less than a block away, was closed to the public, but not to the police. Within twenty minutes Carter found that Redfern had a balance there of over eight thousand dollars, seven thousand of which had been deposited, in cash, on Thursday morning.

He went home thinking hard. There was nothing criminal in a chauffeur giving up his job and going back to Kansas with an outfit of the most expensive clothes for the proper social occasions. There was nothing very strange in the fact that Redfern had carried a lost bag of golf-clubs to the sixth tee on Wednesday morning. And there was nothing sinister in Redfern's deposit of seven thousand in cash on the morning after the murder. The coincidence, however, caused Carter to investigate Pullman reservations; he found that Redfern had taken a section on the Sunday night fast train for St. Louis.

THERE remained Sally McAfee— and Hollister.

Calling up Geehan's club, a rather brazen establishment in the late Forties patronized by the edge of society, conducted by the ex-pugilist Geehan, Carter reserved a table for that evening. He knew that Hollister had not gone there since Gavin's murder, having been kept busy with the funeral arrangements— and if Hollister did what he expected him to do, Carter intended to be on hand. This arranged, he set off at once for the boarding-house where Sally McAfee was to be found.

LUCK, he decided, was with him this day as seldom before; so much good fortune made him a trifle wary. For Miss McAfee was at home, and descended to the parlor at once to see him— a small woman, with sharp and pinched features. Her heavy-lidded eyes were closely set, but despite their shrewd gaze her manner was pleasant. Carter introduced himself as a newspaper man, with a flash of his badge.

"I was just wondering, Miss McAfee," he said, with his whimsical smile, "whether I could get any angle on the Gavin affair which might make a follow-up story. Without quoting you, of course. And I have a good expense account. It would be worth a ten-spot if I could pick up anything."

"Not to me," she said promptly. "Twenty-five, then. I've heard rumors— though there may be nothing to them— about a quarrel between Gavin and his nephew."

She nodded silently, and Carter produced the money. She relaxed in her chair.

"There was a quarrel Sunday night," she said calmly. "Quite an angry one, too. Mr. Hollister owed a lot of money to Geehan's club, and Geehan had spoken to Mr. Gavin about the matter. I don't recall the details, except that Mr. Gavin was very angry and said his nephew was disgracing them all."

"And was he disgracing them, in your personal opinion?"

"He wasn't far from it," she said, an edge to her voice. "There was a lot of talk going on about him, how he was drinking and cutting up generally. Anyone could tell you that."

"I understand Mrs. Gavin is leaving the city shortly?"

"Not to my knowledge. I think she's staying here for the winter." "Oh! I understood she was leaving immediately."

"Must be a mistake," came the firm response. "They have a place at Santa Barbara, but I don't think that'll be opened now. I'm sure I don't know her plans."

"Were Mr. Hollister's rather fast doings common talk— outside the family, I mean?"

"Oh, sure! Why, everybody—well," Miss McAfee checked herself, "I only know what's said in the family, of course."

Carter rose and smilingly took his departure. "I don't think," he said to himself, "that my twenty-five dollars has been altogether wasted! But we'll see."

CARTER went early to the Tourist club. He disliked to dine in a hurry, so when he had dressed, he went straight to the club and ordered dinner. He rejected the table reserved for him, and chose another at the edge of the balcony, where there were only a dozen tables in all. Thus he could overlook the dance-floor below, and the tables surrounding it.

As he was wont to say, there were various methods of hunting. One could use a gun or a camera, a horse or an automobile, or even bow and arrow on occasion. Also, one might hunt for pelts, for food, for mere savage sport of killing, or for scientific purposes. His rather whimsical observations usually fell upon deaf ears, but he went his own chosen way regardless, and did very much as he pleased. If his methods and practices frequently horrified Commissioner Drummond, the results he invariably obtained were gratifying.

He observed Geehan, the ex-pugilist, with attention. Geehan stalked about the floor, went from table to table, greeted guests, sat down for an occasional drink; his attire was faultless, and his heavy-jawed features could be very amiable or scowling and menacing. Carter concluded that the man had no diplomacy whatever, no nicety in what he did or said, but ruled his robbers' roost with a jovial brutality that appealed to the fringes of society— those hapless fringes possessed of much money and pose, but not daring to own frank simplicity.

Carter dined at leisure and with discrimination. It was after nine when his table was cleared and he lighted a cigar, leaning back comfortably and looking down on the opening number of the floor entertainment.

"Tell Geehan I want to see him," said a level, controlled, cultured voice. "And sharp about it, Tim! I'll not be here any too long."

Carter turned and saw Hollister passing by his table, to another at the opposite side of the balcony. Hollister sat down, took out a pocket flask openly, and mixed a drink. He appeared to be entirely at his ease. He would not have appeared on the floor, of course; Carter congratulated himself on his own acuity of reasoning. Gavin was buried, and Hollister had come straight here, but without any ostentation.

Presently Geehan appeared on the balcony and strode over to Hollister's table. Hollister glanced up, smiling a little, and nodded. Geehan drew out a chair, sat down, leaned over the table, talking rapidly; the man's heavy features were cordial, friendly. Hollister gave him a long, half-smiling look, and shrugged. He appeared to make Geehan some proposal, to which the ex-bruiser assented.

With a careless gesture, Hollister took a folded paper from his pocket and handed it to the other. Geehan unfolded it, looked at it; an expression of the most intense amazement leaped into his face. He looked up at Hollister, who watched him with quiet amusement; then he broke into irritable speech and thrust the paper back. Carter could guess that Hollister had offered to pay his debts, if Geehan could make change— and had produced the million-dollar certificate.

Hollister shrugged again, pocketed the paper, chuckled at Geehan. The latter broke into a laugh, rose, and slapped Hollister on the shoulder, quite obviously telling him that his credit was good indefinitely. Then he strode away.

AFTER, a moment Carter rose, puffed at his cigar, and sauntered over to Hollister's table.

"Beg pardon," he said. "You're Mr. Hollister, I think. My name's Carter— Anderson Carter. I'd be glad of a little chat with you."

Hollister rose.

"Eh? Not the Anderson Carter who made that African lion film?"

Carter admitted the impeachment and shook hands, and Hollister's eyes twinkled.

"I'm frightfully glad to meet you, Carter! I've seen that film several times, and it's a marvel. Have a drink?"

"Thanks, no." Carter dropped into a chair. "You may not be so glad to meet me when I tell you that I'm a detective. Here's my badge to prove it."

Hollister was shocked into immobility by sight of the badge and by Carter's gaze. He froze a little.

"A detective! Is this some joke?"

"Unfortunately, no," said Carter amiably.

"I didn't know detectives were gentlemen, outside of stories," said Hollister.

"Thank you for the compliment," Carter smiled. "It's necessary for me to talk with you. I want certain information, and the best way to get it from a man like you is to come straight out with everything. Such, at least, is my premise."

"Thank you, in turn." Hollister's eyes searched him gravely, curiously. "And to what do I owe your interest in me?"

"To a portrait," said Carter. "A rather handsomely engraved portrait of William Harris Crawford, who was Secretary of the Treasury over a hundred years ago."

Hollister's jaw hardened for an instant. "So that's it!" he murmured.

"That's it," said Carter quietly. "I believe the number is three-eight-two. Right?"

Hollister nodded. "Right." He met Carter's gaze with challenging, defiant eyes. "You mean that— that you want to arrest me?"

Carter smiled and knocked the ash from his cigar.

"If I meant that, I'd have said it. Let me see the certificate, if you please."

Without demur, Hollister drew the folded paper from his pocket. Carter opened it and regarded it with curiosity. Except for its bald spot, the vigorous features of the portrait looked curiously like those of Hollister, and Carter commented on the fact. Hollister nodded. "Yes, that's why my uncle— But see here, Carter! This is no place to talk. Suppose you come home with me. That is, unless you wanted to take me— with you."

Apprehension flashed in his eyes. Carter shook his head.

"By all means. I'd like to have a look about your place, to be quite frank. My car's waiting, if I may drive you. Shall I keep this temporarily?"

Hollister glanced at the million-dollar certificate, and nodded as he rose. "Right," he said. "I'll dismiss my car."

THEY drove in silence to the club apartments where Hollister resided, and Carter accompanied his host to a very cozy and luxurious apartment on the eighteenth floor. "Make yourself comfortable," said Hollister. "I'll just make sure Redfern hasn't come back— he acts as my man generally, and my chauffeur as needed."

He disappeared, and returned a moment later, producing a box of excellent cigars, and dropping into an armchair.

"Now fire away," he said cheerfully. "You're sure you're not going to arrest me for the theft of that certificate?"

Carter smiled. "No. There's nothing to prove theft, you know. Mrs. Gavin wanted it looked up, and I took for granted you had it."

A bitter expression flashed into Hollister's face. "Yes, she would— the damned cat!" he exclaimed. "I suppose the truth is that she accused me of taking it?"

Carter reflected. "To the best of my knowledge, she did not. I jumped to the conclusion that you might have taken it from your uncle's pocket as he lay in your arms."

HOLLISTER'S face darkened with a rush of blood. For an instant he stiffened, then relaxed.

"Oh, well, no use being angry about it, I suppose," he said. "After all, you might have been justified in such a theory. In reality, my uncle handed me the note that morning before we reached the golf club. He commented on the general resemblance of my features to those of Crawford, and told me to flash the certificate on his banker friends— showing them my face on a million-dollar bill. I suppose that doesn't sound very plausible, eh?"

Carter puffed at his cigar.

"It might not sound plausible to say that a common old barnyard variety of ox could horn and stamp the life out of an active and hungry male lion, but I've seen it done," he returned. "Now let me go into some intimate relations, Mr. Hollister. You are not friendly with Mrs. Gavin?"

"Friendly? Yes."

Hollister shrugged. "I don't think much of her, but we're friendly. Under the surface, I imagine she guesses how I feel."

"Yes? She would resent contempt, eh? Is that her picture?"

Hollister reached over and lifted a silver-framed photograph of Mr. and Mrs. Gavin. Carter studied it; the smiling magnate stood with an arm about the shoulders of his wife, a slender, pretty woman. She was obviously much younger than he.

"Hm! I should judge," said Carter, "that Mrs. Gavin has some good qualities? She's certainly not a weak person." Hollister smiled.

"Many good qualities, Mr. Carter. No, if she'd been weak, my uncle wouldn't have fallen in love with her."

"They were a devoted couple, I understand."

Hollister hesitated. "Yes, I believe they were, to be honest about it," he rejoined.

"Did you have any quarrel with your uncle on Sunday night?"

This abrupt question startled Hollister. He gave Carter a sharp look.

"An argument, yes. A quarrel, no. He objected to my throwing away money at night-clubs, as he termed it. Who told you about it?"

Carter did not reply. He glanced about the library and den in which they were sitting, and then, negligently, asked the question burning at his lips.

"Was Gavin carrying the certificate loose in his pocket when he gave it to you?"

"No," said Hollister. "He carried it in the case of an old gold watch, crumpling it up considerably. He said that was safer. The watch-case was fastened to his key-chain."

"This was before he left home, eh?"

"No," said Hollister. "In the car. I picked him up with my car, you see. It was on the way out to the club."

CARTER was thunderstruck, but gave no sign of it. Hollister did not know, of course, that Mrs. Gavin had herself found that watch-case and keychain on her own dresser, where Gavin must have put it before leaving home.

"Then Gavin had the chain and watch case when he was killed, eh?"

"I suppose so," said Hollister.

"And why didn't you return the million dollars to Mrs. Gavin?"

Hollister flushed slightly. "I honestly forgot, until Wednesday night. Then she had gone to pieces— was badly broken up. I didn't see her again till the funeral today. I was kept busy with the arrangements. I wanted to flash the note on Geehan and one or two others. I was a fool, eh?"

"Yes," agreed Carter. "And since I'm walking off with that certificate, let me identify myself to you. Anyone could flash a badge, you know."

Hollister had never thought of this, to his chagrin. Carter made his identity plain, then rose and shook hands.

"I don't want you to go out of town tomorrow," he said frankly. "And I do want you to come down to Headquarters at ten Monday morning. Agreed?"

"Eh? Yes, if you put it that way," said Hollister uneasily. "But I was going up to Westchester in the morning—"

"Don't go," said Carter quietly.

Hollister shrugged and assented, with a laugh.

When Carter climbed under the wheel of his car and headed for home, he whistled softly.

"Did Hollister tell the truth about the watch-case? I wonder! Or did he pay Redfern a few thousand dollars for services rendered? That bag of golf clubs might have contained a rifle as well. That reminds me— I've not had any report on that rifle!"

Reaching home, he got into touch with the experts at Headquarters. The expert who had the matter in hand presently was on the line.

"We're up against trouble on that rifle, Carter," he replied. "Evidently it had been wiped clean. The prints on it were those of the two dicks who found it. We located just one other print, a thumb-mark, but there's not a chance of identifying it unless we had some possible clue."

"I'll give you that," said Carter. "Try Spike Cecorini. He's something of a racketeer, I believe; was brought in on suspicion in the Macdougal Street murders six months ago, but was released. You should have his prints on file. Look 'em up and call me back at once."

He waited. There was one thing that puzzled him, and that was the fact that Hollister claimed Gavin had the key chain and watch-case on the way to the golf club— yet Mrs. Gavin had found it at home. Hollister might, perhaps, have been mistaken; or might have lied.

THE telephone summoned him. It was Headquarters again.

"O. K., Carter! " came the exultant response. "You sure hit it right. The thumb-print checks up with that of Cecorini. Want him brought in?"

"First thing in the morning. Bring him in and hold him— and get his laundry. Look for the handkerchief that wiped the rifle. Get me? And I want two men put on to one Charles Redfern, chauffeur for Hollister. He has a reservation to leave for St. Louis tomorrow night at six, but may slip away before then. If he does, grab him."

Assured that this order would go through, Carter hung up. Then he completed his unfinished thought about Hollister.

"Or," he reflected, "Hollister might have replaced the chain and watch-case on the dresser after taking the certificate! Who knows?"

AT six o'clock on Sunday evening, Charles Redfern, no longer in chauffeur's uniform but wearing a distinctly Fifth Avenue sack suit, walked toward the gates of the Pennsylvania Station, with just five minutes to make the westbound "cannonball."

A porter, heavily laden with bags, preceded him. As Redfern presented his tickets, a group of men appeared suddenly and closed around.

"You're not going west—just yet," said one. "Better come along and avoid a scene."

Redfern protested violently, then calmed down and resigned himself to the inevitable.

Fifteen minutes later he was led into an office at Headquarters where Carter and Commissioner Drummond sat awaiting him. Carter occupied the desk, a number of papers before him. Redfern started slightly with recognition, then took the chair offered him.

"So we meet again, eh?" said Carter pleasantly. "We have a few questions—"

"Am I under arrest or not?" demanded Redfern composedly. "You are not. But we're not convinced that Mr. Gavin's death was accidental; and you're held as a material witness."

Carter's tone was less pleasant now. "Kindly repeat what Miss McAfee told you about a quarrel between Mr. Hollister and his uncle, last Sunday night."

"I told you I didn't want to be dragged into it!" said Redfern.

"You're in it," snapped Drummond. "Talk!"

Sullenly, Redfern repeated what he had previously told Carter.

"Did you ever hear Mr. Hollister utter threats against his uncle?"

"No."

"Did you expect to wear a Fifth Avenue wardrobe in Big Bend, Redfern?"

"Why, yes," said Redfern slowly, surprised by the question. "Why not?"

"Why?" asked Carter. "My old man has a shop there. I'm turning it into a classy haberdashery. I want to show 'em how things should be done, and so forth."

"Yes? You've made a good deal of money in New York?"

"Some," said Redfern, eying his questioner. "You made a bank deposit of seven thousand dollars in cash, on Thursday morning?"

"Yes."

"Where'd you get it?"

"I sold out some stocks on Monday— stocks Mr. Hollister had advised me about several months ago. The brokers got the money for me in cash. I got it Wednesday afternoon, too late for the bank."

"I see. The stocks in question? And the broker's name?"

Redfern gave them.

Drummond leaned over, his lips at Carter's ear. "Want to ask about those golf-clubs? and whether—"

Carter shook his head. He was still in charge of the matter.

"No," he said under his breath. "If he shows where he got that money, he's in the clear." He raised his voice. "All right, Redfern. We'll ask you to wait a few moments and then give us a deposition; after which I expect you'll be free to hit for Big Bend and the haberdashery business. And I want to thank you for coming across so frankly. Hope the delay won't bother you. In the next room, please. Now for the boy, Commissioner."

Drummond nodded to one of the waiting officers, and Malone was brought into the room. He wet his lips, his eyes flickered around; then he took the chair facing Carter.

"Hello, Malone," said Carter, smiling. "Young fellow, we owe you a lot, only you don't know it. Remember telling me about that blood you got on your hand? Well, sir, that was the key to everything, and now we need a little more information you can give us. Just why had you any reason to think that something might happen to Mr. Gavin?"

Malone started. He had not expected this question. "Why—he had heart trouble, sir," he answered. Fright leaped in his eyes. "He did? Then you did think something might happen to him, did you ?"

"Yes—yes sir," stammered Malone. "He might have a heart-attack."

Carter leaned back.

"Malone," he said gravely, "you've held out on us, and you've been mighty close to real trouble, in consequence. Now come clean with it all, and you'll come clear. I promise you that, understand? There's no charge against you. All we want is information—and if we get it, you're in the clear. Get me?"

"Yes sir," said Malone, twisting uneasily. "Why didn't you say a word to any¬ one about slipping the key-ring and watch-case out of Mr. Gavin's pocket? That's how you got the blood on your hand, of course."

"Yes, sir." Malone swallowed hard, staring at Carter. "Why, sir— I was— I thought maybe they would think I'd stolen it. When it happened, I just did it. Afterward, I got scared about it."

"I see. And just why did you take it, if not to steal it ?"

"Why, it was for Mrs. Gavin, sir."

An exclamation broke from Drummond, who leaned forward, staring. Malone met his hard gaze without flinching.

"Yes, that's true, I swear it!" he cried earnestly. "You see, he had all his keys on that ring. If he had a heart-attack, anybody might take those keys and make trouble, or they might get lost. But if I slipped them out and took care of them, and got them back to Mrs. Gavin, it was all right. It might mean a lot to her. It did, and she was glad to get them. She sent me twenty dollars."

"She did, eh?"

Carter nodded. "We'll ask you a little later, not now, who she sent the money by. Go with this officer into the back of the room, Malone, and wait. You're O. K., young fellow."

THE two departed to the other end of the office, which was a large one, placing Malone beyond earshot of the desk. Drummond leaned forward.

"Carter, is this straight? Did Mrs. Gavin—"

"No," said Carter. "It was Malone's sister."

"Eh? But—"

"Bring in the McAfee woman. Drummond, you remember that boy's face? Now look at this woman's face when she comes in— the same heavy-lidded, closely set eyes! All I had to do was to run down her history."

Drummond snorted something and sat back.

Sally McAfee was led in by a policewoman; and at sight of Carter, her eyes widened. He smiled at her amusedly.

"Well, well! We're old friends, eh? Your name, please?"

"You know it very well," she snapped. "Sally McAfee."

At this instant she caught sight of Malone, at the other side of the room, and her face changed.

Carter chuckled. "Oh! Sally McAfee, eh? When you were married and lost the name of Malone, six months ago, you didn't want to use an Italian name, eh? And when you got the job with Mrs. Gavin, you took McAfee, eh?"

"Married?" she exclaimed, fright darting into her eyes. "I'm not married!"

"All right, if you insist." Carter waved his hand. "You'll probably change your mind when we show you the registers and so forth. And your husband will certainly recognize you. Now, why did you tell your brother, over there, all that fairy-tale about the bad heart of Mr. Gavin, and the eagerness of Mrs. Gavin to get hold of the watch-case?"

"I didn't!" she flashed out. "I never mentioned the watch-case! It was—" She checked herself.

"It was the key-ring, eh?" said Carter. "Exactly. I suppose you were astonished when you found the watch-case empty, eh?"

Her lips pressed tightly together, she glared at him and remained silent.

"You won't talk? Then I will," went on Carter. "You see, we know the whole thing. We know how Mr. Gavin showed you the million-dollar certificate, at the same time he showed it to his wife and to the butler, let you hold it in your hands, look at it closely. And it set fire to you, didn't it? A million dollars, a million that anyone could have that found it! Just set fire to you, burned you up inside! And you knew that your brother was Mr. Gavin's favorite caddy. It was all made to order for you, wasn't it? If you could just make sure that Gavin would fall over at the right time, when Malone would reach him first! So you quizzed the boy, and discovered about the patch of rough and the thick brush just at that spot, within rifle-shot of three holes of the course— oh, we've learned all about it!"

Perspiration showed on the woman's face as she listened. Her eyes drove past Carter at the boy in the distant corner, and her lips curled.

"The damned rat! I might have known he'd spill everything!" she cried out. Then she pulled herself together and sat back in her chair. "I've nothing to say," she went on, and her lips snapped shut.

"Bring in the lady's husband," said Carter. "And take the lady out."

She departed without protest.

In the hall outside she passed Spike Cecorini, handcuffed between two officers— a dark, swarthily handsome fellow, his face sullen. He stared after her, but was jerked ahead before he could speak.

Carter surveyed him for a moment.

"Well, Cecorini, you haven't talked, have you?" he said quietly. "You will now. We've got her. There's the boy yonder— as honest as she's crooked. And she's talked."

"You lie," snarled the man.

"Suit yourself," said Carter pleasantly. "But you didn't wipe all the fingerprints from that rifle. One remained— enough to hang you. And you forgot that the greasy cartridges you put into the magazine carried your fingerprints, and—"

The man started violently. "Damn it!" he exclaimed. "There was only one cartridge; and—"

"Correct." Carter leaned back. "Take him back, officers. Charge him with Gavin's murder— and the woman, his wife, as an accomplice." Commissioner Drummond leaned forward. "Good work, Carter! So it was the woman who put the key-chain and watch-case on Mrs. Gavin's dresser, eh? But how did you know it?"

"That,"— and Carter grinned faintly, —"was like locating a lion in a thorn patch. What you might call guess-work. And here, by the way, is the million-dollar certificate."

He laid it out on the desk, smoothed it, regarded it with a smile.

"You've been through a trying experience, Mr. William Harris Crawford," he addressed the imposing gentleman who looked up at him.

"Certificate Number Three-eight-two, eh? I wonder, now, why nobody ever thought about your number? Certainly Gavin didn't— but if he'd done so, it might have saved him trouble. In this case, thirteen is sure one unlucky number for several people! Good-by, Mr. Crawford. I'd like to meet you again, as my property, and I'd take the chance on your unlucky number!"

And smiling, he rose to go home. So far as he was concerned, the case was finished.

______________________

8: A Scriptural Quotation

Adventure, 15 Jan 1933

McTAVISH, heavy jawed and heavy browed, sat at the desk in his private office and scowled at his immaculately clad visitor.

"And what's your business with me, Mr. Killacky?" he demanded.

"It's about those pearls stolen from your wife last night when your car was held up."

The broker's gaze narrowed.

"What d'you mean?"

"Why, I have them!" said Killacky with a cheerful smile. His lean, high boned features were almost jaunty when he smiled, and his dark eyes had a most irresponsible twinkle.

"I know exactly what happened, you see," he went on with a wave of his cigaret. "The pearl necklace was stolen— true. I have it now. And wouldn't you be a wild man if I turned them in to the police? You've got about a hundred thousand coming, provided those pearls stay lost or are destroyed. In today's market you couldn't sell 'em for a fraction of that. A hundred thousand would save your business, eh? Insurance is a grand thing, McTavish, a grand thing!"

As he listened to these words, which must have beat upon his brain like so many hammers, McTavish slowly lost his ruddy hue, becoming paler and paler.

"Who the devil are you?" he rasped.

"An expert in gems, if you like." Killacky rose, took out his handkerchief and from it held up a shimmering string of pearls; then he put the necklace away again. "You see?" he asked gaily. "Ocular proof. I have them. I'll be back here at ten in the morning, McTavish, after the banks open. If you want to give a thousand cash for the pearls we may make a deal."

McTavish growled an oath.

"This is blackmail!"

"Tut, tut!" said Killacky. "I might turn over the pearls to the insurance people. I think they were insured with Harrison, Limited? Yes, I might do that at once—"

"No!" exclaimed McTavish, who was watching him intently. "No."

Killacky smiled.

"I thought you'd hardly desire that. Shall we say ten in the morning?"

"Yes," growled the broker.

Killacky nodded.

"Right. You're smart enough to play the game squarely. There's no possible way you can beat me out and get clear. Doublecross me, and you'll feel like the devil with a drop of holy water on his tail! It's to your advantage to play square."

McTavish looked grim.

"Suppose you doublecross me?"

"Why?" demanded Killacky. "I don't want the insurance people on my heels any more than you want 'em on yours, do I?"

"That's true," said McTavish, and his face cleared. "I'll have the cash ready."

Mr. Killacky waved his hand jauntily and departed through the outer offices of the brokerage firm to the elevators and the eddying winds of La Salle Street, in Chicago's Loop.

AT TEN on the following morning he sent in his name to McTavish. He was ushered into the broker's private office, a large and airy corner room. McTavish sat at the desk by the window. He leaned back and surveyed his visitor grimly.

"I've thought over your remarks; they were sound," he said abruptly. "As a straight business deal, we both profit by this transaction."

"So it seems," agreed Killacky, lighting a cigaret. "Once the pearls are destroyed the only evidence is gone."

McTavish nodded. He opened the top drawer of his desk and left it open. From it he took a sheaf of notes which he shoved across the desk.

"A thousand in centuries. Suit you?"

Killacky smiled and placed them in an inner pocket. The dark gaze of McTavish leaped with quick darting flame, but he veiled his feelings instantly.

"Ah!" he exclaimed, as Killacky hauled forth the necklace, "a shame to destroy it, eh?"

"Precisely my thought." Killacky looked down at the shimmering globules, pouring them from one hand to the other, watching them glimmer with soft radiance in the morning sunlight. "Matched pearls like these are devilish rare. I should have asked you ten thousand, eh?"

He smiled a little, ignoring the broker's outstretched hand and eager eyes.

"By the way," he went on, "be careful how you destroy them, if you do so. Acid won't do it. Every layer of nacre contains a thin membrane which acid doesn't digest. You must remove every trace. Those insurance people are hell on crooks, you know."

McTavish laughed harshly and motioned impatiently with his hand.

"Simple ways are best," he said. "I'll show you."

With a shrug Killacky dropped the string of pearls into the broker's hand.

McTavish grunted, swept from the desk a large sheet of hard bond paper and stooped. He laid the paper on the strip of cement between the wall and the desk. On the paper he heaped the string of shimmering pearls, then smashed down his heel, again and again, with savage energy.

Killacky leaned back and puffed negligently at his cigaret.

The broker did not pause until the beautiful things had been crushed into a heap of glinting dust and tiny fragments. From this heap came a faint radiance, as if in mournful memory of the beauty and luster that was no more.

McTavish carefully picked up the sheet of paper and folded it once, into a little trough. He laid aside the knotted string and fastener, then rose. In the next instant he had emptied the contents of the paper out of the open window; they disappeared instantly.

Closing the window and moving rapidly, McTavish put the string and attached catch on the paper, rolled it up into a ball and struck a match. He held the flame to the paper, which was lying on the windowsill. In silence, careless of scorched varnish, he watched it consume. When it was nearly gone, he suddenly shoved it out of the window.

"There!" He slammed the window, turned, resumed his seat. His face was alight with a blazing triumph which he made no attempt to hid. "Suits you, does it?"

"Admirably done," said Killacky. "Even if the insurance people heard all about it, they could not possibly find an atom of conviction."

"So I thought," said McTavish.

His hand slipped into the open drawer and came up with a pistol. He covered Killacky and spoke sharply.

"Hands in your lap! One move, and I'll kill you! What's more, it'd be justifiable homicide!"

He meant the words. He would do exactly as he said. Killacky spat the cigaret from his lips and sat motionless.

"What do you mean by this?" he demanded calmly.

"I mean, damn you, that no cheap crook can put anything over on me!" snapped McTavish, and he dipped his free hand into the desk drawer. Out on the mahogany he dropped a necklace of pearls, then he surveyed Killacky with grim exultation. "Two detectives are outside now, awaiting my summons."

"Really?" asked Killacky, his brows lifting. "And what has that necklace got to do with all this rigmarole?"

"It's a duplicate, a replica of the real necklace. It was known that you called here yesterday afternoon. You came, demanded cash, returned this morning and gave me this replica. You have the thousand dollars in your pocket."

"Oh! Marked money, eh?"

"Precisely." McTavish sneered. "But I'm an honest man; you're a crook. You thought you'd palm off these replicas on me and keep the real pearls, eh?"

"That's your story, eh?" Killacky whistled softly. "Faith, I knew you were a smart man, but devil take me if I thought you were this smart!''

"No, your cheap brain wouldn't jump that far," returned the other acidly. "Either you're the bandit who held up me and my wife, or an accomplice."

It was clever, devilish clever, thought Killacky. The broker, having destroyed the real pearls, now had nothing to fear. Killacky's story would not be credited for a moment.

"With the real pearls gone, your scheme is airtight," said Killacky quietly. "Suppose I give in. What do you want to let me off?"

"You don't get off," snapped McTavish. "I'm going to teach you to monkey with my type of man, understand? I've explained matters so you'll comprehend just how you've ridden to a fall. All you cheap crooks can see in a deal is to get your money and blow it."

"And you, being honest, see farther?"

"You bet."

Killacky sighed.

"You know good and well that with the real pearls gone, they'll never be produced. You're sure of the insurance. You get me put away—"

"Come to think of it, you look like that bandit," put in McTavish with a grim smile.

"You won't consider anything? If I paid—"

"I'll consider nothing except to see you behind the bars!"

The broker put out a hand to the buzzer on his desk. The office door opened and a secretary appeared.

"Send in those two men," snapped McTavish,

A moment later two men, obviously detectives, entered the room.

"Arrest this man. Officers," exclaimed McTavish firmly. "He's either the bandit who held up me and my wife the other night, or an accomplice. He was here yesterday, as I told you, and demanded money for the return of my wife's pearls. He came today, took a thousand dollars in marked bills— you men marked the bills yourselves— and then had the impudence to give me this!"

McTavish held up the replica of the necklace.

"A fake. Imitation pearls," he added.

"Just as you figured it out, huh?" said one of the two detectives, advancing. "Stand up, you! Why—"

He paused, as did his companion. Killacky rose with a slight smile and nodded.

"Hello, boys," he said. "Better search me at once. I'll save you the trouble. Here's the money." He drew it out, extending the sheaf of notes.

"Here!" cried McTavish, staring at the three. "What's all this? Arrest him, you two!"

One of the two men grinned.

"Not yet, sir! There must be some mistake. This is Mr. Killacky, of Harrison, Limited— their chief investigator, sir."

McTavish took a step back, sank into his chair, and the blood went out of his face. Killacky turned to him with a smile.

"Quite so, McTavish," he observed lightly. "You see, we nabbed the actual bandit; but his remarkable story of having been put up to the job by you had not an atom of proof. We wanted proof in order to prosecute you. Now I fancy we have it in this marked money which you so kindly furnished."

"What? What?" stammered the broker. "It's all a damned lie! You gave me this replica of the necklace— there are no real pearls—"

Killacky grinned.

"As a matter of fact, I did give you a replica," he said. "You were so damned anxious to destroy the pearls that you never examined them or the fragments. If you had, you'd have seen that they were glass and fish skin, not nacre! And here," he added, putting his hand in his pocket and drawing out another necklace, "are the real pearls."

McTavish stood as if frozen. His eyes were incredulous, staring, horrified. Killacky strode to the door and turned.

"By the way," he observed cheerfully. "you may recall the literary allusion which links pearls and swine? An interesting volume, McTavish. I'll send you a copy to while away your hours behind the bars. Take good care of him, Officers. See you in court, Mac! So long."

McTavish made no response.

_____________________

9: Harbor Hazard

(as by Captain Michael Gallister)

The Blue Book, July 1938.

BILL BRENDAN was head fireman-diver on Fireboat Two; but, a man being what his background makes him, Brendan was more than this.

Everybody in the Los Angeles harbor district knew Gunboat Brendan, the former Navy boxer, seaman gunner and so forth..... The Navy knew him for his work on sunken submarines; the fireboat crew knew him for what he was, and Mother Brendan knew him for what she thought he was. All this was behind his shoulder now, as he sat hulking over his pipe, listening to the police broadcast.

"My gosh, boys!" Taylor, the pilot, whistled softly. "Twenty thousand in currency, and the mugs get away with it! Three of 'em burned down by the cops. The other two steal a parked patrol car—"

He fell silent, listening. The engineer broke out excitedly.

"Hear that? Headed for the harbor district! Reported by an officer at Main and Weford; emptied his gun into the car as it went past, but it kept on."

Brendan nodded soberly, cocking an eye at the window of the pier office.

"Aint so good. Heavy fog-bank rolling up out o' the west basin tonight," he observed. "Good night for some drunk to hit Suicide Curve, too."

The police broadcast ended. There was brisk discussion of that stolen police car bearing two thugs and a small fortune, headed now for the harbor. Here at its berth, however, Fireboat Two was in no position to see any possible fun. Suicide Curve, eh?

"That's right," said Taylor solemnly. "About time for another one. Eleven year't I been here, we've fished out sixty-four cars. Harbor Commission's been eleven year waiting to put up stop warnings at those open dead-end streets between the piers. People heading for the ferry terminal in a fog like this had better not be in a rush."

"Remember the family we fished out last winter?" growled Brendan. "That guy was just plain lost. Riles me up whenever I think o' them little tykes drowned, on account of the Harbor Commission saving money. I'd like to be a politician for about ten days."

"You'd make a hot one, all right," jeered the engineer. "You and your— Holy mackerel, listen to that! Talk of the devil, and up he comes!"

The alarm was shrilling. One and all were in motion instantly. A car off the foot of Berth 187, came the shout. A watchman had heard it go off, but knew no details; his alarm had been relayed from headquarters.

Already Fireboat Two was like a swarming beehive. Twenty firemen were loading equipment on the boat's stern, working with precise rapidity. Every instant counted, for there was always the chance of pulling somebody up alive. Not much hope of it tonight, however. This blanketing fog would keep them from getting there in time.

"Hop to it, you lardos!" shouted Captain Lawrence. "Get those chests over. Mike and Johnny, over with the diving ladder. The pump— lower away there!"

Seventy-one seconds after the alarm shrilled, they had the equipment stowed on the wide, flat stern.

Captain Lawrence shot his orders at Duke Dumas, the master-diver.

"Duke! Get Howard dressed for the first dive; slap a suit on Brendan for a stand-by, as usual. Move, you sleepwalkers! This is no pleasure cruise—"

The Captain ran forward to where Taylor hung out of the wheel-house, whistle-cord in hand, all three annunciators on stand-by. His voice roared:

"All right, all right, men, let's roll! Berth 187. Give her the gun— a car's down. Come on, what's holding us?"

Pilot Taylor tooted the cast-off signal. These skippers were all alike, he grumbled audibly; thought a pilot could go speeding upchannel in a pea-soup fog at twenty-five knots, like the rescue wagon from Headquarters. They never seemed to realize that the fireboat master had to feel his way against harbor traffic, sounding his signals according to navigation law and regulating his speed by the same.

"The pilot can't help it," he growled, "if this makes it impossible to get folks up from cars in time. Cars got no business going overboard anyhow." He turned to the engine-room tube as the boat, going slow speed ahead on three engines, emerged from the slip. "Five hundred revs a minute, chief. Dead slow all engines. Keep your crew set for four bells and a jingle astern."

He snapped the speaking-tube shut and took position in the center of the darkened wheel-house, while the Captain cursed softly. "Steer 355 degrees," he instructed the first mate. "Nothing to the west'ard."

"Aye," said the mate, a lean State of Maine mariner. "Three fifty-five and nothing to the west'ard." Peering into the binnacle, he rolled the wheel to port and starboard and settled on his course.

FIREBOAT TWO headed up the channel. Her air-horn tooted at minute intervals, while the watch up forward strained every sense into the woolly wall of fog that hemmed them in. A voice sounded abruptly:

"Beacon Eight dead ahead, skipper! Hear the foghorn on 175, port bow."

"Aye," said Taylor, and changed course at once. Fireboat Two cautiously nosed into Slip Five, and in another minute was alongside Berth 187.

One more minute, and apprentice-diver Howard, in stiff rubber and canvas dress, his domed helmet, hundred-pound waist weights and thirty-pound leaded shoes, was on his way into the pitch-black depths below. Forty feet of water here. An ambulance and a gathering crowd showed on the pier, dimly; so dense was the fog that even the rescue wagon's red light was no more than a dim blur.

Duke Dumas, the master diver in charge, leaned over the guard-rail, holding the air hose and life-lines. Four men aft at the pump were turning it over with measured beat, keeping the pressure at exactly fifteen pounds. Other men tended coils of life-line and hose, keeping these and the braided telephone-cable free-running at all times.

The fog swirled eerily. The mist deadened all ordinary sound, transforming the moving figures into dim wraiths of gigantic proportions. There was no excitement aboard Fireboat Two. Under the glaring flood-lights the men went about their work quietly, efficiently. Many of them had brought Navy discipline into this job. No undue noise or talk. They were hosemen, firemen, engineers, paid to fight fire and do rescue work ashore and afloat; diving duty for sunken cars was nothing novel to them.

It occasioned far more interest and excitement in the crowd on the pier—police, land firemen, reporters, morbid gawkers, watchmen. Most of them knew the procedure and discussed it as they watched the distorted shapes under the flood-lights.

Usually the first diver located the car in the deep mud, made fast the hook-rope, and signaled topside to break the car out of the swiftly clutching ooze. Then, his diving-time up, he would be hauled to the deck, making his report to the battalion chief in charge. The second, or more experienced diver, would go down to open the car doors, remove the bodies within, then bend on the hook-rope preparatory to hoisting the car.

A SHADOWY FIGURE dropped from the pier to the port side of the deck, where no one was working. Picking his way over the tangle of gear, he slipped forward to the open door of the nozzle-room. Inside on a stool towered a monstrous figure in diving dress, but without the helmet and weights. Brendan was calmly finishing his pipe, awaiting his turn to go down. He glanced up in astonished recognition as the visitor came in.

Runt Welch was a waterfront rat of repute as vicious as his face, twitching that long ratlike nose and staring with blazing eyes that told their own story. Rumored to be a snowbird and dope-peddler, he certainly was not a person Brendan would have expected to see aboard. Welch came in, and with a nod of greeting sat down on an inhalator box.

"Hello, Brendan. Looking for you."

"Like hell." Brendan's scarred, heavy features showed his contempt. "Get out of here before you're kicked ashore."

Welch grinned excitedly. Brendan noted the glassy eyes, the pinpoint pupils. He remembered that he himself was practically helpless while encased in this diving-suit.

"No time to gam." Welch spoke rapidly. "Gunboat, I got a five-thousand-dollar diving-job for you."

Brendan grunted a disdainful laugh. "I don't do commercial diving, Runt. Right now, I'm doing a civilian diver out o' fifty bucks by hooking to this car. Aint fair, maybe, but orders is orders. I hear tell this may be the police wagon stolen after that hold-up job tonight."

"So it is," said Welch, his eyes agleam.

"Huh? If you know it is, run along and tell the cops."

"I'm telling you," snapped Welch. "I drove that car, see? I was in it. Me and Denver Red. All the others got burned. Then Denver, he got burned on the way when a cop let go at us as we passed him. I come down through the fog, missed the turn and went off the pier. Swum clear to a boat I got waiting, changed my rags, and here I am. Fast work!"

Brendan's blue eyes were wide.

"My God, if you aint all doped up! Why, you blasted little cockroach—"

"Save it, you big stiff," spat out Welch. "I got to talk fast. Twenty thousand bucks in a suitcase, see? Pay-roll made up at the bank; we copped it, sure. It's under the back seat o' that car, Gunboat. When you go down to hook on to the car, you slip out the suitcase and carry it over to one of the pilings; anchor it. You and me— we'll get it tomorrow night with my boat. Five grand goes to you."

Brendan still stared in blank amazement. He knew a dope-fiend when he saw one, and the Runt was obviously all hopped up. The thing was incredible.

"Are you off your nut?" Brendan scowled suddenly. "A cheap rat like you in on a hold-up? Not likely. Chase yourself!"

