PAST MASTERS

FORTY

August 2021

Part 2

Produced by Terry Walker

("Pulpmeister")

Contents

1: Mr. Marston's Chauffeurette / Ellis Parker Butler

2: Phyllis in the Wood / Alice and Claude Askew

3: The Bigelow Murder Mystery / Frederic Van Rensselaer Dey

4: Success / Owen Oliver

5: Prey / C S Montanye

6: Doctor Bentiron's Addict Case / Ernest M. Poate

7: Mr Clackworthy and the Auto Rim / Christopher B. Booth

8: Plain Soda / Ernest M. Poate

9: The Mystery of the Jade Buddha / Carolyn Wells

10: In His Brother's Job / Christopher B. Booth

11: Mr Clackworthy Goes to Jail / Christopher B. Booth

12: Well Done / Ernest M.  Poate

13: Through the Looking Glass / Ernest M. Poate

14: By Way of Experience / Anna Alice Chapin

15: Three Alike / Ernest M. Poate

16: Vials of Wrath / Ernest M. Poate

17: The Sparrow / Christopher B. Booth

Index to Past Masters 31-40

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1: Mr. Marston's Chauffeurette

Ellis Parker Butler

1869-1937

World's News (Sydney) 30 Oct 1909

THERE is this difference between a balloon and an aeroplane: a balloon goes up up the air and the bag breaks; an aeroplane has no bag, so something else breaks instead. When aeroplanes were first talked of, many people considered them impracticable, because they had no gas bags to break, but, by giving the subject great attention, the inventors soon created a large number of aeroplane parts that would not only break, but break much more easily than a gas bag. From that day the aeroplane was an assured fact, and Mr. Marston began to take an interest in it.

As soon as the typewriter was perfected, Mr. Marston had one, and after several years of patient labor he was able to write on it with his two forefingers with one-tenth the speed he could reach with a pen. It is true he never attained great perfection with two fingers. When he really went at it in a businesslike way he used only the forefinger of the right hand, and even then produced something like:

tHe shAds OF ni&hT werE fa ! liNgFa sT) WH en tHRoughan aLpinE VilAge PpasT@

but he was able to say, and truthfully, that for him the typewriter existed. He owned one and he used it.

The bicycle no sooner appeared than Mr. Marston began falling off one. He fell off all varieties with the same unvarying success. He began with the old style fifty-two inch wheel bicycle, with the little wheel behind, and immediately acquired a knowledge of every possible way of falling off it—sideways, over the handle bars, and (what few men have done) backwards. But he was best at falling forward over the handle bars. He could do that nine times out of ten. Mr. Marston was one of the gladdest men that saw the invention of the "safety" with the big wheel behind and the small, pie-plate size wheel in front. It gave him variety. Instead of falling forward over the handle bars he fell backward over the big wheel. Yet even here he was in a class by himself. The inventors of that wheel believed it impossible to fall forward, but Mr. Marston did it.

One dark night he rode down a long inclined driveway from a farmhouse. It was a glorious coast, but someone had carelessly closed the four-bar gate at the foot of the drive, and when Mr. Marston reached it he proved that a man with talent in that direction could go over the handle bars. But before he had time to boast about it much someone invented the low wheel. Mr. Marston did not have so far to fall after that, but he kept up his average by falling oftener.

He had been accustomed to mount his high wheel but once every two days or so. "Well," he used to say, with an assumed tone of care-lessness, "I guess I'll go out and get on my wheel." Then he would go out and get on it, and fall off, and enter the house again and recuperate for a couple of days. He was known in town as "Marston, the Arnicaist." When the wind was in the right direction you could smell him arriving long before he came in sight— especially if he was riding his wheel.

When the automobile arrived the first part of it Marston studied up was the brake. He wanted an instantaneous brake that at the slightest touch would set itself so hard and fast that It would have to be unscrewed and pried loose from the wheel before the car could move another inch. What he would have liked would have been a quick-cooling, white-hot iron brake that at a touch of the finger would weld itself to the wheel and cool there, holding the wheel firm and immovable.

He had acquired an interest in brakes while riding his bicycle. He had eight kinds of brakes on his bicycle, all patented and guaranteed, and when he pressed a bulb they would all set, immediately. It made bicycling absolutely safe.

The moment he touched the bulb the wheel would stop. Mr. Marston would, simultaneously, dismount, lighting on his hands and some available part of his head. In a few hours he would have the brakes all unbraked again, and ride two or three yards further.

So when automobiles came in, he knew a great deal about brakes, and the machine he bought had a good one. It was only a little five horse-power car, but it had a sixty horse-power brake. It could stop that car in one inch headway, and stop it absolutely. In no other possible way could Mr. Marston have been able to fall out of that tame little automobile, but he did it with the brake. He was always going over the dashboard. Whenever anyone in town heard a dull thud they did not even look around, they merely said: "There goes Mr. Marston again." Or sometimes they would say, "I hear Mr. Marston is still thudding." They called him "Marston, the Out-o'-mobolist."

The balloon did not interest Mr. Marston. He felt that it was merely a toy. But when the aeroplane was perfected he began to wear a haggard, careworn look. He would jump nervously at slight sounds, and turn pale when he heard a chicken fly on to a fence. The sound of wings did it. He would look out of his window at the pretty little feathered songsters sporting in his trees, and then groan, and say,

"Ding-bust the birds; I wish there never had been any."

It Mr. Marston had not thought as he did about the twentieth century he would not have bought an aeroplane, but he saw that as he had been privileged to live in this wonderful century it was his duty to profit by all its superiorities. He would not, himself, have invented an aeroplane. He would have invented something less flighty, something near to the ground, like a rocking-chair. But since aeroplanes were invented and for sale, there was nothing for him to do but have one.

All Mr. Marston's most careful inquiries and investigations left him assured that the matter of aeroplane brakes had been frightfully neglected. He could not find an aeroplane of any type that had any brake at all. The only way to stop an aeroplane suddenly seemed to be to run it against a house or a tree, and a house or a tree is a poor kind of brake for an aeroplanist who has any object except to stop suddenly.

The more Mr. Marston thought about it the greater became his conviction that he was not the man to jump lightly on a powerful aeroplane and with a merry laugh dash into the side of a brick house. He was willing, and eager, to fall over the dashboard of a small automobile, but he did not like to fall over houses.

Mr. Marston was a small man, but compact, and compact bodies fall swiftly. He was a mild-mannered man, gentle, and of a retiring ladylike disposition, and not at all the kind of man to fall boldly over other people's houses. He was easily abashed, and blushed painfully at slight causes, and the rude words of one whose house he had fallen over would have pained him.

It became evident to Mr. Marston that he could not aviate his own aeroplane. When the aeroplane was delivered, and was set up ready to fly, in his back garden, Mr. Marston walked around it, admiring the ingenuity of man; he swelled with thoughts of how weak, earth-tied man had at last become the rival of birds. The nobler his thoughts the more scared he became. The areoplane was so big. The huge, widespeading wings looked! dangerous. He wished there were small aeroplanes, like his small automobile. He didn't care how small. He would have liked one the size of a roller-skate.

He saw instantly that he was not the man to operate an aeroplane. He must have a chauffeur, but he was even more afraid of chauffeurs than of aeroplanes. A chauffeur is a rough, burly man who jams a cap on his head, slaps on a pair of disguising goggles, yanks all the valves open and dashes madly through the seen- ery, regardless of life, liberty, or the pursuit of happiness. Never would Mr. Marston have dared to have a chauffeur for his automobile, where there are three dimensions of danger— to the right, to the left, and straight ahead— and still less would he have trusted one in an aeroplane, where a fourth dimension of danger is added— straight down. But without one he could not aviate.

A ladylike chauffeur was what he wanted, and the more Mr. Marston thought about it the surer he became that the thing most like a lady is a lady. But she must be well versed in aeroplanes. What he wanted was a thoughtful lady, of gentle disposition, who knew how to handle a monkey wrench.

He laid his need before the makers of the aeroplane, and they said they had just the thing for him. She was well broken to aviation, owned a certificate of graduation granted by their aviation school, and was not nervous. Her name was Philomela Montague. As soon as he read her name Mr. Marston wrote and engaged her.

He was standing by his aeroplane, looking at it with awe, when Philomela Montague arrived. He could not see much of her at first. Her cap was pulled well down in front, the collar of her long coat was turned up, and between the two there was just room for the goggles to stare. Her commonsense shoes had hobnails. She had her hands in her coat pockets, jingling a wrench against an oil can.

"Hello, there, Bill," she said, roughly, but with good nature. "That your little bonebreaker? You're this fellow Marston, what? I'm Philomela. But for heaven's sake cut it. Call me Phil. Been up in the air yet?"

"You— you— are you my chauffeur?"

"Well, you just bet. I'm a chauf all right I'm the star chauffeurette of this country. Where did you get this old relic, anyway?" She was peeling off her coat, all the time eying Mr. Marston's aeroplane with undisguised contempt

"I bought it," said Mr. Marston. "It isn't a relic. It is new. It is just from the shop. It is a very nice aeroplane."

"Oh, I can fly it, all right, if it comes to that," said Philomela, scornfully. "I can fly a chunk of ice if there is any fly in it. But I don't call that an aeroplane. I call it a scrap-heap on wings."

Mr. Marston looked at the shining enamel of the braces and the glittering white of the wings and fans. He saw a perfect, immaculate aeroplane. "It is no scrap-heap whatsoever, Miss Phil," he said, with some irritation. "It is an admirable aeroplane. You will admit it when you know it better."

"Don't fret, Bill, I know it well enough! But if you don't care, I don't. All I ask is, how did you come to get it?"

Mr. Marston was angry. His view of his new chauffeurette did not tend to mollify him. Now that her coat and goggles were off he could see her. Her hair was cut short, her face wore a hard scowl, her chin stuck out ag-gressively, and she was as big and burly as a policeman. She looked like a lady prize-fighter of the Ninth Ward. And so she had been. It was Billy the Biff who had given her the broken nose. Sweet little creature she was!

"I got the aeroplane by buying it," said Mr. Marston. "And the reason I bought this one was because it was the smallest they had. I like them small. My automobile is small. They said this one had been tested."

"You bet!" said Philomela. "It has been tested! I know this old winged teapot. It is the bone-breaker of the twentieth century, and no mistake. Ten-year-old model, eccentric in-terlocking gear, left-hand gravity feed! What are you going to call it?"

"I thought I would call it 'Tootsie.' "

" 'Tootsie!' " exclaimed Philomela.

"After my pet canary," said Mr. Marston, blushing.

"Has that canary killed many men?" asked Philomela. "Has it got the habit of opening its jaws and crushing a few ribs now and then? No? Well, I wouldn't call this air boat 'Tootsie.' Not 'Tootise'! The last time it was smashed up, and before it was daubed over with fresh paint this time, it had a good name. I'd stick to that name. I'd call it the Flying Hyena."

"Hyenas don't fly," said Mr. Marston, timidly. "At least, I don't think they do. And they don't kill men. I don't believe they even crush ribs."

"Don't they? Well, this one does," said Philomela. She was poking around in the engine, shaking her head from time to time, tightening bolts and turning screws. "All right!" she said at length, straightening up and pulling on her gloves. "I guess she'll work. I'm ready any time you are, Bill. You're my boss. I can't say we'll do much with this old wreck of ages, but Philly can get out all the speed there is in it. Any time you want to start, say so, and you don't need to worry about me being on the spot. I may not chauf as well as some of those men chauffeurs that have been at it longer, but I have my nerve. Speed—that's what I get. And height. Why, I do things with old wrecks like this that no man ever dares do. You got the right fellow when you got me. I'm willing to take chances."

She turned to Mr. Marston to receive his orders.

"Say," she said inquisitively, "what makes you that pea green color? Is that your natural complexion?"

"Not—not always," said Mr. Marston weakly. "Sometimes I'm—I'm pea green. It—it runs in the family. When I'm that color I never aviate. It—It—"

"It what?"

"It don't harmonise with the blue sky," said Mr. Marston, happy to have thought of any rea-son. "So I won't aviate to-day, thank you."

Philomela watched him as he hurried with trembling steps towards the house. "Say!" she shouted, just before he reached the door, "You might wear a mask."

But Mr. Marston thought he would not fly that day.

As the fad increased the aeroplane became an ordinary sight. Mr. Marston's license was number 18,907, and that was in New York State alone, so an aeroplane could land in a town of moderately metropolitan manners and not draw a crowd. People were used to them. But Mr. Marston's aeroplane drew a crowd. As soon as it was known that he had one the townfolk began to gather. They were interested.

They had seen Mr. Marston bicycle and motor, and they knew how he did it, and they wanted to know how he would aviate. They thought he would do it in a different way than other men. They hoped he would. They liked the weird and unusual.

The next morning, when Mr. Marston looked out of the window, he saw that his back lot was full of people, and when they saw him standing at the window they raised a cheer. He felt greatly depressed. It saddened him to see men to whom he had done no wrong so cheerful at the prospect of seeing him aviate. The weather depressed him, too. It was perfect weather for aviating. He looked in his mirror, and he was not even pea green. He hardly had a green tint. So he read his will again, to see that there were no changes he wanted made, and went downstairs. There could be no escape. He must fly!

When a man who doesn't like a cold bath has to take one he disrobes, grits his teeth, and plunges in. Personally I also close my eyes and hold my breath. Mr. Marston stood five minutes nerving himself for the plunge. He could hear the "pup-pup-pup" of the motor of the aeroplane, which Philomela had already started. He adjusted his goggles and put on his coat. He drew on his gloves and pulled his cap well over his eyes. He doubled up his fists, drew a deep breath, bent slightly forward from the waist, opened the door and walked out hastily, looking neither to right nor left.

A cheer burst from his fellow citizens, but he did not heed it. Straight as an arrow he walked to the aeroplane, mounted his seat, shut his eyes, held his breath, and murmured in a weak whisper "Go ahead!" He was ready to die for the glorious twentieth century.

Clutching the edge of the seat tightly, he felt a gentle swaying motion. A cool breeze swept his cheek. He leaned from side to side as the swaying increased, and in a moment dared to breathe. Slowly, slowly he opened his eyes. The aeroplane had not moved. But his neighbors, open-mouthed and astounded, were gazing at him as he swayed from side to side. They surrounded him in a ring, and all were looking at him with amazement, except four or five who were watching Philomela, who was poking into the motor. Mr. Marston stopped swaying suddenly.

"I guess that will have to do," said Philomela, doubtfully. She began to draw on her gloves, stopped, and went hack to the motor. There was a great deal in her manner to cause a timid aviator uneasiness. She walked over to where her coat was hung in a low tree crotch, but as she walked she looked back at the motor, and when she had put her coat on she poked into the motor again. She adjusted her cap and goggles, and put one foot on the platform.

"Got your chart with you?" she asked Mr. Marston.

"Chart?" said Mr. Marston.

"Your physiological chart," said Philomela, disgustedly. "You don't mean to say you are going flying without a physiological chart, Bill? Well, never mind. I've got an extra one."

She went to her tool chest, which was stand-ing against a tree, and took out the chart. It was large when she unfolded it, as large as a full-grown man, almost. It represented a skinned man, printed in pink, with red arteries and blue veins and white bones. Not a bone was missing, and every one was numbered. She handed it to Mr. Marston.

"Now, Bill," she said, "when we fall we will likely bust a bone or two. I never fly without a chart. Then all that a fellow has to do is to look on the chart and he knows what is broken. Here's mine."

She unrolled her own chart. Mr. Marston gazed at it with a subdued and misty gaze. He suddenly felt outrageously boned. He could not feel his flesh any more, only his bones, and he was crowded full of them, and every bone felt brittle. He was afraid to move for fear he might break a bone or two. When he breathed he imagined he could feel one bone grating against another. Never before had he realised what a bony creature a man is. It seemed a crime to take such a structure of bones up in the air and drop it.

"Them marks?" said Philomela, when Mr. Marston stammered the inquiry—her chart was criss-crossed with lines in ink, thousands of them it seemed to Mr. Marston. "Why, them's my bone record. Whenever I break a bone I mark it down on the chart, and next time I try to fall so as not to break the same bone in the same place. Now, you've got a snap. You don't have to worry about how you'll fall. You can fall any way, and break any bone you've got. Why," she exclaimed enthusiastically, "you can break every bone in your body at once, and not need to worry about it. There won't be a second-handed break in the lot!"

Mr. Marston breathed hard, and a sickly whiteness passed across his face as he felt his ribs grating together. He pressed his hand gently against his side and it really seemed to him that the third rib from the bottom on the left side was loose at the joint. He pushed it gently, as one tries a loose tooth, with his thumb.

"Now, Bill," said Philomela, "I seen you turn white, but you needn't feel jealous just because I've got a chart that's marked up while yours isn't. I don't say but what I'm proud of that chart of mine, and I'll put it alongside of anybody's for a bone record. So far as I know there's only one other that has more broken bones on it, and that fellow had two years' start of me, but if we have a good trip today I aim to leave him way behind.

And it's a grand chance for you, a grand chance! Why," she cried, "with this here old 1908 model, and me chauffing it, and you with a clean bone chart to start with, there ain't no reason in the world why you shouldn't break the word record for one-fall bone breaks, and take the record away from that Frenchman. But you've got to be careful. His record is two hundred breaks, and there ain't but one hundred and ninety-eight bones on the chart, so try to tumble so at least three bones will be broke in two places. That will make two hundred and one. But," she added pleasantly, "you can break as many more as you feel like."

Philomela stepped into the aeroplane and took her seat. Mr. Marston stiffened up and grasped the handles of his seat with a death grip. The motor was rattling like a rapid fire gun. Philomela put her hand on the starting lever. She glanced at Mr. Marston to see that he was ready.

"That's right!" she cried. "You've got the idea. Keep stiff. The stiffer you keep the more bones you'll break. You're a sport, all right, I can see that."

If Cleopatra's Needle should instantly turn in to a shaft of currant jelly it could not collapse as rapidly as Mr. Marston collapsed. He limbered up instantly. If he had been made of gelatine and had been left out in the dew overnight he could not have been limper than he was one moment after Philomela's words. He tried to see how limber-jointed a man could be when he really tried, and he was as limp as that, and sorry he could not be more so.

Philomela touched the starting lever. The crowd fell back impetuously. The two great canvas-covered rudders whirred. The aero-plane hesitated, rose a foot, settled back, and then, with the whole crowd yelling and throw-ing their hats in the air, it left the ground. "Tootsie" was on the wing.

All birds do not soar like the lark. "Tootsie" didn't. She rose about five feet into the air and made a graceful curve. Instantly all the citizens on that side lay down flat. With a huge swoop "Tootsie" rounded, and instantly all the citizens on that side lay down flat. It looked like a lying-down match, in squads, but neither side won. It was a tie. Each side was as flat as it could he. Some were one side up, and some the other side up, but it was just an informal lying-down match, without rules, so it did not matter. The principal thing was to get down quickly, and everyone did.

An aeroplane does not loiter, once it is started. It is hasty by nature. "Tootsie" was no exception. She made her curve to the left and then her curve to the right, and darted gaily away. She darted over a three-foot stone fence into Mr. Marston'a cow pasture, and you never saw an animal quite so surprised as Mr. Marston's cow was. It was not that the blunt nose of the aeroplane bumped the cow, although any cow would be surprised to be bumped by an aeroplane; it was the persistence of the aeroplane. Of course the cow did not wait after she was bumped. No cow would do that. She started just as any cow would start—only faster—and travelled just as any cow would travel, rising higher at the rear than in front, and going in unstudied leaps. The first time the aeroplane hit the cow the cow started to give voice, as a sportsman would say, but she thought better of it, and ran.

By she I mean the cow. An aeroplane is "she" also, and when both a cow and an aeroplane are mentioned, they are apt to get mixed up, but Mr. Marston's cow and his aeroplane did not. They travelled tandem; first the cow, and then the aeroplane. Every time the aeroplane bumped the cow the motor would skip a few revolutions, and every time the cow was hit by the aeroplane she was boosted ten or fifteen feet ahead suddenly, and would grunt. It is wonderful how quickly a common red cow that has never done anything but low or moo can learn to grunt under press of circumstances.

Philomela was working hard. She acted as if she thought something was the matter with the motor, and she was very busy. She did not want to chase a cow any more than the cow wanted to be chased, and every time the aeroplane hit the cow with a bump Philomela said. "Oh! layer cake!" or Oh something else ladylike. Philomela wanted to soar, but "Tootsie" wanted to boost a red cow across the pasture in consecutive boosts, and "Tootsie" had her way. Mr. Marston did not want anything —he was beyond that stage—but every time the aeroplane bumped the cow he forgot to stay limber, and that shows the awful state of mind he was in.

The cow dashed impetuously across the pasture, and the aeroplane dashed after her. It was all new to the cow. She had never heard of a cow-hunting aeroplane, and the aeroplane had never heard of a cow that insistently got in front of aeroplanes. They were both provoked, and the cow rushed madly to her stable.

A cow, sufficiently urged from behind by an aeroplane, can cross a pasture rapidly, and an aeroplane thinks nothing at all of a mile a minute. From the time the aeroplane left Mr. Marston's back lot until the cow entered the stable was a hardly noticeable period of time. It was merely a whirr, a swoop, some bumps, and then the cow dashed into the stone stable. So did the aeroplane.

Here is Axiom 1 in the Aeroplane Book: "Cows can enter stone stables more easily than aeroplanes can."

But Mr. Marston entered. When the aeroplane struck the stone barn-side, Mr. Marston was holding tightly the arms of his seat, and when he left the aeroplane he took the seat with him. He entered the stable through a second-storey window, removing the window panes as he went, at the same time turning a neat somersault, like the circus lady going through the papered hoop, except that Mr. Marston went more quickly and kept going until the opposite wall of the stable interfered. When he landed there he grunted just exactly like the cow! Not a loud grunt, but a low, intense one.

When Mr. Marston recovered his senses he crept to the window. He had no bones broken. He made sure of that first. Then he crawled on his hands and knees to the window and looked out. Nearly all the citizens were pawing through the tall weeds about the stable, looking for him, as boys look for a lost ball, but a dozen or so were gathered in a half circle under his window. Mr. Marston leaned cautiously out and looked down.

Philomela, his chauffeurette, was sitting on the ground surrounded by portions of aeroplane, with her back against the stone wall of the stable, but she was paying no attention to the interested spectators. Before her was spread her bone chart, and a pleased smile rested on her face, and one by one, as she felt for and found the broken bones with her left hand, she marked them on the chart with a fountain pen.

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2: Phyllis in the Wood.

Alice and Claude Askew

1874-1917; 1865-1917

(Husband and wide; both died when their ship Città di Bari was torpedoed by a German submarine off Corfu during WW1)

Telegraph (Brisbane) 13 Nov 1909

MISS CHESSON could not make out for a long time what had came over Phyllis— that was when the pretty, little flutter-head first took such obvious pains to be particularly charming to the staid, decorous Girton girl, who was undertaking the education of Phyllis's unruly sister Madge.

Madge was a delightful tomboy of about 14, with a mane of curly brown hair and big beautiiul eyes, a child whose heart was in the woodlands and the fields, and who loathed the narrow confines of the schoolroom. Not but what Dora Chesson did her best to make the hours of study attractive, for she was a conscientious and amiable young, woman, honestly anxious to do her best by her pupil, but Dora loved knowledge for its own sake, and might not understand how anyono could possibly enjoy an idle life— a life devoted to the pursuit of pleasure.

She couldn't understand Phyllis for instance, the pretty golden haired  creature who held supreme command at Heron Court, and had been her father's idol since his wife's death. For Colonel Charteris saw her mother again in Phyllis, and in consequence the girl had her own way in all things.

She was a delightful little person with her fair hair as soft and fine as floss silk, hair the colour "of ripe corn when the sun shines on it, and her eyes were a deep forget-me-not blue. She had a tiny waist, and the most delicious little hands and feet in the world. An adorable rosebud of a mouth, and a voice which was like a nest of linnets in full song.

Dresden china— as pretty and as useless! So Dora Chesson had summed up Colonel Charteris's eldest daughter, the day of her first arrival at Heron Court, arriving there, a young woman fresh from Girton, full of advanced ideas— fairly brimming over with cleverness.

Phyllis, for her part, was not particularly impressed by Dora. She had a great dislike, this pretty creature, for all clever women aware, perhaps, of her own scatter-brain qualities, for she was a dimpled ignoramus. But it had been her own idea that a resident governess should take up a position at Heron Court. For Phyllis was too fond of Madge, whom she had mothered from her childhood, to bear the thought of the latter being sent to school, so she had clung to her father's arm in her own dainty, pleading way, and persuaded him that a governess would be the very thing for the child.

"Nothing old and starchy, though," Phyllis had added persuasively, "but something nice and bright, something young."

Colonel Charteris had yielded the point with a smile, glad enough to keep his little Madge at home, and wondering in the depths of his heart if the companionship of a girl a little older than herself might not he good for Phyllis, For he notioed that his butterfly was getting a wee bit spoilt, a shade too frivolous, possitbly a trifle selfish.

But Dora and Phyllis refused to become friends. They were charmingly polite at lunch and dinner, yet ignored each other's existence during the rest of the day. Dora was a little over emphatic perhaps, in the way she declined to accompany Phyllis to garden parties or dances.

"I prefer a book and a quiet hour to myself," that was her invariable reply, and it must be admitted that Phyllis did niot press the point. Dora was a handsome girl in a big, magnificent way. She was a blonde, and had a calm, serene, intellectual face, with clear eyes, and coils of gleaming copper coloured hair. Handsome enough, any way, to attract the attention of Jack Seymour, the eldest son of a certain Robert Seymour, who was a near neighbour of the Charterises.

The young man was engaged to Phyllis, much to the surprise of the county, for Phyllis was such a shameless little flirt that it seemed impossible to believe that site would ever make up her mind to be married. Phyllis herself often wondered why she had got engaged, for she only liked Jack as she liked a dozen young men, notwithstanding the fact that he was a fine built young giant, a good sportsman, and a thoroughly healthy English boy. Also, she was really far too happy at home have any desire to leave Heron Court.

She had been staying in London when the proposal took place, and had gone with a large party to a certain sentimental comedy which had made a great success. Phyllis Was moved to tears by the piece, for she was emotional by nature, and Jack took advantage of her softened mood to propose.

They were driving in a hansom to the Carlton, and it was a balmy July, evening, stars shining clear overhead, the light of London casting a soft and dreamy glow. How it happened Phyllis could never imagine afterwards, liul she found herself whispering a shy yes to Jack's eapct question, very much in the manner of the stage heroine whose performance she had just been witnessing.

So 10 minutes later, when she joined the rest of the supper party at the Carlton— for she had gone under the strict chaperonage of an aunt— she was an engaged young woman. But it was an engagement which prolonged itself on indefinitely, for Phyllis always shook a saucy head when Jack suggested that she should name the wedding day.

All this happened a year or more before Miss Chesson came to Heron Court. In fact. Phyllis often told her lover in joking fashion that if he had met Dora first, he would never have proposed to her. For the clever young Woman from Girton had a curious fascination for the honest simple-minded young man, who knew so little of books, but was so thoroughly at home with gun and rod, and rode so straight to hounds.

He liked to listen to Dora's clear, incisive conversation, and shake his head with profound admiration over her cleverness.

"I wish I wasn't such an awful fool," he had observed to Phyllis on one of these occasions, Dora having retreated to the schoolroom with Madge in tow.

"Miss Chesson always makes me feel myself such an idiot," he went on.

"Well, as you are going to marry a fool I don't see why you want to he clever," Phvllis had observed languidly. "I should hate you if you were brainy, Jack, as I am afraid I aim becoming to hate Miss Chesson," she added. "She is so appallingly superior, so overwhelmingly conscientious. 'The world is a workshop,' that's her motto, written large all over her. But for me, I prefer to think of the world as a playground."

But this was before Phyllis turned over a new leaf with regard to Miss Chesson and deliberately set himself to fascinate the other girl. This was the result ot a course of Lenten sermons which Phyllis had been listening to when on a visit to her London aunt, with whom she had been staying at the time of Jack's proposal.

"Brighten the lives of those about you. Do some good in the world, some kindness."

So a great and far-famed preacher had made pathetic appeal to a feminine congregation, a congregation of smart, pretty women, dressed in Lenten shades of dove-colour, violet, and mauve. And Phyllis amongst the rest of the stirred worshipners, had slipped her half sovereign into the velvet alms bag, and made neat little resolutions for the year. One of these was to be especially nice to Dora Chesson, for her conscience had smote her a little once or twice during the sermons; so she went back to Heron Court determined to brighten the lives of all those about her, and not to live merely for the amusement of her own delicate, charming little self.

It was a difficult matter to gain the confidence and affection of Miss Chesson. For the latter was strangely reserved by nature, curiously independent, and full of an awkward and rather prickly pride. She snubbod Phyllis's overtures first of all, keeping strictly to the role of Madge's governess, declining to allow herself to be drawn into an intimate friendship with the elder sister.

But after a while she had to yield to the fascination that Phyllis could exert when she chose, and the day came when Dora had to admit to herself that a butterfly girl is one of the most delightful things in the world, as delicious as her own way as birds and flowers are. She became Phyllis's slave, accompanying her friend to the dances she loathed, and the garden parties which bored her, making an awkward third during the duty rides which Phyllis had to take with Jack, an unwilling chaperone.

Not but what she rather liked Jack herself, for Dora, after all, was only twenty-six, and the young man's admiration for her cleverness was so very genuine. Besides she was extremely fond of imparting instruction, and there was no doubt that Jack liked to listen. As to Phyllis she would yawn and fall asleep, leaving the two talking together.

For the time of year when all this came to pass was late summer, and Phyllis was the sort of little person who could never loll in a hammock without going to sleep. She used to look so pretty when asleep, her fair hair all ruffled up, her cheeks flushed to the colour of apple bloom, her dainty tan shoe peeping out from a cloud of fluffy petticoat. It was strange— it was certainly strange— that Jack seemed to prefer listening to Miss Chesson's clever talk, than to staring at his little fiancee. But it was so all the same.

"I believe you'd suit Jack far better than I should," so Phyllis remarked one day  then she was surprised to see a deep red flush rise over Dora's face even to her high forehead, a big splendid blush.

"Don't joke like that, Phyllis, please," Dora observed rather stiffly, "or I shall never feel at my ease with you and Mr. Seymour again. Besides—" and then with bent head, she made a confession.

She was engaged to he married, too, it appeared, though she had kept it a secret from Phyllis all the time.

"For what's the use of talking about an engagement which may never come off?" she asked gravely. "Roger Merton has nothing to marry on at present, he is a struggling barrister. And as for myself, I am the fifth daughter of a poor country vicar. No, our prospects are not brilliant."

"But you're happy all the same— you love each other?" inquired Phyllis with a dazzling smile. She was always romantic over anyone's love affairs but her own, and prettily excited at the present moment over Dora's story.

Miss Cheeson glanced up thoughtfully. The two girls were sitting in the . garden and the warm fragrance of roses perfumed the air, and in a wood, not for from the house, could be heard the low melodious cooing of the pigeons. The skies were flushed with the red glow of sunset.

"I'm very, very fond of Roger," answered Dora after a brief pause, "but he doesn't mean the beginning and the ending of all things to me. I think people are only in love like that in books. Then, we don't see much of each other, do we? Not like you and Mr. Seymour, who meet every day, so naturally our Interests have got a little apart."

She spoke very simply and without the least idea that Phyllis would take the apparent hint and invite young Merton down to Heron Court for the long vacation. In fact, Dora was intensely annoyed and upset when she found out what Phyllis had done, and flushed up a warm hot pink.

"You ought to he pleased not cross," retorted Phyllis. " I don't believe you're a bit in love with Roger Merton. All you think about is books and learned magazines. You'd like to be a silly old high school mistress— you know you would," she laughed coaxingly, but Dora drew herself up with offended dignity.

"I am just as much in love with Roger as you are With Mr. Seymour," she remarked calmly, then swept slowly out of the room.

Phyllis, left to herself, chuckled, then sighed. "Just as much in love as I am," she murmured. "Oh, dear me," she smiled, but rather whimsically— then a dreamy look came over her dainty pretty face. She sighed again.

ROGER MERTON arrived at Heron Court in due course. He proved to be one of the handsomest men Miss Phyllis had ever seen, a fact she communicated to Dora Chesson at once.

"I love his nice cleanshaven face, and his beautiful big black eyes," she remarked enthusiastically, "and he has got a simply delicious looking mouth and such a nice firm chin. Then I Iike his voice. Oh, Dora, you lucky, lucky girl."

She kissed her friend, and Dora appeared pleased with her praise.

"I'm glad you like Roger," she answered slowly. "I know he is clever and all that, hut I wish he was fonder ot outdoor things— a good shot, for instance, like— like Mr. Seymour."

She flushed as she spoke, but Phyllis shook with laughter. She thought it lovely, this sudden desire on the part of Dora Chesson that her fiance should take an interest in sport, also she was amused at the reference to her own property, but she had noticed for some time that Dora had a great admiration for Jack, his outdoor prowess evidently commending itself to her indoor nature.

But for herself, she felt far more nttractoil to Roger Merton than to any man she had yet met. She realised that this slim, scholarly looking barrister had a great depth of character, and she recognised his mental gifts, and was curiously impressed by his whole personality, for Roger Merton represented a type of manhood Phyllis had never yet come across, a type, too, that she was pretty certain to admire if the old rule still holds good of liking one's opposite.

She was tired of the mere sporting youth, and the young men she had met at her aunt's house in London failed to interest her in the least— with their talk of the latest success in the way of musical comedy, or the best restaurant to dine at, also the frittering manner in which they passed their days annoyed the girl who was too much of a butterfly herself to appreciate a masculine drone.

But Roger Merton with his clever talk of men and matters, his brilliant flashes of humour, his quiet wit, fascinated Phyllis also, she admired the plucky fight he was making against adverse forttune.

She had heard Roger's story from Dora, and it was an interesting one. The son of rich parents, he had been brought up as the heir to great wealth, till a financial smash, utterly unexpected and sudden, had ruined his father, and sent Roger out to earn his living, no longer a young Prince Fortunatus, but one who must count every penny and work hard all his life. He was getting on at the bar. His father was dead, and his mother had married again— another rich man— so Roger had no ono but himself to support.

Still, his engagement to Dora Chesson was rather a rash one, for the two could not afford to marry for years. They had met travelling abroad, both members of a cheap intellectual tour, and had fallen in love or else been persuaded that they were in love with each other by the rest of the party, for gaunt professors and lean old maids had watched Roger and Dora with an eye to romance, sighing perhaps for their own wasted summers.

A guide book shared together, long wanderings through Florentine galleries, and last of all Venice by moonlight did it, and Roger found himself whispering the old story to Dora Chesson, more because she was the girl at hand than for any other reason— also the whole land of Italy breathed sentiment and passion. Afterwards— when he was hack in London again— he called himself a fool, and more than a fool, but he was not going to draw back, though he was fully aware that he had mistaken an intellectual affinity for love, aware of this directly he set down to write his first love letter, for he was sure that Dora would not blush and dimple as she read it.

And somehow he had always fancied himself writing love-letters, when his time came, to a girl with dimples, a pretty fluffy useless little creature, not to a dignified young goddess who took it upon herself once or twice to correct her lover's quotations and whose own epistles were perfect examples in the way of style.

Roger spent a delightful fortnight at Heron Court. It was holiday time for Madge, so Dora was free to devote all her attention to her fiance, but strangely enough it was Jack Seymour she appeared to want to talk to, whilst Roger for his part hung about Phyllis, and Phyllis did not object in the least to the arrangement in fact she seemed to encourage it.

Madge used to watch the two couples with a slightly humorous smile at times, but she was a wise child and kept her thoughts to herself, nor did she intrude her company on the quartette. She liked running wild with a whole army of dogs at her heels or else to spend a long day poking about the farm, making friends with velvet eyed young calves, and hunting for eggs in the hen house.

The inevitable happened, as anyone might have seen that it was hound to do. Dora realised one day with a start and a quick guilty throbbing of the heart, that she was thinking far too much of Jack Seymour. Whilst Phyllis had to own to herself with flushing cheeks, that she cared more for Roger Merton's Iittle finger than for the whole of the rest of the world put together.

The girls, each in their separate rooms, sobbed themselves to sleep that night, and for once Phyllis, the extravagant little butterfly, and clever ambitious Dora, fell under the same spell— and were women on their knees to love— just sobbing women. They made grand and heroic resolutions and determined to be true to duty, came down to breakfast next morning with carefully powdered noses, all their tears and emotions hidden away. But it fell out as on the other mornings that Dora paired off with Jack, and Roger persuaded Phyllis to take him for a ramble in the green tangles of the wood.

Phyllis wore a white frock and looked bewitching. She carried a red parasol and dug holes in the ground with it, sharp round holes in the verdant deIicious moss. That was when she and Roger sat down on the trunk of a fallen beech tree, whilst the wood pigeons cooed overhead— and the sunshine flickered caressingly through the branches.

He spoke to her— feeling himself the most disloyal man an God's green earth the while— toW her that in a short fortnight he had, learnt the true meaning of the great word 'love.' How she had taught it to him innocently— and that no blame rested on her dear shoulders, only on his— on his!

Phyllis listened, drinking in every word, feeling that the sun had never shone so warm before, nor had the scents of summer been so sweet, but her little face grew pale as Roger went on to say that he must go back to London on the morrow, and try his best never to let Dora suspect the truth— for of course he intended to marry Dora. He also added that he thanked God from his heart that Phyllis did not care— was happy in her own engagement. Would she ever forgive him, though, for what he had said that day?

Phyllis, digging holes in the moss, felt a sudden foolish desire to sob, or anywav to confess the truth, but her loyalty to Dora forbade this. So the little white butterfly only murmured in subdued tones that perhaps Mr. Merton was right— he had better depart on the morrow.

"Will you ever forgive me?" asked Roger. He looked very handsome and earnest as he spoke— his face quivered strangely.

Phyllis bit her lip, then rose to her feet, for she did not want Roger to notice the tears that were glittering on her long lashes.

"What is there to forgive?" she asked somewhat unsteadily. "You did not want to care for me, it just happened, and now you are going away, and I do not suppose I shall ever see you again," she caught her breath a little as she said the last words. "You will he very happy, you and Dora, I expect," she went on, "for Dora is clever— and I— I am only a fool."

She blinked her eyes, those pretty bright blue eyes, and wished that the wood pigeons would cease to coo to each other, also that the sun would cease to shine, for the butterfly had found her soul— she had awakened to the true meaning of joy and sorrow.

"You a fool— you," replied Roger very gently, very softly. "You are like the rose of the world to me, the most beautiful thing on earth."

He checked himself with Iron resolution, then threw up his arms like a man in pain, his face rigid— and his lips locked themselves together.

"Say goodbye to me, and promise to forget," he muttered.  So perhaps he had noticed the tears in her eyes, and the way her face had quivered.

"Goodbye," she answered, stretching out her hands, pale, cold hands, that he raised to his rips silently. They gazed at each other— longingly— yearningly— and for one second it seemed as if the girl might sway into the man's arms, but Phyllis was made of finer stuff. At all costs to herself, she thought, she must be true to Dora. Yes, she must— she must.

"Roger," she whispered, calling him by his Christian name for the first time. "I shan't forget— and I don't want to— but I'll make Jack a good wife, and you, I know, will be very good to dear Dora."

They parted on that, for, indeed, they had come to the spot where roads divide, but they left the green fastness of the wood with a sigh, even as if they had been quitting the groves of Paradise.

But it was Dora who complained of a bad headache the next morning— not Phyllis. Indeed, Phyllis seemed even more bright and cheerful than usual, but she lowered her voice in deference to the invalid, and drew down the blinds in Dora's bedroom, as she complained that Roger had just told her father that unexpected business was calling him back to town.

"Oh," muttered Miss Chesson. She was lying back in bed, and her face looked very pale, whilst the bright noon sunshine seemed to accentuate tho dark Purple shadows under her eyes. " What a pity," she went on, after a long pause, then she raised herself on her elbow, and gazed steadily at Phyllis.

"Tell Roger I'll write to him to-morrow," she added. "My headache is too bad for me to get up to-day."

"Even to say goodbye?" asked Phyllis, thinking to herself how cold the other girl was— for wild horses would not have kept her from Roger had she been free to love him.

Dora made no answer, but a big tear stole silently and slowly down her check, then was followed by another and another. For this clever young woman— brilliant historian and mathematician though she was— could not show as brave a face as Phyllis did. All her strength of character had deserted her— all her iron sell-control.

Phyllis flitted softly about the room, pretending not to see those tears, tears which she feared she herself had brought about.

Suddenly an envelope on the dressing table caught her attention, directed in Jack Seymour's big badly formed handwriting. In after days Phyllis could never satisfactorily explain to herself how she came to draw the letter out of that envelope, a letter certainly not intended for her perusal. Dora was crying softly— very softly, her back turned to the dressing table, and Phyllis, yielding to a sudden inspiration, ran her eyes over Jack's letter, then she flushed to her forehead.

"Dear girl,"— that was how the young man began his note— "you're right as usual, and I am wrong. We must both of us be loyal to the other two. You put the case clearly enough in your letter— expressed it beautifully. This letter is just to tell you I'll not make love to you again— as you won't listen to me."

Phyllis read no more. Her blush deepened, then she tapped the ground impatiently with her little foot, and muttered what sounded like sneak. All at once her heart began to beat wildly, for she suddenly realised an amazing fact. She was free. Jack didn't love her any more than she loved him, and as to Dora— well, Dora's low and stifled sobs betrayed her state of mind, gave her away absolutely. Phyllis poked the creased, untidy letter back into the envelope, then waltzed lightly to the bed, and gave Dora a shake.

"Dora," she whispered, "I shouldn't cry— Jack's coming over to lunch."

"What do you mean?" flamed the other girl. She sat bolt upright, her really beautiful hair flowing in heavy waves over her magnificent shoulders, her eyes startled and alarmed in expression.

Phyllis laughed. "You may have Jack if you love him," she murmured gaily. "But I shall want Roger in exchange."

Then, before the other girl could make reply, she had run out of the room — radiant— dimpled and smiling.

"THIS ISN'T the path to the station," exclaimed Roger in puzzled tones, half an hour later. He was making his way across the grounds with Phyllis, for the girl had volunteered to walk with him to the little rural station about a mile from Heron  Court. His luggage could go in the cart, she said; and the young man had not been strong enough to forego the dangerous charm of the walk. But now he wondered where Phyllis was leading him— straight to a certain green wood, it seemed, far, far away from railway station and train.

"Are you sorry?" asked Phyllis. She looked him in the face. In the distance— in the depths of the wood— the pigeons were cooing and gurgling as they cooed yesterday, and the wood was lit by golden sunshine— such a beautiful world.

"Isn't it nice in the wood?" she added. "I thought you might like to go there again. Besides, I've a secret to tell the wise trees— a secret."

"Let me catch my train," answered Roger. "Phyllis— don't tempt me— don't tempt me to the wood."

She laughed at him— soft delicious laughter— then grew prettily hold and put her little warm hand upon, his arm.

"Dear, the wood is ours to-day," she murmured, " the wood and the world— the sunshine and the flowers— all ours for the taking."

He glanced her gravely— reproachfully.

"Sweet," he muttered, "you must let me say good-bye. Think of Dora."

Phyllis laughed again. "Jack can think of Dora," she said, flashing the truth at him with a smile. "We mustn't stand in the way of their happiness— or of our own. Let's to the wood."

He understood— understood with a great burst of thankful joy. Then he caught Phyllis by her hands, clasping them tight, so tight.

"To the wood!" he exclaimed, "to the wood."

_______________

3: The Bigelow Murder Mystery

Frederick Van Rensselaer Dey

1861-1922

Literary Magazine, 1920

The third of a series of "Real Detective" Stories. Dey wrote hundreds of "Nick Carter" detective stories anaonymously from 1891 on. He wrote hundreds of other dime novels, and a series of stories of "The Night Wind" from 1913, under a pseudonym. He committed suicide in 1922. This is the only story on the "Real Detective" series I could find, and one of the few stories available stories published under his own name.

"IT looks to me like a case of jumping into the river," said McNaughton, accepting the cigar proffered him by the chief, and lighting it with studied care. "At all events the man has disappeared; utterly, it would seem. His family has been prosecuting a quiet search, since he vanished. Of course nothing has been accomplished; nothing ever is accomplished by one's family, and by private detectives, in such a case. It makes me tired, chief! They wait until the trail is cold before they apply to the police, and then if we don't explain the mystery within a few hours, they roast us— or they talk to reporters so that the newspapers do it for them; it is the same thing in the long run."

The chief grunted an acquiescence to this statement. He did not pay very close attention to the inspector's remarks.

"Bigelow!" he said, half to himself. "Alfred Bigelow, you say, Mac? The name recalls something to my mind that is almost totally forgotten. Several years ago, wasn't it? That was a mysterious disappearance, also, if my memory serves me. Sure; I remember, now. It was when I held you position, and you were my right bower. What was that case, Mac? Do you recall it?"

"Yes. It suggested something to me just as it has done to you. It was this same fellow who disappeared at that time. I looked up the record, and it all came back to me."

The chief nodded.

"I remember, now," he said. "There were two brothers, weren't there? The elder one disappeared, and after about a week, the other one came to the Bureau? Get the record book, Mac—"

"That isn't necessary, chief. I have just read over all that the record contains; precious little It is, too. Shall I outline it to you?"

"Yes." The chief leaned back in his chair, resting one leg across the slide of his desk; he supported his chin on the open palm of his right hand and listened attentively while McNaughton told, in his driest professional tone, the contents of the record book as it referred to this particular branch of the Bigelow family.

"Henry Bigelow died, ten years ago, worth several millions. He was a widower with two sons, Alfred and George. He left all his property to the elder one— Alfred. There was three and a half years' difference in their ages. George Bigelow was to receive an annuity of ten thousand dollars, but the will was worded in such a manner that the payment of the annuity was left almost at the whim of Alfred. George Bigelow was about to take the will into the courts, to try to break it, when the whole affair was settled— amicably, it was authoritatively announced. Three years later Alfred Bigelow came up missing; he disappeared, and—"

"He seems to be getting the disappearing habit, Mac."

"That was seven years ago, chief. He had been gone a week when George Bigelow came to the bureau about it. I don't think you saw him at all, chief. I talked with him. I remember that I didn't think very much of the case at the time. Savarin was a new man with us, then, and I assigned him to the job. He was four or five days locating his man; found him at the East River hotel, where he had taken a room, and where he had been staying all the time."

"Trying to drink up all the whisky in New York, wasn't he? or something of that sort? I remember the case. The natural presumption would be, now, that he has gone off again on the same sort of a racket. Skip that other business, Mac, and tell me about the present case."

"A week ago yesterday morning— Sunday— Alfred Bigelow drove away from his home in an automobile, bound for his country place in Connecticut. He was accompanied by his valet; his chauffeur drove the car. At Stamford, the valet left the car and returned to New York by tram to execute some commissions for his employer. I am telling the story as I got it from George Bigelow, an hour ago."

"Yes. I understand. Go on."

"The country place for which Alfred Bigelow was bound is somewhere in the vicinity of New Canaan. At Winepauk, the chauffeur also left the car, by the direction of his employer. He was told to make some purchases at South Norwalk, and to take the train from there to New Canaan, an hour or two later. Mr. Bigelow continued on his way, alone in the car. He has not been seen and not a blessed thing has been heard about him since that moment— since the moment when he parted with his chauffeur at Winepauk."

"What became of the car?"

"It went with Bigelow, or he went with it; the same thing.

"Do you mean that the car has not been found either?"

"Not a trace of it."

"Huh! Well; go on. Tell me all you know."

"That is all I do know, chief. The valet returned to New York, from Stamford, executed his errands, took train for New Canaan, arrived at the country place in due time, found the chauffeur already there, and the two of them waited until the next morning before they communicated with George Bigelow, the brother. George Bigelow started at once in his own car, so he tells me. He began his inquiries at Winepauk, and has made a house to house search through all that neighborhood. But from the moment when the chauffeur got down from Alfred Bigelow's car, in Winepauk, until the present time, not a trace of the missing man, or of his automobile, has been discovered."

"The case isn't in our jurisdiction anyhow, Mac," said the chief. "Bigelow disappeared in Connecticut. It's a matter for that new institution of theirs; they call it the state police, I believe. However, perhaps we had better take hold of it. The man may have, and probably has, returned to New York—provided this is a case like the other one."

"George Bigelow offers ten thousand dollars reward. I thought—"

"Hold on a minute, Mac. That's a bit odd, isn't it? I understood you to say that George Bigelow inherited no part of the estate; that he possesses only an annuity, of the same amount he now offers in bulk; eh? Where is he to get the money to pay, if the reward is earned? Did you ask him that question, Mac?"

"No. I suppose he relies upon his brother to pay, in case the reward is earned; and of course, if the man is dead—"

"George Bigelow would inherit. Sure. Savarin had the other case, you say?"

"Yes."

"Send him up. I'd like to talk with Bigelow, too. Where is he?"

"He's waiting. I thought you'd like to see him.''

"After I have talked with Savarin— yes."

THE inspector opened the door to admit Savarin, who had been waiting in the corridor.

"Tell me all you know about the first Bigelow case," said the chief, bluntly, as Savarin saluted.

"It was the first assignment I had in this department, sir," replied the detective. "Alfred Bigelow had been gone a week when I took the case. He had descended the steps in front of his house, at seven in the evening, and disappeared. It was five days more before I found him—at the East River hotel. There were half a dozen empty bottles in the room with him. The bartender told me he had gotten away with two cases of the stuff while he was there. That was going some."

"How did you get trace of the man?"

"Through my talks with the brother. He told me that Alfred was a periodical, but that he usually stayed at home in his own rooms, when he; had his big sprees. Used to deny himself to everyone but his servants and his  brother George;  and he'd get away with a case or two of booze before he had sufficient, I was told. Well, I took that as a starter, and went the rounds. There wasn't any clue to work on, so I followed the case by main strength; until I nailed him, finally. That's all  there was of it, chief."

"Do the brothers resemble each other?"

"Very much; only Alfred looks much older than George, as I remember them. Of course he wasn't in any condition to size him up very closely, when I found him. The stuff he had drank, and all that, had made him haggard and pale, naturally."

"Do you mean that the man had kept close to his room all that time? That he hadn't gone out, of the hotel at all?" asked the chief.

"Oh, no; he had been in and out all the time; but never very far from the bar room when he was out of his own room, they thought."

"How did George Bigelow impress you— at that time?"

"I don't remember very much about that part of it, chief; only that he was convinced— without reason, I thought— that his brother had met with foul play."

"What reason did he assign for that belief?"

"Revenge. Alfred Bigelow owns a large interest in a hat factory, somewhere in Connecticut. It was the brother's idea that he had got some of the workmen down on him— and all that. I didn't take any stock in that view of the case, and events proved that I was right. When I did find Alfred, I wired the brother at once, and—"

"Wired him? Where was he?''

"He had gone to Boston, on his own hook, to inquire among their friends in that city. He thought Alfred might have gone there."

"Were you present when the brothers met?"

"No. When I found Alfred, I took him home. I didn't see either of them again till a week later In fact. I have never seen Alfred since I took him to his home from the East River hotel. But I saw George; I think it was the third day after that. He asked me to call on him; wrote me a letter, you know, and I went to the house. He made me a present of a hundred dollars. I stated the fact in my report."

"You did not see Alfred at that time?"

"No; he was in the house, but I didn't see him."