"Dry up," snapped Welch, leaning forward intently. "Listen here. Denver Red aint been mugged or printed. He aint got a record, see?"

"What's it to me?" snarled Brendan angrily. "Get out of here! You and your orders to me— I don't know if you're crazy or what."

"You'll know damned quick," shot out the other. "I know who Denver Red was, see? And you're doing just what I tell you, Gunboat. You get that suitcase out; then you get Denver out and anchor him too. Then we're all set. Yeah, Denver has told me a lot about you, and about Mother Brendan too."

Brendan took the pipe from his mouth and set it down. He tried to speak and could not. His massive features were suddenly gray, as comprehension came to him. Welch, at these evidences of agitation, uttered a jeering laugh.

"Got the idea, have you? Hughie Brendan— that's him, all right. Your kid brother. And if they pull him up in that car, it's good night! You know what'll happen, what it'll mean, when the story breaks in the papers. It'll dish you and your record. It'll dish her, too. Denver thought a lot o' Mother Brendan, he sure did! Now, you big stiff, you'll do what I tell you. I'll give you a ring later tonight. So behave."

He cocked his head, listening; then suddenly rose, darted out into the fog, and was gone. He had heard some one coming on the run.

Brendan sat there in stark misery, sick of heart and soul, his scarred features agonized, his huge fists clenched, his breath coming fast. Hughie, gone to the bad these two years, vanished, lost! And all the while, Mother Brendan had prayed for him every night and morning, certain he would come back. Well, if this rat spoke truth, he had come back!

It was not of himself or his record that Bill thought; this mattered little. It was of Mother Brendan, and what the story would mean to her.

Probably it was not over thirty seconds that he sat thus; yet his brain moved in the span of days and years. Hughie, for one thing; all the ruined wastrel life of the young fellow. And what this news would mean to the old mother. No pleasant prospect.... Then too there was Welch. The rat's words had unrolled an entire panorama.

A boat waiting here somewhere in the harbor, close by. The pay-roll made up at the bank—yes, all that had come in over the radio broadcast—and Welch acting as driver, probably in charge of the waiting boat and the get-away. Three of the gang shot down. Two away in the stolen police-car, and one of them killed on the mad drive. Welch, going off the dead end in the fog—and below, Hughie Brendan waiting for his brother.

"Come on, Gunboat!" Voices at the door, hasty, excited, jarred through him. "Got to go down. Car's there, but Howard cut his hand on broken glass and didn't get inside. The cops think it may be their car, the one the bandits made a get-away with; probably one or two of 'em are inside now."

Agony, terror, acute horror swept through Gunboat Brendan. Even to move seemed rankly impossible, for his brain was frozen; yet he found himself mechanically rising. Two firemen helped him from the nozzle-room across the deck to another stool. Without a word, he sat while his heavy shoes were laced on.

One of the men was cursing softly; something about volunteer firemen-divers who got no extra pay or merit-marks for going into black depths foul with sunken timbers, cast-off wire hawsers, saw-edged boiler iron and whatnot. Any other time Brendan would have added a curse or two on his own account; but now his mind seemed unable to function. He could only think of Hughie, who had come home again. It was paralyzing.

Lead shoes, lead belt, copper breastplate, then the telephone receivers over his ears. He tested the phones. The helmet was lowered over his head, given a quarter-turn and locked into position. He peered through the glass faceplate, tried his air-valve, tested the exhaust valve, felt for his knife, the wrench, the hanks of light line in his belt; all this done swiftly, automatically.

"O. K.!" he growled to the tender, and clumped down the iron ladder.

No one could tell, thanks to the helmet, that his face was gray and drawn, that his eyes bulged with acute terror behind the thick glass. Had Runt Welch told the truth? There was one way he could be certain. If a suitcase was under the back seat of that car down below, he might be sure the story was true. All sense of sight was ruled out, in the depths. He could see nothing. But the pay-roll suitcase, the same one described in the police radio broadcast, was all the proof he needed.

Groping, Brendan found the car; the touch of it balanced him, heartened him with reality. Here he must work entirely by feel. He got the doors open. He touched the Thing so limply awaiting him, and a sweat of horror bedewed his scarred features. The suitcase was there. The story was true. This limp clay aswing in the water was his brother.

Satisfied of this, he rallied; he knew the worst. Waist-deep in the ooze, he hauled Hughie out. As he lugged the swinging body through the blackness, he could feel the tears on his cheeks. The air hissing through the intake-valve seemed to choke him as he plowed along. Now there was only one thing he could do, and not for his own sake but for that of Mother Brendan. He went grimly ahead with the gruesome, soul-rending job.

For a hundred feet along the wharf, creosoted piling was thrust down into the sand and mud. From his belt Brendan unhooked the light line, cutting off a length with his knife; and by means of this he anchored Hughie to the piling.

He groped his way back to the car and got the heavy suitcase. Back to the piling again; presently he had the suitcase anchored there too. If anything slipped up now, if for any reason a diver came down here tomorrow, he knew full well the implications, and what it would mean to him; but the knowledge did not stagger him. Then he was back at the car again, speaking through the helmet transmitter.

"O.K.! Send down the hook-rope," he told the tender up above. His voice sounded heavy, hoarse. "Ready to send her up. Tell the Chief I've searched the car. Nothing inside except the rear seat cushion floating. No bodies."

When the rope came down and he hooked on, the job was done.

WHEN THEY brought Brendan up, he leaned heavily on the rail while the tenders unlocked and lifted off the helmet. One look at him, and Duke Dumas spoke anxiously.

"You look sick, big boy. What's wrong?"

"I'm a bit off. Must have been something I ate for supper," Brendan replied. "Give me a hand over the rail."

They helped him to the deck, stripped off the clammy suit, wrapped him in blankets and gave him a slug of brandy. He had the shivers, sure enough; they hustled him into Fireboat Three and sent him back to quarters.

After that, Fireboat Two lifted the sunken car with her winch, the eager reporters and police finding it empty. Then, her work done, the boat went hooting back through the fog to her Terminal Island station.

Brendan was still off his feed when the chief looked in on him, so they bundled him into a car and sent him home. For him, home was the Wilmington bungalow where he lived with Mother Brendan.

Half an hour after he got there, the phone rang. Brendan answered the call. At sound of Welch's thin and squeaky voice, he shivered again and felt sweat on his face.

"Aye," he said grimly. "Everything done. Tomorrow night? It's my shift off; yes."

He listened. Welch had the boat made ready for the gang; he, the sole survivor, was now heir to all their preparations. He, out of all those five men, alone was living. And Gunboat Brendan knew that he himself must now depend on this cheap crook, this contemptible scoundrel of the waterfront.

"I'll get everything and send it to the boat, aye," he said. "You've marked the piles, you say? All right, you can depend on me. Will there be fog tomorrow night, you say? Sure. Every night for a week, now."

So it was settled.

NEXT EVENING, fog was again rolling in past the Point. The battleships inside the breakwater were sounding "At anchor" signals, and the giant bell that some authority had placed near Fireboat Two's berth was tolling its nerve-shattering warning, its voice fairly shaking the quarters of the boat crew. There would be no sleep for the boys this night.

Gunboat Brendan, on his regular off shift, was ready for the dreaded job. Near midnight, a little fishing-boat left its moorings at the landing near the yacht club, and cautiously felt its way down the channel to Slip Five. In the boat lay a helmet and oxygen jacket Brendan had bought that day from "Suicide" Svenson's widow. Svenson had lost his life going after a fouled dredge anchor off the new breakwater extension. Brendan figured he could use the outfit himself, later.

"Did you read about the job in the papers?" Brendan asked.

Welch grunted.

"Sure thing. Lucky they blasted them three mugs good and proper; nobody's left to squeal about me and your brother. Somebody had tipped off the cops and they were all set for the mob."

"Who did the talking?" Brendan inquired and the other swore viciously.

"I dunno. Monk Hawley had a moll. I dope it that she was sore on him and phoned in a tip to the cops. Can't tell."

Brendan sensed suspicion, defiance, distrust, in the manner of Welch, who pointedly kept him beyond arm's reach. He accepted the situation without argument, intent solely upon what now lay ahead. A man is what his background makes him; Brendan's one and only thought at the moment was back in the bungalow where, this same night, Mother Brendan prayed for the return of Hughie.

THE FISHING-BOAT crept into Slip Five, with Brendan forward and Welch at the helm. She made fast to the piling where Fireboat Two had lain the previous night. Not a soul moved on the pier, no ship or tug navigated the fog-bound channel. Welch was a long time in finding the particular piles he had marked the night before, but at last he found them, and came down the ladder from the dock platform.

"All set. The watchman's asleep in his doghouse, as usual. We're O. K., if some other darn' fool don't come along and run his car off. Ready?"

"Yeah," grunted Brendan. He sent down a shot line to the bottom. Hughie would be there, within a few feet of it. Then he got out the diving jacket and helmet.

"Now, listen," he said. "It aint so hot working in one of these gadgets at forty feet. If I get fouled, down there, I'm liable to stay with Hughie. You handle your end of the job right, or we're all sunk together."

"Shoot, and don't waste time," said Welch impatiently. "This fog is cold as hell."

"So's the water down below," Brendan countered grimly. Even in the fog and dark, he suspected from Welch's position that the smaller man was holding a pistol. "First, I'll get up my brother's body. Then, after the suitcase comes up, I want to use this boat. I'll go out while the fog's heavy and bury Hughie in deep water off the Point."

"Sure, sure, you can have the damned boat, and five grand besides," snarled Welch. He did not move from where he stood. "Get on with the job."

Brendan indicated the shot line. "See this line? I go down on it, taking the heaving line with me. You hang on to the heaving line from topside. Better come forward and take it now, and keep it running free. In the cockpit it's apt to get fouled."

As he spoke, he flaked out the heaving line on the little fo'c'sle. It was dark up forward; the fog was thicker than ever, swirling around him, distorting his figure out of all proportion. The deck was wet and slippery, filmed with fish oil and the grease of years.

Welch peered at him intently but did not move.

"I'm staying here till you go down," he rejoined decisively. His hand jerked up a bit; Brendan was certain now that he held a gun. "Don't you try to pull nothing on me, Gunboat. I aint trusting you a whole lot."

"Oh, don't be a damned fool—"

Brendan swung around. His feet slipped and went out from under him. He fell with a crash, half against the little wheel-house. A groan escaped him, as he lay in a twisted heap. Welch's voice shrilled with alarm.

"Hey! What's the matter with you?"

Brendan moved, tried to claw himself up, and fell back with a subdued oath.

"Can't make it. Can't get up. Must have twisted my back. Come here and give me a hand, you rat!"

Welch cursed softly, viciously. "You big lummox, to go hurt yourself at a time like this! You're pulling something. I got a mind to blast you right now."

"And bring everybody down on us? You're no such fool." Brendan laughed harshly. "Why you damned cokehead, I'm just as anxious as you are to get this done! My kid brother's down there with the crabs eating on him. I can't get him buried without your help, and you know it. Come on, damn you, give me a hand!"

"I guess you're right." Welch moved forward, reluctantly. "Where you hurt?"

"It's my back. Jammed against the wheel-house, here; I can't seem to get on my feet." Brendan twisted again, and once more relaxed with a low gasp. "Confound it all! If I could just get up on my legs, I'd be all right. This deck's an inch thick with slime. Come on, get your hands under my shoulders and lift, will you? I'm stuck here."

His suspicion dissipated, Welch came and stood over the big, helpless figure. He leaned down, got his hands under Brendan's arms, and pulled. Brendan groaned.

"It hurts, but it helps. Get a better grip, now, and we'll make it."

Welch obeyed. His hands well under Brendan's arms, he stooped to tug upward.

Of a sudden, Brendan's arms clamped in with tremendous pressure, pinioning Welch's wrists. A sharp yelp broke from Welch. He lost balance. The gun escaped his fingers. He clutched frantically at Brendan— and yelped again as he fell.

The two figures thrashed confusedly about the little deck, under a swirl of thick fog. Twice more little convulsive yelps broke from Welch, like the squeaks of a cornered rat. Then came a subdued, thudding crash.... Presently Brendan scrambled to his feet.

No alarm. The sleeping watchman had heard nothing. The little boat rocked quietly under the fog. Brendan stooped to feel the limp figure at his feet, and grunted.

"I didn't go to do that, confound it! No help for it now, though. If his neck broke, he deserved it a dozen times over. And no harm done the world, either."

He turned calmly to the equipment. He laced on the heavy lead shoes and donned the diving jacket and helmet; this light, shallow-water equipment would do in such a pinch. He made his preparations with unhurried care. Gunboat Brendan always took one thing at a time and made sure it was right before going ahead. No more need to worry about Runt Welch, at least. Now to keep the rendezvous with Hughie; no earthly pay would have tempted him to undertake what he was about to do for love.

Gingerly, he lowered himself down the knotted shot line into the oily water. Never had his huge gnarled paws stood him in better stead than on this night, or done grimmer work. Once in the blackness, acute fear struck him. Never before had he gone down without tenders watching above. Now, if the least thing went wrong in the gripping ooze, he was lost.

Better so, however, than with Runt Welch waiting to kill him, after the suitcase was recovered. He had cherished no illusions regarding that man's intent.

Even in this moment of gnawing revulsion and fear, he could not repress a grim smile that curled his battered lips like a snarl, and a twisted thought that came into his brain slantwise. Once he had heard a frenetic soapbox orator blaspheming about "God's jokes." The phrase crept upon his mind. God's jokes! Well, this was one, and no mistake. If only Runt Welch had known the truth!

His outstretched hands came upon the floating, anchored Thing, and he shivered....

When he had made fast his lines to corpse and suitcase, he went back topside with the hiss of the oxygen fretting his senses. No tenders, no helpers over the side. Swirls of fog blacker than ever. He might have cast off his heavy weighted shoes, but Brendan was a practical man, and this equipment had value. He felt his way up the line; those big knotted hands of his accomplished the impossible.

At length, trembling with exhaustion, he was aboard. He rid himself of the outfit and lay gathering his forces. Then he rose on the slippery deck and fell to work. The worst of it was over, anyhow.

He brought in the stiff, streaming figure and the suitcase, all its seals intact. From the fo'c'sle of the boat he dragged some old canvas. Impartially, he swathed Welch and the other in this canvas. Before finishing, he secured Welch's flashlight and stole just one glimpse of the face from the depths. The recognition of Hughie steeled him to all he had done and still must do.

He bound the two wrapped bodies around and around with lobster-pot lines.

At Hughie's feet he secured the boat's anchor. Then he lifted the slippery suitcase into the wheel-house, took out his diving-knife, and slit one side of the wet leather. He felt inside and brought out a number of pieces of metal, and flashed the light on them.

"Washers! Washers and junk!" he muttered grimly. "Those cops around the boat, last night, sure told the truth. Lucky thing it never got into the newspapers, or Welch would have seen about it. A decoy suitcase! The holdup had been tipped off, of course. A decoy suitcase, and five men dead because of it! Oh, Hughie boy—"

He checked back his threatening emotion. Lugging the suitcase out again, he made it fast to the limp bundle that was Runt Welch. One of God's jokes, sure enough, he told himself.

Then, starting the motor, he cast off.

AT THE ENTRANCE of Slip Five, he took his departure from Beacon Eight and headed down the main channel toward the Point. He passed Fireboat Two. The B-platoon boys would be playing cards down below, he knew, trying to dull their senses to the damning toll of the giant fog-bell so close beside. That bell dinned its unending solemn dirge as he thrummed past and away into the fog, heading for Barracuda Flats and the two-hundred-fathom depth that would close the story.

And Mother Brendan would go on with her prayers, in blessed ignorance.

______________________

10: Much Lost, More Won

Golden Fleece, March 1939

TEMPLETON, dark and impetuous and fiery, listened with impatience as we talked of the changing history of the world, the murderous warfare east and west, the wholesale slaughter and rapine from China to Spain.

"It's nothing new," he broke out suddenly. "Anyhow, we don't know what's happening anywhere. Nobody knows. It'll come out maybe a hundred years from now—how some chap turned the course of history by a handshake."

"Who?"asked somebody. Templeton shrugged.

"Anyone; you or I. That's the way history is made. The captains and the kings rant before the footlights. Away upstage, some unknown person pulls the strings, perhaps without his own knowledge. It's happened many times, particularly in the east, in the south seas, in the orient."

"You have a case in mind?"I demanded rather coldly.

"I have," said he. "I got hold of it in the Philippines last year, looked it up in the Arab records— the Moro tribes, you know, are more than half Arab. I could tell you how a mkoda, an Arab ship-captain, played hero to destiny three hundred years ago, and got no credit."

We called for drinks and cigars. Templeton, who has spent most of his life out in the islands, has no end of yarns that are not in the history books. Nothing loath, he waved his cigar, looked into the weave of smoke, and worked his wizardry.

"IT WAS just about three centuries ago, when the Dutch and Portuguese and Spanish and English were fighting tooth and nail for the spice trade and the Indies. The Portuguese held Malacca, but were losing out; a ten-year siege by the Dutch was drawing to its end. The Spaniards held Manila, but not strongly. Everything was in flux, a changing world.

"For a thousand years the Arabs like the Parthians before them, had been the seamen and navigators of these eastern seas. Theirs was all the knowledge of the monsoons, which blew the fleets eastward for half the year, westward the other half; the island trade, the coral reefs, the spice groves, the pirate lairs— all were known to the Arabs then, before Europeans ever heard of them.

"In those seas the word nakoda is still used to express the master of his own keel, the captain and ship-owner. It was a proud name in the ancient days. I wish I could make you see Nureddin the Nakoda as I can see him in my mind's eye! I've known more than one man of his type, proud and fierce and honorable to a fault, but never one who had the tremendous physical power and the keen brain, the will to victory, of Nureddin, Light of the Faith..."

He was silent for a moment. Then, to make us see his man, he quoted the old Arab proverb and explained its meaning: "If you meet a cobra and a Hazrami in the road, slay the Hazrami!"

A HAZRAMI, a man of Hadramaut, the old Arabian seaport, was the most dangerous thing afloat or ashore. Safer a cobra in the way, and less deadly, than a Hazrami of the old breed. Such was Nureddin, such were all his crew in the big dhow that had come to the Philippines from faraway Hadramaut.

That morning he had sailed out of Manila bound for Sulu and the Moro ports, when the Swann and her consort overhauled him. They plumped a few shot at him and were about to let him have full measure, when the two Portuguese ships came out of Manila Bay and hove up for the Dutchmen. Then Nureddin stood on the rail of his ship and watched, a bronze figure like the Perseus of Cellini. He sensed what was coming, though the Dutchmen did not. He had the gift of smelling blood before it was spilled.

"By Allah," said he to his men, all older men than he, "wait and see how these Christians fight!"

So he waited. The two Portuguese bore down; he saw the Swann signal them and hail, saw the Portuguese suddenly luff and pour full broadsides into the two smaller craft. Then they laid aboard and grappled, ship for ship; and there was fighting that day off the Luzon shores, from ten of the morning until sunset. When Nureddin and his men made the sunset prayer, they saw the Portuguese admiral go down to death with all his crew, while the Swann still floated, though she was afire; and the other two ships, still grappled, were still fighting savagely. And Nureddin, laughing, headed away for the Moro ports.

"There are the ones who can fight!"said he. "Let's make friends with these Hollanders, if we meet any."

So he bore on south, and at Sulu spoke with an English ship, who told him that two Flemings— so they called the Dutchmen then— were lying off the Boedor river; and he went on there to fulfill the will of Allah.

That was a large and a wide river, coming down to the sea through marshes and rice-paddies in half a dozen mouths, with Boedor two miles up the stream. In those days it was a rich place, famous for pearls, and the sultan could summon full fifty fighting praus if need were. In fact, he had already summoned them, to the astonishment of Nureddin and his Arabs. The river and harbor were crowded with ships.

The landing was a ceremonious affair, Nureddin the Nakoda and twelve picked men going with gifts to be received by the sultan. They were dressed in their finest; he wore a light steel cap, a steel mesh shirt, his gold-hilted scimitar and a scarlet cloak over all. Tall, young, with the face of an eagle and the bearing of a conqueror, he was hailed with admiring shouts by the massed Moro warriors, as he led his men up to the palace.

Here was a tremendous jam, for the dattos and warriors of the neighboring islands were here, the captains of the praus, the council, and a score of Dutchmen. Nureddin noted the grizzled, bearded faces, the half-armor, the sturdy bearing of these last, and saluted them, joyously, in friendly fashion. He exchanged greeting and salutations with the old sultan, Ali, then stood in talk.

Everyone else there was seated, even the Dutchmen; it was the fashion among the Malays and Moros and other island peoples to squat, in token of respect to the sultan. This the men of Hadramaut did only when regarded as equals. Nureddin took note that the Dutchmen had an interpreter, an Achinese. They spoke no Arabic. He, however, had learned their tongue from a Dutch renegade in Hadramaut. When he found that the sultan had gathered this array for a raid against the Mindanao shores, a thin smile drifted across his high-boned features.

"It were better, Beloved of Allah," he said to the old sultan, "to uplift the standard of a juramentado, a holy war against the infidel in Manila!"

"Has Allah addled your brains?" spat out the sultan. Nureddin laughed.

"Not yet, Sultan Ali! I have news, important news, for your ear alone. Gather your council and give me private audience, I pray you. First let me speak with these infidel Hollanders, or with their captain, and I'll guarantee you the aid of their guns and ships."

Sultan Ali chewed his betel paste and eyed the young eagle who dared advise him. Well he knew the worth of the men of Hadramaut, and Nureddin the Nakoda had won a name for himself even among the islands, where every man was a warrior to the death. Into his fierce, shrewd eyes came a glimmer of admiration and resolve.

"Wait in the inner court. I will come. First I'll send the captain of these infidels to speak with you. Also his interpreter."

"No need of that; I speak his tongue," said Nureddin.

A CHAMBERLAIN took him to the inner courtyard, a pleasant spot with a fountain, and left him. There, as he waited, a lattice at a window was pushed aside, and he looked up to meet the eyes of a girl. He stood stock-still; so did his heart. Their eyes met and held. She was of such striking beauty that Nureddin was stupefied. Yet he knew how often mere beauty was deceptive, in the orient. He noticed that she wore in her hair an ornament of pearls, shaped like a scimitar; then she smiled, made him a slight gesture, and was gone from sight.

Nureddin turned, to meet the Dutch captain, Jans Doort, a massive, heavy-jawed man. He saluted gaily and spoke in very fair Dutch.

"Greetings, mynheer. Do you know a ship of your nation called the Swann?"

"Aye!"replied Doort in astonishment. "I know her well. We took her from the English. She was to meet us here."

"She will not, for she was afire when I saw her last, after fighting a Portuguese all day long," said Nureddin. He went on to tell what he had seen off Manila, while Jans Doort swore many a grim oath at hearing the tale. Then he went on, craftily, to tell more.

"You may ask why no other ships came out from Manila to help those Portuguese in the fight? Because no others are there. The two stationed there were destroyed in the hurricane of last month. Other ships have not come yet, except those two Portuguese craft. Also, insurrections have broken out, and the pestilence is in Manila; there is great sickness. Many of the garrison were lost with the harbor ships in the hurricane."

"What of it?"asked Jans Doort, pulling at his beard.

"A fleet is expected from Spain, but cannot arrive for another month," said Nureddin. "Because of the insurrectos, the castle and land forts must be manned. Thus, the harbor forts are empty. There are not enough soldiers for both. Further, I know the harbor, the entrances, the depths, every foot of the place."

A startled gleam lit up the Dutchman's eye.

"You've just come from there, I hear."

Nureddin laughed a little.

"I might go back there. Why not? We could do it in three days, with a fair wind. I have eight guns aboard my dhow, and sixty men who can fight them. You have two ships and more guns, and your men can fight. Here is Sultan Ali, with some fifty praus and three or four thousand Moro warriors— who can fight! Why waste time on Sulu, where the loot is small, when Manila and an empire is waiting?"

"Ha!"exclaimed Jans Doort, and grunted in his beard. His face lit up.

"You're Nureddin the Nakoda, eh? Yes. I heard of you at Achin. Manila— ha! Thunder and lightning! It could be done. Manila seized for Holland, aye! Will the sultan do it?"

"Will you do it?"Nureddin looked him in the eyes.

"I'll consult my officers."

"Then consult them. Here comes the sultan. I'll talk with him and his council; ten to one, he'll do it. He hates the Spaniards. Come back and talk with him in the morning. By that time, you'll find him all afire for the venture— if you are."

Well Nureddin knew that Sultan Ali and the wrinkled old men of the council, who looked like monkeys in their scarlet jackets, would itch for the sword-hilt when they heard how helpless Manila was; and would not wait for morning to blaze for a holy war against the infidel and the loot of the Spanish town.

JANS DOORT stalked out, assembled his junior captain and his officers aboard his ship, and imparted the news to them. They lit long pipes and broached a keg of beer, they looked at one another, they heard the news of the Swann, and the junior captain spoke up.

"The Swann and her consort much damaged or lost, eh? That's bad news. Manila town ready to drop like a ripe plum, eh? That's good news. Treasure ready for the loading."

A little man with flaming eyes spoke with sudden sharpness.

"Is that all ye see in it? Look, Jans Doort! Here's the offer in our hand— not of a little loot alone, though God knows we'll not refuse that, but something greater. The whole course of history in these seas, for ever! Manila can't be taken. It's impregnable, ordinarily. But, if this news be true, we can take it for Holland!"

"That," said Jans Doort mildly, "had occurred to me. Look, gentlemen! We have two other ships loading at Achin; we can send word to them to come to Manila. We must act now or never. No delay is possible. Decision is here and now. It means the winning of Manila, and more than that, a secure base from which we can't be dislodged. All those islands will be ours; the island trade, the China trade, the spice trade— at one stroke, everything falls to our hand. Spain will be swept off these seas."

"Right," said another. "Who holds Manila, holds Luzon; who holds Luzon, has wealth of every kind, and the key to empire. I vote we agree— if this Arab trader can be trusted to fight."

"Fight?"Jans Doort smiled and sent a smoke-cloud at the cabin ceiling. "You don't know him. But he promises he can pilot us, once in the harbor."

"There's the rub," said the other captain, in doubt. "Our ships mean life to us all. None of us know Manila harbor; the Spanish charts are secret. No one knows it. These Moros, with their light craft, are ignorant of depths. If we ran aground in that harbor, God help us all! Without a pilot, I'd say no. I'm not sure of this Arab."

"I think he's the right man for us," said Jans Doort. "Suppose we take that for granted, eh? On the assumption that he'll pilot us, let's put it to the vote— do we see Sultan Ali and make a bid for empire?"

One by one, they voted; there was no dissenting voice. Fired by this chance at destiny, they were ready to gamble lives and fortunes and future, and said so.

NUREDDIN, meantime, laid his information before Sultan Ali and the council of old dattos, left them to chew over the thought of a holy war and loot beyond all calculation, and took his swaggering way out of the palace.

As he passed through the gates and headed for town, an old crone came whining up to him, asking alms in Allah's name. He gave her a coin, and she cackled a laugh.

"Thanks, Nureddin the Nakoda! Now go to the bazaar of the yellow infidel, and ask to see the pearls in his rear room."

"Eh?"Nureddin gave her a quick glance. "Why should I? Pearls?"

"Shaped like a scimitar, lord," was the answer, and the old hag departed. Pearls in dark hair, a scimitar of pearls— ah! His heart leaped. He was not unused to such palace intrigues. His girl of the palace would be there!

Then, with contempt, he spat and growled an oath. A mere pretty toy, no doubt; a dumb doll with a lovely face!

A palace girl seeking a light o' love— Allah forbid! His hot and tempestuous Arab heart leaped again, and recoiled. In that girl's face he had divined great things, wonderful things; and it hurt to find her so cheap. Or was he mistaken?

He fell in talk with a captain of the palace guards, and in jest mentioned a dream he had had two nights ago, a dream of a woman wearing in her hair an ornament of pearls shaped like a scimitar. The captain stared and rolled his eyes.

"Allah upon you, Hazrami! That is a true dream. The princess Fatima, youngest daughter of the sultan, upon whom be peace, wears such an ornament in her hair!"

Nureddin laughed lightly. "Of a truth? And she is fat and ugly, no doubt ?"

"As Allah liveth, Hazrami, she is a very gazelle for beauty, and the wisdom of the ages is in her brain! In three weeks she is to marry the datto of Jolo— he is here now, and has brought ten praus to the assembly."

Carelessly, Nureddin closed the talk and sauntered away, but now he went straight to the town and the bazaars. There were a few Chinese traders in the islands, and one of these had a bazaar in the town here, a large and prosperous place.

When he had bought a thing or two, Nureddin beckoned the yellow man apart and said he had come to see the pearls in the rear room. He was taken through a narrow passage, a curtain lifted and fell, and he was alone in a room with the girl of the palace. She was veiled, now, and cloaked from head to heels, but he could glimpse her face through the thin veil.

"Greetings, Nureddin, and peace," she said softly.

"And to you, peace," he rejoined.

Then she gave him a shock.

"So you came, drawn by a pretty face, in search of intrigue?"

"No, by Allah!"he said stoutly. "I came to see if so lovely a face could have so cheap a heart."

"Ah!" Her voice leaped at him, thrilled him, burst into a rippling laugh.

"Well said! You're the man I thought you were, at first sight. I've no time now to talk or to explain. Will you do me a service, Nureddin?"

"I may and I may not," said he.

"Lightly promised, lightly forgotten; that's not my way. When I give my word, I keep it. Is the service to be done a sultan's daughter, the promised bride of a chieftain— or to a woman named Fatima?"

SHE caught her breath. "So you know me! Well, why not? I want a boat, six rowers, and your sword to guard me, an hour past the prayer of darkness tonight. We must row eight miles up the river and land, wait an hour, and return."

"Is that all?"asked Nureddin. She laughed again.

"All? It may mean all— life and death and eternity. My errand at that village up-river is to free my brother, who has been condemned to death by my father."

Nureddin frowned. "A father condemn his own son to death?"

"The sultan, my father, is a harsh man," she said bitterly. "He sells me into a loveless marriage with the datto of Jolo; he condemned my brother, who dared to speak the truth. Now will you help me or not?"

Nureddin looked at her for a long, long moment. Once again his heart leaped, this time wildly, exultantly; and his heart shone in his eyes. She was a woman like a sword, true and keen and great-hearted. Her beauty was no lie. There was a flame in her; it spoke by her tongue, in her eyes, through her words.

"You may well hesitate," she said a trifle scornfully. "If my absence is discovered, if I'm betrayed, it means death and torture for us both."

"I think we shall each be in good company."A smile curved his lips, lit up his eagle-face, lightened his eyes.

"Death together, life together— there's a gamble worth the winning, by Allah! Look, Fatima. In a moment, all life is changed; I give you my promise, my heart, myself. You're the woman I've sought and have never found till now. Agreed! Tell me where to find you an hour after the prayer of darkness."

She told him, drew aside her veil, put out her hand with a word of thanks; he pressed her fingers to his lips and she was gone, with her ringing laugh that was like the little silver bells under the Borodor temple eaves.

IN THE sunset, over their bowl of food, Nureddin talked with his mate, a shrewd old Arab. The other men were all ashore, seeking women in the vast camp of warriors that lined the curving beach.

"Have the men aboard an hour after midnight," said Nureddin. "Warp out the dhow silently and carefully with the current. Let her drop downstream, just below the town."

"It is an order," said the mate obediently.

With darkness, Nureddin had his boat, and six of his best men. He knew now that Fatima's warning had not been idle, for the camp was full of talk about the prince Khalid and his fate— condemned to death upriver, in another two days. A fine fellow, said all of them, but Khalid had been a fool to brave the old sultan, to try and save the life of a man, to speak the truth about injustice and tyranny. The more Nureddin heard, the higher sang his heart; and as they waited, he told his six men about it, keeping back nothing.

They were no ordinary men, but were full mailed, keen, hard warriors and seamen, veterans of seas and battle, each of them worth a score of ordinary men.

"Why, here is a brave errand!"said one, laughing. "Love and rescue, brave hearts together— by Allah and Allah, I'm glad to be alive this night!"

The others said likewise, and Nureddin felt a swelling in his throat that such men should be his comrades and should serve him.

She came, alone, wrapped in a dark mantle. A word, an excited breath, and she was in the stern beside Nureddin, and the six rowers pushed off.

"Who knows the river?"asked one of the men.

"I do!"said she. "And I sit beside your captain. Row, Hazrami!"

They laughed to hear the word on her lips, for she had a pretty accent. Nureddin, moving the tiller, struck his elbow against her breast, and felt the hard touch of mail. She laughed softly, took his hand, and showed him that she wore a coat of steel mesh like his own, and was girded with a curved sword as well.

"I'll not be empty-handed in peace or war," said she, but he did not know the meaning of those words yet awhile.

The eight miles upstream to the village below the rapids were not quickly passed. The current was swift, wide as the river was, and other boats had to be avoided. Nureddin talked with the girl beside him, learned much of her, imparted much of himself; gradually they grew acquainted with likes and dislikes and ambitions and past histories. And the more he learned of her, the farther he saw into her heart and brain, the wilder sang his blood.

"Your great plan goes through," she said suddenly. "I heard tonight that my father and the council have decided to follow your advice, to follow you, join with the infidels and go to Manila. It will be settled in the morning. Are you glad?"

"Yes," he said honestly. "Conquest, glory, achievement— why not be glad? But I'll not leave you. How are you going to free your brother? What are your plans?"

"A faithful servant does the work; but I must get him away," she said.

"Plans? I have none. If I get back to the palace unseen, well and good. If not— well, at least I've found a man worth calling comrade!"

"We'll talk about that later," said Nureddin.

She pointed the place; they drew in at a village beach amid fishing craft drawn up on the shore. All was dark under the stars, and silent, until village  dogs began barking. Fatima rose as the boat backed in, stepped out and waded ashore.

"Wait," she said. "It may take a while. Will you wait?"

"Shall I go with you?"asked Nureddin.

"Safer not. You don't know the jungle paths. Will you wait?"

"We'll wait," said he, and she was gone.

THEY pushed out a little way, anchored, and waited. Nureddin talked with the six men, and the news about Manila brought fierce exultation to them and to him. He talked of his great schemes— place Manila in Dutch hands, and wax great! The Dutch were well liked in all the islands, whereas the Spaniards were hated. All the Moro trade would come to Manila, the trade of Sumatra and Borneo and beyond; wealth and power would come, alliance between the Dutch and Arab traders— why, the thing became enormous in scope and dream!

They waited a long time, an hour and another hour. The men dozed, their steel shirts and caps laid aside.

Suddenly Nureddin started. Off in the jungle, a drum was sounding. It was taken up elsewhere; a message, obviously, of uneven throbbing beats. It traveled on. Another and another took up the sound, fading away into the distance. A vague sense of evil oppressed Nureddin as he listened.

The men stirred, wakened, cursed the drums in the night. The village dogs began to bark once more, furiously. Nureddin hove up the anchor and sent the boat in at the mudflat shore, and presently heard her voice.

"All well, Nureddin! But get away fast. They're after us."

Two figures loomed, came scrambling into the boat. The oars dipped. They were out on the starlit water, whirling away with the current; behind, all was silence and darkness. No alarm, no shouts. A laugh broke from Nureddin.

"Allah be praised! I thought you said they were after you?"

"You heard the drums? They've sent word on ahead."She crowded close to him. Khalid spoke, courteously, quietly, voicing his thanks; a slim, dark figure of restraint.

The moon was up now, well past the full, rising at midnight, striking a silver radiance down the river road. With current and oars, the boat sped fast. Presently Fatima touched Nureddin's arm, her voice soft with regret.

"I'm sorry. It's another mile to the narrows; they'll stop us there. That's where we'll find the first boom— a defence against pirate raids, that can be swung across the river. Another farther down. You'll have to let us slip ashore and take our chances in the jungle. For your sake, dear Nureddin, I'm sorry."

He grunted scornfully. A laugh broke from the men.

"By Allah, we'll take you through safely!'' said he. "How can they know about us?"

"The drums tell everything. That I'm here, with you. The drums from the coast make answer. There will be boats on the river, coming up. To get through is impossible."

"Wait and see," answered Nureddin. "We've met booms before now."

They swept on. Here the river made a wide bend and then narrowed for a space. As they came around the bend, the flare of torches appeared ahead. Nureddin snapped out an order. Two of his men laid in their oars, produced bow-cases and quivers, strung their bows, and moved aft, so that the boat was out of trim, her bows high. She was a stout but light craft, long and narrow, well suited for work about reefs or rivers.

"Careful!"exclaimed Khalid suddenly. "They will have rafts to fight off any attack on the boom! If you have an extra bow, give me one."

The stroke-oar chuckled and passed him bow and quiver, without losing a stroke. Nureddin held the boat in midstream, heading for the torches. These burned on two bamboo rafts, crowded with men, moored along the center of the boom. This boom, of huge bamboos, was half awash.

A storm of voices broke out at the boat as she drew near. Conches, drums, brazen gongs sounded death. Orders were shouted. Nureddin, making no answer, headed between the two rafts.

When he drew near, the air suddenly sang with shafts. An arrow slapped into the gunnel, another thudded on his steel shirt.

"Loose!"he said, and the bowstrings twanged.

The two men, standing, shot with terrible rapidity, their shafts piercing the crowded masses aboard each raft. Shouts became shrieks. The bow of Khalid joined in. Those powerful bows sent their arrows through and through the unprotected warriors. Wild confusion ensued as dead and dying plunged down. In the midst, Nureddin called sharp warning, and the two men dropped their weapons as the bow of the boat slid up on the bamboo boom. Under the weight, the boom sank.

The two darted forward, the oars dipped and pulled, the boat slid up and over the boom and was across. A few arrows sped after her. With all six oars at work again, she fled away downstream in the cold moonlight.

"Hurt?"queried Nureddin. "Not even a wound? Good. There'll be worse ahead. Where's the second boom, Fatima?"

"A mile above the town," she replied.

"But it's not like this one. It's made of great logs lashed together, that will hold back a war prau. And there's a huge fighting platform, an enormous raft. The warriors will be men from below, also, not villagers."

"So much the more honor in fighting through them," and Nureddin laughed a little. "Mahmud and Abdallah! When I give the word, bend every effort to cutting the lashings. Use your own brains— we don't know what'll turn up. If it comes to swordwork, the others join me and we'll get you time to do the cutting."

THE drums were speaking again, from behind, from ahead; a more rapid beat now, excited tongues speeding the word downstream. The moonlight hung clear and beautiful on the water, and Nureddin caught a sudden exclamation from Khalid, as he leaned toward his sister.

"What's that? Fatima! What's that sword ?"

She laughed, and bared the blade she wore. A huge kris, shaped like a flame, the hilt heavy with gold and gems.

"Our father's kris," she said. "The sword of authority, the sacred kris of the sultan! Take it, Khalid; I stole it for you. Take it and use it."

Nureddin eyed the thing curiously. The scabbard was draped with pearls, the flame-bladed weapon richly dight with gems that flashed in the moonlight.

"A treasure indeed," said Khalid, "but if we win through, it becomes a gift for our friend here, Nureddin the Nakoda!"

"Keep it," said Nureddin, understanding now the words of the girl.

"I have gems enough, and a blade that suits my hand better, of Toledo steel. If I seek reward, it is not from you but from another."

Fatima looked at him, her face flashing with laughter and excitement.

"If you seek rewards from me, Nureddin, look well that I share in them fully!"

"You shall do that," he said, and put his hand under her chin and kissed her on the lips, and her lips responded. From the men at the oars broke a grunt of fierce delight. Thus, silently yet with a perfect understanding of words unuttered, was their troth plighted beneath the moon.

The boat swept on at speed, and Fatima sketched the situation ahead. The great boom was meant to close the river to traffic, and did so upon any alarm. There was no evasion, for the channel was narrowed by rocks on either side.

Scarcely had she finished speaking, when a glow of light showed ahead, and they were in a straight course that led down to the boom, where hundreds of torches flashed. A groan escaped Khalid.

"No use, Nureddin! Men are there by the hundred."

"Only so many can reach the boat and us," said Nureddin. "Ha! Look there!"

A small boat was hailing them. Fatima answered in the local dialect, and turned.

"Nureddin! They know you're here, and that I'm here. They say to come in peace to the raft and talk. The datto of Jolo is there, and one of my father's chief captains."

"Good," said Nureddin. "Mahmud! You and Abdallah work while we talk."

The little boat tore on back ahead of them. They held on, and Nureddin drank in what awaited them, his brain alert to seize every chance; there was none.

In the torchlight, the boom was visible, high and great. In mid-current was a huge raft or platform, solid as the earth itself; he reckoned swiftly, and found there must be a hundred men or more on the raft alone, for it was all aglitter with weapons and armor in the torchlight. On the downstream side of the raft, which blocked further passage, was a crowd of boats from the town below, with more men.

"Allah is great!"said one of the rowers, glancing over his shoulder. "The river crocodiles will be full fed this night. They trap us into a peace-talk."

Nureddin said nothing, but steered for the right side of the platform, where a space was being cleared in the lurid torchlight. Once landed there, he was lost, it seemed. He held on; a dead silence had fallen upon all those men.

Fifty feet from the platform, he called aloud.

"In the name of Allah! Do ye guarantee peace?"

"We do not," replied a short, squat, powerful figure in gay sarong and coat.

"But we offer you peace and free passage, if that be your choice after hearing our words."

"Then the choice shall be mine," said Nureddin, and signed his oarsmen on.

"That is the datto of Jolo," breathed the girl beside him. "And at his elbow is Mansur, chief of my father's captains. If you land there, you must consent to what they say or be killed quickly."

"So they think," Nureddin said.

"Mahmud ! Throw your cloak over Abdallah, so he may cut at the lashings unseen, while we talk."

THE oars were put in. The boat drifted down upon the boom and the platform, and came to rest where two of the huge tree-trunks were lashed together. Murmurs went up at sight of Fatima, rising with Nureddin to land.

He signed Khalid and the others back, and went first, with the girl following. In his hand was his naked scimitar, a keen curved blade made long since in Toledo. Fatima was slim in her mail-shirt, lovely to see.

The datto of Jolo, for whom a stool had been placed, was a squat chieftain, dark with negroid blood, and held between his two hands, as he sat, a heavy-bladed war axe. He sat leaning upon it, his eyes going to Fatima, slender-breasted, her hair flowing, in her hand the common kris she had taken from her brother in exchange for the glorious weapon.

"Well?"Nureddin halted in front of the datto, smiled a little, leaned lightly on his long thin blade. "Why is our passage stopped?"

"You know well," snapped the chieftain. "As Allah liveth, I am here to act, not to talk! You are a fool. Hand over this woman and her brother, and you go free, for we respect you, Nureddin the Nakoda. Otherwise you shall be slain quickly."

"Wait, wait!"exclaimed a voice.

Through the close-packed throng came shoving a burly figure. It was Jans Doort, in half-armor, steel cap in hand.

"I want a word with you, Nureddin!"

"Have it," said Nureddin quietly. He had put on his steel cap, was very composed, but his hawk-face was alight with repressed eagerness. Behind him, covered by the mantle, he knew that Abdallah was at work on those lashings.

"You've jeopardized everything," exclaimed the Dutchman angrily. "We've decided to accept your plan. We must have you to pilot us into Manila harbor; without you, the scheme were impossible. The sultan has decided to join with us. Now, give up this woman and her brother! Give up this madness; glory awaits you, power, wealth, empire!"

Nureddin caught his breath. He saw very clearly what his choice must be. His dream had been a great one, greater than he knew. This Dutchman had seized it, Sultan Ali had seized it; all combined, they could do what no one could do singly, for the Dutch cannon and the Moro swordsmen and the Arab seamen together held Manila at their mercy.

"You offer me a hard choice," said Nureddin slowly. "My honor is pledged to this woman and her brother."

"I release you from the pledge," said Fatima unexpectedly, and drooped a little. "Hand us over, Nureddin; your honor is clear, you've done all that can be done..."

There were murmurs of amazement and approval. But Nureddin gave the girl beside him a glance and a smile, and shook his head.

"You didn't pledge my honor; I did," he said. "Therefore, I'm the one to say on that head, not you. So the choice is mine, not yours."He jerked up his scimitar and thumbed the curved edge, and then looked at the datto of Jolo.

"So the choice is mine to make— for peace or war?"

"If you call it such," said the datto with a flash of contempt. "Only a fool would call it a choice, Hazrami, with death at his throat!"

"Very well," said Nureddin. "I choose, by Allah! I choose the best in the world, whether for life or death. Cut, brothers, cut!"

As he spoke, he moved so swiftly that no eye could have warning. His blade flashed up and down. It shore through the two wrists of the datto of Jolo, that leaned on the axe. It flashed again, and the warrior beside the stool dropped across the falling chieftain. In the boat behind, bowstrings twanged and there came a flutter of shafts, and Mansur, the sultan's captain, pitched forward with arrows in his throat. All this in one instant. As the first alarm yells pealed up, Nureddin hurled himself at the massed ranks. His four men appeared behind him, and Fatima, and Khalid. In the moment before the surprised Moros could use their arms, the Arab scimitars were smiting them into death, hurling them back, carving a bloody path in the torchlight.

Jans Doort whipped out his blade and struck. It glanced from Nureddin's steel cap. Furious, he struck again, and again the blade glanced. The swarthy hawk-face of Nureddin rose at him with a grin and a word.

"Poor work, infidel, poor work! Hadramaut does better—"

The Toledo blade slashed into the Dutchman's throat; and with that blow, as he well knew, Nureddin bade adieu to all his dreams and ambitions.

A Moro with a stabbing spear was upon him from behind, but Fatima's kris cut short the thrust, and this corner of the platform was clear.

NOW befell stern work under the flaring torches. The Moros were stubborn fighters, and the men of Jolo, seeing their datto dying, yelled for vengeance. Steel clashed and men died, but Nureddin was now here, now there, with satanic agility, and every man who faced him fought for a space and died.

His four Arabs fought like himself, and Fatima guarded his back, while young Khalid dyed the glorious kris red that night. Then, by sheer weight, they were pressed back and back upon the boat. One of the Arabs went down under a spear-thrust. Nureddin leaped to his rescue, but a kris had slit his throat. Another Arab slipped in blood and sprawled, and an axe beat out his brains. Nureddin killed the slayer, but a bolo slashed across his thigh and he was down. Shrill and wild pealed the yell, but changed to a death-shriek as he came up and struck, and a Moro died. Another bolo slashed at him, slithered from his mail-shirt, and Khalid struck down this man. But Nureddin's agility was gone now. That slash across the high was draining the life from him, and he knew it.

"Free!"came the yell from the boat. "Quick, nakoda!"

Free indeed. The boom was swinging with the current. The boat was moving. Fatima and her brother scrambled in, Nureddin leaped for the stern and made it. One of his Arabs went down under the Moro rush, the other got aboard.

As by magic, the battle and tumult were gone. The boat was heading downstream, the Moro boats dashing for her in vain; most of them were swept aside by the boom as it swung.

Three Arabs left, Khalid at an oar with them, and Nureddin with the blood pumping from his thigh, as he sat at the tiller. He caught the girl's hand and dabbled it in the warm blood.

"Tie it up! Stop the blood somehow!"he commanded, and peered out at the water intently, heading the boat over to the farther side.

Away from the town— aye, that was the one chance! Boats crowded there by the wharves and godowns and harbor. Nureddin held over to the farther shore, the oars dipped hard, the current swirled them on. The torches and roaring voices of the town slid past.

"Finished!"exclaimed Fatima, panting. "The best I could do—"

"Good enough," he broke in. A sudden fear had assailed him, at sight of flaring lights far down the river. If they knew he had gone with the girl, then they might well try to occupy the dhow. The mate had moved her, yes; but those lights, those lights! And the flash of powder, the mutter of guns! His crew had muskets, the Moros had none.

The town was past, the massed fleet of praus was past, the two Dutch ships dropped behind. Ahead, under those torches that shamed the feeble moon, was rising a din of fight; yells, shots, the ringing clash of steel. Nureddin saw that the dhow must have been attacked by surprise, before the mate could get cannon to work or boarding-nets up. Along one side of her showed the dark mass of boats gathered.

The boat was closing down upon her now. Nureddin lifted his head and shouted at his men aboard her. A wild yell made answer; they had heard him.

"Cut the cable! Out with the sweeps! Throw me a rope!"he shouted, and then the boat crashed in among the craft that surrounded the dhow. From the Moros lifted wild shrieks of dismay and consternation. Luckily, none of the fighting praus were here; only small craft had come. Once at sea, as Nureddin well knew, no Moro vessel could overhaul this big dhow of his.

A last medley of confusion, clashing weapons, wild voices, and they were in under the rail. He was aboard somehow, limping, falling, scrambling up to hurl himself into the fight raging on the deck. The Moros broke and fled. A dying man uprose, bolo in hand, and slashed at Nureddin viciously; the blow missed. Nureddin struck at him, slipped in blood, went all asprawl on the deck— and darkness engulfed him.

WHEN he wakened, the salt sea-air was in his nostrils, the sun was in the east, the dhow was lifting and falling to the sea-swell. Nureddin glanced around. He was lying pillowed on the after-deck, alone. Talking with the old mate, at the tiller, were Fatima and her brother.

Nureddin eyed them. The fine sweep of the young Moro, the lithe body, the alert gaze, pleased him. He was smiling when Fatima turned, saw him lying on one elbow, and came to him with a rush.

"They've given up! They've turned back!"she cried.

"Who?"demanded Nureddin, as she sank down beside him.

"The praus. The two Dutch ships. They were chasing us, but they've gone!"

Gone, true; gone, and with them dreams and empire and the loot of Manila, and the glory of conquest. And he smiled again, for thought of what he had won instead.

WE ALL SAT staring as Templeton came to the end of his story, and his voice died, and the magic of southern seas died with it. We were back in the present again, and the world seemed suddenly drab and empty.

"And you claim that's how history is made ?"asked somebody.

"Good lord, man, what more can you ask?"exclaimed Templeton harshly. "A trifle of a man's honor, of a girl's face— think of the tremendous effect it had! Otherwise, Manila would have fallen into Dutch hands, and the whole course of history would have been altered in that part of the world, in other parts of the world. No Dewey at Manila bay, to mention just one thing. No Manila galleons to be raped and plundered by buccaneers. Spain would have been banished from the south seas, as Portugal was—"

"But what became of this Nureddin? And the girl?"I demanded. "Do you know?"

Templeton gave me a long, slow glance, and looked away, and nodded.

"Yes, I know. A great story, a glorious and glowing story of blood and heroism and empire— good lord!"

He glanced at his watch, leaped to his feet, and reached for his hat. "I'm overdue. So long! See you again."

And he was gone, taking his unuttered story with him.

________________________

11: The Devil is Dead

(As by Gordon Keyne)

Blue Book, July 1939

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The fellow halted, bowed mockingly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Blackbeard glared at him.

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

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

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

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

So saying, he turned and lurched for his cabin.

Flatnose came up to Cap'n Lucas.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The boy shrank back, but barred the way sturdily.

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

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

Flight meant guilt.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Helped maroon us, he did!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I came here to see the Governor."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They stood together in the empty street.

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

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

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

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

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

Maynard nodded again, his eyes very joyous and eager.

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

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

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

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

"Bah! A bogey for children."

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

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

"D'you know where he is now?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And looks it," said Spotswood.

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

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

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

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

"Eh— 'pon my word, a very David!"

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

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

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

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

"Humph! " The Governor grunted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Not so," objected Bertram dourly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Delivering us to him, are you?"

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

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

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

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

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

"Your head, pirate!"

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

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

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

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

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

The schooner gradually came nearer.

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

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

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

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

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

The sloop reeled as the iron hail drove into her— scraps of iron, nails, bullets, glancing and hissing and bounding. Men screamed and staggered and sprawled, to lie writhing or motionless. The gangways were crimsoned, with half the men aboard cut down or wounded as they lay. The sweeps were in a tangle; the sloop fell off.

Maynard was still up, his voice lost in the wild uproar of yells from the rail of the schooner Where the smoke still hung. He came leaping for the tiller, but Bertram was already heaving at it; a breath of air lifted the smoke, lifted the Mary Jane, sent her blunt bowsprit clashing into the schooner just abaft the bow. Grapnels were flung; and as they hooked on, a blast of powder grenades came down, vomiting iron and sulphur.

Here, for an instant, all was confusion. Bertram caught up his ready cutlass.  The breeze rifted the smoke; in the rift towered Blackbeard, a-fume, slavering.

"AWAY! Boarders away!" shouted Maynard. Bertram leaped to follow him, but they were too late. Blackbeard was already in air, leaping like the foul fiend himself, his men pouring over after him, and hurtling to the foredeck of the sloop.

The remnant of the sloop's crew rushed from cover. The sloop swung away from the schooner, swung away and away, as puffs caught her canvas and drifted her. Maynard, on the way forward, stumbled and went down, cursing. Bertram leaped past him to get into the fray. Teach was raving like a madman, as the fishermen halted his crew and fought stubbornly. Bertram was in the thick of it now, plunging headlong for that monstrous red-frothing devil, his blade ready.

Fear? Somehow all the horror was gone out of him; only a parching hate remained, with memory of Cap'n Lucas. And now Blackbeard caught sight of him and roared with insensate fury.

"You traitor dog! I'll rip the skin from your living body for this! "

Bertram was in at him, dour, silent, sultry eyes intent. The great cutlass of Teach drove at him; he met the stroke with his own blade, and the shock went through his whole arm. Cut, slash, give and take, while steel rang around, pistols exploded, men cursed and cheered, and all the deck was smoke-drifted turmoil.

Clash upon clash— and sudden, Bertram's numbed arm fell. The blade in his hand had broken at the hilt; the huge slavering beast, untouched, roared and slashed anew. His hilt turned the down-sweeping blade, but the flat of it drove against his head, beat him to his knees as though clubbed.

He was down, on hands and knees. Somebody leaped right over him. Dizzily writhing aside, he beheld an amazing sight. Here was little Maynard, bodkin in one hand, pistol in the other, charging like a wildcat. And Teach hauling out a pistol—

Bertram, groping about for a weapon, trying to gain his unsteady feet, could feel time stand still. This was no dither to be ended by one shot, by one flashing thrust. Blackbeard loomed huge, inhuman, massive features contorted; his deep roar of fury actually lessened the explosion of the pistol in his hand, and spoiled its aim.

His frightful figure straightened aback to the crash of the second pistol. Maynard had halted his rush to aim. Another bellow escaped Teach; through the smoke, he spat blood and teeth, as Maynard's ball shattered his jaw and drove him back a pace. Like a hornet, the little officer was in upon him with a rush.

They were at it, cutlass and bodkin; clash and parry, cut and thrust, with Maynard topped by half a yard, but dancing about at fencer's straddle. Incoherent oaths burst from Blackbeard. The little thin blade was pinking him into a colander; the devil's coat was all reddened with blood.

A cutlass came clattering along the deck and spun against Bertram's ankles; he caught at it frantically and crouched to spring. The little officer, his hat gone, was down. He had come to one knee, his bodkin splintered, the steel stub raised to parry the sweeping downstroke.

As it came, the blade sliced through Maynard's sword-hand— took thumb and finger. Teach belched a red-bubbling curse and bent forward, the better to line his finishing stroke.

Maynard's left hand sought the other pistol at his belt. Then Bertram was leaping, with a spring and a whirl of his blade, all in one motion. He sent his cutlass home, fair to the mark; it sank for its full width into the thick neck of Captain Teach— and stuck fast. The hilt was wrenched from his sweaty grip as that huge bulk reeled aside and staggered for footing.

DEAD? Far from it. With gusty horror, Bertram was shocked dumb and staring; would no steel kill this devil of flesh and blood? Maynard came up, right hand dripping blood, pistol in left fist. He fired pointblank. Teach clapped hand to stomach and roared fresh formless rage.

Then, ignoring them both, Blackbeard plucked at the cutlass stuck fast in his neck. He had shed his hat and his smoking matches. Now he staggered to the mast and set his back against it, caught the cutlass-hilt with one hand, caught the point against the mast, and with a mighty heave had it out of his flesh. It clattered down along the deck; and with a dive, Maynard was after it and had the weapon.

Blackbeard had dropped his own huge blade now. He was sagging; his knees yielded; he spouted crimson from a dozen wounds, and blood was running over his plaited beard. The turmoil along the deck had lessened. Bertram, weaponless, saw Maynard poised to leap in and fight anew. Teach was not done yet....

With a choked, incoherent bawl of fury, he put left hand to head as though to keep it in place, with his right snatched a pistol from the slings, and leveled it. Maynard charged in. Blackbeard steadied for deadly aim, but the pistol merely flashed in the pan. Maynard was plastered to him; they were at grips, Teach clutching the little lieutenant by the shoulder, clawing at him.

And there underfoot was the huge whinger of Blackbeard. Suddenly waking, Bertram swooped for it and had it. Blackbeard, clasping Maynard against him, fell forward and bore the officer down beneath him, weighted him flat on the deck, clutched for his throat and gripped it, up-reared for purchase as he throttled.

Bertram swung up the heavy weapon, and then paused; it was impossible to know where to strike. A convulsion seized those two figures as Maynard twisted up, Teach rolled sideways; grappling and striking, they pitched over together. But now, wounds and loss of blood took toll.

The monstrous bulk of Captain Teach shivered and relaxed to a crimsoned mass, his head askew. The slender figure of Maynard squirmed erect; gaining his feet, he shook himself like a terrier.

"Egad! Dead at last!" he panted, looking down. "Here's a hundred pounds earned. And well earned, damme! "

"Your earnings," grunted Bertram. "My head."

HE swung up the big blade, swung it in both hands, put arms and shoulders into the stroke. The steel thudded straight; it sheared on, razor sharp, through flesh and cartilage and bone, and scraped the deck. The head was lopped aside, but was still attached to the mass by a shred of hairy skin.

"My head, remember," Bertram said again, leaning on the big cutlass and looking on the work with glittering eyes. Maynard glanced at him, glanced around, and then was darting away. The deck of the sloop had been cleared; the last survivor of the boarding-party had gone over the rail. With what men remained to him, Maynard got out the boat and tumbled into it. The oars flashed in the sunrise light, and the boat headed for the schooner.

The tardy Dolphin had come up and was locked in fight with the pirate craft, men surging on the decks, pistols spattering, figures vaulting the rails. Bertram sat beside the reddened mass upon the deck, paying no heed to aught else. He had freed the head from the body, and set it on the deck, the wild bloodshot eyes open and glaring in fearsome life like manner....

The fight ended, Maynard's boat came back. The little officer strode up and stood gazing at the corpse and its keeper. His riven hand was bandaged, his sandy queue was loosened; he breathed hard through thin nostrils and his hazel eyes were hot with battle-light.

"Damme, man!'' he exclaimed. "What's wrong, that ye sit here staring at a villain who's harmless?"

"Naught," said Bertram in his throat. "But he may come to life again. There's only one way to kill the devil. Cap'n Lucas told me of it, afore he was murdered."

Maynard grunted. "The head goes to the Governor, as witness for the hundred pounds. You shall carry it into the bows, and lash it by the hair to the end of the bowsprit; we'll sail Blackbeard back to Chesapeake Bay, for all to see."

"Not yet," said Bertram. "Not till I make sure the devil's dead."

He had brought from under his belt a sailcloth needle, long and curved, and sat with it ready as he watched the head with wary eyes. Teach was dead a dozen times over, yet had not died, but clung to life with all the incredible virility of a primal beast. Even now, with head and body sundered, the monster might yet come to life, act, speak! The men who gathered around to stare, hesitated to touch the thing.

"They're glazing! " exclaimed Bertram suddenly. "Look!"

The scar throbbed in his cheek. His hot intent eyes, the eyes of an Indian, gripped those of Teach. Excitement rose in him; a swift gusty breath escaped his lips, as he sat poised.

"Now's the time!" he said. "Now, when the eyes are glazed— then's when he'll come back to life if no one takes action! But Cap'n Lucas told me what to do—"

The men caught his words, caught the thrilling timbre of his voice. Fear and horror touched them. They moved back hastily. The devil come to life again? It might well be. Even Maynard stood half fearful, clutching for the reloaded pistol he carried.

The huge bloodshot eyes were glazed in horror. Bertram suddenly moved, with the flashing swiftness of an animal. He leaned forward, caught the twisted bloody hair in one hand, and in the other his needle flashed, and flashed again, pricking into those staring orbs.

"Ah! " He sprang nimbly to his feet.

A sharp yell escaped him— so sharp that the men stumbled backward, looking for the fiend to rise before them. "Dead! Now he's dead indeed, and a good job. The devil is dead! Look at him!"

SO it happened that the Mary Jane laid her course up Pamlico Sound for the Chesapeake, with a weird object under her stubby bowsprit. The head there, pendant by its long braided hair, turning this way and that as the sloop rolled— turning with a horrible semblance of looking about, peering about with wild glazed eyes. And seated on the bowsprit butt, watching that head as it swung, a lean shape with scarred brown cheek and vigilant hot gaze, the vengeance-glutted gaze of an Indian.

"The devil is dead," muttered Bertram. "Sure enough this time.... And he has Cap'n Lucas to thank for the job!"

________________

12: Lady of the Evil Eye

Blue Book, July 1939

The ninth dramatic tale in "Trumpets from Oblivion"— stories based on the reality of old legends -Ed

THE day that I shared in one of Norman Fletcher's experiments, or rather watched him at work, gave me a brutally shocking experience that I have no desire to repeat.

Our Inventors' Club, before which Fletcher had been demonstrating what he termed his "Trumpets from Oblivion," had disbanded for the summer. That day I drove out to the Pan-American laboratories on a business errand. Some one mentioned that Fletcher had been ill, and I looked him up. I found him at work in his private office, and he received me with hearty acclaim.

"Come in, come in! Make yourself comfortable; I'm glad to see you. I've had a touch of flu but it's over now, and I'm taking things easy."

"If you're busy—"

"I'm not! In fact, I'm about to play around with my pet invention, so you're just in time to sit in on an experiment and name the subject. Half a minute, now, till I finish these notes, then we'll go at it."

As I waited, it was with a self-conscious feeling. Here was a famous man, hailed by the world as an electrical genius, heir to the wizardry of Steinmetz and of Marconi, placing himself and his time and skill at my service! His affability, his friendship, were genuine. My heart warmed to the old Yankee, with his bushy snow-white hair, his ruddy features, his shrewdly twinkling eyes.

My thoughts flickered back over his odd theory, that all the old myths and legends of the world invariably had a basis of fact. He had proven this theory, too, with the astonishing apparatus he had invented, comprising his researches in ultrasonic waves, light waves, and other little-known and untrodden paths of physics. In recalling light and sound, which never die, in bringing back scenes from the past with what I can only de scribe as a sort of backfiring television, he had amazed everyone. Unperfected though his invention was, it was none the less a thing of rank magic to me.

"Ready? Come along to the laboratory," he exclaimed cheerfully. "Now I can relax for the day. Have you thought of some subject you'd like to probe?"

"Along the line of your myth theory?"

He chuckled. "Trumpets from oblivion, eh? Yes."

"Well," I said, "do you suppose we could learn anything about the origin of the evil-eye notion?"

"The evil eye?" He ruffled a hand through his white hair. "You've certainly picked something there! That belief is actually as old as the human race. Archaeology has turned it up even in prehistoric days. Excellent! We'll see what we can get."

And, thought I with a thrill, I would settle a few doubts of my own. I had always half suspected that Norman Fletcher's experiments were part trickery or illusion, that his demonstrations were somehow made up beforehand. No chance for that here.

"Remember," he said, as we came into his gaunt laboratory with naked granite walls, "you'll have the language problem to cope with. We can't understand the words used in the dim far past; I'll have no opportunity to translate them into English and synchronize the speech. Now, make yourself at home and we'll get to work."

I dropped into one of the easy chairs, and took a cigar from the box on the table. Fletcher seated himself before the keyboard, no larger than an organ manual and not unlike one in appearance, from which he controlled all his apparatus ; there was none in sight, but I knew it must be somewhere about the place. Under the touch of his finger, the room lights dimmed. Fletcher had never explained his invention, had never discussed how it worked. Now he gave a mere hint, which was quite incredible had it not been justified by results.

"We never know what we'll pick up, while fishing for the subject." He took a cigar, bit at it, and lighted it in his careful way. With it, he pointed to metal plates under his feet. "Conductors must obtain results by sending thought impulses into time and space— a difficult thing to explain, yet quite simple. You know, we're on the threshold of vast discoveries in the field of light, sound, invisible waves and impulses of all kinds.

The little I've learned leaves me terrified and awed, I assure you."

"You can't mean that you produce these— these visions— with mental telepathy?" I blurted out.

He smiled, then broke into a hearty laugh.

"No, and yes; the radiations of the brain, amplified and controlled— who knows how far they reach? Not I. It was by accident that I stumbled on this one manifestation. For years, bacteriologists have been at work on much the same thing: One well-known scientist has made some surprising discoveries in the field of human radiation and in ultrasonic-wave phenomena; then there are the Russian and German investigations into ultra-violet and other invisible radiations of wave-lengths shorter than visible light, and so on. Such human radiations have been measured at two thousand angstrom units—"

He broke off abruptly, and I learned no more.

On the stone wall before us, where a golden glow of light was glowing, a huge and shapeless something now was crawling, palpitating, moving. Fletcher leaned forward to his controls, his fingers moving swiftly. The shapeless thing disappeared, the stone wall began to disappear and dissolve. I heard Fletcher catch his breath.

"Too damned close!" he muttered. "That's the first time it's materialized on this side of the wall— careless of me! By the way,"— he turned his head, speaking casually to me,— "I should add that human blood possesses this power of radiation, to a marked degree."

Where the light rested on the wall, the stones had vanished. As through a wide-open doorway, we looked upon another room. I knew that outside it was mid-afternoon of bright sunlight; yet this room before us was in night, lighted by a massive candelabrum on a table, and beside the table sat a veiled woman working at embroidery.

She was richly attired, jewels sparkled on her fingers, everything about the room conveyed an impression of luxury, of Oriental richness. Tapestries of Bagdad weave hung on the walls, the stone floor was thick with rugs, and above the empty fireplace were a pair of gold-damascened Arab scimitars, with an emblazoned Arab shield. One vaguely recalled that heraldry had started in the Orient and been brought to Europe by the Crusaders.

The veiled woman looked up. A door opened and an old serving-man appeared. At first his speech was without meaning; then it became intelligible. For he was speaking French— not the French of today, but old Norman-French. While to the eye this differs vastly from the present-day language, to the ear it was otherwise; not by any means clear and distinct, but not difficult to comprehend.

"Lady Alixe," said the old servitor, "a knight has arrived at the castle— an English knight, Sir Gervase of Cliffden. He landed at Acre three days ago and is on his way to Jerusalem. He has two Arab guides, and a letter to your father."

"Did you tell him," asked the lady, in
a low, controlled voice, "that my father was killed by the Saracens last week?"

"I did, lady. He asks shelter for the night, and an interview with you."

"Did you tell him," her voice came more bitterly now, "that this is an evil place, that Lady Alixe of Beltran is an evil, murderous woman accursed by God?"

"God forbid, lady!" exclaimed the old man hastily. "Those things are not true. We know that you are the most beautiful and good—"

"Never mind," she broke in wearily. "Send the man here, when he has eaten. And send us wine."

The old servitor departed. The veiled woman resumed her embroidery. Her hair was massed in vivid gold; nothing of her face could be seen, but her fingers plying the needle were slim and young and lovely to see.

SUDDENLY all became clear, with these words, with the hints of the Orient all about. This Beltran was one of the numerous castles scattered about the Holy Land, held by the Crusaders or their descendants, before the Saracens expelled them. Lady Alixe was one of these transplanted offshoots of chivalry, fighting and dying in a far land for their faith, surrounded by a half-Arab environment. Her father slain, she held the castle in his place. But why the veil? Why was she not married? Was she young or old ?

The door opened again. Into the room strode a man young, yet not young; he was ablaze with virility, a strapping, powerful figure in leather surcoat and chain shirt. His face, framed in shaggy black hair, was eager, dominant, masterful, its youth belied by harshness of sun and wind and suffering. To gain the Holy Land, in those days, one suffered much.

He fell on one knee before Lady Alixe and kissed her hand, and spoke.

"Lady, my father and yours were old comrades in arms; it grieves me to hear that your father, good Count Beltran, is no more. Here,"— and he produced a folded, sealed vellum,— "is a letter the learned monks at Cliffden wrote for my father, introducing me."

"I thank you, Sir Gervase," she replied, taking the document and laying it aside. "Sit down, I beseech you; what little hospitality we have, is yours."

A servant brought in wine; he was a dark Arab who saluted the lady silently.

Gervase took a seat, gave her gossamer veil a curious glance, and spoke out impulsively.

"Let me remain here and serve you. No doubt you have need of a soldier, with things as they are, and more need of a friend. I'm in no haste to reach Jerusalem. No protests, I insist! We're old friends, or should be."

She glanced aside, startled, as a sound came at the door, a scratching sound. Gervase laughed and swung to his feet.

"That's my friend Molitor— I picked him up at Venice, and he won't let me out of his sight. A stout fellow, and intelligent as the devil. You'll like him."

He jerked open the door as he spoke. A dog leaped in, a lean hunting shape of greyhound blood, who sprang on him with avid joy. "Down!" commanded Gervase, and went back to his seat. The dog stood looking around, and a change came over him.

His hackles rose, his eyes glared; he crouched to the floor and then came to Gervase and crouched again, fear and a fierce angry terror upon him. Gervase touched his head and he relaxed.

"What's got into you, Molitor? Nothing to fear here, old fellow."

"But there is," said Lady Alixe.

Gervase jerked up his head. "Eh?"

"The dog knows, what you do not know," she went on, sadness in her voice. "The dog knows what all the peasants know, what people all around me know, what is whispered through the whole land. God knows it is no fault of mine, but the lords of the kingdom at Jerusalem have threatened to burn me for a witch, and now that my father is gone, they may do it."

Gervase drained his flagon.

"Nonsense or madness, which?" said he angrily. "Are you jesting with me?"

"This veil is no jest," she said. "This is why I cannot accept your friendship or your offer of service, though I thank you with all my heart. This is why you must leave here in the morning."

"I will not," he rejoined curtly. "What's the reason, in God's name?"

"Ask Mansur, the Arab castellan who will take you to your room." She touched a bell. "And before he comes, let me give you an earnest of what he'll tell you. Here, Molitor!"

THE dog looked up, rose, came to her outstretched hand, sniffing. She lifted her veil so that he could look up into her face. Gervase, from one side, caught a glimpse of loveliness— but the dog suddenly shivered and sank down. Terror came upon him; an acute shiver seized him, and pitiful whines, until Lady Alixe leaned back again, and hid her face.

Gervase looked on frowningly, perplexed, and the door opened to admit the Arab.

"Mansur, take Sir Gervase to the best chamber, give him all he desires, tell him all he wishes to know," she said. "When he leaves in the morning, see that he has food and competent guides."

"I am not leaving," said Gervase, and stalked out of the room with the dog at heel, following closely.

MANSUR took him to a room in the tower, overlooking the countryside and the Arab village and the palm groves. When they were alone, Gervase turned to the dark man.

"Why does Lady Alixe wear a veil?" he demanded. "What is this mystery about her?"

"Lord, I will tell you," said the Arab. "But first, I pray you, give us aid; there's no time to lose. Sergeant Giles commands the garrison, for all the officers were killed with the Count, and he's a fool; no one knows what to do. You must take charge."

"What the devil are you talking about ?" snapped Gervase, staring. "Your whole castle is at sixes and sevens— that's easy to see, and a worse-looking garrison I never beheld; but what's so urgent ?"

Mansur dropped his voice. "We have not told Lady Alixe, my lord, but two men arrived just before you, knights from Jerusalem, seeking her. We've given them food and wine in a room apart and put them off with lies— for we fear they have come to kill her."

Sir Gervase crossed himself. "Before God, such madness I never heard! You're all mad here! You suspect noble knights of dastardly actions—"

"Lord, come and meet them yourself, but keep your sword-belt on," said the Arab. "All we ask is a man to lead us, in her service!"

Gervase, who had loosened his belt, buckled it again. "Show the way."

Molitor at his heels, he followed the Arab to another chamber, and strode in upon two knights at table, being served by their squires. They gaped at him.

One, a stem scowling man, wore the mantle of a Hospitaler; the other was beefy, ponderous, sinister of eye. "Who the devil are you?" demanded
the latter.

"Sir Gervase of Cliffden, an English knight, in acting command of this castle," said Gervase. "I've just learned of your arrival, gentlemen. And you?"

"Sir Hubert Montjoy," the Hospitaler rejoined. "This is my companion, Sir Balthasar, a very worthy knight of Provence. We have orders from the King at Jerusalem; but whence came you? We knew of no knight left alive here."

"Live and learn," Gervase said curtly.

"Your business here?"

"Is with Lady Alixe of Beltran. Is she ready to receive us and hear our errand?"

"Let me hear it first."

Sir Balthasar came out of his chair, angrily.

"Ha! Some damned English adventurer just arrived!" His French was difficult to understand. "Out of this, rascal! We bear orders under the royal seal to take over command of this castle and send Lady Alixe to Jerusalem."

"Let's see your orders," said Gervase, stonily, and advanced to the table.

Montjoy drew a sealed packet from his pocket, and showed the dangling ribbon and seal.

"Does this satisfy your worship?" he said with a sneer. "Or have you fallen under the spell of her basilisk eye ?"

"I fear, Sir Hubert, that I don't comprehend," Gervase replied. "Did you say 'basilisk eye' ?"

"Certainly. All the world knows that Lady Alixe is accursed, that she possesses the Evil Eye which casts death and misfortune on all around. That's why she's to be burned at Jerusalem— after fair trial, understand."

"Oh! " said Gervase. "And you're eating her food and drinking her wine! You, who should be patterns of chivalry; you who have sworn to serve womanhood and protect it!"

"Young sir, apparently you have high ideals," sneered the Hospitaler.

The long arm of Gervase went to a wine-flagon; he shot the contents into Sir Hubert's face. Swinging around, he gave the Provencal a buffet that knocked him back into his chair.

"Is my meaning plain?" he demanded. "You are recreant, traitor knights—"

"You damned fool, I'll have you flayed alive for this!" Montjoy, sputtering, hauled out his sword and stalked around the table. "You've resisted the royal authority— at him, men!"

THE two squires leaped up. Sir Balthasar was out of his chair again, roaring oaths. Gervase scraped his long steel out of the scabbard and perceived that the Arab had fled.

"Up, Molitor!" said he, and leaned forward to meet the sweeping, vicious attack of Sir Hubert. What followed, was sudden and terrible beyond words; for, with death all around him, the English knight could waste neither time nor motion.

He ducked low under Montjoy's blade, his sword swept out low and far. A squire came in with dagger drawn to stab him from the side, and his point ripped that man's throat open, even before Montjoy came to the floor, screaming, with a leg gashed off. Sir Balthasar was almost upon him, swinging a sword as ponderous as himself, and the other squire was darting forward with a hunting-spear in hand.

Molitor took this squire, leaping in upon him, gripping his throat and dragging him down with worrying growls. Gervase gave the point to the Provencal before the latter could strike a blow— gave it to him full and deep, piercing from midriff  to back and jerking his blade loose again. Ludicrous anguished surprise swept into the man's fat face, his sword dropped, he clutched at himself and fell atop the cursing, groaning Hospitaler, whose life was running out with his bloodstream.

"Off, Molitor!" shouted Gervase, but was too late to save the hapless squire, for the long jaws had torn out his jugular. Gervase, leaning on his sword, stood shaking his head sadly at the ghastly scene. Sir Hubert cursed him and sank down in death. The Provencal was groaning his last.

"God rest them!" said Gervase, and wiped his sword. He was not callous at all, but death was very common in this day, life was cheap, and the man who could not kill quickly did not live long himself, except in servitude. Gervase had learned to kill, and so had lived.

He took the parchment from the table, opened it and eyed it curiously, being unable to read. He held it to a candle-flame, and was watching it burn when the door was burst open and Mansur came into the room, followed by a number of men-at-arms. Gervase turned to the silent, staring group.

"To my room with me, Mansur. You others, give these men burial and clean the room, and say nothing to the Lady Alixe."

Mansur accompanied him back to his own chamber. There he began to stammer something.

"Never mind about the dead men," cut in Gervase. "What's all this nonsense about Lady Alixe and the Evil Eye? Out with the truth, on your life!"

"Lord, it is no nonsense." The Arab shrugged and spoke resignedly. "As the wise men of my race know well, once in many generations is born a person whose gaze holds the power of evil influence. Such a person is the Lady Alixe, not of her own will but by the will of Allah; who is man, to avert his destiny? Upon all who endure her gaze, falls misfortune or death. Animals of all kinds perish; children die or fall ill if she caresses them. The monk who served the castle took care of her last year when she was ill; he sickened and died. Many of those who served her have likewise died. Now she wears a veil, which lessens the power of the Evil Eye. Mind you, there is no harm in her! She is a sweet and gentle lady, and grieves bitterly for the harm she has done."

"So that's the explanation! " said Gervase. "Who is the overlord of this place?"

"It is held in fief direct from the King, at Jerusalem."

"Good; then no one will bother about those two knights, for a while at least. Waken me early. At sunrise, I want every man in this castle assembled in the courtyard. How many men-at-arms have you?"

"Barely thirty remain, Lord."

GERVASE flung himself down in the darkness, but not to sleep for a while. He was superstitious; the whole world was ridden by superstition. Yet he refused to accept this story of Lady Alixe and the Evil Eye. There might be some basis for it, yes, but it had been enlarged and aided by ill luck and evil mischance. So he dismissed it, resolving to test the matter for himself. Nor would he accept the testimony of Molitor, snorting in uneasy slumber beside him.

That he had come at the right moment to save Lady Alixe from harsh destiny, he saw quite clearly. His own destiny had been abruptly altered; this killing of the two knights had changed everything for him. No Jerusalem now, no service with the King there!

"We'll think about the future when the time comes," he resolved, and fell asleep.

SUNRISE found him at work in the courtyard, inspecting, ordering, arranging, with a blaze of vigorous energy that swept everything before it. He was, in fact, appalled at what he found. Thirty men-at-arms, mostly French or of French descent, and fifty Greek mercenaries, in the main a slovenly lot. The castle was well supplied with food and wine, but arms lacked and defenses were slight. Below stretched a rich and fertile valley, with a large village and clumps of palms three miles distant; the villages and farmers were chiefly Arab and Syrian, he learned. Of horses, barely a dozen. The raid on which Count Beltran had perished had been disastrous in the extreme; the castle was an easy prey for the first band of Saracens to come this way.

Gervase took what measures he might. In the midst, he became aware of a veiled figure and the voice of his hostess.

"What, Sir Gervase, still here? I ordered you to depart this morning."

"Destiny ordered otherwise," said he. "I want you to ride with me to the village, yonder, and a bit farther."

She stiffened a little. "You talk as though you were master here! "

"I am," he said, regarding her steadily, trying vainly to pierce the thin veil. "It's my belief that I was sent here by God to save a very gentle lady from evil
fortune; and I mean to do it. I've no patience with fools or rascals or silly childish nonsense. Suffer me to have my way, lady, since it's for your own good. I've found a mission in life, and intend to see it through."

His voice was resolute; so powerful was his air, that he dominated the whole place. As she hesitated, sudden interruption came.

Villagers had been streaming in at the open gates, bringing produce and fruits. A wagon laden with oil-casks creaked across the stone, for the olives were in fruit and were being pressed. A man came to Lady Alixe and dropped on his knee before her, averting his face as he in barbarous French he said:

"Lady, there is sickness in the house of Mar Obed. Two children and the woman."

"Mar Obed has no children! " she exclaimed in surprise. "What woman?"

"A wandering Arab woman with two children, who came to the village yesterday on a dying horse. Mar Obed sheltered them; the woman was weak and ill, and is in no great peril, but the two children are dying."

"What does he say?" asked Gervase, and she repeated the words.

"We'll stop in and look at them," he said. "I have some skill with wounds and sickness. It's part of the knightly training; and God knows I've practiced it on many a poor soul since leaving England! Go and dress for the ride, Lady Alixe; I'll have out the horses."

With a gesture of helpless assent, she departed.

A little later they were riding down the cart-track toward the village, the two of them, with Molitor gamboling joyously around and ahead. Gervase wore his chain mail and a light steel cap; the sunlight well became his alert, strong features, saved from arrogance by the humorous wrinkles about his swift eyes.

"You're a very foolish man," she said softly, as they headed away from the castle. "Didn't Mansur tell you about me?"