"Do they live together in the same house?"

"Yes, sir. They are bachelors; both of them."

"All right, Savarin. I think you had better run out to Winepauk and see what you can do at that end of the case. Probably not much. The trail is a trifle old. If you decide that he returned to New York, let me know at once. You may go now. Mac, what have you done about the automobile?  There should be no difficulty in tracing that car."

"I've got two men on it, already. We have a good description of it. It had two license numbers. We won't be long in nailing that part of the mystery— if there is a mystery at all."

"No; probably not. You said something about a case of jumping into the river. What did you mean by that?"

"George Bigelow is of the opinion that his brother has done away with himself. I was only voicing this idea."

"Oh, yes. Bring in George Bigelow. Leave him here alone with me for a time. As soon as he goes away, return to me."

GEORGE Bigelow was one of those men for whom any general description would suffice. He was neither tall, nor short; fat nor lean. His eyes were a faded blue; his brows were shaggy and red. His hair was sandy brown, but grey over the temples. His face was smooth shaven; his dress faultless. His manner when he entered the presence of the chief was one of rather forced assurance.

"This isn't the first time your brother Alfred has disappeared," began the chief, abruptly. He did not ask Bigelow to be seated, but the man dropped upon a chair, nevertheless, and slid him self down into it until the weight of his body rested upon his spine.

"No; it is the third time," he replied. "One of your men found him for me the last time; I found him myself the first time. I am afraid he won't he found at all this time."

"Why?"

"He has been drinking harder than usual of late. He had fits of despondency, during which he threatened to kill himself. I can't get it out of my head that he has done that very thing."

"And taken the automobile with him— wherever he went— eh?"

"Oh, well, of course, the automobile will soon be found, somewhere. That goes without saying, doesn't it? I have made a desperate effort to get trace of it; but I haven't succeeded."

"How is it," the chief asked, quietly, "that when your brother disappeared the last time you thought he had met with foul play, while this time you are equally positive that he has killed himself?"

"Oh, I don't know. It's my idea, that's all."

"Were you and your brother on good terms?"

"We tolerated each other. There wasn't any love lost between us. Don't run away with the idea that I shall wear mourning for him indefinitely, chief, because I shan't. If he is alive, I want him found. If he is dead, l want to know it."

"You're a nice, affectionate brother, aren't you? The inspector tells me that you offer ten thousand dollars reward. That is rather an excessive amount, isn't it? And will you tell me how you are going to pay it. if it is earned?"

George Bigelow coolly took a cigar from one of his pockets and lighted it before he replied. There was a certain air of studied insolence about the act and his manner of consummating it, which might have been the consequence of any one of several different incentives. But the chief was accustomed to reading men accurately, and quickly. There was never a slightest move, an expression or a characteristic gesture that escaped him; and he had a method of applying one to another, and fitting them together as one would do with a jigsaw puzzle, which rarely led him astray, and which nearly always supplied a revelation — or the beginning of one. This case came to the chief just as all cases came to him; without previous ideas concerning them. He applied to each one the purely practical methods of his office and his profession. He despised all suggestion of theory, and relied only upon fact: Fact, and the machinery of his department to supply it.

"I shall pay the reward, when it is earned, with money, of course," was the half surly reply. "I suppose you are referring now to the known fact that my annuity from the old man's estate amounts to the same sum I have offered as a reward."

"Naturally," replied the chief, half smiling and permitting his lids to droop so that the full expression of his eyes could not be seen. "This case of your brother does not come directly in the criminal class — unless it is your idea that he has somehow met with foul play out there along the Connecticut roads; and then It would be a case for the Nutmeg officials to deal with. It wouldn't be under my jurisdiction at all. So, if I do take it up — if I should so far transcend my prerogatives as to assign one of my men to search for your missing brother, it is reasonable that I should know where the money is coming from to pay the reward you offer."

If Bigelow had known the chief as well as he might have done, had he been in daily contact with the man, he would have been put on his guard by this long and rather conciliating speech; long indeed for a man whose natural form of expression is described by the word abrupt, and strangely conciliating for one who never conciliated anybody without having a distinct reason for doing so. But it seemed quite the proper thing to say, under the circumstances, and, according to George Bigelow's estimate of "coppers" in general and police officials in particular, the amount of reward should be of infinitely more importance to the chief than the mere clearing up of a mystery. He blundered directly into the trap which a more astute man would have seen, and shied from.

"I will know how to find the money when it is up to me to pay it," he said.

"How will you find it? You haven't it yourself.

"I have a power of attorney; it is the same thing, practically."

"Oh! I see. Do I understand that you are now empowered to draw against the bank account of your brother? Have you filed a copy of your power of attorney with his bankers, and have they accepted it?"

"They have accepted it all right."

"How is that? Tell me about it. The opinion of a shrewd banker would go far toward convincing me. I'll tell you quite frankly, Bigelow, that I know something about the existing relations between you and your brother, and also something about how your father regarded you— in relation to money matters. I confess that I do not understand how your brother could have been prevailed upon to put a power of attorney into your hands: especially one which would empower you to draw against his bank account. And it occurs to me that the officials of a bank, where your brother did business, would be rather slow to accept your authority, unless they had pretty good proof that your brother did really intend that you should exercise it."

"Look here, chief, I can see that you don't like me, and I don't care a damn whether you do or not; but you do like the sound of the reward I offer. All you care to know is that you'll finger the dough in case you find my brother Al. Well, I'll go from here to the bank, if you desire it. and deposit there a certified check for the amount of the reward, payable to you when my brother is found, or when you have given me proof that he  is dead. Now, you can take the case, or leave it, according to those terms."

"Oh, I'll take it fast enough, Bigelow."

"I thought so. I won't conceal from you that I'd as soon you find his dead body as his living one, either."

"I quite believe you. Will you tell me how he happened to give you the power of—"

"No; I won't. It s none of your business, as I view it. Now, if you have got all the information you want, I'll leave you. I didn't expect, that you would feel like exerting yourself particularly about a mere disappearance; but now that there is a reward in sight, possibly you'll be interested."

WHEN be was gone the chief touched a button which brought the inspector to him; but even after that official entered the room the chief sat for a long time silent and motionless. When he did speak, it was with his usual abruptness.

"It's a murder, Mac. George Bigelow has done away with his brother. He has the assurance of knowing that his brother is dead. He wears the arrogance of knowledge— and he has got what he considers a perfectly good reason for believing that we can't bring the crime home to him. The fellow would have increased the amount of the reward, in case of finding a dead body, if such a thing would rot have had the appearance of paying a premium for murder. But we won't bother our heads about George Bigelow's personal character, just now. Has Savarin started for Winepauk?"

"Yes."

"Wire him to give his attention only to the search for the lost car. Then assign one of your men to find out where Alfred Bigelow kept his bank account. If he had more than one account, let's know it. When you have the information, I want you to go, in person, to see the bank officials and find out from them just what method was followed in their acceptance, under a power of attorney, of George Bigelow's right to draw against his brother's account."

"There is only one account, chief, and I know where it is. Bigelow told me. I can have the information for you in an hour."

"So much the better. Bring it to me the minute you have it. Put two more of the men on that automobile— at this end of the route. You know the make? Well, wire the factory to send one of their expert machinists to you. Assign two men to shadow George Bigelow. I want to know every time he moves, and what move he happens to make. Is Sheridan in the office? All right, then. Let him dig up the past of Alfred. That disappearing habit of his might have been a new thing. George says this is the third time; we thought it was the second. Now, another thing. Tell your men to notify you if George Bigelow starts off anywhere on a trip that will be likely to keep him away from the house for a few hours. I want to see the inside of that house, myself. You and I will go there together if the opportunity offers— possibly we will go anyhow, a little later. There is another thing that I want, too. Telephone to the station house of that precinct— where the Bigelow house is— and have the officer on that beat instructed to be near the house at 4 o'clock this afternoon; then, at 4 o'clock telephone directly to the house itself and ask for the valet— you have his name, I suppose."

"I have the name of Alfred's valet."

"Well, that's the fellow I want, but I don't wish him to know I want him. He must be told something over the phone which will bring him out of the house at once — as far as the sidewalk, any-how. Have one of your men there, to get into a row with the valet, so that the officer on the beat will arrest both of them. I'll be at the station house when the valet is taken there. Let Coyle do the scrapping act, if he's not out; and tell him to look up the chauffeur, as soon as he's through with the valet. He can bring the chauffeur here. I want a chat with him, too. That's all, for the present. No; there is just one tiling more. While you are at the bank, borrow two paid and cancelled checks that were signed by Alfred Bigelow; one of recent date, and one as old as they may have in their possession ; also get one that is known to have been signed by George Bigelow, under his attorneyship— and anything else that interests you. That's all, inspector."  *

________

*If the reader will review carefully the instructions to the inspector, the grasp of detail evinced by the chief will be better appreciated; also, the lines upon which he had decided to work out the case will be understood.

AT ten minutes past 4 o'clock that afternoon the chief walked into the station house of the precinct in which the Bigelow home was located and he was behind the desk with the lieutenant when Sheridan and the valet were brought before it by the officer on that beat There was no intention of holding the valet, of course, and when the questions asked the man had elicited the fact that he was employed by the Bigelow family, the chief stepped from behind the desk and called the man into the captain's private office, where he closed the door.

"I am the chief of police," he told the valet. "I was thinking of sending for you to come to me at headquarters, but this will do as well, since I happened to be here just now. Mr. George Bigelow has reported his disappearance, eight days ago, of his brother, by whom you were directly employed: although I suppose you really served both men, eh?"

"Yes, sir; to some extent," was the reply.

"How long have you been in their service."

"One year."

"The two men are  or were— very much alike, I am told."

"Very much alike, indeed, sir. In some ways the— er— similarity between them was startling: in other things, they were not at all alike."

"I  notice that you differentiate between the words likeness and similarity. Why? When the two were together, was the likeness noticeable?"

"I have never seen them together, sir: never once since I have been employed in that house. They avoided each other. When one was in the house, the other kept to his own rooms, or went away somewhere. Whenever it was necessary that they should see each other, a third person was never permitted to be present."

"Who had the job of valet before you got it? Do you know?"

"Yes. sir; my cousin. He was discharged without reason, and he sent me to get the place. He always liked Mr. Alfred, but I don't, sir. although perhaps I should not mention the fact. My cousin could never understand my dislike for Mr. Alfred, and insists that he must have changed greatly."

"What other servants are in the  house?"

"Two besides myself sir and the chauffeur. They all entered the service at the same time I did; that is, we were all engaged within a week of one another."

"Do you think that your master committed suicide?"

"I don't know what to think, sir. He often threatened to kill himself; but he never gave a reason for the threat, save that he was tired of living. The other servants will tell you the same thing, sir. I used to think he was not quite right in his mind, he had a habit of locking himself in his rooms at times, when he would not permit even me to go to him: nor would he reply to a summons at his door. I used to think, then, that possibly he had made good his threats of suicide, and I mentioned the idea to Mr. George quite frequently; but Mr. George never seemed to care. The rooms would reek with the smell of liquor at such times, when I was permitted to enter It. I am leaving there, sir. I gave notice yesterday, and Mr. George told me to go and be damned! begging your pardon. Mr. Alfred has drank a great deal more whisky since I have been in his employ than he did when my cousin was there. He used to have a bad, barking cough, too, which I have never noticed. Possibly the liquor has cured it; but in many other ways he must be very different now. If he is alive, then he was when my cousin was there. I have no doubt that the liquor would account for it all, however."

THE chief walked back to headquarters. He found that Coyle had already taken the chauffeur there. He asked the man just one question, and gave him one order before he dismissed him. The question. Its answer, and the order were;

"Do you know the man who held down your present Job before you got it?"

"Yes, sir; I do. I know him well, by sight."

"Go and find him. Bring him here to me before you do anything else, even if you lose your job in doing it. I'll get you another one, If you do."

When the chauffeur had gone, the chief turned to the inspector who had entered the room directly behind the chief.

"Well. Mac, you look as if you knew something. What is it?"

Herrick has just telephoned that George Bigelow Is playing billiards at Slosson's, and is good for two hours, at least. It's a good time to go to the house, isn't it? I've got a car outside, ready for you."

"Yes. We'll go there, now." Then, when they were seated together in the car: "What about the bank?"

"They didn't have a single voucher on hand. The book was written up only yesterday and there hasn't been a check in since. Just a year before this present disappearance, one of the officials of the bank called upon Alfred Bigelow, by request, and was given directions about the brother signing cheeks Alfred Bigelow was in bed ill at the time; but sober. He mentioned a power of attorney, but did not show it. He gave orders that checks signed by George, using both their names, should l honored in the future, but asked the bank to notify him by mail each time it was done, stating the amount drawn. Later, George Bigelow appeared at the bank and recorded the signatures, as he intended to use them."

"That was done a year and eight days ago, eh? All right Here we are."

The valet admitted them to the house. At the request of the chief, he took them to the library and summoned the other servants, who were questioned closely along the lines talked by the valet, at the station house. Then the two officers visited the sleeping apartments of the brothers. Half an hour later they returned to headquarters.

"Nothing doing at the house, Mac; only the further evidence supplied by the servants that everything about this affair seems to date back one year. What about the automobile machinist?"

"It's a Locomobile; made in Bridgeport. The man will be here at half past five. Sheridan has dug up Alfred's past without much difficulty. There was very little to dig up. He found the family physician— Doctor Green, in Twenty-first street —who attended the father, and Alfred also, until a year ago. He was discharged then. There was nothing the matter with Alfred save that he has been asthmatic. He has always been afflicted with an asthmatic cough, but—"

"All right, Inspector. When those two chauffeurs show up, put them through a line of questioning about the habits and physical condition of Alfred Bigelow as each one has known him. When the machinist arrives from Bridgeport, tell him that I want him to be able to identify the Bigelow car, when it is found. I want him to be able to identify the different parts of It. too. If that Is possible. Let him use the long distance phone to communicate with the factory for any information he doesn't possess. Unless I'm greatly at fault, we are on the track of a crime that was committed a year ago, and the automobile is the key-stone of our case. What is it, Joe?" he added, addressing his secretary, who appeared at that moment.

"Detective Savarin is on the phone, sir."

FOUR days afterward, at the same hour In the afternoon, the door of the chief's private office opened to admit Coyle and Conway. George Bigelow. looking extremely angry, and also very ugly, was with them. It was plain that he was there against his will.

"What the h— does this mean?" he demanded, the instant he was across the threshold. "You'll have to pay for this, you—"

He got no further than that in his tirade of abuse, for the policemen had received their instructions, and at a sign from the chief, Coyle seized Bigelow by the throat and choked off further utterance. While the slight struggle was going on. the inspector came into the room, followed by each of the detectives who had been assigned to various duties on the ease. They arranged themselves in Individual attitudes of expectancy; for long practice with their chief had taught them to know when he was about to wring a confession from a suspected man. This practice is popularly known as the "third degree," but it is rarely practiced twice in the same matter, for the reason that there are rarely two cases which call for the same methods. The chief, as soon as Bigelow had been properly subdued, turned toward his secretary.

"Read that fellow's story, Joe," he said. "Bigelow, we have found a person who knows all about you. You thought that nobody knew, but there was one who did. If you have any corrections to make in what you hear now, you can make them later; but if you interrupt the reading of this man's confession, Officer Coyle has instructions to hand you one on the jaw that will teach you the wisdom of keeping quiet when another has the floor. Go ahead. Joe."

(The following document, solemnly read aloud to that group of interested listeners of which George Bigelow was the center, had been dictated by the chief to his private secretary, for this occasion. The chief had not theorised at all in its preparation: he had only carried out certain facts that had been brought to his knowledge, to a consecutive and logical conclusion. Everything that the paper contained was built upon the axiom of cause and effect. Every fact used in the document was the product of the men on the inspector's staff. There was not one whit of romance, or imagination, in the paper, save in the name and the existence of the supposed deponent. He was a fictitious being, created for the occasion.)

CITY and County, and State of New York, ss.

Timothy Burke, being duly sworn, deposes and says:

That he resides in the city of New York, and has resided in said city more than twenty-five years; that he knew Henry Bigelow, father of Alfred and George Bigelow, and sometimes performed certain acts of service for him which need not be specified here; that, as a consequence, he has known by sight, for many years, said Alfred and George Bigelow: that one of the services for which he was at times engaged by the father of said Alfred and George, was to watch them, to spy upon them, and to report on their conduct, deportment and habits; that shortly after the demise of said Henry Bigelow, deponent left the country, and was absent therefrom for about three years; that upon returning, deponent roomed for a time it the East River hotel; that while at said East River hotel he encountered said Alfred Bigelow in the bar thereof, and frequently drank with him over the bar. That, thereafter, for a considerable time, deponent was again absent from the country, but returned to it one year ago the twelfth day of July last. That on that day. or the one following it, he  again encountered, as he supposed at the time, said Alfred Bigelow, on the street, and addressed said Bigelow; but that said Alfred Bigelow, as he then supposed the mail to be, refused to recognize deponent in and then and there treated this deponent with contumely and contempt. Whereupon, said deponent, being outraged and indignant because of the refusal of recognition on the part of said supposed Alfred Bigelow the aforesaid, followed said Bigelow, and watched him, and spied upon him; and said deponent continued to follow, watch and spy upon said Bigelow, at intervals thereafter, and whenever the opportunity offered, until eleven days before the making this deposition; and that the reasons why said deponent has just followed, watched and spied upon said Bigelow since said date of eleven days ago, are hereinafter set forth. Deponent further states that a further object he had for following, watching and spying upon said Bigelow, after the contemptuous treatment as aforesaid, was that he, said deponent, might personally profit thereby.

Deponent further states, on oath, that on the twelfth day of July last past he was at the village of Winepauk, Connecticut, haring walked to said place from South Norwalk, in said state: that while there he saw said Bigelow, as he then supposed him to be, in an automobile, on the main street of said village; that said Bigelow was accompanied only by one other person, who drove the automobile; that said automobile was brought to a stop at the curb near where deponent was standing at the time: that said person left the automobile and boarded a passing trolley car bound toward South Norwalk; that said Bigelow changed his seat to the one under the steering wheel; that deponent thereupon glided forward and contrived by the exercise of great skill to climb into the tonneau of said automobile unnoticed by said Bigelow; that soon thereafter the automobile started forward at a rapid speed, with said Bigelow driving with this deponent concealed in the tonneau thereof; that for more than an hour thereafter the car continued an uninterrupted journey; that when it came to a stop, deponent looked about him for the first time, discovering that said car had brought to a stop within an outbuilding of a deserted farm, the buildings of which were in fairly good repair, notwithstanding. Deponent further says that, then, said Bigelow got down from the car and left it where it was. closing the door of said building and locking the same with a key in his possession, thereby causing said deponent some difficulty in extricating him self from the place. That when said deponent was again out side the outbuilding as aforesaid,  said Bigelow was already some distance down the road and walking rapidly: that deponent followed; that after walking a short distance, said Bigelow boarded a trolley car. In which he rode to a station of the N. Y. N. H. & H. railroad that  bore the sign Westport & Saugatuck, where he leaped upon the rear platform of a departing train, which deponent was unable to get upon. That deponent thereupon returned to the place where the automobile had been abandoned, and waited there two days. when, to the amazement of this deponent, George Bigelow, younger son of Henry Bigelow, and Alfred's brother, came there with another car; that said Bigelow immediately began to demolish the car that had been previously abandoned by the supposed Alfred Bigelow; that said George Bigelow utterly dismembered said car of his brother Alfred, until nothing was left of it but a heap of iron and steel parts, which were stored away, out of sight, in the tonneau of the waiting car, and that George Bigelow then made a fire in a ravine back of the buildings, where he burned to ashes every destructible part of said demolished automobile That thereafter, said George Bigelow rode away in his own car, taking with him all and separate, the parts of the demolished automobile which he had previously burned or otherwise destroyed beyond recognition: and deponent was unable to pursue, save by walking  But deponent did follow the tracks of said George Bigelow's automobile, on foot, and at various places along in frequented roads. through the towns of Westport, Weston, and others, this deponent found where parts of the dismembered automobile had been thrown away, hurled, or otherwise concealed from view and search. Deponent further states, on oath, that he now knows that the man whom he has been watching, following and spying upon during the past year was never at any time the person of Alfred Bigelow, but was at all times the person of George Bigelow, disguised to represent his brother Alfred. Deponent further states that he returned later to the abandoned farm house, and searched the grounds thereabout, until he discovered, beneath the floor of the same old building where the automobile was dismembered, a rudely made grave, in which had been buried the body of a human being that had been previously partly destroyed by fire; but there were fragments of clothing remaining. which indicated that said body had, in life, belonged to a man.

And this deponent further states, on information and belief, that the said body as aforesaid was all remained of said Alfred Bigelow.

Timothy Burke.

Sworn to and signed before me this 24th day of July, 19—

J. Forbes Proctero,

Notary Public and Cmmn'r of Deeds for all the States.

SPACE has not been given here to the frequent interruptions on the part of George Bigelow while he listened to the arraignment incorporated in the affidavit of that entirely fictitious personage, Timothy Burke. Dramatic effect might have been made greater by so doing, but the chief dislikes dramatic effect, save only when it is used in administering the "Third Degree."

It was Savarin who traced the automobile to the deserted farm house near Westport, and, aided by two others of the men, discovered, one by one, the links in the chain of evidence which made the fictitious affidavit possible. Many of the parts of the automobile never were found: some of them were discovered in ravines, or in the woods. or buried near the road; some were in junk shops in New York; the expert machinist identified all of them. The charred remains of the body of Alfred Bigelow could not be entirely identified, but George Bigelow's confession, induced by the reading of the affidavit, rendered that unnecessary.

George Bigelow had catered to and abetted his brother's vice; he had taken a five years' lease of the abandoned farm; he murdered his brother at their home, and having propped the body in an automobile, conveyed it to the farm for the purposes described. Then, for an entire year, he impersonated that dead brother, whenever occasion demanded it. He discharged the old servants and retained new ones; he gave the appearance of more frequent debauches; he magnified the moroseness and despondency of the brother; he barred the servants from the room of Alfred, whenever it was necessary to appear in his own person, and those servants supposed that Alfred was there, drunk, all the time; he impersonated his brother at the time when the bank official called there about the signing of checks. But it all became irksome, and he resolved to rid himself of the incubus entirely. Having waited a year, he  supposed himself safe but in his plotting and planning, he builded too well The fatal error was in attempting to dispose of the automobile; he realized it when it was too late to rectify the mistake. A semi-fatal error was in applying to the police; but he reasoned that it was the only correct course in order to establish himself firmly in possession of his brother's millions.

The chief insists that it was not his own sagacity, but the methodical machinery of his department, which unveiled the mystery.

____________________

4: Success

Owen Oliver

(Joshua Albert Flynn, 1863-1933)

Munsey's Magazine, December 1912

World's News (Sydney), 11 Jan 1913

THERE was a deal of sickness in Littleham, and it was six o'clock when Dr. Jarris Boyd returned from his afternoon round. His cases were not of a very paying kind. Some of them were such as tax the pocket of a soft-hearted practitioner, and Boyd jingled his small change disconsolately as he walked.

Money, he told himself, was an excellent medicine; and he wished that he had more to dispense. His reflections had passed on to certain unpaid bills when he opened his front door and entered the sparely furnished hall.

A letter was lying on the little table. He hung up his hat hastily and threw his umbrella into a corner, instead of placing it in the stand, when he saw the name on the flap of the envelope— "Jones & Welch, Solicitors, Overbury."

"We have the pleasure of informing you that your maternal uncle, Joseph Steel, of whose recent demise you are doubtless aware, by his last will left the whole of his estate to yourself. After the payment of all charges and taxes, it should realise the sum of one thousand pounds very approximately."

He dropped into the hall chair, wiped his forehead, and repeated the amount over and over again.

"A thousand pounds! A thousand pounds!"

A thousand pounds would purchase a practice worth having; a practice where he might keep an assistant for the drudgery, perhaps, and devote himself to the important cases.

It would do better than that. It would enable him to complete the studies which had promised so well when the untimely death of his father compelled him to rush the pass examinations and take the first post which would enable him to support himself— a berth as a ship's doctor, so often the refuge of the failures.

He had always hoped to be something more than an ordinary general practitioner; and his teachers had endorsed his aspirations. He often thought of what Cooper, the senior lecturer, had said to him:—

"You can be one of the first authorities on nervous diseases if you will invest a few hundreds in yourself. You want a couple of years under Von Raun, and a year for independent researches and monographs. Then you'll make an income of two or three thousand a year. It would be money well invested, Boyd!"

It was not only his teachers who had seen the possibilities in him. His fellow students, his friends, the one big man whom he had met in consultation during his practice, had realised them.

"You ought to be something better than this," gruff Dr, Carpenter had growled. "Push yourself, man! Take a place at next to nothing as assistant to a big physician— Murgatroyd might like to have you. It will pay in the end."

He couldn't afford to wait for "the end"— that was the trouble. He had to keep him-self and make an allowance to his invalid mother. None of the rest of the family could spare much to help her.

Old Barnby, who owned half the town— his only well-to-do client— had given him similar advice.

"You oughtn't to waste yourself here," he had said. "Go to a big place, and get known. You're the only legal doctor I've ever met with a soul above rhubarb pills. You've made a whole woman of my girl!"

And Ethel Barnby had smiled at him with that sweet smile of hers, and said that she thanked him with her whole heart. He had often thought that, if he could raise himself to her sphere, Ethel would make a whole man of him. He doubted if he could ever be his whole best without her.

As a successful specialist, he might hope, rich as she was, Her father was not one who looked solely at money. He would want merely sufficient success to prove the man; and if there was a prospect of that, perhaps Ethel would wait. He had not tested her feelings. He could not propose, even now, of course. But he could say— what should he say?

"I shall try with my whole heart to justify the confidence my teachers had in me, and to take a place in the world of medicine which— which will render a closer friendship between us more possible. The hope of that would be a great stimulus to me. Miss Barnby!"

He pictured her looking down at her feet, and then looking up at him with her sweet, shy smile.

"I shall hope for your success," he fancied her saying; "and if— if my friendship is a help, I am glad!"

What a lot money could do! Just a thousand pounds!

ii

BOYD picked up the letter again; and then the clock struck the half-hour, and he crammed the letter in his pocket and hurried to the dispenser's room. There were so many medicines to be sent out, and he must hurry through his dinner to go out again. He did not like the look of old Mrs. Taggart. There was nothing malignant about the symptoms of her illness, but her heart was not strong, and at her age that had to be considered. He must see her again, to judge whether he should risk interference with the main treatment on account of the heart.

He must see little Gracie Smith again, too. She seemed to be going on all right, but her temperature was a trifle higher than he liked at, this stage of the fever. Another visit was not really necessary before to-morrow; but when she was well she always held up her face to be kissed when he went in; and he saved bright coins for Gracie. He must make quite sure about her.

There were several other urgent matters. He must telephone to the hospital about Ross's operation; and if it was to-morrow morning there was a point that he wanted to look up in the books. He must call in at the dentist's at eight to give Annie Samuel gas.

"Gas is hardly necessary for that tooth," the dentist had protested.

It wasn't— for that tooth; but it was necessary for Annie. She was a nervous girl, and if she was hurt too much she wouldn't go to the dentist in future. Boyd doctored people, not ailments. Possibly that was why he was meant for a great physician.

"There are three good medicines," he often said; "physic and money and kindness. Kindness is the best!"

Further, the nurse said that she might want him at Mrs. Read's at any time; and he ought to see the parson's wife, to ask what the Dorcas Society could do to help the little Reads. There were so many little Reads already, and the father had only odd jobs. And he would like to call and see how the baby Kings were getting on while their mother was in hospital.

"The father will touch me for half a crown, I suppose," he warned himself. "Well, I can spare it now!"

He sent out his medicine and swallowed his dinner. He saw a patient who had cut a finger, and a mother whose baby had swallowed a cake of soap, "while my head was turned."

Then he went off to his cases. Most of them were satisfactory. Little Gracie Smith had quite turned the corner, and was playing with the doll he had given her; but Mrs. Taggart was very bad. He called there twice, gave her stimulants for a weak heart, and promised to go round again before he went to bed.

He was scarcely indoors before old Taggart fetched him.

"She's going, sir," he sobbed. "She's going. And to-morrow will be our wedding-day! Thirty-seven years! Thirty-seven years, sir!" Boyd ran to their cottage, outstripping the old man, and fought with death for two hours. He won for the time being. It was past mid- night, and he was walking home, when he remembered his legacy. He slapped his leg and laughed.

"Money is so much more than money," he told himself. "It is success! Just think what it will do! It will make me master of my profession. Then I shall cure so many people, and cure them so quickly! I shan't just try what seems best. I shall know. Two or three thousand a year! Cooper doesn't exaggerate. Dozens of lives saved! Hundreds made easier and happier! A European reputation, and perhaps— Ethel! Oh. you dear, pretty little lady, that I haven't dared to raise my eyes to! I'd be good to you as a man never was to a woman before!"

His eyes softened, and he took off his hat, as if he did reverence to her.

"It's wonderful what money can do," he murmured. "You're a great responsibility, my excellent thousand pounds! God judge me as I use you!"

As he used it! Had he not already determined the manner of its use? But was there no other manner? His face paled slowly, and he set his lips.

Long after he had reached his room he walked up and down, moving the previous question with himself. It was not the question how he could use the money best to perfect himself, r but whether he had the right to use it for himself at all.

If he might keep the legacy for himself the case was clear enough, and he saw no need to argue it. His talents, as Cooper had said, were worth the investment, and he did not fear

failure. He knew his own strength, his quick cleverness, his unfailing industry. He would "make good." He would win his position, his fortune, and, please God, the woman he loved. He had no doubt that he was a good investment for a few hundred pounds; but he doubted his right to invest them.

He tried to judge the question fairly; but he put himself less in the position of a judge than of the counsel for the other side, as true men do when they try their honor.

The investment would do good to the world, would enable him to cure the curable and ease the incurable. That was entitled to count, surely? No! He had no right to do present wrong to achieve future good; and that good probably overestimated by his vanity. The sole question was, had he a right to use the money as he thought best, or was he limited by the claims of others?

His Uncle Joseph had many other relatives. How about their claims? Uncle Joseph was the judge of those. But how about those who had claims on himself— the young doctor's own family?

First, there was his mother, for many years a patient invalid and a sufferer. He made her an allowance, it was true, and the allowance was the utmost he could afford; but it was inadequate to the needs of an ailing and delicately nurtured lady. He had always intended that, if he ever made money, his first step should be to repay her the three hundred pounds which she had contributed towards his medical education. He could not postpone that claim to futurity. In three years' time she might not be alive.

He set his strong mouth, and gave judgment in her case. The three hundred pounds was the first claim on his thousand. Perhaps, with economy, the remainder would be enough for his plans.

But there were other claims. There was Uncle William. He was very poor. It was his own fault. He squandered every penny that came to him. He would waste any share of the legacy that was given to him; he would spend it on doings better undone. Boyd decided that he need not consider Uncle William. Uncle Joseph had presumably done so, and had decided against him. He was not concerned with the claims on Uncle Joseph, but with the claims on himself. Uncle William had none.

But his sister Mary was a claimant against him— dear, kind old Mary! She was such a cheerful, self-sacrificing soul, and she made so light of her struggles. Her husband was a worthy fellow, too— industrious and frugal and trustworthy. He had all the moral virtues, and none of the mental. He was just a com- petent routine worker, who could never be more. They were always in debt. Little Alice, Boyd's favorite niece, was to leave school that summer— two years too soon— to go into a shop.

If anyone needed and deserved a legacy, it was Mary. It would take off some of that worn look that was robbing her of her attracttiveness before her time. Money was good medicine for Mary, and she must have it.

Then there was brother Tom— an excellent chap, and a man of parts. How bad luck had him! Misfortune to his firms; illness just when he could have had a good post; a loan to a friend who died just when Tom had an opening for the money. He might have obtained it from the widow— she had just so much from the insurance— but he never mentioned the matter to her, and tore up the I.O.U.

"Tom, old fellow," the doctor said, "I needn't put the question about you. You've answered it for me. I must do as you have done!"

There was sister Milly— always his particular pal in the family. Milly never thought of herself at all. She'd much rather have him keep her share of the money; and that was exactly the reason why he couldn't do it.

"My darling old Milly! I won't rob vou!"

His brother George was the next to be con- sidered. George was a self-reliant, promising chap. He'd get on all right; and he'd say that he'd rather do for himself than succeed on other people's money. He was harder in manner than the rest of the family, aud he scoffed at sentiment.

"People had best look out for themselves," he would say. "I've enough things of my own to look after."

But George's hardness was very superficial. He spoke of his lodging at home as a business transaction, but he paid more than enough. And he had been engaged for two years, but didn't marry. He didn't believe in early marriages, he said. Milly said that "he doesn't believe in leaving mother while his money is such a help."

There was no justification whatever for overlooking George. Young Frank couldn't possibly be left out, either. He had such an absurd admiration for his brother the doctor, and he behaved so charmingly to his mother and sisters.

"Frank won't mind," they always said.

Frank wouldn't mind if the doctor borrowed his share— that was how Boyd had come to look at the question. Well, he'd be hanged it he would do it!

Last there came Baby May; quite a big baby now— nearly fourteen. She was old for her age in some ways, Boyd had thought when he was last home. She kept her feelings to herself usually; but he had gained her confidence— somehow people generally confided in him— and he had learned how acutely she felt their poverty.

"It isn't that I mind going without things, Jarvis," she had told him, with a sudden twist of her young mouth. "Of course, I don't. It's that— that I did so want to be brought up a lady, like the others. If only I could stay at school till I was eighteen, I wouldn't care what I had to go without." Well, Baby May should have her schooling. He would invest her share in making her an educated lady. He thought that she would be a lady anyhow. Ladyship is a matter of instinct, not of schooling.

"There are some things that money can't do," he reflected. "The money couldn't make me a gentleman. I shouldn't be one if I took it from those to whom I owe a share. And there's a share that I owe to someone outside the family. If old Gray hadn't lent me the fifty pounds that I paid back, I couldn't have held on to pass my final; and I know that he's in a hole now, through his wife's illness. I shall offer him a loan of forty or fifty out of my own share. Well, I've settled it!"

He scarcely put the settlement into words. It was so obvious. His mother must have three hundred pounds. He and his brothers and sisters would share the remainder— a hundred pounds apiece. Of his own hundred he would lend half to Gray.

"I'll write and tell them to-night," he de- cided. "It isn't that I'm afraid of altering, but I shall be easier when it's off my mind!"

He sat down and wrote the letters, sealed them, and stamped them ready for posting. He looked at them as they lay in an orderly pile— he was always orderly— and sighed a deep sigh.

"God knows," he said, "I don't grudge them the money, but— oh, didn't I want you, Ethel!"

iii

THREE o'clock struck as he got into bed. At half past five he was summoned to attend Mrs Read. He did not set any more sleep that night. Perhaps that was why he looked so worn in the morning. Miss Barnby remarked open it when she met him in High-street.

"But when I see you to weary," she said, "I always think that some day, and some how, there will be a reward tor your work. I wish that I could do something!"

"I have some of my reward," he told her, "when I see you smiling and happy. You are such—such a good little patient, and so kind. Good-bye."

"Good-bye," she said. "Come in and see us soon."

She smiled her pretty little smile. It seemed to hurt him. If things had been different, he told himself, he could have won Ethel Barnby.

Well, he had left all that behind. He must not do things by halves. He would keep out of the way of temptation for the future— God bless her!

He went about his work very quietly for the next week. The doctor was "overdone," people said, and no wonder— he did the work of three.

The whole town rejoiced when it leaked out, through some local people who knew his family, that he had received a legacy; Ethel Barnby clapped her hands when the news came to her. She was radiant when she congratulated him.

"Now," she said, "you will be able to do all the great things that you wanted to do! I remember what you told me, if you have forgotten. Father has just the same idea. He spoke to me about it this morning. 'It you meet your wonderful doctor,' he said— he teases me for thinking you so clever, but he thinks so, too— 'tell him to invest the money in himself, and become a great specialist.' You will, won't you? It would make such a difference—to you!"

Dr. Boyd moved his lips in and out several times before he answered.

"It would make a great difference," he owned, "but I have invested the money in— in my honor, Miss Barnby. There were those who— who had claims on it."

She gave a little cry, as if she were hurt.

"You were sure to consider their claims," she told him. "I am not so sure that you would consider your own."

"I tried to judge fairly," he said. "I did not forego my claims without disappointment."

She bowed silently. From their looks one might have thought that she was the disappointed one.

"I wonder," she said at last, "if they will gain as much as you will lose!"

"I lose the world," he cried, with sudden passion. "Don't talk about it! Thank you— good-bye."

"Good-bye!" she said.

When he had stridden round the corner she brushed her eyes.

Mr. Barnby sent for him that afternoon.

The old gentleman had "a queer feeling inside," he declared. The doctor could find nothing the matter, he pronounced.

"Now, frankly, sir!" he said briskly, "it's difficult for a young man to lecture an old one, but— don't grow old by thinking that you are. You're letting yourself dwell on little feelings which five years ago you'd have ignored. Go on ignoring them, and you'll be all right. You're a young man for your age. Believe in your youth, and don't bother too much about symptoms. Excuse me!"

Old Barnby looked hard at him.

"Now, look here, doctor," he said. "I know well enough that there's nothing much the matter with me. I didn't send for you to have you dose me, but to dose you. Sit down and take your medicine! Here! Give me your hat, and stop fidgeting. I suppose you accept me as a straight man? And not a fool, eh? Very well. Tell me about your legacy."

The doctor told him briefly that a thousand pounds had been left to him, and that he had divided it, in the way that he felt to be honorable, with his family. Old Barnby nodded. "Did you realise what it would have done for yourself?" he asked.

"I think so," the doctor answered. "I'd often planned out what I would do if I had a little money. I'd have tried to become a great specialist. Nervous complaints— I was always interested in them."

"You would have made several thousand a year, in time."

"Possibly."

"Cured countless people."

"I Hoped to."

"Made a big name."

"Well— I might have."

"You'd have raised yourself to a different sphere of life, and been able to marry whom you pleased."

"I do not intend to marry," the doctor told him.

"You mean that you have given up that idea with the rest?"

The doctor did not answer, and the old man paced the hearth-rug before he continued.

"Well, you gave up your career— and what went with the career— for 'honor.' I think you told Ethel. It was she who spoke to me about it." He drummed the table with his fingers. "She doesn't forget what you did for her; neither do I. Now, if one looks it honorable claims— I paid you twenty pounds, when the service that you did was worth hundreds."

Dr. Boyd smiled faintly.

"It is the worth of my labor that has to be considered," he said, "not the worth of the result to you. One can't measure such things as your daughter's health and happiness by money."

"Exactly!" the old man cried triumphantly,

"Exactly! Ethel and I can't measure what we owe you in money, and we shan't try to. I won't put it on that ground, but— I'm an old man, Boyd, and I haven't a son. if I had, it would make me a young fellow again to watch his career. Let me watch yours! I'll lend you a thousand pounds on condition that you do exactly what you would have done if you had felt free to keep that legacy; exactly, mind!"

"Exactly!" Boyd repeated slowly: "Sir, there was a— a presumptuous intention that you do not realise."

"Don't I?" The old man gave a faint chuckle. ''Well, if I don't that's my mistake, not yours. Now remember— you've got to do exactly as you intended, presumption and all!" The doctor shook his head.

"The presumption," he said, "was that I intended to ask your daughter for a hope that, if I succeeded. I might win her."

"Go and ask her, then," the old man told him sharply. "She's in the drawing-room. If I know anything of my girl, she won't say, 'Succeed and win me;' but she might say. "Win me and succeed.' There are things that you can't measure in money, Boyd, as you said; or in success! Tut! tut: God bless you! You've shown me what money can't do!"

Ethel Barnby proved that her father understood her. For when the doctor asked for his hope, she answered by giving him her hand.

"Not if you succeed," she corrected, with a smile that was sweeter than her usual sweet smile, "and not because I know that you will succeed; but for richer or poorer, for better or worse. Now we will succeed— together!"

"Oh, Ethel!" he cried. "This is success!"

_______________

5: Prey

C S Montanye

1892-1948

Detective Story, 28 Oct 1919

THE girl left Columbus Avenue to plunge into the silent side street in the upper Fifties where, drawing well into its cluttered shadows, she gave ear for sounds of pursuit.

But all lay quiet. Into the street turned no rushing crowd led by the blue-coated patrolman who had answered the shrill blasts of the police whistle the jeweler had blown as she had slipped into the night. If pursuit there still was, her adroit trick of doubling on her own tracks had led the minion of the law with his impromptu posse to the west and Columbus Circle, across which she had so artfully dodged.

With a sigh of something not unlike relief, Maida Dean emerged from the shadows and made her way east. Several avenues she put behind her before a hard, sardonic smile sprang to her lips. It had all been so easy. For weeks the necklace in the Third Avenue jewelry-store window had dazzled her eyes and tormented her imagination. Its very platinum chain had given her no rest; the sight of it had caused her fingers to twitch and her eyes to narrow.

But to-night—to-night had known the fulfillment of all her maddest, wildest dreams. The necklace was her own!

Hardly an hour had passed since she had entered the store and asked to inspect it. The jeweler had gotten it from the window. The time had been gauged to a nicety. The minute she had entered the store her confederate, one Limpy Lou, had turned in a fire alarm. She had hardly set her eyes upon the necklace and felt it cold as ice between her fingers, when Limpy Lou had tossed the brick through the plate-glass windows of the shop, earning his twenty-five dollars well, by conjuring up a confusion greater than any she had hoped for. In the midst of it she had made off with her plunder just as she had planned to. But only in the very nick of time. The jeweler had not lost his head. The fraction of a minute after she had slipped across the threshold of the store, the scream of his police whistle was heard even above the din of the turmoil of traffic on the avenue.

Crossing another avenue and turning sharply south, Maida listened once more. Still silence. She turned into a narrow, gloomy alley; an alley that bisected a stolid, grimy row of cheap tenements. She found herself wondering if Limpy Lou had made good his own escape. There was no reason why he should not have, unless his bad leg had failed him in his hour of need.

The alley ending abruptly, the girl faced three doors. One of these she passing into a small hallway, lighted only by a flickering gas jet, and dank with the odor of the cellar below. Into the hallway cascaded a flight of rickety wooden stairs, and up these stairs she climbed, a happy little song singing in her heart.

On the third landing she halted, produced a pass-key, unlatched a door, and passed into a small bedroom, low-ceiled and covered with a mangey carpet through which, in places, the boards of the floor gaped. On one side of the room was a narrow, iron cot. Opposite it stood a painted bureau with a cracked and dust-clouded mirror. A gas light of no greater brilliancy than the one in the hallway below filled the room with dusky shadows. It was a squalid, poverty-stricken place at best; but to Maida, as she entered it, it seemed no different from the throne room in soom medieval castle.

Closing, and shooting home the bolt on the door, Maida blocked the keyhole with a wad of paper, crossed the room, and opened the hand bag she carried, lifting out the necklace. Allowing it to slip like an irradiant snake to the darned counterpane of the bed, she stared down at it, drinking in its beauty, watching the flash and sparkle of its fifty blue-white eyes.

So long had she dreamed of it that she touched it once or twice with her finger tips to make certain it was actually before her— that it was her own. The smile her face wore, faded. A pity she had to dispose of it. This thought marred her brow with a frown. Obviously the best and safest way would be to break it up and sell the stones in small lots. The fences of the underworld would buy the smaller stones; with the larger she would invade Maiden Lane and the offices of those wholesalers who, when eager for a bargain, were not particular about learning the history of what she might offer.

Suddenly she stiffened, hands fluttering out and shielding her loot, eyes narrowing. Some one had slowly ascended the stairway and had paused before her door.

With quiet swiftness she raised the edge of the mattress and in the aperture between the spring mesh and soiled ticking she placed the necklace and let the mattress drop, still listening, hardly breathing, ready to lift a hand and turn out the gas.

Silently drawing on an ancient kimono over her shirtwaist and skirt, she stiffened again as a soft knock sounded against the panels of the door. Had the bloodhounds of the law picked up her trail; had she blundered in some way?

The knock sounded again, this time louder. Fastening the kimono at throat and waist, she moved soundlessly to the door, reaching it as words trickled through:

"Maida— open the door. It's me, Limpy Lou."

With a breath of tense relief she swung the bolts and opened the door. The man who entered the room was undersized and weazened. He had a dark, malevolent face, and walked with a slouching limp. Under a low, protruding forehead crafty eyes were deeply sunken; a loose, rapacious mouth held a few snags of tobacco-stained teeth.

The door closed behind him and he favored the girl with an admiring leer. "Got away clean!" he said. "Girlie, I gotta hand it to you—it was a neat job!"

Uninvited, the intruder crossed to the single chair the room boasted and sank into it.

"Why did you come here?" Maida demanded with a flash of anger. "I told you to keep away and to lie low for a couple of days, didn't I?"

Limpy Lou avoided her gaze and fingered a malformed nose.

"Aw, don't get on your ear, Maida. I'm gonna snatch a flop right away. What's the use of pickin' on me? If it hadn't been for me you wouldn't have got the stones."

Not his complaining whine so much as the truth of his statement caused the face of the giri to soften. After all if it had not been for the man's assistance she would never have been able to swing clear with the swag.

"What happened?" she asked curiously, in a milder tone. "How did you make your get-away?"

Limpy Lou chuckled. "Nothin' to it! After I turned in a call for the engines, I beat it up the elevated railway steps to the platform. The minute the hooksie come I dropped the brick I brung down into the jewelry-store window and grabbed a rattler. I rode down to Chatham Square, got off, and walked back. Maida, gimme a look at the sparklers!"

The girl reflected rapidly. Had he some sinister motive for asking to see the pelf, or was it simply curiosity? At best he was only a cripple; rum-soaked, harmless. If he attempted anything she felt she was more than able to cope with the situation. Her young strength was twice as great as his— and her fully loaded automatic reposed in her bureau drawer.

"Gimme a look at the stuff," he pleaded; "just one look."

With a careless swing of her shoulders she flipped back the mattress and drew out the gleaming booty, handing it to him, smiling as the man's eyes lighted and his gnarled hands ran caressingly over the stones.

"Nice little thing, isn't it?" she murmured. "Believe me I did two years in stir for lifting a bunch of junk not worth a single stone of the loop you're handling."

Limpy Lou ran the necklace from hand to hand. "Some stones!" he crooned under his breath. "Some sparklers!"

Over and over he repeated the words, fondling the necklace gloatingly until the girl spoke sharply: '"That's about enough of that. What are you trying to do— wear it out?"

Limpy Lou laughed.

"Maida, I want to show you something I bought outta the twenty-five you gave me. How is this for a bargain, hey?"

With a swift, deft movement he drew something from the pocket of his ragged coat and the girl found herself looking into the blue circle of a shiny, snub-nosed revolver.

"I'll keep this necklace," Limpy Lou said briskly. "A swell skirt with your nerve and brains can grab plenty more. But what chance has a poor old cripple like me got? Maida, the minute you breezed with the necklace you were my prey— get that, my prey!"

Backing away he dropped the necklace in his pocket, solved the mysteries of the bolt on the door without turning or lowering his gun, kicked the door open, and— vanished.

With a rattling gasp of rage and dismay, Maida tore off her kimono, jammed on her hat, and whisked the loaded automatic from the bureau drawer.

In an instant she was out in the hall and down the stairs, temples pounding oddly, burning waves of insensate vehemence mounting to her brain at the thought of the ease and simplicity with which she had been tricked.

Scarcely sixty seconds had elapsed since Limpy Lou had stuck her up, yet, as she came out into the alley, now painted with the pale fire of a rising moon, there was no sign of him. Hesitant, Maida understood she had blunered. It was impossible for the cripple to make rapid progress, yet he had escaped her. Obviously Limpy Lou had chosen the roof trap for his exit, or had hidden in the shadows as she passed him on her way down the stairs.

For just a minute the girl stood motionless, her rage ebbing away, to be replaced with a cool, deadly calm. Then with a click of her white teeth she made her way down the alley, an idea shaping itself in the back of her mind.

Out and into the street she hurried. The air had freshened; squadrons of stars trailed across a canopy of cloudless sky; riding high among them, a gibbous moon had cleared the eastern horizon and shone with tinsel brightness.

Carefully avoiding Third Avenue Maida turned north. If she worked fast all might yet not be lost. If Luck was good to her she might still retrieve what she had stolen and what in turn had been stolen from her. It was on the knees of the gods!

With flying feet she put block after block behind her, coming at length upon a lighted building from which stole the sounds of syncopated dance music, the stamp of moving feet, and the drone of conversation. It was one of the numerous East Side social clubs. As Maida reached its gaudy portals, it was to observe the dance floor well filled and the soft-drink pavilion adjoining it thronged with the hot and thirsty.

Skirting the dancers, she continued along the corridor she had set foot in, and traversed its length, to come upon a closed door which ended the passage. Upon this door she rapped with her knuckles, tapping out a brief code which unlatched the barricade and allowed her to enter an anteroom off of which was a long, brilliantly lighted compartment where stuss was being played, and where tired waiters in soiled aprons brought fiery libations to the huddle of players.

The man who had answered Maida's code was a tall, lank individual with a thatch of red hair, ice-cold blue eyes, and a wide mouth which, as he looked down at her, wore a grin.

"Gee, kid, you're a stranger if there ever was one! What brings you here? How's tricks since I last lamped you— getting the green stuff, are you?"

Maida nodded. "Some of it," she said. "Lefty, I came up to find out if Jake the Bat is here yet. You know who I mean— the little kike who runs the fence layout down on Rivington Street."

She ripped out the words without display of emotion, but inwardly she quivered: Upon the answer of the red-headed doortender hung the success or the failure of her plan. Jake the Bat was the man with whom Limpy Lou did business when he was fortunate enough to make a haul. She knew the cripple would not keep the necklace in his possession any length of time. His natural desire would be to turn it over at once, as all crooks do, and get what he could on it. Reasoning thus, and knowing the propensity of Jake the Bat for stuss, Maida's plan was to intercept Limpy Lou while he still retained the necklace, and to recover it. Once it left his possession it was lost to her forever.

"Jake's inside," the doorman told her, jerking a thumb over his shoulder, "Will I give him a rumble you're here?"

Quickly the girl shook her head. "No. I just wanted to know if he is here. Limpy Lou hasn't showed up yet, has he?"

The man with the red hair laughed.

"You're an inquisitive little moll, ain't you? No, Limpy hasn't stuck his busted beak in here to-night. Now, seein' I've answered all your questions, suppose you answer one of mine. How about splitting a quart of the grape for the sake of friendship?"

Maida smiled. 'Much obliged, but I can't wait," she said. "I've got to take the air. Got a date that can't grow stale."

He opened the door with a show of reluctance.

"Shall I tell Limpy Lou you were asking for him, kid?"

Out in the corridor Maida laughed coldly. "Yes, sure— if you see him. But I don't think you will— now!"

With pulses beginning to beat excitedly she gained the street and looked south and west. No one was in sight. Switching her gaze she allowed it to rove over the buildings close at hand. The next step was to find a temporary refuge where she could await the coming of Limpy Lou. After an interval she selected the dark vestibule of a silent tool warehouse two doors below the resounding social club.

Into this vestibule she crept— to wait.

It was high chance at best— the inspiration of a minute. She had no way of definitely knowing Limpy Lou would endeavor to reach Jake the Bat. Only her knowledge of crook life and crook habit told her what the cripple would be most likely to do. If she failed it would be only because Limpy Lou did not run true to form.