"We'll discuss that later," he answered curtly.

"And the terrible thing you did last night. I heard the sounds as those men were being buried, and made Mansur tell me all about it. At least, all he knew."

DISMAYED, he checked his horse for a moment. His gaze went to her, keenly. In this instant he cursed the veil that hid her face.

"Then you know! " he exclaimed. "They had come to take over the castle, to send you to be burned as a witch. They tried to murder me. And you call it a terrible thing to defend my life?"

"I did not know," she said gently.

"Well, you do now. This land is no longer safe for me, or for you; now it's a matter of saving ourselves. If we had money, we could do it; money is power. But I've so cursed little. You probably have none."

She laughed. "Plenty, Gervase! My father has ransomed more than one Saracen. I have money and jewels at the castle; more is on deposit with a Genoese banker in Acre. What good is it to me? A woman alone is helpless."

"Ha!" His eye kindled. "You're not alone nor helpless, my lady."

"Hopeless, rather." Her hands made a fluttering gesture of futility, mournful as her voice. "What can I do? Nothing, accursed as I am! Better to let them take me, and end my life."

"Bosh!" he said roughly "I've got the thing through my head by this time. I'll make it plain later. There's a woman at home, in England, near Cliffden; she lives in a hut in the woods. Goody Toad, they call her; she has the Evil Eye and is a witch. My father saved her from being burned, and she has told me all about it."

"About what ?" she asked, as he paused.

"The Evil Eye. Something inside of her— a kind of power. If she stares at weak or sick animals, they die. But if she shuts her eyes and touches them, something goes out of her that cures them. People don't know this; they think she's wicked and accursed and can do only bad. Well, here we are at the village! Who's the man we seek?"

"Mar Obed. He's not an Arab but a Syrian. This is his house on the right."

They were among the houses, and Gervase noted a scattering on every hand. Mothers caught up their children and vanished hurriedly. Men drew back, although they saluted Lady Alixe humbly enough. One man hurriedly daubed his face and breast with a white powder. A girl, staring in fright, jerked a little box from her gown and scattered more white powder on her head and breast.

They dismounted at the door of Mar Obed. The Syrian, a bearded, bronzed man, saluted them, and Gervase noted that his bearded countenance, also, had been hurriedly strewn with the white powder. Lady Alixe talked with him, and turned to Gervase.

"He says the wandering Arab woman has been taken to another house, but the children are here; young children, fevered and dying. Go and see, if you like. I cannot. They would say that I looked on them and killed them."

"No, you're coming with me," Gervase replied. "Remember, your destiny is in my hands. I want you. Do as I say, lady, and trust me."

She moaned a little, but obeyed.

INSIDE the house, two children, dark-skinned and obviously Arab, lay on a pallet. The wife of Mar Obed, a kindly woman of middle age, was hurriedly dusting them with white powder, dusting her own face as well; she regarded Lady Alixe in abject terror.

The children, their little bodies drawn and emaciated, were muttering and tossing, looking about with fever-bright, uncomprehending eyes. Gervase examined them attentively, then asked for wine. Lady Alixe translated, and Mar Obed brought a cup of wine. Into it, Gervase put a few drops of liquid from a tiny phial.

"A fever remedy I got from a leech in Marseilles," he said. "Tell them to give it to the children later, a few drops at a time. Now lean over the bed and place a hand on each child."

She drew away. "No, no! You don't understand—"

"I understand better than you," he said gravely, compellingly. "Do as I say! Put a hand on each child, and close your eyes, Remain quietly until I give the word. If old Goody Toad had the right of it, we'll scotch this Evil Eye nonsense once and for all. Obey me! "

She was trembling violently, but yielded, and he placed one of her hands on the head of each child. A groan of fear came from the watching Mar Obed.

GERVASE, regarding the two little ones keenly, saw a change come over them, and his heart leaped. The feverish tossing gradually ceased. The racing pulses quieted, the bright eyes closed. Presently they fell into peaceful slumber, breathing gently and easily.

"Enough." Gervase caught the hands of Alixe away. She staggered, and he supported her within his arm. "Ask them what this white powder is."

She did so. Mar Obed responded at length and showed a small box of the powder.

"He says," she translated, "that it's a powder used everywhere in the Arab countries, here and in Egypt and in Persia, as a protection against the Evil Eye. The greatest Arab wizards and doctors make use of it."

"Hm! Those Arab doctors are wise men," he rejoined thoughtfully. "I heard of them in Sicily; they positively work wonders. Ask him to give me some of the stuff."

Mar Obed complied readily.

Gervase tasted the powder, made a wry grimace, and tucked it carefully away. Then he strode out, handed Lady Alixe to her saddle, and mounted. Instead of heading back, he gestured toward the desert.

"Ride past the palms, out into the wilderness a way. I want to talk with you."

She assented in silence, and they rode on, with Molitor keeping company. The village and the palms dropped away. Amid untrodden sand, they came into a little hollow, a bowl whose edges rimmed the sky. Gervase drew rein, dismounted, and gave her his hand. As she came from the saddle, he caught swiftly at her veil and ripped it away.

TEARS sparkled On her cheeks, tears filled her eyes; she had been weeping as they rode. Despite the anger that now came into her face, it was very lovely. Her eyes were a bright and vivid blue. A proud face, touched with sadness and beauty ineffable.

"How dare you! How dare you! " she gasped.

Gervase came to one knee, seized Her hand, and brought it to his lips.

"Pardon, lady! But I had to see you as you are; your voice told me, last night, how beautiful you were. Your voice has filled my soul. The touch of your hand has been singing in my heart. Dear lady, don't you see the truth ? It's like Goody Toad said— a power for good, not a thing accursed! "

"Oh, if I could believe it! " Her anger vanished, and anguished emotion filled her eyes. "Those children— they slept, they slept! My touch did them no harm! Yet it can't be true. If my eyes are accursed—"

"They're the most beautiful eyes in the world," broke in Gervase. "Listen! It's very simple, dear lady, just as old Goody Toad said. There's a certain power, yes; it can exert harm sometimes. That happened to you, perhaps once or twice, in little things; just as your vivid, bright eyes frightened Molitor last night. Then came exaggeration. Everything that happened was laid at your door. Tales spread and spread more wildly; fear lent wings to thought. You came to believe what was said. Others believed it. But now
you're looking at me, looking into my face. Does it harm me? No, by the saints! I ask no more than to meet the kindness and tenderness of your dear eyes all my life long! "

"Gervase! You are insane, mad!" she murmured. He laughed a little and once more pressed his lips to her fingers.

"Not at all; I'm utterly happy," he said, and rose, looking into her eyes. His sternly chiseled features were no longer harsh, but very gentle. "Look, dear lady! You've seen how this same power can heal, can do good. Here, let me prove it. Molitor! Here, you rascal!"

The dog came bounding to his side, caught sight of Lady Alixe, and shrank, stiffening.

"Close your eyes. Stoop down, touch his head," said Gervase, smiling. "Dogs read the eyes of humans, dear lady; it's a fact few people know. Do it, do it! "

She complied. Molitor shivered slightly at her touch, then quieted. As she stroked his neck, he lost his cowering air; after a moment, his head came around and he nuzzled her hand and licked it affectionately. She drew erect with a swift and startled word.

"True! It's true— oh, Gervase! "

Color swept into her cheeks, a rush of tears came into her eyes. She put out her hands to him, and Gervase upheld her, pressed her head against his shoulder, and his lips brushed the golden mass of her hair.

"What did you do to him— ah, the powder!" She shrank away, lifting her face in sharp conjecture. "Did you put that white powder on Molitor? Is that why he feared me not?"

Gervase broke into a laugh, but checked it thoughtfully.

"Heaven forbid! That powder, by the taste, is nothing but alum. Hm! There may be something to that powder, after all; these Arab wise men possess many secrets. This powder, that puckers the skin— hm! It might possibly fend off any such influences, in some queer way we don't understand. Bah! Sweep all that nonsense out of your head, my dear! From now on, we go up the world together. We'll abandon your castle and leave this land."

AS SHE listened, she yielded and drew against him, sobbing softly and happily, her face against his shoulder,

"We'll go to Acre," he went on, kindling to the thought. "There we'll take ship for Venice or Byzantium— perhaps to England; why not? The weight is off your heart and mind together. Here between sky and sand, you've come awake, you've learned the truth, you've cast off the darkness of your life. And I'll make the truth clearer to you, God helping me, through the years—"

His voice died away upon silence. A growl came from Molitor, a yapping angry bark; at the voice of Gervase, the dog subsided at his feet. Lady Alixe lifted her head and looked up, following the gaze of Gervase.

The rim of sand against the sky, above them, was broken by the shape of a horseman in glittering mail, who sat looking down at them. One low, incredulous gasp escaped the woman.

"Khalid! The Emir himself— Khalid of Damascus!"

As they looked, the rim of the bowl was broken all around. Men came into view, outlined against the blue sky, checking their horses silently; dark, bearded men in Arab chain mail, bows strung and shafts notched. Gervase relaxed. Caught, beyond escape! Caught, by swift savage raiders of the Saracen!

Lady Alixe moved swiftly. "I know him," she breathed. "He speaks French, he has often been a guest at our castle— Emir Khalid!" She lifted her voice in a clear, ringing call. "I'm the lady of Beltran! This knight is a friend—"

"It matters not who you are," broke in the Emir, a darkly indomitable, impassive shape. "I have sworn death to all Franks. It was I who slew your father Count Beltran. I shall kill every Frank I meet, for the injury that was done me last month, when my wife and children were carried off by Franks. Yield, both of you! Yield or die! "

Gervase scraped out sword. "Die like a man, then," he said grimly. White to the lips, Alixe tried once again.

"Khalid! We've done you no harm—"

"Take the woman alive," said the impassive Emir. "Kill the man. Shoot, Ali, and may Allah further your shaft! "

Alixe, who understood the Arabic words, flung herself before Gervase.

"No, no!" she cried fiercely. "They give no mercy— rather death, than a harem! Those infidel dogs shall not take me!"

Her long dagger flashed out in her hand. The Emir lifted his hand.

"Four of you, dismount and seize her. Ali, kill the man for me! "

Four of the Arabs dismounted; and of a sudden everything was happening at once. The bowman beside the Emir drew back his shaft. The four Arabs were plunging ankle-deep down the sandy slope. Gervase quickly stepped aside and put Alixe away from him with a shove. The bowstring twanged, and the shaft flew like a flicker of light.

LIGHTLY the sword of Gervase swung. It struck the arrow in mid-air and knocked it aside. The Arabs gasped; to them, it was magic. To Gervase, it was nothing; mere child's play, the everyday training of the straight-sworded Northmen and Normans.

Another twang, another flying shaft. He struck— and missed, losing balance in the sand. The arrow hammered on his mail-shirt. It broke, but the shock bore him back, overbalanced as he was, and  he came down. To those who looked, it seemed that he was dead.

"Allah!"

With the shrill pealing yell, the other men dismounted and came rushing down the slope. The first four were already closing in upon Alixe, wolfishly.

She evaded one; her dagger struck out at another, but the man caught her in his grip. Molitor came up in one terrific leap and caught the Arab by the throat; but another, curved scimitar swinging, struck at the dog and killed him.

FOR that man, it was an evil moment. Gervase was already coming to his feet; a cry of grief and fury burst from him as he struck. His blade clove through helmet and skull of the warrior, who pitched forward across the dead hound. Alixe poniarded the man who held her.

Then, smitten across the head by a mailed fist, she slipped down sidewise and lay quiet, senseless. The man who had struck her died, as the point of the long straight sword sheared across his belly; a spring, and Gervase was above her, bestriding her figure, feet planted firmly in the sand. He wasted no breath on battle-cries; he was marked for death and knew it, and meant to take full toll before dying.

They were flooding all around him now; they had left their bows with the horses, but steel was out and whanging at him. The first tried to rush him off his feet, but he met them halfway in this. He struck at their faces, swift and hard and fast; screams rang and blood spurted, for it was a ghastly business. The lithe curved blades were swept aside by the heavy sword; men staggered or reeled away from before him.

He leaped suddenly, turned about, caught those striking at him from behind. With point and edge he drove death into them, his tall figure towering above their lesser build. They pressed in for a moment. A Toledo blade slashed across his breast, piercing the chain-mail and bringing blood; another scimitar clanged on his steel cap, so that blood streaked down his cheek. Then they rolled back, as the smiting heavy sword struck down man after man, and blood spurted in the sunlight, and hurt men crawled, and screamed to Allah.

It could not last. He knew it most desperately; they were too many. Two came plunging at him, from either side. He cut down one, but his sword stuck there, and the other was in upon him, bearing him down. His sword was lost. His naked hands broke that man's neck, but already others were in, and he went down, down, slipping in the bloody sand, and they piled up above him.

"Back! Back, I say! Away from him!" The clarion voice of the Emir Khalid reached into them. The pile broke away. One warrior, poised to stab Gervase in the throat, was dragged off by his fellows. They scrambled clear, looking up in amazement to their leader. Gervase came to one elbow and reached out for his lost sword, but they did not move.

"Touch him not!" roared the Emir, swinging out of the saddle.

A man had come up to him, panting, gasping out eager words. In hot haste, the Emir turned and came down the slope in long leaps, and halted before Gervase. The latter came to one knee, sword ready, thinking it was the end, but the Emir checked him.

"Is this true?" The dark face was all ablaze, the eyes wildly alight. "Was it you, and this woman, who healed those children in the village? Answer, answer!''

"Aye," panted Gervase. "What of it?"

"My children, my children! " Reaching out, the Arab caught him in a wild embrace. "My wife, escaped from her captors with the two children! Allah bless you! Allah reward you, my friend and brother—"

THE hot gasping voices died out; the sunlight faded, the red gouts of blood were gone. The stones of the wall became visible once more. Then the experiment went wrong.

A cry broke from Norman Fletcher.

Against the wall something moved. A wild bloody figure, holding a long ax, moved in front of us, came rushing at us— no picture, no vision, but some actual thing from the past. I saw Fletcher plunge at his keyboard, as the ax swung. It fell, missed him, struck a chair beside him— then it faded and was gone, with the crash of the blow still in our ears. It was gone. The light was over, and died away. Fletcher came to his feet and looked at me; he was very pale and shaken. I looked at the chair. It was rent and splintered by a tremendous blow; but the room was very quiet.

"Good Lord!" I cried. "Did I dream that thing— that ax?"

FLETCHER exhaled a deep breath, laughed shakily, and pointed to the chair. "There's your answer," he said. "Those controls went screwy on me— confound it! Well, well, all's right that ends right. Here, have a fresh cigar.

Anyhow, you got the answer to your request for the Evil Eye material, eh?"

"More or less," I said, biting at the cigar. Right then, I needed a drink. "But I'm afraid I didn't get much of it. That alum stuff, for example."

He gave me a shrewd glance.

"No? To me, that was the most interesting detail of all," he observed reflectively. "We've just been told, flatly and unqualifiedly, that at the time of the Crusades, and presumably later, alum was used all over the Moslem world to avert the Evil Eye. Suppose we look this up and find it true,— and mind you, I've no doubt whatever that it will be substantiated in fact,— then what?"

"Well?" I said. "I'll bite. What?"

He shook his head. "There may be something in it from a scientific standpoint, that's all, directly in line with my own experiments. Alum, a powerful astringent, puckering the skin and membranes— yes, yes, it might have some such effect as we've been told. I've learned something today, let me tell you! Certain persons do emanate magnetic power, or invisible rays; science has proven that the Evil Eye is no mere fancy, but founded on sober reality. Once in generations, a person may show up whose radiations are extremely strong— for good or for evil. Hm! I'm going to experiment with the alum idea. Those old Arab physicians had something on the ball! "

Looking at the smashed and broken chair, I could not repress a shiver.

"So has your damned machinery, whatever it is!"

Fletcher took my arm, his shrewd eyes twinkling. "My friend," he said impressively, "come along to the library, where I'll lay before you the kindest words of tongue or pen."

"What are they ?" I asked suspiciously.

"'Scotch or Bourbon?'" he rejoined, smiling.

"For once you're dead right," I said. "And the quicker the better! "

___________________

13: Sons of Kalewa

Blue Book, May 1940

"I THOUGHT it was adventure,"  said Carrick rather disgustedly. "Instead, it's plain hell on a tension! And sub-zero hell, at that! "

The others laughed. "Even in Finland, the winter must break," said someone at the table. "It's beginning to break now. Then look out! They'll walk through us. The staff knows it;

Mannerheim knows it. The odds in men alone are fifty to one, and they've got the air. No wonder life's at tension! That's why we're here! "

Applause rang up; glasses were lifted; an excited Polish aviator shouted a toast.

The earth shuddered as they drank it— a bomb had struck somewhere close; but here in the deep shelter no Russian bomb could pierce, the Foreign Brigade drank deep.

That was not its title, except among the men who gathered here, outside the Viipuri camp— men who had come from near and far to fight for Finland: aviators, technicians, adventurers, rascals, soldiers of fortune. They met here to escape from the bitter cold, to drink, to talk. Old faces vanished each day; new ones came. Carrick was ready now to be moved out to the front. To his own amazement, since he knew nothing of soldiering, he had been made a captain.

His talent for figures, for organization, was what the Finns most valued.

Like many another man, he had shed an unhappy past to get here. He never wanted to see the past again, or to hear from it, except perhaps from his sister.

He was living for the present and for the future. And he had not found the present what he expected, by a long shot. Romance and adventure scarcely exist at thirty below zero.

"Captain Carrick!" A voice pierced the noise and smoke. A headquarters aide had entered, assuring everyone that the raid was over. "Report to Colonel Topelius at once, and bring Captain Lonnrot with you. Is Lieutenant Vincent here? Good. You are to report with Captain Carrick also. Yes, look up Lonnrot first— you may need him to interpret."

A final drink, a final chorus of farewells; and the two men, buttoned up and muffled against the frost, stumbled out of the shelter. They both knew that this meant business: the end of waiting and training had come; they were going to the front. But what front? All Finland was a battle-front, and sometimes in very curious forms.

Vincent, a Brooklyn boy who had fought in Spain and was pure soldier of fortune, chuckled as they emerged into the sub-Arctic daylight— four hours of it a day.

"This answers your grumbling, Carrick ! You were right, at that. Damned little high life around here; nothing but work. And the tension, everywhere the tension! Yes, that makes it hell. I suppose we'd better look up Lonnrot ?"

"If we want to know what it's all about," said Carrick. "Darned few of the headquarters outfit speak English, but I hear they're putting in a lot of Finns from America to help out."

"They're swell guys," Vincent said admiringly. "No fooling. Hard common sense. Wish we had a government half as good!"

Carrick laughed grimly. The Brooklyn boy was agin' all governments on principle, and was no idealist; but he was here as a volunteer, and was a walking wonder when it came to establishing shop units for airplane camps and squadrons.

"Most likely they're going to give us a job together," said Carrick. "Suits me."

"Might be worse," agreed Vincent with a grin. "You used to be in a bank, huh? My old man had a pool-room in Flatbush. Well, I guess we'll get on."

Not that it mattered; around them was a pandemonium of tongues and races, an outpouring of volunteers greater than Spain had known— perhaps the greatest rush of men to fight for an ideal the world had ever witnessed. In this one camp alone were Swedes by the thousand, and Norse and Danes, the finest of Scandinavia's youth. Here were Poles, Italians, Americans, Swiss, Greeks, even men who, like Baron Mannerheim the commander-in-chief, had once been Russian. Technical equipment was pouring in from half the countries of Europe.

THE two Americans located Captain Lonnrot, who acted as interpreter and liaison officer; and all three set off for headquarters. Lonnrot was lean and hawk-faced, like Carrick, but shorter, and with the peculiar slightly oblique eyes and round head that bespoke the Turanian origin of his people. Almost a Laplander, was Lonnrot. Carrick found the man a perpetual surprise, for from behind the veneer of education, flashes of a savage and primeval— almost a barbaric— spirit were continually breaking forth. Yet to all appearance Lonnrot was a courteous, cultured gentleman.

"Is it true," chirped Vincent, curiosity filling his scarred, impudent features, "that Hitler has sent a whole squadron of German flyers here ?"

"No, no," said Lonnrot, frowning. "That is silly, absurd talk, my friend. He cannot spare any flyers. If he could, he would not send them. As soon as we have broken Stalin's back, Hitler will send him help to crush us— but at a price. He will get what he wants from Stalin, then."

"You seem damned confident about the future," observed Carrick. The Finn gave him a bleak sidelong look.

"I am. I know. I have been told."

"Yeah, he's a wizard," spoke up Vincent, to whom nothing whatever was sacrosanct. "All Finns are wizards. It's no secret. I hear in the back-country they all eat horseflesh and cast spells; that's how they've brought this weather on the Russians. How about it, Lonny?"

"It is possible," said Lonnrot curtly. Vincent must have been a fearful trial to him at times— but boy, what a machine-shop boss! Vincent had drawn up plans for salvaging a lot of the captured Russian materiel, and his plans were rumored to be posted at headquarters as samples of efficiency. The Finns loved efficiency.

Colonel Topelius was the headquarters official in charge of foreign volunteers. He was a broad, squat man of obviously Teutonic origin; Carrick was by this time learning to differentiate between the Swedish and Teutonic Finns, those of Russian mixture, and those of the old Hunnish blood. Not that it made much difference, these days.

Topelius, who spoke fluent German, addressed them in that tongue, which all understood.

"You are all three leaving in an hour, gentlemen, for a special camp near Lake Kianta. A plane will be at your disposal; it is essential that you get there at once. You have been chosen because you speak German. Captain Carrick, you will organize the camp there and be in charge of it, with Captain Lonnrot as your assistant; you will not, of course, have any jurisdiction over the aviation personnel. We expect you to build a model camp there; you'll have supplies just as soon as the pressure on the front slacks up a bit.

"Lieutenant Vincent,"— as he turned massively to the Brooklyn lad, —"a large amount of captured Soviet materiel has been assembled there: tanks, artillery and so forth. A crew of selected men will be sent you. Salvage what can be salvaged. Here are the detailed orders for all of you," he added, handing Lonnrot a fat envelope, "so there's no more to be said."

AN hour later, the three entered a Swedish plane, the grinning pilot shook hands joyously, and they were on their way north.

To Carrick it was a blessed relief from the tension of the training-camp, of this entire country. Here was his chance to make amends, somehow, for the past wastage of his life. He had found a new road, new things to do, new outlets for his flaming energy; he welcomed them all with a savage joy. He had been a misfit back home; here, it seemed, he had found his intended place. Yet when the journey was ended that afternoon, he was not prepared for what he found, or for the surprises that greeted him.

Everywhere was snow, and little else in sight. Men, willing but awaiting orders. A camp half formed, snowed in, poorly organized, no supply-lines established. A vast lot of captured tanks and artillery and machinery. Above all, forty foreign pursuit-planes, a hundred aviators and mechanics who said they were "Polish" volunteers— and no gasoline. All was stagnation. And this lay at the brink of a narrow but deep river fifty feet across, thickly frozen, that plunged down from hilly higher ground a mile to the north. There were no defenses. It was a camp supposedly well in the rear of the fighting-line. There was a good radio post here, too.

WITH officers flocking about them Carrick noticed the ski patrols coming in, was aware of the boiling turmoil that greeted them; but for a time he did not get the meaning of the frightful news these men brought. It did not soak in, even though Lonnrot explained it to him: The entire Soviet 32nd Division, a crack fighting corps, had broken clear from the trap holding it twenty miles eastward. It was headed this way in a desperate effort to smash through; fourteen thousand men, with artillery and tanks.

Still it meant little to him. His mind was full of the things he had to do here, of the chances given him to build and work. He was thinking more about this, than about the news. That he had literally dropped into an unexpected and terrific crisis did not at once become clear, even when he was called to sit in upon a council of war, together with Vincent and Lonnrot. The amazing presence of this foreign squadron had meant far more to him, until he sat in that council and learned what it was all about. The squadron commander was present; also a Swedish captain of engineers, and a dozen Finnish officers— the highest rank a colonel. Everyone spoke German.

"This camp was prepared for the reception of these planes, not for fighting," said the colonel in command. "I have here less than a thousand men, ski troops and others in training. A hundred Swedish engineers, no artillery, some two thousand laborers collected from the country roundabout, limited supplies."

"And the planes," said a voice.

But the "Polish" commander, quietly but firmly, made it painfully clear that the squadron could give no help; there was no gasoline for the planes.

A radio officer came in and handed the colonel a message; the Finn read it, folded it, remained silent.

"We have two days before the Russians could get here," he said. "It is impossible for any help to reach us— the air is shaking now; the whole Mannerheim Line is under assault day and night. We have nothing with which to meet the Russ."

"You have something with which to destroy him," said Captain Lonnrot in a deep voice. Every eye went to him.

"You have the three sons of Kalewa," he asserted.

Carrick did not know what this meant. Eyebrows lifted; one or two Finns nodded gravely; others grunted sardonically. The colonel in command shrugged.

"I don't think they are going to give us any practical help, Captain Lonnrot," he answered mildly. "Have you any suggestions?"

"Yes," said Lonnrot. "First, what are your orders ?"

The colonel reread the message.

"To try and delay the Soviet column; and if necessary, abandon the camp here, destroy the planes and fall back," he said. Angry mutters broke out. Lonnrot laughed harshly.

"Things must be desperate indeed! Well, I have an excellent suggestion. This camp has been placed under command of Captain Carrick, here; turn it over to him. You obey your orders; take out what troops you have and delay the Russ."

"Without artillery?"

"You need none. Tomorrow snow will fall, soft snow; their tanks cannot advance."

Lonnrot glanced at Carrick. "With the Swedes, two thousand laborers, and our excellent foreign assistants— what can we do?"

CARRICK'S lean, frost-hard features flashed in a smile. Gamble with destiny, by Heaven! It was his big chance. And though he did not know what the words meant, he repeated Lonnrot's recent utterance.

"I think we can do anything we desire, especially with the three sons of Kalewa to help us! Yes, I'll take the gamble."

Somewhat to his surprise, the usually merry Finns did not crack a smile at his words. Into Lonnrot's face leaped a great wild light of joy. Others looked at him askance. The colonel turned to him gravely.

"Very well. I turn over the command to you, and shall march out at once. I'll arrange to keep in touch with you by ski couriers and sleighs— the radio here is not portable."

So, while the air shuddered with the spasms of artillery fire from the embattled Mannerheim Line a few score miles away, to north and south, Carrick found  himself with the devil to pay and no pitch hot. Taking over the commandant's hastily evacuated quarters, he conferred briefly with Lonnrot and Vincent, before going to mess.

"DINNER'S ahead— let's jump into it right afterward," he said. "Vincent,  your job is to get some of that Russian artillery and maybe a few tanks in shape to use. — Lonnrot, what did you mean— who were the sons of Kalewa?"

"Oh, 'Kalewa' is the old name for our country, for Finland! The three sons of Kalewa are the heroes of our great epic, the Kalevala. I think you said better than you knew. They will help us, yes; the ghosts of all the heroes will fight for us!"

Carrick grunted. So that was it!

"You Finns don't need ghosts to fight for you," he said. "But if snow is coming tomorrow, we'll have to work like hell tonight. Shall we pack off the lanes to another base? It might save having to destroy them."

"Everything is being bombed; this is a secret place, prepared for those planes. Leave them here, and trust to the protection of the ancient gods! "

"I'd sooner trust in gasoline," snapped Carrick.

When, later, he faced the task in hand, he was absolutely appalled. It was an impossible job he had assumed. The camp had no protection, no artillery; its very position rendered it helpless and open to attack from the higher ground upriver. The earth was a dozen feet under the snow, and frozen hard; there were a few sticks of dynamite in the stores, but not enough to open a single trench.

He consulted with the "Polish" commander, an alert, eager young officer. The ships had actually exhausted their fuel getting here— they had not been given much to start with. And until their insignia were covered, the commander refused to let any in the air. Since there was no paint of any kind, it meant waiting.

"Not much," said Carrick. "Put what as you have left together, and there'll be enough for one plane— not to fight, but to scout and report. If we can't paint over your insignia, then remove them. Put men to work scraping it off."

With a matter of only two or three days before crisis, Carrick sought desperately for a better camp site, questioning men who knew the country intimately. The heights, a mile away, offered the only possibility; but without artillery the move would be folly. Better to abandon the position entirely; this had not been intended as a fighting unit.

Carrick refused point-blank. The laborers, countrymen who were in training as soldiers, were put to work felling trees and surrounding the camp with breastworks— a futile effort, as Carrick knew, but it kept them busy. He made plans for the camp organization and dugouts.

All this took hour upon hour. He was close to exhaustion when Vincent showed up.

"Come on and turn in, Carrick. I'm dead beat, but things are moving; best we can do. Any news ?"

"Coming now; the radio officer just sent word. Stick around; then I'm with you. What chance of getting any gas from those Russian tanks and trucks?"

"Plenty of it, but vile stuff. They've tried that angle already— it wouldn't work at all in the plane engines. I've made a hole in that junkyard out there, and we've got half a dozen tanks that look first-rate. Plenty of heavy guns, but mighty little ammunition. I can get some of the trucks moving, inside a day or two."

When the radio man arrived, however, all rising hopes were dashed.

No help whatever could be spared them, he reported. The Russians were making terrific assaults, regardless of losses. Their bombers were sweeping not only the Finnish lines, but all concentration points, the cities behind the front, everything; they were coming over even in the night. All Finland was in an agony of resistance. The 32nd Division was to be held here at all costs until troops could be sent.

"Fine prospect," said Carrick, as he slipped off his boots and furs, and turned to his blankets. "See you in the morning, Vincent— if there is a morning!"

HE slept, and dreamed; his dream was a queer thing to look back upon. He could only remember three men who came and jabbered in a language of which he knew no word. A wrinkled old man, a young handsome man who laughed, and a grim fellow in the blackened leather apron of a smith. When he could not understand them, they grew angry, and the old man pointed out to him a great auger standing in the snow— a two-inch auger, such as might be used for boring great timbers for the wooden pins of old-time construction. That was all of the dream.

Carrick wakened and dressed, and laughed at the memory. He remembered having seen, the previous night, just such an auger standing in one corner of his quarters— yes, there it was! And it, of course, had produced that whole hallucination! He dismissed it as such, and fell upon a bite of breakfast.

More bad news from the radio. Communication was difficult; headquarters had been bombed. New Soviet army corps had come up; the battering and assaults were incessant; the defense was holding, but none knew how long it could hold. And if this 32nd Division broke through, here back of Kianta, Finland was lost. Here was the weak spot.

Lonnrot, who brought this message, shook his head darkly.

"We've no guns, no ammunition, no defenses," he said. "We can die; that's all."

"And rather foolish," Carrick said cheerfully. "You predicted snow. Think it will come?"

"In an hour," Lonnrot said positively. "That'll stop the bombing raids, and will slow up the 32nd Division— or at least its transport and tanks. But no word has come from our colonel; that's bad."

Word came, an hour later. A ski courier came in. The Russians, fighting like fiends, had burst through in the night; they were not ten miles away. The scattered Finns were hanging on doggedly to their line of march, and sent desperate prayers for help. Carrick summoned Lonnrot.

"Why not take the two thousand laborers and go to harry the Russians?"

"We have neither skis nor rifles for them," said Lonnrot, and that settled it.

Trees were felled and brought in, as the hours passed; the semblance of a camp began to take form. The snow was falling now, thick soggy snow.

CARRICK went to where Vincent was at work, near the snow-covered mass of trucks and mechanized units. The Swedes and some hundreds of the laborers were busily employed.

"Not even two or three guns with ammunition?" Carrick asked.

Vincent shook his head.

"Look, boss; it's a jumble, see? The most of what ammunition there is, won't fit the guns that'll work. I can give you a dozen of these seventy-fives, but with not more than four or five shells each. So it's no use."

"Send them along as soon as they're in shape, with what shells you have."

Carrick, puffing at his pipe, stared into the snow-flittering obscurity. An inkling of something had come to him; these Russians had burst through— why? Because the thin forces of the Finns, overconfident, had met them face to face. The great Finnish victories had all been won, heretofore, by strategy. What price strategy now?

Through the snow grew a strange sight— one of the seventy-fives, with a hundred men tailed on the ropes that drew it. A Swede saluted and asked where it should go. With this, the answer suddenly came to Carrick— or at least the partial answer. Within another hour he had a dozen pieces of artillery in readiness and covered over, with Swedish and other foreign officers drilling men in their use. Lonnrot came up.

"It is folly, utter madness!" he exclaimed. "There are only a few shells. The guns have no emplacements."

"True," said Carrick. "Persuade that plane commander to send up the one ship we've fueled, as soon as the snow lets up a bit, and bring in word of what's happening."

Vincent, greasy and cheerful, appeared for noon mess and eyed Carrick curiously.

"I hear you've gone mad, Chief. Swell work! Got an idea, have you?"

Carrick laughed. "Part of one, anyhow. How many tanks can you get in running order?"

"If you just want tanks, without being critical, I can have a dozen on the move by tomorrow night. No good, except where there are no drifts, because they bog down in the soft snow; darned little fuel, and only a couple have guns. Most were stripped off. Not much ammunition for those with guns, either."

"Get some men trained in running 'em, as quickly as possible, but don't waste fuel."

"What are you up to, anyhow?" Vincent demanded. "This artillery is no damned good, and the tanks won't be any good either."

"Tell you later," said Carrick. "What I'm wondering about is how these foreign planes got here and why. Is Hitler secretly helping the Finns?"

"Ask that commandant," Vincent replied shrewdly. "Maybe he knows. There's a lot that's not on the surface in the German-Russian hook-up. Some sort of double-cross, probably. Maybe a triple one. Hello! "

An engine was roaring. Snow or no snow, the "Polish" plane was going up to scout. Vincent left. Lonnrot came tramping up with several other officers; they were in no pleasant mood, and demanded some explanation of Carrick's purpose in this mockery of a defense.

Carrick eyed them, repressed a smile, and spoke in a half-jocular attempt to strike at their superstition.

"I am not sure myself," he said frankly. "I hope to trick the Russians, if they come, into thinking we have a regular camp. Three men suggested it to me last night in a dream."

"Oh!" said Lonnrot. "Three men? Who were they?"

"I don't know," rejoined Carrick. He described the three he had seen. To his amazement, the officers looked at one another, turned, and made off in haste. Lonnrot saluted, his eyes like saucers, and followed. Carrick laughed silently.

He stamped off, found Vincent, and told him. The Brooklyn boy grinned.

"All right, boss! I don't savvy it, but we'll give you a camp here! "

THE snow thinned; the gray skies cleared; the plane returned, its skis taking the snow in a beautiful landing. The young pilot, laughing, reported a brush with four Soviet planes. He had shot down one and given the others the slip. The Russian column was not more than five or six miles distant, he reported ; the other planes had been scouting ahead for them. The Finns had managed to cut the Russian line in two during the heavy snowfall; a few light trucks were with the column, but the artillery and tanks had fallen behind. Russian scouts were well in advance of the column. Some companies of Finns, apparently, were cutting back for the camp.

Carrick took the plane commandant aside and talked with him at length. The officer refused flatly. Carrick shrugged. "All right; have your own way, and your planes must be destroyed. Take my way, and you have a chance to save them and yourselves. Which?"

Reluctantly, the commander yielded. The planes were taken out into the deep snow and covered over; their machine- guns were removed and mounted for use on the ground. The scant hours of daylight faded out, and no Russians had appeared as yet on the heights upstream....

Carrick was asleep, that night, when the Finnish colonel came in. He wakened to hear that a radio message had just arrived through the shuddering air; there was no hope of sending help, for days to come. Soviet man-power and guns were driving incessantly at the whole Finnish line. "Hold the 32nd, stop it, delay it, or we are lost!" came the word.

The colonel was hopeless. With the remnants of the previous corps, about fifteen hundred men remained, hanging on the flanks of the Soviet column, but unable to do more. The artillery and tanks had been cut off, bogged in the fresh snow; but the Russians had an enormous number of machine-guns and automatic rifles, and against these the Finns were nearly helpless.

"If we could only reach them," cried the colonel, "we could use our knives alone and destroy them! But that is impossible. We have no machine-guns, no artillery."

He fell silent— then, utterly worn out, dropped to the floor asleep.

Carrick beckoned Lonnrot.

"Send out scouts to meet our riflemen; have them posted in the trees upstream, on those heights. And try to get hold of two or three Russian prisoners."

The country running upstream to those heights was denuded of trees and so heavily windswept that it had little snow. Carrick sent word to Vincent to get the tanks out and have the deeper drifts marked so none would bog down. They were to be left in plain sight, but the crews would not man them until necessary. Whatever Carrick ordered was by this time given implicit obedience.

Parties of the broken ski companies began to drift in. They brought word that the Soviet column, now a mobile outfit with light supply-trucks aloft, had halted for the night.

One of the parties brought in a number of prisoners, and Carrick immediately sent for Lonnrot.

"Take charge of those prisoners," he said. "Let them see everything here, especially the artillery and the tanks. Tell them we've prepared a trap for the entire Russian column, and that we have thousands of men hidden— and see that a couple of them escape, as soon as the Russians get close. You understand ?"

The sharp features of Captain Lonnrot became radiant.

"Yes, yes! It's a noble plan, a wonderful plan—"

"It's a desperate expedient," broke in Carrick quietly. "Tell me, why did that dream of mine make such an impression? Who did you take those three men to be?"

"Oh! That was obvious to everyone," said the Finn. "They were the Three Sons of Kalewa, of course. The old man was Wäinämöinen the ancient; the second, the cunning smith, Ilmarinen; and the young one was the gallant Lemminkäinen. Yes, our heroes themselves appeared to you. It is evident that you are a man of great power."

He departed, and Carrick broke into hearty laughter. He was far too conscious of the distinction and help given him by this superstition, to make any effort to disillusion the Finns; still, it amused him, and when he saw the huge auger in the corner, he chuckled.

There was no chuckling next day, however, when the storm burst....

Troops came flocking in, some companies intact, others badly shattered. The Soviet machine-guns had taken heavy toll. The colonel's estimate of fifteen hundred men proved optimistic. Soviet planes appeared overhead, reconnoitering the camp, and departed; the Soviet scouts appeared on the heights upstream ; and the Finns, resisting starkly, fell back as Carrick ordered. The colonel, who ranked the command, refused to take it away from Carrick.

Two of the prisoners escaped. The full half-dozen Soviet planes reappeared, swept down upon the camp, dropped a few bombs that did no great harm, and started in to machine-gun the camp in thorough style. The hidden machine-guns taken from the planes opened on them at close quarters in a terrific volley. Two of them came down in flames; two others crashed, and two went limping away to tell of the trap.

THE Russian masses began to flood down from the heights. The tanks moved forward to the attack; the artillery from the camp opened fire. The Soviet forces hurriedly moved back again, and the fire ceased. Machine-guns began to stutter along the heights, and the Finn scouts moved back; but with nightfall they swept out and encircled the Soviet camp, sniping.

And there the Russians dug in, on the high ground, no doubt mourning the artillery that would have placed the Finnish camp at their mercy. An occasional shot or two from the camp held them immobile for the moment.

Amid all the rejoicing in camp that night, Carrick did not disguise his real feelings from Vincent.

"One push, Brooklyn, and we're done! They can blow us down like a house of cards. As it is, they're consolidating themselves and probably expecting another division to move up with more artillery. If they don't get too damned curious, we may bluff 'em for two or three days."

CARRICK woke up next morning with a gasp; he was slow to get rid of the dream. Not much of a dream this time, just one of those three men, the old one, pointing to the big auger and then fading out. Merely enough to jangle Carrick's nerves, till he was dressed. Then he threw it off with a laugh.

"That auger's on my brain!"

With the muttered words, he went out to mess. All was quiet, apparently. Vincent joined him, and Captain Lonnrot also showed up, looking hopeful.

"I dreamed! " he informed Carrick solemnly. "It was about the foreign squadron. Other squadrons have come to help us, to shoot down the Russ flyers. They do this; things get bad for Stalin; he tells Hitler to help quick. Hitler gets his own price then. Oh, that is the Nazi way! Then those 'Polish' flyers, they know all about our defenses, then come back and bomb us— that's what it will be."

And all a dream! The man was convinced, absolutely convinced, of it.

"I'll be getting nuts myself," said Vincent, "the way those Swedes talk. They say there's not a chance to hold back the Bolshies very long, that the lines will crumple. I guess they're right. Can't go on forever here, and the odds are fifty to one."