Ten minutes dragged their weary length. Would Fortune, the jade, jilt her after having been so kind to her? Were her dreams, after all, to be nothing save vain, empty things?

She asked herself the questions for the hundredth time when, of a sudden, her heart took a quick jump; her watchful eyes fastened upon the approaching figure of a limping man— a man she recognized at sight as Limpy Lou!

Realizing she must employ every clever artifice known to her, Maida dipped a hand into her bag, closed her fingers about the butt of the automatic, and like a shadow on ghost feet, crept out from her place of concealment. She had marked down a large, shadow-drapped keg just a step from the vestibule, and behind this keg she crouched with drawn automatic as Limpy Lou shuffled nearer.

Timing his footsteps with subtle accuracy, Maida arose at the precise instant he drew abreast of the keg, plunged the mouth of the revolver into the pit of the cripple's stomach, and spoke harshly:

"Into the vestibule, you snake, and if you pipe a murmur I'll scatter you!"

As if stunned Limpy Lou complied with her order, backing fearfully into the dark entryway, hands held stiffly out from his sides as the relentless, cold nose of the automatic prodded him backward.

Chuckling, but without amusement, Maida frisked him with her free hand, snapping out the revolver that had cost her the necklace an hour before, lifting out the stones themselves, darting a venomous look at the cringing figure before her.

"The minute you made the swipe," she said in cold, level tones, "you were my prey— get that, my prey! And now, you rat, let me slip you a buzz. Come near me again or open your face and I'll fix you so your bum leg will never bother you again!"

Turning a contemptuous back upon him she moved quickly from the building and stepped into the street. Two blocks south she tossed the cripple's revolver into a deep areaway, continuing on her course, feeling a satisfaction deeper than even that which she had known when she had slipped out of the Third Avenue jewelry store.

When she reached the alley bisecting the dingy tenements, her face wore a sober look. Circumstance had rendered her upstairs room dangerous. She had no way of telling when Limpy Lou would seek the revenge she knew he would attempt to get after he had hoisted into him several hookers of the live-wire whisky he drank. Safety, for her, lay in immediate flight. She would gather together what few personal articles were hers and quit the neighborhood at once.

Mounting the stairs, she experienced for the first time the reaction of over-wrought nerves; suddenly she felt very weary as she came to her landing and opened the door.

As she stepped across the threshold her arms were caught in an iron grip, forced down and back, then bent smartly up again as something cold twisted about her wrists; there followed a sharp, metallic click.

The red haze clearing from before her eyes, Maida looked into the face of a man who, standing slightly aside, was considering her with a look in which was blended both triumph and pity; a man she recognized at once as a headquarters detective.

"Too bad, Dean," the man said. "I thought you were going straight when you got out of the pen. It seems your two years didn't change you any. You're still up to the old tricks, I see."

She said nothing, lips drawing back over her teeth, face mirroring all the hate, rage, and dull despair that flamed within her.

"What's the charge?"

The man smiled faintly, as if the question amused him.

"Jewelry-store swipe over on Third Avenue. While you were looking at the sparklers you laid your hands on the glass counter in the store. The jewelry shopkeeper had cleaned it just a minute before you came in, and your finger prints stood out like a lighthouse in a fog. I thought it was you from the description I was given, but I wanted to make certain. I had the prints photographed, and I matched them up within forty minutes after you had breezed with the stones. The second I compared them I knew I was right— and you were my prey, Maida, my prey! A stool pigeon handed me your address and I dropped in to wait and see—"

Opening the door he piloted her out onto the landing.

"How did you know I hadn't blown?" she asked dully, as they commenced a descent of the stairs together.

The detective laughed softly.

"I didn't, but I thought I'd take a chance and stick around. You see, you left the gas burning in your room, and that made me pretty sure you intended to return!"

_______________

6: Doctor Bentiron's Addict Case

Ernest M. Poate

(1884-1935)

Detective Story Magazine 19 Feb 1921

IT was early— beastly early; seven o'clock, perhaps, and still dark outside. Janet— my baby— had wakened me, demanding "graham crackers an' a great big high drink of milk." And when her wants were supplied it seemed too late to go back to bed.

Wherefore I sat in my bathrobe hugging a radiator and groaning inwardly, as is my habit, at the thought of a cold plunge. but it must be taken. I was starting for the bathroom when my night-buzzer sounded.

I opened the sitting-room door. Miss Gallegher stood outside.

"The doctor wants you," she said, and grinned maliciously,

"Oh, Lord! Does the man never sleep? All right. In two minutes."

I closed the door and dived into my dressing room, stripping off my bath robe as I ran. Knowing that I loved sleep as he did not, Doctor Bentiron was wont to consider my ease of mornings; he rarely sent for me so early. I inferred that this must be important.

Preparations did not take long; years ago, in my ambulance days, I had worked out the irreducible minimum of clothing compatible with decency. Well within my stated time I was tumbling down the wide stairway.

The doctor was in his big, bare office. Wrapped in the familiar, shabby, green bath robe, he lay back in his reclining chair, smoking languidly, blinking at the wall before him. It was so I had left him at eleven o'clock last night; just so I found him now. He may have been there all night; I don't know.

He did not turn his head, but his bearded lips twitched faintly, and I knew that none of my disheveled haste was lost upon him.

"Umphf," said Doctor Bentiron and paused to inhale deeply. "Blakely, my son," each drawled word accompanied by a jet of tobacco smoke, "you're due to go out into the cold world."

"In the middle of the night?" I asked mournfully.

" 'The night is fine, the walrus said; do you admire the view?' It is an errand of mercy to the sick and afflicted. Umphf. Yes. Hasten, my son, and succor the afflictions of Mr. J. van Court Morley"— in the doctor's mordant drawl the name became an epithet— "of the Kent Arms. That's the monstrosity across the way, you know; he's a neighbor, and he wants us to be neighborly. Seems his valet is sick, or dead, or something on that general order; and such ingratitude has annoyed Mr. Morley dreadfully. Naturally he called on Old Doctor Bentiron—Always Open: Consultation Free." His dragging voice capitalized the words. "Assisted by large staff of able specialists. That's you, my son; go pacify the pup. Pax vobiscum."

"Oh," said I, "is that all? I'm the human ambulance." And I went back upstairs after a collar.

If it had been an accident case I knew the chief would have told me so; but, except in extreme cases, the experienced practitioner is disinclined to haste. A severed artery—if it be large enough; strangulation from any cause; and perhaps one or two other, rarer conditions, call for speed. Otherwise, people don't die so quickly.

Nevertheless, I dressed briskly, slipped into an overcoat, and ran back down the stairs.

It was just beginning to grow light. I shivered in the bleak December air and hurried across the street more from cold than anxiety, toward the ugly, ornate fagade of the Kent Arms.

This was a new place, still raw from the builder's hands, whose gold-and- delft-blue sign announced "exclusive bachelor apartments." It was full now, of course— like everything else in New York City; but so new was it that I had identified none of its tenants. Whether the doctor knew this man Morley I had no idea; most of the population of Greater New York seemed to be included in his acquaintance. For myself, I knew only that he must be at least moderately rich or he couldn't live at the Kent Arms.

Upon this conclusion I plunged into a tessellated, gilt-molding-and-oil-painting-adorned lobby of the sort that makes one look about for the bar—if one's memory runs back to the day of such sinful haunts—and stated my errand to the hallman.

He was a monumental animal, with a vapid, snobbish countenance whose expression was of haughty scorn and hearty sleepiness, in equal parts. His gold-laced coat was unbuttoned, and there was egg on his chin. Apparently the "exclusive bachelors" were not early risers.

"I want to see Mr. Morley," said I.

"Er— aw— ye cawn't, me man. He's not up, y' know." He had that truly British accent usually exhibited by doormen who come from Kokomo and Terre Haute. It annoyed me; nor do I care to be called "me man." So I took him gently by the neck and turned him about; he was a big brute, but I am something of an out size myself.

"This man Morley's rooms," I directed, leading the way into one of the bird-cage elevators such apartments affect, "and make it snappy !"

"Y-yes, sir!"

Standing at attention, he tooled me up three floors, let me out, preceeded me down the hall, and rang the bell of a front apartment. At once I heard a quick, irregular step within.

"Get out!" said I to the doorman; that "me man" still rankled.

"Yes sir; thank you, sir."

And he got out.

The door before me opened; a lean, sallow face, unshaven this morning, regarded me from small, opaque eyes, like inset bits of black glazed pottery.

"Mr. Morley?"

He swung the door wide. "Yes, Doctor Bentiron?"

"His assistant, Doctor Blakely. What's the trouble?"

The man's face twitched into a mirthless grin; and so dry and parchmentlike was the integument that I half feared the strain would crack it. His ophidian eyes, depthless as jet beads, regarded me stealthily. He pulled a quilted dressing gown closer about his corded throat and shivered.

"Why," he answered, his voice husky and dry, "it's my man, Higgs; my valet. I can't rouse him. I'm afraid something terrible has happened. He was a morphinist, you know"— and his tones went ragged on the word— "and he must have taken an overdose."

" 'Was?'?" I repeated. "Is he dead?"

Morley flinched from the question, staring at me in silence. Those flat, oqaque eyes, which seemed quite pupil-less, affected me unpleasantly, I disliked the fellow.

"I— I'm afraid he is dead," he replied slowly. "He was a— a morphinist"— again a queer pause upon the word— "and he must have taken too much, It's most annoying!" His dry tones were heartlessly petulant. "All this bother— and who's to dress me, I'd like to know?"

I was disgusted. "Most inconsiderate! But— Suppose you take me to him now?"

"Oh, yes; right this way!"

He led me down a hall and opened the door at its rear. I stepped intd a close, windowless closet, the sort of cubbyhole which passes for a "servant's room" in such houses. My host did not follow; he waited in the hall.

"Light switch just at the left," he said. "Yes. As I say, he was a— morphinist. That's his narcotic card, on the bureau. Poor Higgs! I was afraid he'd take too much some day. Now, if you'll excuse me, doctor?"

He disappeared, and I looked over my patient. I saw a middle-aged man, so fresh-colored and healthy-looking that I wondered how long he had slept in such rooms. His eyes were closed; his round, neat-whiskered face still held the meek look of the serving man.

One glance told me that he stone dead, but I crowded in past his narrow cot— the place could never have held a bed— to take the routine proofs of death.

His extremities were quite cold, his abdomen still warm. He had been dead three or four hours, perhaps. Turning back his lids I noticed that even in death his pupils were no bigger than pin points. "A dope fiend, sure enough," I thought and straightened up.

Reaching across his feet I picked up the card Morley had pointed out, the regulation permit issued by the commissioner of narcotic drug addictions.

It stated tersely that physicians might prescribe morphine in quantities not to exceed twenty grains a day, to one John William Higgs, whose photograph was affixed for identification. The picture was unmistakably that of the man who lay dead before me.

It was all regular enough. I drew the sheet over the still, peaceful face and went out into the hall. Mr. Morley was nowhere in sight. I called his name.

"One moment, doctor!" The voice came from the bathroom.

I waited, hearing the scratch of a match or two, the faint clink as of a glass set down. Then my host re-appeared, still in his dressing gown, and smoking a cigarette. All his emotion was gone. His face was placid, unruffled.

"Dead, isn't he!" It was an affirmation ; his flat, husky voice held no depth, no feeling. "Beastly bore. And now, what to do, hey?"

"Notify the medical examiner," I shortly. "Where's your phone?"

Morley's eyebrows went up languidly in surprise, but his face remained expressionless as some unclean idol's. "The coroner, you mean? But can't you fix it up— death certificate and all that, hey? You're a doctor; you know the cause of death. If it's a question of your fee—"

"Where's that phone? Nobody but a fool would write a certificate in case of poisoning, intentional or accidental, acute or chronic. This goes to the medical examiner!"

He shrugged listlessly, shuffled into a cramped, overfurnished "den," and indicated the telephone. As I picked up the instrument he sank into a padded chair, leaned back, and presently was dozing, his thick, ragged-fringed lids alternately covering and disclosing those unpleasant black eyes.

I got the medical examiner's office and made my report.

"Doctor Blakely speaking; Doctor Bentiron's assistant. I'm at the Kent Arms, on Madison Avenue; Van Court Morley's apartment, third floor front. Found his valet, a man called Higgs, dead in bed. A dope fiend— apparently died from an overdose.... What? Yes. Who's coming?... All right."

I hung up. "Doctor la Motte, an assistant to the medical examiner, will be here in an hour or so. Meanwhile, leave everything as it is."

The man before me made no sign that he heard. "Callous brute!" I remarked, more than half aloud; and repeated my instructions. "You're not to touch anything—not to go into that room—until the doctor from the medical examiner's office comes. You hear?"

"Oh— ah, yes, dear man." My host unveiled those eyes and blinked at me like— like a stuffed skunk. "No bally fear. But who's to dress me, hey?"

It was too much. "Dress yourself, fool!" I said snappily.

With that I left him, half inclined to notify the police. Two or three flat-footed harness bulls in the apartment might rouse him to some sort of interest in things. But the cause of death was clear enough; I had no reason but spite. So I refrained, privately resolving to double my fee.

Back across the street I met Mrs. Rohan— the Mrs. Rohan— just emerging from the doctor's office. By eight o'clock, at the latest, Doctor Bentiron's office hour was in full swing, and his wealthiest patients usually drew the irst appointments. 'Get up earlier; do you good," he would drawl when they protested they couldn't come in the middle of the night. And, if one of them were five minutes late, the appointment was forfeited ruthlessly ; and the next, perhaps, set two hours earlier.

I slipped in ahead of the next patient to make my report. The chief had not moved, so far as I could see; the pile of cigarette butts on his ash tray was higher; that was all.

"Umphf," said he and smoked furiously until a blue nimbus surrounded his mouse-gray head. "Lord deliver me from hysterical women. Well, my son?"

"J. van Court Morley is a disagreeable beast," I told him. "And his valet is dead; very dead."

"Dead"— with a total lack of interest; we doctors see so very much of death. "How come?"

"Dope fiend. Morphinist. I saw his card. Dead for four hours, and his pupils still contracted. He took an overdose."

"So?" The doctor's left eyebrow rose infinitesimally; for a moment a tiny spark showed in his long, dull, gray eyes. "A hophead, you say? And he died from an overdose of his drug. Umphf. Yes. Exactly. You are become a diagnostician, Freddy, dear. How do you know?"

I flushed. Doctor Bentiron never called me Freddy save in reproof.

"Well," said I defensively, "there were all the signs of morphine poisoning; and Morley seemed sure that's what it was. Anyway, it's no more than an unofficial guess; I notified the medical examiner's office, of course."

The chief yawned mightily. "Say on, old son; you interest me strangely." His dry voice was edged with sarcasm.

But I shook my head. That was all; and why should Doctor Bentiron concern himself with such an ordinary affair as this: a perfectly undistinguished person—and a dope fiend to boot—found dead in bed? Men are found dead every day, and with far less obvious causes.

The chief pushed one of the battery of buttons on his right chair arm. Miss Gallegher popped in at the door.

"Townsend next, isn't it? Tell him to wait." Groaning, he began to heave himself up; one would have thought him feebler than a typhoid patient— when in fact he was stronger than I; and I am strong.

"For how long, doctor?" the girl ventured.

"Uumphf. Until I get back." He pushed another button, and the big all orderly appeared. "Coat, Hanrahan. Yes, and car; may want it later."

His people scattered, as always at the word of command, for Doctor Bentiron was served with an eager zeal surprising in contrast with his impassivity. But we knew him; and therefore loved him.

In thirty seconds he was being helped into a shapeless gray homespun coat; a nurse retrieved his faded bath robe from the floor, where he had dropped it; another brought his hat— a battered, ruinous slouch. Hanrahan preceded us down the hall and stood at attention beside the open door; Miss Morgan, the chief clerk, appeared from the outer office, notebook in hand, lest the doctor might wish to leave instructions. And his huge blue limousine was already pulling up at the curb, liveried chauffeur and footman in place, severely correct. Before the car had stopped the latter was on the ground, opening its door.

As often before, I viewed all this ceremony with amazement; it was so oddly incongruous with the doctor's easy, slouching shabbiness. More, it was all voluntary. I never had known him to comment in words upon his people's attentions. They did not mind; the doctor was served. They took their pleasure in that, as did I, who would have gone as far as any of them to save him trouble.

Hands half elbow deep in the pockets of his loose, baggy trousers, Doctor Bentiron paused an instant on the top step and blinked.

"Umphf," said he; no more.

But at the tone of that grunt— with which the chief could express a hundred meanings— all his people— I also— stood straighter, flushed with pride. The chief was pleased with us!

"Wait, Perkins," he drawled to the footman; and to me: "Come on, Blakely. We go to make a visit of condolence upon our neighbor."

Noiseless as a shadow, he drifted down the steps and out into the street. He moved wearily, his lean legs sagging from the hips as though each step must be his last; he avoided the hurrying traffic indifferently. Twice and thrice a spinning wheel almost grazed his heel—but not quite. But I, being without the muscular control of a tight-rope walker, must wait for one and another car to pass, hurry as I would.

The doctor waited for me at the other curb, immobile, impassive, cigarette drooping from his bearded lips.

"What's the idea?" I asked him, panting. 'Morley don't need to be comforted; all that worries him is who'll dress him, now his valet's dead."

"Umphf," replied the doctor. "I am very busy. I have no time to spare; none at all. Therefore I make calls without reason. Yes, no? Here's La Motte—" as a car drove up and stopped. "We'll go in with him."

I shrugged; in this mood I knew the chief would say no more of his reasons for this visitation, so I held my peace while he greeted Doctor la Motte, the assistant medical examiner—or rather, while La Motte greeted him, for the chief only grunted.

"Good morning, doctor! Whither away so early? Going up to look at my body with me? Morning, Blakely; how's the old bean? You reported this shocking and distressing affair, didn't you? And him so young, too! Or was he?"

With the callousness of the true pathologist he burlesqued grief. He was a small, slender man, rather older than I; in the early forties. He was very dark, vivacious, and of a foreign cast, with a little, jet-black mustache and imperial; and in talking he grimaced and gesticulated like the Frenchman he was not.

"Coming up? Good! I suppose you know him, doctor—this man Marlowe?"

"I do not," replied the chief phlegmatically as we entered the lobby of the Kent Arms. "None the less, I will go up and mingle my tears with yours— if you shed any."

My recent acquaintance, the hallman, had been reénforced. Three or four others of his kind stood by the telephone desk, heads together, savoring this delicious bit of news; a dead man, right in the house!

La Motte and I following, Doctor Bentiron slouched noiselessly up to this group and stopped. Presently the hallman, conscious of some presence near him, glanced over one fat shoulder. Seeing me first— my stature gives me a high visibility in most companies— he turned red and scowled. Then his eye lit upon Doctor Bentiron.

Thumbs in belt, stooped forward from the waist, the chief stood on wide-set feet. His gray eyes, usually so dull and vague, were focused upon the florid face before him. Insolent servants, indifferent service, always irritated the doctor.

Beneath his stare the luckless doorman withered and shrank like a deflating balloon. So for thirty seconds; then:

"Up," drawled the chief, and languidly waggled a thumb at the lift.

The fellow leaped to obey; we all crowded into the cage, La Motte chuckling quietly, and presently we had reached Morley's door.

It was open, and the man's face thrust out into the hall. Apparently he was anxious to be quit of his thoughtless valet. He surveyed us with those unchanging eyes and beckoned us in.

"The coroner?"

"Medical examiner," explained La Motte briskly. "Coroners are passée. And this is Doctor Bentiron."

Morley bowed; his dry face cracked into an acrid grin. "Overwhelmed! This way; and please get it over with as soon as possible. Beastly annoying, this sort of thing. And who's to dress me?" He was still in his gown.

"Umphf," remarked Doctor Bentiron, eyes absently upon the ceiling. "'Oh, oysters dear, the walrus said, I deeply sympathize.' Don't take it so hard, dear friend."

Our host looked puzzled, but La Motte and I both snorted.

We reached the servant's room, and La Motte stood back, as a matter of course, to let Doctor Bentiron in. There was hardly space for two. The chief lounged in, blinked at the body, and pulled up both sleeves of its old-fashioned night shirt.

"Umphf," said he. 'No marks."

Morley's husky half whisper answered him; the man peered over La Motte's shoulder, his dead eyes blinking. "Oh, he wasn't a needle worker; he was a mouth man."

"Umphf," repeated the doctor with a new intonation. He favored our host with an odd, sidelong glance.

Then he leaned over the cot and wiped the dead face with a sheet corner. As the cloth touched the left nostril he lifted it; it held a tiny red stain.

Beside me, Morley started convulsively. But the chief paid no heed. He was glancing indifferently at Higgs' narcotic permit, which I had replaced on the diminutive bureau.

"A  twenty-grain habit. Umphf. Yes. Exactly." He fell to searching the drawers. "Where's his stuff?"

Again it was Morley who answered. "He must have taken it all. He took an overdose. Maybe it was intentional; he's been despondent."

The doctor did not answer. He slouched out into the hall, nodding to La Motte, and the latter, in his turn, stooped over the body.

It was only for a moment; then he straightened. "All right, Mr. Marlowe—"

"My name is Morley— J. van Court Morley!"

The medical examiner grinned impudently. None of us seemed very favorably impressed by Mr. Morley. Then:

"All right. I'll send the dead wagon and get him out of your way. Finish up at the morgue."

This, it seemed, did not please our host. "But, I say, you know!" he protested. "The man's got relatives—a father, or a wife, or some such thing. They'll be wanting to bury him."

La Motte shrugged. "Where's your phone ?"

"But, I say! It's all plain enough, you know— an addict; you can see for yourself." He gestured at the permit card. "Just took an overdose— lots of 'em do, no doubt. Why bother with an inquest, and all that rot, hey?"

Just then I missed the chief. He had disappeared, silently and unobtrusively. So I left them arguing and started down the hall.

The bathroom door was open. ing in, I saw the chief standing before the lock-fast cupboard over the lavatory. In his hand was a wire paper clip; as I watched he straightened it out and bent one end into a tiny hook.

"Stay there, my son," he drawled indifferently over his shoulder, "and keep J. van Court out of my way for a minute."

I grinned to myself. His back was turned squarely toward me, yet I had been sure I could not catch him unawares. For all his apparent abstraction the doctor's senses were alert as a wild cat's. I glanced back; La Motte and Morley still argued. Behind our host's back I made a sign, and the pathologist, grinning like Mephistopheles, raised his voice, gesticulating violently. He, too, knew Doctor Bentiron.

"I'm an officer of the law!" he shouted. "Are you trying to—"

Under cover of his meaningless excitement, before which Morley shrank, I turned back to the chief. "Go to it," I whispered. "La Motte'll keep him occupied."

The chief grunted indifferently, thrusting his improvised pick-lock into the cupboard's keyhole. He twisted it deftly for a moment; then the lock clicked and the door swung open. Doctor Bentiron was master of many an obscure art.

On the top shelf of the cupboard were various ornate bottles and jars: toilet waters, hair tonics, massage creams— at which I grinned again, remembering their owner's complexion. On the next shelf, flanked by a red-and-white-labeled, square-sided druggist's dispensing bottle, were three small metal cases of familiar appearance.

"Umphf," remarked Doctor Bentiron, opening one case. "Hypodermic syringe, complete. Three of 'em. Bottle of five hundred half-grain tablets of morphine sulphate, two-thirds full. Exactly." As he named them he pocketed all four articles.

"Confiscated," said he.

The chief next opened a shallow drawer below the cupboard's three shelves; now he drew from it a long, finger-thick tube of red rubber, a funnel at one end—a stomach tube.

He turned it over in his hands, examining its rounded, fenestrated tip. "Umphf," said Doctor Bentiron. It was a grunt of satisfaction. "Look."

Turning, he showed me a white crust, like dried brine, which seemed to cover the inside of the tube and had oozed out and dried on its tip. Then he rolled the thing up and concealed it, also, upon his person— not a difficult matter, since the chief's clothes were loose enough and baggy enough to have covered two men.

"Let's go." Moving with deceptive, noiseless speed, he was past me and lounging in the outer doorway, half asleep and utterly bored, while Morley was still in the act of turning around.

Apparently the latter had exhausted his protests; La Motte's unexpected vehemence seemed to have dazed him. At any rate, he was chiefly anxious to be rid of us; so much I could see.

"The phone's in here," announced his husky voice; but Doctor Bentiron held up a hand.

"Come, La Motte," he ordered dryly, "you can phone from my place. Haven't you bothered the gentleman enough? Such a coil over a mere valet— my word!"

Morley gave him a grateful glance; he did not see how the chief's indifferent drawl caricatured his own attitude. And La Motte obeyed the doctor, as most men did; without more words we departed, and Morley shut his door upon us.

Ignoring us, Doctor Bentiron went home, and we followed meekly. He did not speak until he was bathrobe-wrapped once more, and ensconced in his big chair with a fresh-rolled cigarette burning well.

At last he blinked at us. "Still here?" and pressed a button. "Chairs, Hanrahan."

And when the chairs were brought in and La Motte and I seated in them, he smoked his cigarette to the very butt in silence, staring dully at the bare wall before him.

At last he spoke. "La Motte. Rush that body to the morgue. Do the autopsy at once— this morning. Make a complete toxicological analysis; stomach, and all other organs, separately."

"For morphine, you mean? But what's the—"

"For morphine and all other poisons. Quantitative. Make it snappy; and phone me your results right away."

"But, doctor," protested La Motte, "what's the use of all that? We know what we'll find."

"Umphf," returned the doctor, still abstracted, still gazing mournfully past us both. "La Motte, I taught you all you know about medical jurisprudence — if you know anything about it." It was quite true; La Motte was a graduate of the school in which the chief had taught psychiatry and medical jurisprudence for twenty years and more.

"Yes, doctor." The  pathologist's voice was submissive.

"Umphf. Yes. Exactly. Do as you're told, and afterward we will consider together. Now get out." And the doctor pushed another button.

As we rose Miss Fahey came in.

"I will telephone."

She had taken the chief's portable phone from his bookcase and plugged it into the socket on the arm of his chair before we were out of the door.

In the hall La Motte looked at me. "What the devil?" he whispered.

I shrugged. "How should I know? Something's stirred the chief all up or he'd never be using the telephone himself."

For Doctor Bentiron scorned that irritating convenience as a rule, as he did the daily papers. 'You'd better skip."

Then he was gone. The regular procession of patients— on fifteen-minute headway— began to file into the doctor's private office; and I went about my own affairs, not even wondering much. I knew that in his own good time the chief would explain himself.

AT ONE O'CLOCK, just as I was going up to my rooms for lunch, Miss Gallegher called me to the phone. It was La Motte.

"What?" I asked. "Through already?"

"I had my orders." His reply was only half in jest. "I rushed it—got three of our chemists at work. And all for nothing! The joke's on the doctor for once."

"Don't be too sure," I warned him. "Got your figures ready?" I fumbled for pencil and pad.

"Yes; and they're just what I expected. Autopsy negative; a bit of fat in the liver and mild chronic interstitial nephritis. Brain a little wet; he'd been alcoholic, too, I fancy. Chemically, fifty-seven grains of morphine in the stomach; most of it still crystallized. Go tell the boss!" And he chuckled.

"Hold the wire," I cautioned. "I don't know what he wants."

I went in to make my report.

Doctor Bentiron listened  indifferently. When I was done, "Well?" he inquired.

"Well?" I repeated. "Isn't that enough?"

"Umphf. Idiot. I could have told you that much myself. The other organs, sweet infant— ingenuous child. Liver, reddy; spleen, Freddy; kidneys,

Freddy. Any dope in them?"

I went back to the phone. "La Motte? Blakely speaking. The doctor wants to know about the other organs?"

"What's the matter with him?" A brief pause, then: "Spleen, negative. Liver, a trace. Kidneys, about a quarter of a grain. Does he want exact metric?"

"I don't know. Any other poisons? Give me everything; I imagine the chief is annoyed with us."

"Nope. That's all."

I returned to Doctor Bentiron, who waited placidly.

"Umphf," said he. "That settles it." He yawned mightily. "Go, my son; tell La Motte to come up at once."

I did so, and scarcely took time to eat, lest I miss whatever revelation the chief intended— although I was still quite at sea.

At two o'clock the pathologist appeared, as mystified as I; and we both hurried back to the private office. The doctor lay back in his chair between the two huge revolving bookcases, sunk in smoky somnolence. There were four chairs in front of him. He grunted lethargically, waggling a thumb toward them, and we sat down.

Then he pushed a button. The orderly appeared, to receive some whispered instructions.

"When I ring," the chief finished. Then: "Blakely, step out to the street. I imagine you'll find Lieutenant O'Malley, of the metropolitan police force, somewhere about. Just say to him: 'Fetch him over.' "

I went out. Sure enough, a slight, inconspicuous figure, derby-hatted, square-toed, strolled along the opposite curb. I whistled; the man turned and came toward me.

It was O'Malley— Lieutenant O'Malley now— his ugly, kindly face hard-bitten as ever, his little eyes as restless, his voice as reluctant, like a rusty hinge.

"Yeah, doc," said he. "He ain't been out¢ but tell the doctor he's been phoning, th' hallboy says. An' just now a feller come up that I know f'r a boot-legger. I'll give 'im th' razz."

"The doctor says to fetch him over."

"Right, sorr!'' He saluted, not me, but the doctor— as, in the army, one salutes the C. O. in his adjutant's person. Then he turned away, wasting no words, and went straight into the Kent Arms.

I returned to Doctor Bentiron's office to repeat O'Malley's words.

"Good!"

The chief grunted and rolled another cigarette. Above its smoke he brooded in silence, and La Motte and I awaited his pleasure.

Within ten minutes we heard Mr. J. van Court Morley's voice in the hall, louder now, and with more body; but it quavered.

"I say, now! What's this mean, my man? You've no right—"

The door swung open. "In ye go!" creaked O'Malley; and in he came. Following, the little detective uncovered a rust-red head, streaked now with gray. "Here he is, sorr!"'

"Umphf," said the doctor, motioning a thumb toward the two vacant chairs.

O'Malley sat down forthwith, but the other stepped forward. A band of sweat lay on his upper lip, and his black eyes shone. He walked jerkily; his hands twitched.

"This is an outrage!" he began, boldly enough. "I'll have an explanation of this. Do you know who I—"

He stopped short. The big orderly, Hanrahan, had entered, and now handed Doctor Bentiron a hypodermic syringe, its needle attached, its plunger drawn right back.

Morley crouched as though to spring, then caught himself up. "What do you mean by this?" he repeated, but his voice went up and down. He staggered back and dropped into a chair, gripping its arms tight, fascinated eyes upon the chief's right hand.

Doctor Bentiron said nothing. He did not move; he did not so much as glance at his visitor, but regarded the blank wall with dull, weary eyes.

Morley wet his lips. Those dead eyes were alive now, and hungry. His ugly, well-kept hands gripped each otker tightly; but in spite of himself he began to tremble. His knees knocked together; his elbows rapped a tattoo upon the chair arms.

"I— I—," he began, and his voice broke. "Oh, what is it— what is it? Why do you torture me so?" He sobbed thickly, and the sob was cut short by a convulsive, shuddering yawn; it produced a sound ghastly, indescribable.

"Umphf," said Doctor Bentiron, wearily unmoved. "Five grains in this." He held up the tiny syringe; its bright needle flashed.

With that Morley slid from the chair to his knees. His hat rolled off unheeded, disclosing scanty, disheveled hair; his coat fell open, and saw the silk pajamas beneath. Evidently Mr. Morley had found no one to dress him properly, as yet.

Hands clasped, tears streaking down his yellow face, he groveled before the doctor as before the image of some indifferent deity; and, like that idol, the doctor maintained his absent, weary state.

"Oh!" the man sobbed. "Give it to me— give it to me! Don't torture me so— you know I need it."

"Why did you murder your valet?" inquired Doctor Bentiron casually.

"Wh— what? I don't know what you mean. Don't play with me!"

"Umphf. Five grains of good stuff; S. and D.— and your own gun."

Morley beat his head upon the floor.

His abasement was pitiful, horrible. "Oh!" he moaned, and another yawn caught him in a strong spasm, locking his jaws open.

"Anything y' say'll be used agains' yuh," croaked O'Malley; but the writhing creature on the floor paid no heed.

"Yes— yes!" he sobbed out eagerly. "I confess— I killed him! Now give it to me." He rose to his knees, stretching out clawlike hands.

" 'I murdered my valet, Higgs; I poisoned him with morphine,' " droned the doctor inexorably. "Say it."

And Morley said it in an eager, gabbling whine, then launched himself toward the hypodermic in the chief's out-stretched hand.

Trembling all over, disregarding us completely, he dragged up his loose sleeve to disclose a lean, corded arm all swollen and covered with scars. His shaking right hand steadied miraculously as it approached his bared left arm; he plunged the needle in and drove the piston home with one gesture, all the while making the growling, mumbling noises of a hungry dog at a bone—sounds of pure animal need.

Doctor Bentiron blinked at him disdainfully. "You have no stamina, Morley," he said reprovingly. "You had a shot this morning; you weren't really suffering— yet."

The other still knelt, face uplifted with a rapt, waiting look. Then his ragged lashes drooped; his eyes were opaque once more, like bits of inset lacquer. He rose, calm, composed, once more master of himself.

"Well, come on, old friend," droned the chief's expressionless voice, no more softened by the man's recovery than by the evident suffering which had preceded it, "let's have the horrid details."

Morley shrugged. He had reseated himself and was wiping tears and sweat from his face. "I might as well," he answered, apathetically frank. "You've caught me with a habit; the other doesn't make it much worse. Higgs found out my secret. He knew that I was a— a morphinist, too. He was a registered addict; he could buy M. openly; but he wasn't satisfied, even with twenty grains a day." The dead eyes shifted craftily. "He kept begging from me— all I'd give him. And M. is harder to get every day, by the underground. I couldn't spare it— and I told him so. Then he threatened to turn me up— to squeal to the revenue men and the drug commissioner. I couldn't have that, of course; it would have ruined me socially— and maybe they wouldn't have let me have any more!" He shuddered. "So I acted. I didn't kill the man, gentlemen. I had a dram bottle of M. in cubes, and I just gave it to him. He was wild for the stuff— he took it all, and it killed him. It was an overdose."

He looked about at us defensively. La Motte stirred. '"We-ell," said he, mildly regretful, "I doubt if we can hold him on that, after all."

"Umphf," said Doctor Bentiron, "Not necessary. Morley" —almost affectionately— "you're an awful liar. Will you tell the truth—or shall I? You see," not waiting for an answer, "Higgs wasn't a dope fiend at all."

I started to speak, but La Motte was before me. "But, doctor," he protested, "we all saw his card!"

"Be still. Morley, here, is an old hophead. He knows all the jargon of the craft— and the tricks of it. Didn't you hear him this morning: 'Needle worker— mouth man?' Umphf. Yes. The narcotic laws made him trouble; he wouldn't register as an addict— probably afraid they'd make him take the cure. So he subsidized his valet, Higgs; hired him to register, no doubt with the aid of some careless or friendly doctor. That it, J. van Court?"

The other stared at him, open-mouthed. "H—how'd you know?"

"Well, and that was that. Exactly. It worked splendidly—for a while. Then Higgs got restive; tried black-mail, maybe, or his conscience troubled him— or his pride. At any rate he balked, then threatened. So you, Morley, slipped him a couple of grains or so of morphine, out of your stock— in his coffee, perhaps. And he died. You went in to him in the night, found him dead or unconscious, passed a stomach tube through his left nostril, and filled his stomach with a saturated solution of morphine— that dram bottle, no doubt. Umphf. Yes. Exactly."

Morley still stared, stunned rather than frightened. "You— you are the devil!" he declared with conviction.

The doctor only reached back into the recesses of his great chair. "Exhibit A," he explained, producing the tube! had seen him pouch over at the Kent Arms. "With a lethal dose or more of morphine still inside it, crystallized from solution. Am I right, Morley!

Needn't admit it now, you know— you will to-morrow, gladly, for another shot."

Morley had begun to nod; the drug had a strong hold on him. "Oh, all right," came his husky half whisper, perfectly placid. 'He got conscience-stricken. Said all that was wrong, illegal. Wanted to confess— clear his conscience. I'll sign a confession any time— in exchange for enough dope"— in his defeat the man dropped his former euphemisms— "enough dope to hold me till I go to the chair. I'm an old fiend; I'd die without it."

"Umphf," replied the chief. "Talk to O'Malley. That's his business."

"Tell it to th' magistrate," advised O'Malley. "C'm awn, now!" He gripped his captive's wrist and led him out.

But La Motte and I were less easily satisfied. Accustomed, as was the detective, to seeing Doctor Bentiron work miracles, we yet demanded an explanation; post hoc, at least. So we clamored questions.

"Umphf," repeated the doctor, yawning. "Shut up. How did I know? Why, just as you should have known."

His long arm reached out to spin one of the huge, squat bookcases. He selected a volume and handed it to me, open.

It was Pettey's book, "Narcotic Drug Addictions." A sentence on the page before me leaped into my eye:

The amount of morphine which the human body is capable of assimilating does not exceed ten grains in the twenty-four hours.

"Why— why," I stuttered eagerly, as light broke in upon me, "then a man taking ten grains a day habitually could take any amount without feeling it!''

"Umphf. Yes. Exactly. You should have known that, my son. You can't kill a fiend with dope— not unless he uses a hypodermic and gets it in a vein. And Higgs, Morley said, was a 'mouth man.' Well, then, either he died a natural death or was killed by some other poison— or he was not a morphinist. He didn't look like a fiend— and Morley did. Also I saw, about his nose, the traces of a gavage. And, in the bathroom, I found the tube— with morphine still in it. Is that enough, or must I diagram it for you? Why, La Motte, the autopsy ought to have shown you: a dram of morphine in the stomach, and a quarter of a grain in all the other organs together. Man, a hop-fiend is saturated with morphine— liver, spleen, and kidneys. So I stole Morley's dope, knowing he'd confess anything for a shot.

"Now go away. I am busy. If you want more exposition I'll have it written out for you— with a dotted line to show how the murderer made his escape from the room marked X."

_______________________

7: Mr Clackworthy and the Auto Rim

Christopher B. Booth

1889-1950

Detective Story Magazine 28 Jan  1922

IT was gathering dusk when the northbound express thundered to a halt. From the front of the Pullman there arose a majestic figure in high silk hat and fur-collared overcoat. The man's clothes were evidence that he had money, and the proud, almost haughty dignity of his carriage indicated that he had possessed money for a considerable length of time. No less stately than a king, he followed the Pullman porter to the vestibule.

"Pipe the 'Emperor of Hickville,' " grinned James Early, jerking his thumb in the direction of the disembarking passenger.

Mr. Amos Clackworthy, confidence man de luxe, nodded; he had already observed the personage. Briefly he consulted the railroad folder; it told him that the stop was Higbeeville, Illinois. He looked out the car window to the vell-lighted platform which ran the length of the attractive station of brick tile. He saw a liveried chauffeur taking possession of the traveler's luggage, bowingly ushering him to a long-hooded limousine on the door of which gleamed the gold-lettered monogram "W. C. H."

"I should not be greatly surprised if the 'H' means Higbee," murmured Mr. Clackworthy. "That is Mr. Higbee himself, no doubt."

He continued to stare out upon the town, taking in the ambitious-looking business street stretching away from the station, well paved and well lighted. It seemed to be quite a forward-looking community, a conclusion which was verified by a huge electric sign, blazing imposingly from the roof of a building half a block away for the purpose of attracting the attention of the traveling public. It read:

HIGBEEVILLE WANTS FACTORIES!

Free Factory Sites,

No City Taxes

For New Industries,

Wonderful Shipping Facilities.

STOP—LOOK US OVER!

HIGBEEVILLE CHAMBER OF

COMMERCE.

At Higbeeville the train changed engines, for it was a division point. Mr. Clackworthy and The Early Bird were returning to Chicago from two weeks in Florida, and James was fretting, as was his wont, for a fresh adventure in the quest of easy money. The master confidence man sat for a moment, taking stock of the hunch which had seized him.

"I think I will accept the invitation, James," he said thoughtfully. "I think that I will accept that invitation— now."

"Say, what's eatin' you?" inelegantly demanded The Early Bird. "I ain't heard nobody invitin' us nowhere."

With one hand Mr. Clackworthy pointed out gt the big electric sign; with the other he reached for his overcoat and jabbed the button for the porter.

" 'Stop—look us over,' " he repeated. "Certainly that is an invitation, James. I suppose the porter isn't coming; we will have to carry our own bags. Come; let us be getting off."

"Are you practicin' for vaudeville, boss, or are you on the level?" gasped out The Early Bird. "Aw, boss, let's be gettin' on to Chi; nix on this hick town stuff. I wanna see if Lake Michigan is in the same place we left it."

Mr. Clackworthy shook his head.

"Nay, James," he said, chuckling; "I have heard the call of Higbeeville, and I must answer. It is evident that this town has money; and where there is money, there I like to be also."

Having no further choice in the matter The Early Bird grumblingly picked up his own bag and followed.

And thus it was that the diverse pair, the elegant, suave Mr. Clackworthy and his slangy co-plotter came to Higbeeville. As they passed up the street James glared disgustedly at the sign which had lured them from the train which, a brief two hours hence, would have brought them to his beloved Chicago.

"Free factory sites!" he said sneeringly. "Huh! Generous, ain't they? I wouldn't give seven bucks for the whole darn burg!"

Despite his prejudice, however, The Early Bird lost much of his peeve when he sat down to dinner in the Highbeeville House. The hotel was a credit to the town, and the menu had been known to tempt less willing appetites. There was an orchestra, too, with a tendency to zippy tones, for the town was rural in location and metropolitan in tendency. After the meal Mr. Clackworthy led the way into the lobby cast about a practiced eye in search of some loquacious soul from whom might be pried bits of intimate local gossip. In the center of the room stood a beaming individual who declaimed loudly upon the commercial future of Higbeeville. This, it later developed, was none other than Mr. Percival Shores, the chamber of commerce's imported enthuser, a human dynamo who would continue to generate enthusiasm so long as he got his one hundred dollars a week.

But it was not to Mr. Shores that Mr. Clackworthy turned; he sought, instead, a morose individual who looked as if his rich uncle had just died, willing everything to charity. What he wanted was the bare and unvarnished truth about the town, not the rhetorical pictures of a second Chicago. Leaving The Early Bird to his own devices, the master confidence man strolled over and occupied the vacant chair beside the local "Gloomy Gus."

"Wonderful little city you have here," said Mr. Clackworthy by way of beginning; "wonderful."

"Yeah?" grunted the other. "Been living here twenty-five years. Don't see nothing wonderful about it."

"Seems to be a most progressive town; have a cigar."

The local pessimist accepted the smoke, inspected the band critically, and struck a match.

"Yeah, some of the folks here think they've got the world by the tail," he said. "Good cigar, this. Linn's my name. I sell cigars; got a store up in the next block."

"So you don't think much of the boom ?" asked Mr. Clackworthy.

"Won't last long," prophesied Mr. Linn. "These boosters make me sick; pure selfishness. All trying to grab some stranger's money. Chamber of commerce is made up of our best local grabbers."

"I see they're offering free factory sites," suggested Mr. Clackworthy. "Not much profit in that, I take it."

"Factory sites!" exclaimed the tobacconist. "All they're giving away no sane man would have— way out on the edge of town. If they do get somebody interested in putting up a factory it generally ends up by him paying old man Higbee two prices for the land. Oh, yes, Higbee's president of the chamber of commerce. He's the head of darn near everything in this town.

"Then Zeke Todd is vice president. He owns the lumber yard and gets a fat profit for furnishing the building materials for the factory. Ben Pruitt's in on it, too— secretary. He aims to get the contract for the factory— contractor, you know.

"After that comes Apperson Pool—he's treasurer. App gets his later on, when the factory feller has to borrow money at the bank. He's the big gun at the State Bank.

"There, you got 'em all—Higbeeville's 'Big Four.' Our best dollar-chasing quartet. The dollar that gets away from that outfit has to move fast."

Mr. Clackworthy nodded thoughtfully. The information pleased him, for nothing gave him more pleasure than getting into a money scramble with the dollar chasers.

"I was thinking about locating in your charming and thriving city," he announced.

Mr. Linn looked at him intently. "If you're going to locate here after what I've told you, then you're either a fool, or a slicker. I hope you're a slicker. I'd like to see them four leeches get trimmed so hard they'll holler for a year. They order all their cigars from the city; don't think mine are good enough for 'em. Make 'em squeal, and I'll give you the best box of smokes in my store."

Mr. Clackworthy laughed. He made no reply to this offer, but he decided that before he said farewell to Higbeeville he would call upon Mr. Linn and collect that box of cigars.

ii

PERCIVAL Shores, professional cheer leader, so to speak, for the chamber of commerce, the busy boy with the twelve-cylinder vocabulary: from whose tongue flowed multisyllabled words as water over a mill race, was susceptible to "a front." Although Mr. Clackworthy had only vaguely hinted his intention of locating in Higbeeville and had not said whether he proposed to manufacture railroad locomotives or toothpicks, Mr. Shores already had visions of a ten-acre factory and a pay roll as long as the county tax list. This was because Mr. Clackworthy looked like money—big money. It was simply impossible for Mr. Shores to look upon the master confidence man's wonderfully tailored figure, his brisk, incisive manner, and to connect him with an enterprise of small proportions.

Thus it was that the official greeter and horn tooter extraordinary of Higbeeville, hardly had Mr. Clackworthy asked a dozen questions, was rushing around to call together an extremely special meeting of the chamber of commerce's nabobs. Knowing Mr. Shores rather well, the town's Big Four discounted his dreams a full hundred per cent and divided that by two for good measure. Nevertheless they were on hand to look over the latest industrial prospect, particularly to determine if he possessed the cold, hard, and actual wherewithal to finance a factory, or if he was one of those common species... owning a patent, a million-dollar nerve, and the silly and mistaken notion that the little detail of capital would be taken care of by the 'local suckers. They met the latter some three times a week — and encouraged them not.

The conference was for two o'clock, and when Mr. Clackworthy and The Early Bird entered the chamber of commerce's executive quarters over the State Bank, escorted by the bubbling

Mr. Shores, the four local dignitaries were waiting. There was Williston C. Higbee, florid, stern, pompous, fingering his eyeglass cord of heavy black silk, sitting in stiff-necked erectness at - the head of the table; Ezekiel Todd, thin, silent, and crafty looking; Benjamin Pruitt, heavy of both face and fist, possessing a large body and a larger self-esteem; and Apperson Pool, cold and calculating of eye, graying mustache, close-cropped so as to give an added sternness to his mouth.

James Early gave one look and sighed. "The first train for us, boss," he whispered. "Daniel in the lion's den hadda cinch compared to our chances with this bunch. Take jack away from this outfit? Listen to my tip, boss, an' beat it."

Mr. Clackworthy, however, was not awed. He smiled affably as Mr. Shores attended to the introductions, calmly seated himself at the end of the table, lighted a cigar, and set the ball rolling.

"I was merely passing through your charming city last evening, gentlemen, when I was attracted by your invitation to outside capital," he said. "Since I am looking for a location, your offer of a free factory site and free city taxes decided me to look you over. Mr. Shores here has been showing me about this morning and, frankly, I think I am going to like Higbeeville. There is an atmosphere of progress and co-operation."

"What's your line?" demanded Ben Pruitt.

"We will get to that presently," said Mr. Clackworthy smilingly. As a matter of fact he was somewhat undecided as to the nature of his prospective industry.

Mr. Higbee cleared his throat, hooked his glasses over his nose, and leaned forward. "I trust that Mr. Shores has made it clear to you, Mr. Clackworthy," he said, "that what we desire for Higbeeville is industry— not promotion."

"Meaning," replied the master confidence man, "that you want only men who can finance their own business, You mean that you do not want stock-selling schemes sold on the strength of factories on paper."

Four heads nodded solemnly.

"I shall not ask you for a penny," declared Mr. Clackworthy. "I have ample resources to finance my venture. I can at once set you at rest on that score."

This announcement caused a thawing, and Mr. Shores nodded vigorously. "I told you, gentlemen; I told you!" he exclaimed. "Mr. Clackworthy is a live wire; he's the sort who bring money to a town, not take it out."

"Glad you're not looking for capital," volunteered Ben Pruitt.

"Now as to factory sites," pursued Mr. Higbee; "I suppose you have seen the tracts east of town."

"Too far out," declared Mr. Clackworthy. "However, there is a spot near the electric-light plant that looks good to me."

Higbee massaged his palms; that ground belonged to him, although, for appearances sake, held in the name of a third party.

"That is not a free site, Mr. Clackworthy, but I am sure that it could be secured at an— ah— reasonable price," he said.

"How reasonable?" demanded the confidence man.

"I should hazard the opinion of— ah—six thousand dollars."

Mr. Clackworthy debated this figure for a moment; he knew that at six thousand dollars Mr. Higbee would be getting nearly twice what it was actually worth.

"Too high," he said. "However, I would be willing to pay five hundred and ninety-nine dollars for a sixty-day option at a price of five thousand."

"It might be arranged," said Mr. Higbee.

"As for the present," went on Mr. Clackworthy, "I am anxious to get into operation before a factory could be built. Therefore, already having made my decision to locate in Higbeeville, I have this morning leased the vacant building adjoining the poultry plant, formerly occupied by a factory, I believe."

Higbeeville's Big Four united in a chorus of frowns; they did not like to think of that deserted building. They had helped to finance it; perhaps that was one reason for their antagonism to moneyless industrialists. Mr. Shores was almost broken-hearted; the abandoned factory to which Mr. Clackworthy referred was a small affair and in no way fitted in with the mammoth enterprise that he had been certain the newcomer contemplated.

"How— how many men will you employ?" asked Mr. Shores.

"Perhaps fifteen men,'"' replied Mr. Clackworthy.

"Oh!" exclaimed Mr. Shores weakly; "I thought—I thought—"

Higbeeville's Big Four instantly lost their slightly warming cordiality. Fifteen men, indeed! And Mr. Clackworthy looked like money; verily, they thought, all is not gold that glitters.

"Fifteen men to start with," continued Mr. Clackworthy. "Later I shall expand."

Williston Higbee smiled contemptuously ; he had heard that "expansion" stuff before. Fifteen men! Agee's planing mill employed twenty, and it wasn't considered a factory at all.

Mr. Clackworthy, unaffected by the sudden loss of interest on the part of the ruling spirits of the chamber of commerce, got to his feet, smiling blandly.

"I regret, gentlemen," he said, "that my plans are not sufficiently far along for me to take you into my full and complete confidence regarding my venture, but I really think that I can promise to— er— surprise you a little later. I am making a trip to Chicago to-night and shall return in a few days when I shall start things moving. At that time I hope to continue this— ah— cordial relationship which has been born between us to-day."

He held out his hand for the perfunctory grips of the four men who had now lost all interest in him and his prospective business. Mr. Shores, who had planned to invite Mr. Clackworthy to dinner, neglected to mention the matter; the funds of the chamber of commerce were not to be so wasted.

"I— I wish you success in your new enterprise," said the busy booster lamely. "I— I hope you will like the town —since—since you have quite made up your mind to come."

"Failure is not my habit," replied Mr. Clackworthy, "and as for liking the town—I like it very much already."

As he and The Early Bird made their way down to the street James snorted in mournful disgust.