"What are they in it for, then? Or you?" said Carrick, smiling.

"Same as you are, blast you!" Vincent slapped him on the back, and was gone with a burst of harsh laughter.

Doomed? Yes. Carrick had heard this on all sides since reaching Finland; even the high command had proclaimed it as no secret. The Finns were doomed, for the present; they would fight to the end and go down, and rise again. This was the country of ancient wizardry, and the people had the ghosts of the ages supporting them. Many of them, like Lonnrot, were fey men.

More parties of the ski fighters came drifting in, circling the camp above, dropping exhausted on their rifles. More bad news came from the radio; five Russian mass-attacks the previous day, on the Karelian Isthmus lines. Another division pressing westward. "Stop the 32nd— for the sake of Finland, hold it, check it! We can give no help."

Well, the 32nd was stopped, there on the heights!

So, at least, Carrick congratulated himself. So the wildly delighted Finns spread the news, and saluted him eagerly whenever they sighted him; their sisu, that word meaning morale and courage, peculiar to Finns, was rising high and higher.

Until, suddenly, all hopes cracked and went to black ruin....

How did it happen? Carrick scarcely knew, at the time. The brief hours of daylight were nearly sped, and all promised well, when the alarm started. A squadron of planes appeared out of nowhere; a black spearhead of men came streaming down from the heights; attack! Men rushed to stations, but the bombers streamed across the sky, high, very high, and the black pellets dropped and roared. Flame spouted on every hand—snow and wreckage and men blown afar.

The guns taken from the airplanes spoke with futile hammering. The tanks, up there in the open, charged that wing of attack, and used their scant ammunition, and one by one became black empty hulks; flaming explosive bullets had pierced them.

The pieces of artillery spoke; the shells burst— and there were no more to fire. Half the camp was in deathly ruin. White shapes on skis flitted out. Rifles against machine-guns— it was useless work. Useless, yet heroically done, well done; that Russian phalanx was halted. It turned, retreated to the heights; but here was utter ruin. The planes were gone, and came no more. Their work was done. The Russians knew now how they had been tricked, and that this seemingly strong array was but a mockery.

DARKNESS was coming down, a few drifting snowflakes in the air, as Carrick and what officers remained gathered together in drear dismay. The colonel was dead. The hospital dugout was full of wounded men; the Swede surgeons were hard at work. A party of riflemen brought in a wounded Russian, an officer, taken prisoner. He talked freely. The radio had been at work. The 32nd knew now how it had been swindled, yes! This had been a trial effort, a successful one. Morning would bring the attack in force, with daylight to see and pierce the weakness of the camp.

What to do ? They looked to Carrick, all of them. And he, futile, dismayed, knew that upon his word hung all their lives, and possibly the fate of Finland as well. The 32nd was coming through with daylight— and would come through.

"I'll give you my answer in an hour," he said quietly, looking at the brown Finnish faces, the straining eyes, the watching Swedes. He turned and went out; but as he went, Lonnrot came and stopped him, pointing to a dark figure, a countryman.

"THIS man has been asking for you,"  he said. "He says he has something to tell you. I will translate."

"Very well," said Carrick dully. He lit his pipe. The countryman spoke, and Lonnrot translated. It seemed something very silly, very absurd; something about this river that came down from the heights, a fifty-foot strip of solid frozen ice with scarcely a curve in all its long mile of descent; the current beneath the ice was rapid and torrential, even though the falls up above were frozen.

In olden days the river had taken another course from that waterfall, a course leading it far astray to the eastward, but engineers had very simply changed the channel. They had merely built a dam, a retaining wall, diverting the downpouring torrent to its present channel. If that dam were blown out, the river would return to its ancient course.

"Is that all?" Carrick asked, when the countryman fell silent.

"Yes," said Lonnrot. "Except, he says, you should know that the position of the dam can be found easily. At the lower end grows a clump of white birch, all alone."

"Oh, very well. Thank him and get rid of him."

The countryman removed his felt headgear and saluted awkwardly, and turned away. Carrick glimpsed the seamed, lined, wrinkled face; it struck him as vaguely familiar. Some fellow he had seen about the camp, no doubt. Then he forgot the man.

He sat on a smashed artillery carriage, sucked his pipe, and looked up at the ruddy reflection of the Russian campfires a mile away. All this nonsense about dreams and rivers was childish. His sanity, he thought, must be affected. He had hoped that the Russians could be held here for days; more absurdity! They were not fools. They had the Finns at their mercy now. If only those machine-guns—

With a stifled exclamation, Carrick came bolt upright. A chance thought slipping across his mind, a memory of boyhood days when he had fished on the millpond in winter. He had not chopped holes in the ice, like the others, but had quietly, carefully bored a circle of holes till he could take out a chunk of ice, or shove it under. They had laughed at him for not frightening the fish, but he had always brought fish home. And that enormous auger, there in the corner of his quarters! Even the men in his dream, urging him to make use of it— dream be hanged! The idea had prodded him and until now he had not seen it at all! But he saw it now.

He came striding back into the dugout. His radiant eagerness struck at the huddle of staring men; his voice rang at them like a clarion.

"Lonnrot! You have some dynamite here? All right. Get it. Vincent, you make a bundle of sticks, capped and fused; then take half a dozen more and make 'em watertight somehow, in case I need them. May have to lower 'em into water. Do it now! No questions!"

Voices hammered at him from all sides. His gaze swept them; his voice stilled them. "Never mind what it's all about, my friends! You'll know if my idea works out. Now we'll make use of every man here in camp! A thousand or more soldiers, and all of these farmers, these laborers— every man of them! Three thousand men— knives, pistols, bayonets! In among those Russians with the cold steel— could you destroy them then? Cold steel and grenades?"

"We could destroy twice their number," said someone gloomily, "if we could get at them. But it is impossible to reach them. Their machine-guns command those open slopes."

"Good! I'll show you how to reach them," rang Carrick's voice. "I want one man to go with me and open the road. Who'll volunteer? It may well be death to go."

"I," said Lonnrot, and Carrick nodded to him.

IN an hour they were on their way, white wraiths in hooded snow-robes, booted and spiked. No skis, no weapons. Carrick carried the heavy auger. Lonnrot was loaded with the dynamite, well prepared. They went in silence, moving afoot up the crusted Ice of the river, thin snowflakes drifting on the darkness around— the darkness that was dimly lighted by the Northern Lights behind the thick clouds. The air shuddered with distant gunfire.

Neither man spoke. Upon Carrick was a heaviness, a fear, an actual terror of what he was about. He had glimpsed it all quite clearly as a thing to do, but doing it was something else; he really was horribly afraid. The night, the reflected glow of huge fires from the Russian camp, the thin drift of snowflakes in the air, the bitter cold and the silence, weighed upon him. He had not told Lonnrot his plan. If it failed, then it would fail. If it succeeded, time enough to talk about it.

ONCE away from the camp, the ice was clear, windswept of snow. White from head to foot, the two figures were practically invisible; they made no sound. It was a short mile. Once up in the danger-zone by the heights, the ruddy glow of fires and the voices of Russian sentries showed their peril. A broad waterfall, where the stream came over the cliffs, stood frozen like a silvery white wall.

They were close, within rifle-shot. To the right, the ground fell sharply off in what must be a steep valley; thither, in ancient days, the stream had dropped away and continued its fall. There was the clump of white birch trees, all alone.

Carrick touched the Finn's arm; the two men halted, their breath steaming in the bitter air, and freezing on the edges of their white hoods.

Carrick estimated swiftly. Under the coating of snow and ice, with the clump of birch as guide, he could trace quite clearly where the dam must lie. The reflection of the Russian fires, the dim glow of the Lights through the clouds, lit the night. Carrick stepped forward, and Lonnrot followed. When he judged that he must be halfway along the line of the hidden retaining wall, he halted. Must not frighten the fish now! He smiled grimly to himself as he set the big auger in the ice and leaned his weight on the handles. It would have been impossible to use axes here. The Russians were alert. A burst of machine-gun fire stuttered to the right, and fell silent, emphasizing his thought.

To stand here in the open and bore away, with the voices of enemy sentries so crisply close that even a low laugh carried clearly, was a difficult thing. Carrick turned his back to the fires, that his white cloak might blend more perfectly with the snow and ice. The big auger bit and sank in. Was that three-foot iron shank long enough to pierce the ice? Perhaps not. No matter. Dynamite sends its force downward. Any hole would serve.

The ringing "spang-g-g!" of a Finnish rifle, then half a dozen more, jarred the night stillness. Two machine-guns leaped into life in response. From somewhere at the head of the falls, just above, an automatic rifle sent a hysterical burst of lead down the river-ice at imagined enemies. Carrick could hear the whistle and whine of the bullets. He bored on, until Lonnrot, who had set down his burden, touched his arm, offering to relieve him.

Carrick got the charges ready. The wrapped, watertight bombs he regretfully laid aside, as far too big for any holes he could make; after all, this ice would be too thick to bore through. His holes would take a couple of sticks, anyway. The rest could be connected by fuse and would go off even if the first explosion missed the detonators; yes, all of the dynamite could be used here very handily, but some at least must be sunk.

HALF an hour, an hour; the holes were well down. The two were sweating in their furs. Occasional shots and bursts of gunfire told of Finnish snipers and alert Russians. From the camp close at hand came an occasional chorus of voices; a vodka party, no doubt, celebrating their victory of the morrow in song.

No victory, if the Finns appeared suddenly in their camp! That would be slaughter. Kindly as Finnish men were, in this war they had become frightful. The Russians could not stand against them hand to hand, even with the favor of great odds. Let those machine-guns be silenced, and—

Carrick stiffened, at a grunt from Lonnrot, who had the auger. A circle of holes had been completed— now to break clear the central block of ice. Not a large one at all. The two put their weight on the steel tool and prized with it. A snap, a crackle; the central sliver of ice came free. Here was a hole two feet down or more, six inches across. No water; the ice was solid beyond.

That faint cracking and rending of the ice was heard. Voices leaped sharply. A rifle yammered, and a stream of bullets was sweeping the air. "Damn those automatic rifles!" thought Carrick, forcing himself to stand quiet as Lonnrot did. Then the crisis was past.

They worked together, stuffing the dynamite into the hole. Lonnrot had caught the idea now and was trembling like an eager dog, whispering things to himself. The fuses were ready; the ice-dust was tamped down; the fuses of the extra sticks were ready— all to light at one touch of a match.

Carrick spoke softly at the Finn's ear.

"Take cover. My job. There'll be hell let loose when this goes off. If it works, our men can come up here under the ice roof— a covered road, where the water was. They'll take the Russ by surprise. All right, get away! "

LONNROT disappeared. Carrick waited, removed a mitten, fumbled for matches. Wax vestas he had brought from London— they would work, all right. He got out the box, struck one, cupped the tiny flame and lowered it to the waiting fuses. A sputter leaped instantly. The match dropped, and Carrick was off.

He made downstream and headed for a group of stumps on one bank. When he got there, he found Lonnrot ahead of him. They crouched together; the roaring crash came before Carrick could ready himself for it. The stumps shook; the earth and snow and ice shook; a sheet of flame spouted up the sky. Intense blackness followed, and things dropping, and the stabbing spurts of machine-guns at work. The Russians were taking no chances. Bullets swept the whole river and the snow-expanse around.

"It worked, it worked!" Carrick caught Lonnrot's arm. "Listen!"

They could hear the gurgling rush of water, off to the right. With a little more light they could have seen the flood spreading down those snowy slopes; Carrick fancied he could see it anyway. The burst of firing lessened.

"Get off, get off! " exclaimed Carrick. "Separate. We must get in the word.

Bring every man up under the ice before dawn. Off with you!"

Lonnrot rose and sped away, too excited to speak. Carrick rose to follow; a final vicious burst of firing sounded from above, and fell silent. Carrick found himself slipping, and caught at the stump beside him; he was not slipping, after all. His knees were buckling. He came down, sitting, his back against the stump.

There was no pain, oddly enough. He could feel the blood inside his clothes, and then he could feel nothing whatever. As he realized the truth, swift terror stabbed at him; it passed almost at once. What matter, after all? This was the future for which he had sought, and the unhappy past was well forgotten and atoned.

IN the snowy air something was moving; indistinct figures, hurrying past, moving upstream as though to attack. His own men, he thought. Strange! They should be under that frozen arch, under the ice, moving up the emptied river-bed!

He found voice at last and ventured to speak. No answer came, but one man turned aside and stepped over to him; he spoke, and Carrick understood the words.

"So you see clearly, my friend! You don't mind what's ahead?"

"Of course I do," said Carrick. "Here, give me a hand. I'm hit— badly, I'm afraid."

"Oh, that's all right." The other wagged his head. "I never supposed you would lose your life in this business. Sorry I got you into it. But we don't know everything, do we?"

"What the devil are you talking about?" Carrick demanded heatedly. "Give me a hand up, will you?"

"Certainly. That's what I'm here for," the other said calmly, and stooped above him. "There's nothing to worry about. I should think you'd feel rather good about it; all the mistakes and tragedies and misunderstandings of the past swept away in this good work that you've done—"

Carrick glimpsed the face, close to his. It was the wrinkled, age-withered face of the countryman who had told about the river. It was the wizened old man of his dream, the one whom Lonnrot had identified with the hero Wäinämöinen, the ancient of days! In other words, this was merely another hallucination.

A burst of incredulous laughter shook Carrick....

He was still smiling when they found him next morning, after the destruction of the 32nd Division; but now his smile was no longer incredulous.

___________________

14: Apache Gold

(as by Gordon Keyne)

Blue Book, May 1940

LIEUTENANT MARTIN BOWSER leaned against his dead horse and scribbled on the leaf of his field notebook. The Apaches, fearing to ride in upon his service revolver, held off. He had time in which to write.

His enormous mustache white with alkali dust, his eyes baked in his swimming head, all his being one intolerable twitch of pain, he laboriously pushed the pencil:

CONFIDENTIAL.

To C.O. Fort Adams,  N.M. Ter. Dec. 25th.

Colonel: The location we have in view — you, wife, self, boy—4s a basin in shallow valley of Padernal Mts.

He paused, gloating on the words. The Colonel would understand perfectly, but no one else could steal the secret. For the first time in dreary years, Martin Bowser was filled with glorious hammering exultation; wild blazing triumph that dwarfed life and death and pain and destiny. Triumph!

Christmas Day, too! A gift from heaven, no less. And how he had cursed the orders sending him from Fortress Monroe to New Mexico territory— an artillery officer, condemned to lone duty amid cactus, rattlesnakes and nimble Indians, his command one mountain howitzer!

Easing himself against the dead horse, he thought back. Fort Adams, in the Mescalero Apache region. One mountain howitzer. And he had to obey. He had commanded a battalion when the Civil War ended. Now, fifteen years later, he was a second lieutenant, fifty years of age.  Promotion was slow in the artillery,

There were only five skeleton outfits, mainly at healthy seaboard posts. The officers were long-lived.

Resign? He was too old, too set, for business in the civilian world. And there was the boy in Harvard; that cost money. So he had headed west. Well, this was Christmas Day, and here was wealth to be poured into the boy's lap. His future was golden! The thought sent a fresh blaze of triumph through Bowser, He resumed writing, slowly.

—valley of Padernal Mts., running n.e.-s.w., about 10 miles —

Ten miles? Yes. He must make everything clear to Peterkin. Thought of the Colonel brought a chuckle to his lips. By gad, he could well afford to laugh now! He thought back to the day of his arrival at the post, on a wagon-seat, two hundred miles from Santa Fe.

A little man scant five feet five; shoulders a trifle wearied, doggish brown eyes, grenadier's mustache. Fort Adams! A damned mud post for infantry... And then Peterkin— Major and Brevet Colonel John G. Peterkin, a pompous old boy He paused, gloating upon the words, of the Civil War period. And their first Colonel would understand perfectly the interview, explaining for the first time this strange transfer.

"Been expecting you, Mr. Bowser. I applied for an artillery officer to be detailed to this post, for the purpose of putting the battery-piece in efficient state."

"Battery-piece, sir?" echoed Bowser blankly.

"A twelve-pounder mountain howitzer, Mr. Bowser. You'll have a squad of infantry to act as artillerists. I desire, sir, that you instruct them and have the gun ready for instant service."

The Colonel paused, and pawed his goatee and pursed his lips,

"You have— er— been in the artillery branch some years, Lieutenant ?"

"Quite so," assented Bowser. "I noticed a piece mounted on the east side of the parade. That's the howitzer, sir?"

"Pointed at the main gateway as defensive measure. The Mescaleros are always uncertain. The post is here to protect citizens of the Territory. We must be prepared to take the field with all equipment; my application emphasized this argument."

Peterkin was throaty, important, picayune in attention to needless detail.

"We have an old brass three-pounder as sunset gun. The howitzer, with a few shells, was found among the post ordnance stores when I took command in '66. It has not been discharged within my knowledge. It seems to have been listed I.C., Inspected— Condemned, but it needs only a little overhauling by a competent artillery officer."

Bowser went forth from the interview with his head reeling.

A mountain howitzer was not essentially of the artillery arm; it could be attached to any column, foot or mounted. The Colonel must have influence in high quarters, to get an artillery officer detailed to Fort Adams for this petty job. So much the better! Such influence must be cultivated, decided Bowser.

AT mess, he learned more about the Colonel.

He was not blind to facts; he had faced unpleasant facts all his life. One pair of red stripes challenging the white stripes all around. One wizened second lieutenant, among striplings who at his age would wear the gold oak leaves of a major. An artillery officer for one I.C. howitzer— but not I.C. himself. Not by a damned sight!

"Not a bad life out here, Mr. Bowser," the infantry captain was saying affably. "The water's vile, pay generally three months overdue, mail from the States irregular, and a newspaper ten weeks old rents at a dollar an hour— usually by I.O.U. No women at the post, except Mexicans or Indians. We're down to one deck of cards till the next express comes in. We blister all day, freeze through the winter months; otherwise, you'll find Adams a prize post, sir!"

"Quite so," murmured Bowser, with a swallow of coffee and a swipe at his mustache.

"Have you heard about the gold mine?" asked a youngster.

Bowser stared. "Gold mine?"

"Yes. Colonel Peterkin's mine. He doesn't know where it is, but he gets nuggets—"

"Gentlemen!" the captain intervened sternly. "The topic is not one for discussion. Mr. Bowser will no doubt get his information when he dines at headquarters."

At first, Bowser had thought they were chaffing him; not so. He discerned an undertone, a hint of envious irritation. So the Colonel had a gold mine! ...

Now, sitting under the blazing sun, about to write down the exact location of that gold mine, he knew he must make it clear to Colonel Peterkin and no one else. In case the Apache arrows finished him off, the secret must be made known. He squinted at the paper in his hand, at the last words he had written:

—about 10 miles due n.e. of Post.

All correct so far. Now for the exact location! The effort to pick the right words hurt like blazes; shafts of pain from his hurt head blinded him. He closed his eyes, to rest them; his heart expanded with glorious happiness.

Dodging ill luck all his life— and now came this, on Christmas Day! Wealth, triumph, security, all in a moment. His mind went back to the first time he had heard about this mine, at his courtesy dinner with the C.O. Just the two of them present.

Glimpses of the Mexican woman cook. An enlisted man as striker, shaved and scrubbed, who served the meal. The old colonel was a thorough host and the meal was excellent. At the close they sat over decanter and cigars, and the striker withdrew. The Colonel, a bit mellowed, unbuttoned with a sigh of relief.

"The War Department shoves us old fellows away and forgets us, but there's always hope, Mr. Bowser. And dash it, sir, I have a look ahead. My own future is settled. One moment, if you please."

The Colonel ambled heavily into another room, returning with a small buckskin bag.

"Are you familiar with native gold, Bowser?" he asked, more intimate in his manner.

"Not at all, sir."

"Nuggets, Bowser! Just look at 'em— nuggets! " The Colonel dumped his sack. Blackish pebbles? No. Heavy, glinting where scratched. Gold! He went on speaking, complacently.

"One was traded to the sutler, who passed it to me. I had the Indians informed that I'd pay a dollar for every such curious stone. The redskins are, of course, acquainted with gold, but not in this form. You'll observe that the nuggets are coated with some sort of blackish mud, so hard it must be chipped off. Very curious. A vast deposit somewhere near by, Bowser! As you see, the Indians have brought in many of the nuggets."

Bowser fingered them wonderingly, enviously. What luck some men did have!

"A fund for your retirement, sir! Do you know where these come from?"

"The Indians refuse point-blank to say," replied the Colonel sadly. "Somewhere in the Mescalero country. Now I fancy the Padernals; again I incline to the Cerro Montoso in the southwest. Tantalizing to think this untold fortune may lie within a day's march of us, eh? As to retirement— hm! You understand the situation yourself, no doubt?"

"Only too well, sir."

"The limitations, Bowser! Retired officers limited to four hundred, by the act of 1872. Applications must wait till deaths reduce the list. I'd retire a poor man; an invalid wife in the States, doctors' bills and all that. But now, egad! I can resign and be sure of an income. If I locate that gold, my days and those of my dear wife will be finished in comfort. What d'ye think of that, Bowser?"

"IT'S wonderful, sir, wonderful!" And Bowser's eyes shone with such sincere warmth that the Colonel's heart was touched. "You have my very best wishes and congratulations!"

"Ha! It's not accomplished yet."

Peterkin leaned back. "We're two old soldiers, Bowser. I dare say that as a second lieutenant, with a boy in school, you're— hm! I understand, Bowser; but you stick with me. Do your duty, win approval, and we'll share that gold. You have my word, sir! Four shares. You, I, wife, boy!"

The Colonel closed the buckskin bag with its pucker strings.

"Now let me hear about the howitzer. The Mescaleros are uneasy. I look to you, sir, to offset the deficient infantry force. Mention in dispatches, Bowser; by the Lord Harry, you'll retire with the title of major and a share of the gold mine, I trust! "

A heartening man, Colonel Peterkin. When he left, Bowser wore captain's bars, in prospect; promotion, retirement with honor, the boy well established— that is, if the mine were located. God bless the Colonel! The deadlock of fate had been broken!

NOW, under the blazing sun, how strange this same fate seemed in its workings! Sprawled against the dead horse, Bowser rested his notebook on the hot saddle. He shot a glance around the horizon. No sign of the Apaches; they were holding off, now.

He read over what he had written, nodded, tore off the leaf, copied it with racing pencil. He tore up the first draft, and blinked the dazzle out of his tortured eyes. His exultation was almost choking in its intensity. Today, Christmas, of all days! A Christmas gift for the boy— wealth! And queer, too, how it had come about.

He thought back to his own room in the adobe row, his artillery manuals on the shelf. Nothing in them about mountain howitzers, but he had the special War Department pamphlets covering their operation. He had worked like a dog on that mountain howitzer, getting the piece cleaned, the men drilled, infantry mules wrangled from the quartermaster and trained. And, by Jasper, he had made a proper show of it! He smiled proudly to think of that exhibition before the fort.

Light artillery practice, the straddled mules twitching the gun hither and thither, cannoneers riding the trail or bolting after, his own red stripes glued against his horse, saber flashing. Unlimber— mules to rear— load— fire! Cheers from the officers and soldiers. Compliments from the Colonel, and another dinner invitation.

But, behind all that, was a growing unpleasantness that irked him pitifully. It was nothing new, of course, but he had somehow thought all that was left behind him. When he overheard the name, without stopping to reflect that men in the ranks possibly preferred officers of their own stripes, he summoned the sergeant to book.

"I caught a remark or two among the men, Sergeant. Something about Old Bow-wow— I fancy, in reference to me?"

The sergeant coughed behind his hand. "Oh, that, sir! Sure, it's not to be minded, sir; no disrespect intended. You know soldiers, how they put a name to each other and to officers as well! "

Bowser smiled. "Very good, Sergeant. The men will address me properly. That's all."

Still, it rankled, all of it. His own niggardly counting of pennies hurt. Mails were slow, pay was irregular. Expenses were high, and with sutler's goods freighted in by wagon, the mess extras cost heavily; and the boy was always writing for money. He faced the facts calmly, doggedly, as ever.

Still, there was new hope here, for the Colonel had influence. The howitzer was in perfect shape, a report had been forwarded, the Colonel was pleased; promotion for "distinguished service" might come now at any time. So ran the optimistic heart, though reason spoke against it....

A ribald set, these infantry officers; Bowser had caught snatches of talk not meant for him. They laughed at the idea of a mountain howitzer here on the desert; a howitzer for Apaches, whom not even the cavalry could sight! Mules, packing a dead weight of gun and shells across sand and rock where only lizards and 'Paches could live.

Lieutenant Bowser was abruptly jerked out of his reflections by a savage yell, a swish, a stir of hot air about his head. He sat up, blinked, jerked up his revolver.

Apaches? An arrow? Not at all. Merely a buzzard, now sailing on like a dark shadow, to settle beyond him with uneasy twitching shoulders. His revolver fell again, and he croaked out a laugh.

"Ha! You blasted scavenger, you'll get nothing from me on Christmas Day! When luck turns, it turns completely. I'm the one to do the laughing, from now on!"

As though assenting to his words, the bird lifted heavy wings into the air. Bowser chuckled. The little incident had cleared his head. He looked at the notebook, still resting on the hot saddle, and caught up the pencil. Now to locate the gold for Colonel Peterkin's eye.

"Angle of fire—" No! He scratched out the words, as too technical for an infantry officer. Better refer to the reddish rock cliff above. "Objective" was the word.

"Objective designated by reddish cliff at head of valley."

The very thing! The Mescaleros were lurking somewhere around that cliff; he darted a painful gaze toward it, but discerned nothing moving except heat waves. Now he could go on to locate the water-hole more exactly; he must be careful of the wording, however.

His thoughts drifted. Strange, how the years had culminated in a moment, how little things had suddenly converged to spell destiny! It all began when the orderly summoned him, when the Colonel cleared his throat and finally came down to business.

"A dispatch from department headquarters at Santa Fe informs me that a party of recruits assigned to the post have arrived there." Colonel Peterkin puffed out his cheeks. "Your duties here have been arduous, Mr. Bowser; You need a little relaxation. You will leave by horse in the morning and proceed to Santa Fe by the most direct route north."

"Christmas Day, sir?"

"Ah, so it is, so it is! You will bring the recruits by the most convenient way. You may obtain a wagon from the quartermaster at Marcy. There should be artillery timber among those recruits, Bowser! Keep a lookout for roving Apaches, of course. You'll find Mexican ranches along your route—"

So there had turned destiny! Now he sat here scribbling, and the world was his!

Not a day's march from the post, indeed. He recalled the sudden alarm— the gleeful Apache whoops, the bursting forms of redskin horsemen, the smart whistle of shaft and ball and his own revolver speaking. Then the frantic race for cover in the fluted hills, with his canteen banging and his saber clashing at every jump of the horse.

God! To think he had been sent alone, without a corporal's guard of escort! The old Colonel had not dreamed, of course, that the Mescaleros were actually on the warpath.

"Just my bad luck, as usual," thought Bowser, and chuckled. "My bad luck— the very tag end of it, leading to the turn and the change of luck."

THE redskins outdistanced, the horse at a labored gallop, terribly harsh of breath. Water! Find water and hold out until relief came! Up the shallow, blistering valley. The horse pricking up ears. Sure enough, a water-hole, bones whitely gleaming, just short of the high reddish cliff that buttressed the valley end. The horse had plunged down just before reaching it. A bad fall among the rocks, a terrible fall, the poor animal breaking its leg. One cartridge used there. Like a symbol, reflected Bowser; this had been the tag end, the absolute finish of his years of ill luck, running to its very close....

The fall had hammered him frightfully, taking him headlong among the rocks. The blood was dry and caked in his hair, his leg was badly twisted and hurt. Thank God, the Apaches had been too afraid of his revolver to follow! This marked the turn of fate's wheel. They were back there, watching, but they feared to come on.

SO he finished the poor horse and crawled to the water-hole, dragging leg and saber, mouth under his mustache in a pucker of agony. The scant hole was surface-dry. Balancing, he dug with the saber. He got into the seepage, found water, moistened his tongue. He dug on, for more. The sun-cracked muck was black, and came away in friable chunks. And then the wild thrill of discovery, of recognition!

Blackish nodules studding the chunks, breaking from them. Nuggets, by Jasper! Heavy blackish pebbles, glittering gold to the saber-scratch. The Colonel's Apache nuggets! Here, after all the circumlocution of fate, was found the gold!

No wonder he had gone out of his head at first. Now, thinking about it, he chuckled again and hefted the first nugget, the one he had kept out. It was real. He jabbed at it with his pencil, laughing. Promotion be damned! Now he could resign and snap his fingers at life and luck. Christmas gift for the boy! He and the boy were fixed for life.

And if anything should go wrong before help reached him, the boy was fixed. Nothing else mattered.

His head jerked up suddenly. What was that? Figures— his howitzer squad, standing there watching him, laughing at Old Bow-Wow ? He passed a hand across his eyes. No. Just buzzards, perched between loose wings.

"Here, here, this won't do!" he muttered. "Must get back to work."

A little water in his canteen, more gathering in the blackish hole. He drank the warm drops and made a wry face. No danger of death from thirst; that damnable crack over the head was what hurt. He had worked hard covering up the nuggets, all except one that would prove his find. One was enough to prove everything. ...

Relaxing against the dead horse, he scribbled hard, finishing the note. It was sweltering here; the pain in his head was blinding, made him gnaw his dusty, brittle mustache. The sun, aslant, blazed down as upon a furnace. He found it hard to focus his gaze on the paper; his head throbbed with every heartbeat. However, he got it done:

Resp'f'ly rec'mend investigate waterhole approx. 500 yards below cliff. Notify boy, my expense, out of next pay.

Done, at last! He must make certain it was right. This note was more important than life itself, for the boy's future was bound up in it. What did life matter, now? Not a damned thing. It was dwarfed to nothing by exultant triumph, by failure and ill-luck at last overcome. Fortune's wheel had turned, with Christmas Day!

Bowser focused his eyes again on the paper. He signed it laboriously, with shaking pencil. Then he studied the words carefully:

CONFIDENTIAL. To C.O. Fort Adams,

N.M. Ter. Dec. 25th.

Colonel: The location we have in view — you, wife, self, boy—is a basin in shallow valley of Padernal Mts., running n.e.-s.w., about 10 miles due n.e. of Post. Objective designated by reddish cliff at head of valley. Resp'f'ly rec'mend investigate waterhole approx. 500 yards below cliff. Notify boy, my expense, out of next pay.

Martin Bowser, Lieut. 3rd U.S. Art.

A nod of approval. He wrapped the paper about the blackish nugget; and with fumbling fingers stuffed them into his pocket. A sigh of happiness, and he relaxed.

"Life's well paid, well paid! " he muttered, and smiled. "To fight a long, hard fight and never weaken— and then triumph at the end I Nothing's sweeter. No reward's any greater. Well paid! Even if those damned redskins get me, the boy's fixed."

He sat with revolver ready. If they came, he must save one bullet for himself, to avoid scalping, torture, mutilation. According to the newspapers, the Indians had not touched Custer, for a certain reason. Good! They must not touch him, either, if the worst happened. He could save that message, must save it, even at the final cost!

The pain in his head suddenly ceased. It was blessed relief. A surge of joyous ecstasy swirled in upon him, and he closed his eyes. Life was well paid, well paid!

WHEN the detachment of hastily mounted infantry came hammering up, they dismounted with a blare of excited voices.

"There he is! Gad, he's smiling! Never knew Old Bow-wow could smile like that—"

"Ah, those damned Mescalero boys! They said they chased him for a lark. Sergeant! Any water in that hole ?"

"Yes, sir, but it's bad water. Is the Lieutenant bad off, sir ?"

The assistant surgeon, who had been kneeling beside Lieutenant Bowser, rose and glanced around at the men amidst sudden silence.

"Poor old chap! He's gone. — Here, look at this, Captain. A paper wrapped around a stone in his pocket."

The Captain eyed the stone, carelessly tossed it away, and smoothed out the paper. He scanned it frowningly.

"Odd! Marked confidential, and addressed to the C.O. He must have started to write his will, perhaps. Hanged if I can make out another word. Just a meaningless scrawl. Take a look at it! "

The assistant surgeon looked, shook his head. The captain crumpled up the paper and dropped it.

"Drank the bad water and went off his head, eh ? Damned shame. I can't get over that smile of his; wonderful! All right, men! Gently, now— gently!"

________________________

Webster's Unabridged Dictionary gives the definition of Fiddler's Green as: "The imagined Elysian Fields of sailors and vagabond craftsmen, where credit is good and there is always a lass, a glass, and a song."

15: The Fog at Fiddler's Green

(as by Gordon Keyne)

Blue Book Aug 1941

AS THE swarm of men came bursting into my hotel room, I fell back in angry dismay. One newspaper man had asked permission to come up; here were a dozen or more, voices all barking at once, cameras and flash-bulbs in evidence.

"What the devil!  You must have the wrong party!" I exclaimed. "Don't all talk at once; pick a spokesman."

"Okay." A brisk young man assumed the job. "You're John Bolton, and you've just inherited an island in the South Seas near Bali. Right?"

"Wrong," I rejoined. "It's much nearer the Philippines."

"Well, Bali's better for our purposes," came the reply. "You're American-born, twenty-two years old, unmarried; for the past six years you've been attending medical schools in this country. Are you the right man ?"

"Yes, I suppose so, but it's nothing to cause all this excitement."

"Now, brother, get wise," broke in the other. "In any other city you're just a celebrity passing through; but this is San Francisco. Here you're front-page stuff," the newspaper man asserted, "— or anyhow a column inside."

"But why?" I demanded. "I only got here from St. Louis an hour ago."

"The South Seas are San Francisco's back yard, Mr. Bolton. Now let's see. Your father's dead, eh ? You haven't seen him for six years. He was big-time stuff in the South Seas— the King of Kerang Island— is that right? Of course, if it's all the same to you, we'd sooner have him a sultan. Makes a better story."

"Don't be absurd," I retorted. "He was just a trader. The island's nothing but an atoll. It doesn't produce anything. It's all nonsense to call him a king."

The news man grinned. "Maybe. Still, you're going to the South Seas to take over an island kingdom and a whopping big inheritance; you're a rich man. Now, give us a good story and we'll meet you halfway. Get on your high horse, and we'll give you a spread full of Bali gals and harems. Which will you have?"

This time I got the idea, and relaxed. "Okay. Shoot away; I'll be good! "

I made an honest effort, too. There was nothing to conceal; they knew all about me. I had been called home suddenly to an island I had not seen in six years. It was true that my father, Captain "Spike" Bolton, was famed as a character in the South Seas; he had made a fortune in pearls and other things. My mother was dead, and I had no other relatives.

"No, I've no picture of him with me," I said patiently. "Is it hard to reach Kerang? No. I'm going by the Clipper to Manila. From there, by an island boat."

My eye had been caught by a man who had appropriated the chair at the writing-desk, and who remained silent and immobile. A man with hat pulled over eyes, and a brown, sharp face with bony jaw.

Now this man said quietly: "The Clipper won't leave for several days."

I nodded. The statement meant nothing to me; the man did not speak again. The others babbled away. One of the photographers wanted to fetch a girl to pose with me, which I refused.

All the while, I was thinking of that grim man, my father. It was six years and more since our parting; yet he had bulked large against the whole background of my life, like a gigantic retaining-wall. Gone, now— no more letters, no more hard-headed affection.

"Is it true that Spike Bolton was a pearl pirate?" someone asked. A touch of anger whipped at me.

"You're damned cheeky to ask such questions! " I said.

He merely grinned.

"Well, let it pass. What about your mother? I understand she was a Berkeley girl. Want me to deny that she was kicked out by her family for running away with a pirate?"

One thing led to another; I did not realize that they were deliberately leading me on. Then I lost my temper completely and knocked my chief tormentor galley-west. At this, they simply piled on me. Someone hit me and doubled me up; when they got all through and departed, I was sitting on the floor propped against the wall.

"Good Lord! " I muttered. "I certainly showed myself to be one damned fool! "

"Correct the first time," said a voice, and it jerked my head up.

IT came from the quiet man sitting at the writing-desk, hat still over eyes, cigarette in hand.

"Get out of here with the rest of your gang!" I snapped.

He shook his head and said placidly: "Your mistake, Bolton; not my gang at all. They used to be, when I was on the city desk. Now I'm out of a job and broke and hungry, but if you say the word, I'll depart. And your luck will go with me. I can save you from a terrible lot of grief if you'll give me the chance."

"Okay, then; show me how." I rose, went to the door, locked it, and with a grimace of pain dropped into a chair. A cigarette eased my nerves. "Who are you?" I asked.

"Harper, James E.— for Endicott," he rejoined cheerfully. He held up a little sheaf of papers, and laid them down again. "Your letters; the other lads would've grabbed them if I hadn't snaffled them first. You don't realize what a story you are in this town! I gave you one tip already, and you missed it."

"I? A tip?" I repeated.

"Yeah. I said the Clipper wouldn't leave for several days."

"How was that a tip? I don't get it."

"LORD, is your brain stuffed with straw?" Harper exclaimed impatiently. "You're a story. Those boys teased you into being a better story. Don't you see the consequences?"

"No," I said, really puzzled.

"Okay. In about three hours from now your phone begins to ring, and half of San Francisco climbs on your tail— a few hundred thousand people, notoriety-hunters, autograph fiends, plain beggars, society nuts and so forth. Among them are maybe fifteen or twenty swell guys and ravishing dames of another sort— crooks, and classy ones, out to nick your wad. Fine, slick, educated crooks. You've no bodyguard; not even a valet or a secretary. Boy, what chance will you have?"

"Well," I rejoined, "I suppose the hotel will take care of all comers."

Harper sighed. He shoved back his hat, revealing piercing dark eyes and a good-humored, cynical face.

"You're a good guy, Bolton, and I'm for you," he said. "Right now, the hotel's being watched; you'll be played for follow-up stories, see? This is no fancy hotel; it can be cracked right and left. You're a romantic figure. Wealthy, an island king, pearls and girls! All the furies wall be after you."

"I see what you mean," I said. "I'm nothing of the kind, of course."

"But you'll be built up to it before you know it. There are two remedies: First, go to one of the luxury hotels, hire a couple of dicks, and surround yourself with a wall built of money bricks. I don't suppose you'd know how to go about it?"

"No," I said honestly. I had not been brought up to throw money away; putting on side was foreign to me. "What's the alternative ?"

"Trust to me. Employ me; I'm stony broke," said Harper. "Put yourself in my hands; put me on salary until the Clipper takes off with you aboard. It'll be money well spent, and I'll guarantee you all the amusement you want, and thrills if you want 'em."

I chuckled. "Apparently you're the first of the furies, eh?"

"Right!" He grinned widely.

I was beginning to like him. Also, I vaguely glimpsed some of the difficulties that might lie ahead of me. Still—

"Tell me what scheme you have in mind," I told him, "and I'll give you a yes or no."

"Fair enough! Give your pal Harper a hundred bucks," the prompt response came. "In an hour it'll be dark; fog's coming in heavily now. I'll return for you at five o'clock, with a handbag for a few things. Send the rest to the Clipper offices, later."

"And where do we go ?" I asked.

"We'll get out of here before the storm breaks, and go to a joint up the beach where I live when I'm flush. It's more like a club than a boarding-house—just a small place. We can stay there quietly, or go after the bright lights if you hanker for 'em. And until you step aboard the Clipper, I'm your errand-boy, watchdog, and good companion."

I pretended a hesitation I was far from feeling; actually I could have asked nothing better than this proposal.

"It's a deal, Harper," I decided.

"Swell! " Beaming suddenly, Harper stepped forward and we shook hands. "By the way, since you come from the South Seas and so forth, do you know anything about pearls?"

"About babies? Well—"

"Babies, hell! I said pearls"

I chuckled. "And I said babies. That's the slang name for 'em, down under. Yes, I used to know pearls from the ground up, intimately.... However, don't get excited," I added, seeing his face light up. "I've been away from home and pearls for six years, remember."

"But," Harper exclaimed, "if there's a real pearl in a dish of imitations, can you pick it?"

"Nobody can do that; no expert can do it," I said. "Imitations are so perfect, these days, that they answer every test except that of the electric needle which illumines the interior of a pierced pearl. If it's not pierced, only careful study can pick the genuine, and not always then."

"Well, listen!" Harper betrayed an excited, tense earnestness. "I'm not talking about imitations made to deceive experts. Suppose there's a string of real fine pearls in among some strings of the cheapest kind of imitations: Would you gamble five hundred smackers that you could pick the real string offhand?"

"In a minute! That's very different."

"Glory be!" Harper rolled his eyes ecstatically. "Boy, I'm packing myself a Santa Claus! Well, time enough later for all that. Know any folks here in town?"

"Only my father's agents. I haven't seen them, yet."

"Do it by phone. Got your ticket for the Clipper?"

"I did that before I left St. Louis."

"Fine. Then slip me a hundred, and I'll be off. Your expenses won't amount to much where we're going, if it irks you to spend coin."

I got out my pocketbook. "I'm no miser; don't figure me wrong. But I'm not used to handling wealth."

Harper pocketed the banknotes, came close to me, and tapped me on the chest.

"If I didn't know you were a regular guy, Bolton, I wouldn't be doing this. A regular guy; yeah! But if I'm any judge, you haven't knocked around much, under the lower edge of the world. Well, see you at five sharp! "

The door slammed; he was gone.

DURING six years and more, I had been practically on my own, with a comfortable allowance, no great worries, a chosen career beckoning, and a smooth road ahead. All the world of atoll and coral bud, of flashing seas and monsoons, of pearls and action, had become vague and far-away and unreal.

Now, by this freak of fortune, my present world had become unreal, and a new one was ahead. I looked forward to it with a certain excitement.

It was two minutes of five when a tap came at the door, and Harper walked in.

"Well, how's the King of Kerang Island?" he exclaimed blithely. "Had any visitors?"

"No— haven't seen a soul."

"Fine; the buzzards are flocking, down below." He chuckled. "I paid till tomorrow for your room, out of my hundred, when I left; said I was your manager and you were not to be disturbed till six o'clock. Here's a paper; read it later. You're in it. And you can sling this under your overcoat."

He handed me a folded newspaper, and a cheap zipper musette bag.

I hurriedly stuffed a few toiletries into the bag. He was eying me sharply.

"You've got a good build. Hard-headed guy. Pleasant but square in the face. Ever do any boxing?"

"A bit," I replied. "I'm fair at it. Why?"

"Oh, I was thinking of Jerry Peterson," he said vaguely. "D'you know, Bolton, I'm pitchforking you right slap into an epic story of hearts and kisses and brickbats and murder? Might be, anyhow. Now listen to me."

He tapped me on the chest again.

"For tonight, at least, let me do all the talking. Play the game my way. Pretend that you're dumb, savvy ? These folks at Fiddler's Green are real, so darned real that their shadows bite a dog! So just be agreeable and watch your tongue. Okay?"

I assented, puzzled but curious.

"Okay it is! Fiddler's Green— is that the name of your hotel ? Odd name. According to the old sea legends, Fiddler's Green was where all the dead people went."

Harper gave me a quick, sharp look, showing no surprise.

"Yes. Maybe that's how this place got its name, too! Ready?"

I slung the bag over my shoulder and donned hat and coat. Harper went to the door and paused.

"You keep six steps back of me and don't talk, even if the hotel's afire! You're stepping out of one world into another, but don't worry. It's a darned good world if you treat it right; remember that. Let's go."

He opened the door and walked out.

Six steps. A clever distance, I realized. No one could be sure whether we were together or not, if anyone saw us. As I followed along the brightly lighted hall, I unfolded the newspaper. I was curious to see what the reporters and camera men had done to me.

When I reached the stairs, down which Harper had vanished, I was no longer curious; I was burning up. This evening paper was that of the man I had smacked. There was a picture of the smacking; there was another of the "Sultan of Kerang" being put down and out.

We reached the second floor. Harper plunged straight into a beauty-parlor and on through. With a wave of the hand and a cheerful greeting to the startled females, Harper led through another door, on to a flight of stairs, and down into the open air.

"There y'are! " He turned proudly to me. "Mission Street, the grandest street in the world! Follow close, now. I'll have to find the car."

I was appalled by the fog. The whole world had turned to a swirling sea-vapor.

"This newspaper story is libelous!" I exclaimed.

"So are lots of things. Be your age!" Harper said shortly. "Hang on to my arm and stop squawking. This way! "

THE chill fog certainly had a dampening effect on wrath. I let myself be pulled across the sidewalk. Car lights blinded; horns were blaring. Swearing luridly, Harper darted at taxicabs ranged along the curb; none was right. Then a voice barked at him, and with an exultant cry he shoved me into a car, and climbed after.

"All right, Jemmy, all right! You know where to go!" he bawled at the driver, and closed the window between. Then he sank back beside me. "Well, well, the fog made it a cinch. Now we'll slide over the long hills to the sea and forget our troubles. Got a cigarette?"

I produced a package.

"About a name—" said Harper. "I'll call you Mr. Smith; I engaged a room under that handle. Suit you?"

I laughed. "Why not? Anything goes!"

"That's the ticket! Not that it'd matter if they all knew your name; they're safe. We'll be far from a car or bus line, but can always rent a car. We're expected, and dinner will be ready by six. Bang-up feed, too. Regular boarding-house heaven; and the meal goes right on, no matter if one of the gang is just pinched or killed. Food is important, and Ma Webster is a cook to knock your eye out! "

QUITE plainly, we were headed for a singular sort of hotel, and I warmed to the thought.

"You'd be surprised," Harper said reflectively, "what queer things and places and men can be found tucked away in this village. A foggy night— that's the right time to go to Fiddler's Green, too. You'll like Jerry. She worked in a bank and was a big shot, knew everybody; now; she's dead."

"Eh? Not literally ?" I queried.

He broke into a laugh. "I was exaggerating. Doc Means has his points too, but probably Red Conners takes the cake. To look at him, you'd never dream that he traveled with a circus and a bill show, that he was a champion pistol-shot and knife artist! A thing as fantastic as life itself."

"Is life fantastic, then?" I asked.

"When one is disillusioned, yes. This morning we were done for; tonight you put a fortune in our hand. Why, Fiddler's Green itself is the height of fantastic lunacy!"

He paused, until I prompted him to explain.

"The place was built a long while ago by some rich nut who thought he was Napoleon in exile. He went the limit on putting all kinds of contraptions into the place— secret passages and that sort of junk. In those days it stood slap on the beach, with no other house around for miles; there were some strange stories about corpses washed up on the sand. Well, he finally died, and Ma Webster took over the property and made it pay dividends.... So you like the South Seas better'n this country, huh?"

"No." I was startled by his abrupt change of subject.

"Then stay here. Let the lawyers collect your dough and run the place. You stay here; I like you." In the dim, momentary flash of a street light, I saw Harper's face, thin and eager and earnest. "We could go places. Why, look! If you were to put a little money into Fiddler's Green, Ma Webster would make a real profit for you! "

"Afraid not," I rejoined. "I have to get out to Kerang and settle the estate, and all that sort of thing."

"Don't take yourself too seriously, partner; that's the whole gospel of how to live," said Harper. "If you had me on your hands for a few months, you'd be a new man. You're a regular guy. But remember not to take yourself seriously! Don't matter a damn in the world's economy— you don't, I don't; the King of Siam don't. There's always a better man to fill our boots.... Hello! Looks like our street."

He was peering out of the window; the taxi was curving around a corner. He pointed to two of the new yellow gas fog-lights, placed close together; these, it seemed, marked the place.

"Just between you and me," he went on with a confidential air, "I'll be glad to get home. I've got a crawly feeling; it's this blasted fog, I expect. I've been nervous as a cat all day. There's a guy in this town who'd sure like to have me rubbed out! But tomorrow it'll be a different story, with your help. Well, we're here!"

The cab halted. We had arrived.

The yellow fog-lights were over a gate barely visible in the thick fog. I got out, and Harper's voice pulsed at me.

"The gate's open— go right in! Hop along up to the house. I'll be with you as soon as I get this shark of a Jemmy paid off."

I crossed the sidewalk to the gate and the yellow lights. These showed me a graveled path, as I opened the gate, and the loom of a house thirty feet back from the street; the entire place seemed surrounded by a hedge of unusual height.

Walking up the path, I wondered for the first time whether I had perhaps let myself fall into the hands of some crooked sharper, but I dismissed the notion. Harper was definitely friendly, and I liked him.

Halfway to the house, which seemed large but was all in darkness, I heard the roar of the taxicab engine as it turned and sped off into the darkness. Halting, I glanced back at the dim yellowish swirls around the gate; no sign of Harper appeared. The sound of the car died away.

The place must be close to the sea, very close, I thought. The vibration of the surf and its dull recurrent thunder were distinctly felt. I felt a slight irritation that Harper did not come along. It flashed across my mind that he might be playing some joke.

So thinking, I turned and walked back to the gate, swung it open, and stepped out on the sidewalk. My first thought was that Harper had departed altogether; then I saw my mistake. At the curb stood a telephone pole, very faintly lighted by the yellow fog globes overhead.

Harper was standing against it, a cigarette between his lips.

I saw him open his lips and apparently spit out the cigarette.

"Well ? Why don't you come along?" I said.

He made no reply. A sound like a gasping sigh came from him. His head fell forward, chin on chest. Wondering what on earth was the matter with him, I stepped up close— and then froze, a clammy finger sliding up my spine.

Here, close up, I could see the knife- haft beneath Harper's chin—the haft of the knife that was driven through and through the man and deep into the wooden pole behind him.

I SHALL never forget the stark horror that thrilled in me as I stood there and realized the truth.

Yet my brain was automatically at work. I had seen Harper die; this I knew instantly. That gasp when the cigarette fell, that sigh of escaping breath, that falling head— Harper had died then. I reached forward and felt his wrist; there was no pulse.

Therefore the murder had happened after the departure of the car. Someone had been lurking in wait, and had driven home this knife as the taxicab sped away. It had been done while I was standing on the path, irresolute. I might almost have seen the murderer as I came back and shoved open the gate.

Yet I had seen nothing. And I saw nothing now. Through drifting swirls of thick fog, I caught a vague cluff-cluff of running feet, as though the killer had slipped away and then broken into a run. The sound lessened and was gone.

I stood frozen still, a frantic hammering query in my head; what now, what now?

There was nothing to be done for the dead man. I had the entirely natural impulse to clear out, to get away and do it rapidly. This was murder. It was no affair of mine. The sane and sensible thing was to keep from being implicated.

Sensible, yes, but cowardly; my instincts revolted against it. And Harper had been helping me. The decent thing to do was to call the man's friends. Despite murder or arrest, he had said, dinner would go on just the same.

An eerie chill grew upon me as I recalled the things Harper had said about this place, his own fear of some violence, the very name of this darkly silent structure— Fiddler's Green! The place where all the dead folk of the sea came, in ancient lore.

I blamed myself for having stepped away and left Harper alone; otherwise the poor chap would be alive now. Had the knife been thrown? He had mentioned someone who was an expert at this sort of thing. I looked closely. No; it was too firmly driven in. And its haft was heavy, of solid metal; it was not the balanced type that an expert knife-thrower would use.

Turning, I swung the gate aside and strode on up toward the house.

Where all had before been dark, lights were springing. Above the entrance burst forth a floodlight: another gas fog-piercer that lit up the path. The building seemed of goodly size, but there was nothing to indicate a hotel, no sign of any kind.

As I came to the threshold, the front door was swung wide open, with a blinding flood of radiance. The figure standing there was that of a woman.

"Good evening," I said. "Is this the place known as Fiddler's Green?"

"I'm Ma Webster," was the reply in a harsh voice. "Who are you? What d'ye want ?"

"My name's Smith, John Smith." I thought of it barely in time. "I was coming here with Mr. Harper—"

"Oh! You're the one!" she broke in upon me. "Come in. Where's Harper now?"

"Outside the gate." I hesitated, then plunged regardless: "I'm sorry to say that he's dead. He must been killed as the car drove away."

I was prepared for anything, as a result of my news, but not for what happened. The woman, who was tall and ungraceful, leaned forward and caught my arm. Before I knew what to expect, she had jerked me in across the threshold.

Behind me sounded a clang and a reverberant thud. The door had swung shut. Inside it, a steel shutter had slid up. I had a confused glimpse of Ma Webster, massively built, and of a heavily ornate hallway in which we stood. Then a younger woman appeared.

"This is the guy, Jerry," said Ma Webster. "Smith's the name. Take him up to the suite and learn what you can. He says Harper was bumped off, outside the gate. We'll attend to all that. You see to him. Brace up, now!"

STRANGELY, there seemed to be no excitement; her voice was calm. It gave me the air of being in a dream.

The younger woman, who beckoned me to a wide stairway, astonished me by her alert blue eyes, her air of cool frankness; she seemed to radiate vitality, was my thought as I followed her up the stairs. Then, at the top, she halted and turned to me, and my heart leaped.

She was clutching the stair-rail desperately, sagging against the wall, almost falling. Her eyes were wide with terror.

"It was— it must have been— a joke!" she said under her breath. "Tell me so! He's not dead! It's impossible! "

"I'm sorry, very sorry," I said awkwardly. "It was done in the fog, by a knife. Who? I have no idea. I saw no one."

"Oh!" Her voice was a wrenched, moaning sound. She caught her breath. "Come along. Sorry I took it that way."

Part way down the hall, she stopped and flung open a door.

"These rooms were for you both; you'll be alone now. I expect you need a drink. I know damned well I do. Drop your bag anywhere. Poor Harp! If he'd only listened to me!"

I entered a large living-room boasting the heavy drapes and enormous walnut furniture of a past generation; off this room opened two bedrooms.

Everything was clean and comfortable; magazines and books lay on the table; a radio stood against one wall. Steam heat buzzed cheerfully in the radiators, and the open tantalus, to which the girl went, was well stocked. She turned; a pleasant voice, a pleasant young woman. I accepted the proffered highball, and our glasses clinked.

"I suppose you're the Jerry Peterson he mentioned?"

"No doubt." She was appraising me quite frankly. "You're not an old friend of his?"

"I met him this morning. We took a liking to each other, and he invited me to come here." Tacitly dismissing myself as a subject, I switched neatly and described what had happened outside the gates. In spite of the drink, her face grew whiter and whiter as she listened.

"I've got to hang on— can't afford to fly into tears and hysterics," she said. "He wouldn't like that. This is no matter for the police, of course. How long shall you be staying here?"

I was puzzled by her words and air; yet those clear, shrewd eyes tempted me to trust her. Reason told me that my wisest course was to get out of this place as quickly as possible. On the other hand, Harper had been a friend; and I was conscious of adventure pulsing in the air.

"Didn't Harper tell you people anything about me?"

She shrugged. "He vouched for you. That's enough."

"Well, to be frank about it, I'm a bit over my depth," I said. "I don't want to know too much; I'm not curious. This Is Monday, and on Thursday I'm leaving town. Until then, I'm at loose ends. Harper did me a good turn; can I do anything to repay it? I think he'd like me to help."

Her eyes warmed suddenly. "How far do you mean that?"

"All the way."

I got out my cigarettes, then remembered that Harper had last dipped into this package. The realization jerked at me, steadied me.

AS she accepted one, I became more aware of the terrific tension gripping her. She puffed the cigarette alight, and for one instant her self-control slipped. Her cheeks paled again, her lips quivered, a queer mirthless laugh came to her lips.

"I seem to be shakier than I thought," she said. "Hard to realize a thing like this; it hits you after the first shock wears off. I warned Harp this would happen; he thought he could beat it out. Did he tell you that we— he and I— were going to merge once the clouds blew over?"

I was thunderstruck.

"Good Lord, no! Look here, I'm terribly sorry—"

"Don't," she intervened sharply. "Cut out any sympathy! "

"Okay.... He mentioned Doc Means, and someone named Red Conners."

"Yes. Red is in the affair— our affair. I'm in it. Now you may be in it, if you mean what you say." She went on: "There's work to do. It may be a crazy idea, but there's just a long chance that you might provide the two things which would nail the murderer of—of the best man I knew."

"When I said 'all the way,' Jerry," I rejoined gravely, "I meant just that. Count me in."

"All right. And now, mind that you don't get to talking about Harp, in front of Red Conners." She spoke with a fiercely incisive manner that denoted her tension. "Crooks can blubber like any other fools. Well, here are the two things which neither Red nor I can supply at a pinch: First, five centuries— five hundred in cash."

She paused inquiringly. I nodded.

"I have travelers' checks and can cash them anywhere; one of the big hotels. So that's taken care of. What next?"

She smiled faintly. "Maybe you're an angel all the way. Would you know enough about pearls to tell real ones from false ones?"

The question startled me. I recalled Harper's queer exclamation, "Boy, I'm packing myself a Santa Claus!" and his questions about pearls.

"That's odd," I said. "We discussed that; yes, of course I can— at least, I think so."

Her face lit up. A flame came dancing into her eyes; she caught her breath.

"Why— why, you are an angel! I might have guessed it.... See here! You can go along with me and Red Conners tonight, this very night, and we'll take care of the whole thing! Are you game?"

"Of course; but mind, I told you I'm in over my depth! I don't know what it's all about."

"You will, you will! " she exclaimed vibrantly. "It means taking chances—you understand that much?"

I nodded, feeling my pulses thrill again.

"Then it's settled. Brush up and come on down to dinner. And don't talk; just smile and look wise. If the Professor opens up with his line, keep on smiling and yes him, and say nothing. Understood?"

"I guess so."

When she was gone, I finished my drink, lit a cigarette, and took my bag into one of the two bedrooms. A bath was adjoining. I looked at myself in the mirror, passed a hand over my chin, and decided I needed no shave.

What was it all about? Impossible to say. Was she a crook? Not by a long sight! Why was I in this thing at all? Because a man, now dead, had said I was a regular guy! I nodded gravely at my mirrored reflection.

"I may be a sucker," I muttered. "I may be making the biggest mistake of my life by sticking around this joint— but I'm going to play my hunch and see it through! So laugh that off, Bolton."

Somewhat more cheerful, I went down to the strangest dinner I had ever eaten.

I DISCOVERED that this place was precisely what Harper had said it was: a boarding-house. Ma Webster, harshly dominant, headed the table; a mousy little man in a greasy apron, Pa Webster, acted as waiter. Mr. John Smith was introduced by Jerry Peterson to the company assembled.

Miss May Webster was a maiden lady with gray bangs and a sharp nose, occupying the foot of the table. Doc Means was a mournful-looking gent with a discouraged goatee and a furtive eye. Professor Fuller was a brisk little man who, like many little men, exerted incredible audacity trying to show himself the equal of larger men. Mr. Brown— obviously an alias— was a sardonic man with a challenging gaze, and a bulge under his left armpit. And last, to Red Conners.

He too was a small man; small and gray, softly gentle in the voice, and nothing red about him except his red-rimmed eyes. He said little; just sat trying to gulp down food, and staring at me. I read him for a dangerous man, a vicious man and one to steer clear of; those eyes were eloquent.

Yet I knew him to be a friend and ally.

THERE was no mention whatever of Harper; there was no empty chair. Fiddler's Green was where the dead people went; maybe, Harper had said, maybe that was how this place got its name! Just what had those words meant? I could only guess that some if not all of those at the table must be "dead" in one sense or another.

As the meal progressed, however, I noted one thing; no one seemed out of place here. Even the sardonic Mr. Brown evinced a certain savoir faire. If these people were crooks, I reflected with some astonishment, they neither looked nor talked it. Harper's words came like an echo: "Under the lower edge of the world." Jerry, then? I looked at her, met her clear fine eyes, and did not know what to think.

Amid the general talk, Professor Fuller leaned across the table and briskly apologized to me for so small a company. Usually, said he, there were more present. And could Mr. Smith favor him with some personal trifle— a pencil, a cuff-button, a handkerchief, anything at all? I stared somewhat blankly.

"What he's driving at," intervened Ma Webster with a sniff, "is that he wants to tell your fortune. Some say he's good at it.... Oh, I know, I know, Professor!" she added, as the little man bristled. "Crowned heads of Europe and all that; but there are mighty few crowned heads left these days."

I laughed. "I'm sure, Professor, that if it will give you any satisfaction, it'll be a real honor! Here's my cigarette-case. Will that do ?"

The Professor beamed, and I went on eating. I was hungry, and the dinner was excellent. So rapidly had things piled up that the death of Harper was already losing its poignant sting. Red Conners, I perceived, was studying me intently.

The Professor held the cigarette-case between his palms for a few moments, then closed his eyes. Doc Means, with a wink at the company, hastily dumped the pepper-shaker on the Professor's potatoes. There was a grin at the boyish trick, but Conners did not grin.

"I see something very singular," said Professor Fuller, his eyes still closed. "My young friend, you are destined for great things. My vibrations tell me you are born to command, to rule, to a heritage of power and wealth in distant places. I see women in your life— not one, but many. I see feathery palms leaning against the sky, and white, white sand, in an island in the ocean—"

He broke off, intent, muttering to himself. Somewhat astonished, I glanced around and caught another wink from Doc Means, who seemed amused.

"I see danger close to you," went on the Professor abruptly. "Very close. It is connected with a young woman. Everything is vague, as though in fog—"

ACROSS the table came a soft voice l that bit like a knife:

"D'you want to take a walk down the shore, Professor?"

Fuller opened his eyes with a start, and changed countenance. I looked to see who had spoken; it was Red Conners, whose gimlet gaze was fastened upon the Professor. Hastily and in utter confusion, Professor Fuller came to his feet; stammering something inarticulate, he shoved the cigarette-case across the table at me, and hurriedly walked out of the room.

"Confound it, Red, look what you spoiled!" complained Doc Means, pointing to the Professor's forgotten plate.

"Shut up," snapped Conners, and stood up. "Jerry! Fetch him to my room when you're through," he said, with a nod toward me. "No time to lose. I'll arrange about a car. Sorry, Ma, sorry. The Professor gets on my nerves."

With this half-apology, he also departed.

Ma Webster spoke up, about the fog and the bus service; the incident was passed over. All this time there had not been a mention of Harper, and it was a fantastic lack. Where was Harper now, I wondered; what had been done with the body?

"The Professor," I observed lightly, "seems to have something on the ball, at that. I'm bound to say that he seemed to have a surprising—"

My voice trailed off, before the cold looks directed toward me. I caught a warning in the eyes of Jerry. I remembered the admonitions not to talk. Damn it, what had I said amiss? No telling. The others ignored me. Perhaps strangers were supposed to keep quiet.

Jerry glanced at me inquiringly; I nodded, and we rose. I turned to Ma Webster, thanking her, and she eyed me frigidly.

"Don't thank me, Mr. Smith," she rasped. "I'll collect from you in the morning; pay for room and board is always in advance. Good night."

I followed Jerry from the room.

She led me up the stairs and down the hall to a door, which was opened at her knock by Red Conners. We walked in. Conners looked me up and down, aggressively, and spoke in his curiously soft voice.

"A minute more, and that blasted Professor would've spilled the beans! Why did you let him get started?"

"Why not?" I stared at him. "I don't get your point. He did pretty well; he came close to the facts about me."

"Of course he did!" exclaimed Conners. "D'you think it was by accident? He'd read the evening papers; your picture is plastered all over 'em! You're not the sort to be hiding out under this roof. What are you here for, anyhow?"

Jerry was about to intervene, but I forestalled her; the man scarcely knew what he said.

"Listen, Red: I was invited here. I'm not hiding from the law, but I'm hiding just the same. If I was good enough for Harper to bring here, I'm good enough to help you run down the man who murdered him. I want to do that, if I can."

Conners turned, his mouth working.

"Dammit, I'm sorry!" he groaned. "I'm fair wild, with him laying dead and all."

"Well, get yourself under control," Jerry Peterson said bitterly. "I'm not having any circus myself, am I? Sit down, both of you, and let's get to business. Red, don't be a fool! Bolton is putting up the five hundred to bribe the Smoker. And he knows all about pearls, too."

There was a silence. Red Conners stared at me.

It was no secret who I was, eh ? I had fooled nobody here. The Professor had been on the point of giving away some affair. What? Never mind. Conners had prevented it; let all that go with the fog, then, and get down to business!

"I'm sorry," Conners said suddenly. "I didn't know. Jerry, you didn't tell me this. You just said he was going along."

"So he is," I struck in, and laughed. "Now tell me something. Where's Harper's body? Come on and face facts. Has he been taken care of ?"

"Certainly he has," Conners answered with some asperity. "He has friends who'll take care of everything. By the time the police get sniffing on the murder trail, I'll have the low-life who knifed him. Here's the knife that did it."

He laid something on the table. It was the knife, cleaned and polished; I recognized the metal haft. The blade was long and deadly.

"Why did you touch it ?" I demanded. "There might have been fingerprints."

"Oh, for God's sake, be your age!" said Conners impatiently. "Prints! You talk like a fool. Nobody leaves prints. This was a professional job. Anyhow, we know who did it; all we got to do now is to reach him. I can't do it alone. The three of us can, with the pearls. Do we have to gab all night to make you understand ?"

I saw now, with pitying comprehension, how this little man was driven by an inward storm of passionate grief and fury, goaded and lashed by emotion. So was the young woman.

"I told you I was in over my depth, Jerry," I told her. "Just the same, I'm in; and I'm beginning to understand the two of you. You knew Harp a lot better than I did; you thought a lot of him. Now, give me credit for playing along with you because I liked him and he liked me— that's all. Let's go, and you can talk later. I don't ask to understand the affair; I can trust you. Whatever it is, I'm with you."

JERRY reached out and touched my arm with her fingers.

"You're all right," she said, her eyes warming. "Red, what about the car?"

"I told Jemmy to bring it and leave it; so it must be waiting now. Jemmy didn't know a thing about what happened," Conners said. (They were talking about the man who had driven me and Harper here, of course.) "He said Harp paid him and was all right when he left."

"I think that's true," I said.

"Of course it is; Jemmy doesn't lie to us," snapped the little man. "Well, what we waiting for? Let's go."

As he spoke, he caught up hat and overcoat. I bethought myself, and said:

"I'll get my travelers' checks and coat, and meet you downstairs."

From the door, I glanced back in time to see Conners slide that murder-knife up his coat-sleeve. It seemed to fit there, to vanish, to be absorbed.

In my own room, I got hat and coat, and my travelers' checks. To go where? I neither knew nor cared, frankly. My pulses were thrilling again. Here was a compelling mystery of fog and life and death, a strange world of strange people.

"I may be clear off my nut," I reflected, "but be damned if I don't like it! "

And switching off the room lights, I was on my way.

The car stood idle and empty, a phantom shape at the curb— the same car that had brought me and Harper here. We got in, Conners sliding under the wheel.

"Palace Hotel first," said Jerry. "Bolton wants to cash his checks."

"Right," Conners replied, and we were off into the fog.

I turned to the girl beside me. "If you know who did the work, Jerry, why not go straight to him? And how do you know he's not hanging around here watching the place?"

"My Lord! I suppose you think we're going to hand him over to the cops!"

"I haven't stopped to think," I rejoined. "I don't care particularly what you do with him. Only, I'm in over—"

"Aw, save your breath! " came the voice of Conners. "G'wan— tell him. Get it over with."

She laughed nervously. "Well, Bolton, we know the guy, but it's impossible to reach him. Or at least, it can only be done in one way. He's not the one who knifed Harp, but he had it done."

"Oh, lay off!" came the soft but piercing voice of Conners again, sharp with impatience. "Let me tell him myself.... Bolton, there's a guy named Albers, a lawyer. He's tops in every way—law, society, wealth, politics. If he wanted a span out of the Golden Gate bridge for his watch-chain, he could have it; he's just that good. He's nuts about pearls."

"And about women," put in Jerry. Her voice was harsh, bitter unnatural.

"Albers wanted Harp to do something for him. Harp wouldn't do it," said Conners. He paused to swing the car around a corner, cautiously. How on earth he could find his way was a mystery, for the fog was thicker than ever.

"So Harp lost his job," he went on. "Lost everything else he had. And tonight, lost his life. That's why we're after Albers right now. I warned him. I warned him to leave Harp alone!" The soft voice shrilled, taking on a peculiarly venomous effect. "The actual killer doesn't matter; Albers is the one responsible. He's the one we want."

"Just what did he want Harper to do?" I demanded, with a touch of incredulity.

"Do you have to know everything?" broke out the girl at my side, almost fiercely. "For God's sake, use your brain!

A few guesses won't hurt you. We can't give you a checkerboard map of the world in five minutes.... Red, you fool, are you going over Twin Peaks in this fog?"

"It's all right; that's the shortest way, Jerry, and safe enough," Conners rejoined soothingly. "You're too nervous. Ease off everything! "

I got out cigarettes; my own nerves needed a touch of tobacco.

"Do you mind," I asked mildly, "if I ask just what all this has to do with the matter of pearls?"

"Yes," rejoined Conners. "Remember, Albers is nuts about pearls. Well, Harp learned where there was a gorgeous necklace; it had been stolen long ago, time of the earthquake. He had meant to get it and skip out, or else to compromise with Albers, who's crazy to get this necklace. It would have meant the end of all trouble for Harp, see?"

"Too bad," I observed, "that he could not have had a day or two longer. He had counted on my knowledge of pearls to get these."

It was merely a polite little interlude to cover my own vague bewilderment. This affair was like a puzzle picture with the key pieces missing.

"As it stands now," Conners went on, "those pearls give us our own chance to reach Albers; he's better watched than the U. S. Mint. We'll have to do it tonight, pretending we don't know anything has happened to Harp. It'll take all three of us to create the proper illusion; maybe I'll be with you; maybe I won't. And then I'll give that fellow what he gave poor Harp."

"The pearls," spoke up Jerry, "are on a statue in the Japanese joss-house. Not the big one in Chinatown, but a little one for Jap sailors. The Smoker's the man in charge of it. He doesn't suspect that one of the necklaces is real; for five hundred he lets us take one of the necklaces, which are supposed to be sacred. So there's everything."

Was it? I tried to make sense of the whole business, and it still remained vague. The essential thing, of course, eluded me; the one supreme thing, the reason why Harper had been killed.

Well, let it go! At least, I knew the night's program. We must get the pearls in order to reach Albers; when we reached him, Red Conners would kill him. The enormity of my share in this task escaped me.

The car was downtown now, dodging traffic in the fog-thick streets.

"Red, I'll go with Bolton," said Jerry Peterson. "Drop us at the hotel, then go on and meet us at the joss-house and have everything understood with the Smoker. We'll take a taxi there from the hotel."

"Okay," replied Conners. "Bolton, just one thing: You must point out the necklace to me and leave me to get it— don't grab it yourself. It's no cinch to remove a necklace from a big statue; I'll have to cut it, wrap chewing-gum around each end to keep the pearls from losing, and slide it off the statue."

Evidently Mr. Conners was an artist at more things than knives and pistols.

The car slowed at the curb. I got out; Jerry followed and took my arm; we felt our way through the surging fog, and the hotel entrance loomed ahead.

In this long corridor of the Palace, I came back to myself, to my own environment, with a jerk. The fog was gone. With it was gone all the lower edge of the world. In the mirrors, I saw myself with a strange woman on my arm; a woman in a gorgeous cloak of black and scarlet, tipped with gold. I had scarcely noticed her clothes until now, but now I stared. Her lips curved slightly as though in scorn.

"It came from Magnin's; it's ultra ultra. Does it suit you?"

"You," I replied, "would suit anyone, whether in silk or in rags."

She really smiled at this, and squeezed my arm.

"Thanks. You sound as though you really mean it and aren't making a pass. So taken, so accepted! There's the cashier's window."

When I had cashed the checks, we walked back to the entrance. There I paused for a brief instant.

Outside was the swirling fog again, and the lower edge of the world with its incredible surroundings and people. An ordinary night would have held no mystery, but fog lends enchanted touches and bizarre terrors to everything.

"Makes me think of the Professor," said Jerry. She must have shared my thought. "The old boy is actually more than half off his nut; a shut-eye, as they're called in the trade. He claims a fog like this is the safest place there is, because spirits can't navigate in fog."

I smiled. "Why can't they?"

"Search me! I don't believe he knows, himself! But he doesn't like spirits; that's one of his queer streaks. Well, let's go!"

A moment later were back in fantasy, as our taxicab plunged into the mist.

I stared at the darkly swirling vapor, and thought of the odd little Professor and his fear of spirits, made me smile. So spirits couldn't navigate in a fog, eh?

Unexpectedly, the cab slowed at a dark corner; where we were, I neither knew nor cared. We alighted; I paid the driver; Jerry pulled her gorgeous cloak about her; and we walked for half a block up a dimly lighted alley. Under an immense colored lantern a figure materialized— it was Red Conners.

"All set," he said. "Gimme the cash. The Smoker has a party of tourists in there now; he says to look around until they're gone."

I handed over my roll of bills, half-inclined to wonder whether the whole thing were not a plot to get my five hundred; suspicions floated into my mind, and were gone instantly, unreal as was everything else this night.

We turned in at the not imposing entrance, to be swallowed up by an entirely different fantasy.

This was a dimly lit place of clear air and fragrant incense aroma. There was a wispy, cadaverous figure in Oriental robes; a clump of tourists with a guide whose voice rolled crisply. There were paintings and statues of all kinds. Last came the Buddha— a huge gilded sitting image with many little lights and votive offerings around, and over the gilded chest and swelling stomach looped string upon string of pearls.

"Here, use this." Into my hand Conners pressed a pencil flashlight. "Tell me which one is the real string, that's all."

The tiny ray in my hand shot a clear illumination upon those many ropes of glistening pearls. I leaned forward, intent and curious. Almost instantly the genuine gems leaped into sight.

Here was a glorious double string, not large but of perfectly graduated beauty and obvious value. Even in the artificial light their white luster told that they came from the Ceylon coasts. Conners could not distinguish them from the other strings.

"The fourth and fifth loops— count from the outside," I told him. "Only Ceylon pearls have that peculiar sheen."

"I get it, but they all look alike to me," Conners replied. "Four and five—okay. You folks go on. Stay over by the door, Jerry, give the Smoker this roll and talk to him."

I GAVE him back the tiny flashlight; Jerry and I strolled on. The Smoker was seeing the tourist party out. When they had gone, she approached him and fell into talk. I glanced back at the Buddha; but the figure of Conners, in front of the image, blocked out whatever might be taking place.

Two men came in at the entrance, two Japanese, their faces distinct in the light. The Smoker blocked them, asking sharp questions, holding them in talk. A quick footstep sounded, and here came Red Conners, with a nod.

"All set," he said. "Here, Smoker, buy some joss for the gods." He handed the Smoker a coin and spoke casually. "How did you like the place, folks? Come on, let's be moving."

Outside, as the chill fog clamped down around us, he spoke under his breath.

"Quick, now! That yellow devil may double-cross us. Here, turn left."

The car was standing dark and solitary. We piled in, and next moment the lights were on and the car was plunging down a cobbled hill street. A cable-car, with a clang and a lurching rattle, cut athwart our way; with an oath, Conners swung the car into the side street.

"Those blasted cockroaches have the right o' way," he grunted, and drew in at the curb. "Hey, Bolton! Take this string; careful— I had to cut it. Don't lose any. Snap on the overhead light and make sure what we got. Can't afford mistakes."

"Good idea," said Jerry.

Under the dome light, I looked at the looped string of pearls. No, there could be no question; these were the ones, for the imitations had been extremely poor in quality. I whistled as I examined them.

"A lot of money here, Red! You seldom see so many perfectly matched Ceylons. Yes, this is the right string."

"You keep 'em for the present. Jerry, I'll head right for Albers' hotel, and phone him from the hotel drugstore. He lives up on the roof, you know."

"Better pick another spot," said Jerry. "Some of his outfit might spot us."

"Let 'em! " Conners laughed harshly. "We've got Albers where we want him, now. He'll be nice as pie— long enough for me to do my stuff, anyhow."

The car roared up a hill, then swooped down the other side, and with grinding brakes came to a halt at the side of a hotel block, before a drugstore entrance. Conners got out; he was in high jubilation.

"Get on your lipstick, Jerry!" he exclaimed exultantly. "In five minutes you'll be up in his penthouse. Remember, make him think you've fallen for him at last. Think of Harp, and play the game as we've planned! "

He swung jauntily away across the sidewalk and disappeared.

"Lipstick— that's right!" Jerry, who sat on the side of the car next the curb, swung open the door. "Forgot my handbag. I'll get a compact and be right out while he's phoning."

She followed Conners, and disappeared in the drugstore entrance.

So they had agreed on some definite plan, eh? Little Conners was nobody's fool. And his parting words— I straightened up suddenly. Those words, their meaning, hit me like a blow.

By Godfrey, she was the reason herself! The whole fight was over her: Harper had refused to give her up to the other man! Yes, here was the reason for Harper's murder.

Excited, nervous, I got out of the cab and paced up and down in the fog. I had solved the secret now. She stood out among all these shabby figures that moved under the lower edge of the world, furtive, crawling things. She alone stood out clean-cut and splendid, with a bravery that wakened admiration.

My thoughts died as I saw her coming from the drugstore. A man was at her elbow; she was flinging him off impatiently, angrily— a tall fellow, a stranger. He caught up with her, said something about Albers, and seized her arm.

Just there, I slid between them. The one full crack I landed should have knocked that fellow silly; he merely swung around and pitched into me. He must have had an iron jaw. I landed glancingly; then he nailed me and sent me staggering back against the car.

Jerry was crying out something. Other figures were moving around us; the sidewalk was a movement of swirling fog and men. I was down and up and down again, battering at everything within sight and sound.

The voice of Conners came from somewhere. The scream of some woman passer-by broke through the mist. The melee became more furious— rushing figures, hot oaths, blows given and taken. Of a sudden my blind rage passed, and I discovered Red Conners hanging on my arm, blood on the little man's face.

"She's hurt!" His cry penetrated to me. "Damn you, I'm done in— get us out of this!"

I was amazed to see that, except for several sprawled or motionless figures, the sidewalk was empty. Red Conners was lifting the limp and senseless figure of Jerry into the car. I woke up; she was injured! Get her out of here at once!

Conners collapsed in the back of the car. I slammed the door on them, slid myself in and under the wheel, and the engine came to life. I had no clear-cut purpose, scarcely knew what I was doing.

Into the glare of the headlights leaped a tall, commanding man in evening attire; his arm was uplifted; he was shouting something. I threw in the clutch and flung the car straight at him. He leaped frantically aside. Shouts and police whistles were shrilling all around.

But an instant later I had the car out in traffic, blindly heading away from the pandemonium behind, and losing it. Only then did I realize that I myself was hurt. There was a warm touch of blood on my cheek, and I felt my senses going.

DESPERATELY, frantically, I turned the car at the first corner. Here showed a dark, fog-swept street of houses or closed shops. I let the car drift in along an empty curb, then shut off the engine. Silence, and fog; I got out somehow, and struggled to get the rear door open.

"Jerry! Conners! "

No reply. The door came open at last, and I switched on the dome light—only to switch it off again, appalled by what I saw. Conners was slouched senseless across the body of Jerry. Her gorgeous cloak was gone, and blood was smeared across the front of her dress.

I straightened up in the darkness, both hands to my face, fighting off the dizzy nausea that gripped me. Slowly it passed, and I became conscious of pain. I had a slight cut on the forehead and a worse hurt in the groin, no doubt from a kick. I clung to the open car door, trying to get a grip on myself.

The bulge in the pocket of my coat told that the pearls were safe. I was alone, impotent to plan or act, a fortune in pearls in my pocket. If any police prowl-car came down this silent street, I was in the soup. I had not the faintest idea where to find Fiddler's Green, except that it was somewhere at the beach or shore.

Something stirred. Conners groaned, cursed and came to life. I gave him a hand out of the car. The little man had a nasty crack over the head. It would need stitches.

"Jerry?" His voice leaped in alarm. "Where is she ?"

"In there," I replied. "Blood on her dress. You keep a lookout. I'll switch on the light and see what's wrong."

I got into the car, unable to repress a groan as I did so; I was hurt, all right. The light on, I lifted Jerry to the back seat, and alarm seized me at sight of the fresh blood. I bared her breast, and my probing fingers examined the deep cut. With my handkerchief and a strip of her dress, I got a compress made and in place.

"Red! Switch off the light. That's right. She's been stabbed, probably by accident. Are you too badly hurt to drive?"

"No. Is she seriously hurt?"

"I think not, but it's no joke. We'd better get her to Fiddler's Green and to bed. I can take care of all this, if you don't want to get in a physician; that would mean a police report, I suppose. You drive, and I'll hold her steady."

"Okay." Conners slammed the back door, slid himself under the wheel, and started the engine. "What in hell did you start that ruckus for?"

"That fellow was molesting Jerry."