"Boss!" he protested, "you ain't gonna to throw away good time an' better jack by drivin' stakes in this burg? You ain't gonna try an' throw the hooks into any of them hard-boiled guys? Lay off, boss; lay off. They're all sure-thing bozos; you gotta lay the cards on the table 'fore you waltz off with their stack of blues."

"I most certainly propose to engage in business here," said Mr. Clackworthy. "My heart warms to the welcome I have received; I appreciate their interest."

Before returning to Higbeeville Mr. Clackworthy spent a busy week in Chicago. Some of his activities, so far as his co-plotters against idle and surplus wealth were concerned, were clothed in utmost secrecy. This was for the fun of springing his financial climax as a complete and often breath-taking surprise.

He rented a somewhat elaborate office and placed George Bascom in charge as president of "Bascom & Co., Jobbers." This detail attended to, he bought machinery and had it shipped to Higbeeville.

If Apperson Pool, cashier of the State Bank of Higbeeville, had the idea that Mr. Clackworthy was small fry— and he undoubtedly did— he was startlingly disillusioned when the master confidence man walked into the bank on his return from Chicago and calmly deposited a Chicago draft for fifty thousand dollars. It made no difference if his factory was to employ only fifteen people, a man with fifty thousand dollars in cash was somebody! Fifty thousand dollars in cash is quite a comfortable sum of money. Mr. Clackworthy believed in the psychology of ready cash; he had always found it the open door into his fellow man's confidence.

Apperson Pool ushered the new customer into the private office, opened a box of cigars, and did his best, considering a normal temperature of ten degrees below freezing, at cordiality.

"Glad to see that you did not change your mind about casting your lot with us, Mr. Clackworthy," he said. "Great little town we've got here; it's a comer. Anything we can do for you, let us know; we all try to be neighborly, you know. Got your plans in pretty good shape now, I hope."

Mr. Clackworthy, considering the warming power of the cold dollar, nodded. "Yes," he answered, "the machinery will be here to-morrow, and we shall begin production within ten days. We already have orders to take care of our initial output. We are starting modestly. I have always considered it a good idea to wade a while before trying to swim. Little mistakes are not so expensive as big ones."

"A safe and sane philosophy," heartily agreed Mr. Pool. "If it is not impertinent, what is your line?"

For answer Mr. Clackworthy took from his pocket a miniature automobile wheel and set it on the banker's desk.

"There it is," he said. "the Jiffy demountable auto rim. Of course you own an automobile. You'll be quick to see the advantage of this. On the average auto rim now in use it is necessary to unfasten six separate bolts before the tire can be removed. With the Jiffy here, the same result is accomplished with the loosening of one bolt. Here I have a small wrench; rim can be demounted and tire removed in less than one minute. I'll show you." The master confidence man, using his pocket model, performed the operation as Mr. Pool watched closely.

"It— er— looks good," he admitted cautiously. Caution was part of his nature. "They should sell if the finished product works as good as the model."

"They do— better," replied Mr. Clackworthy. "In time we will have sold nearly every automobile owner in America four of our Jiffys— one for each of the four wheels. When you stop and consider the number of automobiles in the country, it becomes quite possible that our little industry, starting with such a modest beginning, will expand into quite a sizable institution in your city.

"I shall leave this model with you, Mr. Pool, and in a few days I shall take pleasure in fitting your car with a complete Jiffy set— with my compliments."

They chatted pleasantly for some time, Mr. Clackworthy making it clear by various adroit ways that he was wise in the ways of finance. When he departed Apperson Pool sat for quite a while alone in his private office, analyzing the probable manufacturing cost of the Jiffy auto rim. He had not, of course, gone into these details with the town's new manufacturer, but, carefully examining the model, he made several guesses. Knowing the retail cost of the auto rim at present in use, he figured that it must present the opportunity for a wide margin of profit. And even a banker cannot, at times, resist the temptation of multiplication. He took the total number of automobiles in use, divided it generously, multiplied it by two dollars, the minimum profit he imagined should be taken, and still his sum soared into millions.

"Humph!" he murmured. "And all four of us thought this man Clackworthy was a cheap piker. If this thing is any good— if it is any good, he stands the chance of being a mighty rich man— yes, a mighty rich man."

At that he reached for the telephone and called Mr. Williston S. Higbee to suggest that Mr. Higbee, as president of the chamber of commerce, arrange a club dinner with Mr. Clackworthy as the guest of honor.

iv

THE Early Bird was puzzled.

"Boss," he declared, "there's a lotta things about this business that I can't get through the old bean. First, if you ever pulled a game that looked on the level this here Jiffy thing is it. I've thought it out, forwards an' backwards, an' I can't see no trick in it. It's the goods, boss— the real goods. About the slickest thing what was ever put on a buzz buggy.

"Darn near everybody in Higbeeville who's got a gas chariot is usin' a Jiffy, an' they all swear by 'em. It makes changin' tires one of the joys of payin' the garage man twenty-nine cents a gallon for the go-juice. If it's crooked then it'll fool wiser goofs than yours ignorantly. If it's on the level, then you ain't gonna bilk nobody by lettin' 'em hand you a few bales of the yellow stuff for stock in this here company. Sellin' every one of 'em you're turnin' out, ain't cha? Yeah, they're sellin' like peanuts at a circus.

"If the lay is crooked, I can't figger out why you've got this here Harold Higbee, the four-eyed boy with the freest chin in the whole darn town, in the factory office. An' not only in the office, but handlin' the kale. Treasurer, you've made him— treasurer! Knows to a penny just how much jack is comin' in an' goin' out. It's too deep for me."

Mr. Clackworthy, sitting in the sitting room of his suite in the Higbeeville House, lighted a fresh cigar and tilted back comfortably in his chair.

"I don't mind saying, James, as a matter of strict confidence between you and myself, that Jiffy auto rim is strictly on the square. It is a great little device, and it is going to make somebody rich— perhaps. The trouble with Jiffy, my dear James, is that we are going to wake up some fine morning and discover that some one has beat us to the patent office with the idea."

The Early Bird nodded vigorously. "I gotcha," he said. "You're gonna get Higbee an' that crowd all heated up an' then unload the stock onto 'em."

Mr. Clackworthy held up his hands in mock horror. "Nay, nay; I shall do nothing of the sort; I shall retain and even increase my investment. I shall be the heaviest stockholder when the horrible, sickening crash comes and sends Higbeeville's newest air castle tumbling. Ply me not with questions, old dear, for I am human and love my little surprise now and then; figure it out. It will furnish you with an exercise in mental gymnastics.

"Now, as to Harold Higbee, the prying and loose-tongued.nephew of the great and pompous Williston C., the town's chief Poo Bah and 'Great I Am,' he is working for me in ways that he little suspects. Out of the seeming goodness of my heart I have given him two thousand dollars' worth of stock in the Jiffy Auto Rim Co. That adds to the interest of the Higbees in our concern. In addition to that, I am paying him the amazing salary of one hundred dollars a week to keep my books and sign my checks. As a matter of actual work, I would consider him over-paid if I gave him thirty-five dollars a week.

"The simple truth is, my dear James, that apparently the Jiffy Co. is rolling up amazing profits, and I desire that the most intricate details of our success shall reach the ears of Mr. Williston Higbee and, through Mr. Higbee, the other three gentlemen whom I have selected as the contributors to the Clackworthy bank balance."

"Gimme the pulmotor, boss," begged The Early Bird. "I'm smothered under that mass of words. Y'mean that there is somethin' crooked, that you're paddin' the books, an' you want our Harold t' peddle his bum info' to these ginks what we're gonna throw the hooks into?"

"Jiffy is good, but not quite as good as I want these gentlemen to think it is,' pursued Mr. Clackworthy. "Actually our profits are a bit smaller than I would have them appear. At the present cost of manufacture, we could legitimately make a profit of ten per cent on my present investment of ten thousand dollars. I have cash remaining in the bank of forty-five thousand dollars. However, a profit of ten per cent is not large enough to light the fires of greed within the human breast.

"Therefore, my dear James, I have adopted the simple expedient of disposing of our entire output to Bascom & Co., Jobbers. We bill Bascom for the Jiffy auto rim at twenty per cent. above the prevailing wholesale price. Bascom sends us his check for the same, and that permits our books to show a profit of thirty per cent instead of the modest ten which we really realize.

"Higbee's nephew, never fear, has long since carried the story of our remarkable success to his worthy uncle. Our sales are growing rapidly, and the time fast approaches when we shall have to expand our factory, erect new buildings, and install new machinery. That will, to be sure, require capital, and it is my earnest desire that Higbeeville's Big Four shall offer me this capital without the asking. And I shall permit them, collectively, to match the additional forty-five thousand dollars that I stand ready to invest."

The Early Bird shook his head hopelessly. "Maybe my bean is crippled," he said mournfully, "but you might as well be makin' speech on the League of Nations in the Chinese lingo. If you stick another forty-five thousand bucks into this thing, that makes fifty-five thousand accordin' to my addin' machine, an' if you stick fifty-five thousand smackers into this thing, how are you gonna get it out? That's what worries me into a headache."

"I'll get it out, James," confided Mr. Clackworthy; "that is where my little surprise comes in."

v

HAROLD Higbee ran true to form, completely vindicating Mr. Clackworthy's ability to read character. In pursuance of his custom, he had dropped in upon his Uncle Williston to report how things were getting along at the factory. Since those who comprised Higbeeville's Big Four were personal friends as well as business associates, it was not surprising that Ben Pruitt, Ezekiel Todd, and Apperson Pool were seated within Mr. Higbee's ornate living room. They had just been talking about Jiffy; the word was on every tongue in town for that matter.

"Gosh!" exclaimed Harold, sinking into a chair. "They just about worked me to death to-day. Lot of confusion, too; orders coming in so fast we had to tear out part of the office to make room for another machine.

"Whew! It's sure a coming business. Mr. Clackworthy's on the road to being the richest man in this town, I can tell you. Why, with that little force of men that we're working now, he's got a bigger income than any of you— thirty per cent profit, and the field limited only by the number of automobiles in the country.

"A clean profit of seven dollars on every Jiffy auto rim that's turned out— that's a profit of twenty-eight dollars an automobile. If he turns out a million Jiffys, he's got a profit of— of twenty-eight million dollars! Figure it out yourself."

"You're talking big figures," replied Williston Higbee. "You can't tell me that any man on earth could make twenty-eight million dollars in a little two-by-four factory like Clackworthy's. He's doing fairly well, I admit, but twenty-eight million dollars—bosh !"

"All right, Uncle Williston, you can bosh all you want to, but I'm in on the ground floor, and I tell you that Jiffy auto rim is a winner. I see the orders come in, I read the letters from that fellow Bascom who is jobbing the entire output, begging for a larger production— begging on his bended knees. I see what it costs to produce Jiffys, and I know what they're selling for— I'm one of the stockholders!"

"The stock was give to you," reminded Zeke Todd dryly. "You'd have been a long time owning it if you'd have had to pay for it yourself."

"Mr. Clackworthy is getting ready to expand," went on Harold Higbee. "I've seen the letters from the architects in the city— he's planning a one-hundred-thousand-dollar factory right here in Higbeeville. Now, I keep my eyes and ears open, and I know a thing or two. I've got an idea, and I'm going to give you a tip how maybe you can get in on something good.

"I know something about Mr. Clackworthy's finances. He's invested about ten thousand dollars so far. In return for that he's taken out nearly five thousand dollars clean, clear profit— counting his salary— in the short time he's been operating. He's got a bank balance of forty-five thousand dollars. Isn't that right, Mr. Pool?" Apperson Pool nodded that this was, indeed, correct.

"All right," continued young Higbee. "If Mr. Clackworthy builds a one-hundred-thousand-dollar factory and has only forty-five thousand dollars, he's going to need more money. He plans to float bonds to do it. It's going to cost him money to sell those bonds; if you four men are half as wise as I think you are, you'll put a proposition up to Clackworthy to sell stock instead of bonds, and you buy the stock; thirty per cent profit. That isn't to be picked up every day."

"Did Mr. Clackworthy put you up to saying that?" demanded Ben Pruitt suspiciously.

"I should say not!" exclaimed young Higbee. ''That's my own idea—and you'd better thank me for it, too."

Mr. Higbee glanced at Apperson Pool, and Mr. Pool stared inquiringly at Ben Pruitt. Mr. Pruitt, in turn, exchanged glances with Ezekiel Todd. All coughed invitingly for one of the others to venture an opinion.

"We know the Jiffy auto rim is a good thing; we've all got 'em on our cars," ventured Pruitt.

"Yes, we would have the factory right here where we could keep an eye on it. There wouldn't be a chance for any shenanigans like as if we bought stock in some company a long ways off," added Todd.

"We know that the concern is making big profits; we get reliable information from my nephew here who's right on the inside," reasoned Williston Higbee.

"And," added Apperson Pool, "I, as a banker, am in a position to know that Mr. Clackworthy is a man of means; if we did— if we did decide to invest, we would have the assurance that he has as much at stake as we have— he'd have to make it pay."

All four heads nodded solemnly at this cautious appraisal of the situation.

"That would be a little over ten thousand dollars a piece— if we went in," mused Williston Higbee. "A little less net for me when Mr. Clackworthy exercises his option on that factory site and takes it off my hands for five thousand dollars. I only paid six hundred dollars for it four years ago."

"If I'm a stockholder he would be bound to buy his building materials for the new factory from me. That would give me back a pretty good share of my ten thousand dollars," debated Mr. Todd, who owned the lumber yard and sold building supplies.

"He'd be obligated to give me the contract work, if I was a stockholder," ruminated Pruitt; "that ought to be a fat job— a one-hundred-thousand-dollar factory."

"A big factory like that would do a mighty big banking business," decided Apperson Pool. "It would be a mighty fine thing for this town."

"And for us," suggested Williston Higbee.

"Yes, for us— of course," chorused Pruitt, Todd, and Pool.

"Suppose you sort of sound him out 'n the matter, App," said Higbee.

"But don't promise him anything until we've thought about it a little more," warned the cautious Pruitt.

And thus it was settled, Mr. Clackworthy's plans bearing fruit more quickly than he had anticipated. The following day when the master confidence man called at the bank, Cashier Apperson Pool invited him into the private office.

"Mr. Clackworthy," he said, "as your banker and friend, I want to venture a piece of advice. You are neglecting opportunities; your plant is too small. You should expand. Jiffy is too good a thing for a piker production like this. Why don't you build a new factory that would employ five hundred men instead of thirty? If it's a question of money, we might find some way to assist you."

Mr. Clackworthy nodded. 'You've hit the nail on the head, Mr. Pool, and—"

"I'm App to my friends— er— Amos."

"As I was saying, App," went on Mr. Clackworthy, "you have touched upon a matter which has occupied a great deal of my thought lately. The business has grown much faster than I had anticipated. And the profit is — um— very satisfactory— very. I have already worked out a plan for a new factory.

"I have forty-five thousand dollars in cash; I want to build a new factory. It will cost me one hundred thousand dollars. I have the specifications all drawn up, and I am now negotiating for the placing of bonds for the cash I need. I am very sure, from the tentative promises I have received, that I will be ready to start the next factory in sixty days."

Mr. Pool leaned forward confidentially. "Why go away from Higbeeville for forty-five thousand dollars— er—Amos?" he asked. "I think you could get the capital right here."

"You mean that the bank would buy my bonds?"

"I mean that if you were to offer stock in the Jiffy Auto Rim Co., I am sure forty-five thousand dollars of it would be subscribed locally."

"Oh, I see,"" mused Mr. Clackworthy. "You surprise me; I was particularly warned when I first came to Higbeeville that I should not look for local capital."

"That was before we knew you or your product," murmured Mr. Pool somewhat apologetically. "What do you say? We will consider it a great privilege to furnish the capital for Higbeeville's fastest-growing industry."

"Also a profitable privilege," volunteered Mr. Clackworthy smifingly. "I presume you were aware that we were tucking away about thirty per cent profit. Now see here— ah— App, you rather put me up against it. If I float bonds I only have to pay eight per cent for use of the money; if I sell you stock, it's costing me thirty per cent, for you would get the profit otherwise coming to me. Understand? It means twenty-two per cent to me— just nine thousand nine hundred dollars a year.

"On the other hand, I realize the value of local co-operation. I don't want to be a hog, old man; give me a couple of hours to think it over."

It was not, of course, necessary for Mr. Clackworthy to spend much time in "thinking it over." It was simply that he did not want to appear anxious; he wanted Higbeeville's Big Four, in putting up their combined forty-five thousand dollars, to feel that they had achieved a big victory. Things were now just where he wanted them, and from now on it was fast work.

That afternoon he notified Apperson Pool that he had, after due deliberation, decided to let the local investors come in, and that he stood ready to proceed with the formation of the expanded corporation. The meeting was held in the law offices of Finley Bruton, Higbeeville's leading lawyer. Everything moved without a hitch.

"Gentlemen," said Mr. Clackworthy, "Mr. Pool has convinced me of the wisdom of associating myself with local capital instead of seeking it elsewhere. He has already explained that to you. The present company is incorporated for ten thousand dollars, but the original ten thousand dollar investment has increased in value, and I consider the present assets of the Jiffy Auto Rim Co. to be worth thirty-five thousand dollars. I shall exchange my present stock for thirty-five thousand dollars' worth of stock in the new corporation. [ shall put up an additional forty-five thousand dollars in cash. That gives me an eighty thousand dollar interest. The four of you will, I believe, put up eleven thousand two hundred and fifty dollars each—a total of forty-five thousand dollars in local capital.

"Since I am anxious to proceed, if you will draw checks and turn them over to Mr. Pool, who will be treasurer of the new corporation, I will give him my check. Within a few days we will have incorporated the new company. Naturally, I will be president. Each of you will be vice presidents with the exception of Mr. Pool, who will be treasurer. Within a few days we will look over the plans for the new factory and lay our plans for expansion."

There was an uncapping of fountain pens and an opening of check books. The fact that Apperson Pool was to be treasurer lulled to slumber any doubts that Higbeeville's Big Four might have had.

vi

JAMES Early was worried as well as puzzled. "Boss," he wailed, "this here Pool guy has got not only the forty-five thousand dollars that the suckers has put up, but your forty-five thousand seeds, too. On top of that you're out ten thousand dollars more."

"Not ten thousand dollars, James," corrected Mr. Clackworthy. "I have collected five thousand dollars of that in salary and expenses to myself."

"How you gonna get your own jack back, much less the kale belongin' to them other bozos?"

"This very afternoon, James, you shall see the whole scheme unfolded. As a stockholder in the Jiffy Auto Rim Co., you are invited to attend the stockholders' meeting at two o'clock this afternoon. We shall also at this hour hold the financial obsequies of poor Jiffy."

At two o'clock the meeting was held in the law offices of Finley Bruton, attorney for the company. Messrs, Higby, Pruitt, Todd, and Pool were there, looking much worried, for they knew that disaster hovered over the town's new factory. Lawyer Bruton had already held individual conferences with each of the local investors as well as with Mr. Clackworthy.

Mr. Clackworthy and The Early Bird entered, the former the target for four pairs of angry eyes.

Lawyer Bruton, heavy of both voice and figure, leaned back in his swivel chair and tapped the papers on his desk.

"You all know why you're here," he said.

"I should say we do!" exclaimed Apperson Pool. "The funds of the Jiffy Co. were attached in the bank this morning."

"Yes, it looks very much as if you fellows were strictly up against it," said Lawyer Bruton. "You have been made defendants in a suit for two hundred and fifty thousand dollars by the Presto Auto Rim Co., of Chicago, for infringement of patent. They've got you cold. Jiffy auto rim is the same identical invention as the Presto auto rim."

"I— I took it for granted that Mr. Clackworthy was smart enough to have patents," said Williston Higbee.

"The patent for Jiffy was merely applied for, it seems," explained the lawyer. "The Presto people got their patent some ten weeks ago. It's an open and shut case of infringement. My advice to you is to settle— if you can. The attorney for the Presto people is waiting outside, and my advice is for you to get out the best way you can."

"But the Jiffy Co. is busted!" shouted Ben Pruitt. "If we haven't any patent, then we haven't anything —except our capital, the funds in the bank. Thank Heaven, we didn't build that new factory before we found this out. I guess we'll get some of our cash back."

"I doubt it," said Zeke Todd gloomily, "the suit is for two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. They may get all of the money."

"Ninety thousand— that's what is in the bank," said Banker Pool.

"Confound you, Mr. Clackworthy!" roared Williston Higbee. 'You've got us in for a fine loss, you have. What did you want to start making those darn }iffys for until you had a patent?"

Mr. Clackworthy bore up gamely in the face of the threatened loss. "We all make mistakes, I suppose," he said. "Many companies start manufacturing with only a patent applied for. Don't be too rough with me; remember that I've got over fifty thousand dollars in this thing, and you fellows only a little over eleven thousand dollars each. I seem to be the big looser.

"As Lawyer Bruton says, we are up against it. I know when I'm licked. As the majority stockholder I vote that the matter shall be left entirely in our attorney's hands, to make the best settlement that he can."

Of course the other four, being minority stockholders, had little to say, but they were too stunned to have a say, anyhow. The matter being thus decided, the first and only stockholders' meeting of the Jiffy Auto Rim Co. was sadly adjourned.

After the meeting Lawyer Bruton held a long conference with the Chicago counselor at law, representing the Presto Auto Rim Co. The latter remained firm despite three hours of haggling and pleading. 'Fhe result was that the settlement was made on Presto's terms— which was that the entire assets of the Jiffy Co., including the ninety thousand dollars in bank, be turned over to the Presto corporation.

Mr. Clackworthy and The Early Bird sat in their suite in the Higbeeville House. For a man who has just suffered such a stupendous loss, the master confidence man was remarkably cheerful.

"Boss," said The Early Bird, "I know you're in the clear. I know you've cleaned up, but— aw, come on, boss, an' slip me the low-down."

Mr. Clackworthy lighted a fresh cigar and chuckled.

"James," he said reprovingly, "I am surprised that you need a diagram. Don't you see— I own the Presto Auto Rim Co., too. I get back my own forty-five thousand dollars and the forty-five thousand dollars of Higbeeville's Big Four in the bargain.

"A struggling inventor who owned the Presto patents gets back his patents— and the machinery of the Jiffy Co. That is his share; it will give him quite a fair start. The auto rim ought to be a good proposition."

"Yeah," suggested The Early Bird. "If you was to take hold of it with him, you ought to clean up some big coin."

"Too commercial, James; too commercial,' said Mr. Clackworthy; "it's the lure of the easy dollar that I love— the lure of the easy dollar. It's in my blood; some time, perhaps—"

He checked this tendency to sober thoughts and laughed again.

"I must not be forgetting, James," he said, "that I've a box of good cigars coming to me. Tobacconist named Linn told me to drop in and get the best box of smokes he had in the store— if I did a certain thing. It has been done."

__________________

8: Plain Soda

Ernest M.  Poate

Detective Story Magazine 15 Jul 1919

IT was after eleven o'clock of a Sunday night. Milly and I sat in the little living room, excitedly discussing plans for our approaching wedding. Doctor Bentiron was draped languidly over his accustomed morris chair in the corner, sunk deep in reverie; the air about him was blue with smoke. He had fallen into the habit of spending an occasional evening so, sometimes brooding silently through the hours, again breaking out into abrupt, whimsical philosophies. We were glad to have him; with all his oddities, he was a satisfying companion for two lovers.

We were just about to separate for the night— the doctor was in the act of heaving himself up— when the night-office nurse came to the door. Doctor Bentiron dropped back with a tired sigh.

"Umphf?" he inquired.

"An urgent call, doctor," explained Miss Gallagher, "from Miss Seastrom, at the Corona."

"Umphf," drawled the doctor. "Is this a time of night to be troubling me? Sick people have no consideration. I won't go." Indeed, the doctor rarely made calls; almost all his huge practice was done in the office. "She's probably been eating lobster again; I told her one of these attacks of colic would kill her yet. You go, my son; go visit the sick and afflicted, and dispense a little calomel and rhubarb and soda. I'll keep Milly company till you come back and report. You'll find a nurse there, Miss Lavender, "She's an old arterio- sclerotic, this Seastrom woman, with chronic gastritis. Some day that trouble will cause her heart to stop short off."

I kissed Milly good-by and went sadly out after the emergency bag.

By the time I had found it, the big limousine was waiting, and I rolled smoothly away therein, thinking without regret of the days when my riding had been in street cars.

The Corona was one of those huge apartment houses which adorn Riverside Drive; of the tessellated lobby, uniformed West Indian hallboy variety, expensive and ornate. A black doorman, his uniform heavily encrusted with gold braid, conducted me to the telephone switchboard, where sat an- other, bficker boy, still more bebraided and buttoned.

"Miss Seastrom— I guess she's awful sick," he volunteered in the curious, aspigated Jamaican dialect. "She calls in 'ere "bout fifteen minutes ago, and just says 'Doctor Bentiron!'— like that, an' then she give an hawful groan, like—' he imitated it fearsomely. "Kind of a guggle, it were, sir. And she didn't hang up, neither—just dropped the phone. You go right up, doctor; I can't get her to hannounce you."

So a third gold-braided youth took me up in a gilded elevator, and presently I stood at the carved, oaken door of the Seastrom apartment.

I rang patiently for ten minutes before there was any stir within. At last I heard a padding step in the hall, and the door swung back. A round, fresh-colored face presented itself, wearing an expression of mild, benevolent curiosity.

"Is there trouble?" asked a smooth, pleasant voice. "Am I needed? Come in, I will dress at once."

I entered. My interlocutor stood blinking bright, near-sighted eyes beneath the glare of the big chandelier. He was a plump young man, almost womanishly round and smooth of face; he wore a gayly flowered bath robe over red silk pajamas.

"I was asleep," he explained; though his eyes were bright enough. "I retire early. I suppose you are from the Help Others League? Be seated; I shall be ready at once."

"Why, no," said I, somehow reluctant to ruffle his benevolent calm; he was such a pleasant, friendly chap. "I'm Doctor Bentiron's assistant. Miss Seastrom just sent for him."

His face clouded. "Aunt Hattie!" he cried in alarm. "She seemed so well to-night— what can it be?" His smooth cheeks creased anxiously. "And the nurse away, too. Oh, dear, dear! I never heard a thing. I'm such a sound sleeper," he apologized. "Let us go to her at once. Oh, if anything has hap- pened I shall never forgive myself— never!" He hurried down the hall.

He led me into a spacious bedroom, hung with bright colored chintz. The dressing table was littered with gold-handled manicure tools; pots of rouge and pomade, bottles of perfume, stood crowded together. Rather a luxurious old lady, I thought. A desk phone had fallen from the little stand at the head of the great four-poster bedstead. On the pillow, dimly shown by the light of the shaded night lamp, I saw a white, drawn old face. My guide sobbed audibly behind me, for the still features were set in a ghastly smile of agony. I hurried to the bedside.

The old lady lay in a twisted heap, her limbs contorted; on the poor, thin face was written legibly the horror of her passing. For she was quite dead, though still warm. I straightened her distorted frame as best I might, while the young man hovered ineffectually about, weeping and wringing his hands.

"Oh, dear, dear!' he sobbed. "Oh, dear— what shall I do? Oh, poor auntie, poor auntie! and I slept through it all."

I could not but pity him; he was so frankly overcome. A boyish, soft young man, he seemed, unfit for trouble. I tried to send him out, but he hung about in the doorway, fascinated, while I turned back the covers and laid my hand over the dead woman's heart. The abdominal region was dilated and hard; a little gassy froth had oozed from the dead lips. I pressed down on the thin chest; as I took my hand away the ribs sprang back, and, as sometimes happens, air rushed into the lungs with a gurgling sound, as though the dead woman had gasped for breath. Hearing this, the young man gave a womanish scream, threw up his hands and dashed blindly out, sobbing in fright.

Left alone, I looked about more carefully. On the little stand were two thin glasses, almost empty, flanked by a medicine bottle. I looked down at the dead face, pondering. Here was no easy death. No doubt it was colic, as the doctor had said, which had  paralyzed the weak heart. But it must have been terribly severe colic which had stamped that awful look upon the still face. I picked up the fallen telephone and called Doctor Bentiron's house.

"Doctor Blakely," said I "At the Corona. Ask the doctor if he will speak with me." Doctor Bentiron usually refused to talk over the telephone.

"Just a minute," came the answer, and presently: "Bentiron, idiot," the weary, familiar voice came over the wire.

"Miss Seastrom is dead, doctor," I reported.

"Umphf. Well?"

"What shall I do, doctor ?"

"Write a death certificate, bonehead. You ought to know how, after two years in Bellevue."

"But," I protested, "but doctor, she looks so bad; she must have suffered dreadfully! I wish you'd look at her."

There was a pause; then: "Umphf," disgustedly. "I'll come up. Send the car."

I phoned the order downstairs, then went to hunt up my host. He was in the big living room, huddled, face down, on a couch, a pillow over his head. All the lights were on, the place was dazzling.

"Doctor Bentiron is on his way here," said I.

He did not move; I touched his shoulder. He sprang up with a scream and backed away, fending me off with shaking hands. His prominent eyes bulged with terror. "Oh!" he cried, "Oh!" then laughed foolishly. "I thought," he quavered, "I thought she had— had come after me."

"Doctor Bentiron is coming," said I again.

"Yes, yes," he answered. His lips trembled pitifully, and tears hopped down his round cheeks. "Do everything you can, of course. It's a great blow— a great blow! Perhaps I should explain, doctor, I am John Rivington, Miss Seastrom's nephew, a worker with the Help Others League. I have lived with my aunt for several months; she was good enough to take an interest in my work. Oh, dear!" He choked back a sob. "Of course,you know  Aunt Hattie had been ailing for a long time; she had a stroke last fall. It was after that I came to live with her. But she seemed so much better lately we even let the nurse go out last night, and now— oh, dear, dear!"

I sat down to await Doctor Bentiron, but young Rivington was quite distraught. He could not sit still, but jumped up and walked about, sat down and got up again. His disorder was pitiable. At last I suggested that he go and dress himself. He went out hesitantly, and I heard his padding tread in the bathroom and about the hall. Once I thought he had gone into the dead woman's room, but dismissed the idea; his fear had been too great for that. After a time he came back, trousers drawn on over his pajamas, suspenders dangling, one shoe and a slipper on his sockless feet, and sat rocking himself back and forth in a daze. He must have been extraordinarily fond of his aunt, thought. A few minutes later the doorbell buzzed, and he hurried out, bringing Doctor Bentiron back with him.

The doctor seemed rather irritated at this disturbance of his routine. He slouched directly to the bedroom and stood in the door a moment, thumbs in beli, head cocked to one side, his long, dull eyes roving vaguely about. He paid no heed to Rivington's broken explanations, but drifted to the bedside and stared down at the body, pulling absently at his beard. Then he picked up the almost empty glass from the stand, sniffed at it, shook it; a few bubbles broke sluggishly.

"What's this?" he demanded.

Rivington looked blank. "I don't know, doctor," said anxiously. "Something you ordered, I suppose. The nurse—"

"Umphf," said the doctor. "Where is Miss Lavender?"

"Auntie let her go home for the night— she— she felt so much better. Miss Lavender is to come back in the morning."

"Umphf," said the doctor once more. "I'll just keep this."

He set down the glass and made a swift examination of the body, then straightened, scratching the back of his head.

"Is anything wrong?' demanded Rivington nervously. "Wasn't that medicine all right? Do you think the nurse could have made a mistake?"

"Umphf," said the doctor dubiously. "On the face of it, the case is straight enough. But I didn't order any such medicine. Ordered nothing but that in the bottle, there."

"Oh," said Rivington, — puzzled. "Perhaps the nurse— or auntie may have fixed it up herself. She tries— she used to try— anything people would tell her about. Or" —he hesitated a moment— "she gave her maid a week's notice yesterday; the woman was impudent. Do you suppose an autopsy— I can't rest if there's any suspicion. Poor, dear auntie! It seems a desecra- tion, almost— but if you think best, doctor. It would be terrible if there had been foul play."

Doctor Bentiron favored him with a keen, sidelong glance. "An autopsy would be best— if you will give your consent," he agreed.

"Just as you think, doctor," hastened the young man. "I want everything done that .

"Umphf," said the doctor. "Blakely, get Bernstein, and arrange for an au- topsy in the morning. Rivington, you'd better send for an undertaker. And have that nurse report to me as soon as she cores in."

He dragged himself wearily out, and I foilowed, leaving our host once more in tears.

"Umphf," grunted Doctor Lentiron, settled in his car for the trip home. "What do you think of him?" He produced papers and tobacco and began to roll a cigarette.

"He seems a decent young chap," I replied.

"Umphf," said the doctor again.

"Yes, a smooth enough young chap. But he's too soluble to please me; he's wept rivers. It seems plain enough; acute gastric tympanites; an old, leaky heart that couldn't stand the pressure; death. Yes. But I didn't order this." He held up the medicine glass. "We'll talk with Miss Lavender and perhaps with that maid, too. I feel something; and even you seem to have been dissatisfied."

Indeed, I had had a feeling that all was not right; it had led me to send for the chief.

"Oh, well," he drawled, "one gets suspicious with advancing years. Rivington seems open enough; he would scarcely have suggested an autopsy if he had anything to hide. We'll see what Bernstein finds. And I'll send this glass to Lawson." He yawned mightily, heaved himself out of the car, and slouched off to bed.

Next morning the chief seemed even nore detached and indifferent than usual; his manner was that of one weary unto death. Also, he smoked furiously and yawned often. By these signs I knew that something troubled him.

As usual, he made a formal morning inspection of his sanitarium at ten o'clock. In the midst of his rounds he stopped, thrust both thumbs into his belt and stared dully at the chandelier for a space.

"Blakely," he declared, "I am annoyed. I am puzzied; it irritates me. Go see if Miss Lavender has showed up yet."

She had just come in, Miss Morgan told me. The doctor trailed back to his office at once, mounted his great chair and pushed a button. Miss Lavender came in.

Like all the doctor's nurses, she was as pretty as a picture. She seemed rather ill at ease as she stood before him, twisting a little bead bag in restless fingers.

"Umphf," said Doctor Bentiron. "Miss— Lavender. What medication did you give Miss Seastrom last night?"

"Only what was ordered, doctor," answered the girl nervously. "The digitalis at seven. You know you stopped the nitroglycerin last week. It's all on her chart."

"Any lithia?"

"Why, no doctor; her ability to assimilate food seemed so much better lately. I was dreadfully surprised to find her dead. I suppose I oughtn't to have gone out, but she would have it, and Mr. Rivington promised to look after her."

"Umphf," drawled Doctor Bentiron, "She got something last night. The glass was on her stand."

"I don't know what it could be, unless Mr. Rivington fixed something for her— or her maid."

"Her maid," repeated the doctor reflectively. "What sort of person is this maid?"

"Why, she's a Frenchwoman, doctor. She's pretty bold sometimes. Miss Seastrom gave her notice only yesterday. Of course, Miss Seastrom was irritable and exacting, but I think Laroche was impudent, too. She has a bad temper."

"Exactly," commented the "And you think she might have fixed up some medicine for her mistress?"

"Perhaps," said the girl. "Miss Seastrom was always talking about her trouble; she was bound to try everything she heard about for dyspepsia. But I could find out," she declared, brightening. "You know she kept a diary; she put down all her symptoms in it, and every dose of medicine she took, with the time, and everything."

"Where did she keep it ?"

"Why, she was kind of funny about it; said she didn't want anybody ever to see it. She was a fussy old lady, you know. I don't think anybody else even knew she kept a diary. She used to keep it hidden in the drawer of her stand."

"Umphf," said the doctor. "That's all, Miss Lavender. I should be sorry to think you had been careless." He gave her a long, keen look. She dropped her eyes, flushing, but without any appearance of guilt. "Blakely, order the car."

I went out to do it, and presently the doctor also emerged, wearing his shabby Norfolk jacket. As he passed, he jerked his head sideways at me, so I caught up a hat and followed.

We drove first to Doctor Lawson's chemical laboratory. Here the doctor sent in his footman, who shortly returned with a typewritten slip:

"Contents of glass submitted aqueous solution sodium citrate."

"Umphf," said handing it to me. Doctor Bentiron, "Drive to Doctor Bernstein's office."

Here we alighted. The black-browed pathologist had just returned; he re ported his findings thus:

"Just an ordinary cardio-nephritic, doctor. Arteriosclerosis, chronic enddocarditis with mitral insufficiency, chronic interstitial nephritis— the regular thing. Chronic gastritis; stomach full of gas— small petechial hemorrhages. It must have been ballooned up pretty big, I should think. What? Stomach contents? Yes, I examined them. Negative, except for a quantity of sodium citrate— been taking it for her dyspepsia, evidently."

"Thanks, Bernstein," drawled the doctor, rather disappointedly, I thought, and slouched languidly back to the car.

"Nothing but sodium citrate," he murmured. "Quite harmless, makes no difference who gave it to her. Umphf. Sodium — citrate— sodium citrate. What in blazes— Oh, well! Home, Jenkins. I promised Milly I'd go for a walk with her after lunch. The devil take Seastrom and Rivington, too."

At home, the doctor shut himself up for an hour, then appeared for lunch in rare splendor, smelling of soap. His board was trimmed, pointed and waxed ; he wore a tight-waisted, double- breasted frock coat, lavender trousers and gray spats. It was a marvelous change from his usual comfortable shabbiness.

Mildred cried out gleefully at the sight of him, clapping her hands. "Oh, Daddy Bentiron," she exclaimed, "you're just too grand for words!" And she made him turn about, and surveyed him rapturously from all angles.

The doctor stood gravely enough, stooping from the waist, his head thrust forward as usual; but the faintest of grins twitched at one corner of his bearded lips.

"Umphf," said he, at last. "I like to dress up—sometimes."

"Sometimes, indeed," cried Milly severely. "Here I've lived with you 'most three months, and you never dressed up like this one single time before! From now on, Mister Doctor Bentiron, you are to put on these gorgi- ferious clothes every single Sunday afternoon, anyway—and maybe in be- tween!" She made a little dash at him, pulled his beard and kissed the tip of his nose.

The doctor cast a ruefully humorous glance at me; they had grown to be very good friends, these two.

"Look what I'm in for now." He groaned.

Luncheon over, Milly retired to put on hat and coat and powder her little nose for the promised walk. "You see, I must be very grand," she explained, "to go with all these wonderful garments."

Presently she skipped back, all excitement, like a little girl. She fetched Doctor Bentiron his hat— a sugar-loaf-shaped French tile—and went into further mirthful ecstasies at his appearance therein. "Just like Alphonse in the funny papers," she decided. Indeed, I had noted such a resemblance, too.

"Come along, Daddy B.!" She caught his arm. "But Freddie must come, too; mustn't he? He needs fresh air. Don't you think he looks pale, 'Stern Guardian?'"

I flushed still redder at this; I am of florid, beefy build, and painfully healthy. Mildred gave me an impish little one-sided grin; she loved to tease me so. Indeed, she had blossomed wonderfully from the fragile, sad-eyed child whom I first saw crouched beside the body of her murdered uncle; I blessed the doctor's unobtrusive affection for the change it had wrought in her.

So we set forth, the doctor on one side, swinging an ivory-crooked malacca stick, and on the other. Mildred, between us, clutched an arm of each and strove ineffectually to accommodate her little steps to ours. Being long-legged, I am naturally a swift walker; and Doctor Bentiron's slouching gait, for all its appearance of indolence, covered the ground fast enough. Poor Milly was put to it to keep up; now and again she would give a little skip, striving without success to catch our step. But she was full of merry talk, and passers-by turned to look at her bright face and to smile responsively at the gay little bursts of laughter which left her quite out of breath. I was very proud of her, and so, I think, was Doctor Bentiron, though his face was impassive as ever. But when he bowed, as he did every other step— the doctor could not walk a block without meeting an acquaintance— his long gray eyes turned involuntarily toward her, as who should say, "Look, this is my ward!"

It was a lovely afternoon; Fifth Avenue was colorful and gay with pretty ladies— none so sweet as mine. A heady scent of spring mingled with the odors of asphalt and gasoline and smoke. The world was bright; for the moment sickness and sorrow and death seemed far enough away.

Mildred looked longingly toward the candy shops as we swung by them. Finally she stopped, panting prettily.

"l'm all out of breath," she cried, "and warm, and everything! And I'm thirsty. I do believe it's almost a year since I had an ice cream soda. Let's stop here, Daddy Bentiron. I'll buy you a nut sundae out of my own pocket." She smiled at him provokingly, and I grinned at the thought of the grave, distinguished alienist absorbing a sundae.

But, surprisingly enough, the chief seemed pleased with the idea. "All right, Milly, my child," he agreed. "But let's go on another block; there's a better place there."

He led us to an expensive, quiet candy shop, and stopped to buy a whole stack of maroon-colored soda checks. The clerks at the counter nodded familiarly. I thought little of that, for the chief had an enormous acquaintance among all sorts of unlikely folk. But when the black-clad waitress came back to our table I was surprised. Mildred ordered plain raspberry soda, I chocolate ice cream, and the girl looked at the chief and said, "The same as usual, doctor ?"

I stared, amazed; it was difficult to picture the doctor as a soda fountain habitué. Mildred shook her finger at him accusingly.

"Why, Daddy Bentiron," she reproved him, "I do believe you've got a secret vice! Here you've been sneaking out, tippling ice cream sodas—and I've led you right back into temptation! Have you struggled, 'Stern Guardian?' Have you tried hard to break off ?"

The chief chuckled grimly and patted her cheek. "Yes," he told the waitress ; "the same. And I'll superintend."

He heaved himself up aud slouched noiselessly to the counter, where he held low-voiced converse with the mixer. At his direction, the boy stirred syrups and flavors— two kinds of ice cream— sweet milk— dashed in soda water— and finally topped the whole with a spoonful of whipped cream.

"My own invention— like the White Knight," announced Doctor Bentiron, bearing the mixture back in triumph. There was an odd tinge of pride in his tired voice. ''Butter-scotch lemon ice cream soda." He dropped into a chair and began absorbing the sweet, sticky mess with apparent relish,

He was soon through. "Umphf," said he, satisfied; and looked at Milly. She was drinking her soda very slowly.

"You'll have to wait for me," she remarked. "I have to drink soda awful slow, or it feels as though it was expanding inside of me."

I chuckled ; but the chief paused midway of a yawn. "Umphf!" said he suddenly.

Milly jumped. "Daddy B.," she scolded, "don't grunt at me like that!"

The doctor was not listening. He sat on the small of his back, thin legs thrust far under the table, and stared with dull gray eyes at the frescoed ceil- ing. His face was an impenetrable mask. Presently he tilted his silk hat forward until it balanced precariously upon his eyebrows, and scratched the back of his head with a meditative forefinger.

"Umphf," said he "Yes. Plain soda. Come, children."

On the way home he was quite silent. His peculiarly noiseless gait was more than usually dragging and weary; once he sighed deeply, shaking his gray head. When we reached his big house, he dismissed us.

"Run along and play, children," he directed. "The old doctor is busy. Yes. I must ponder the wickedness of mankind. Come back at three o'clock, Blakely." He labored up to the door, which a nurse held open; Milly danced off on my arm, turning to wave a gay hand after his stooping figure At three o'clock I found Doctor Bentiron alone in his office. He had sloughed his late grandeur; he was again enveloped in a faded green bath robe, his lap full of cigarette ashes. He had slid far down in his great chair, eyes half closed and vacant. The air about him was thick with smoke.

As I came in he uncrossed his legs and threw the right one over the left. He did not look up. "But there was only one glass," he muttered irritably, as though continuing a conversation.

"One glass?" I repeated, surprised. "Where, doctor?"

"On the stand, with the bottle of digitalis, at the head of Miss Seastrom's bed, idiot," drawled the chief patiently. He had an uncanny faculty of reproducing all the details of any scene which that vague, unfocused stare of his had fallen upon.

"But— but, doctor,' I protested, "there were two glasses when I got there. I'm sure there were two!"

"Umphf," drawled the doctor, giving me the merest flicker of a dull, disgusted eye. "Two glasses; and when I got there, only one. Did that mean nothing to you, my son? No, you did not even notice it. Oh, well! I suppose you let Rivington wander about as he liked."

I flushed. "I didn't see any objection," I confessed. "He went out to get dressed— and once I did think I heard him in Miss Seastrom's room."

"Umphf," said the chief. "And you two were alone in the flat. Order the car, my son. We are going back to the Corona."

There was an uneasy air about the big apartment house. The hallboys whispered together in corners, eyes rolling. "It's too solemn-like," declared the elevator man, as he took us up. "None of us likes it."

In Miss Seastrom's apartment, crape and wreaths were piled on all the chairs; a silver handled lavender casket, just uncased, was tilted drunkenly against the wall. The undertaker's men were at work in subdued, decorous haste— in the metropolis, even funerals move swiftly.

The "mortuary manager" tiptoed up to us, a professionally melancholy look upon his cheerful visage. "Relatives of deceased?" he inquired softly. "Funeral is at two to-morrow. Oh, the doctor? Yes, sir, Mr. Rivington is in his room; he takes it very hard, sir. He was truly fond of his aunt."

"Umphf,"' commented the doctor.

"Anything I can do, gentlemen?" began the undertaker. "I dislike to disturb his grief. Oh, you merely wished to see the body? Right this way, doctor."

He led us into the dead woman's bedroom. The embalmer had finished his work; the body lay on trestles, that dreadful look of pain all smoothed away. Our guide seemed grieved that Doctor Bentiron did not vouchsafe a second glance to the corpse; perhaps he expected a compliment upon his gruesome art. But the chief went straight to the bedside stand and pulled its drawer far out.

"Umphf," said he in relief. "Evidently no one knew about this." He took out a sinall, morocco bound book. "I'll take it with me, and explain to Mr. Rivington later."

He turned about and lounged placidly out.

He rode home in a profound silence, which continued until, wrapped once more in the faded green bath robe, he had climbed into his great reclining chair and assumed his usual posture, his knees almost as high as his chin.Then he rolled and lighted a fresh cigarette and stared dully at the wall until the weed was quite smoked out.

"Umphf," said he finally. "We shall we shall see. No doubt this a perfectly natural death. I'd warned the woman that another attack of colic might kill her. But, Blakely, my son, I fear that this was murder; I suspect that we have to do with a subtle, scheming criminal."

He hesitated for a moment, playing with the little red diary. At last he opened it and began to skim its pages.

"Methodical old person," he commented. "Listen: 'Felt worse to-day. Much pain in stomach— pulse irregular, one hundred and twenty beats. Called Doctor B.— hypodermic. Morphine, I suppose. Left two dozen little white tablets'— and so on for half a page, of symptoms and treatment.  Every dose of medicine noted, with the time, taste, and effect felt. Umphf." He turned a page. " 'Nephew John called," he read. " 'Good boy, but too ladylike. Very kind— interested in my case. No doubt she talked her symptoms to him for hours. 'Shall ask him to stay here; getting too old to be alone. My only relative, too. Seven p. m., took white tablet—' and so on."

The doctor shuffled through the pages. "Things develop," said he presently.

" 'Getting interested in Jonny's charitable work," he read. " 'Dear, unselfish boy! Made new will to-day—  everything to him.' Growing in favor, you will perceive. 'Such a good, thoughtful boy! Cried when I told him. Will do good with it— said could carry out dreams now; home for wayward girls". Umphf!" said the chief disgustedly. He fluttered the pages rapidly. "A good deal about 'Johnny's' good qualities," he summarized. "The rest is all dyspepsia and doses.Until— Ah, here we are! "This was written Saturday— and it was Sunday night she died. 'Sent for Dusenbury to come Monday. Decided to change will, found Home myself— call it Seastrom Memorial. Johnny to be superintendent, of course. Dear boy! When told him, seemed grieved. Eyes full of tears. "Couldn't you trust me?" Of course trust him, but selfish, I suppose— want credit for myself. No real difference, anyway.' Certainly not— if dear Johnny stuck to the plan after he got hold of the money." Cold anger sounded in the weary tones. He turned a page.

"The last entry. 'Better to-day. Johnny says let nurse go home for night. Always so thoughtful of others. Took white tablet. Breast of veal for dinner— very good. Teaspoonful bitter medicine at seven. Nine p. m.: Nurse gone. Little distress in stomach. Johnny said fix me something. Doctor B. would be angry, but shan't tell him. Eleven p. m.: Johnny gone to bed. Left medicine— two glasses. Said to drink one after other, "like a chaser." Seems queer, but will take to please him. Bed now.' "

Doctor Bentiron closed the book with a vicious slam. 'Then she drank the medicine,' he drawled, his dry voice very hard, 'and a minute later she called for me—and died. Umphi." He rolled a cigarette with fingers that were not quite steady, lit it, and smoked in silence for a time, his face set in stern lines. His eyes, usually so expressionless, gleamed coldly, like moon- light on gray ice.

Presently he stirred, swung the revolving bookcase at his right hand, and extracted his portable telephone from its cupboard therein. I knew that the doctor must be greatly aroused; he rarely condescended to use the tele- phone himself.

"Spring Three-one-hundred,"— he called; and in a moment, "Detective Sergeant O'Malley." Then a long wait. At last, "O'Malley? Doctor Bentiron speaking. up to at Come my house once."

He hung up, then worked the hook up and down. "Get the Corona," he ordered.

"The Corona? Miss Seastrom's apartment... Yes, I know she's dead… Get her rooms…  Miss Seastrom's apartment?  Call Mr. Rivington… I can't help it, call him, This is important. Doctor Bentiron speaking."

Another long wait, then:

"Rivington?" The doctor's voice was as indifferent as ever. "Come down to my Office at once. What?... Yes, it is necessary. I need more data for the death certificate.... No, come yourself. At once."

He hung up, yawning, and turned to me. "Bring him in as soon as he gets here," he ordered. "O'Malley, too. Have Hanrahan and Rocheford both come in, and bring a Minor chair. And have Miss Clarke get a stomach tube ready. Dissolve two drachms of soda bicarb. in a half glass of water, and a drachm of citric acid in another, and have them ready."

I lingered a moment. "What are you going to do?" I queried, wondering at these odd preparations.

"How is sodium citrate made?" drawled the chief. His weary voice held an unwontedly stern note.

"Why, it's an unstable compound," I replied, striving to recall my chemistry, "produced by the action of citric acid on sodium bicarbonate."

"Exactly. Liberating large quantities of carbon dioxide."

I stared as the idea struck home. It is this reaction which makes Seidlitz powders effervescent, and soda water is charged with carbonic acid gas by a similar process. I began dimly to see that a cruel deed had been done.

"Get out," ordered the doctor; and I went, to fidget restlessly about until O'Malley came in.

The little detective was as diffident as ever; he greeted me shyly, his voice creaking as though from disuse. I hurried him into the office.

"Umphf, O'Malley," drawled the chief. "You are about to witness the interesting phenomenon, 'an engineer hoist by his own petard.' Yes." There was a rap on the door, "Stand over there; the performance is about to begin."

An invalid chair had already been brought in. Now the door swung back and Rivington entered, closely followed by the two big orderlies,

"Sit there, Rivington," ordered Doctor Bentiron, his drawl gone. His voice was harsh, imperative.

The young man advanced, blinking. He was dressed in the deepest of mourning; a wide band of crepe adorned his hat. His face was swollen and woebegone; his nearsighted eyes were red.

"I— I don't understand," he faltered. "You said something about the death certificate."

"You will understand," promised the doctor. ''Drink that!"

Hanrahan advanced with one of the glasses of medicine which I had pre- pared. Bewildered, Rivington accepted it and drank it down. He did not seem to know what was going on.

"Now the other."