"Rats! I had everything fixed up with Albers. Blast it, he'd have burned that rat himself for daring to touch her! And you had to spoil the whole works! Well, no use crying over spilled milk."

"Not a bit," I agreed. "Stop lamenting and get to moving. Will Ma Webster help take care of Jerry?"

"You'd better believe she will!" rejoined Conners, and said no more.

Fog or no fog, the car skimmed over the long hills like a bird, then swooped down at last to the salt sea air and the fresher skirls of mist that drifted thickly in along the shore. I was resentful of the accusation Conners had hurled at me. Yet, as my heated brain cooled, I had to confess there was some justice in it.

My action had certainly precipitated the trouble. A cool head and less impulsive might have served us better.

"We're here!" The car halted. I discerned the yellow fog-lights again and had a glimpse of the gate, as Conners got out and opened the door. "Has she come around?"

"No." I tried to rise, desisting quickly.

"Need a hand with her?"

"I need a hand with myself, Red," I said shortly. "You go in and get someone to carry her. And I'll want someone to help me. Tell Ma Webster to fix me up an ice-pack; cracked ice in a towel will do. Maybe I can walk later, but not now."

"You hurt?" The voice of Conners held amazement. "Why, the way you mopped up on that mob back there, I thought you were made of brass and iron!"

"Stop yapping and get gone," I snapped, and he obeyed.

After this, I had some bad moments. To myself I said that, come morning, I would get out of this whole thing and stay out. It was not my affair and only a fool would have mixed in it. Running from shadows, I had plunged into a brawling whirlwind of reality!

Things faded for a bit, when I got out of the car. I have a memory of Ma Webster lifting Jerry out, of other figures around, and of someone helping me. Inside the house I paused to rest, and found it was Professor Fuller who was aiding me. Red Conners was at a telephone in the hall; I heard his words clearly.

"Jemmy? Come get your bus in a hurry. Better change plates. May be some blood around; take care of it. Okay."

Ma Webster came and demanded whether I were able to take care of Jerry; I assured her that I was. Getting upstairs was no easy matter, however. I sank down at last on a chair beside the bed where Jerry lay.

Ma and her sister-in-law stood by; everyone else was shut out; and to my surprise, I found a completely equipped surgeon's bag at hand. I asked whether it belonged to Doc Means, whereat Ma Webster sniffed.

"Him? He's just a fake, hiding out from a dope charge up in Oregon. Somebody got bumped off by accident and they blamed him."

My head cleared. I examined the wound under Jerry's right breast, and cleansed it with care. It was nothing bad at all; a stitch or two was needed, nothing more. The bleeding had stopped, and as she remained unconscious, I lost no time in putting in the stitches. Bed for a day or so would fix her up.

This done, I had Red Conners come, and attended to his scalp-wound, while the two women watched me in open admiration. There was no one to attend to me, but twenty minutes later I was in bed with an ice-pack, and then drifted off into luxurious sleep.

MY wakening came to wan sunlight at the windows, and gray wreaths of fog about a tree-top outside. Ten o'clock said my watch; morning, then!

A twinge of pain cleared my head with sharp recollection. I examined myself with attention; I was badly bruised and discolored, but decided that my hurt was nothing serious, though it was still painful. A day of rest would put me on my feet, though I would be jumping no hurdles for a while.

"Hello! I didn't know if you were awake. Ma sent me with a tray."

I saw Pa Webster sidling in at the doorway from the living-room, bearing a tray of food. The furtive little man beamed at me, pulled up a bedside table, and unloaded his tray.

"Breakfast, and plenty of it! Here's an electric pad; Ma said you might need it. Some magazines. And how are you?"

"Well enough, thanks. What about a morning paper?"

"Nope." Pa Webster lowered his voice. "Ma says no. They got too much in them about a man named Bolton— funny stories."

"I can worry along without the papers, then. Can you lend me a dressing-gown or robe of some kind ?"

"Sure. I'll bring it here in a hurry."

"How's Miss Peterson?"

"She's setting up; says she'll be along to see you after a while."

"Fine. Tell her to have her lunch brought here with mine," I said.

"All right." The other hesitated. "And —and Ma says how about some cash on account?"

I laughed. "Hand me my clothes from that chair, will you?"

He complied, and I arranged the cash settlement desired by his provident spouse. He told me the morning had begun clear, but the fog was coming back heavily, and that Red Conners was still asleep. Also, a telephone was here on the table if I wanted one.

Left alone, I attacked the tray ravenously, lit a cigarette, and sank back on my pillow to think. I must get away from here at once, of course, and wash my hands of the entire affair. I must drop it cold. The pearls were safe, as I had just found; and in the hands of Jerry and Red Conners they would mean a fortune. In this respect I had served them well and was rid of any obligation, real or fancied, to the ghost of Harper.

To get out of here, too, was very simple. I reached to the table, took up the phone book, and looked up the number of my father's agents. They could send a car for me and handle everything quietly, keeping me under cover until the Clipper departed on Thursday. I scooped up the phone and called the number.

"I'd like to speak with Mr. Ferguson, please... Oh, hello, Ferguson! This is John Bolton."

"Thank the Lord!" came the fervent response. "We've been moving heaven and earth trying to locate you!"

"Why?" I demanded, unaccountably irritated. "Have you any need to get in touch with me?"

"No, but we were worried—"

"Well, don't worry, I'm safe," I broke in. "I do wish you'd be good enough to get my luggage from the hotel and send it to the Clipper. Any mail can go with it. I'll probably, stay where I am, until I go aboard."

Ferguson assented, somewhat grumpily, and I hung up.

WHY had I said and done this?

Why did Ferguson so unaccountably irk me, with his precise voice? He was a fine fellow. Last night I resolved to get out of this affair instantly. I had just called with that idea in mind—and lost the idea completely. Why?

I did not care a snap for the people here, of course; they amused me, but that was all. While I could admire Jerry, she meant nothing to me, as a woman. I had no sympathy with the ambition of Red Conners to murder the man Albers, whom I did not know. Then why not pull out?

"Damn it!" I said aloud. "I should quit and do it now, but I hate to lie down on a job. Particularly one where I've made one or two blunders. I'm going to see this through, if it's merely to prove that I can do a few things right!"

"You'll permit me to help you, perhaps," said a quiet voice; and I jumped.

This room opened off the living-room, which I lay facing. No one had come in that way; the bathroom door was closed; there was no other entrance. Yet, turning my head, I saw a man sitting in the other corner by the big walnut wardrobe there. It was Professor Fuller.

For a moment I thought I was seeing things.

"Don't look startled." The Professor rose, pulling over his chair. "There's nothing supernatural about my presence, although I admit to certain powers in that line. You interest me, my young friend. If I'd been let alone, I'd have warned you against venturing forth last night. The guardian spirits find it most difficult to penetrate fog, and we are at the mercy of elemental beings. That is why you had such bad luck last night."

"Oh! " said I. "The spirits don't navigate in fog, eh ? I remember. So that's where to lay the blame, and not on me! You're a comforting chap, anyhow. How the devil did you get into this room?"

The Professor chuckled, his bright little eyes sparkling at me.

"I'll show you when I leave. First, let me give you the help I came to bring. You do not believe in the spirits all around us?"

"Not a damn' bit," I rejoined. "No offense meant, Professor."

"None taken." Fuller waved his hand grandly. "Let me say that I'm entirely conversant with the errand on which you embarked last night; the spirits have kept me informed. I should add that I held Mr. Harper in very high esteem, though we were not so well acquainted as I could have desired. That is why I bring you my assistance; although, mind," he hastily added, "I shall myself take no part in the business."

So earnest and grave was all this that I did not crack a smile. The Professor took himself so seriously that he was a bit of a crackpot, like most men who do take themselves too seriously. I nodded to him.

"Thank you, Professor. Far be it from me to turn up my nose at any help. I've bungled things pretty badly."

"One learns only by making mistakes." The Professor glanced at a turnip of a watch. "I've not long to remain. Let me tell you just what to do regarding this man Albers. The spirits have given me full information."

Into my mind flashed the sane and eminently logical thought that this man might be far smarter than he seemed; that behind this talk of spirits there was probably some actual knowledge.

"The burden rests on you, says the sage; therefore, assume it." He spoke impressively and slowly. "Conners is no longer reliable; you must use the pearls. They are not Ceylon pearls, but are from the Malabar coast; don't make the mistake of calling them Ceylon pearls, to Albers. He knows better. Use the name of Jerry; you will see her picture on his desk. And when you have what you desire from him, give him the pearls and leave quickly— and do not look back!"

He nodded, beamed, and came briskly to his feet.

"That's all. Now I shall go as I came... I like to wander about this house in my own way. Do not mention my visit, however. Ma Webster objects to my using the passages. Good-by, and good luck to you tomorrow night. That's the time, you know."

He opened the big walnut wardrobe, stepped into it, and closed the door.

I stared with fallen jaw; then the truth flashed across my mind. Supernatural? Not a bit! A secret passage, as Fuller had just said. It was all quite simple.

But was it? For a moment, recollecting the Professor's words, an eerie feeling plucked at my nerves. How did Fuller know anything about those pearls ? How could he know whether they were Singhalese or Malabar pearls? If that tip of his should be true—

I swung myself carefully out of bed. Two steps took me to the chair where my clothes lay. I reached into the coat pocket and brought forth loop upon loop of pearls, spilling a few from the broken string as I did so. I eyed them sharply, critically, summoning up my long-disused knowledge of the gems. Malabar, eh? Yes, it might be so. Under daylight, they were not so definitely white as I had thought them last night.

"Well, I'll be damned!" I murmured blankly. "Then, all this information about Albers, about what to do and when to do it—"

Common sense returned. After all, I was among crooks; no ordinary run-of-the-mill scoundrels, but crooks of a distinct class. Albers was, according to Conners, at the head of various rackets. What more natural, then, than these people having all sorts of intimate knowledge about one another?

"Hanged if I know what to believe!" I mused. "In fact, I don't know yet just what it's all about—but I guess I'll gamble on the Professor and the spirits!"

I was still thinking of the queer program he had laid out for me—and of which I did not comprehend any detail.

ONE o'clock that afternoon found Jerry sitting across the table from me in the parlor of my suite, a bounteous luncheon between us, and her blue eyes somber. What she had to tell me about Red Conners was not pleasant.

"I hate to say it, but you'll have to know the truth. All this has thrown him back into old habits. A drug, yes; not happy dust, but something that soothes him. Opium, I think it is. So he's out of everything, for the moment, and I've got to know what to do, because Albers is calling me here at two o'clock."

I was wearing an atrocious purple bathrobe Pa Webster had supplied. Jerry, in slacks, showed no evidence of her hurt.

"So you're out of it, Red's out of it, and action is coming up, eh?" I said cheerfully. "That leaves me to handle it. Oh, you needn't look surprised! Today's Tuesday. I have until Thursday. Therefore, I'll see Albers tomorrow night. By that time I'll be able to move about comfortably enough."

Her astonishment was so genuine that I smiled. The decision had come to me; I would move blindly along the lines laid down by the Professor, and trust to luck for enlightenment.

Jerry let her fingers wander over the four white pearls on the table before her.

I had put them there— the ones I had spilled. She had accepted these four, with a glow of color rising in her face.

"I don't want to see Albers," she said slowly. "If you must know, I'm afraid of him."

I nodded. "I must know more than this, Jerry, before I see him."

"Eh?" Her face lifted. Her eyes held a startled glint. "You can't handle this! You can't see him! What is it you want?"

I sipped my coffee, which was an excellent French roast; I leaned back and regarded her pleasantly. It was time for a showdown. I had to bluff. There was something about a picture, eh? The Professor had given me a hint or two.

"I don't think you and Red misled me for any evil purpose," I observed amiably. "Yet you did mislead me. It's possible that both of you really meant to exact payment for the murder of Harper—"

"You know we did, and we do!" she broke in. "The man who murdered him is going to pay up for it!"

"You sang another song last night," I said. "The man higher up, you said then. Now, I mean to see this thing through to the finish. Not for your satisfaction, but for my own. Just to keep the record straight, I don't intend to murder Albers; but I shall give him the pearls— after I get what is desired. So come clean. Let's have the truth."

SHE stared at me, her bandaged breast rising and falling to swift breaths. I was glad to see that my wild shaft had gone to the mark.

"Then, you know— or you've guessed!"

"Come clean," I repeated. "Remember, we're friends, I'm getting nothing out of this. You're getting those four pearls; they're worth money. Let's have the truth."

She drew a deep breath, nodded as though to herself.

"Very well!" For an instant her eyes hardened. "I was secretary in a downtown bank. Albers wanted to take me out of it. Harp and I were hoping to get married. Albers went after us both. He got me and got me proper; I had forged a letter to help one of the bank's vice-presidents who was in a domestic jam. Albers got all the papers in the case. How? Don't ask me. He gets anything he wants.

"Do I understand, then, that you don't want these pearls?" I Inquired.

"He put the screws on me, went to the bonding company, and they dropped me. 'Anyone who would forge, would steal.' I was kicked out of the bank. Harp stood by me, so Albers went after him and made him into a tramp. He darned near got Harp sent to San Quentin on a frame-up, but Harp outsmarted him there. Harp knew Ma Webster, so we came here a couple of weeks ago. Harp and Red were old friends, too. Red, you see, had an old grudge of his own against Albers, and threw in with us. That's the story."

I finished my coffee, satisfied that things were coming clear at last.

"Now let's have all of it," I said, smiling at her. "Of course, I'm very dumb—"

"You're dumb like a fox!" she ejaculated. "What do you want to know?"

"Where the pearls really do come in. And perhaps about that picture of you on Albers' desk."

She caught her breath sharply.

"Then— then you do know!"

"A little," I assented. "But I can't afford to guess. So tell me."

She broke, all of a sudden.

"The picture, yes," she said. "In the back of it are the papers about me, and a note I wrote Albers—a crazy, wild note threatening to kill him. That was when he was trying to frame Harp. With them is something connected with Red Conners; I don't know what it is, except that it would put him in San Quentin. Albers is afraid of Red. If he gets killed, the police would get this picture and what's in it. Well, that's the thing we want, in exchange for the pearls."

So there it was, all of it.

I could scarcely choke down the astonishment that rose in me. That confounded little Professor had given me a straight tip after all. Spirits, eh ? Poppycock! Let someone else swallow that sort of stuff. The Professor simply had all kinds of information and was willing to impart some of it, but did not want to get mixed up in any private war.

"You say Albers is calling at two?" I inquired.

"Yes. He rang this morning and said he'd call again at two." Her eyes leaped to mine; she was sincere enough now. "I'm afraid of him! He's too smooth. I suppose I should pack a gun in my handbag and go kill him, for the way he's wrecked me and Harp; but I can't do that sort of thing." She shivered and looked down, miserably. "I just can't do it."

"No, you're not the sort to do that," I said quietly. "Now calm down and let me deal with Mr. Albers. Possibly we'll get back on my side of the world, where I won't be so apt at blundering. Let Red Conners quiet his nerves with opium; it won't do him any great harm, regardless of what most people think, if he doesn't carry it too far. And it'll keep him out of mischief."

THE buzz of the telephone broke in upon us. I saw Jerry start wildly, and held up my hand, checking her. A moment later I was at the instrument.

"J. A. Albers calling Miss Peterson," came a woman's voice.

"I'll take the call," I said. "I'm expecting it. This is P. T. Barnum speaking."

There was an instant of silence. I met the tense stare of the girl, and winked at her. Then came a pleasant, cultured, incisive voice on the wire— Albers.

"Hello! Albers speaking. What's this Barnum nonsense?"

I laughed. "Well, surely you didn't expect me to give my actual name? Miss Peterson has been rather badly hurt. She was stabbed, I believe by accident—"

"Good God, man!" broke in Albers. His voice held real concern. "I wouldn't have had this happen for worlds! Who did it?"

"You ought to know," I rejoined affably. "However, I'm acquainted with the whole affair; I'd like to talk things over with you, on her behalf. I have something which might be of interest to you; I believe Mr. Conners called you about it last night."

"Oh!" said Albers. "Do you mean the McGuffin necklace?"

"I don't know it by that name. It's a glorious string of pearls; I'd say, by the color and luster, they must have come from Malabar waters. May I bring them to you tomorrow evening?"

"Why not tonight?" he asked quickly. "Why not now?"

"Because," I replied smoothly, "we may not know until tomorrow just how badly Miss Peterson is hurt."

"Confound you! Let me do something about her case. What hospital is she in?"

"Fiddler's Green, as you very well know. Never mind bluffing, Albers. Is it tomorrow night or not ?"

"Yes, at eight," he snapped, and rang off.

I turned to Jerry, feeling very well satisfied with myself.

"You see? I told you I'd probably get on with him.... Here, for heaven's sake! Don't you dare faint! "

She swayed, but recovered. Then she put her head down on her arms and gave way to the sobs that shook her. She had gone to pieces at last, and no wonder.

For the remainder of this day, and all the next, I worked over that bruised groin of mine—unguents, heat, manipulation. I gradually made it improve, until I was able to walk down to the dining-room. My mental tension was relaxed, too. Things looked very different, now that I had learned the entire story.

ALL these two days, fog continued over beach and city, now lessening, now rolling in ever more thick and wet. Of my fellow-boarders, I saw Jerry from time to time, and the others at meals. Not the Professor, because Fuller had left Fiddler's Green. Conners showed up on Wednesday, gloomy and morose, asking no questions, apparently in a state of dream. He came once to my room, wandered aimlessly about, then went to the door, opened it, and paused there.

"Jerry told me about it," he said in a lackluster voice. "Go ahead and play it out for her sake. She's a good kid. I'm finished."

He slammed the door and was gone, somewhat to my relief; nor did he appear that evening for dinner.

Dinner was over at seven-thirty; I left the table, and Jerry followed me. She overtook me at the head of the stairs, halted, and extended her hand.

"Good luck," she said quietly. "I'll be waiting. And don't let him trick you; do be careful! "

"Thanks." I pressed her fingers, realizing I would not see her again. "You'll hear from me as soon as I get it."

I WAS not returning here. I phoned from my room for a taxi, pocketed the pearls, put on my overcoat and took my few belongings. I had no hat, but no matter. Win or lose, I was now climbing back to the other side of the world this night. This Arabian Nights adventure had been expensive, and the game was by no means worth the candle. I would see it to a finish and make my exit.

I let myself out of the house without seeing anyone, walked out to the gate and waited there for the taxicab. Here, with the fog vapors swirling around, my boasted common sense began to evaporate. The world became unreal and enchanted again; the massive lonely building behind me became a mount of wizardry upon a shoreless sea. The salt air drifted into my lungs; the thudding reverberation of the surf sent my blood pulsing with its hint of coral seas and flying-fish.

How the devil had Professor Fuller known about the white, white sand? Coral sand is blazing white, yes; but very few people are aware of the fact. How had he known so much about the pearls? Malabar, yes. And he had said to get what I went after and then to depart without looking back. Why? Did he really have some second sight?

Bosh! The lights of the taxicab lifted; its horn blared; and I was out of the fog of fantastic thought. All absurd! Crooks have queer information, that's all. Here was the taxicab, here was reality!

I climbed in. A moment later the yellow fog-lights thinned and died in blank mist. Gone was Fiddler's Green; gone was the gate, the spot where Harper had died; gone was Jerry Peterson— a brave, pleasant memory. I was on my way back to my own side of the world; resolutely I put all other things out of my mind.

THE hotel loomed up; the taxi dived at the entrance, brilliantly lighted, and the doorman appeared. Paying my driver, I walked in out of the fog, out of all this unreality, into a normal world that was richly luxurious.

This great hotel lobby held nothing bizarre; here all was stately dignity. To imagine that fracas of Monday night up the side-street, to imagine henchmen or gorillas of any racketeer lurking about here, were absurd folly. As I walked up to the desk, I even felt that it might be nonsense to ask for anyone named Albers. Yet I asked; the clerk, instead of directing me to a house-phone, asked my name.

"Phineas T. Barnum," I said, smiling. Looking slightly incredulous, the clerk went to a phone and spoke; he came back very affable.

"The No. 2 elevator goes to the roof," he said. "Mr. Albers is expecting you."

When I stepped into No. 2, two other men were in the elevator, and they eyed me narrowly as the car shot upward. It made no stop until the roof was reached. When I stepped out, the two followed. The car door clanged shut.

"Just a minute, buddy," said one of the two. "I'll have to frisk you for a gun. Sorry, but it's orders."

Here was sudden confirmation of everything I had been told. It was not easy to reach Albers, Red Conners had said!

"Go ahead, boys," I said, smiling. "Don't bother the beads in my coat pocket."

Making sure these were "beads," the two began to frisk me. The elevator had deposited us in a rather short, blank hallway. A door was opposite, and another door showed at one end. One of my searchers went to the door opposite, and knocked. It was opened.

"Okay. Here's your man. He's clean."

I went to the door. It was flung wide by a butler, a sharp-eyed, lithe butler with very wide shoulders, who bowed to me and spoke.

"Mr. Barnum, sir? May I have your things? Mr. Albers is in the library."

Doffing my topcoat, I passed through an entrance hall, on through a luxurious and cheerful living-room, and halted in the open doorway of a spacious library, walled half to the ceiling on three sides by books. The fourth side was all window, with drawn blinds at the moment. By day, it must have had a glorious view.

Albers was rising from behind an enormous flat-topped desk.

"Come in, come in! " he said heartily. "Ah, it's Mr. Bolton! I suspected as much, when I heard you were stopping at the Webster hostelry. Glad to meet you."

The words were pleasantly affable; the man was beaming, alive with good humor. A big man, handsome in a leonine and predatory way. A man of something under forty, with powerful lips, his eyes keen under his wide brows, his evening attire fastidious.

And suddenly I recognized him. It was the man who had tried to stop the taxicab on Monday night.

"Hello!" I exclaimed. "You're the chap I nearly ran down the other night!"

"So that was you, eh?" Albers laughed. "Sit down. A liqueur? Cigars on the desk. Make yourself comfortable."

He crossed to a tantalus against the bookcases, and I took a chair before the desk.

He recognized me, eh? I refused to let anything throw me off center, and helped myself to a cigar from the open humidor. Albers came back with two delicate Venetian liqueur-glasses. He handed me one, and took the other to his own chair.

"Here's luck all around!" he exclaimed genially. With a nod, I sipped the fluid. He extended a lighter, and I lit the cigar.

These preliminaries over, we settled back and looked at each other. The wide, masterful lips of Albers twitched, though his eyes remained alert. I caught his thought, and smiled.

"WE'RE mutually surprised— even gratified, eh?" said Albers frankly. "Mr. Bolton, it will be a pleasure to deal with you. Have you really brought those McGuffin pearls?"

I shrugged. "I've brought some pearls, at all events. Never heard of McGuffin."

"They're fabulous, legendary! They vanished at the time, of the fire and earthquake— a glorious string of the finest Singhalese pearls. By the way, the safe behind you holds the finest pearl collection in the country. One of my agents bought a marvelous necklace of pink Sunda Straits pearls from your father, five years ago."

"I'm afraid you'll be rather disappointed in these." I fumbled at my pocket. "I'd venture that they came from the Malabar coast, rather than from Ceylon."

A quick light came and went in the eyes of Albers. I wondered anew at the little Professor, and blessed his tip.

"Malabar, I should have said. Of course, the luster is close to that of Ceylon gems," he replied, "but they're infinitely rarer and finer."

I got the string from my pocket and looped it on the desk. Hawk-like, the fingers of Albers reached out at the pearls, his face gleaming with unfeigned eagerness. Curious, I reflected, that I was at the brink of life and death with this man, of whom I knew nothing whatever except the bits I had been told; his whole background was unknown to me.

A man might well be murdered for the worth of those gleaming globes of nacre; I had already discounted this peril. Puffing at the cigar, which was superb, I glanced along the polished desk and saw a large, handsomely chased silver frame to the right of Albers; but from where I sat, I could not see whose portrait it held.

"These are the McGuffin pearls, all right." Albers pushed them aside, reached out for a cigar, and bit at it. His eyes probed at me. "I'll not ask where you got 'em. But how on earth did a man like you get mixed up with that Fiddler's Green outfit?"

"The winds of chance blew me into that harbor," I rejoined, smiling.

"H-m! The name is ominous. And the place itself is dangerous in the extreme."

Apparently this was a veiled threat.

"I find it interesting, or briefly so," I rejoined. "From what I've heard, it's a far less dangerous place than this."

Albers grinned faintly. "Meaning that I might take the pearls by force? That stuff might go in a movie, Bolton, but I don't operate that way."

"You prefer a knife?"

Albers lost his smile. For a moment he became hard, polished steel.

"When I'm threatened viciously, I strike out with any weapon at hand," he said in a quiet voice. "You've no doubt been told some queer things about me; in ten minutes I could prove them a pack of lies told by gutter-rats who have inveigled you into handling the sale of the pearls for them."

"You might be making a mistake or two yourself," I rejoined amiably. "By the way, whose face does that handsome silver frame surround?"

He reached out and turned the silver frame, and the eyes of Jerry Peterson, smiling and radiant as I had never beheld them, met my gaze.

"How is she?" Albers demanded.

"Oh, she's doing very well indeed. Fine girl. Do I understand, then, that you don't want these pearls?"

"I want them more than anything else on earth— except one thing." Albers spoke slowly, intently, watching me the while. I did not pretend to misunderstand his words.

"Mind if I examine that picture?"

"Help yourself."

I took the silver-framed portrait from the desk, leaned back in my chair, and examined the reverse side. With my thumbnail I pried up the silver clamps that held the contents in place, and removed the back far enough to see that several documents were held there. Then I put it together again.

ALBERS was watching me in grim silence, and now spoke.

"I see you know what you're after. Who the devil told you they were there?"

I shrugged lightly. "What does it matter? Well, I think you arranged the swap with Red Conners, didn't you? I presume that it still holds good ?"

Albers looked incredulous. "A swap?"

"Yes. The pearls for the picture— and contents."

"Damned if I can savvy you, Bolton! What's your interest in this? What do you get out of it ?"

"It's a losing game, for me," I said. "My interest ceases as soon as we close the deal."

"You're asking nothing for yourself?"

I looked at him, trying to choke back the words, and could not.

"And nothing for Harper. Your question bears out much that I was told about you."

Albers flushed slightly. "Damned cheeky, aren't you? Well, well, we must avoid all personalities," he added, and became amiable once more. "Shall I wrap up the picture?"

"Thanks, no." I stood up. "I'll take it, and leave you to your conscience."

"What the devil are you talking about ?"

"You know: Harper, again. Thank God, this time tomorrow I'll be out of here and off to where the winds and the sea are clean! So I'll say goodnight."

I turned toward the entrance hall, scarcely believing that it was all over.

Albers came around the desk and walked with me. When the butler appeared, Albers took my topcoat from him.

"You may go, John; I'll see our visitor off," he said. The butler bowed and left. Albers stood holding the coat.

"Do you know, Bolton, I'd like to get better acquainted with you? It's a fact. Might pay us both to reach a better understanding."

"Who the devil let you in, Conners?"

"I had to see you; I want a word with you," Red Conners replied.

"I'm going far," I said. "I've touched the lower edge of the world, and I don't fancy it— any of it."

And yet, beneath the firm, steely look of Albers, I felt unaccountably shaken. I wondered whether, after all, I knew the straight of this entire story; whether this man could possibly be as he had been described to me. Then I remembered the limp figure of Harper against that telephone pole, and it hardened me.

In silence I reached my arms into the coat that Albers held, keeping the silver-framed picture in alternate hands, then buttoned the coat.

"I'll see you into the elevator." Albers opened the door that led into the outer vestibule.

So the game was actually played out; it had finished tamely after all! Until this moment, I had been alert for some sign of trickery; there was none. I relaxed. It had passed off just as things in my own world usually did, with no fury of passion or drama.

"Nice place you have here," I observed, glancing around, as we headed for the elevator light opposite. I noticed that the door at the end of the hall stood ajar. "Where does that go? To the roof?"

"No, to the stairs and down," replied Albers. "It's usually locked—"

His voice died abruptly, as a figure appeared in that open doorway.

RED CONNERS slid forward a couple of steps, and halted, as Albers reached out for the elevator button.

"Don't do that!" he said. His soft voice held a startling quality. Yet he stood as if empty-handed. He looked small, pathetic, rather helpless, but alert.

"Who the devil let you in, Conners?" demanded Albers, his hand withdrawing from the button.

"Oh, I just came. I had to see you; I want a word with you," Red Conners replied. He seemed quite himself, no longer vague and aimless. "Bolton, you go on down the stairs and take a car below. I don't want any elevator here, not yet. I see you got the picture, so go ahead."

Albers gave me a glance. "Slipped one over on me, did you?"

I started. "No! You know better!"

He nodded, laughed, and motioned me to go ahead. Conners was moving toward the open door of the penthouse.

I approached the stair door, uncomfortable under the ugly thought that I might have been used as a tool. Albers, despite his impressive assurance, had the air of having been caught off base. Reaching the door, I glanced back.

"I wouldn't take much of your time," Red Conners was saying, humbly.

Albers nodded.

"Well, come along inside, and I'll give you ten minutes."

"Thanks," said Conners gratefully.

I DISMISSED my uneasiness, and passed down a flight of stairs leading to the hotel corridor below. I left the door open behind me, as I had found it. The stairs brought me down at the side of the elevators. I pressed a down button, and saw by the indicator that the car beside me was on the way to this floor.

Suddenly I swung around, listening. The voice of Albers, uplifted in a furious explosion, pulsed down the stairway.

"You damned little rat! What d'you mean by that ?"

"Look out!" The voice of Conners, no longer soft, was almost a shrill scream. "I'm on to your tricks— don't you try it! You won't do me like you did Harper—" An oath burst from Albers. Then, almost drowned in the opening clang of the elevator doors beside me, a shot....

Two more shots.

"Going down!"

Clutching the picture, I forced myself into the car. The operator had heard nothing. The doors clanged shut. The car pitched down and down, halted at the third floor, went on to the lobby.

There was a commotion at the desk. Two men were running, dashing for the roof elevator and calling out something. Its door clanged, and it was gone with them. I turned and passed on out of the hotel. I knew with frightful certainty what they would find when they reached the top floor. They would find Albers, but they would not find Red Conners; that spry little man would be gone.

"Nearest telegraph office," I said, stepping into a taxi. "I want a messenger."

The fog was chill, veiling the street lights. Not the streets, however, but that penthouse scene, held my mental vision. I began to feel more sure, now, that I had been duped, had been made use of; or had I? After all, did it matter? I realized that the taxi had halted.

"Wait," I told the driver, and got out.

Inside, my task was simple. I procured an envelope, and into it put the papers that backed the photograph of Jerry Peterson. I sealed it and addressed it to her. There was no Fiddler's Green in the phone-book, but Ma Webster was listed.

"Deliver this by messenger," I said. Using the phone-book again, I dialed a number; I got Ferguson at his home.

"Can you put me up tonight ?" I asked. "Or until the Clipper leaves tomorrow?"

"It'll be my pleasure," said Ferguson. "Get here on the jump! "

I went out to the taxicab again, still clutching the framed picture of Jerry.

My brain flashed back to the scene before the door of Albers' apartment; there had been three shots. And Red Conners was a champion pistol-shot. He would be gone; if the police looked for anyone, it would be for a man named Barnum.

"And," I reflected, "if I'd used my own name, I'd be in the soup tomorrow instead of aboard the Clipper! Had they reckoned on my getting traced and arrested, I wonder? Would I have been just another sucker? Or are all these suspicions unfounded— are they really a pretty swell gang, these people under the lower edge of the world?"

A PASSING glare of light pierced the fog and illumined the silver-framed photograph in my hand. The face of Jerry looked up at me radiantly, assuring me of— what? I broke into a laugh, tossed the picture to the seat beside me.

"Anyhow, I completed the job!" I muttered. "And I'll keep you, Jerry. I'll take you with me to the South Seas— just to remind me of all the things I'll never be sure about! "

But I was sure of what I would read in the morning papers.

_____________________

16: The Devil's Fire

(as by Gordon Keyne)

Blue Book, February 1947.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I tried to speak and could not.

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

I stirred, came alive, found words.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Balfour started up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Twelve o'clock," said none of us. "No further orders today, my friends." The Rajah's voice, speaking in Hindustani. Then he switched instantly to English.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes?"

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

"Oh! Sirvath?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His white teeth showed in a faint grin.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So there was no further argument.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Eh? Oh, yes— Immigration Service."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They never had a chance to bring him in.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I certainly do," replied Virginia.

I nodded to her.

Howard Chaffee, who had done very little talking to now, spoke up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

___________________________

17: He Who Sets a Trap

Blue Book, March 1947

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

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

Virginia Trent shook her head and gave me a look.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Virginia eyed me speculatively, and Aguilar chuckled.

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

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

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

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

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

Virginia was still eying me.

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

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

She frowned, then the frown dissolved into a smile.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chaffee sniffed impatiently.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He chuckled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Have what?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Virginia finished her drink and rose, smiling at me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Aguilar cackled a thin little laugh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

ii

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Are you acting under instructions?" I asked.

He nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Smythe listened to my story with intent interest.

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

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

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

Smythe assented.

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

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

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

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

"Asleep. Relaxed. Heart not affected."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I got Aguilar on the line.

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

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

"Eh? How d'ye know that?"

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

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

iii

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He chuckled and burnished his spectacles.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I liked John Aguilar still more.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chaffee phoned me that afternoon.

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

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

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

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

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

"What town?" I demanded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I caught my breath, as I met her eyes.

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

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

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

iv

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Then what?" she said.

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

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

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

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

I smiled at Virginia.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Are they leaving?" I asked quickly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Our faces must have apprised him, as the appalling realization took us. The French consul! Myedin had been dining with him, entertaining him with that electronic gadget— and had skipped out to escape the net. I knew it with ghastly certainty.

"French?" repeated Virginia. "You mean that he— that Myedin is tied up with the French consul?"

"Lord, no! Probably making use of him," snapped Aguilar. "But where is he?"

"Dining with the man who just passed," I said. "Or was. He's gone now."

Between us, we acquainted Aguilar with the situation. My worst fears were too obviously true; the table where Myedin had sat was now being cleared, he was gone. In the very instant of victory we had lost our man. He had slipped away before our faces. Like a clever magician, he had bemused us with that toy of his— then vanished.

However, in this hard moment I had to admire Aguilar. He never turned a hair.

"Too bad, but you did well, Clements," he said quietly. "We're just not good enough. Next time we must do better. I can't touch that consul, of course; diplomats are inviolate, and Myedin has just made use of him."

"He had no reason to skip out," I protested. "It was mere chance that we came."

"But he saw you and took warning." Aguilar sipped his wine, then leaned over and patted Virginia's hand. "Sorry, my dear; however, I've some interesting news for you. Wait till I dismiss my men."

He lifted a hand. Two dark-clad men came from the foyer and to our table. Aguilar looked up at them.

"I was too slow, boys," he said, with unwarranted self-blame. "Send everyone away and hope for better luck next time. It's a miss."

THE TWO MEN went away. Aguilar hauled some papers from his pocket and produced an amazingly poor photograph or snapshot of three men in whites. He showed it to Virginia.

"Can you recognize any of these?"

"Of course. The one in the center— he has a mustache now, but he's Lajpat Rai. At least, Dr. Clements says he is. He's the man who was recently here."

Aguilar turned to me and shoved over the picture.

"That's your man, yes," I said. "What's all this about?"

"Business," said he. "Miss Trent, when your father was— er— murdered, the actual criminal was killed. He has since been identified. He was formerly a personal servant to Lajpat Rai, also to Colonel Nicholas Myedin. Tomorrow morning I'm going to ask that you sign the complaint charging Myedin with being accessory to your father's murder. Eh?"

"Of course," she responded. "That's what I've wanted to do, but you lacked any evidence."

"I think there's enough now, with what Dr. Clements can give us, to support the charge," he said. "We don't need it, perhaps, but I like to neglect nothing."

"A dozen warrants won't help you arrest Myedin unless you can find him," I said.

"True," assented Aguilar. "Too true, in fact. Tonight is an example. He laughs at us; but the last laugh is what counts most. Well, I'll come around to your hotel in the morning, if I may, and run you down to police headquarters to get the papers duly signed and so forth."

He departed. Virginia lit a cigarette and eyed me uneasily.

"I don't like it," she said, "any of it! That man isn't my notion of a proper bulldog on the trail. He's not brisk and threatening. Then there's Lajpat Rai or Myedin or whatever his name is. Why, he seemed positively frivolous, Hugh! I don't understand it at all!"

I smiled. "You've been reading detective stories, my dear. If I work all day in the lab with a microscope and blood-specimens, I don't come home at night spotted all over with gore, you know."

"That's not the same," she said.

"Precisely the same. Colonel Nicholas Myedin, bless him, has blood on his hands an inch thick, but he keeps them outwardly clean."

That must have made her think of her father. She shivered slightly, and gathered up her coat. I called for the check, and we rose. The evening had been spoiled for us; everything had gone wrong.

Still, I wondered. Lajpat Rai never took chances without a reason. Granted that the encounter with us had been unexpected, why had he appeared here with the French consul? What considered calculation lay behind it? The thought worried me. I knew the gentleman far too well to doubt there was much chance at work— except our presence. He had shown off his electronic trick with set purpose, he had dined publicly with the French consul from set purpose, and there was nothing frivolous about it either. The more I reflected on it, the more convinced I was of this fact, and it loomed with sinister force. No man deliberately risks life and liberty for a petty gain.

One pleasing thing about our little hotel was that it had the right idea about service. The morning paper, for instance, was always pushed under the door at an early hour. I wakened next morning in good time, obtained the news sheet, and hopped back into bed to read luxuriously. Later in the morning Aguilar would come for Virginia, and I would go along with them; probably much later. No use worrying over that until the time came.

The news held nothing disquieting, I remember. International affairs were not so bad; following the Bikini bomb test of July past, things had quieted down a good deal. United States and Soviet relations were on the whole doing all right, although the usual pinpricks showed a bit of tension. I glanced at a headline "Three Men Shot" and paid no attention, until suddenly the thing rose out of the printed page and hit me like a blow in the face, as I read the sub-head over the story:

THREE MEN SHOT

Mystery Battle Shocks

Fairview Street

Three men were killed at 9:30 last night in what is believed to have been an echo of Indian feuds. James Parr, caretaker of the premises at 795 Fairview Street, was shot to death and two visitors, Irwan Dhas of Bombay and an elderly man named Gerard Chaffee were the victims of the shooting. No witnesses of the affray remained to tell what took place. It was possibly a tragedy of errors, since the premises are occupied by Howard Chaffee, a brother of the dead man, who last evening was out of the city...

Incredulity seized upon me as I read. Parr, good old Scotty Parr, dead! It seemed impossible. And old Chaffee, my patient— why, he was assuredly no gunman; he could barely walk, much less go in for killings! But there it was, in cold print. The story went on to play up the mystery. Neighbors had been aroused by a sudden fusillade of shots from the house, before which a car stood at the curb—a car belonging, it was later ascertained, to Irwan Dhas. What took place, no one knew. Parr had been alone in the house, presumably. It was known that he had recently come from India. Howard Chaffee could not be reached at the time of going to press.

I looked back again at the beginning of the news item. Nine-thirty! That was precisely when Colonel Nicholas Myedin had been going through his electronic antics last evening. So my wondering was answered.

He had prepared a very careful, foolproof alibi. It explained everything, except the meaning of what had happened.

v

I BATHED, shaved, breakfasted, and was still eating eggs and bacon when Aguilar arrived. He joined me in the hotel coffee-shop, sat down with a nod, and ordered coffee.

"Myedin picked himself a good alibi last night, eh?"

"Obviously. So you've seen the story."

"Seen it?" He permitted himself a snort. "I've been working on it since four this morning, when one of my men picked it up. Within the past hour everything has been straightened out smooth as silk. Our man is a great detail worker."

"Glad you're informed," I said. "I don't see how, or why, Parr shot those two men— old Chaffee and the strange Hindu."

"He didn't," said Aguilar. "Must have been three or four gunmen on hand. They all opened up at once, boggled things a bit, and the Hindu got a crack at Parr and killed him. That, I imagine, is what actually happened; no one knows certainly. For lagniappe, as they used to say in New Orleans, there's the odd way the Hindu was dressed: in evening clothes."

I made no comment, and Aguilar related what had happened, as he figured it.