Rivington took the glass mechanically, but at its sour taste he jerked it from his lips. His brown eyes bulged; he stared defiantly at the impassive doctor.

"I won't!" he declared. "You can't make me; you have no right! What is this, anyhow?" His face no longer expressed good-humored benevolence; it was suddenly mean, vicious, shifty. His eyes darted restlessly about, looking for a way of escape, and found none.

"I have no right," agreed the chief, his tones once more expressionless and placid. "But I am Bentiron; I do as I please. Hanrahan!"

The two big orderlies stepped forward, quietly alert.

Without an effort they seated Rivington gently in the reclining chair. In a perfectly matter- of- fact fashion, Hanrahan grasped Rivington's nostrils with one hand and inserted thumb and finger of the other into the soft flesh beneath of the angles of the helpless man's jaws. Rivington gaped, perforce; and Rocheford deftly decanted the contents of the glass into his open mouth.

The liquid gurgled audibly down his throat. Then they stepped back.

For a moment Rivington sat dazed. Then he began to pull himself together. "I'll have the law on you for this," he began. "I'll sue— Oh— h— h— h— ah— h!" It was a long, shrill scream.

He sprang up, clutching at his stomach with both hands, eyes starting from his head; then he began to gasp. "Oh! oh!! oh!!!" he cried, in a crescendo of agony, and threw himself to the floor, writhing and twisting.

In a moment he rose to his knees, face dead-white and bathed in sweat. Clutching coat and vest in both hands, he tore them violently open, so that a button flew off and rolled into a corner. It was a dreadful sight; but the doctor lay back in his chair, smoking placidly, calm and remote as a bronze Buddha.

"Oh— ah— ugh !" gasped the wretched man, his cries broken by gurglings. "Oh, I'm dying—dying! Oh, save me—save me!" He rose to his knees at the doctor's feet, arms out-stretched, tears streaming down his ghastly face.

"Umphf," drawled the doctor, unmoved. "Your aunt must have suffered worse than that."

"She didn't— I didn't— Oh, help!" he screamed. "I'll do anything— anything!" I could not but pity the poor wretch ; but Doctor Bentiron's face was set and hard.

"Confess, then," he droned inexorably.

"Oh!" the other screamed, "anything! Yes! Yes, I did it! I killed her. She was going to change wi-ill! Oh, I'm dying!" And final gurgle he dropped upon his face. "Exactly," drawled the doctor, unperturbed ; pushed a button, "Chair, Hanrahan."

He heaved himself up, while the orderlies lifted Rivington's prostrate form and laid it in the invalid chair, now swung back almost flat. A nurse appeared with the stomach tube, already annointed with glycerin.

Doctor Bentiron snatched it up; in a moment he had inserted it into the sufferer's nostril. It slid smoothly down into the dilated stomach, and the imprisoned gas escaped with an audible whistle.

The chief resumed his chair, his sluggish calm unbroken. "Rather a near thing," he drawled. "You were close to the 'dark river,' my friend; you did not give in too soon. Now you will write and sign your confession, and O'Malley here will take you to the Tombs."

Hanrahan produced pen and paper and raised the chairback until Riving- ton sat almost upright. He was a pitiable sight; his plump cheeks were sunken and drawn, his forehead clammy with sweat.

"Write," commanded Doctor Bentiron; and the beaten man complied without protest, his unsteady hand tracing the words slowly. " 'This is a free and voluntary confession,' " dictated the chief, a sardonic smile twisting his bearded lips, " 'given without coercion. I murdered my aunt, Harriet Seastrom, by giving her, separately, baking soda and citric acid, knowing that the carbonic-acid gas so formed would dilate her stomach and stop her weak heart.' Now sign it."

Rivington affixed a shaky signature.

The doctor leaned far back and rolled another cigarette.

"Witness it, all of you," he directed. "It was a good idea, Rivington, my friend, and you nearly got away with it; but not quite. And now, mark. my He leaned forward, his insupportable glare fixed full upon the criminal; his voice was heavy with cold, implacable wrath. "No matter how you try to beg off, I— will— see— you— in— the— chair— for— this ! Yes, if I have to perjure myself to do it! Pah! Take him out of my sight, O'Malley."

The detective supported his fainting prisoner to the door; nurse and order- lies filed out, and I was left alone with the doctor.

He rolled a cigarette, staring contentedly at the wall. "It was Milly who gave me the clew," he explained, "when she said soda water 'expanded' inside her. It was a bitter soda that Rivington mixed for his poor aunt."

But I was wondering most at the doctor's unwonted display of anger. He was usually as impersonal as fate, "Where is your belief in non-interference?" I asked half seriously. "It was no worse than what Minakoff did— or that lawyer, Ditmars, you ran down,"

"Blakely, my son," drawled the chief, "in the ordinary course of events I am as ready as another to compound a felony. But this was my patient"— his tone capitalized the words— "and my patients are not to be mishandled with impunity by any living man!"

_____________

9: The Mystery of the Jade Buddha

Carolyn Wells

1869-1942

Detective Story Magazine 10 July 1919

FROM the moment I had my two honest gray eyes on Clara Pryor I just adored her. Excuse my speaking of my eyes like that, but you see everybody described them that way, and, though I knew my eyes were no more honest than those of the average young American girl, yet I rather liked the phrase and did my best to live up to it.

It was at college that I first met Clara, and through the whole four years we were chums.

And now a year had passed since we were graduated, and, though I hadn't seen her in all that time, we were about to meet again at a house party down at her uncle's country home in Winchester. I had no idea what other guests were to be there, but I was so crazy to see Clara again that I didn't care.

Still, there would probably be some one worth dressing for; so I packed my pink mull and my flower sunbonnet, but all the time my thoughts were with Clara, rather than the possibility of masculine admirers.

Well, the first day or two after I reached Winchester, Clara and I both talked to each other at once and we both talked all the time. There so much to say that it seemed as if we would never get talked out. We roomed together, and of course we talked all night. Then by day we took long walks or drives, and it wasn't until Guy Hilton came that either of us cared to associate with anyone but our two selves. And then a lot of people came, and of course we had to be smiling and sociable with them all, and I was glad I had brought my pink mull and my flower sunbonnet.

But really Clara is the one I'm going to tell you about, so I must stick to my subject.

Clara is a girl who always has some definite purpose. These are so various, and come and go so rapidly, that in any one else they would be called fads. But Clara isn't that sort. With her they are serious matters, and the funny part is that every new one she takes up she is sure it's to be her life work. I should think she'd learn after a while, but she doesn't.

At this particular time, down in Winchester, she told me that she had concluded to be a detective.

This almost shocked me, for I like to read detective stories myself, and have always thought I'd like to meet a real detective— a refined, gentlemanly one I mean— but I'm very sure I'd rather see than be one.

But Clara felt different about it. She said that that she had wonderful detective talent; and she thought, too, that a woman was better fitted for the work than a man. She said a woman's perceptions are more delicate and her sense of deduction more acute.

Then she went on to talk about vital and incidental evidence, and the apparently supernatural powers of trained observation, until, as she was glibly gabbling of the mistake of theorizing from insufficient data, I turned my honest gray eyes full upon her and said:

"Clara, have you been reading?"

She looked a little crestfallen at first, and then she smiled, and owned up that for the past two weeks she had just crammed Sherlock Holmes, Anna Katherine Green's stories, Poe's tales, "The Moonstone," and a lot of Gaboriau's and Boisgobey's books in paper covers.

"Have you ever detected anything really?" I demanded.

"No," said Clara, "but then, you see, it's only about two weeks that I've known I had these peculiar powers, and there's been no occasion. But my opportunity will come."

She spoke in a tone of confidence, and her straight nose somehow had an air of Sherlockian inscrutability— if you know what I mean— and so I was greatly impressed.

"I'm sure it will," I responded heartily; for so great is my admiration for Clara that I can't help believing everything that she believes. "I'm positive you will be a celebrated detective, and I know exactly what I shall be. I'll be your Doctor Watson and write your memoirs."

"Do," cried Clara; "and you must always go with me on my secret missions, and I'll tell you how I deduce my inferences."

I wasn't quite sure of that last phrase of hers was technically correct as to diction, but that was Clara's part of the affair, not mine. I was more than satisfied to play the part of the admiring snubbed Watson. Not

though often

that Clara had ever snubbed me, but I could see at once that as a successful detective she would be obliged to do so, and, indeed, was quite ready to begin, When Clara had a definite purpose, she always acted the principal part with i. fine attention to detail.

It may seem strange that an opportunity for detective work occurred the very next day, but if it hadn't this story wouldn't have been written, so you see it wasn't so much of coincidence after all. It would only pave been another story about another episode, for murders or burglaries are bound to occur, if a detective with a definite purpose waits long enough.

Well, that very evening we were all in the library after dinner. Guy Hilton had asked me to walk on the verandah with him, and I had said I would; but Mr. Nicholson— that's Clara's uncle and our host — was showing off some of his curios, and common politeness forced Guy and me to wait until he had finished haranguing about them.

I had no interest in the carved ivories, and tear bottles, and scarabs, and neither had Mr Hilton; but Clara loved them. She knew their histories almost as well as Uncle Albert did and was never tired of learning about them, looking at them, and even fingering the rusty-looking old things.

Coffee was served in the library, and I remember it was just as I took my cup, that Parsons offered me, that Mr. Nicholson held up the Buddha and began to tell about it.

It seems that that particular Buddha vas a very old bit of wonderfully carved jade and its value was enormous.

Well, from what I listened to of what Nicholson said, I gathered that it was really one of the most remarkable curious in existence, and about as valuable as if made of solid diamond.

I never shall be able to explain the strange sensation that suddenly came to me as the owner of the jade Buddha was discoursing on its marvels.

I wasn't looking at the speaker or the curios; indeed, I was so impatient for the talk to be over that both my attention and my honest gray eyes were wandering all over the room.

And all at once I became aware that every blessed soul in that room was intensely interested in that jade thing.

I mean especially so.

Clara, of course, was devouring it with her eyes. But so were Mr. and Mrs. Upham, a staid, elderly couple who had arrived at the house the day before. So also was Janet Lee, a lovely girl who was trying to cut me out with Mr. Hilton, but who, so far, had not succeeded.

Two or three young men were present, and the gaze of each was riveted on the idol.

Even Miss Barrington, who scorned anything that was not made in America, seemed hypnotized.

But I concluded all this must have been my imagination, for that night, after Clara and I had gone to our room, I asked her if her detective instincts were aroused by the scene. And she said no, it hadn't occurred to her— but she wished to goodness somebody would steal the Buddha, so she could detect the thief.

I thought quite seriously of stealing it myself, so as to give Clara the chance she wanted. But I decided that such a course would interfere with my role of Doctor Watson, so I gave up the idea.

Well, if I've told my story properly, you won't be much surprised to learn that, when Clara and I came down to breakfast the next morning, Mr. Nicholson informed us that the Buddha was gone. He didn't say it was stolen; he just said it was missing from his cabinet, and he didn't know where it was.

My honest gray eyes sought Clara's, and hers were just dancing with delight.

Her opportunity had come!

Right after breakfast we walked down by the brook to talk it over.

"I shan't tell uncle what I'm doing," said Clara, "for I know he'd only laugh at me. So I shall let him take whatever steps he chooses to recover the Buddha, and meantime I shall go systematically to work and find out who took it."

She looked so capable and determined that I adored her more than ever. I felt so proud to be a Watson to her.

In order to play my part exactly right, I had to read up on Sir Conan Doyle's works myself. And I knew that now was my time to sit still and listen to Clara's plans, which, of course, she would only hint vaguely to me; and perhaps occasionally I must throw in a word of appreciation.

"First, I must consider the characters of the guests," Clara began. "Janet Lee, now, is sweet and pretty in her effects, but I know that her real self is sly and deceitful."

"Good gracious!" I exclaimed, quite forgetting my part; "you don't think some of Mr. Nicholson's guests stole his Buddha!"

"I don't think it; I know it," said Clara, and her correct coldness of tone brought me back to a realizing sense of my position. "I have possessed myself of the facts, and I find that the library windows were all fastened on the inside, and the house securely locked. No one could have entered from outside."

"But the servants," I ventured, again forgetting that I was not supposed to suggest.

"They are all old and trusted ones," said Clara, "except Parsons. He is new, but he was well recommended, and uncle has no reason to suspect him."

"Now, it seems to me," I went on, eagerly, "Parsons is just the one to suspect. He is such an all-round man. He is butler, house servant, valet, and soft footed. Oh, Clara, he's just the one to suspect. Do let's suspect him! At first, anyway."

Clara gave me a pitying glance and then resumed her far-away look.

It was efficacious, and I said no more about Parsons, but I couldn't help thinking he was ideal for a criminal.

"Miss Barrington," Clara went on, "seems like an honest lady; and yet she is fond of valuable trinkets and may have been overwhelmingly attracted."

"Miss Barrington!" I exclaimed. "She wouldn't accept as a gift anything of foreign manufacture."

"That may be merely a clever pose; and besides, jade Buddhas are not manufactured."

I was getting used to being snubbed, and took it with a fine imitation of Watsonian meekness.

"The Uphams," Clara proceeded, "are staid old people—apparently—but you never can tell. Mr. Hilton—"

At this I flared up.

"If you're going to suspect Mr. Hilton," I said, "you can get somebody else to write your memoirs. I won't!"

"Mr. Hilton," Clara went on, as if I had not spoken, "looks so frank and honest that I seem to deduce a mask of candor, hiding—"

"You're an idiot, instead of a detective!" I interrupted, and then I walked away to find out for myself what Mr. Hilton's candid mask hid.

A few hours later I found Clara alone on the veranda, and I asked her how she was progressing.

Her ill-natured remark about Mr. Hilton had ceased to annoy me, for I had discovered for myself that that gentleman's mask of candor hid a frank, ingenuous nature.

"I haven't yet formed a definite conclusion," she said in a low tone. "But I have proved Sherlock Holmes's statement that no one can go into a room and come out again without leaving evidence of having been there. I have examined the library thoroughly, and I found Miss Barrington's handkerchief, Mrs. Upham's gloves, Mr. Hilton's magazine, and several men's cigar ashes."

"Go on," I said breathlessly, for I fully expected she would deduce from these the wretch who had stolen the Buddha.

"That's all, she responded. "As I say, I haven't exactly discovered the thief, but these things may be valuable clews."

I was disappointed in Clara then, and I dare say I showed it.

"They were probably left there yesterday afternoon," I said, "before the idol disappeared at all. Couldn't you find anything more vital as evidence?"

Then Clara forgot her impassiveness, and exclaimed, almost angrily, "Perhaps you'd better go and search the library yourself!"

"All right, I will," I answered, for I really thought I could find something better than handkerchiefs and gloves.

But there wasn't a thing that could be called a clew. I hunted everywhere. One of the maids had set the room in order; dusted it, and arranged the furniture and ornaments in their proper places.

Somehow I couldn't help wishing I could find something, if only to please Clara.

I stood looking at the dark rich colors of the Persian rug, when a stray sunbeam came in at the window and made something glitter right at my feet.

I picked it up, hoping it might be a diamond. But it wasn't. It was a tiny flake of glass, round and marked with little concentric curves, like a miniature clamshell. How shall I express its size? Well it was about as big as the iris of a person's eye— not a dilated iris, but a normal one. Wrapping a bit of glass carefully in my handkerchief, I flew back to Clara and whispered to her to come with me up to our own room. There, behind a locked door, I triumphantly showed her the clew I had found, and waited for her expressions of delight.

But she only said, "What is it?' and looked rather blank.

"Why, Clara," I cried, "don't you see what it is? It's a chip from somebody's eyeglasses! And, of course, whoever stole the Buddha last nigh dropped his glasses and this bit broke off."

"Of course," agreed Clara. "That's what I have already thought out. I just wanted to see if it also occurred to you. Give me the chip, Ethel."

I gave it to her, glad to be of that much assistance to her in her great work.

"Now," she said, "we've only to discover who is wearing a chipped eye-glass to know who is the criminal."

"Yes," said I, "unless they have bought a new pair or owned other glasses."

"Of course I meant unless that," said Clara calmly.

Well, if you'll believe me, Mr. Upham came to luncheon wearing a pair of eyeglasses with a little place chipped out at one side! They were rimless glasses, and the defect, being on the edge, didn't at all interfere with their usefulness.

I almost fainted, for I remembered what Clara had said about the staid old gentleman. He did indeed seem to have an honest face, but I felt sure I detected criminal signs in the wrinkles round his nose.

After luncheon Clara went bravely up to him and asked him to walk round the sundial with herself and me. The walk around the sundial was a favorite constitutional with everybody. Mr. Upham looked a littie surprised, but he politely said yes, and we started off.

Clara was polite, too; she always is. But I could see she meant to show no mercy. And, indeed, why should she?

Well, she began a little abruptly, I thought, by saying: "Mr. Upham, if you will return the jade Buddha to my uncle, I will promise not to tell him who took it."

"Bless my soul, child! What do you mean?" exclaimed the old man, stopping right where he was and turning red in the face

"I mean," went on Clara firmly, "that I know you took my uncle's jade idol, and I'm telling you that if you'll return it I won't have you arrested, for I don't want any publicity or excitement about it."

Instead of looking alarmed, Mr. Upham seemed amused, and he said, with a funny little smile:

"Thank you very much for your kind consideration, but suppose I deny that I took the jade image?"

"Then," and here came Clara's mo ment of triumph, "I should tell you that I have positive proof of your guilt."

It may have been the tragic tone of Clara's declaration, or it may have been the throes of a guilty conscience, but anyhow Mr. Upham turned fairly white, as he said:

"Indeed, miss! And what is your positive proof?"

In the stillest silence I ever heard, Clara unfolded a little pink paper and showed the tiny scale of glass. "That," she said, impressively, "was picked up from the library floor. It precisely matches the flaw in the edge of your eyeglass. Is further proof needed ?"

Of course, not being a born detective, I may have misunderstood the expression on Mr. Upham's face, but it seemed to me he had all he could do to keep from bursting into laughter. "Let us try."

"Does it match?" he asked.

But after he had taken off his glasses to make the test, he couldn't see at all. Just then Mr. Nicholson came walking toward us.

"Hallo, Albert," said Mr. Upham; "lend me your glasses a minute, will you?"

Mr. Nicholson did so, and Mr. Upham put them on and gravely examined his own pair, matching Clara's bit of glass to the flaw in the edge.

"Fits exactly!" he declared. "Now put on your own glasses, Albert, and look at this."

Mr. Nicholson did as requested, and agreed that the chip must have been broken from that very place.

"Now," said Mr. Upham, "I say nothing in my own defense, but, for the further assistance of this young lady in her laudable work, I wish to state that I lent these particular glasses to our host, Mr. Nicholson, last evening, he having mislaid his own. When I retired, I left Mr. Nicholson still in the library, reading, with these particular glasses on his nose.'

This gave a new turn to affairs, which, if logically followed up, would seem to prove Mr. Nicholson the thief of his own Buddha.

But Clara had no notion of accusing her own uncle or of letting him know of her efforts in his behalf; so, as Mr. Upham walked away— and I am sure he did so to hide his laughter— she merely asked Mr. Nicholson if he were the last one in the library the night before.

"How do I know?" he replied. He was an irascible sort of man. "I sat there, reading, until about eleven. Yes, I had Upham's glasses on. I had left mine upstairs, and we wear the same number. About eleven, I think it was, I went up to my room. I met Parsons in the hall, and I gave him the glasses to take to Mr. Upham. I presume he did so, for I saw that gentleman had them on at breakfast this morning."

"Were they chipped when you were reading with them, uncle?' asked Clara.

"No, they were not. And I didn't break them, either. Probably Parsons let them fall on the floor or stairs, as he took them to Mr. Upham."

Without waiting to make further explanations, Clara grasped my arm and fairly dragged me toward the house.

"I told you so!" she said; "I knew it was Parsons all the time. He crept into the library and stole the thing after uncle gave him the glasses and before he took them to Mr. Upham. In the library he was probably startled by some noise, and dropped them on the hardwood floor or the hearth, and the little chip of glass flew over on the rug."

I remembered distinctly that it was I who insisted on suspecting Parsons, but I wouldn't have said so to Clara.

Together we went in search of Parsons, and found that household treasure in the butler's pantry.

"Parsons," said Clara, in a gentle tone, "if you will give me the little stone idol, I will see to it that you are leniently dealt with."

"Miss?" said Parsons, looking at us both with a sort of deferential won- der.

"I say," repeated Clara, "if you will give me the little stone idol— the jade Buddha—"

"Why, it's been stole, miss. Haven't you heard about it?"

"Parsons," exclaimed Clara, thoroughly exasperated at his imbecile ex- pression, "don't attempt to deceive me! You were in the library last night after my uncle retired."

"No, miss. Excuse me, miss, but Mr. Nicholson put out the library lights himself. He came upstairs just as I was passing through the hall, and he gave me a pair of eyeglasses, miss, which he said I was to take to Mr. Upham's room."

"Parsons," and Clara's gaze would have forced the truth from Ananias, "did you go at once to Mr. Upham's room with those glasses?"

"Why, no, miss. You see, it was this way. I met young Mr. Hilton a minute after, and he asked me to get him some hot water. He was in a hurry, and he said if I'd go for it at once he'd hand the glasses to Mr. Upham for me. So I gave the glasses to Mr. Hilton, miss, and I went to the kitchen for the hot water."

"That will do, Parsons," said Clara. "It is just as I thought." And with an air of entire success, she stalked away, and I meekly followed.

"You see," she declared, turning on me tragically wh en we reached our own room, "it was Mr. Hilton, after all!"

"Nothing of the sort!" I exclaimed angrily. "And for pity's sake don't go and tell him he's a thief. Let me cross-examine him."

I was so afraid Clara would be rude to my friend that I forgot my inconspicuous role and forged ahead.

Leaving Clara, I flew down to the veranda, where I knew Guy Hilton sat, smoking, and said to him:

"Mr. Hilton, as a personal favor, will you tell me to whom you gave Mr. Upham's eyeglasses, last night, after you took them from Parsons?"

"Certainly," he said, just as casually as if I had asked him to tell me the time of day. "I saw one of the housemaids just outside Mr. Upham's door, and I asked her to hand the glasses to Mr. Upham."

"Thank you," I said, and ran away.

I told Clara that her suspicions had to be moved again, and she said that quite fitted into her theory. Indeed, she had deduced it already.

Well, then we suspected Norah, of course, and we went for her.

It was getting to be an exciting game now. Suspicion shifted so rapidly that it kept us on the jump.

As Clara said she had surmised, Norah informed us that she handed the glasses, herself, to Mrs. Upham directly after Mr. Hilton had asked her to do so.

I felt a little diffident about accusing Mrs. Upham of being a thief and a robber, but Clara was inexorable.

She marched straight to the lady, and I thought she was going to tell her that if she'd give up the stolen goods we wouldn't arrest her.

But Clara didn't do that this time; she said: "Mrs. Upham, pardon me if I am indiscreet, but will you tell me eyeglasses that room last what you did with the Norah brought to your night?"

Mrs. Upham smiled pleasantly— you know Clara is very pretty— and said:

"Certainly, my dear. I laid them on chiffonnier in my husband's dressing room."

"Were they chipped or broken at that time?"

"No, I know they were not, for, as they seemed a trifle cloudy, I cleaned them myself, as I often do. They were in perfect condition. Why do you ask?

"Oh, nothing," said Clara; and she seized my arm and hurried me away.

"It was Mr. Upham, after all!" she whispered, and her face grew pale with excitement. "Late at night he put on his glasses, went down to the library, stole the Buddha. In the dim room his glasses fell off, or were somehow knocked off, and the chip flew on the floor."

Well, the strange part is, that's the exact truth. Mr. Upham, it seems, was a monomaniac on the subject of jade, and he did go down to the library, just as Clara and take the Buddha. He owned up to it finally, but he told Mr. Nicholson he didn't intend to keep it. He said he wanted to study it by himself. But, if that was so, why didn't he borrow it openly?

So, you see, Clara was a real detective, after all, and that tiny piece of glass was the clew to a strange adventure, which I am proud to be the one to record.

_______________

10: In His Brother's Job

Christopher B.  Booth

Detective Story Magazine 17 Sep 1921

QUIGLEY darted swiftly up the dark alleyway, a dry sob of fear in his throat, and his legs quaking so violently that they almost refused to carry him. Time and again he cast a wild look behind him, sure that the next instant he would see the bulky form of a policeman looming menacingly in that dim patch of light which marked the alley's opening to the street.

He cursed the sudden, desperate burst of pride which had caused him to desert his scorned trade of whining for dimes in front of the Union Station; to escape the gibes of his acquaintances, to be "a regular feller" he had taken the great chance which his caution— cowardice some were unkind enough to say— had led him to avoid. What if the cadging business had become less and less profitable? At least all he had ever had to fear was sixty days in the bridewell. And now

He shuddered as, in the darkness before him, his anguished imagination sketched the outlines of scaffold and hangman's noose.

Until this night Quigley had been a grifter.

The linotype operator is guiltless; he has not dropped a "g" instead of a "d," nor an "i" where one might think an "a" belonged. Mr. Webster has taken no lexical cognizance of the word; it is of underworld coinage, a scornful, jeering superlative peculiar to the locale of West Madison Street, or to be more exact, a certain segment of this variegated Chicago thoroughfare wherein Quigley lived.

A grifter is a man too lazy to work and too much a coward to steal and, therefore, sneered upon by both honest men and thieves. He is one of those down-and-outers always to be found on the outer fringe of the underworld. He lives in a room for which he pays something like a dollar a week; he eats when he has anything left from buying illicit whisky or when the county feeds him in its hotel whichis technically known as a jail; he gets drunk when the charitably inclined public is generous enough with its carelessly flipped coins. On various and frequent occasions when the police round up all of the undesirables, he draws a sentence of thirty to ninety days, depending upon what the magistrate had for breakfast.

Quigley was no longer a grifter. His fearful caution had been battered down by the sneers which he met on every hand; even the policeman on the beat had more respect for an industrious highwayman than he had for those cringing, whining fellows of Quigleys stripe. For days he had battled with the vaccillating determination to "pull a trick." Then it took further days win his way into the confidence of one of the many gangs in the neighborhood.

It was Quigley and "Red" Davis who finally formed a larcenous partnership. Davis, being well versed in the crafty details of such undertakings, naturally took the lead. For some time he had had a nefarious eye upon a grocery store whose proprietor, he had learned from a loose-tongued errand boy, was accustomed to hide the day's receipts in a coffee bin, a cracker box, or the like.

Quigley was to act as lookout and to warn Davis of the possible approach of a policeman; in payment of this apprenticeship in actual crime he was to receive one third of the spoils.

"It's a pipe, pal!" Davis had croaked enthusiastically. "This bird does a big business an' he's liable t' have a coupla hundred berries stashed away. Easy dough, pal; sure beats moochin' fer a livin', I tells th' world."

Quigley nodded although grave forebodings seized him. No doubt it would have been "a pipe" except for a circumstance over which neither Red Davis nor Quigley had control.

The proprietor of the shabby but prosperous little grocery, whose name was Schultz, had among his wares a barrel of cider which remained on hand just long enough to loose its innocent sweetness and to take on that quality known as "hard." Mr. Schultz,-suddenly discovering an amazing increase in his sweet cider trade, looked into the matter, and was lost. The result was that when when locked his store at six o'clock he retired to the back room, wherein was his potato bin and empty packing cases, to commune with the fermented juice of the apple.

After some little time a great drowsiness seized him and, for lack of a better place, he unceremoniously found a bed in the potato bin and snored hap- pily.

Red Davis had surveyed the situation carefully and knew what he was about.

Slipping to the rear of the grocery he deftly removed the rusted staples which held the steel window netting in place and pushed open the window. Quigley, standing guard in front of the store, was to tap twice on the plate glass to signal warning that ail was not weil.

It is no discredit to Red Davis' accomplishments as a burglar that Mr. Schultz should have chosen for his awakening that awkward moment coincident with Red's unlawful entry. The grocer, rubbing his eyes and tenderly massaging a spot in his neck where a spud had pressed, blinked for a moment at the shadowy form of the intruder and let out a hoarse yell. He yelled but once; Red, who had seen Schultz almost as soon as Schultz had seen him, promptly grabbed a heavy stick and struck, The grocer's attempt to yell became a mere gurgle as he staggered forward and crashed down upon a box. As he rolled out a few feet from where he had fallen, Davis saw to his horror that he must have struck a murderous blow. A shaft of yellowish light from the street feebly penetrated the cluttered interior of the store, showing Schultz's features crimson.

Red had neither the proper illumination nor the calmness to make anything approaching a careful examination; had he done so, he would have saved both himself and the waiting Quigley an immense amount of mental suffering, for the scarlet smear which dripped so horrifyingly from the grocer's face was nothing more serious than the contents of several catsup bottles, broken in his fall.

Davis forgot the loot he had come to find, forgot everything except that his greatest safety lay in putting as much distance as possible between himself and the Schultz grocery. He hurdled a sugar barrel, tripped over an egg crate in his fear-crazed blundering, reached the window, and hoisted his leg over the sill. He had no time to think of "The Grifter" as he took to his heels.

Quigley, faithfully standing guard, finally began to wonder what could be keeping Red so long. As the minutes dragged on past and he still failed to hear the whistle which had been agreed upon as Davis' signal that the job was finished, he began to feel nervous. And to his nervousness was added the fear that his new pal had double-crossed him; he had heard tell of such things.

Finally he deserted his post and slipped around to the rear of the store; he found the window open and, leaning inside, called softly:

"Red! Red! Are you there?"

Despite the suspicion that Red had fled with the spoils, something told him otherwise. Upon sudden impulse he pulled himself through the opening. Groping about in the gloom he found his way to the front of the store and, in the murky light, perceived the grocer's outstretched form. His first thought was that it was Red. As he leaned forward he saw that it was not his pal— and that the man's face was thick with a crimson smear. And then he knew; Davis had slain this man!

Quigley's panic was no less acute than Red's had been. With terror-widened eyes he backed toward the window. As he dropped over the ledge to the ground, a policeman passed the head of the alleyway and saw him. And Quigley saw the policeman; while the light was uncertain, The Grifter recognized him as Patrolman McNulty who on two occasions had arrested him for vagrancy, therefore he took it for granted that McNulty, in turn, had recognized him.

For just one moment Quigley paused, and then he ran. Two things saved him; one was that Patrolman McNulty was off duty and, therefore was not carrying his service revolver; another was that McNulty was too well fed for a marathon. The Grifter dashed wildly up the alley, turned sharply to a dark side street and into the mouth of a scond alley which was considerably darker than the first. The clump-clump of the policeman's feet grew fainter, and Quigley knew that he was safe, at least temporarily.

He knew, of course, that Patrolman McNulty would return and investigate the circumstance of the open window; he took it for granted that the policeman had recognized him and that by daylight at least the police net would be thrown over West Madison Street and drag him in. He would be charged with murder and— he groaned through his chattering teeth as that vision of a looped rope dangled before his mind's vision.

Flight resolves itself into a very complex problem for the man who has no money to flee with and no place to flee to. Had Quigley belonged to any one of the many gang-land brotherhoods he could have easily found a haven or funds with which to have bought a railroad ticket. His total assets consisted of one smooth dime, one buffalo nickel, and three coppers—just thirty-two cents too little to purchase a contraband drink with which to steady his shrieking nerves.

He slowed his run to a brisk walk, emerged to Madison Street, and made for his room for no better reason than that he had no other place to go.

Quigley's room was a sorry affair on a sorry street, housed in one of those shabby, reeking, tumble-down tenements the like of which almost makes Chicago  wish for a second fire. Entrance was gained by a rickety outside stairway, and The Grifter mounted the creakug steps with a hopeless sigh.

As he entered the barren room and lighted the guttering gas jet, he gave a start of surprise and wheeled in alarm.

"Hello!" said a voice from behind him, He blinked apprehensively toward the bed whereupon a man was stretched at full length, as he stared the fear in his eyes turned into amazement.

"Tom!" he exclaimed. "Tom!"

It was his twin brother whom he had not seen in ten years,

Tom Quigley, as he struggled to his elbow, made it evident that he was very drunk. His head jerked back and forth, and one eye was drawn shut after the manner of intoxicated men trying to shut out a double vision.

"Hello, Bob," grunted Tom with a tipsy leer. "Ain'cha glad t' see yer long-lost brother?"

"Tom!" exclaimed The Grifter again. "How— how did you find your way here— in my room?"

"Tha's great joke," mumbled Tom. "Great joke. Wash drinkin' down street when feller come up an' he says: 'Grifter, where y'get that benny?' An' I knows right 'way it ain't me he's talkin' to, but my twin brother. An' I gives 'im a coupla bucks t' show me where y'live. He thinks it's you an' that you're too drunk t' know where y'live. See? Gresh joke, kid; gresh joke! An' here I am; gresh s'prise, huh, seein' yer long-lost brother, huh?"

The Grifter, staring at his brother, saw that the passage of ten years had still left them as much alike two peas ina pod. In their boyhood days it had been, next to impossible for their own parents to tell them apart. Then his eyes turned to the great coat of rich fur which clothed Tom; a luxury that must have cost several hundred dollars. That meant that Tom must have money; perhaps Tom could help him.

"You— you seem to have done well, Tom," he said, wondering just how was the best way to approach the subject of his plight; it was apparent that his brother was in no mental condition to grasp easily the seriousness of the sit- uation.

"Betcha life I done well, kid," re plied Tom. "'Way up in th' world, I am, kid; here's my card."

He fumbled in the pocket of his over- coat and drew forth a neat leather card case, Clumsily detaching a rectangle of engraved cardboard he presented it to his brother with a drunken flourish. The Grifter took it and, with bulging, almost unbelieving eyes, read:

THOMAS B. KENTON

Cashier Farmer's Bank

Hickson, Ill.

"But— but," he stammered, "this— this isn't your card, unless— unless you've changed your name!"

"Tha's it, kid; tha's it. Hit th' nail right on th' head. Change m' name; tha's nothin'. Changin' name jus' easy's changin' suit of clothes."

The Grifter nodded; he could understand why Tom would have done that. The two brothers had traveled pretty much the same road since they had left their home in Moberly, Missouri. Tom, with the daring which Bob had lacked, had plunged into a series of misdeeds which had landed him in the reform school, Since he had last seen Tom, Bob had heard in a roundabout way that Tom had, also, been sentenced to two years in the Missouri penitentiary for a holdup in St. Louis. Yes, there was ample reason why Tom should have considered it wise to drop the name which the law and his parents had bestowed upon Him.

There was one comforting thing to Bob in his brother's past; it made it easier to explain his own troubles. Tom would understand without being hampered by the scruples which might be entertained by a more circumspect man.

"Tom," began Bob, "I'm in a peck of trouble, and you

"Nothin' new in that, eh, kid? Alwaysh in trouble; y'wanna reform like me, an'—"

"Don't lecture now, Tom," pleaded The Grifter. "I've got to have some money to get out of town. I'll tell you about it as quick as I can; listen—"

He began the account of his deal with Red Davis and had proceeded in chronological order to the point where he was crawling into the grocery store window, when his brother dropped back on the frail bed with a groan and began to writhe in great agony. The pain, it seemed, sobered him somewhat.

"My—my heart!" he gasped. "It— it's that hooch. O-oh! I'm dying, Bob; I'm dying!"

The Grifter stared helplessly as his brother tossed back and forth, hands clenched and jaws set. He had seen a man poisoned once before with wood- alcohol concoction and he knew the signs. His impulse was to dash down to the corner and call an ambulance, but that meant the police. While he still hesitated, Tom Quigley's eyes grew glassy and his agonized contortions ceased. He was dead.

For a moment Bob Quigley stood there with bowed head, a vague sort of grief tugging at his heartstrings. He and kis brother had grown apart, but still they were brothers— twin brothers. It was terrible that a reunion after ten years should end like this.

Then his sorrow was forgotten as, staring down into his brother's face, the inspiration came to him. Even in death Tom could save him from the danger confronting him. Swiftly he changed clothes with his brother, appropriating Tom's fine raiment and dressing the body in his own tatters. He nodded in satisfaction. The police, seeking him, would find him apparently dead from a spree. In such detail did the twins resemble each other that there would be no question.

He glanced into the cracked mirror and unconsciously his shoulders squared as he eyed his reflection.

"Clothes sure do make a difference in a guy," he murmured, stroking the rich fur of the overcoat.

Swiftly he descended the flimsy stairs of the decayed tenement house and, hat jammed down over his eyes to escape possible recognition by any of his acquaintances, skirted Madison Street to Monroe, making his way toward The Loop. He knew that his safety lay in getting out of the district. A fashionable Loop hotel! That, indeed, would be the last place in which the police would look for Quigley, the Grifter.

Mecharfically his hands darted. through the pockets of Tom's clothes; surely, a bank cashier would have some money. But a man on a spree— his thrill of apprehension was swallowed up by one of satisfaction as his fingers felt the crackle of a crisp bill; quickly he drew it forth and saw that it was a twenty.

Critically his fingers passed over the sandpaper surface of his chin and tugged at the long unshorn hair which hung zsaggedly about his ears and over his collar; certainly not an appearance that matched his new apparel. He knew that his best bet was to look re- spectable and prosperous, so he hurried into an all-night barber shop where he spent two of the twenty dollars. It was a little hard to believe that he was the same unkempt man who had sat down in the barber's chair a scant forty-five minutes before.

This important detail attended to, The Grifter walked with a new self-assut- ance into the Lackmere Hotel, calmly registered, and paid for a room and bath. It was strange what a change had come over him.

In his room Quigley began to take an inventory. The inside breast pocket of the overcoat gave forth a leather wallet of promising plumpness. With fingers that almost trembled in their eagerness he unfastened the flap; he gasped as his eyes caught the gleam of yellow, and the magic numerals "100". With bulging, unbelieving eyes he counted the rich sheaf of currency; ten one-hundred dollar bills and five of five hundred-dollar  denomination— thirty-five hundred dollars in all.

When he had recovered somewhat from the shock of this amazing windfall, Quigley gave his attention to the remaining contents of the wallet, business cards, penciled memorandum, and several newspaper clippings, the latter of which he read with interest. They had been pen-knifed from The Hickson Weekly Record, and one of them said:

BANKER KENTON GOING

AWAY ON LONG TRIP.

Thomas B. Kenton, cashier of The Farmers Bank, will leave the first part of next week for North Michigan where he will look after property in the timber region which belonged to his wife who died recently. Mrs. Kenton, before her second marriage, was the widow of Henry Danby who owned extensive timber lands in Michigan as well as large holdings here.

Hickson well remembers the romantic career of Banker Kenton who came to our town as a brakeman for the C. and G. Railroad and, shortly thereafter, won the hand and fortune of Mrs. Danby.

Mr. Kenton will be away for some ten ays.

It was evident, from the tenor of the article, that the editor of The Hickson Weekly Record took a delight in adroity reminding the townsfolk how Kenton had come by his affluence. Quigley easily pictured what had happened to his brother. After his release from prison he had changed his name and got a job as railroad brakeman; a whimsical fate had put him in possession of at least a small fortune and a place of standing in the town's affairs. The possession of thirty-five hundred dollars was working a big difference in Quigley's mental processes; a few short hours before his expected share in the loot which Red Davis had promised to get from the Schultz grocery had seemed a fortune. Now, somehow, even three and a half thousand dollars seemed a small sum; perhaps it was the quiet luxury of his ten-dollar-a-day room in the Lackmere Hotel that helped metamorphose him from The Grifter, drearily content with his dollar-a-week hovel and the uncertain income of a mendicant, into an upward-looking chap with the yearning for the rustle of treasury notes of large denomination and of linen sheets of snowy whiteness.

Slowly he undressed and bathed, all the while struggling with the problem of making permanent this sudden and accidental oppulence. At last the idea began to take root and, once sprouted in the fertile soil of his imagination, it grew with the proverbial rapidity of the green bay tree.

At first it was the impulsive plan to go to Hickson masquerading as his brother, to assume the name of Kenton, and take up Tom's life and fortune. Calm second thought, however, defeated the feasibility of this idea. The odds were too great. While the actual physical likeness to his brother was sufficient to fool any one except intimate friends, and even those unless a suspicion, was raised, there were other things to be taken into consideration— mannerisms of Tom's which he could not hope to be familiar with, a difference in ihe handwriting which would at once raise questions, and his entire ignorance of the people of Hickson and of the banking business which would be fatal to such an impersonation.

No, that plan, which caused him to dream dreams of a life of ease and respectability, would not do; but of it was born still another which he liked even better. Surely, he reasoned, he could pass as his brother for a few hours without detection. He would go to Hickson and remain just long enough to clean out the bank vault.

"That's the ticket!" he exclaimed aloud, his eyes glowing with enthusiasm over the scheme. "There ought to be forty or fifty thousand in cash that I can get my mitts on. If any of them hicks in Hickson gets jerry, I'll just say that I am Tom's brother come to pay him a visit. An' me with boodle like this moochin' dimes in front of Union Station! Say, it was about time that I got hep to m'self."

Grinning broadly, Quigley crawled into the massive bed and sighed in utter contentment.

The next morning he had breakfast served in his room and, sending for a railroad guide, began working out the details of his plan. By checking up the dates, he saw that he had something like six days before "Banker Kenton"was due back in Hickson. Consultation of the railroad time-tables caused him to chuckle in satisfaction. There was an afternoon train, due in the little Illinois town at fifteen minutes before three o'clock.

"Even th' railroad's in cahoots with me," he murmured. "Them country banks close up 'long about three o'clock. I steps off th' train an' hoofs it up to th' bank. I keeps my trap closed long enough t' see that I'm puttin' it over; little town like that— it says 'population eighteen hundred'— won't have more'n a coupla fellers workin' in th' bank. I'll grunt a little an' say nothin'; an' when I do unloosen th' tongue, I'll sort of whisper like I had a bad cold in my throat. :

"In one of them little banks, th' cashier is th' whole works, th' big cheese. I'll tell th' guys what's workin' there t' run along an' beat it home as I gotta look things over. I'll have 'em leave th' vault open an' when they've beat it, I walks right in and fills Mr. Suit Case with all th' kale I can get my hooks on. Then I locks up the safe, fixin' th' time lock so's it can't be opened for a month of Sundays.

"Then I sits down t' th' typewriter— of course they'll have one; all banks have them things— and pecks out a little note to th' boys, tellin' 'em that I gotta go back to th' city for a few days. I catches th' ten-o'clock train, an' before breakfast time I'm back in old Chi, with a good fat wad— an' believe muh, I'll hide m'self so deep that all th' Pinks in th' country ain't ever gonna find me. An' me with my noodle wastin' my time moochin'!"

The intervening six days Quigley spent in accumulating a wardrobe and in feeding on the fat of the land. The uneasy, furtive look had left his eyes and the hollows of his cheeks had filled out, giving him a sleek appearance.

There was one thing that puzzled him. Daily search through the news columns, beginning with the first page and extending back to the death notices, failed to give him an account of the murder of Schultz, the grocer, and although puzzled, he was at the same time relieved that the police were making no great fuss about it.

On Friday afternoon— Friday held no terror for Quigley— he packed his new bags, called a taxicab, and had himself driven to the Dearborn Street station. He considered it a lucky circumstance that the railroad which took him to Hickson left from Dearborn Street and not from Union Station where, of course, there would have been danger of some policeman recognizing him despite the amazing opulence of his appearance.

The trip to Hickson was without incident. The train, on time to the minute, rolled into the little Illinois town at a quarter to three, sharp, and Quigley descended from the Pullman, travel- ing de luxe, of course, as was becoming to a banker. It was raining, a clammy drizzle which had sent most of the town indoors. The station platform was deserted except for embarking passengers and their friends who kept beneath the shelter of their umbrellas.

It was no job to find one's way about in Hickson, for the business section was stretched out along the town's one business street. Picking up his bags where the porter had dropped them on the platform Quigley hurried to the business blocks to the west of the tracks. He had not far to go; less than a hudared yards along his way, he was greeted by a sign on the corner: "The Farm- ers' Bank."

Briskly, smiling as befits a man re- turned home after a ten-day absence, Quigley pushed his way through the bank's front door and paused for a mo- ment to thrust back the collar of the big fur coat that the employees might have a full look at his face and thus test his masquerade, Removing his gloves he grinned broadly into the face of the young man at the window marked "Pay- ing Teller." He saw the young man eyed him with indifferent appraisal, with no hint of welcome. A vague uneasi- ness seized Quigley.

"H-hello," he almost stammered.

"Don't—don't you know me?" The young fellow at the teller's win- dow shook his head thoughtfully. "No," he replied, "I can't say that I do. Anything I can do for you?" With a gasp Quigley understood that his plans had all been for naught; he

realized that his brother, Tom, had simply made him the butt of a drunken jest; that Tom had not been a bank cashier at all, that Tom had handed him the real cashier's card—procured Heaven only knew where—and had pre- tended to be what he was not.

"Lord!" he groaned under his breath. "I oughtta know that Tom never had noodle enough t' marry a rich widder an' be a bank cashier."  Aloud he said:

"I— I guess I've made a mistake; I— I got into th' wrong bank."

"I reckon not," laughed the bank teller; "there's only one bank in town. Probably it was Mr. Kenton whom you did business with, Mr. Kenton!"

"No; I—I've made a—a mistake," insisted Quigley, with much truthfulness. As his hand reached for the door-catch, a tall, brusque man arose from behind a desk; as his eyes met those of Quigley, his hand slid to an electric button which automatically clicked shut a fastening which prevented the door from being opened.

"You're locked in, my fine fellow!" shouted the man whom Quigley knew at once, of course, was the bona-fide Banker Kenton. "Albert, call the constable; this is the taxicab driver whom I was telling you about, the thug who knocked me unconscious and took my pocketbook and overcoat— the very overcoat the scoundrel is wearing! Lord only knows how he had the gall to show his face to me; he nearly killed me!"

Quigley, trembling with the realization of the fine fix he was in, opened his mouth to deny the charge, to explain that it was his twin brother who was the real highwayman. He closed his lips without a sound as there arose before him the picture of Grocer Schultz's inert form, the face covered with crimson. If he told the truth and succeeded in getting anyone to believe it he would, as he believed, have to face trial for murder, with the possibility of hanging; if he kept his mouth shut and accepted his brother's guilt, it would be, perhaps, not more than five years for robbery.

"All right, boss," he groaned; "I'm th' guy what stuck y' up. Here's yer benny an' th' poke with a lotta th' jack still there.' His voice lowered to his best grifter whine. "Sure, boss," he pleaded, "y' ain't gonna be hard on a guy, are you? My conscience gotta botherin' me, an' I comes back t' slip you th' swag. Sure, boss, an' ain't I showed that I was tryin' t' play square?"

Evidently the apparent logic of this plea touched Banker Kenton; he rerecommended clemency, and the judge gave Quigley only two years— no doubt the sentence he should have received for the attempted robbery of the Schultz grocery.

Justice is blind, but somehow the lady generally manages to keep her scales well balanced.

________________

11: Mr Clackworthy Goes to Jail

Christopher B. Booth

Detective Story Magazine, 27 Aug 1921

RELAXED comfortably in the depths of a big leather chair in the luxurious lobby of the Achmore Hotel, Mr. Amos Clackworthy sighed in deep contentment. He had just finished a meal which exactly suited his epicurean tastes. The Early Bird had shared the same delicious meal, but food could not appease his gnawing appetite for an adventure; it had been some weeks now since the master confidence man had engaged in that always interesting pastime of dollar hunting.

"Ah, James," murmured Mr. Clackworthy, "that filet of sole was ambrosia fit for the gods."

"Huh!" grunted The Early Bird. "Th' kinda fish I'm interested in right now is— suckers. Come on, boss; bait th' hook an' let's give some dollar-grabbin' goof th' chance t' nibble."

Mr. Clackworthy smiled tolerantly.

"James," he complained good-naturedly, "you are certainly a restless soul. It seems that you can never declare a truce with careless bank balances."

"Aw, what's th' use of havin' a wise noodle like yours if you don't use it? When a guy's got a money-makin' think-tank, he's gotta keep it oiled or it's gonna get rusty."

"Unfortunately, James," and the master confidence man smiled, "I do seem to get a bit rusty at times. Just now, for instance, I have thumbed my list of prospects in vain; I don't seem to be able to get hold of a single lead. At that I am not sorry, for I am getting terribly behind in my reading."

The Early Bird groaned as there arose before him the dismal picture of Mr. Clackworthy sitting in the library of his Sheridan Road apartment for countless hours, nose buried between the covers of some classical volume; he was very jealous of the masters, for they took much of the time which, so James told himself, could be so much more profitably turned to more practical matters.

However, what further entreaty The Early Bird might have been about to make was abruptly sidetracked as his gaze wandered to the hotel entrance and paused at the sight of an arriving guest.

"Holy pink elephants!" he exclaimed in Mr. Clackworthy's ear. "There's 'Chicago Charlie!' He must be gettin' up in th' world, stoppin' at this swell joint."

"One of your erstwhile friends, I presume, James," responded Mr. Clackworthy. He referred to his co-worker's former days, when The Early Bird was not above burgling a safe or turning his hand to various other violent means of annexing the coin which are frowned upon by the law.

"Friend!" sputtered The Early Bird. "Boss, of course I forgive you for you don't know Chicago Charlie, but that is sure an insult. That guy a friend of mine? Ain'tcha ever heard of Chicago Charlie? But then I forgot that you didn't used t' pal around with th' same bunch I did.

"Honest, boss, I've got every respect in th' world for a square crook; y' know what I mean. But that goof is so crooked that he'd make a corkscrew look as straight as a yardstick. He's so crooked he's gotta read a paper upside down. Alongside Chicago Charlie, Jesse James would of got a bid t' this here Diogenes guy's party fer honest homos."

"Your vehemence piques my interest." Mr. Clackworthy chuckled, cast- ing a glance of interest to the big, heavy-jowled man who had now reached the clerk's desk and was writing his name in the hotel register. "Suppose you tell me something about him. I judge that he must have— er— nicked you for your roll, as you would say."

"I've sure got th' old bowie knife all whetted up for that guy," said The Early Bird. "Th' only time I ever beat th' ponies for a hundred-to-one shot this here Charlie was makin' book out t' th' old Chicago race track. A friend slips me some live dope about a little spindle-legged filly what looked like she was sufferin' from th' sleepin' sickness. So I parks a century into Chicago Charlie's keepin'. An' believe me, boss, them was th' days when a five spot looked as big as th' State of Kansas.

"Well, this little mare grasshopper gets t' th' home stretch about three train lengths ahead of th' field, an' I stands t' collect ten thousand smackers from Chicago Charlie's betting emporium. Does I get it? Huh ! I got it all right— in th' neck. Charlie skips out an' grabs th' first rattler for parts unknown! I don't even get my century back.

"Aw, I ain't th' only guy that was handed th' double cross by him. Before he blowed th' race track that time he'd been mixed up in a coupla dozen crooked races."

"It must have been some years, then, since you have seen him," remarked Mr. Clackworthy. "It does credit to your memory, James. If I am any judge, this Charlie person has now risen considerably above the level of a crooked bookmaker. He carries himself with that assurance which belongs to a man of affairs."

"Well, y' can lay good odds that he's with a gang of counterfeiters, or head of a trust what's got th' monopoly on stealin' pennies outta blind men's cups or somethin' like that," retorted The Early Bird spitefully. He was staring at Chicago Charlie's luggage, his brow wrinkled in deep thought.

"If he ain't swiped some goof's baggage— which wouldn't surprise me none— he's changed his moniker," he said. "See them initials — 'J. M.,' they says; an' in th' days when I knowed him, his name was Charlie Batterson. Yeah; them's his grips aw'right. He's pointin' 'em out t' th' bell hop. It says 'J. M., Swaneetown, Indiana.' "

Mr. Clackworthy referred to his carefully card-indexed memory.

"Swaneetown, eh?" he murmured. "If I mistake not, James, that is the name of the town which has enjoyed such a spectacular boom of late. A number of factories have erected large plants there; it is something less than a hundred miles from here, I believe. No doubt, James, Charlie is doing quite well. Humph!"

The master confidence man lowered his eyelids meditatively and thoughtfully tugged at the neatly trimmed point of his Vandyke beard.

"James," he said slowly, "it may be that our dining here this evening was nothing short of providential. Who knows but that we may be able to find a way whereby we can collect this old debt which Chicago Charlie owes you— with appropriate interest and— humph— an adequate fee for my services as a collector."

"Boss!" exclaimed The Early Bird eagerly. "Y' ain't stringin' me? Honest, boss, will ya throw th' old harpoon into that guy; will ya?"

"It's a bad idea, James, to weigh your fish before you have so much as baited your hook," responded Mr. Clackworthy cautiously, "but we most certainly shall look into this little matter."

ii

"CHICAGO Charlie has certainly developed into a most shrewd person," remarked Mr. Clackworthy as, from the window in his room of The Swaneetown House, he stared across the nondescript business street which was cluttered with all sorts of building material such as marks a growing town in the making.

"Meanin'," said The Early Bird with a discouraged sigh, "that you ain't been able t' figger out th' ways an' means of liftin' a bunch of his kale."

"You have correctly stated the matter, James," replied the master confi- dence man, "but, to paraphrase a bit of sound philosophy, where there is money there is always hope— of getting some of it.

"I have now spent some hours making guarded inquiries regarding our debtor. As you know, he has buttoned the cloak of respectability tightly about his shoulders. He has taken unto himself the name of John Harley, and he is president of the bank of Swaneetown. He came here when the boom started and purchased considerable portions of real estate for practically a song.

"He lias become a power in municipal politics through his money and the strangle hold which he has gotten on local affairs. I understand that all of the city officials literally eat from his hand. In addition to being president of the bank, he has numerous other investments. He has developed into a shrewd business man, and not any too scrupulous, I take it.

"He is, I judge, an extremely suspicious man, which will make it very difficult for me to win his confidence— the first necessity, of course, if I am to reduce the plethora of his roll."

"So y' gotta call it off, huh?" The Early Bird said mournfully.

"Did you ever know me to quit. James?" reproved Mr. Clackworthy. "I did not intend to deluge your hopes with the cold water of discouraging facts; I merely reported the situation as I have found it. It really makes the game only the more interesting. I have not quit, old dear; I have just begun.

"These facts which I have recited to you I have gathered about town. I am going over to Harley's bank— we might as well respect his alias for the present — and open up an account."

"Gonna put your kale in Chicago Charlie's bank?" demanded The Early Bird. "Don'cha do it. We come down here t' trim him, not t' let him trim us; remember what I told y' about him goin' south with my ten thousand smackers. Keep your dough in your own kick; it's safer."

"Tut, James; the bank is perfectly safe. All banks are protected by State guarantees these days. And a clever fellow like Chicago Charlie isn't going to risk wrecking a bank. I'll be back presently and I may, perchance, have discovered his vulnerable point."

Following the principle that nothing succeeds like success, Mr. Clackworthy had long since discovered that the most powerful magnet to attract money was— money. In pursuance thereof he had brought along a generous working capital.

Entering the bank of Swaneetown, the master confidence man found John Harley seated in front of an elaborate mahogany desk within the open, brass- railed space adjoining the tellers' cages. The banker who had once answered to the name of Chicago Charlie was a big, heavy-jawed man, florid and beefy. He had learned the trick of narrowing his eyes to mere slits until he was like a man peering through a crack in a window blind; he could look into a face without giving any hint of his own emotions. It rather gave the impression of a man asleep, except for the glinting of the light against his curtained retina. His mind was very much awake.

"My name is Clackworthy," explained the master confidence man; "I wish to open an account with your bank; it will be small for the present— only ten thousand dollars."

"Check?" demanded the self-styled Mr. Harvey with bankerlike caution; unintroduced strangers who opened accounts with checks were, of course, open to inquiry.

"Cash," replied Mr. Clackworthy just as briefly.

"Aw right," said Harley. "Glad to have your account. Thinking of going into business in Swaneetown?"

"That remains to be decided." Mr. Clackworthy smiled. He was aware that Chicago Charlie, through his half-closed eyes, was subjecting him to the most minute scrutiny. And he realized with a vague feeling of discouragement that fooling Chicago Charlie was going to prove a difficult task. The man was, without doubt, suspicious and practical; he had learned caution in the hard school of life, where the lessons are not easily forgotten.

And, had he known the thoroughness of the banker's classification, Mr. Clackworthy would have been still further discouraged.

"A fox, this fellow," was Harley's appraisal. "Can't sell him any real estate at inflated values; can't sell him any stock that isn't on the level. Can't be picked for a sucker; no use wasting any time on him."

Which was a disappointment to Chicago Charlie; every newcomer who de- posited money in the bank of Swaneetown was at once sized up with a view to swelling the size of the Harley exchequer. Straightaway he decided that it was going to be a cold day in August when he would try to do business with this Mr. Clackworthy.

And the master confidence man, with that intuitive sixth sense of his, realized at least a small part of Chicago Charlie's skittish distrust. It would have to be a most unusual trap indeed that would lure Banker Harley.

iii

IT REALLY could not be considered strange, inasmuch as The Early Bird had instantly recognized Chicago Charlie after nearly fifteen years, that Chicago Charlie, in turn, should recognize The Early Bird. The bank president had dropped into the Swaneetown House for lunch.

Glancing across the dining room, he nodded politely to Mr. Clackworthy as is due a man who has deposited ten thousand dollars in cash the day before. Almost at the same instant he got a good look at Mr. Clackworthy's com- panion. He started unpleasantly.

"The Early Bird!" he murmured, for James Early had, after all, changed very little since the time when the police were considerably interested in his movements and when James, with the capital which he had secured through extremely dubious methods, had been a regular patron at the race track.

Now the self-styled John Harley congratulated himself that he had successfully erased the unsavory pages of his past. In physical appearance he had changed a good deal; his body had thickened, his face was more full, older. After his sudden disappearance from his betting stall at the Chicago race track he had gone far West; he thought that he had thoroughly done away with Chicago Charlie. As he stared covertly at The Early Bird he detected The Early Bird looking just as covertly at him; and something told him that there was recognition in James' eyes.

The Early Bird pressed Mr. Clackworthy's foot beneath the table.

"He's lamped me, boss," he whispered. "He's jerry t' me."

Mr. Clackworthy frowned in annoyance; he had thoughtlessly neglected to take into consideration the possibility that Chicago Charlie would dine at their hotel. It had not been his intention that the banker should see him and his coworker together.

BANKER Harley hurried through his meal, keeping his face averted. He left the hotel and went back to his bank. For half an hour he sat, pudgy hands folded across his expansive waistcoat, chewing a dead cigar; he was thinking many unpleasant thoughts.

It was, of course, possible that he had been mistaken; that The Early Bird had not recognized him at all. Also, it was barely possible that The Early Bird carried with him no spirit of revenge, and perhaps even forgotten the incident of the welched hundred- to- one shot so many years before.

And what if The Early Bird had not forgotten or forgiven and did tell what he knew ? He could brazen it out, deny that he was the former race-track booky in case The Early Bird did show a vindictive spirit; surely his word would be accepted against that of a former safe blower. But even at the best, it was an unpleasant business, would shake the local confidence in his bank if the story got abroad. If the story was believed, it might even force his resignation as president of the institution.

The crux of the whole trouble, the thing that made it so dangerous was that Chicago Charlie had not always been so wise and so cautious as he now was. He had done some very foolish things at various and sundry times, with the result that the police had "mugged" him. If the thing got far enough for that to leak out— He shuddered at the thought.

Presently Banker Harley arrived at a decision and reached for the tele- phone and called "Swaneetown twenty," which was the police station. He even chuckled a little at the cleverness of his inspiration.

"Givney," he said to the chief of police, "I want you to come over to the bank right away."

Chief Givney came and lost no time about it; Harvey's political machine had put him in office. The banker led Givney back to the private office and closed the door.

"Givney," he grunted, "you want to continue to hold your job, don't you?"

The chief, looking a bit frightened, nodded vigorously.

"Aw right, Givney, it's up to you. You do what I say— and keep your mouth shut. Understand?" Again the chief nodded.

"Now, Givney, you listen to me, and do what I tell you; your job depends on it."

Givney listened.

iv

"BOSS," said The Early Bird as he and Mr. Clackworthy sat in the lobby of the Swaneetown House, "somethin' seems t' tell me that we ain't gonna trim Chicago Charlie for so much as a solitary Lincoln. Le's grab th' rattler for th' big burg."

"Not for another day or so, James," responded Mr. Clackworthy. "We must not accept defeat so easily; I will admit "

He paused as a man sauntered up to them. "Beg your pardon," said the stranger. "You two fellows look as if time were hanging heavily on your hands, and I'm trying to drum up a little poker game. Oh, I'm not a professional ; three of the boys are willing but three-handed draw is a little like tiddlewinks, you know. Thought I'd invite you to sit in."

Mr. Clackworthy gave the man a swift glance of appraisal; certainly he was not a professional card sharper, and besides he was himself no novice at the game. He liked poker, and it offered a welcomed opportunity to pass away a few hours.

"What do you say, James?" he asked of his coworker.

The Early Bird eagerly assented, for he was no slouch with the cards even in a professional game.

"I gotcha," he said. "I'm gonna get th' chance t' make expenses on this trip anyhow. Lead th' way."

Mr. Clackworthy, however, became suddenly alert as he noted the look of satisfaction which flashed over the stranger's face; he felt instinctively that there was something behind it. His curiosity overcame any cautious misgivings he felt. The stranger led the way upstairs and to one of the ordinary guest rooms. Presently two others joined the party and the game got under way. As poker games go, it was a rather tame business.

The five had been playing less than an hour when there was a rap at the door. One of the players got from his chair and turned back the key. Instantly the door was shoved open and Chief of Police Givney faced the five players in all of his official sternness.

"You're pinched," he announced, "for gamblin'. Line up there; as soon as I get this here evidence together we go down to th' station."

"Now don't that beat the devil!" ex- claimed The Early Bird. "Caught with th' goods— an' me winner enough t' buy th' tickets home !"

Mr. Clackworthy knew that it was a frame-up; he and The Early Bird had been deliberately led into this game for the purpose of arrest but, as quick as he was at probing situations, he admitted that the motive proved too deep for him. The other three players took the matter cheerfully enough, as became true sports, and the journey was begun to the police station.

At the station all five were booked and motioned to a bench.

"I ain't goin' to lock you fellows up," he explained. "I'll take you over to the police magistrate. Want t' call a lawyer? It ain't much use; I got you with th' evidence, an' you'll draw fines anyhow."

The police magistrate's office was di- rectly across the street and, presently, Chief Givney led them thither.

The arraignment proceeded as is customary in such cases as Chief Givney formally presented his charge, displayed the evidence, and giving his details of his raid— made, he explained, when a guest in the adjoining room had notified him over the telephone that a game was in progress. Quite naturally the five prisoners had no defense.

The magistrate, a pompous man who took his judicial duties with great seri- ousness, glared down upon the five offenders.

"There's been too much gamblin' goin' on in this town," he declared with a nasal twang. "I've got to take harsh measures to stamp out this evil. Now, three of these prisoners is home boys, their faces is familiar. I fine these three"— and he read off their names — "ten dollars an' costs."

Promptly the three guilty men produced pockelbooks and paid their lines.

"And now," went on the magistrate, "let's see about these other two. Strangers in Swaneetown, huh? Professional gamblers, like as not."

The Early Bird, enjoying the humor of the situation, shook his head; Mr. Clackworthy, likewise, denied the im- putation that he was a professional gambler.

"You'd lie about it anyhow," retorted the judge witheringly. "Now this man here has got a hard face — a hard face." He pointed an accusing finger at The Early Bird. "He looks like a criminal t' me."

Chief Givney stared intently at James and simulated a start of surprise.

"Your honor," he said, "you are right. This man is a criminal. I remember seem' his picture in th' rogue's gallery in Chicago. I've got a good memory ; I can even tell you his name. He give th' name of Brown when I arrested him. His name's James Early, alias Th' Early Bird. He's— a desprit character."

The Early Bird's face paled slightly at this sudden turn of events. Mr. Clackworthy, a police prisoner for the first time in his life, began to understand that Chicago Charlie was at the bottom of this; he had, of course, inspired the raid on the poker game and had supplied Givney with what was now ancient history concerning his co-worker. But what was Chicago Charlie's game? He could not quite fathom it.

"What have you to say for yourself?" the magistrate inquired crisply. The Early Bird floundered for a reply.

"I've pleaded guilty t' gamblin', ain't I?" he demanded weakly. "I'm willin' to fork up th' coin for th' fine. Ain't that enough?"

"I haven't indicated that I would let you off with a fine," retorted the judge. "The penalty for this offense is a fine of not less than five dollars nor more than one hundred dollars, or a jail sen- tence of ninety days, or both. And don't you talk back to this court ! Have you got a police record?"

"I— I want a lawyer," stammered The Early Bird. "I ain't gettin' an even break. I refuse to answer."

"It's too late for a lawyer now," decreed the judge; "you've already pleaded guilty; you can't even appeal from a plea of guilty. So you refuse to answer, eh? That means it's so.

"You and this other prisoner here are together, huh? I guess you're both crooks— you look it. If it wasn't for puttin' the county to th' expense of feedin' a couple of city crooks, I'd give you both the limit. We don't want crooks like you in our town.

"I fine you each one hundred dollars and costs and three months in jail— and set aside the sentence, providin' that you buy tickets to Chicago and that th' chief of police sees you off on the four o'clock train. Call next case."

The Early Bird breathed a sigh of relief; he hadn't realized that a poker game could have such threateningly dangerous consequences. Mr. Clack- worthy, however, refused to let the matter end there.

"If the court please," he said calmly, "I deny your right to attempt to drive my friend and me from town in this fashion. I have a right to remain here, and I shall— even if it be in jail."

The Early Bird stared at Mr. Clackworthy in horror.

"Boss!" he whispered hoarsely. "You've gone off your onion! For th' love of Pete—"

Mr. Clackworthy smiled cheerfully.

"Wake up, James!" he murmured. "Don't you see through it? Chicago Charlie did this— he's afraid of us! We've got him where we want him. He's furnished me with a plan, and I think we're going to collect, after all. I've never been in jail before, old dear, but I wouldn't let Chicago Charlie get away with this— not for a year in jail."

The judge, after sputtering for one speechless moment at Mr. Clackworthy's surprising stand, found voice.

"Lock him up!" he ordered.

v

THE Early Bird, as he always did, bowed to Mr. Clackworthy's wishes and, likewise, refused to shake the dust of Swaneetown from his new twenty- dollar patent-leather shoes. However, he was forlorn when he learned that he must bide his time to be taken into his master's confidence as to the motive of his practically voluntary incarceration; they were locked in separate cells.

As the steel door clanged shut behind him, Mr. Clackworthy, through the bars, proffered the turnkey a neatly folded twenty-dollar bill.

"I want a little information," he said. "I want to know what kind of a lawyer Edward Stone is?"

"Punk," replied the turnkey. "He's just a young fellow and pretty near starvin' to death, I reckon."

"What relationship has he to Henry Stone, publisher of the Swaneetown Courier?"

"Brothers they are."

"So I guessed." Mr. Clackworthy nodded. "Call up Lawyer Stone for me and tell him that there's a hundred- dollar retainer fee waiting for him the minute he gets here."

"Then he'll get here before I can get the receiver hung up," shrewdly replied the turnkey.

The prediction may have failed by a few minutes, but Lawyer Stone did not waste any time. He came back to Mr. Clackworthy's cell, a neatly shabby man of perhaps thirty. He took the hun- dred-dollar bill which Mr. Clackworthy gave him, fingering it fondly.

"Stone," began the master confidence man, "your brother owns The Courier?"

"Yes, but—"

"I happened to be looking over it back in the hotel this morning. I saw your name in the news columns and the boost the paper gave you made me lean to the conclusion that he must be your brother. No, don't interrupt ; all of this is quite pertinent.

"Let me ask you another question: How does your brother and Banker Harley get along?"

"You say this is— pertinent?" exclaimed the attorney. "Maybe so; anyhow, you've given me a hundred, and I don't know any easier way to earn it than hand you out the family secrets. Henry has to get along with Harley; Harley has a mortgage on the paper."

"And the paper isn't exactly a newspaper bonanza, I take it," went on Mr. Clackworthy. "The lack of advertising patronage would indicate that your brother is having a tough time of it."

"It does look rather sickly, doesn't it?" agreed the lawyer. "Say, what's the idea anyhow?"

For answer, Mr. Clackworthy drew closer to the barred door and whispered into Lawyer Stone's ear for several minutes. When he had finished the attorney was grinning.

"I'll talk it over with Henry," he said. "I am dead sure he'll do it; it will save the paper for him. Henry would commit murder for three thousand dollars right now. He hasn't been able to rake up last week's pay roll."

That same afternoon, less than three hours after the young lawyer's consul- tation with Mr. Clackworthy, small boys began to flood the streets of Swaneetown with handbills. They read:

A GREAT SENSATION!!!

The Courier takes pleasure in announcing that in its issue to-morrow, and running every week thereafter, it will begin the publication of a sensation series of articles exposing the inside secrets of crooked race track gambling entitled

FROM BOOKMAKER

TO BANK PRESIDENT.

We guarantee that this series of articles will stir Swaneetown as no other series of newspaper article has ever done. It will describe how a former race-track gambler, who served several jail terms for a number of offenses, changed his name, accumulated a fortune, and became president of a bank.

IT STARTS TO-MORROW

Banker Harley, otherwise Chicago Charlie, was at his desk when some one, coming in from the street, carried in one of the bills. His eyes lighted on the line in big type "FROM BOOKMAKER TO BANK PRESIDENT." He gave a violent start and, with trembling fingers, began to read.

He had already been informed, of course, that Mr. Clackworthy and The Early Bird had refused to leave town; that, of course, puzzled and worried him, but this! How had they done it? There was one consoling thought; he could stop The Courier from printing it. He reached for the phone and called The Courier office.

"Stone!" he snapped into the transmitter. "You owe this bank a mortgage for three thousand dollars on your paper. It was due to-day and you haven't paid it. I'll have to foreclose unless you meet that mortgage."

"Why, Mr. Harley!" exclaimed Stone with apparent innocence. "Why are you so sudden about it?"

"I think you already know," retorted the banker. "Any man who's loon enough to flood the town with a lot of ridiculous bills like you're having distributed this afternoon, isn't sane enough to get credit at this bank. Of course, if you stopped this foolishness I might "

"But I couldn't do that, Mr. Harley," replied the editor. "I've advertised it, you know, and— well, besides, I was just on my way down to pay off the mortgage. I have made other financial arrangements— borrowed the money from a— a Mr. Amos Clackworthy. I've got his check drawn on your bank. I'll be right down."

Chicago Charlie dropped limply back in his chair.

vi

BEING a man of average intelligence, Chicago Charlie did not need a diagram to tell him what had happened to him. And he wasted no time; he had a situation to meet and he met it. He hurried to police headquarters and flung himself down into the chair at Chief Givney's desk.

"Givney," he commanded, "get an order from the court and bring those two prisoners over here from the jail— and then go away and let us alone. Understand?"

The chief obediently brought Mr. Clackworthy and The Early Bird from their cells in the jail and conducted them to his private office.

"Beat it, Givney; shut the door behind you," ordered Chicago Charlie. "Sit down, you two," he went on as the door slammed; "sit down and talk turkey. You've got me hooked, an' I know it.

"I thought I'd run you out of town; it didn't work. You two came out here to get me; I understand it now— and you put it over. There's no use raisin' a fuss about that part of it. The question is— how much do you want ?"

The Early Bird who, a moment be- fore had been the glummest man in seven States, stared in amazed delight at Mr. Clackworthy; somehow Mr. Clackworthy had put it over.

"I guess you ain't forgot them ten thousand smackers of mine that you went south with, eh, Chicago Charlie?" James inquired gleefully.

The banker winced unpleasantly at the name which he had not heard for many years.

"Cut out that stuff," he ordered. "I'm willin' to pay a reasonable amount of blackmail to you two "

"Blackmail!" interrupted Mr. Clackworthy. "I am quite sure that neither James here nor myself have any intention of blackmailing you."

" Then what do you call it, I'd like to know?"

"Now come— er— Charlie," and Mr. Clackworthy smiled. "Suppose we put this on a strictly business basis. You are indebted to Mr. Early in the sum of ten thousand dollars, a debt which has been unpaid for more than ten years. The interest on that, straight interest at six per cent, amounts to more than six thousand dollars. Should we compound it, and most certainly it should be compounded, it would reach a very large sum. However, I am sure that he will waive compound interest if you, in turn, would allow him something for the— er— expenses of collection.

"Surely there is no blackmail in a straightforward business proposition of this character. Speaking as Mr. Early's representative, I offer you a settlement figure of twenty-five thousand dollars. Not a penny less— er— Charlie; take it or leave it, just as you choose."

"Cut it half in two; twelve thousand five hundred," parried the banker.

"Not a cent for bargaining," refused Mr. Clackworthy.

"How're you goin' to call off your dogs?" demanded Chicago Charlie. "How are you going to shut up that newspaper? I guess he knows the whole thing, too, eh?"

"Not a word," denied Mr. Clackworthy. "In fact Mr. Early here has not yet written his series of sensational articles, and Editor Stone rather advertised them blind; that is to say, he accepted a gift of three thousand dollars from me, given under the condition that he accepts my— er— suggestion that he popularize his paper with a touch of— ah— sensationalism. Of course he may guess at a thing or two, but so far he knows absolutely nothing."

"All right," brusquely interrupted Chicago Charlie. "I know when I'm licked. I've got to cough up. Come on down to the bank just as soon as I have the judge lift the sentences, but you ought to be in the pen— you blackmailers!"

Mr. Clackworthy chuckled.

"You know— er— Charlie," he said, "you brought the whole thing on yourself. You forced us to the one method of— er— collection that we would have never thought of. The Early Bird would never have exposed you— not in a thousand years. He doesn't play the game that way. But you didn't know that. You got worried and tried to drive us out of town; if it hadn't been for that, I would have never known that you were scared to death of a— what The Early Bird would call 'a squawk.' I had about given you up as a bad job; if you had let us alone we would have left town to-morrow, and you would be twenty-five thousand to the good."

"Come on, boss; save th' chin music until after I've got that jack in my mitts," cut in The Early Bird. "I been waitin' more'n ten years t' find out how it'd feel t' see Chicago Charlie count out my winnin's on that hundred- t'- one shot. I reckon that's worth a few hours in jail, eh, boss?"

Mr. Clackworthy's slight shudder seemed to dispute this opinion.

__________________

12: Well Done

Ernest M.  Poate

Detective Story Magazine  15 Mar 1921

IN his private office Doctor R. Townsend Gorham sat scowling absently at a Fall River boat, far out on the blue Sound.

It was a pleasant room, tastefully furnished in dark reds and browns, wide-windowed, and sunny; and a psychologist might have deduced from its arrangement the essentials of the doctor’s philosophy.

Along one wall high mahogany shelves held a considerable library, but the uniformity of its volumes and their unworn bindings of calf and morocco suggested ornamentation rather than use. A glance at their titles would have confirmed that suggestion, but the bindings harmonized beautifully with the room’s color scheme. The books looked imposing and scholarly, and few enough of Doctor Gorham’s patients were disposed to literary captiousness,

In one corner was a big leather-covered divan; easy-chairs stood here and there; the visitor’s feet sank restfully into the thick pile of a dark-red velvet tug. The whole effect of the place was soothing and peaceful.

On the polished top of the mahogany desk lay a stethoscope, flanked by two or three pill bottles— just received manufacturers’ samples. Save for these, the room held no hint of its owner’s profession. It might have been the intimate sitting room or library of the some idle millionaire.

And this room set the tone of the whole house. The “literature” of the institution— the expensively printed booklets which described the manifold perfections of “Seaview Lodge, Doctor J. Townsend Gorham, proprietor and resident physician, a modern sani tarium for the treatment of chronic functional disorders’—dwelt upon the completeness of its equipments, its hy- drotherapeutic and electrotherapeutic apparatus, its splendid surgical facilities. There were photographic reproductions on heavy glazed paper of great elec- trical machines, of queer-shaped tubs and complicated showers, all porcelain and shining nickel, of a white-tiled operating room full of surgeons and nurses, gowned, masked, and gloved, gripping various cruel-looking implements— but none of Doctor Gorham’s patients had ever seen the originals. Doubtless, as he assured questioning ones, “such therapy was not indicated by the symptom-complex.”

For it was the doctor’s belief, frequently expounded in his grave, deep, musical voice, that invalids needed rest, encouragement, sympathy; that the threat of the surgeon’s knife, the grim promise of aseptic white tiling and strange machinery should never be obtruded upon them unnecessarily.

“Sympathy and encouragement; that’s what you need,” he would declare. “Yes, yes, yes!”

So no one saw the sanitarium’s “complete equipment"; but it must have somewhere been about the place. Otherwise, how could it have been photographed?

“Kid ’em along,” was the motto that Doctor Gorham had faithfully lived up to during all of his ten years’ management of Seaview Lodge. For long it had been a principle justified cf its fruits, but now—now he began to realize that something was wrong.

Denying any change, even to himself, he had yet felt it for a year and more. Slowly but inexorably his clientele had dwindled, until to-day only one profitable patient remained. And with this dwindling an errant whisper had been breezed about. Beginning in the inner circle, among those eminent practitioners whose dicta make and unmake medical reputations, it had spread in widening, concentric waves. The word passed through the great hospitals— the “Big Four,” where, in unofficial conclaves, irreverent, white-ducked internes pungently differentiate between reputation and skill— and reached at last the general practitioners of the city; it went still farther, until even druggists, nurses, masseurs, the adnexa of the profession, knew that there was something off color at Seaview.

Wherefore Doctor R. Townsend Gorham scowled moodily at the Fall River boat, and, like the unjust steward, contemplated a doubtful future.

He was a tall, lean man in the early forties, whose very dress was subtly professional. His craggy, clean-shaven face was deep lined with grave, kindly dignity. It was a strong face; one to inspire confidence. Here, one would have said, was a doctor of the old school; a true adept of the art and mystery of medicine. The authority of the physician wrapped him as in a mantle.

Sober thought became him well, but now his mind shifted. His cloud also had a silver lining— silver, indeed, for Reuben Wiggins had so profited by obscure transactions based upon the rise of Mexican dollars, Chinese taels, and Japanese yen that his wife could afford “nervous prostration.”

As long as Mrs. Wiggins stayed Seaview Lodge could remain open, and Doctor Gorham would still be solvent. Reuben paid her bills manfully: two hundred and fifty dollars a week “accommodations;” one hundred dok lars for salary of special nurses, day and night; fifty dollars for board of nurses; fifty dollars for lodging of nurses; twenty-five dollars for special maid service; another forty or fifty dollars for special medical attention, and as much more as the doctor dared for “extras”— such were the penalties of invalidism at Seaview Lodge.

Reckoning his profit in all this, the doctor smiled, and had there been a watcher he must straightway have revised his estimate of the man’s character. For that secret smile wrought a change almost shocking.

Doctor Gorham’s deep-set eyes, habitually half closed, opened wide for a breath; strange, cold eyes they were, in whose clear green irises rust-red flecks floated like flotsam on the tide, with an uncanny appearance of motion. The straight, thin-lipped mouth widened crookedly, exposing long, irregular teeth. The doctor’s mask of kindly gravity slipped, to expose a leering satyr.

His mirth betrayed him, showing him conscienceless, cynical, and rapacious. Yet a tinge of reckless, devil- may- care humor redeemed his grin from utter viciousness.

Some one rapped on the door, then burst in upon the heels of her knock with a crackling of starched white skirts, full in the face of that sinister smile. It was a tired-faced nurse, who still strove to be young; her mouth was patently full of tidings, yet the doctor’s expression checked her. She gasped, and averted her face instinctively.

Flushing with annoyance, Doctor Gorham straightened his features, drawing over them his professional mask. He was not without insight; he rarely permitted himself to smile before others.

“Well, Miss Baxter?” he inquired.

“Ex-excuse me, doctor,’ stammered the woman. She was agitated; tiny lines showed about her eyes and lips, strive as she would for that determined placidity with which such women combat the ravages of time.

“I’m sorry, but Mrs. Wiggins— she’s leaving !”

“Leaving?” Doctor Gorham frowned. “Haven't I told you what to do if she talked of going home ?”

“Yes, doctor; I gave her the ipecac, as you said, and she’s awfully sick right now, and Miss Zimmer’s holding her head. But she says she’s getting worse instead of better, and she’s tired of the place, and if she’s got to die she wants to die at home. And Minnie’s packing her trunks, and she sent me after an automobile to take her to Mineola.”

In spite of his perturbation, the doctor’s eves opened widely once more; his thin lips quirked. The picture evoked hy the nurse’s hurried report was irre- sistibly comic; ipecac has effects which most people recall with a shudder.

“She won’t die,” he said.

Then he scowled again, envisaging the consequences of this threatened departure. Remained two or three bread- and- butter patients; ordinary folk, whose pocketbooks forbade “extras,” and one of them was a month in arrears. Mrs. Wiggins was his meal ticket; without her, Seaview Lodge was doomed.

“I'll talk to her,” he offered.

But Miss Baxter shook her obviously golden head. “Better not,” she advised. “It'll make things worse.”

There was reason in this view, and the doctor valued the opinions of his head nurse. Evidently, he reasoned, the ipecac had left an aftermath of resentment. He hesitated. “Can’t we do anything?” It was an appeal.

Though she looked loyally worried, the nurse shook her head. “She's bound to go this time.”

Doctor Gorham shrugged resignedly. “That cooks us, then,” he admitted. “It can’t be helped.”

He rose and went to the bookcase, Taking down a couple of volumes, he produced a pint bottle, half full—his “pacifier.” The very act told his helper that all hope was lost; never before had Doctor Gorham allowed any one to see the hiding place of that bottle.

“Get a medicine glass.”

And when it was brought he poured out a generous drink of turbid brown liquor; brandy, well laced with lauda- num and cocaine; a mixture calculated to make any one forget his troubles.

“Give her this,” said the doctor. “When it’s had time to take hold I’ll come up and see her. Got to keep her a day or two; she might notice that she got better as soon as she stopped the medicine. I'll persuade her to wait until we send for her husband. And maybe we can smooth her down and keep her right along.”

“Yes, doctor,” replied Miss Baxter obediently. “But she’s going this time; we can’t hold her. I— I’m sorry, doctor,” she finished hesitantly, flushing deep. Doctor Gorham’s conception of ethics was all his own, but he held the affection of his staff.

“Never mind, Miss Baxter,” said he absently. “I think I can arrange to take care of you and the others.”

And as the nurse disappeared, medicine glass in hand, he took up a sheet of paper, tested his fountain pen, and began to write slowly. He made a dozen drafts before his work satisfied him.

“Sanitarium for sale. Capacity, twenty-five; all rooms with bath. Fully equipped; a going concern with adequate nursing and domestic staff. Owner retiring because of ill health. Price reasonable for immediate sale.”

Sighing in  half-humorous regret, Doctor Gorham began to count the words, referring to various medical journals for advertising rates.

ii

WHILE he was still busy Miss Baxter returned. Her eyes were bright with excitement; she smiled broadly.

“What’s wrong now?” Doctor Gorham did not look up; his voice was ab- stracted. “Wouldn't she take the pacifier?”

“Who— what? Oh, Mrs. Wiggins! Oh, yes, doctor; she’s happy enough now. But there’s a gentleman to see you, doctor—a Mr. O’Brien.”

“O’Brien?” repeated the physician indifferently. "Tell him I’m busy. Tell him I’ve gone to Florida; tell him I’m taking a bath. What have I to do with O’Briens now?”

The nurse chuckled a little. At the sound Doctor Gorham looked up and noted her triumphant expression.

“What is it? Tell me; I can bear it,” he drawled.

“Not O’Brien, doctor— O’Brine. Aloysius O’Brine!” she chanted the words gleefully.

“Huh!” said the doctor. “Aloysius O’Brine! Does he look sick? Never mind; send him in! Send him in, Miss Baxter, and look sharp!” He rubbed bony hands together.

When the nurse returned he had assumed a grave and authoritative air of one bearing heavy responsibilities; he scratched down a final word and handed a slip of paper to the nurse.

“Have Henderson phone these people that I can take them to-morrow,” he directed. “And tell him to check up the waiting list. We have room for two more patients.”

Then he turned to the visitor, suave and unhurried.

“Good afternoon, sir.

He was a stout, red-faced man with huge, thick-knuckled hands. He was dressed very exactly; his linen was immaculate; but, looking at him, the doctor wondered instinctively if he did not wear red flannel beneath it. He gave his host a wide smile, which failed to warm two dull, fishy eyes, set close to- gether as though for mutual support.

“I am A. J. O’Brine,” he began.

It was an announcement, but the doctor remained unmoved. He knew very well who A. J. O’Brine was. Internally he burned with eager hope of the other’s intentions, but he was too wise for servility.

“My name is Gorham.” The doctor’s deep, musical voice contrasted sharply with his visitor’s raucous pomposity.

“Of O’Brine & O'Brine,” supplemented the stout man, intent upon his meed of deference.

Doctor Gorham bowed. “I know of you, of course.”

It would have been foolish to pretend ignorance. O’Brine & O’Brine were New York’s most notorious contractors. No graft investigation was complete in which their firm name did not figure. The doctor strove to recall some vagtie gossip of dissension between its partners, wondering the while what Mr. O’Brine wanted. Not to become his patient surely; the man was offensively healthy.

“’S my kid brother,” O’Brine answered his unspoken question. “I come to see you about him.”

“Ah! Your brother is ill?”

The other grinned sourly; his opaque eyes were hard. “Nope. I wisht he was! Not heartsick,” he amended hastily, “just comfortably sick an’ outa th’ way f’r a while.”

Doctor Gorham stroked his long chin. His face was inscrutable, but his green eyes opened a trifle wider, so that the rust-colored spots of their irises seemed to move and change. He began to guess the import of this visit, but he offered no aid.

The contractor fidgeted uneasily; his ish eyes blinked; his red face turned plum color.

“I— I,” he hesitated. “Fact is, doc, I been told you ain’t as particular as some.”

Doctor Gorham stared at him coldly. “Why come here, then?”

“Why—why,” the other floundered, his voice more raucous than ever, his face flushed until even his dull eyes were injected. “I wanta— I wanta.”

The man’s perturbation was comic. Watching it, Doctor Gorham smiled, almost against his will. His rust-flecked eyes widened; a cynical, mischievous devil peeped through them, twisted the grave mouth into a crooked, jeering grin. Then he pulled his face hastily back into decorous lines; the doctor had learned to distrust his smile.

Oddly, however, that fleeting grin allayed his visitor’s embarrassment. The contractor’s color faded from maroon to its normal red; he sighed his relief. Once more, and now to his ad- vantage, Doctor Gorham’s smile had betrayed the promise of his grave, kindly dignity.

“They said you was a reasonable man," muttered Mr. O’Brine, and began to explain his mission bluntly, harshly, without mincing words.

“I wanta get rid of my kid brother f'r about a month; keep ’im too busy to monkey with my affairs. Y’ see, O’Brine & O’Brine usedta be me an’ th’ old man. Frank was just a kid, in one o’ them colleges, an’ then th’ war. Avvy-ator, he was’— with ill-concealed pride— “an’ got a citation. Well, an’ th’ old man died, an’ last year I took Frank in f’r a pardner, so’s it'd still be O’Brine & O’Brine.

“An’ that was all right; he’s college learned, y’ see, an’ a real good engineer ; c'n figger on a job an’ run it, too, better’n me. Still an’ all, he ain’t got no sense in finance. What with this here income tax, an’ excess profits an’ all, th’ boy’s too honest. Why, if he had his way, we wouldn’t hardly make nothing! Last year I got th’ returns fixed up all right afore he come in, but now he’s all over th’ shop, beefin’ about ‘cheatin’ th’ govermint.’” He laughed sneeringly, raucously, yet still with that note of reluctant pride. ‘“‘Can’t do nothin’ with ’im.”

“Well, I got ever’thing cooked an’ ready— official books an’ all. Can’t nobody ever catch us, if he’d only lay off, see?”

Doctor Gorham listened gravely. If he wondered at the other’s frankness, or resented this calm assumption that he was a “reasonable man,” he made no sign.

“Where do I come in?” he inquired pertinently.

The contractor grinned again, but his eyes were dull and cold. “I want Frank t’ be sick,” he explained. “F’r about a month. I want him t’ come out here, a good long ways f’om the office, an’ be just sick enough so’s he don’t care about nothin’ until our returns goes in. An’ if you sh’d do him any harm— if he don’t get over it— I’ll kill you.”

His harsh voice was matter of fact, but his cold, fishy stare pointed the promise,

Doctor Gorham caressed his chin, meditating profoundly. At last he raised a face of such benign gravity as Aesculapius might have worn,

“How much do you stand to save?”

“Oh, anyways half a— never mind that now! C’n you fix this thing up f’r me?”

The doctor smiled once more, quite openly, so that O’Brine shivered invol- untarily. “Perhaps I can interest you in an investment,” he answered blandly, picking up the advertisement which he had written. “Here’s a wonderful bargain.”

O’Brine glanced at the paper and snorted impatiently. “I got no time t’ fool. You goin’ t’ talk business?”

“Oh, yes,’ said the doctor. “Yes, yes, yes! I’m selling you a sanitarium.” His strange eyes opened wide, then narrowed again.

The contractor looked from the advertisement to his host’s inscrutable face, and back again. “I got no time—” he repeated.

Gorham cut him short. “If your brother is going to be ill,” he pointed out, “you ought to make sure that he gets proper care.”

“O-oh!” the exclamation held an unwilling admiration. “You ought to of been in business, doc!”

“I am. Are you interested?”

O’Brine groaned. “How much, then ?”

“Fifty thousand dollars,” replied the doctor, unctuously firm. “In cash. Also, you will meet my payroll and all expenses while your brother is here. After that we'll see.”

“Fifty thou! It ain’t worth it!” the other exclaimed.

“It is to me. I run the chance of queering the place for all time, of ruining my reputation, of losing my license if this thing should get out.”

“Nix!” replied O’Brien firmly. “Five thousand cash, an’ keep y’r joint. I don’t want it.”

“Neither do I. But that’s all right. I'll keep my joint, and you can pay your taxes. You ought to, anyhow, you know,” the doctor finished virtuously.

O’Brine groaned. “It ’u’d be cheaper,” he said weakly; but, looking into his veiled eyes, Doctor Gorham knew better.

A brief pause. Then, “Oh, all right,” yielded the contractor sullenly. “If you do your share.”

“Done! Yes, yes, yes!” The doctor rubbed bony hands together, smiling once more. “And now, to business.”

He left O’Brine alone for ten minutes. Returning, he laid four tiny powder papers on the desk.

“I’ve numbered these,” he explained. “To-night at dinner slip number into your brother’s soup.”

“How’ll I manage that, doc? We don’t live together.”

Doctor Gorham shrugged. “That's your business. Ask him to stay with you for a week; think up some excuse, Give him the second and third powders with breakfast and luncheon to-morrow, They’ll make him very, very sick; but don’t worry. They won't do him any harm. At dinner to-morrow night see that he gets these two tablets, numbered four. He’ll show all the symptoms of an acute stomach upset, and to-morrow night he’ll go into a stupor, When he does—"

“Then I send for you.”

“You do not! Man, we've got to play safe. You send for Doctor Everset. Yes, yes, yes. He’s right close by. He'll diagnose ptomaine poisoning; better have raw oysters to-night for a cause. Insist on sending your brother to a sanitarium, and Everset’ll do the rest. I have an arrangement with him.

“To-morrow I’ll send my deeds to the National City Bank. You will give them a certified check for fifty thousand, and arrange to have money and deeds held there in escrow for, say, three days. As soon as you deliver my patient we'll go together and complete the transfer.”

O’Brine began to protest, but the doctor checked him. “Take it or leave it,” he said flatly. “If I’m to do your dirty work I am to be paid for it. Yes, yes, yes! I'll have the money; that’s my security. And you'll own this plant; that’s yours. If I don’t keep your brother here as agreed you can evict me. And, by the way, write me a check now to cover expenses for the next thirty days. Seven hundred will about cover my pay roll; five hundred more for fuel and maintenance— say fifteen hundred in all. Here’s a pen; sit right at my desk.” He smiled avidly.

Grumbling, but helpless, the contractor complied, and presently departed ungraciously, the four tiny packets in an inner pocket.

Left to himself, Doctor Gorham gloated upon the little slip of paper made valuable by A. J. O’Brine’s uncouth, sprawling signature. His smile was a thing to frighten the timid.

“Tartar emetic," he murmured; “gray powder and a grain of morphine. Ptomaine poisoning to order!" He laughed aloud like Mephistopheles. Given the opportunity, he could induce a very authentic symptom picture, whose origin the simple diagnostician, intent only upon healing, would never dream of suspecting. The doctor’s fancy dwelt pleasurably upon the regimen which was to convince Francis Xavier O’ Brine that sheer necessity had brought him to Seaview Lodge.

Presently he roused himself almost regretfully, for he loved his art. Reach- ing for his desk phone, he called New York, and was soon in communication with Doctor Everset.

“Doctor Gorham speaking,” said his deep, pleasant voice. “At Seaview. You haven’t sent me any cases lately. Isn’t our agreement satisfactory ?”

The question would have roused many an old-fashioned practitioner to a furious diatribe anent “fee splitting,” which is emphatically unethical. But Doctor Everset was of the new school; his half-apologetic reply merely set forth that people were growing suspicious of Seaview Lodge.

“I see," said Gorham. “Yes, yes, yes. Well, do what you can, doctor. I'll make it two hundred down, and ten per cent a week for length of stay— provided you send me one or two good ones.”

He hung up, with that ribald smile, “That ought to fetch him,” he muttered. “Cheap grafter!” And he went out to cash his check.

iii

NEXT DAY Mrs. Wiggins departed. The doctor made no effort to keep her. His cheerful calm exasperated the three nurses left of the twenty which Seaview Lodge had once kept busy; chef, housekeeper, and chambermaids speculated in their abundant leisure as to whether the chief would pay their wages before dismissing them and closing the sanitarium. Only the faithful Miss Baxter still hoped.

Very late that night Doctor Gorham was aroused from virtuous slumber by an excited tattoo upon his door.

“It’s me, doctor!" came his head nurse’s buoyant tones. “Doctor Everset just phoned; he’s sending us a patient first thing in the morning— acute autotoxemia. It’s Mr. Francis O’Brine; he’s coming, after all!”

“Run along to bed,” replied the doctor. “I knew it.”

The private ambulance which drove up at seven next morning was met at the steps by the entire staff of Seaview Lodge, all thrilled by the advent of a patient who was sure to be a good case. Only Doctor Gorham remained calm.

He dispersed his curious people with a sharp word or two, glanced at his patient, a sturdy, black-haired young man, blank-faced and stuporous, and beckoned to Miss Baxter.

“Have the men take him to number five,” he ordered. It was the best suite in the house. “Get him into bed; you and Miss Zimmer will special him. And,” in a lower voice, “as soon as he begins to wake up give him a hundredth of scope by hypo.”

Then he turned a grave, benignant face upon Mr. Aloysius O’Brine, just climbing awkwardly out of the body of the ambulance.

“Good morning, sir. You are the patient’s brother, I believe? Just step this way.”

Presently the two men faced each other across Doctor Gorham’s shining mahogany desk. O’Brine was scowling uneasily, half triumphant, half anxious.

“He acts awful, doc— just dead to the world. Is he all right?" The raucous tones were apprehensive. “I c-can’t have anything happen to th’ boy.”

“Don’t be alarmed,” replied the doctor. “He’s quite all right. Yes, yes, yes. Have a cigar? And then I'll just drive you back to the city and we'll get that little matter of business straightened up.”

O’Brine scowled deeper, but the physician’s authoritative manner had its effect. Knowing him to be utterly unscrupulous, the stout man was yet impelled to trust him. Doctor Gorham’s very expression inspired confidence. He had not worn his professional mask all these years to no end.

“It worked fine,” the visitor said. “I asked Frank over so’s we c’d work to- gether nights, figgerin’ on a new job. Well, an’ night before last I give him that first powder in his soup. After dinner he was dreadful sick. Next morning was the same, only worse. He got to crampin’ something awful, but he didn’t want a doctor. He kep’ gettin’ sicker, an’ last night I give him them little pills in some beer I had. I was kind of scared, he looked so bad; but after he took them he said he felt better. He was real comfortable, he said, on’y sleepy. An’ in about an hour he went off to sleep, an’ I couldn’t wake ‘im no way. Then I sent f’r that Doctor Everset you told me to. I was scared.

“Well, th’ doc says Frank’s got acute intestinal auto— autotox e—"

“Autotoxemia,” supplied Doctor Gorham.

“Yes— kind of ptomaine, he says. I told him about the oysters, an’ he said that was it. He said it was serious, all right, but not dangerous; wanted me t’ keep him home. I said I couldn’t; said I’d have to send him to a sanitarium. But Everset tried t’ make me get a nurse and keep Frank home an’ let him take care of th’ boy. Had me goin’ a minute.”

“The dirty Judas!” muttered Gor- ham, and promised himself mentally to forget the specialist’s fee.

“But when I hung to it I couldn't have him home, Everset fin’lly give me th’ address of your place here, an’ said he’d arrange to have him sent out. Charged me a hundred dollars, too.”

He talked rapidly, his rough voice ris- ing higher and higher. His dull, opaque eyes were restless; he shifted about in his chair, smoking furiously ; his strong yellow teeth frayed the butt of shis cigar. It was evident that Mr. O’Brine labored under considerable excitement.

“Sure th’ boy’s all right?” he repeated. “Better go an’ take a look at him, hadn’t you?”

Doctor Gorham rose slowly. “Want to see him?”

“he other shuddered. “Nope,” he said guiltily. “I— I don’t feel just good about this, doc. Remember, I hold you responsible!”

The doctor looked at him curiously. “It’s not too late, if you want to give it up,” he answered, insultingly polite. “If you’ve— ah— changed your mind. He’d be straightened out again by night.”

“Don’t get funny now!” O’Brine replied. “You go on an’ do what you said you would.”

Doctor Gorham’s eyes opened wide, and narrowed again. There was a dis- quieting look in their green, rust-flecked depths. He smiled crookedly, sneer- ingly.

“Come along,” he ordered. “I’ll look at him; then we'll go right into town. I want my money before you make up your mind that this was all my own wicked contrivance, and it’s up to you to rescue your martyred brother from my clutches.”

O’Brine flushed dully, but followed

without protest.

The patient lay inert on his high bed. His face was blank; he breathed slow and deep. Deftly raising an eye- lid, Doctor Gorham saw that his pupils were shrunk to pin-point size.

“Good for another six hours. When he wakes, Miss Baxter, feed him before you give him the scopolamine, Liquid diet. I'll see him to-night.”

By eleven o’clock the two conspirators had completed their business arrangements. The last seals had been affixed; the lawyer shook hands with each in turn, and Doctor Gorham folded a certified check for fifty thou- sand dollars into his pocketbook.

“I’ll deposit it right away,” he decided. “I'll drive you down over to the Suffolk County courthouse, if you like. You can record that deed, and come back to Seaview with me.”

But the contractor shook his head. “I ain't going ta record it,” he answered. “Not just now.”

“No?” Doctor Gorham raised his eyebrows. “Perhaps you’re wise—under the circumstances.” He smiled widely.

O’Brine’s dull eyes glared at him belligerently, and turned to his lawyer. “Simonson, you gotta place where th’ doc an’ me c’n talk private?”

And when they were alone: “Now, Gorham, I don’t like the way you act, sce? You got your money; now you sing small. Don’t try to get funny with me. I c’n have you throwed out if I want !”

The doctor’s strange eyes opened and narrowed again, but his face remained benignantly grave. ‘“I—see,” he com- mented. “But you won’t throw me out right away, will you? Not for a month or so?”

“Arrh, cut that out!” was the retort; the construction foreman to a bohunk laborer. The strain of this illicit enterprise, anxiety for his brother, and the pain of money spending had combined to crack Mr. O’Brine’s veneer of suavity ; the red-necked, two-fisted contractor showed his true colors.

One might have doubted the wisdom of this open attack upon so wary an opponent, but Doctor Gorham yielded with a good grace.

“Ah!” said he, unmoved. He even rubbed bony hands together, as one whose judgment has been vindicated. “Quite so. Yes, yes, yes! You are the boss, as you say.” Again he smiled— leered, rather— like a placative, humorous devil.

But his capitulation seemed to satisfy the other. “All right, then,” said the contractor grudgingly, and went on in a milder fashion :

“Seein’ as that’s settled, I wanta talk about my place out there. I bought it, and I ain’t never taken a loss. Seaview Lodge’s gotta make money— f’r me. You c’n have a chance, but if you don’t produce I'll find somebody that will, see?”

He eyed the physician briefly from lusterless, critical eyes. “You gotta good front, doc; you’d oughta do all right, with a live wire shovin’ you along. But first off, you gotta cut out grinnin’ like you do. Shows you up f’r a crook, that grin does; anybody c’n see you gotta black heart when you smile!”

Doctor Gorham’s eyes opened momentarily with a sardonic gleam, but he only nodded sorrowfully. ‘No doubt you're right, Mr. O’Brine. I'll try to be more serious.”

“Yeah. An’ here— I been talkin’ to my advertising man already.”

From a huge wallet he extracted a sheet of paper, unfolded it, and handed it to his companion.

It was the layout for a full-page advertisement of Seaview Lodge, flam- boyant and persuasive. “Are you sick?” it began.

The physician contemplated it with very real horror, which was not lightened when O’Brine indicated a vacant box with one broad thumb.

“F’r a picture of you, doc,” he explained.

Doctor Gorham muttered under his breath.

Though his code permitted the judicious encouragement of imaginary maladies, the doctor still held a lofty scorn of advertising quacks.

“That's just the first one,” gloated O’Brine. “Publicity! That’s what Seaview Lodge needs. We'll run this in all the New York papers, full page— then a line of snappy follow-ups. Comes high; but that’s what’ll fetch ‘em.” He glowed with that crass pride peculiar to fools in the act of instructing the wise.

Doctor Gorham groaned. “In the daily papers! When?” he demanded a little wildly.

“Oh, about the tenth of next month. Gotta whip the copy into shape, arrange for space, an’ all that first.”

The doctor drew a long breath of half relief. “Three weeks,” he murmured. “Time enough. I must be getting back. I’ll leave all this in your hands; you’re the boss, as you have so justly pointed out. Yes, yes, yes! Suggestions? I have none; your plans are sublime! Quite so. What? My salary, my pay roll? Oh, let’s leave that for the present. I’ve enough to keep us going a month. I must get back to my patients now.”