A trap, obviously. Howard Chaffee, who must have handed out a fat lot of money at his brother's orders, had arranged for a visit from Gerard and Lajpat Rai. The trap set, he skipped out to San José for the night. The visitors had come, with Irwan Dhas playing the part of the Rajah from Hell. Parr had admitted them into the house and the hidden killers had blasted them. Chaffee had got rid of his poor old brother, anyhow.

"I've investigated Myedin's connection with the French consul," Aguilar stated. "He's been selling to French interests certain electronic inventions for use with hydro-electric equipment— apparently quite legitimate. Old Gerard Chaffee left a will leaving everything he owned to the French consul here, too. Consulate lawyers have produced the will and established the claim."

"Behind that false front, Myedin collars the money?" I said.

Aguilar nodded.

"Right. All legitimate enough, of course. The man's infernally clever."

"Has Howard Chaffee come back to town?"

"Oh, sure. He's being grilled, but there's nothing on him to prove he laid any trap, of course. He remains blandly innocent."

"And can't you make any arrest?"

"No. We've no reason to touch the French interests, of course. Howard Chaffee thinks himself smart; he's a fool. Myedin will make some deal, probably killing him, and depart at will for fresh pastures. He's made a fat haul out of Gerard Chaffee."

"And you can't touch him?"

"Yes, if I could find him." Aguilar smiled and rubbed up his glasses. "That's my problem— finding him! I do not seek a battle of wits. My sole aim is to pounce on him, and if he resists arrest, to shoot."

"Simple," I commented ironically. Poor old Chaffee from Tibet! He had been no more than a pawn. He had deserved a better fate.

"Do you think Miss Trent is ready to go?" Aguilar asked. "We'd best get off."

"I don't know," I said discourteously. "Look her up yourself."

HE LEFT to do so; I paid the check and stepped outside for a breath of fresh air, feeling morose and shocked. Parr's death left me much disturbed, too. In passing the desk, I took an envelope that was shoved at me as my mail. After a few moments I opened it.

The sole contents was a check for a thousand dollars, signed by Howard Chaffee— the money he had said was in the mail. I stood there in the sunlight, staring at it, then abruptly tore it into scraps and stepped over to the gutter, throwing away the pieces. I wanted none of his money. It was no less than an insult.

"Hey, there! Hey, Mister!" said a voice. "It's me!"

I glanced around. A taxi had drawn up at the curb almost beside me. There was a face I recognized, grinning at me. With a rush, I remembered the taxi-man I had sent to pick up anything he could at the Colsax Street house. He had slipped clear out of my mind with the rush of events.

"Oh, hello!" I said, and opening the cab door, got in. "Stick around; we'll be needing you in a few minutes. Get anything on that house?"

"Yeah, but I been sick," he replied. "I sent a couple kids around there to scout. They done a good job. Only person they seen was an old guy, dark-complexioned, like a Mexican, with white mustache."

I nodded. The same man I had seen.

"Buick sedan in the garage," he went on.

I caught at the name. Lajpat Rai had used a Buick at Burlingame.

"Did they see the license number?"

"Yeah; California, but they didn't get the number— just kids, you know." He spoke apologetically. "Got something else they hauled out of a trash-barrel back of the house last night. Don't know if it means anything to you or not. It's a last year's plate, of course, orange and black instead of black and white—"

He lugged forth into sight a bent, bedraggled old license plate. When I saw the orange number upon it, I think my heart stood still for an instant. The number was 7E-24-55: the number of Lajpat Rai's car at the Burlingame Arms. The car had returned to this house on Colsax Street, the old plates had been stripped off and replaced by new ones— and this was one of the old plates from a trash-barrel!

That house was the secret hideaway of Nicholas Myedin!

I fumbled some money into his hand, seized the plate and shoved it under my coat, and got into the hotel; I did not feel safe until I had reached my room and put the thing out of sight. Then I came back down and met Virginia and Aguilar, and put them into the taxicab. I begged off going along; I was not needed, and did need to sit down and think what I was to do.

It was not so easy. The obvious thing, of course, was to advise Aguilar at once and let him fall to work. To be honest, I was afraid of failure, I think. Last night's affair had unsettled me; I could picture Myedin again scenting a trap and taking to flight. I was unsure of Aguilar, and too bitterly sure of the Rajah from Hell.

Yet what else could I do? Alone, nothing whatever. I sat in my room, shaking with buck fever, unable to determine on anything. I had the positive certainty now: Our man was in that house. Gradually the conviction came to me that there was only one thing to do— put my information in Aguilar's hands and let him act upon it. This was sensible, and calmed me to realize it. Thought of Parr did urge me to tell Chaffee and let him put his gunmen to work, but this would be folly and I knew it.

MY ROOM phone rang. I picked up the receiver to hear Chaffee's voice.

"Clements? I'm down here in the bar. Can you come down? Can't stop five minutes."

"Right down," I said, and suited action to words.

I found him seated at a drink, and the sight of him was a shock. He looked ten years older, shaken, nervous.

"You've seen the papers? I've had a hell of a time with the cops and all," he snarled. "On my way home now. Just stopped in for a minute. I don't suppose you know anything— bad business last night, all of it. Well, I've had my notice."

His manner, his snarling whine, put me off any thought of confiding in him.

"Your notice? What d'you mean?" I inquired.

"Telegram, unsigned. Said all accounts would be settled inside two days," he responded jerkily. "You know what that means— same as the others. I've got to use my head now; I'm going to let that bastard come after me, and then get him for keeps. By the way, I'm sorry about Parr."

"So am I," was my reply.

That was all. He had left his car outside, and I went out to it with him.

"So long," he said. "Don't count me out yet; I'm going to get him. If you pick up anything, let me know."

I merely nodded, and he drove off. I did feel a little guilty for letting him go and saying nothing— but it was the only wise course. Aguilar was the only man to trust.

I had to pay in worry for my indecision, however. Virginia came home alone; Aguilar had been detained on some business, she said. She had learned all about last night's affair, too, and it had put her into a dither of nervousness.

I was even worse off, for I tried everywhere to get hold of Aguilar, and could not. It was three in the afternoon before he telephoned.

"You'd better get here on the jump," I said.

"No can do," he rejoined. "I've an important meeting—"

"Listen," I broke in. "I've got everything you want— everything, understand? I haven't told even Virginia. I'm the only soul who knows, and I won't talk over the wire. But this is the wind-up if you don't bungle it."

"Oh!" he said slowly. "All right, then. I'll be there in ten minutes."

Three minutes later my phone rang again. I answered.

"Hi, Clements. This is Chaffee. Free this evening?"

"Unfortunately, no," I answered. "But why?"

"I thought you might like to sit in on a party with me," he said. "Looks as if it would clean up this business of ours at one crack. Get me?"

"Oh!" I thought fast. "You mean you've found the fellow?"

"No. I've got him coming to me. I got a line on him and I'm using it."

"Sorry," I rejoined, in relief. The game was still mine, and I wanted none of his traps. "I'm definitely tied up, tempting as you make it sound."

"Okay— your loss," he responded, and hung up in an evident huff.

I was not worried about his reaction, but wiped my brow; for an instant he had started me sweating, with the suspicion that he had discovered about the Colsax Street house. So he had got a line on Colonel Nicholas and had laid another trap? Evidently he had not learned his lesson the first time, I reflected. A bungler; and I had been so tempted to reveal my precious secret to such a rogue!

Virginia heard nothing of the secret. Not that I distrusted her, of course; I distrusted fate. When Aguilar arrived, he came directly to my room. I let him in and pointed to a chair. He settled into it.

"Very odd thing, if you spoke the truth over the phone," he said. "Chaffee had a notion to end the game tonight, too. I was with him when I called you."

"Howard Chaffee?" I stared at him.

He nodded, calm and unexcited.

"Right. He's been lucky in a way. Remember the fellow killed last night in company with Gerard Chaffee— Irwan Dhas? Well, Chaffee found he had a brother working in a store on Dupont Street and thinks it's a direct lead to Colonel Nicholas Myedin; so he's given the fellow a message to deliver. Of course, the man swears he never heard of Lajpat Rai and so forth; I think myself he lies, and the message will be delivered. Chaffee wanted me in on it; I refused."

"Does Chaffee know you for what you are?"

He shook his head, smiling slightly. "No. I think he suspects something, though, from my pull with the cops. He's probably heard of the FBI and such organizations."

"But I don't savvy it, Aguilar! What kind of a message to our man?"

"A damn' fool one. Precisely what Myedin will most like to hear. Chaffee is the bait; he'll be waiting in a car marked with a blue tail-light at nine tonight, on the outer Esplanade drive opposite McGinty's Café. Fine deserted sea-coast at that spot. He wants Lajpat to meet him and call everything off— offers big money and so forth."

"Still I don't get it. Will he really be in the car?"

"Absolutely. He figures he's being closely watched and Lajpat will come to finish him. But he has or will have men hidden, marksmen. He gambles his life on their ability to act first."

"Damned nonsense!" I exclaimed. "It's no more than a childish variant of the trap he set last night— brave, if you like, but silly."

Aguilar nodded. "So I tried to argue. But that's Chaffee himself— courageous, perfectly willing to gamble his life, but nervous and shaken, unstable, at extremes. Did you get me here to receive news, or to talk my head off?"

"Oh! Excuse me," I said quickly. "The point is, Chaffee called me and offered to let me in on the party, just after you had left him."

"He talks too much." Aguilar made a nervous gesture. "I think Myedin will copper him tonight, somehow. That fellow smells a trap afar off. I'd not want to be in Chaffee's boots at nine tonight."

He sat looking at me. A muscle twitched in his cheek; he was actually nervous as hell and trying to keep it hidden. I smiled at him.

"Oh, you want information! Very well. The Rajah from Hell is living at 742 Colsax Street, apparently with only one servant."

Aguilar blinked. "Guesswork?" he said.

I reached out the license plate. "This is real, solid fact. Finger it. I'll tell you the whole thing, and you can draw your own conclusions."

So, unhurriedly, I began with the car at the Burlingame Arms, told how my attention had fallen upon the Colsax Street house, and what had happened since. Through it all, John Aguilar listened in utter silence, eyes fastened upon me, until I had finished. He looked blank, emotionless, stony.

"I see," he said at last. "You've been careful. Good work, Dr. Clements. Very pretty work indeed." He stirred and rose. "I must be off."

"Eh?" I said, surprised. "Off? Where?"

"To find a taxicab and have a look at that house myself, now, in the full light of day. Our man's there, no doubt of that. We'll smoke him out tonight—unless Chaffee gets him first. We'll do it, in fact, while Chaffee is springing his little silly trap."

vi

AGUILAR GOT his look around, which of course showed him only a blank house. To my surprise, however, he showed up with a city survey of the district, showing everything in and about each lot.

He advised saying nothing to Virginia, and I agreed. She would necessarily have worried keenly. Besides, he wanted to keep the facts known only to the two of us; like me, he feared lest the Rajah from Hell could pick secrets from out of the very air. And he could just about do that with his electronic apparatus, too.

Aguilar showed up for dinner with us at the hotel. I told Virginia I was going out with him later to hold a conference upon the whole business, and she asked no questions. In fact, we left immediately after dinner; Aguilar had a car, and drove downtown on Post Street to a bungalow that served him for living-quarters and office. He had a bare, homeless sort of place there. His office had nothing in it except a big city map on the wall, an ancient roll-top desk, three telephones and a couple of chairs.

"Well, it's seven-thirty— loads of time." Aguilar took a creaky chair at the desk and began to load a pipe. Before he had it lighted, the phones began to ring; he got five calls within two minutes. To each one he replied just three words:

"Nine o'clock. Okay."

He hung up finally and grinned at me. "Military dispositions, Clements. This time, no mistake; everything covered. Even so, I expect he'll spring something on us at the last minute; maybe he'll vanish into thin air."

A sour jest— too apt to come true.

"Nine o'clock?" I said. "That's precisely when Chaffee has set his trap. Aren't you going to stop that foolishness?"

"No. It's very opportune for us," said Aguilar, smoking comfortably. "It's a long way from that house over to the Esplanade; gives us plenty of time to operate."

"Suppose the trap works and Chaffee kills him?"

He shrugged. "I'll not mind. I've given up all hope of catching him alive."

"And if Chaffee is killed?"

"No particular loss, as I look at it," he returned calmly. "Might even be a distinct gain. Anyhow, the thing distracts our man's attention."

"If he goes himself," I added. "He may not."

"We'll know before we leave here," said Aguilar. I gave him a sharp inquiring glance but he vouchsafed no information. Apparently he wanted to divulge none of his preparations, and I blamed him not a bit.

IT WAS A DISMAL hour that we put in, so far as I was concerned. We smoked, talked, got occasional phone reports. Eight-thirty came. Aguilar rose, opened a closet, and came out with a long walkie-talkie outfit. I helped him get it on his back.

"Expect to use this thing— in a city?" I demanded.

"The Signal Corps has developed it for that express purpose, my skeptical friend. We're going to fight the Rajah from Hell with his own weapons— Ah!"

A buzz; he made answer, listened, stood there smiling, and cut off.

"We'd better go, Clements. The Buick sedan is just leaving the Colsax Street garage now," he said. "Two men in it— Myedin himself is on the job. And for the first time, he's made a mistake, a serious one. Never mind; you'll see when we get there. My car has a driver; come along. You have a gun?"

I nodded, and we left the bungalow. Outside, a driver was in his car. We got in and the car started. Aguilar had to sit hunched over because of the walkie-talkie; from time to time, he got reports. To Colsax Street was only a short distance. When we turned into it, we drove past the house without stopping. The garage doors were closed. A floodlight at the top of the steps illumined them brightly; no one could approach the house from the street below without being distinctly visible.

"That's his mistake," said Aguilar softly. Our car stopped at the curb slightly up the street and opposite. "Plenty of light there— none in back! And it's possible to get at the house from the rear. Keep your eye on the place, now; we're running on schedule."

I looked, and saw not a soul in the street, though down the block two or three cars stood at the curb. A small car came toiling up the hill and stopped before 742. A man got out and started up the stairs that climbed to the house. In that floodlight every detail was visible. He wore a telegraph messenger's uniform and cap. A telegram for Colonel Nicholas Myedin, no doubt. He was all alone. No one else was in his car.

It was close to nine o'clock, almost upon the hour, in fact.

I watched those lighted steps, and saw no one. The house entrance itself was of course invisible from the street. Suddenly there came a buzz from Aguilar's contraption; he answered, listened, then spoke.

"Okay.... Here, Clements! Help me off with this thing."

In the confined space, it was a job getting the straps unbuckled and off. As he got clear, he told me:

"As we expected: Chaffee's parked car was just smashed to flinders by another car. Not the Buick, of course; Myedin was too smart for that—probably had another car all set for the job. No details yet, of course. Well, that finishes Chaffee; now we'll have to step on it. All right, Charley; come along with us."

The driver hopped out as we left the car, and I caught the bulge of a holster at his belt. Aguilar led the way, and as we crossed the street, the figure of the messenger came down the lighted steps, fast, got into his car and shoved off. We were going up those lighted steps almost before he was gone.

So Howard Chaffee was probably done for! Twice he had set a trap and caught the wrong prey. Well, he had been warned. I had no doubt that he was dead; when Lajpat Rai struck, he did not waste his blows. And what were we walking into, here in this blaze of light where anybody up above could see us clearly? Perhaps Aguilar suspected my hesitation.

"Step fast, Clements!" he said. "If the messenger got anyone in the house to answer the door, it's all right. If not, it isn't."

Our chauffeur dashed ahead of us, a flashlight in his hand. We were at the top, and out of the floodlight. Ahead was darkness and movement, and the stabbing beam of the flashlight.

"Okay, boss," said a composed voice. "Just like clockwork. Got him."

Understanding broke upon me: The messenger was a decoy. Here under the ray of light was Lajpat Rai's servitor, the gentle, kindly old man whom I knew by sight. He was now handcuffed and between two other men who held him. They had come in from the rear, to the house.

"Good work," Aguilar said. "Inside with him somewhere, out of the way. Tie him in a chair and gag him. Make sure that he touches nothing. Charley, take a look through the house. Careful not to touch anything."

He had a small flashlight and signaled with it, as the others moved into the house, which was all dark. I caught two answering stabs of light from the bushes around; more men were stationed there. The little entrance porch where we stood was in inky darkness.

"I think, Doctor," said Aguilar, "we'd better stop right here. Catch him in the entrance; a flashlight is always very startling. He may double back for the street, and then my men down below will have him trapped on the stairs."

" 'Him'? There'll be another man with him," I said. "Two men left here."

"Yes, of course. I wonder why? Must be a reason," he said musingly. "Well, we'd better shut up. He's a bit overdue now. We'll have warning when he comes into the garage; we can hear the doors."

We waited a long while; everything was black, everything was still. A dog in the adjoining yard began to bark, but roused no response and desisted. Deceptive as the minutes were, I knew they were flitting steadily away. To get here from the Esplanade, with a good driver, should take no more than ten minutes, with luck. Much more than that had elapsed since the report of the crash had come in on the walkie-talkie.

The porch on which we stood was only a step above the ground and was surrounded by a low half-rail a couple of feet high. The house door was standing wide open. I caught a brief ray of light in the hall and heard a footstep. The light struck us and vanished.

"It's me," said the voice of our driver, Charley, who was undoubtedly one of Aguilar's men. He spoke under his breath, cautiously: "House is empty. Lot of scientific apparatus in one room. One of the upper rooms projects and has a full view of the street below, and the steps up, in that blaze of light."

"Scram," said Aguilar. "And quick about it."

As he spoke, I heard a car door slam, and the sound prickled in every nerve. Charley disappeared silently. I listened for the scull of feet on the cement steps, but could hear nothing. Then, causing a distinct shock that was almost panic, an electric light over our heads flashed on, bathing the entrance in light.

I met the staring, startled gaze of Aguilar. I must have looked still more wide-eyed, for a shadowy smile came to his lips. He pointed down, and I understood. Someone in the garage, below, must have turned a switch. It was as simple as that. Colonel Nicholas Myedin had come home, and the trap was sprung.

No doing anything about it, of course. I questioned Aguilar with a look, and he shrugged. After all, it did not matter. If Myedin got this far, he was caught, and the light would merely prevent any attempt at escape. So, producing a cigarette, I lighted it and we waited. Now we could hear the sound of footsteps. Aguilar quietly stepped to the house door and pulled it nearly shut. Everything was strangely prosaic. Our anticipations had been absurd; there was no flourish of pistols, nothing melodramatic— just a man walking into the trap.

It seemed almost a pity, I thought, that the Rajah from Hell should end up in so tame and unglamorous a fashion. For he had no earthly chance of evasion or escape. Men inside the house, around it, men down below closing in upon him—

The footsteps were closer now. A voice was murmuring low words; I caught the metallic timbre of the voice I knew so well. A figure moved at the edge of the light. I flipped away my cigarette; no further need now of any concealment. Then I stood petrified, as the approaching figure came into the light with a sudden cry and a quick step forward.

"Oh, Hugh! He— he said you'd be here—"

It was Virginia Trent.

vii

THERE WAS an instant of stupefied silence.

I stared past Virginia, as I folded an arm about her, and saw Lajpat Rai standing there, within the circle of light. His guard was down: he looked utterly astounded as he regarded us. Virginia was speaking rapidly.

"He said you were here, that you wanted me; I thought it was a lie, but I couldn't refuse to come— he was very polite—"

Lajpat Rai broke into a laugh, and stepped forward.

"A delicious irony," he said. "Yes, I did say you were here; I meant to get you later, Clements, and somehow arrange with both of you an end to hostilities. And here you are! Evidently I was right in suspecting that your continued enmity would be perilous. I disregarded you too long."

But before I could speak, Aguilar stepped out.

"Here you're not dealing with Dr. Clements, but with me. Colonel Nicholas Myedin, I have a warrant in my pocket. You're under arrest for murder; I counsel you to make no attempt to escape. I have men covering you this moment."

"Indeed! Mr. Aguilar, I believe." Myedin surveyed him with arrogance, seemed about to go on speaking, then checked himself abruptly. Pride, perhaps, or vanity. His trim figure, with one sleeve dangling, looked grotesque.

"Your hand, please," Aguilar commanded. I saw that he held a pair of handcuffs. Myedin saw it also, and started slightly.

"No," he said, a flat statement, a positive refusal. "You should add kidnap charges to your fantastic list. Or don't you suppose I kidnaped Miss Trent?"

"Oh, don't be silly!" broke out Virginia. "He didn't at all, really. I came quite voluntarily; everything was very pleasant!"

Myedin bowed to her. "Thank you, Miss Trent. May I suggest that things might be more comfortable all around if we stepped into the house?"

"No!" I exclaimed sharply. All eyes went to me. "Careful, Aguilar! He's an expert illusionist. You've forgotten one important thing: two men left this house— where's the other one?"

I had hit the mark; Myedin's face told me as much. Then he stepped forward past us to the doorway and paused, turning.

"Nonsense!" he exclaimed cheerfully. "These charges are fantastic. If Mr. Aguilar really has a warrant, I demand to see it. Come inside, and let's go at the thing reasonably. I sha'n't refuse to accompany you to police headquarters if you insist; naturally, I'm not fool enough to resist, since I can clear away all accusations in no time—"

He spoke rapidly, genially, giving no one any chance to object. As he spoke, he put out his one hand and shoved the door open. It all happened rapidly after I had cried out my protest, too swiftly for other action. And as he pushed open the door, he found a switch inside and clicked it.

The light here was extinguished; we were plunged into pitch darkness.

Noise— alarmed voices burst forth everywhere. I pulled Virginia to one side and held her close. Men came rushing upon the porch from every side. Aguilar, I think, reached the switch and the light returned, to show Myedin gone—into the house, of course. A pistol exploded somewhere inside, and at this everyone was shoving in. I abandoned Virginia and pushed in with the others, furious and aghast at the happening.

Tumult, darkness, men stumbling into one another, flashlights stabbing long rays of light across the rooms, everything in confusion— and then, so suddenly that it frightened us all, a burst of red flame erupting in our faces. How or why, we knew not. Half a dozen shots roared out; then we were frantically shoving back, away from the fierce redness— for the rooms ahead of us were alight in an instant, as though the house had leaped all at once into flames.

So it had, too, doubtless made ready beforehand. For as we retreated, the fire came gushing after us in a most incredible and appalling manner. We tumbled outside—two men shot and nearly helpless, another dead and dragged forth limply. Everyone was shouting; an access of fear and horror had seized all except Aguilar, who continued shouting frantic orders. He made himself heard; the men scattered.

I REACHED VIRGINIA, caught her hand, and we got away from the searing heat into a corner of the grounds. The house was now a pillar of spouting flame and thick oily smoke; everything was bright as day. The hurt men were brought to me— one dead, two with bullet-wounds, a couple more badly burned. Virginia and I, the only persons halfway calm, took charge and did what we could. The old Hindu servant of Lajpat Rai had apparently not been got clear.

"I think we got Myedin." Aguilar joined us, shouting above the crackling roar of flame. "Two men are positive they dropped him; they say he's still in there."

"We'd better scram before we roast to death," I responded.

This made sense. We got past a fence and into the next backyard with our wounded. The houses adjoining were already in wild commotion, with people running about like mad.

In time— it seemed a century— police and firemen arrived; by then, the house was a fiery mass past any saving. Virginia and I were taken back to the hotel in a radio car; to re-enter that peaceful, serene atmosphere seemed like a dream. I was astonished to find my clothes dotted with burns. In the wild excitement I had been unaware of damage.

An hour later Aguilar arrived. He came direct to my room and nodded as he saw my ruined garments spread out. His own were almost as bad.

"Chemicals," he said. "The damned place was a volcano, Clements!"

I poured him a drink, and he gulped it.

"Well?" I demanded. "Did you make certain about— him?"

He looked at me. "Eh? Him? Two of my men swore they got him. If so, his body is there still. He didn't get away through the cordon; they're all sure of that. We'll know later on, when the ashes can be searched. If they find no trace of him—"

They found none, though they located the old Hindu servant. This proved nothing. Three days later Virginia and I were married and left San Francisco. The authorities were quite satisfied that the Rajah from Hell was dead.

But as for me— well, two men left that house in the Buick sedan. We saw one return. Did the other come by some unguessed route? Well, it's none of my business. I have my own life to live.

__________

18: The Luck Of A Cowboy

Mail (Adelaide) 12 November 1949

LAFE Larrigan, top wrangler of the B Bar F dude ranch, was lean and brown and hard, with a humorous twist to his lips and a look in his eyes that made you like him on sight. He turned to his assistant, who lounged beside him at the gate of the stables.

'Tex, you watch yourself!' he drawled. 'The outfit that arrived today is in the big money. The boss tipped me off. He says that anybody making a play for the girl gets his time pronto.'

Tex, whose Angora chaps made his knees itch, scowled and rubbed his chin.

'Yeah, but what if she makes a play for us? If I got to take fool women ridin', I'd be a fool not to marry me a wad of dough.'

'Well, don't crowd your luck,' said Larrigan. 'And you'd better read up on some Western novels in the bunkhouse. Here comes the boss.'

Forbes was approaching from the main house. He was big and burly and genial. Bill and Irma Forbes had made a success of the B Bar F. Forbes walked a bit stiffly. His pants were tucked into the tops of an elegant pair of boots, decorated with gaudy stitching.

'Hi, boys!' he said heartily. 'Lafe, did you get them rattlers planted up the hill trail?'

'Yeah,' Larrigan grinned. 'Plenty of rocks there. They'll hang round that hillside.'

'Well, don't you boys get too anxious to show off your shooting,' said Forbes. 'Those snakes cost plenty. Make the dozen last the season, see? Show 'em off as you pass along, but don't do any shooting unless you've got an important guest along who wants a skin. It was a swell idea to send out west for the snakes.'

'Okay,' said Tex. 'What's the orders?'

'We've got heavy reservations coming for the week-end; looks like a full house. You'll have a riding party in half an hour. Seven women. I've got three musicians coming tonight from Brooklyn, mouth-harp, accordion, and banjo. Lafe, you see that they get into the proper clothes and so forth. They'll play to the guests in the moonlight.'

'Won't be any moon tonight,' said Larrigan. 'It's right new.'

'Well, then build a fire,' retorted Forbes. 'And never mind about cowboy songs. These guests want their own kind of music, see? Oh, yes! One of the woman riders was champing about having been out west— Arizona or somewhere. She's a Mrs. Parsons. So play her careful.'

He clumped away toward the garage.

'You can handle the Parsons female,' said Tex. 'I ain't sure enough of my western lingo.'

'Okay,' Larrigan said. 'We'd better get the horses saddled up. And say! You're not wearing your deputy sheriff's badge.'

Tex looked down at his faded shirt. 'That's right. Washed my shirt last night and forgot to put the star back. I'll get it.'

For the looks of the thing, Forbes had persuaded the Van Cortlandt county sheriff to make his riders deputies.

Forbes, who had toured the Western regions with his wife and made careful notes, ran this Adirondack dude ranch with a keen eye to both costs and staging. Irma ran the house and ran it well. There was atmosphere in plenty, and whether it was authentic did not matter a hoot. They knew that their customers wanted to be impressed, so they were impressed.

Staid Van Cortlandt county rubbed its eyes, and money rolled in. According to Forbes, the first principle of such a place was to have the stables on the road, to pull in the suckers. So the B Bar F stables, impressively western and decrepit, fronted the highway. Behind lay the main house, the dining shack, garage, swimming pool, and so forth.

The trading post did a hot business all season, selling Indian curios, and souvenirs of all kinds. The big, silver-mounted saddle in the lobby of the main house was just a bit of stage property. Tex was an Alabama boy with a delicious southern accent and a gift for handling horses.

Larrigan despised himself and the place and the suckers who fell for it, but the job paid well. He was the only real thing on the lot, but no one knew it, for he kept his actual background behind closed doors. When things had gone bust for him in Montana it was a complete bust. Another man got his girl and this washed him up. He sold what was left of his business and headed east. Now he was cheating destiny— a drugstore cowboy in a fake stage setting, he told himself, with bitter contempt. Larrigan was not his name, but it was good enough for this place. In half an hour the party assembled, most of the women in jodhpurs, two in breeches.

Mrs. Parsons was a trim, cool blonde who looked like his other girl, Anna Lowry. He and Texas shepherded them off along the flat toward the hill trail, gave them pointers on riding, handed out the usual patter. Larrigan rode with Mrs. Parsons and her companion, mostly. He liked her. She had sense. More and more she reminded him of Anna, and wakened the old hurt within him, the ache he had thought forgotten.

Tex was at his best, voluble and merry; he threw out off-hand memories of how he and Larrigan had punched cattle together. He had done a lot of reading up. Larrigan noticed that Mrs. Parsons listened with an amused air, and when they were strung out on the Squirrel Hollow road, she turned to him with a question.

'Larrigan, that friend of yours is interesting. Do you think he was ever west of the Mississippi?'

Larrigan's lips twitched. Her companion was ahead, out of hearing.

'Yes'm, I guess he was once. In Leavenworth.'

She laughed. 'All right; I'll keep the secret! But you'd better do some coaching. My sister's coming tomorrow, and she's really from the west. And a couple of friends are coming next week who know their stuff.'

Larrigan said: 'What makes you think I could coach him? Me, I'm just a drugstore cowboy myself.'

She rejoined: 'Anyone can tell with half an eye that you're no fake. But tell Tex not to lay it on so thick.'

'Thanks, I will,' said Larrigan. 'I've noticed your own boot heels were worn down a lot.'

LARRIGAN and Tex were at the main house talking with the guests, helping maintain the free-and-easy atmosphere that Forbes desired, when a car swung in at the entrance and a man got out and came inside. He was heavily built, young, with hot eyes of impatience. At sight of him, Larrigan gaped, then turned his back quickly and stared out the window. In the glass he could see reflected what passed in the room. The newcomer went up to the desk.

'My name's Norton. I'm looking for a Mrs. Parsons— oh, there she is!'

He crossed to where Mrs. Parsons was sitting, near the window. 'Hello, Emily! Run you down at last, have I? May I have a word with you in private?'

'You may not,' she responded with cool hostility. 'I want nothing to do with you.'

'Well, I want plenty to do with you!' Norton's face darkened angrily. 'You and your husband have been hiding my wife out on me long enough! Where's Anna?'

'None of your business,' said Mrs. Parsons.

'Listen, Emily; she's my wife, understand? I've come east to settle this thing, and I mean to do it! I'll find her if I have to go through this place with the police!' Norton glanced round. His eye fell on Larrigan. An oath of astonished recognition escaped him.

'So that's it!' he said significantly. 'That's why you've got her here, is it?'

Larrigan swung round as though on a pivot. He met the hot, furious eyes of Norton, and then he launched himself without a word. He just seemed to uncoil; his fist caught Norton square on the beltline. Norton doubled up and fell backward into the fireplace. Amid the confusion, Bill Forbes charged on the scene.

'What's this?' he roared, facing Larrigan. 'Fighting in here? Striking a guest? You're fired! Pack your duffel and clear out—'

'He'll do nothing of the kind!' Mrs. Parsons intervened. 'This man came in and insulted me. He's my brother-in-law, and he's a dangerous man, and Mr. Larrigan hit him.'

Forbes looked at Norton, who was pulling himself out of the fireplace.

'Out of here, you monkey! Larrigan's a deputy sheriff, and if you show your nose in here again you'll go to gaol!'

Norton went to the door and turned.

'Larrigan! So that's the name he's using, is it? I'll remember that,' he said, and went out to his car and drove off.

Mrs. Parsons looked at Bill Forbes. 'Well? Is Mr. Larrigan fired?'

'He is not,' said Forbes, grinning.

'Then I want him to get two horses and give me a riding lesson,' she said. 'Hurry up, Larrigan!'

They rode off together, and neither of them spoke for a while.

"Well, lets get it over, ' said Mrs. Parsons in her quiet way. 'I couldn't bear to do any talking round that place. What's the answer?'

Larrigan said: 'I thought you looked a lot like Anna Lowry, but I couldn't guess you were her sister. You might as well have let Bill Forbes fire me. I'll have to scram out of here before she comes, anyhow. It's just my Luck.'

'What do you know about it?' she snapped.

'Everything,' replied Larrigan. 'This is the last place in the world anybody from Montana would turn up— and he walks in and knows me right away! And she's coming tomorrow.'

Mrs. Parsons said: 'You've had nothing but bad luck, eh? Since when?'

'Since Anna turned me down to marry that heel.'

'So you're that man, eh? His name wasn't Larrigan; it was Bonham.'

'Larrigan's my name now.'

'And all you think of is your bad luck! From the day Anna married Norton, she's been in misery. He's a secret drinker; liquor makes him insane. I've seen her with her face bruised black and blue from his blows! She's left him twice. The first time he soft-soaped her into going back to him, but never again.' 'I never knew anything like it!'

Larrigan said. 'He beat her up, you say— Anna? Why, a gorilla couldn't do that! She's the sweetest thing that ever lived―' He cut off his words, and added, ―Except maybe her sister.'

Mrs. Parsons said: 'Norton threatened to kill her if she left him. He's tried to kill her, too. That's why she's been hiding out with me. She can't get a divorce in this State, either.'

'So you see why I've got to light out of here,' said Larrigan.

'Why? So she'll have to take her medicine?'

'I don't get you.'

'Norton knows that she loved you all the time.'

Larrigan Jumped.

'You're crazy! She married him!'

'So I believe. Norton's drinking. He believes that she's coming here because you're here. He'll stick round. He'll disgrace her if he can! He'll kill her if he can do it. The man's a homicidal maniac.'

'You can wire her not to come.'

'No. Let her come. You'll be far away and safe.'

Larrigan drew rein.

'Stop prodding me!' he rapped out. 'I'll stay if you'll tell me why you're so set on it.'

She said: 'Bad luck has to change sometime, and this is the time for yours to change. Not that I'm worried about you; it's Anna I'm thinking about. Her luck has been far worse than yours. A dose of bad luck hits you and you run; you make it worse.'

'All right. I'll see it through. But I'll bet you Anna turns and runs when she finds I'm here.'

ANNA AND LARRIGAN met on Saturday morning. Anna was a younger edition of Mrs. Parsons, blonde and pretty as a picture.

'Emily has told me all about it,' she said to Larrigan. 'It's nice to know you're here.'

They went riding together, along the hill trail and on to the Hollow. She had suffered; she was older, graver, steadier, but the girl he had known was still there.

'I'm going back west,' she said. 'I can get a divorce there.'

'Will you let me know when you do?' Larrigan asked. 'There's a whole book of things I'm burning to say to you when that time comes.'

'I'll let you know,' she replied quietly.

They understood each other, without more words.

Larrigan was like a new man; he had a different look in his face, a different spring in his step. He no longer felt that bad luck was logging him. Sunday night there was an exodus, but half a dozen stayed on. Mrs. Parsons and Anna, with friends, remained. Three Brooklyn lads also stayed. They had written a western ballad all about little dogies come on— which they took to be little dogs, but nobody knew the difference.

The Monday morning ride got off to a late start. While they were on the hill trail, Anna's horse developed a loose shoe, and Larrigan conferred with Tex.

'There's a smith at Squirrel Hollow,' he said. 'I'll cut off with Mrs. Norton from here, make the Hollow road, and get the shoe fixed. You go on with the others.'

'Okay,' said Tex. Anna and Larrigan came into a long straightaway that extended for miles with not a building in sight. Anna exclaimed delightedly.

'Imagine such a wilderness scene in crowded New York State! We might be in the wilds of Montana— no, I take it all back. Isn't that a car under those trees at the right?'

'Yes.'

As they approached the car, a man got out unsteadily and hurled something into the road; it was an empty whisky bottle.

From Anna came a low, frightened cry. Larrigan was slower of recognition, until the man strode out into the road, facing them. Then he knew, and drew rein, and saw the revolver in Norton's hand.

'I been waiting for you two quite a spell,' said Norton. 'Come on, get off those horses.'

'Easy now!' Larrigan pushed his horse ahead of the other. 'Easy, Norton!'

A burst of profanity came from Norton's lips. He raised the gun.

'Pile off!' he cried. 'Off. or I'll shoot the horses as well— cheating on me, eh? I'm going to settle you for keeps. I've got the two of you.'

Anna pulled hard on one rein. Her horse reared wildly and turned in air. Cursing her, Norton fired point-blank.

The bursting report was drowned in a scream from the horse, which plunged sideways and fell, pinning her beneath his weight. At the shot almost under his nose, Larrigan's horse went straight into the air, shied violently to one side, and the sunfishing motion spilled Larrigan out of the saddle. He tumbled into the dust, rolled over, came to his feet, catlike, and stood uncertainly. The gun exploded again, but not at him.

'Stop it!' Anna's voice lifted n frantic desperation and terror.

Larrigan clapped hand to gun, only to find the holster empty. That tumble had kicked his gun loose and it was gone.

'First her, then you!' Norion spat out. 'You cheap imitation cowpuncher!'

'Drug-store cowboy is the term,' said Larrigan. 'You burn for murder in this State. Norton. Leave her alone. Only a cheap coward would use a gun on a woman.'

He was moving as he spoke, imperceptibly, carefully. Norton was peering through the thinning dust at Anna. Her horse was kicking spasmodically, but she was pinned by one leg, unable to move. Norton raised the gun and drew back the hammer.

Larrigan poised and tensed for the leap, let himself go. He went at Norton in a dive, one hand outstretched. Norton swung round to meet him. The gun exploded again as they came together, and Norton was dragged down by Larrigan's weight. He fired again. The shock paralysed Larrigan momentarily and he knew he was hit. His hand gripped upon something and he hung on, desperately, grimly. He had Norton by the ankle.

Norton got to his feet. A scream of fury burst from him at sight of Anna, frantically trying to extricate herself from her dying horse. The animal was still lashing out. Norton flung up the gun at her, but Larrigan's weight hung on his ankle, spoiled his shot and his balance, and he toppled forward.

Recovered from his shock, Larrigan pulled himself in. Norton tried vainly to kick him away; he landed a heel in Larrigan's face, but Larrigan same on. Norton twisted about and pulled the trigger. The hammer clicked; the gun was empty.

Then Larrigan was up with him, was upon him. Norton fought like the madman he was; Larrigan knocked the gun from his hand. They scrambled for it, missed it, broke clear and came to their feet, slugging. Larrigan walked into a smash that brought him up short; he recovered, balanced, reached in with a crack to the face that sent Norton reeling away, and set himself for the return rush.

None came. Instead, he heard a dull thudding 'clop' followed by a terrible gasp, and then the dust thinned and drifted off and settled.

Wiping his eyes, Larrigan saw the white face and wide, horrified eyes of Anna, twisting to lift at the weight that held her. Then he saw Norton lying in the road, a sprawling inert thing, under the hoofs of the dying, thrashing horse. A lashing hoof had struck him squarely, crushing his skull.

He got Anna clear and then stood beside her, panting.

'My leg's twisted and hurt, but it doesn't seem broken,' she said. Then, looking up suddenly, she caught her breath. 'But you— the blood—'

Larrigan surveyed himself, incredulously. His shirt was ripped and blood was flowing. That bullet had seared across his chest, breaking the skin but nothing more.

'Talk about luck!' he exclaimed. 'Half an inch deeper and it would have finished me. As it is, it's nothing but a scratch.'

'But where is he— oh!'

She saw Norton's figure.

'The horse kicked him,' said Larrigan. 'You won't need to get a divorce now, Anna.'

Then Anna said: 'The luck's turned. There's no more bad luck.'

'Reckon there never was any, Anna,' Larrigan said. 'It was just a shadow that became real when I ran from it. No more running!'

He sighted distant dust-spurts and nodded.

'There comes Tex and the rest of the crowd. Lucky thing, Anna, I didn't kill this fellow Norton. It's all plain to see how he ended— lucky thing, eh? Want to make the luck all come true, before they can get a clear sight of us?' He leaned down and she lifted her lips to meet his.

_____________________

Table of Contents

- 1: Gallegher of Beaver
- 2: The Four Red Circles
- 3: The Trail of Death
- 4: Captain Rose and the Bullfrog
- 5: All Talk
- ‘6: Coastwise Murder
- 7: The Million-Dollar Certificate
- 8: A Scriptural Quotation
- 9: A Harbor Hazard
- 10: Much Lost, More Won
- 11: The Devil is Dead
- 12: Lady of the Evil Eye
- 13: Sons of Kalewa
- 14: Apache Gold
- 15: The Fog at Fiddler's Green
- 16: The Devil's Fire
- 17: He Who Sets a Trap
- 18: The Luck of a Cowboy