He hurried out, leaving the other to wonder, if he chose, at this sudden indifference to financial affairs. And, on the street, he smiled once more, so that a passing newsboy dropped his wares and fled, aghast.

“I’ll have to do it,” he murmured. "Yes, yes, yes!”

iv

BACK at Seaview Lodge, the doctor devoted himself whole-heartedly to his patient, Mr. Francis O’Brine. He was in and out a dozen times a day; he kept the nurses busy with a dozen ornate and impressive devices of special therapy; his kind, solicitous face and deep, pleasant voice impressed themselves indelibly upon young O’Brine.

He carried out his bargain faithfully, With the narcotic deliriants and hyp- notics— scopolomine, luminol, atropine, veronal, the bromides— he kept the young man constantly in a twilight state, in a low, muttering delirium. By judiciously changing his drugs, by allowing the boy to become almost clear between doses, by an occasional hypodermic of morphine to steady the shattered nerves, he avoided the danger of permanent brain injury— for these are drugs, as every alienist knows, whose prolonged and unskillful use may readily induce dementia.

But Doctor Gorham was skilled in his craft. He produced an autotoxic symptom-complex, a delirious reaction, to convince the most rigorous diagnostician, and he took an honest pride in his work.

So things went for two weeks, while young O’Brine tossed and muttered through cracked lips, his overbright eyes large in a gaunt, dusky-flushed face, growing weaker and thinner day by day.

Then the physician’s trained judgment warned him that the danger point was near, and he stayed his hand. Emaciated and exhausted, Francis O’Brine lay very still, nurtured upon broths and gruels, tended as a child is tended, piecing his fragmented personality together again, growing gradually a little stronger, a little clearer, until at last, one day, he looked up at his physician with sane eyes.

“You— you’ve been awfully good to me, doctor,” he whispered. “Wh-what’s your name?”

Doctor Gorham patted his clawlike hand, sighing in unfeigned relief. To- day was the eighth; his time grew short enough.

“There, there, my boy!” said his deep, soothing voice. “Just rest yourself; you'll soon be well.” His long face was tenderly grave, sympathetic; he was careful not to smile,

Leaving his patient, he proceeded straight to New York City, where he remained all day, occupied with curious purchases. In the later afternoon he returned bearing an odd-shaped bundle or two, and shut himself into his office with fret-saw and auger— for he was a tolerable amateur mechanic.

After an hour or so of secret labor he closed the drawers of his desk, reached for the telephone, and called A. J. O’Brine’s number. That worthy had kept very clear of Seaview Lodge throughout, though he had telephoned daily. One might have thought that he was afraid to see his brother. Perhaps his conscience smote him; perhaps he was busy with his projected campaign of advertising.

But now Doctor Gorham desired his presence, and, when he answered the phone, made that desire quite clear.

“Yes, your brother’s all right. He’s That isn’t it. No, Come to-night— clearing up nicely. to-morrow won't do. at once. Yes, yes, yes! What? I can't explain over the phone. You'll have to come out here.” And at last, losing patience: “You come! Come out here as fast as you can get here or— I'll spill the beans !”

He hung up upon the other’s profanely abject capitulation; despite the remembered warning, he was smiling more widely and fiendishly than ever.

Two hours later, when O’Brine, sullen and apprehensive, stamped in, he was still smiling in feral enjoyment. He sat at east behind his desk, the tips of his long, bony fingers precisely joined, his long chin dropped, and re- garded his visitor obliquely from deep- set green eyes whose rust-colored flecks seemed to dance maliciously.

Mr. O’Brine was in a bad temper.

His fishy eyes were red-rimmed, his broad face was plum colored. He dropped into the chair which Gorham had placed for him an hour ago, close to the big mahogany desk, and mopped his shining forehead with a huge silk handkerchief.

“Well,” he growled, “whaddaya want? And f’r Heaven’s sakes,” in uncontrollable irritation, “wipe off that ugly grin!”

The ugly grin widened momentarily; then Doctor Gorham “wiped it off.”

“Your brother is clearing up,” he explained. “I daren’t keep him doped any longer.” He leaned fdrward a little; his hand fumbled carelessly in the half-opened top drawer of the desk. A very faint burring sound began; the doctor went on, speaking louder:

“I’ve kept him drugged for three weeks, as we agreed, so you’d have time to falsify your income-tax returns without his interference. Have you done that?”

O’Brine nodded. "“Uh-huh, Return went in yestidday.” The thought cheered him; he looked cautiously about and went on more amiably: “An a long as it’s all fixed up now, and we're all alone here, I don’t mind tellin’ you that O’Brine & O’Brine’s saved close onto half a million dollars, what with jugglin’ one thing an’ another. Books all straight, too, an’ ready f’r inspection—an’ th’ real ones hid safe.”

“Ah!” said the doctor. Yes, yes, yes. But aren’t you afraid your brother’ll find it out? He won’t approve of your falsifying your returns— robbing the government of half a million— will he?”

O’Brine scowled. “He ain’t likely to find out, th’ way I got things fixed,” he replied. "Anyways, he wouldn't squeal, now it’s all done an’ over with. Anyways, unless—” His tone held doubt.

“Unless he found out you’d bribed me to dope him,” supplemented Gorham bluntly. He spoke loudly, distinctly, and O’Brine’s reply was raucously shrill.

“You crook! What you gettin’ at? S’pose I did hire you t’ dope th’ kid; you done it, didn’t you?”

“Did I?” asked the doctor pleasantly. Again his hand moved in the open desk drawer. The tiny buzzing stopped; O’Brine had not heard it at all. “But that isn’t what I got you out here for. You see, your brother is practically well now; he’s only got to rest up and get his strength back. And so it’s time for our settlement.”

O’Brine glared at him resentfully. “Settlement? You got me way out here without my dinner f’r that? Whaddya mean, settlement? I’m going to send a man out here to manage this place— pay the bills, an’ collect, an’ see things is run right. If you wanta stay I'll pay you a hunderd dollars a month, say, f’r house doctor. Take it ’r leave it.” He glared belligerently.

“Quite so. Yes, yes, yes. You're an ungrateful hound, aren’t you, O’Brine?” inquired the doctor amiably. And he smiled again, broader than ever. “But, my friend, your judgment is bad— very, very bad— and that’s more serious. Expediency, at least, should have taught you to be more civil to me, don’t you think ?”

The contractor only mouthed at him speechlessly; he seemed on the verge of apoplexy.

“I want my title deeds back,” pur- sued Gorham sweetly. “The deeds to this place, you know—and that transfer agreement. I'll just burn that up. And as long as you haven't registered the deed, no one need know that you ever bought Seaview Lodge.”

A groan was hi only reply. O’Brine was beyond words. Seeing it, Doctor Gorham pulled out the top drawer of his desk, exposing a neat, compact phonograph with a curious black rubber arrangement in place of a horn. From it trailed two fine wires.

“Two microphones set in the desk,” he explained. “One right at your elbow; the other for me. Works like a telephone; much handier than a big horn— and less conspicuous. It cost me quite a bit, this contraption.”

As he spoke he detached the thread-like wires, lifted the little phonograph to the desk, adjusted a reproducing needle, and fitted a small horn upon the sound arm.

He touched a spring, and that faint buzzing began once more. Then, remote and reedy, but distinct:

“I’ve kept him drugged for three weeks so you’d have time to falsify your income-tax returns...” Then O’Brine’s rougher voice took up the tale. “...O’Brine & O’Brine’s saved close onto half a million dollars… Books all straight... an’ th’ real ones hid safe.”

Doctor Gorham stopped the little machine, and turned back to his guest. The other’s ruddy color had paled to putty; he wet dry lips with a furred tongue.

“S-say,” he whispered uncertainly, “what are you? Federal dick?” Then he gripped his courage in both hands. “Anyways, I c’n smash that!”

He lurched to his feet, swinging one great, thick-knuckled fist wickedly; the other hand clutched at the phonograph.

Doctor Gorham evaded the blow with ease. Slipping the little machine with its incriminating record into a drawer, he leaned across the desk, caught the contractor’s wrists, and crossed them deftly, holding the raging man helpless.

His rust-flecked green eyes flashed wide; a malicious devil seemed to peep from them. Still holding his captive with careless ease, he laughed aloud, and O’Brine shuddered at the sound.

“I learned how to handle obstreperous lunatics a long time ago,” said Doc- tor Gorham. “No, I’m not a secret ervice man. I’m a doctor, and poor enough. You’ve got the deeds of my place, O’Brine. I want ’em back!”

O’Brine muttered a half-hearted defiance.

“Oh, yes! Yes, yes, yes, you will. I don’t say I’d turn that little record over to the department of justice—”

“You don’t dare!” cried the other, “You're tarred with the same stick Didn’t you dope the boy f’r me?”

“Did I?” repeated the physician. “Your brother was sent here on the advice of a very reputable practitioner, as a case of ptomaine poisoning. My charts and records show a typical severe autointoxication. There’s nothing to base even a suspicion of doping on— nothing but your diseased imagination, my friend.

“You can say I doped him if you like; but you can’t prove it. I welcome investigation. Would you care to have a couple of government audi- tors go through your grafting concern? They might find those books you hid away so safely. But that’s aside from the point. I want my deeds back, or I'll take this machine right down and play my record over for your brother Francis.”

And at that the contractor yielded. As Gorham released his wrists he dropped limply into a chair, sickly white to the very lips.

“Y-you wouldn’t do that?” he cried. “Why, Frank’d put th’ cops on me himself if he kmew. He’d never forgive me!”

The man was frightened now past all thought of resistance. His queer, perverted affection was alarmed. Sneer as he might at the other’s ideals, Aloysius O'Brine was eaten up with pride of his younger brether. He could plot to hoodwink the boy; such are the devieus ways of the human mind. He could dare, albeit with fear and trembling, even to risk his brother’s life in the of his profits. But he could not face the judgment of high-minded youth upon his strategems.

Here, and not in the fear of huge fines, even of imprisonment, was his really vulnerable point, and Doctor R, Townsend Gorham, no mean psychologist, had probed it unerringly.

Now the physician regarded his cringing guest calmly, without vulgar triumph.

“Where are those deeds?” he asked softly. “I want them here— in my hands— before noon to-morrow. Vae victis!” He grinned faintly acridly. “As for this record, I'll hold it for the present. You can have it the day your brother leaves.”

v

FRANCIS O’Brine improved daily. He was young and robust; his strength came back fast. Doctor Gorham and his aides were solicitous in his care; he was an engaging youth, and the boy rewarded their interest with a vast and boyish gratitude.

“I’ve been awfully sick,” he said. “I realize that. It was mighty lucky for me that I got into such capable hands. You’ve done well by me, Doctor Gorham. I can’t thank you enough.”

And the doctor, grave and dignified, spread his hands in modest deprecation. “We did what we could,” he murmured.

In five weeks the patient was well again; a bit weak, perhaps, but able to return to work.

“I’m rather glad it came just at this time, if I had to be sick,” he confided. “I dreaded that tax return; it’s a beastly job! You know,” he went on— this man Gorham was such a sympathetic listener; a good scout Gorham!— “Al and I had kind of a run-in about that. He pretended he was going to fake a return, cheat the govervment out of its dues. But pshaw! I knew he was just fooling. Old Al’s honest as the day. And I’m glad he’s got the returns fixed up; I won’t have to bother about that now.”

“Oh,” said Doctor Gorham queerly. “Yes, quite so. Yes, yes, yes!”

Then came the day of his departure. By request Doctor Gorham presented his account for five weeks’ sanitarium care. It was a long and exact statement: two thousand one hundred and forty-seven dollars and fifty-six cents, including “extras.” The doctor was not one to neglect opportunities, even minor ones.

Protesting eternal gratitude, young O’Brine made out his check. By not so much as the flicker of an eyelid did he question the amount; the doctor, watching, was conscious of a vague regret. Perhaps he should have added a few more “extras.”

They shook hands. The doctor gave his departing patient a small cylindrical package, carefully wrapped, sealed heavily with purple wax.

“For your brother,” he explained.

“For Mr. A. J. O’Brine, with my compliments. He’ll understand.”

They went out to O’Brine’s waiting car. As at the boy’s coming, the in- stitution’s whole staff stood on the steps; he had become a general favorite,

“Good-by, my boy,” said Doctor Gorham, not without feeling.

They shook hands again. “Good-by, doctor. Good-by, everybody!” The boy’s eyes were wet. “Your job for me is done now, and well done— mighty well done!”

Doctor Gorham climbed slowly back to his office and shut the door. Fumbling in a drawer, he produced his bank book and opened it.

“Fifteen hundred dollars, fifty thousand dollars,” the last two entries read— both on the credit side. He tucked young O’Brine’s check into the open book, laid it aside, and gazed lovingly at the recovered deed of Seaview Lodge.

“Well done,” he murmured. “Quite so. Yes, yes, yes; very well done. And so are you, Aloysius!”

And Doctor Gorham smiled.

_______________

13: Through the Looking Glass

Ernest M.  Poate

Detective Story Magazine 9 Nov 1920

DOCTOR JOHN MacMONIES hated his landlord. It was an ancient enmity, and not conditioned upon any quarrel over rents— although these two had quarreled bitterly enough throughout their financial relationship.

But the foundation of the dentist's grudge went deeper than this. Its roots ran back through the years of his increasing practice to the time when his now-tarnished shingle had been brave with gilt lettering, mint-new from the painter's hand; they drew their sustenance from a bitter pool of memory, and the tree of his hatred flourished, green and vigorous, now. that Doctor MacMonies was the leading dentist of West End Avenue, as in the days of his novitiate.

Graduating near the head of his class at the dental college, Doctor MacMonies had looked for a location, settling at last upon West End Avenue— that staid, conventional district of New York's comfortably well-to-do. The quiet good breeding of the neighborhood attracted him; its atmosphere of solid wealth without ostentation. Also, there lived Miss Frances Steele; and the opportunity to be near her meant much to him. In those days, Doctor John MacMonies had concealed a romantic heart beneath his front of awkward diffidence.

So he had accounted himself fortunate when Miss Frances' uncle, George Steele, rented him the first-floor apartment in his own house. He would live beneath the same roof as the rich old widower and the orphaned niece who kept his house; the doctor's fervid imagination built many a delightful fancy upon this base.

For a time all had gone well with his romance; for once, the course of true love bade fair to run smoothly enough. Folk liked this shy young dentist, whose technique was up to the minute; they approved of his white-enameled office with its tile floor, aseptically clean as that of an operating room, its glass- fronted sterilized and instrument cabinet, its plate-glass mirror whereat ladies might rearrange their hair, disordered from the dentist's chair. Doctor MacMonies' practice grew weekly; his income increased until he could pass a milliner's window display without wincing, until his thoughts dwelt more and more boldly upon the cost of house-keeping. And Miss Frances looked upon him kindly.

But only the young deny the truth of adages: the old have learned their sting, which lies in their infuriating exactness. So with Doctor MacMonies and the course of his romance. The two young people saw but each other; old, bilious George Steele thought of other things.

He had made large plans for this niece, who was his only living relative. In his surly fashion he loved her well. One day she would inherit all his fortune— a million dollars, perhaps.

He was not minded to have her throw herself away upon an impecunious dentist.

And so George Steele spoke privately with his niece. Growling and snorting portentously, as was his habit, he told her a dark tale about this young dentist's past; told it gruffly, between vicious puffs at a frayed cigar. His eyes shifted uneasily as he described MacMonies scandalous conduct, but the dusk hid his guilty flush, and it did not occur to Frances to doubt him. She was an inexperienced girl, after all; and she knew little enough about John MacMonies or about the ways of this world. She believed her uncle implicitly. For a night or two she cried herself to sleep, but that was all.

Her imagination had been touched, not her heart; she did not really suffer. And George Steele, watching her covertly, congratulated himself upon the success of his stratagem, MacMonies never knew how he had been slandered. He met the girl next morning, and her chilly greeting crushed him. Her heart was too tender for the cut direct; but she avoided the young man persistently, and at last told him that "Uncle George thought it best that their acquaintance should cease."

She had spent much time in framing this quaint, stiff little speech, undreaming of  the forces which it was to arouse.

If he had been a more aggressive personality, he would have protested, cornered her, demanded an interview. Thus he would have discovered his landlord s perfidy and cleared his name.

But not John MacMonies. He took his dismissal silently, like the diffident man he was. Frances Steele went her way, which was not his. He rarely saw her after that; and in a year she fell in love with a city detective, married him in spite of all her uncle's contrivances, and went to live in the Bronx. And old George Steele proved the truth of still another adage concerning love. For a time the girl thought coldly of MacMonies; gradually the memory of her uncle's tale faded, until it left about him only an aura of that vaguely fascinating wickedness which surrounds in girlish minds the "man with a past." As years went by and he remained unmarried, a kindness tinged her rare thoughts of him.

But with Doctor MacMonies it was not so. Instinctively he absolved Frances from all censure. Seizing upon her final words, he tried George Steele before the bar of his own mind, brooding upon the case through long, lonely hours, and at last found him guilty. Through much thinking he arrived at a surprisingly close approximation of  the man's real blame; and hated him accordingly.

The years slipped away, one after another. The shy, handsome young dentist grew into a seclusive, silent, old bachelor. His practice was now established, for he was a skillful man; he prospered, fattening his bank accounts with money for which he had no use. He could well have bought a house of his own, but, instead, he stayed on in the modest quarters of his beginnings, living in the two rooms behind his office. There he slept, cooked his own meals, and ate them in solitude— a bad habit, conducive of dyspepsia, physical and mental. There, too, he spent all his leisure hours. He had no friends, only acquaintances; as the habits of middle age settled stiffly about him he grew more and more morose and solitary.

Through many a long, sleepless night he brooded upon the wiles of George Steele, now grown a peevish, whining old dotard, indifferently cared for by a hired housekeeper.

The old gentleman suffered constantly from chronic indigestion; Riggs' disease loosened his teeth so that they wabbled to his irritable speech. He frittered his money away in foolish speculation; he treated his tenants so unreasonably that they moved away, one by one, until only Doctor MacMonies remained to put up with his foibles. One might have thought that his punishment was great enough; but not so John MacMonies, D. D. S.

The dentist nursed his grievance until it became a monomania. His busy imagination framed a thousand tales, each worse than the true one, which the old man might have told his niece. Somewhere, behind the locked door of a dark chamber in his brain, a little demon, born the day of his estrangement from Frances Steele, grew and thrived lustily, ever stronger and more hateful, until it battered vigorously upon the door of its confinement, clamoring to be out and at work.

Thus bitter brooding and vengeful thought preyed upon his mind and warped and twisted it, until John MacMonies, D. D. S., outwardly a sane and respectable citizen, became in truth a crafty maniac, waiting only his opportunity. Of nights, strange voices whispered to him over the "wireless telephones" of insane fancy. Each petty quarrel with his senile landlord was treasured up, to be magnified in his morbid imagination; the old man's every gesture, a half-heard word in passing, came to have some sinister significance. He fitted all into an unhealthy mosaic of justification for his growing hatred.

So matters stood at four o'clock one hot August afternoon. His day's work done, Doctor MacMonies was gathering up his instruments and putting them away when he heard a light step in the waiting room.

He glanced into the mirror set into the side of his swinging instrument stand; and his heart leaped in his breast. There, just inside the waiting-room door, stood Frances Renny, née Steele— the lady of his heart, as beautiful as his dreams of her. She looked hesitantly about, as though a trifle embarrassed; he hurried out to her.

Twelve years had passed since she dismissed him; Frances Renny had known hard work and sorrow. She had borne three children, doing her own housework the while—for a detective-sergeant's pay is meagre enough, and her uncle would do nothing for her. All these things were written plainly in her face; but Doctor MacMonies saw none of them. To him she was a radiant vision. His mouth was dry; he could not speak. Pangs of hopeless longing racked him.

"How do you do, Doctor MacMonies," began the lady, giving him her gloved hand. The tiny lines about mouth and eye corners deepened; a faint flush crept up beneath her clear skin. "I haven't seen you for a long time."

Holding her slender fingers, Doctor MacMonies bowed. This meeting, casual enough to the lady, was to him a severe ordeal. His pulses shook him; his heart tumbled over itself like some live thing imprisoned in his breast. The old love, never forgotten, flamed hot within him. He waited silently for his lady's pleasure.

"I came to see you about uncle George," Mrs. Renny went on, vaguely puzzled by his manner. "He's been sick for a long time, you know."

MacMonies nodded. He knew it well, who missed no movement of his enemy. For two weeks the old gentleman had stayed within door tor had visited him daily, and John MacMonies, watching, had been torn between gloating upon the other's discomfort and fear lest death cheat him of that long-desired revenge whose nature he had never dared to formulate, even to himself. Now, at the old man's name upon the lips of this woman, whom his lying tales had stolen from John MacMonies, all the doctor's hopeless love turned suddenly bitter and rushed into the channel of his ancient enmity, flooding it full.

Frances Renny was lost to him; the realization struck home to him at last, so that he looked at her with new eyes, seeing now only a tired, pleasant-faced woman verging upon middle age— a little faded, a little withered, no longer the deathless, unchanging beauty fashioned by his imagination.

The emotion which had colored all his thoughts of her detached itself; its strength was added to his hatred of George Steele. In that locked chamber of John MacMonies' breast the sleeping demon stirred and rose, feeling this new power; rose up and burst its door and emerged into the dentist's brain.

But aloud he said only, "Yes?"

"He's got rheumatism," the lady said. "He suffers dreadfully with it. And at last Doctor Johnson phoned to me, and he came right down, though uncle George and I haven't been very friendly since I got married. Well, the doctor says his trouble comes from his teeth— Riggs' disease, I think he called it— and he ought to have them all out. So I persuaded him to it— and we thought maybe you could do it to-night. Being right in the same building, I'm sure we could get him down here all right, and have them pulled while I'm here."

The dentist glanced at his watch. "I've got time right now," he decided. He'll have to have gas, of course." A fleeting spasm contracted his dark, thin face; his deep-set eyes shifted craftily. It was then, perhaps, that his idea first took shape. The liberated demon whispered softly in his twisted brain.

"He'll have to take gas; and he's an old man. No doubt his heart is bad. "I'd want to have Doctor Johnson here, in case anything should happen— heart failure, you know."

Mrs. Renny nodded, relieved. "It's awfully good of you, doctor," she said. "I was afraid, unless we had it done right away, that uncle would change his mind again. He's awfully unreasonable. But Doctor Johnson says his heart is all right. I'll go and get him."

"Have Johnson come down, anyway," insisted MacMonies. "I'd rather he'd be here."

The lady nodded again. "He'll come," she promised, then stopped in the doorway. "Oh, Doctor MacMonies, would you do something for me, first? I got a berry seed wedged in my tooth this noon, and it aches dreadfully. Would you just pick it out for me? It won't take a minute."

She drew off her hat and sat down in the operating chair. One deft touch with a tiny pick, and the seed was dislodged. She sighed with relief, exploring the spot with a pink tongue.

"That's so much better. Thank you, doctor!"

She caught up her hat with a bright smile, and was gone, promising to return with her uncle and Doctor Johnson. Doctor McMonies went methodically on, laying his instruments away, then stopped as though stung, one hand outstretched.

On the swinging stand before him lay a hatpin, a ten-inch bit of steel, round- headed, stilletto sharp. He blinked at it silently, while the demon in his brain whispered again. Then he roused himself and began to lay out tooth forceps.

Presently the outer door opened again. In the mirror he saw old George Steele, supported on either side by Doctor Johnson and his niece, limp complainingly into the room. He favored MacMonies with a frank scowl, muttering profane comments upon "cold- blooded dentists."

With a good deal of arguing and coaxing the old man was finally seated in the dentist's chair. MacMonies lifted the face mask from his nitrous-oxide cylinders, just at the left of the chair.

"Are you sure his heart will stand this, Johnson?" he asked anxiously. "There are one, two, five— eight teeth to come out, and he's an old man."

The stout, round-faced doctor nodded impatiently. "Sound as a dollar," he declared. "No danger at all. Nitrous oxide's not depressing, anyhow."

"We-ell," said MacMonies, "if you're so sure But I've seen trouble come from laughing gas, in old people. It's understood, then, that you take all responsibility?"

"Of course, of course," rather irritably. "What a lot of fuss you make, MacMonies! Anybody'd think this was your first multiple extraction. I'll be right here if anything should happen."

The dentist shrugged. "Better to be safe than sorry," he deprecated. "All set, then. Take deep breaths, Mr. Steele."

Frances turned away, shivering a little. "I'll wait outside," said she. "My husband'll be here soon— and I don't want to watch it, anyway."

She went out into the waiting room and sat down. Doctor Johnson subsided into the dentist's desk chair, looking bored. MacMonies pulled a three-fold screen out from the wall, shielding the operating chair from view.

"So she won't see anything," he explained. He applied his face mask to the old man's withered features, and turned a stopcock. "Just take deep breaths; it'll all be over in a minute."

Obediently, George inhaled deeply, once and again. His meager limbs twitched slightly; his eyelids fluttered and closed. In half a minute— for nitrous oxide is the quickest acting of all anesthetics— he was unconscious.

"Take a look, Johnson," called the dentist. "He's under now."

Grumbling under his breath at this excess of caution, the doctor rose and came forward. He took the sleeping man's pulse, glanced cursorily at his wide pupils, and waddled back to his seat.

"Right as a trivet," he grunted. "I told you."

He sat down, his back to the light, and picked up a magazine. John MacMonies looked swiftly about. Mrs. Renny was in the waiting room, out of sight. The physician's broad back expressed complete unconcern. Moreover, the high screen shielded his movements from view; even had the other looked about he could see nothing without rising to peer over its top. MacMonies picked up a forceps; his hand shook visibly.

With a deft twist he drew a lower incisor. His patient sighed and stirred almost imperceptibly; that was all. He was well anesthetized.

The dentist looked about once more, furtively, guiltily. His sallow face was suddenly convulsed with bitter hate; all his long-nurtured enmity for this dotard, now helpless beneath his hand, flamed out in an expression of devilish intensity. But there was none to note it.

His hand now deadly firm, ruthless, he laid his forceps down. With desperate swiftness he snatched up Frances Renny's hatpin, which still lay on his swinging stand. There was a quaint justice in this, he thought grimly— that his lost love should unconsciously have provided him with the weapon to avenge his lass of her. His long-latent madness had broken through at last; no sane man would have taken such a risk. No sane man could have moved so swiftly, with such deadly accuracy.

While Frances Renny waited just outside, shudderingly braced for an outcry; while Doctor Johnson yawned and nodded over his journal, almost within arm's reach, John MacMonies acted.

He lifted the unconscious man's right eyelid. Deftly, quick as a striking snake, he thrust the ten-inch blade of the hatpin into the sulcus between lid and eyeball— through the paper-thin of the orbital plate, until it met solid bone of the occiput.

In a breath, in the winking of an eye— while Doctor Johnson was still midway of a yawn— the thing was done.

MacMonies withdrew the hatpin and replaced it on his stand.

He picked up his forceps, before any one knew that he had laid it down, and gripped another tooth.

Then he cried out. His instrument dropped, ringing, to the floor.

"Quick, Johnson! Here! Something's happened— he's not breathing!"

The doctor sprang up. As he turned, MacMonies glanced into the little mirror of his swinging stand. It reflected a face!

A grim, square face, with cropped mustache, whose sharp, gray eyes were riveted upon his own. They held an inscrutable look; was it horror, accusation— or merely surprise.

Forgetting his patient, the dentist put a shaking hand to his forehead, still staring dully at that mirrored face. Who was this stranger? How long had he stood there, unnoticed? What had he seen?

But Doctor Johnson had bustled forward, overturning the screen. He touched the patient's pulse carelessly, scowling; evidently he was disgusted with this panicky dentist. Then he felt again; then glanced keenly at the old man's half-closed eyes, already glazing over. MacMonies held his breath. Would he notice that the right eye was open a trifle wider?

Apparently not. Now thoroughly alarmed, the bulky physician tore open George Steele's shirt and put an ear to that quiet heart. He straightened, grave-faced, frowning at Frances Renny, who stood in the doorway, white and trembling. Over her shoulder peered another face, grimly calm, expressionless. Sharp, gray eyes regarded the dentist impersonally; did their gaze hold a threat?

"He's dead," the physician said gravely.

Frances Renny sobbed. MacMonies groaned aloud; his pale face showed nothing but shocked self-reproach.

"I was afraid of it," he said brokenly.  "I didn't like his looks. You know— I spoke to you about it, doctor, didn't I? but you were so sure. It wasn't my fault—nobody could blame me, could they, now? I said I didn't like it."

The bluff physician gave him a disgusted scowl. He was not one to evade his responsibilities.

"Don't worry, MacMonies," he said coldly. "Never mind the alibis now. Help me get him home. If there's any blame, I'll take it all; but the man's heart seemed sound enough: Nobody could have expected him to go off like that." His lips moved; under his breath he was muttering, "Darned yellow pup!" Then he went on, aloud: "Of course, he had chronic rheumatism ; it must have affected his heart, I suppose. No," he said sneeringly, in answer to the dentist's scared mumble, "don't get into a sweat. There'll be no inquest; you won't be involved. I'll write a death certificate of 'heart failure.' "

John MacMonies wabbled to a chair and sat down, head in hands. The reaction of his deed had left him white-lipped and trembling—but he was safe! This stupid doctor would shield him; there would be no post-mortem to reveal his crime; his suddenly devised plot, prompted by that leering devil in his brain, would go through without a hitch.

With a vast sigh he lifted his face— to look straight into those blank gray eyes.

Fear leaped up anew in his breast. "Wh-who is that?" he demanded.

Mrs. Renny looked at him wonderingly. "Why, this is Jack— my husband, Mr. Renny," she explained. "He came to meet me here."

Jack Renny! Frances' husband, the detective! Stark terror wrenched at MacMonies' heart ; he was a pitiable object. What had this detective seen? Was all his craft, his daring, to go for nothing? Even the bluff physician was moved by his collapse.

"Don't take it so hard, man," he said in an almost soothing manner. '"Nobody's blaming you. If there was any fault, it's mine. Come on, now; help us get him out of here."

At last it was done, and the dentist was left alone. As he turned from Steele's door to go back downstairs, Mrs. Renny called after him.

"Doctor MacMonies! Oh, doctor! My husband's coming to see you in a few days!"

MacMonies leaped into the air; his nerves were tortured beyond endurance. He could stand this strain no longer. What did the detective want of him? Were they all playing with him, tormenting him, as a cat does a mouse? Fortunately the dark hallway hid his movements, and his involuntary outcry was covered by the closing of the door.

He returned to his own rooms in a frenzy of fear, to pace the floor far into the night, gnawing his nails and muttering to himself. Voices whispered in his warped brain— new voices, crafty and jeering. They talked to each other confidentially: "He thinks nobody saw him— he doesn't know the police were watching, watching him in that mirror! Poor, blundering fool— won't he be surprised?" They shouted aloud in his ear, so that he started and looked over his shoulder: "We saw you. We saw you! We saw you kill him!" John MacMonies was frankly insane.

But the night passed, and another day. Gradually, as his nerves quieted down, his hallucinations grew less distinct, less threatening. He took heart, and began to ignore them.

True to his promise, Doctor Johnson made out a certificate of death due to natural causes. Peering through the crack of his door, MacMonies saw the undertaker pass down the hall, bag in hand, to begin his work. He stood at his window, smiling oddly at the black wagon, muttering to himself, at times casting startled glances back over his shoulder. He canceled his appointments; his door was locked; he did no work that day. Folk passing saw him at his window and talked among themselves, pitying him. "Poor MacMonies! He takes it dreadfully to heart," they said. "And yet nobody blames him."

The following morning his office was open. Doctor MacMonies received his patients as usual— rather pale, graver than was his wont, but steady-handed and cool. He received condolences quietly, protesting his freedom from responsibility. "I warned Johnson," he asseverated. "I was afraid of the old man's heart. But he insisted; he took all responsibility. He was right there with me, you know." And he would smile cunningly behind his hand.

He did not attend the funeral; his impudence would not lead him quiet so far; but he closed his office during the time of it, and watched secretly through the crack of the door. As the pall-bearers labored down the narrow hall with their load, he laughed almost aloud. His heart was very light and free. George Steele was dead! He was punished at last for his lies, for his wrecking of a life, for his thousand petty annoyances, for his sneers and his whispers over the "wireless telephone." His voice would no longer awake John MacMonies at midnight, calling him vile names.

Even as he muttered some such word as these, his hallucinations, began again; not George Steele's querulous tones now, but new, strange, jeering voice that gibed and laughed, calling him fool and murderer.

He turned from the window and fell to pacing the floor, talking aloud to him self, answering imaginary voices that accused him, laughing crazily, until the door creaked at his back.

MacMonies fell silent; his heart dropped sickeningly. He whirled on his heel. Frances Renny stood in the doorway, clad all in black.  "I—I thought there was some one here," said she. "I heard voices."

The dentist grinned  mirthlessly. "Voices?" he repeated. "Voices! There's too many voices round here!" He controlled himself with an effort. "Is there anything I can do?"

"Just— just my hatpin," returned the lady. "Did I leave it here the other day? It was a present from Jack— I'd hate to lose it."

MacMonies looked at her wildly. "Oh. Oh, yes. Yes, your hatpin," he muttered with an odd, defensive gesture. "Yes. Yes, I— I think I did see it round, somewhere."

She followed him into the inner office, wondering at his strange manner.

"I didn't know but maybe you'd been using it for something," she went on

with forced playfulness. "I know, once my dentist, uptown, took a long pin thing and jabbed it into my eye—"

"What?" It was a terrified gasp.

"Into my eyetooth," explained the lady, amazed. "What's the matter, Doctor MacMonies? Are you sick? He was killing a nerve, you know, and he took this broach— it seemed just as big and long as my hatpin, too— and put it up into my tooth, and it felt as if it went way through my brain. So I thought maybe you'd been using my hatpin that way," she finished uneasily, seeing that her talk distressed the other, yet too embarrassed and alarmed at his manner to change the subject.

"That—that was fu—funny," the dentist stammered. "Ha-ha! Very st— strange indeed. Here's your pin, Frances."

She took it from his shaking hand. "Why, it's all rusty," she cried. "It's stained with something. I do believe you have been using it, doctor!"

MacMonies snatched it from her hand. Yes, there was a brownish stain upon its blade! Fool! Why hadn't he wiped it clean? He had wiped it off, surely. Mad laughter ran in his sick brain; demoniacal voices gibbered at him.

Mrs. Renny turned away, patently glad to go. The doctor was acting very oddly, she thought; he must have taken uncle George's death to heart.

"My husband's coming to see you to-morrow," she told him. "He has some- thing to talk over."

She left the dentist speechless, almost swooning with terror. It was all up; everything was known; this detective had seen the whole affair. He had told his wife; she had been laughing in her sleeve all the while, with her innocent sounding talk of pins thrust through her brain. Why didn't they arrest him outright? This cruel dallying, this delight in his misery, was too dreadful. What did they want? A confession? He recalled tales of police traps— of the "psychological third degree;" of intricate schemes devised to work upon a criminal's fears and force him to confess his deed. Frances Renny and her husband, the detective; no doubt Doctor Johnson, too. They were all in it— all plotting against him, playing with him, catwise, delighting in his agony.

He dropped to the floor and lay there, prostrate, face buried in his hands, sobbing hopelessly. Fiendishly gleeful voices rang in his ears: "They saw it all— saw it all! They've got you— we've got you! You'll go to jail, and then to the electric chair. But first, we'll have our sport with you! Ha, ha, ha!"

Peal on peal of demoniacal laughter beat on his quivering nerves.

How that night passed Doctor MacMonies never knew. He raged about his lonely rooms, bruising himself against the walls, gnawing his nails, in a frenzied delirium.

Next morning he unlocked his door; but he turned all patients away. He was sick, he said; he could do no work that day. His twisted, putty-colored face showed the truth of his words; he looked a sick man, indeed.

Yet he dared not bolt the door. Cringing, trembling, he awaited the detective's appearance, fearing it, yet with a sort of desperate anxiety to end his torment.

And presently he looked up from his pacing to see a square, grim face mirrored in the looking-glass on his instrument stand. With a mighty effort he straightened his face and stepped out to meet his fate.

The detective advanced, smiling faintly; but his sharp, gray eyes were mirthless.

"That's very convenient, that looking-glass, doctor," he began casually. "You can see who comes into the waiting room without going out. And anybody out here can see you, too, of course."

The dentist merely mouthed at him, making no sound.

"My wife says you're a fine dentist, in spite of that accident the other day. Queer, wasn't it, that I happened to be looking into this mirror just at the moment? I saw the whole thing— saw you drop your forceps and cry out and everything. But what I came to say was: Doctor Rutledge wants to see you."

"Doctor Rutledge!" It was a hoarse croak. "Doctor Rutledge— the medical examiner? Wh-why— what— wasn't the old man buried, after all?"

The detective stared at him in blank amazement, followed by dawning suspicion.

"What do you mean?" he asked slowly. "No; Mr. Steele's body is up in the receiving vault at Woodside. We're going to buy a lot with a vault. What of it? And what's that got to do with my stepbrother's coming up here to have his teeth seen to?"

It would not have been too late, perhaps, even now. But the man's madness drove him on; voices whispered to him: "He's playing with you, fooling you, waiting to strike after the autopsy!" John MacMonies threw up both hands.

"Stop it!" he screamed. "Stop it! I can't stand any more, I tell you. Haven't you any mercy at all? What's the use waiting for Rutledge? He needn't come up here, questioning and hinting and making signs, like the rest of you. I've stood all I can, I tell you. I give up—I'll confess—I'll thing. Only stop playing with me!"

At last his meaning came home to the detective. The square, grim face grew squarer, grimmer; the keen eyes hardened.

"All right, then— confess! Tell me the whole business and we'll let up on you."

Driven by his own madness, John MacMonies freed his mind at last; to the wondering officer, who had suspected nothing, he poured out the who bitter tale of his hatred, of the "wireless telephone" which had harried him, of the suddenly conceived plot so boldly executed, of murder done almost before the eyes of a physician yet unsuspected by any one.

"And I knew, as soon as I looked up, that you'd seen it all in that looking-glass," he finished. "Confound the thing— it's finished me!"

With a sudden, vicious swing, he dashed his fist against the mirror. It shivered into bits; the instrument stand, in whose side it was set, leaped and swung, then  dropped to the floor, torn from the swinging arm which held it. A shower of tiny instruments, vials of zinc, iodine, a little alcohol lamp, tinkled and clattered upon the floor.

"What was the use," the dentist went on hopelessly, "of torturing me so? Why did you send your wife about sticking pins through people's brains? Why do you come up here with your talk about looking-glasses and the medical examiner coming to have his teeth fixed, and such foolishness? It's not fair— it's not right! Why must you torture me so? You had me; I'd've confessed first off if you'd just come out like a man."

His face stern, yet full of pity for the man's evident madness, Jack Renny snapped handcuffs on the lean, tremulous wrists. And the dentist followed him meekly enough, palpably relieved to be under arrest at last. Nor did he ever learn, during all his long life at Matteawan Insane Hospital, how his own fancy had betrayed him.

__________________

14: By Way of Experience

Anna Alice Chapin

1880-1920

Ainslee's, August 1913

Detective Story Magazine, 16 April 1921

AS she sat in the log hut, miles away from any habitation, Pippa found herself ironically repeating her words of six hours before:

"Yes, I should like to go up Mount Pelican— just by way of experience."

It had sounded so cheerfully and safely adventurous in the quiet dining room of the Daltons, in the comfortable little town in the valley. It was a simple matter to fit her out with tramping togs and to engage a guide who knew the mountains. Then had come the snowstorm and the starting of sundry old snowslides, under the furiously rising wind. It had ended in a scramble for this hill shelter, the hut used by divers trappers, and  lumberjacks through the long winters; and now—  well, it looked like an all-night job, at the least of it, said the guide. And all "by way of experience!"

Philippa Carpenter was spending a month in Oregon with the Daltons, people she had met on her world-wide wanderings. The little town of Barrow, nestled among the chaos of rugged hills, filled with the roar of the great stream that carried the logs down from the mountain forests, had been a tremendous tonic and inspiration to her. Every morning she rose to greet mighty Mount Shasta, shining white in the first sunshine, and found new hope and strength in that marvelous vision. She was not a mountain climber and she could not essay any of the higher bliss, but she had decided to go up Mount Pelican, "by way of experience!"

Pippa could have laughed, albeit hysterically, at the way that silly phrase reiterated itself in her tired brain. With a rueful, yet humorous, twist of thought, she determined to fight shy of all new experiences, forever after, amen!

In all her luxurious life she had never come so near to practical realities as to-night. Time and again, she had found herself close to the heart of life, but it was the heart of mental and emotional life, not merciless and uncompromising physical life. Here in the bare and comfortless hut, with the winds shrieking outside, Philippa felt a sense of awe and wonder. Had such things been going on all along, while she trailed French clothes about Paris and New York and Vienna? Had the mountains been swept by these ravaging tempests year after year— tempests in which strong men suffered and sometimes died?

The realization of a new view of life is always rather staggering to the soul. Pippa was more adaptable, more sentient, and more imaginative than most women. She had a bigger outlook and a broader grasp of things, yet she felt as helpless as a little child as she sat there listening to the howling wind and waiting for the guide to come back.

He had only gone to a shed near by, where the trappers kept wood against just such times of need; he had been gone barely five minutes, yet already Pippa was restless. She was, however, able to realize the quaintness of the situation and to smile wryly at the way the only man present becomes inevitably The Man upon whom a woman leans. Guide, king, knave, scholar, or fool— it made very little difference, philosophized Philippa— in times of trouble or danger, women were only too willing, like Portia, to let him pass for a man!

A wilder noise of storm and a gust of icy wind made her start up eagerly. The guide hastily closed the door be- hind him and stood beating the snow from his cap against his knee.

He had a haggard, handsome face, marked about the eyes with gray shadows. The eyes themselves were dark blue and very clear; it seemed to Mrs. Carpenter that there was an incurably hurt look in them, like that of a beaten dog. The mouth— how sensitive it was! Full of lip and deeply creased at the corners, it told of a thousand moods and emotion still-born or smothered at the moment of birth. A man who had lived and suffered, clearly. Mrs. Carpenter understood men; it was not, perhaps, only a passing impulse that made her desire to understand this man.

For the moment, however, she was too full of the urgency of their situation to allow her thoughts to go very far afield:

"Well?" she said quickly.

The man shrugged his big shoulders and walked heavily across the room to the fire. It flared up, showing the board walls of the hut, rough and stained and full of knot holes; showing, too, the bunks built against them, like steamer berths. The place smelled musty, but it was the clean mustiness of old, damp timber.

"No wood left," he said laconically. "It's been a bad winter. Guess the last lumber gang used it up and forgot to replenish."

Pippa looked at him in bewilderment that slowly changed to horror.

"But— we'll freeze!' she exclaimed.

The man laughed. His laughter had a rusty sound, as if it were not often called into use.

"No," he said. "We shan't freeze. There's enough wood in the house here to keep the fire going nearly all night— without counting the table and chairs, all good combustibles."

The intonation or the choice of the words arrested Pippa's imagination. The man must be educated to speak like that. And there was just a hint of accent For a moment she forgot the dire straits they were in and surveyed him with a keen interest.

"Please tell me," she said abruptly— she never wasted time on preliminaries, which was one reason why she always got on better with men than with women— "aren't you English?"

The man began te poke the fire— carefully, so as to waste no ounce of fuel.

"Somersetshire," he rejoined briefly. And then, with a twisted smile: 'Do you read Kipling?" Pippa nodded silently.

He began to quote under his breath:

"We're little black sheep that have gone astray,

Baa, baa, baa—"

He stopped short and gave the fire a particularly vicious poke.

"Oh, hang it all!" he said. Then Pippa heard a smothered expletive, and realized for the first time what a world of pathos the profane word could con- tain.

"I've always been crooked," he said heavily, crouched before the fire. "I suppose it was in my blood

"From the legion of the lost ones, From the cohorts of the damned—

"That's where I come in, Mrs. Carpenter. I've never lived straight two months on end. But this time I'm going to win out— and go— home!"

"To England?"

"Where else?" His look held a vague wonder. "There was a girl— but that was nearly ten years ago. She's probably got a husband and six children by now."

Suddenly he straightened up and faced her.

"Do you realize just what the situation is?" he demanded. "How many inquiries did you make when you started to look for a guide?"

Pippa stared at him, startled.

"Why—" she began haltingly and rather vaguely. "I— I don't believe I made any! Mr. Dalton was away, and I thought—"

"Exactly. Mr. Dalton was away. If he had been at home he would never have let you come up Pelican with me. I—" He stopped and drew a long breath. "I'm a crook, Mrs. Carpenter."

"What are you talking about?" She was honestly bewildered.

"I'm a crook, I tell you," he persisted doggedly. "I came up here as a guide just to get out of town."

"And stage-managed the storm and everything, I suppose!" she appended unbelievingly and somewhat derisively.

He smiled a rather twisted smile as he shook his head.

"No," he said, "I didn't plan the snow. I'm not sure whether it's going to be a help or a hindrance— yet! It's this way " He paused and drew a wooden stool closer to the fire.

"Wouldn't you be warmer here?" he suggested deferentially.

Philippa moved to the point nearer the blaze and held out her chilled hands.

"Go on," she said.

The man stood now, looking down into the flame and glow.

"I had to get out of Barrow," he said finally in a very simple fashion. "I've— lit out with ten thousand bucks that don't belong to me.'

Pippa's eyes, raised to his, were filled with an amazement that was for the moment, too great to include horror.

"Ten thousand dollars! Why— then," she said, still gazing through the firelight at the lined and haggard face, "you're a thief?"

The man nodded, without apparent emotion. He still stared into the fire, and Philippa still stared at him.

A wild burst of wind shook the little hut, sending flurries of snow under the rattling door, but neither of them noticed it. A silence was poised fast between them and hung so, growing more and more tense every moment.

The night seemed full of voices. Were they warning, menacing, mocking— or all three? The strings of Pippa's life had been tautly strung, and she recognized an urgency that pervaded the atmosphere. She was not in the least afraid of the man. She was never afraid of anything. But she was more thrilled and interested than in many a long, chill moon. And, characteristically, she forgot the dangers of cold, hunger, and isolation in her absorption of the moment.

"What did you do it for?" she asked simply and without preamble.

"To get away," was the equally direct answer.

"But can't they follow you— overtake you here— to-night?"

The man shrugged a pair of lean, but sturdy, shoulders.

"Maybe," he remarked laconieally. "If they can get up the trail. But that works two ways. It wouldn't be any cinch to get over the pass and away, a night like this. Besides " He paused "Besides— what?" said Pippa.

"Nothing. It's a bad night, and—"

"Nevertheless," she thrust in swiftly and with conviction, "if you weren't with me you would take the chance, storm or not? It's having a woman on your hands that hampers you?"

"Perhaps," he admitted, without emotion. "I couldn't very well leave you to the chance of freezing, in case they don't come, could I?"

"Why not?" she asked him quietly.

"Oh— because!"

She almost laughed, although half tenderly, at the slow, yet boyish, flush that accompanied the word.

"But," she went on quickly, "what reason could there be for taking a chance of this sort— palming yourself off as a dependable guide, taking me up here, with the full intention of giving me and every one else the slip and getting away— and then— quitting?"

She was purposely using words here and there that she knew to be from the - crude vernacular.

"You ought to understand," said the man, without looking at her. "You're— different. I wouldn't have cared, with most women. I'd have left them to be frozen or rescued, just as things happened to turn out. But you—"

She saw his knuckles whiten as he clenched the hand that hung at his side, "You're different. In the first place, you're a lady. You don't belong out here or with people like— me; and yet, believe it or not, the women of my people have been ladies, too. I've been away from God's country for nearly ten years, but— I can't leave you here alone in the storm any more than I could leave one of my mother's guests without—"

His voice failed him. Suddenly becoming self-conscious, like nearly all human males when laboring under sincere emotion, he tramped to the door and tried the fastenings.

"Come here!" said Pippa Carpenter.

Her voice was like a bell. She sat there in the firelight, with the red radiance glittering on her red hair, and her eyes unbelievably dark in her white face.

The man, as if in wonder, went slowly back to her. Pippa stretched out a slim, cold hand and took one of his. Almost without his knowing it, he slipped to one knee before her, and the unfathomable purple-gray eyes looked straight into his.

"I want you to go away," she said gently. "But I want you to leave the money with me. Will you do that?"

"But how can I—" he was beginning. Her vehement voice broke in and stopped him short.

"Work! Walk! But go! And go home. Perhaps the girl will have waited. How can we know? I should have!"

He stared into her eyes a long moment. When he spoke there was a queer break in his voice.

"Yes— you would have. Only— the Lord was too busy filling the world with just— people to take the time to make many like you. Here's the money."

He took from his pocket a roll of bills and put them into her hands. Gravely and quite deliberately she drew from the roll one bill and gave it back to him.

"It will carry you part of the way, anyway," she said.

He looked at the crumpled green slip in his hand.

"And you want me to take this—" he was beginning, frowning, when she checked him,

"As a loan from me. I shall pay it back myself. And you shall pay me back, when you— get home."

Their eyes met in a long look.

"What sort of a woman are you?" whispered the man, and she felt his tremulous, hard kiss upon her hand.

The next moment both started, and Pippa hid the money inside the loose blouse of her dress. In a lull in the tempest they could hear the sound of clumping footsteps and smothered voices.

"So it's too late, after all!" muttered the Englishman, rising to his feet.

Pippa was listening intently.

"It's the rescue party, of course," she said.

"Sure," said the man, with a rather bitter grin; "but a rescue party ready for a little lynching séance on the side. They know very well I'm here!"

He laughed and began to examine his revolver.

"Wait!" said Pippa quietly, but sharply. The wind had risen again, and they could not tell how close the men had drawn. "I have an idea! Do what I tell you! Go into that other room— instantly— do you hear? Do what I tell you!" as he hesitated. "'And, while I am talking to the men, get out of the window and away— and— God be good to you!" she ended gently. Then, as a heavy knock sounded on the door, she pushed him frantically. "Will you go?" she almost screamed at him, though it was an inaudible scream.

When the men from Barrow came in they found a white-faced woman sitting calmly by the fire.

"Well, gentlemen?" she said coolly. "What is it you want? Shelter from the storm, I suppose?"

"We want Oliver Crane, ma'am," said the spokesman, a big, rough- bearded fellow.

"What do you want with him?" she demanded. She looked very lovely, with the red firelight playing on her tumbled hair.

"We want to lock him up!" said the fellow grimly. "He's no guide, ma'am— he's a thief!"

"Oh— no!" she said.

"Yes'm. Where is he?"

"But what has he done?" she temporized. How many minutes had passed, she wondered.

"Stolen a wad from a chap down below. Better let us take him, ma'am, without a fuss."

"But suppose he gives the money back?" urged Pippa. Her great eyes searched their faces anxiously. Some of the men laughed.

"No fear, ma'am," said the spokesman. "But even if he did, I'm obliged to arrest him, anyway. I'm deputy sheriff round here, and law is law!"

"I thought I had seen you with one of the lumber gangs," said Pippa, suddenly regarding him.

"Well, I'm a lumberjack, too," he said.

Pippa drew a long breath and then faced them more squarely.

"Why won't you give him his chance?" she pleaded, a strange, but appealing, Portia, in flannel shirt and climbing skirt. "Would one of you want to be punished— punished hopelessly and irrevocably— for keeps, I mean?" She corrected the more dif- ficult word to meet the understanding of her audience. "Would you like to feel that just because you slipped up once, you'd have to pay, pay, pay all your life?"

"That's all right, ma'am," spoke up a little, sandy fellow from the bunch of men, "but we can't afford to have crooks loose in our camp— not on your life we can't!"

"Crook!" began Philippa indignantly. "He isn't a regular crook! He's a—"

She checked herself, realizing how absurd her explanation would sound.

"He's a mighty good imitation of one," the bearded man remarked dryly.

Pippa cast wildly about in her own mind for some argument that would hold them for a few minutes longer.

"I've heard," she said slowly, "that when you run the logs down in the spring, there are sometimes dams and breakwaters, belonging to other men, that you have to break down. Is that so?

"That's so, ma'am."

"It's illegal— against the law, isn't it?"

The men grinned a little sheepishly. They began to see what she was driving at.

"It don't happen very often," one of them ventured rather unwisely.

"Ah!" exclaimed Pippa. "But say it happened once even— it was against the law. Suppose you were sent to jail for it?"

"That ain't the question, ma'am," the big man said bluntly. "Breakin' dams and stealin' money's two different things, I reckon. We want Ol Crane, and we're goin' to get him!"

Pippa suddenly flamed upon them.

"You're not going to get him!" she declared almost savagely. "I'm going to stop you from getting him. I won't see any man put in jail for just one mad thing he did!"

"You're plumb interested in him, ain't you, ma'am?" said a fat fellow who hadn't spoken before. The tone was frankly insolent. Pippa Carpenter had never been so whitely angry in her life. But even through her rage she wondered— wondered— whether he had gotten away.

"Well, boys," said the bearded man, "we'd better search the premises and then be moving on."

As her last coup, Pippa pulled the roll of bills from her dress and said:

"Here's the wretched money! Now will you let him alone?"

All the men started and stared, and then there was a whoop of coarse laugh- ter.

"So it was you he stole it for!" shouted the fat man. "Say, boys, it's great, ain't it? Ol Crane and a— lady!"

Pippa stood there, feeling rather sick and faint with the shock.

"The wind's down!" cried some one near the door. He opened it and added exultantly: "An' it's stopped snowin', too!"

A sudden stillness had fallen about the cabin. One could hear. the crackle of a falling icicle, the blurred thud of a slipping drift.

"Oh, thank God!" said Pippa and hid her face in her hands, for she knew that with the wind and snow both stilled, it would be a short matter to get either down the mountain or over the pass.

But, at the moment in which she breathed the words, that closed inner door banged so violently that every one— Pippa with the rest— started in astonishment.

The Englishman, Oliver Crane, stood there, rather grim, but perfectly tract- able.

"I guess I'm the one you're out after, boys," he said. "I've got the money you're looking for and I guess I've got the proofs of identity."

Two minutes later he stepped close to Pippa and, unseen, shook her arm almost roughly.

"The money!" he muttered. "Quick!" I want to take it back myself."

Silently she passed it to him. The men were conferring at the door as to the advisability of attempting the down trail immediately.

Pippa lifted her eyes to his.

"Why did you do it?" she asked. "Why did you come back? Oh, why— why did you do it?"

"Do you think I could stand there in hiding to hear you fight for me like that? Hear you insulted for it?" His own voice shook, and he was even whiter than she was. "You have stood by me and tried to help me regain my hold on self-respect and honesty. Helps me now to meet the law and justice."

"I guess we'll try the descent now, ma'am," said the bearded man, turning into the room.

Pippa looked at Crane, and her eyes eloquently approved his decision. Then she said: "I am ready to start, gentlemen, when you are."

__________________

15: Three Alike

Ernest M. Poate

Detective Story Magazine 10 Aug 1920

HENRY LODGE KENNEDY, JR., ceased for a moment to a curse the hardness of waiting-room benches and the unreasonable strictness of those government specifications which had necessitated his hurried trip to Washington, and looked about curiously.

From the tail of his eye he had caught a glimpse of a dark-brown traveling bag. Now the high-arched waiting room of the Pennslyviania Terminal, in New York, held several hundred people; that is as usual at midnight as at eleven in the morning; and most of them had bags and suit cases of one sort or another.

This was a very special kind of bag, and young Kennedy, always fastidious about his personal belongings, looked at it with envy. It was an alligator-skin kit bag, not aggressively new, but in perfect condition; the flat bosses of its covering shone with a glossy, rich brown glint which seemed to announce at once the wealth and perfect taste of its fortunate possessor.

"If I had a bag like that," thought Kennedy, "bell boys and porters would fight for the honor of carrying it— even in Washington. It might even get me a decent room!"

He thought disdainfully of his own modest cowhide suitcase as his eyes moved curiously upward from the bag to its bearer, and lingered there, entranced.

For she was a wonderfully pretty girl. Slight, almost petite, she wore an expensively plain trotteur suit which enhanced the grace of her slender figure. A saucy little forward-tilting hat, perched upon a great mass of red-gold hair, matched and deepened the color of her big violet eyes. Despite her air of quiet poise, there was about her a hint of that almost pathetic appeal for help and protection which such little, big-eyed girls make, all unconsciously. Watching, young Kennedy caught himself longing for some peril from which to save her— some muddy puddle over which he might throw a velvet cloak to protect her tiny patent-leathered feet from defilement. She was that sort of girl.

She walked slowly, her blue eyes searching the huge place as for some familiar face. She was to meet some one here, Kennedy decided— some man, no doubt. He felt a twinge of wholly unreasonable jealousy at the thought. Her face looked tired; her soft mouth was drawn into a pathetic little droop; her right shoulder sagged a trifle as though the alligator bag were too heavy.

Kennedy repressed an impulse to offer his aid. It wasn't right, he thought re- sentfully, that she should have to lug that great, clumsy bag about. What were her people— what was that con- founded selfish chap she'd come here to meet thinking about to let her do it? But it couldn't be helped. If he offered to carry it for her the girl would only snub him; and right enough. It was none of his business.

So he shifted once more, trying to find a soft place on the wooden bench, and fell into morose thought at the lack of consideration of Federal inspectors, the impracticality of architects, the perversity of workmen, and all the other difficulties with which Kennedy & Son, building contractors, were contending in the erection of the three small-city post-office buildings which now occupied the firm's workmen.

But he did not quite lose track of the girl with the alligator-skin bag. From an eye corner he followed her slow progress about the waiting room; saw her pause here and there to set down her heavy burden and search the crowd with weary eyes. At last, her circuit completed, she stopped directly in front of Kennedy's bench.

Dropping the bag with a sigh of relief, she glanced demurely at the young man from beneath long curving lashes, caught his ardent eyes and looked away immediately. Beneath her clear, translucent skin the color rose faintly; yet she did not seem wholly displeased. Harry Kennedy was a personable youth.

The girl sank down upon a bench opposite him, arranging her skirts about her with the deft, graceful hands of the young woman who knows herself watched. From behind an unread news- paper, Kennedy's admiring eyes fol- lowed her every movement.

She seemed uneasy, almost worried; plainly the person for whom she waited was late for his appointment. Her big dark-fringed eyes kept turning toward the entrance; two or three times she half started up, then dropped back in disappointment. It seemed to Kennedy that her manner was almost apprehensive. This must have been a most important engagement, he thought— and wondered again, with that absurd tinge of jealousy, whether it was with husband or friend.

At last, with a final glance at her tiny wrist watch, the girl of the alligator-skin bag rose and stood hesitant for an instant, pinching a rose-red lip between slender fingers. Then she walked straight toward Harry Kennedy.

That young man was on his feet, hat in hand, bending deferentially forward,  before she had crossed half the space between them. For a breath he feared she would pass him without speaking, and turned brick-red with shame at his precipitancy. But she stopped after all.

"I beg your pardon," she murmured, eyes downcast so that he saw only her thick, black, curling lashes, "but are you going to be here for a few minutes?"

Kennedy glanced at the nearest station clock. Being one of those who detest hurrying, he had come to the station in ample time; it still wanted twenty minutes to train time.

"Why, yes," he replied enthusiastically. "I'll be right here for half an hour. If there's anything I can do—"

"Why, if you'd just watch my bag for a minute, while I go out into the concourse— I was to meet some one here; I'm afraid I must have missed him."

Repressing a wild desire to tell her what he thought of any man who would make her wait, Kennedy managed to promise that he would take especial care of her property; and in proof of his solicitude he carried the brown bag across the aisle and set it beside his own suit case.

With a grateful look and a murmur of thanks the girl turned away and hur- ried toward the door. Was it imagination, or did she glance furtively over her shoulder, as for some watcher?

However that was, she had scarcely disappeared in the drifting crowds of the concourse when Kennedy felt a brisk tap on his shoulder. Scowling, he looked up from his newspaper; he resented that rough touch.

"What's the idea?" he said. "Keep your hands off me!"

"You're under arrest!" answered the intruder, just as crustily. "Pick up that pretty alligator bag and come along with me."

The speaker was a burly, thick-set man of middle age. Every angle of his broad, red face and solid figure was as square as though he had been marked off with a straight-edge and sawed out of some tough, knotty block of wood. Thick, black eyebrows, meeting above his nose, might have been drawn across his face with an ink-brush and a ruler. His mouth, beneath a blunt, square-ended nose, was a wide horizontal line, exactly parallel with a chin like the edge of a balk of timber. His shoulders were flat as the top of a box; his thick body Was square; even his shoes were rectangular as a pair of Harlem River coal barges—flat, square-toed, and uncompromising.

"It's a pinch!" repeated this individual, and his thin lips cut the words off squarely, like the snip of a pair of shears.

Kennedy kept his seat, and— with some difficulty— his temper.

"It's not quite as simple as that," he answered coolly; but there was stubbornness in the set of his own well-shaped chin. "We'll have to settle a few things first, like what's the charge, and what's your authority to make an arrest, and who the blazes you are, anyhow, to be disturbing law-abiding citizens this way," he finished, as his irritation overcame his self-repression.

Unperturbed, the other flipped back a coat lapel to show a small gold badge. "U. S. Customs," he vouchsafed.  "Charge— receiving contraband,  and possessing unlawful quantity of narcotic drugs. Now pick up that 'gator bag and come on!"

His tone was, as Kennedy began to perceive, crusty as ever, but that was no animus in it. The man bit off his words habitually; they were snapped out of him as though by the explosion of an internal engine. It was a manner quite in keeping with his extraordinarily rectangular person.

Kennedy gaped at him,  struck by a sudden, unbelieving horror. That girl! She had seemed anxious and uneasy; she had disappeared hurriedly just before this officer came up.

"You— you mean," he stuttered, "that there's— that you think there's dope in that bag?" He pointed to the innocent-looking alligator bag with a finger that was not quite steady.

"You know it, bo," snapped the customs man in the same brusque, staccato manner. "You know it. Now pick up your bag and come on, quiet, before folks gets watching— unless you'd like trouble?"

The square shoulders seemed to grow even squarer; a hopeful gleam came into the pale eyes below that inch-wide band of black eyebrow. Evidently this customs inspector was by no means averse to a bit of trouble, if it came in the way of business.

"But— but," protested poor Kennedy, "it's not my bag!"

The other produced a sound like the exhaust of an unmuffled automobile en- gine. It was expressive of complete disbelief. "What you doing with it, then?" he inquired pertinently.

"Why, a— a lady asked me to watch it for her."

"Hunh!" The same derisive snort. "What sort of a lady?"

But at that Kennedy boggled. Whatever this unknown girl might be, he could not believe her a criminal, and especially one of that most despicable type which traffics in habit-forming drugs. Undoubtedly there was some mistake; perhaps one which she could explain in a moment; but he could not be the one to turn her over to the clutch of a rigid and unimaginative law. Intinctively he  felt that it must be a very satistactory explanation indeed which would placate the rectilinear policeman, and hoped that the girl would not come back just now.

"Why," he hesitated, "why, she— why, a kind of a large, tall woman, she was, with a— a long nose. And she had blond— er, no, gray hair, and wore some sort of a black ora blakthing. An old woman— maybe fifty or so, and awful sour looking," he went on, growing more assured as his imagination pictured a wholly fictitious person.

"Hunh!" scoffed the Inspector, "A tall, short woman, wearing clothes. Very exact!" He smacked his lips upon the word as though it were a favorite with him.  "And now, if you're all ready," he cut through Kennedy's despairing protests with the ruthlessly impersonal force of a steam shovel, "let's be going."

The man was as impervious as a steel casting. Giving up all hope of making an impression upon him, Kennedy picked up his suit case and the fateful bag. The latter was surprisingly heavy.

"Say, chief," he ventured, "how about a porter and a taxi?"

The other nodded rather disdainfully.

"You can afford it," he conceded, "In your business."

Inwardly boiling with rage at the implication, Kennedy thanked him meekly enough, and beckoned to a red-cap. Now that the inwardness of the affair was apparent, he was chiefly desirous of getting away before the unknown girl should return and be arrested with him. His heart loyally proclaimed her innocent; but his mind told at she was much safer outside policeman's range of vision.

A short taxi ride with a silent companion who chewed gum with the perfect rhythm of a machine, and they disembarked before a high office building.  Kennedy was careful not to bush against the customs officer; he felt that the impact would be be like striking a steel bar, that he would bruise himself on some sharp corner!

Up in an elevator and through a long corridor they went; past a black-lettered ground-glass door into a room where sat a male stenographer and two or three silent, soberly clad men with very sharp eyes. To these Kennedy's captor vouchsafed a jerky nod, as mechanical as though produced by the movement of some internal lever.

But he did not stop. Rapping upon an inner door, he opened it without waiting for a reply and propelled Kennedy before him into a smaller office, from whose wide window one could see the busy North River with its fussy duck-like tugs and indifferent boats

Seated at a wide, flat-topped desk which he dwarfed, in a swivel chair which he overflowed, was a fat man. A very fat man. For all his bigness, his coat showed deep transverse wrinkles at each button; his voluminous chins lapped over his collar.  He had small babyish features, crowded close together at the he center of a vast expanse of face; wide eyes of infantile blue looked out from under hairless brows mild, perpetual surprise at a dishonest world.

This man mountain turned his beevolent gaze upon his visitors, smiling a fat lipped smile which seemed to assure them that he knew both for thorough good fellows at he was mildly delighted to see them, and it he knew r errand was both friendly and interesting. He should have been a dispenser of charity, thought Kennedy, half amused; that patriarchally innocent gaze would have sent even an empty man away comforted and encouraged.

"Well, boys," he rumbled, cheerily, in a voice whose tremendous volume accorded as well with his bulk as it contrasted with his cherubic and infantile features. "Well, boys, what's the good word?"

"Got him, chief," replied the officer, in his habitual staccato, rather as though the word were steel bolts, punched out automatically and ejected from the orofice of an ingenious machine.

"Got one of the birds in that U. F. deal, carrying a bag full of dope."

"Yes, yes, yes!" enunciated the fat man in a sort of basso profundo chirp, nodding his head like a mandarin toy, so that all his chins quivered. "Yes, yes, MacRae. Good work; very good!"

His expression was as cheerfully benevolent as ever; but his wide blue eyes, as they fastened themselves on Kennedy's, revealed an unexpected keenness. The younger man shivered unconsciously. If he had really been guilty, he thought, he would not have cared to be examined by this man, despite his appearance of comfortable benignity.

"Sure you're right, MacRae?" rumbled the Federal officer. "This boy don't look like a dope peddler."

Kennedy felt a surge of gratitude; but the square-chinned MacRae nodded once more, implacable as a steam hammer.

"Yes," he answered flatly. "That's the very bag, see?"

The chief's puffy lids drooped; his eyes saddened, as at the unexpected entrance of evil into a perfect world,

"Dear, dear!" He sighed, and the vibrations of his regret seemed almost to rattle the windows. "Dear, dear! Well, open her up, Mac— let's have a look."

Businesslike as ever, the other produced a huge bunch of keys and attacked the lock of the alligator-skin bag. But now Kennedy had caught his breath. He began to realize the full seriousness of this affair. At first he had felt nothing more than a half- amused annoyance at the officer's mistake and the prospect of missing his train; now the fat man's very air of charitable sadness, the matter-of-fact manner of both officers, forced upon him the realization that he was so to say, in the same block with a Federal prison.

"Before you have that opened, chief," he began, "let me explain. I don't what's in it— never saw it until half an hour ago. I am Henry Lodge Kennedy, Jr.— Kennedy & Son, contractors." He produced a card. "I started for Washington this morning, to see about some of the specifications for the Federal building at Lakeport; we're building it, you know."

Again he fumbled in a pocket, and produced a sheaf of papers.

"Look these papers over; phone our office, if you like. It's easy enough to identify me.

"Well, I sat in the 'Pennsy' waiting room, and a— a woman came along and asked me to watch her bag a minute while she looked for a friend. And then Mr. MacRae here came and arrested me, and that's all I know about it."

He stopped, appalled. MacRae had opened the brown bag, and now laid it on the desk before his chief. Kennedy stared into it, gaping; the fat man leaned forward, his absurd little mouth drawn into a grieved droop; even the iron MacRae showed a certain grim triumph— his mechanism seemed to have speeded up a bit, his jaws champed faster on their cud of chewing gum.

For within the bag's open mouth, nested carefully in cotton, lay a neat row of red-wrapped bottles, each bearing a skull crossbones in white. The fat chief picked one up at random.

"Morphine sulphas," he read, "one ounce, avoirdupois! Dear, dear!" He plunged a vast, pudgy, fat-dimpled hand into the bag again, and deposited the red-wrapped bottles eight inches high upon the desk before him.

"One, two, three— five— eight!" he counted. "There's some eight hundred and fifty dollars' worth of morphine, at the market, and probably four thousand dollars' worth at smugglers' prices. Dear dear! Half a pound of morphine ; enough to kill two thousand men. Ever think, my son," turning an eye of mild reproach upon the horror-stricken Kennedy— "how many good boys and girls that stuff might have sent to hell if we hadn't caught it? And here's more!"

Fumbling in the cotton at the bottom of the valise, he brought out bottle after bottle; flat, plainly labeled bottles, each containing a thousand tablets. When finaly empty, the bag had yielded up eight ounces of morphine, four thousand quarter-grain tablets of morphine, and ten thousand sixth-grain tablets of heroin.

"They had their nerve," reflected the chief mildly. "Didn't even take off the labels. The man who packed that bag has lost at least six thousand dollars; and that won't be all, if we catch him!"

For an instant the mild, rubicund countenance was set and stern; the baby- blue eyes showed a hard glint. Then the features softened once more, and childish mouth curved in a smile he turned to Kennedy.

"Well, son," came that amiable bellow, as of a humorous bull, "you pretty near got yourself into a mess." He glanced over the young man's credentials swiftly but with care, then handed them back. "Next time a pretty girl asks you to mind her baggage, you better not."

"It— it wasn't a girl," protested Kennedy, looking down; even now he was not ready to condemn the violet-eyed lady. "It was a— a kind of an oldish woman wearing a plaid skirt and—"

A garantuan chuckle cut him short; the chief was holding up one huge fat hand.

"Don't try to kid the old man, son," her reproved with unexpected perspicacity. "When a young man lies about a thing like this— and you're not a good liar at all, Kennedy— it isn't to shield 'a kind of an oldish woman in a black-plaid skirt.' "

Kennedy flushed painfully, but the other relieved his perturbation.

"You're not a trained observer, anyhow. Needn't try to describe her," he went on.  Rung along,now. Sorry you missed your train. Just forget all about this. We have our own ways of tracing such folks." He extended a vast pulpy paw. "Good-by— and don't get mixed up with the customs."

The mechanical MacRae jerked him a curt nod, neither friendly nor suspicious. It was merely that his mental mill had ground this suspect through; now the machinery stood idle, ready for another grist.

And so Mr. Henry Lodge Kennedy, Jr., resumed his interrupted journey to Washington, and went about his business there, wondering a little what would come to the girl of the alligator-skin bag.

UPON another Tuesday, as it happened, just two weeks later, he was again called to Washington, again packed his suit case, and set out for the Pennsylvania Terminal.

Following his porter through the concourse, he exclaimed aloud, so that that Ethiopian rolled inquiring eyes upon him. Kennedy was not looking; he stared uncomprehendingly at a brown alligator-skin bag— the identical bag, he would have sworn, that had caused his arrest two weeks ago.

Yes: the same girl was carrying it! Kennedy stopped dead, so that a hurrying dry-goods drummer ran into him and caromed off, cursing.

What should he do? Have her arrested? Warn her the customs officers were on her trail? Or go on and mind his business, as that fat inpector had advised? And how under Heaven had the girl regained possession of that bag, which he had seen confiscated by government officials?

For a moment he stood in a quandary, to his porter's mingled amusement and irritation.

Then the girl turned her head and settled his uncertainty at once,

She walked right up to him, trying hard to look stern. "What did you do with my bag?" she demanded severely. "I ought to have you arrested!"

Kennedy merely goggled at her, open-mouthed. The porter's round eyes grew rounder; one sooty paw covered a delighted grin.

The young man turned first to him. He felt that this talk should be private.

"Here, George— take my bag into the waiting room and set it down. Take the young lady's too."

"Thank you!" interposed that young person. "I think it will be safer if I take it myself."

Kennedy grew very red. "Here— get out!" He thrust a coin upon the giggling negro, snatched his suit case, and took the girl's arm. "You come along," said he firmly. "Come in here and sit down; this has got to be explained."

Ignoring her protests, he led her to a quiet corner of the waiting room. "Now, then! Do you know what was in that bag?"

Petite, becomingly flushed, she faced him in pretty indignation, her big eyes dark with excitement.

"What do you mean?" she demanded. "How dared you open it? What have you done with my uncle's bag? I believe I'll call a policeman right away!" Then, yielding to a deliciously feminine curiosity: "What was there in it so terrible?"

Kennedy laughed in pure relief. It was perfectly obvious that she had no idea of the bag's sinister contents. Then he sobered once more. Innocent or not, she had been the unconscious accomplice of this despicable uncle. She was in danger of arrest! Instinctively he looked about for detectives and moved to shield her from observation.

"I've been arrested once because of that bag," he told her. "But how did you get it back?"

"Oh," she answered, flushing, "my uncle got it. He advertised, I suppose. He was awfully upset about it; he scolded me terribly! I do think you might have waited a minute."

"I couldn't." And forthwith he told her the whole story, abating nothing, for his temper was hot against this uncle who would expose such a girl to danger.

She stood quite still, wide violet eyes steady upon his face, her rounded cheeks growing whiter and whiter until he feared she might faint. At last she sighed and exclaimed:

"Oh! Oh! To think of it! My own mother's brother! I knew uncle Joe was kind of loose about some things, but I never thought he'd do anything like that! Oh, Mr. Kennedy"— he had told her his name— "do you suppose that bag's full of drugs again?" She dropped it forthwith, eying it as though it had been some poisonous reptile. It fell to the floor with a muffled clink.

Kennedy shook his head.

"I'm afraid there's dope in it," he confessed; then started violently.

A clipped, metallic, unemotional voice repeated his words. "I'm afraid there's dope in it!"

Engrossed in their talk, the two young people had failed to keep any watch of their surroundings. Now Kennedy whirled, startled; at his shoulder, more angular and uncompromising than ever, straight black brows drawn down over pale steel-gray eyes, stood Inspector MacRae of the customs department.

"Another 'gator bag," announced this worthy. His teeth clicked audibly; the words dropped from his mouth like red-hot rivets, new-punched. 'Same man. This the 'tall, short young woman of fifty, wearing a black skirt of red and green plaid?' Hunh! Come along, now, the pair of you!"

In spite of his words the man's manner was amiable enough. He seemed mildly pleased, as at the vindication of a long-held suspicion; but his smile was grim as the gaping jaws of a dredger's clam-shell bucket.

"We want to come," Kennedy assured him. "We were just starting over to see your chief. We've got news for him."

MacRae received this statement in silence, shepherding them toward an en- trance where Kennedy signaled a cab.

In fifteen minutes they were ushered into the office of the young man's former ordeal. The same official, benevolently huge, sat in the same chair, which creaked beneath his weight; he turned upon the two young people the same mild stare of amiable, babyish surprise.

"Well, folks?" he began in that startlingly profound rumble. "What's the good word? Another bag, MacRae?"

Both Kennedy and the girl exclaimed aloud; for a brown alligator-skin bag stood on a chair beside the desk— a bag so exactly like the one she still carried that the girl looked from one to the other in amazement.

"I thought you said your uncle got it back?" said Kennedy.

"I— I thought he did," she faltered. I— there must be some mistake. I don't understand!"

"Sit down, little lady," thundered the chief, but his voice was very kind. "Don't be scared; we've got this nearly straightened out now. All we want is to ask you two or three questions. You see, there were two bags; maybe three, Morrison told you he got the other back, did he?"

The girl stared at him wonderingly.

"So you know who I am?" she asked.

Voluminous chins quivered to the chief's amiable nodding.

"Miss Annabelle Forrester; you live with your uncle, Joseph Morrison, the wholesale druggist. Once we got a line on that alligator bag it was easy. Let's open it now."

Again MacRae experimented with his bunch of keys, and soon the second bag stood open on the desk. The chief's puffy, dimpled hand plunged into it and  brought forth a round bottle, its flat cork wax-sealed. It was full of little half-inch cubes of flaky white.

"Yes, yes, yes!" rumbled the fat man. "They did wash the labels off this time. Queer, how careless folks get, if they're not caught first off!"

Half a dozen bottles of the white cubes and sixteen bottles of tiny hypodermic tablets were presently ranged upon the desk. "The cubes are morphine, of course," explained the chief.

"Tablets probably morphine and heroin; yes— see, half of them are marked with a cross in the wax. Half morphine, half heroin, I suppose. This bunch don't seem to deal in coke." He turned to the girl. "Now, Miss Annabelle, suppose you tell us your story?"

White-lipped, twisting her slender fingers together, she faced him bravely enough; her eyes, dark with excitement and horror, were yet steady and clear.

"Two weeks ago," she began, "uncle came back from the docks all excited. He generally goes down to the U. F. dock when the Alhambra comes in from Valparaiso— the purser's a friend of his. Well, he had this alligator bag— I never knew there was more than one— and he said he'd got to go right out on important business, and I was to take it to the Pennsylvania Station and meet him there. He was all upset; I thought he acted almost like he was scared about something."

The chief nodded again. "Wilkins was trailing him," said he.

"Well, I waited and waited, and finally went out to look in the concourse. I asked Mr. Kennedy to watch the bag, and when I got back it was gone!"

She glanced at the young man in mute apology.

"That was Macrae," supplied the chief.

Her uncle, it seemed, had been very angry; no doubt he was badly frightened. For days he had scarcely left the house, and had started at every step. But things went on as usual, and he gradually regained his poise. This morning he had started for the docks, as usual— the U. F. steamer Alhambra had arrived from South America the night before— to visit his friend, the purser. He had carried the alligator bag.

"I was surprised at that," explained the girl, "but he said he'd advertised and got it back. I thought he might have told me before, instead of letting me feel so bad because it was lost, but he was always queer that way. Now I think of it, he always carried that bag when he went to visit Mr. Green."

Returning with the bag at ten o'clock, Morrison had told her to take it to the Pennsylvania Station, check it at the parcels room and mail the check in an envelope which he gave her. He also gave her another check and directed her to redeem the bag which it called for and bring it home.

"I thought it was all awful funny, then," she finished, "but uncle just told me it was none of my business, and to do as I was told or I'd be sorry. He's so mean when he's angry that I didn't ask any more questions."

She opened a dainty hand bag, and gave the fat man a parcels check and an empty envelope, addressed to "G. J. Lockwood, Dearborn Avenue, Chicago, Illinois."

"Mac," rumbled the chief briskly, "go get it!" He handed over the parcels check, and the cast-iron inspector marched out. Kennedy's fancy heard a clink, as of moving machinery, in his stiff progress.

The fat man leaned back, eyes closed, and seemed to forget his guests. The two young people sat in a corner, head together in low-voiced talk, and started in surprise when MacRae returned; it had seemed but a moment!

He carried an alligator-skin bag— in every way an exact replica of the other two.

"Yes, yes, yes," rumbled the chief placidly, "I thought they'd have a third— for emergencies. Open it, Mac."

The third bag proved to be empty, save for a small package tucked into a fold of the lining. This MacRae unwrapped, revealing a thin packet of bills. Kennedy caught a glimpse of the topmost one. "$1,000" was printed in a corner.

The chief thumbed over this money indifferently. "Yes, yes," he murmured. "About what I guessed. Fifty-five hundred dollars. That would be pay for the last cargo— the one before the lot you pinched, Mac." He stopped as the desk telephone rang.

"Yes, yes, yes? What?.. Wilkins. Yes, yes.... Oh, Got him all right? Good!"

He hung up the receiver and turned about, grunting. "So that's that," he rumbled placidly. "Wilkins has got Morrison; Bergstrom nailed Green, the Alhambra's purser, first thing this morning. MacRae, go get you a parcels check, put it into that envelope and mail it to G. J. Lockwood. Then all you got to do is hang round the 'Pennsy' parcels room until G. J. comes for his bag full of dope— and nail him, too. We can hoid the others incomunicado, I guess, until that's done; he'll come right away, I expect. And that'll clean up the whole mess," he finished, beaming cherubically at his little audience.

Kennedy felt a thrill of admiration for this baby-faced, unromantic, adipose official; the neatness with which he was rounding up these sordid criminals was worthy of some tribute.

"You're a regular detective, chief," he said approvingly.

The fat man smiled upon them all impartially; his infantile eyes twinkled.

"Once we got that tip about the alligator bag, it was easy enough," he said. "Green bought the stuff in South America. When Morrison dropped in to see him, on the boat, he'd bring this bag along, with some excuse about taking a trip into Jersey to his factory.

"He'd stay a little and then go— while our dock man could see away across from the pier that he was carrying the same bag; one couldn't mistake it. Then he went to the Pennsy and got his parcels check.

"He'd walk straight to the other window and get the bag Lockwood had left there. Unless you watched every minute, you'd think he had the same one. Then he'd take a train for Ridgewood, where his little drug factory was. Out there he'd open the empty bag and get his coin, I suppose. Then he'd mail the check for the bag of dope to Lockwood, and that one would run into New York carrying an alligator bag just like the other. He'd go to the parcels room, check it and redeem the other— and again, unless you happened to see the whole thing, you'd think, of course, he took the same bag home again. It was pretty neat, and it worked as long as it did just because it was so simple. You wouldn't think of an exchange, seeing such an unusual-looking bag.

"But once we got the tip, their strongest point became the weakest course. It of wasn't much of a trick to watch for a brown alligator-skin bag and pinch whoever carried it. So that's that.

"And now, young folks, we needn't keep you any longer."

Kennedy turned to the girl.

"Come, Annabelle," said he.

She flushed, then paled. "Good-by," she whispered, and would have slipped out, but the young man caught her arm.

"Where are you going?"

"I— I don't know. Away!"

"Why ?"

"Oh— oh!" She sobbed. "You'll never want to see me again. My uncle's been arrested. I'm the niece of a criminal! Oh, the disgrace of it!  Let me go."

"Is that all?" Kennedy was vastly relieved. "Why, I had a cousin who was sent to jail. I don't know"— hopefully— "I'm not sure but he was hanged! I'll look it up. Come along, Annabelle."

"I— I haven't any home," she objected weakly; but she did not struggle against his possessive hand.

"I've got a married sister," he offered. "And if her husband isn't in jail, he ought to be. She'll take care of you. Come along."

She looked at him long and earnestly from dewy violet eyes, then yielded with a tiny sigh. Without a word, without a glance at the others, the two turned and left the office, very close together, the little blue hat almost touching a sturdy brown cheviot shoulder.

"Well, well, Mac," said the fat official in that odd, thundering chirp, as though a sea lion were imitating a sparrow, "well, Mac, that clears up the last detail of our case, don't it?"

And MacRae, chopping off a grim smile in exactly measured length, nodded  with the emphasis of a benignant trip hammer.

___________________

16: Vials of Wrath

Ernest M. Poate

Detective Story Magazine 28 Sep 1920

1: The Warning

WITH a curt "Good morning," and a nod to this and that member of his staff Mr. R. Louder Griffiths, President of the International Mercantile Marine Corporation, marched down the long aisle of his office. It was an establishment of the ultramodern sort; a huge place, whose long rows desks cut off from the waiting space only by a brass rail. At the farther end, behind a glass partition, was Mr. Griffiths' own room. He could sit at his wide, flat-topped desk and scan all the varied activities of his aides.

The desk was bare, save for glass ink-well, clean pens, and one red rose in a silver vase. R. Louder Griffiths settled his heavy-shouldered, carefully tailored figure into a carved mahogany chair, sniffed once at the perfect rose, sighing, and was ready for his morning's work.

It was precisely nine o'clock, Mr. Griffiths was a man of meticulous punctuality, as a financier should be.

His soft-footed secretary had followed him in, and now laid before him all the neatly folded morning papers, not at the financial sections, but to show the cable news. In the ramifications of a business which embraced the whole known world, the story of an uprising in South China, of a diamond discovery in Australia, might be as important as a flurry on the Bourse. To calculate the influence of such affairs was the work of Mr. Griffiths himself; his assistants watched the markets.

Red pencil in hand, the great man skimmed headlines, making a cross here, a circle there, as the indicated article was to be briefed or clipped for later study. He glanced at a small item on the front page of the Star

"Vials of Wrath," he read, and snorted.

In politics and in religion, Mr. Griffiths was stolidly conservative.

"Vials of Wrath," he said half aloud. "Blasphemous!"

The article he read was a short one:

"Just as the last edition was going to press, a man called up the night city editor and shouted that as a warning to this sinful Babylon, and to the inhabitants thereof, plague and pestilence were to be let loose upon the city. That the day of judgment was at hand, and the first of the seven vials of wrath was even then being poured out. A noisome and grievous plague of sores. Read Revelation xvi!"

He touched a button under the desk edge; prompt as the cuckoo from a clock, his inhumanly efficient secretary appeared.

"Papers!" said Mr. Griffiths. His gesture swept them away. 'Mail! Mail, Owen!" His utterance was explosively curt; he elided unnecessary words.

As from the empty air, Mr. Owen materialized a great pile of letters, each neatly folded and docketed in his copperplate hand. With the same movement he swept away the newspapers.

"Grrumph!" said his chief, gripping a trenchant pencil; and the secretary disappeared.

Griffiths fell to work, glancing at the briefed content of this letter, opening that to scan its face, scrawling and stamping cabalistic notations with the blunt red lead.

Midway of the pile was a package; an innocuous-appearing parcel, cylindrical in shape, perhaps six inches long— such a container as might hold a sample bottle of a tonic, perhaps. It was unopened ; intricately tied, clumsily sealed here and there with purple wax.

Seeing this, Mr. Griffiths shrank, as from a rattlesnake, and jabbed his push button viciously.

The immaculate secretary popped in.

"Owen!" the banker said testily. His high color had faded a little. "Owen! What's that, hey?"

He pointed at the parcel. Unsteadily balanced, it rolled from the pile of mail to the desk edge and teetered there for a moment.

With speed amazing in a fat man, Mr. R. Louder Griffiths bounded from his chair and swung the secretary in front of him.

"Grrumph!" he exploded, as the parcel came to rest, half in relief, half rage. He shook the startled Owen furiously. "Wha'chu mean, bringin' 't in here?"

"Why— why, Mr. Griffiths," stammered the other— this attack almost upset his glacial calm— "why not? It's marked 'Private and Personal— Important.' And I thought—"

"Fool!" cried his employer. "Idiot! Not paid t' think—not hired t' suppose. Take it away—send f'r police!"

"But, sir," protested Owen, still incredulous, "you told me expressly about a small package—"

"Not it! Not it!" the banker said in an excited voice. "Anarchists, idiot! Bomb, fool— bomb! Take it away!"

Now the secretary evidenced a not unnatural agitation. But he controlled it. Orders were orders; and, after all, the thing had come safely through the mails. So he picked it up gingerly.

"Very good, sir. Shall I send for Inspector Evans?"

"Dead!" replied Griffiths, He had had previous dealings with the bureau of combustibles; R. Louder Griffiths was a shining mark for the advocates of direct action. "Dead f'r six months. Why don't you read the papers? Police headquarters now— man down there."

So Mr. Owen departed, walking delicately. He held the sinister package at arm's length as he moved toward the telephone switchboard; and men gave him a wide berth.

"Anarchists!" grumbled Mr. R., Louder Griffiths, venting his agitation. "Anarchists — bolsheviki — fanatics! Bombs in th' mails; 'vials of wrath'— world comin' to an end. No wonder! Prom'nent man's life's not safe any more !"

2: Doctor Morel is Agitated

POLICE INSPECTOR FOURNIER half turned as some one entered his cluttered laboratory office. With the movement, a sharp pain lanced through his head he swallowed an oath.

"It's a new bomb, inspector." A uniformed officer held out a cylindrical package, sealed with purple wax. "Sent over from Wall Street just now. Another dummy, by the looks— from the same guy that sent one to the mayor yestiddy."'

"Mr. Louder Griffiths. Private and Personal," read the inspector, passing one hand across aching eyes,

"It shoots high, that bird! First his honor, and now the main stem down on the Street. Put her over there."

He pointed to the long shelf table which filled one side of the disorderly room.

The other stumbled forward.

"Will I open it, sorr?" he asked thickly

"Nope— not now. It's just like the other— and my fingers are sore yet with that ground glass."

"So's mine— an' way up m' arms, too.  I— I— ah-h!"

"What's wrong, man?" The inspector jumped up, startled. Groaning, his assistant swayed forward. He clutched at the table, scattering bits of disarmed bombs. Blood dripped from his nose.

"I— I do' know, sorr." It was a thick, slurring mumble. "I— I'm sick—dreadful sick. My head aches, an' m' back. An'—"

He collapsed slowly, his teeth chattering, into a putty-faced huddle on the floor. Strong shuddering racked him. "I'm  cold— dreadful c-cold," he sobbed.

Inspector Fournier stared dully. His own head snapped and buzzed; as he bent over the sick man his back creaked.

"Come on, boy," he said encouragingly. "Pull yourself together now. It's no more than a second, an' I'll have Doc Larcum here."

He jabbed at a push button repeatedly, insistently.

When the doorman answered, "Get the surgeon," he ordered. "Or, no! Help me with O'Connor here, an' we'll take him down."

So it was done; and presently the inspector back to his office. Bright flashes of pain danced in his eyeballs; he slumped into a chair, head in hands. He was a sick man.

He reached for the desk phone. "Ask the chief inspector to come here," he directed, speaking thickly and with visible effort. "Tell him I'm s-sick."

At this message, the head of New York City's uniformed police force dropped his own concerns and hurried down the corridor.

Fournier was not the man to make such a request without reason

"What's the trouble demanded, his sharp blue eyes solicitous. Standing at the door in his gold-braided uniform, he made an imposing figure; tall, slope-shouldered, broad rather than thick, with a tight-curled gray mustache tucked close beneath his long, pointed nose.

"What's wrong here?'

Fournier tried to rise, but dropped back, groaning.

"I'm s-sick," he stammered. "Gotta report off duty. The flu, maybe." His face was ghastly, greenish white.

O'Connor's got it, too. "Sure, Fournier, sure," superior, really alarmed by the man's appearance. "I'll have Doc Larcum right up, and send you home in an ambulance. Or maybe you'd better go to a hospital?"

"Anywhere," moaned the other. "Anywhere; only get me away."

Inspector Rehburger ran a blunt-fingered hand through his hair. "I'll put Cohen in here," he decided. "Anything special?"

"N-no," replied Fournier weakly. "No— only Doctor Bentiron— the alienist, you know— coming at eleven, about that Stilowitch case. Man dynamited Judge Mullins' house, y' know. Wants to talk— ask— something Oh-h!" He groaned.

"Uh-huh," Rehburger said. "I heard there'd be an insanity plea. Don't worry about that; I know the doctor; I'll explain. Is that all? What's this, now?"

He picked up a small unopened parcel; the same which had disturbed the serenity of Mr. R. Louder Griffiths not long before.

"Oh," answered Fournier, "that! Nothing. Crank stuff— fake bomb. Mayor got one yesterday— no, day before, I guess. It's over there, opened. Just the same; shape, seals, writing an' all. Nothin' but sticky, gritty stuff; ground glass an' glue, looks like— worked into my fingers an' made 'em sore. O'Connor, too. Paper in th' bottom— some Bible text 'r other. Crazy thing ; I bet this one's just like it. Leave it be; I'll open 'er up when I get back."

His voice went up and down; his eyes were bright and glassy. As had O'Connor, he began to shake— gently at first, then harder and harder, until his teeth rattled together and his chair creaked and complained beneath him.

"Ah-h-h!" he sobbed.

Chief Inspector Rehburger, thoroughly frightened, flung open the door, crying loudly for help.

The chief inspector returned to his own office in a black mood. This incident had upset his morning dreadfully. Poor Fournier! Seemed pretty sick. And now he must hunt out some understudy for that thankless and perilous job, the dissection of bombs.

He muttered irritably, running a hand through his crisp gray hair. His rather stolid poise was disturbed; to settle his mind, he picked up a newspaper.

It was the New York Star. An odd headline caught his glance: 'Vials of Wrath!"

He read the squib carefully, forming each word with silent lips, after the fashion of slow-minded men. Stooped over the page, little eyes intent, his sharp facial angle was unusually apparent. With his sloping forehead, long, sharp nose and retreating chin, he looked rather like a pig; a lean, intelligent pig, alert, pragmatically philosophical.

A peremptory rap upon the door, and in the same breath a visitor bounced in; an angry, excited visitor.

"I'm Doctor Morel!" he said crisply.

The chief inspector rose with the deference which that name demanded. The reputation of Doctor Alexis Morel, chief of the Lawton Memorial Laboratories, was solidly founded; even laymen spoke glibly of his work with infantile paralysis.

He did well to give his name, for he made a curious figure, prancing up and down before the inspector's desk.

"Inefficient, incompetent policemen!" he sputtered, a dye-stained finger tapping Rehburger's newspaper. "Facing a crisis— horrible danger— whole city menaced— and you read the papers! Bah!"

He broke off, mouthing in tearful rage. As a balance, perhaps, for his unquestioned genius, Doctor Morel was ill enough equipped physically. He was almost a dwarf; his indeterminate features, bunched close together beneath a bulging dome of forehead, suggested those unkind caricatures of precocious, spectacled Bostonian babes. He was like the changeling of the old wives' tale; a wizened infant, uncannily wise.

The doctor was cruelly conscious of all this. Now, when he wished to be wholly impressive, he was merely grotesque— and knew it. He caught the fugitive grin which twisted Inspector Rehburger's tight-curled mustache, and tears of impotent wrath dimmed his huge, horn-rimmed spectacles.

"Oh, you— you!" he choked

The chief inspector spread thick, placative hands.

"Now, now, doctor," he soothed.  "Maybe it's not so bad, at that. We do our best, you know. Suppose you just tell me about it?"

The little scientist swallowed hard, evidently calmed by the other's deference.

"It's a serious matter."

"Deadly. And Captain Moriarty pays no attention to me at all Three days ago some one  stole seven bouillon cultures from the laboratory— cultures of virulent Bacillus bubonica. It's horrible! Why, it's unthinkable! And yet when I went to the police station— went myself, knowing what it might mean— your precious Moriarty did nothing— nothing at all! Oh, of course," grudgingly, "he did send a pair of detectives around, to pry and gawp and grin, and ask idiotic questions. But that was all.  And when I went back to protest— I myself; Alexis Morel!— he was barely civil. That was this morning— the third day, nothing done! And as I went out I heard him laugh. Obese imbecile!"

"I called a cab and had myself driven down here at once— to headquarters. I want to see if there are any brains at all in the police Department.

The officer blinked at him, perplexed.

"Why," he promised vaguely, "why, I'll look into it, doctor. But Moriarty's an efficient officer; I'm sure he's done everything possible. The police are pretty busy, you know. No doubt this is a serious matter, but—"

"Serious!" Morel cried. " 'Serious— but!' he mimicked, in an absurd falsetto. "Is death serious? Is wholesale murder serious? What are you going to do about it?"

The inspector made a note. "I'll investigate," he repeated, "I'll run over to-morrow— this afternoon, if I can," he amended, at the other's glare. "But you got to remember, professor, that the police have a whole lot of things to look after. I suppose it's very important to your work to have these bacillus germs found; but Moriarty's got burglaries and murders to attend to, and—"

He stopped. The little man was making queer, abortive gestures; his thin face was purple.

"Oh, fool! fool!" he cried, exasperated, "Sitting on Vesuvius, talking burglary—murder! The academy shall hear of this—the mayor shall hear of this!"

He mouthed he clumsy oaths like one unused to profanity, threw both meager arms above his head and plunged out, a prey to despair.

"Oh, gosh!" muttered the harried official. "Oh, gee! Lost seven cultures of bacillus something or other, and th' whole police force's gotta drop everything and help him hunt."

Groaning humorously, Inspector Rehburger picked up his newspaper once more.

3: The Black Death

THE police surgeon rushed in, his auburn mustache bristling; his face sickly white beneath its freckles.

"Inspector," he gasped. "Inspector! Those two, Fournier and O'Connor, know what they've got?"

Rehburger looked at him calmly from keen, porcine eyes.

"All right, doc," he answered, "I'll bite. What have they got?'

The surgeon leaned far over the desk. He clawed at the other's shoulder.

"Plague!" he stammered. '"Bubonic plague! The 'black death,' man! That's what it is."

The chief inspector grunted audibly.

"Huh!" he said stupidly. "Plague?"

He started at the surgeon. His gaze was speculative, remote, perplexed; he seemed groping for some explanation. More than ever, he resembled an inquisitive, highly intelligent pig.

Presently his little eyes brightened. "Plague!" he repeated. "Plague? Say, doc, what's plague come from, huh? Some bug or other; some germ?"

The other scowled at this irrelevance.

"Yes, yes," he answered. 'Bacillus bubonicae. What of it? We've got two cases of plague right here in this building."

Rehburger was not listening. The crash of his overturned chair interrupted the surgeon; the chief inspector was already at the door.

"Schwartz!" he bellowed. "Schwartz! Conroy! Jackson! All of you. Get after that little bald-headed sprat just went out— Doctor Alexis Morel. Go get him— grab him— fetch him back. Scatter, now!"

Blue-uniformed figures raced down the halls. Rehburger turned to face the surgeon.

"Now, Larcum," he said brusquely, "pull yourself together. You've got two cases of plague, you say. Good. What's the treatment? You ought to know."

"Why," the other hesitated, "why, I suppose"— he steadied visibly beneath the chief inspector's calm, competent gaze— "why, they'll have to go to the Contagious Disease Hospital, of course. And the place must be disinfected and fumigated, and everybody given the Haffkine serum—if we can get any."

"That's better!" Rehburger cut in. "You know what to do. Get about it!'

"It rattled me," the surgeon defended himself. "I know better than you do what an epidemic of plague would mean."

"Uh-huh," agreed the officer sourly. "I'm only a bonehead cop. Wish Morel had realized that !''

There was a commotion in the corridor. Three stalwart officers, flushed and panting, convoyed Professor Alexis Morel, A.M., M.D., Ph.D., squawking like a pullet head downward in the housewife's hand.

"That's enough, men," ordered Inspector Rehburger, smothering a grin. "Let the gentleman loose! Excuse them, professor; they didn't just understand. I had to get you back. We got to find out about those germs somebody stole."

Somewhat mollified, Doctor Morel settled his crumpled collar.

"It's about time!" he asserted captiously.

"Uh-huh," agreed the inspector. "But you got to remember I'm just a plain cop, professor," and now his little, sharp eyes were quite serious. "I'm no bugologist. Now, can you tell me plain, in words of one syllable, just what those germs were, and what harm they'd be liable to do?"

"Some one stole seven tubes full of plague germs," answered the scientist, categorically and literally. His excitement had subsided; he was terribly in earnest. The short words came with stunning force.

"Bacillus bubonicae, the Bacillus pestis of Kitasato, is the germ of bubonic plague— of the 'black death.' I've been working on a new vaccine; and seven bouillon cultures of these germs were stolen from the incubator in my private laboratory three days ago. Three days ago," he repeated violently, "and nothing done about it!"

The two men eyed each other silently, each in his own way envisaging the situation. The "black death," housed in seven tiny vials of glass, to be concealed in a pocket! Myriads of invisible germs, death in each one; and naught but the fraction of an inch of fragile glass between them and the city's mil- lions—frail tubes to be crushed by an incautious grip!

What irresponsible hand held these deadly things? Perhaps the seals had already been broken, and a cloud of jinn more terrible than those of old Arabian imaginings were even now spreading through the doomed city!

Larcum, still standing unconsidered by the door, gave vent to an indescribable sound.

"And two cases of plague right in the building!"

"What!" exclaimed the bacteriologist ; and in the same breath, "'Shut up!" the chief inspector commanded.

It was too late. He shrugged his shoulders resignedly. "Well, I suppose the prof'd have to know it, anyhow. Yes, two cases of plague, according to Larcum— Inspector Fournier and his assistant. What shall we do?"

But Doctor Morel only stared in helpless bewilderment. "I—I don't know," he confessed. "I'm a laboratory man. Of course, isolation and disinfection— and there's the Haffkine serum—"

"That's what you said, Larcum," the chief inspector interrupted. "Well, if that's it, get about it. Start something; let's be doing what we can. Notify the board of health; take care of poor Fournier and the other. As for the rest a—"

He broke off, scowling.

Doctor Larcum hurried out, and Rehburger turned to the bacteriologist. His little piggy eyes blinked fast.

"How many of those bugs do you suppose there are, doc?" he asked reflectively.

Morel spread shaking hands. He groaned: "God knows! Billions— trillions— quadrillions! Enough, I suppose, to give a fatal dose to every man, woman, and child in New York."

His high forehead was all wrinkled; his pinched features worked. Rehburger stared down at his blunt-fingered, hairy hands. They faced a calamity too vast even for imagination.

Another knock broke the heavy silence ; a single, meditative rap. Neither man looked up; but presently the door opened and a shapely mouse-gray head appeared in the crack.

With a quick, comprehensive glance about the room, the intruder stepped in; a lean, stooped figure, negligently clad in shapeless, baggy homespuns.

The stranger stood silent for a moment, head cocked to one side, fingering his short beard. Then he remarked placidly :

"Umphf. Morning, Rehburger. Where's your man Fournier?"

The others only stared at him. He yawned.

"Why this mournfulness?" he inquired. His voice was dull, toneless, weary. "You do appear horrid sad, the pair of you. What's up?"

Morel sat still, stroking a hairless chin; the inspector fell to pacing the floor, stubby fingers in his hair.

"You tell him, prof," he advised. "Maybe he can suggest something."

The bacteriologist polished his horn-rimmed spectacles. 'You see, Doctor Bentiron," he said thinly, "we're face to face with an epidemic of bubonic plague!"

"Umphf," Doctor Bentiron said. Without apology he lounged across the room and subsided into the chief inspector's own chair. Morel's bombshell failed to ruffle him in the least; he seemed incapable of excitement. He picked up a newspaper and glanced casually through its columns.

"Umphf," repeated Doctor Bentiron. "Proceed. I'm all ears." And he turned a page.

Speaking rapidly, indignant at the other's calm, Morel poured out his story. Presently the inspector, too, caught up the tale, and the two sustained a dolorous antiphony, striving to arouse the interest of their listless auditor.

"Seven cultures of Bacillus pestis. Stolen three days ago— Two cases of plague right here in the building— Billions of bacteria, gone Heaven knows where!— Some lunatic, no doubt.— A master crook, planning to loot a stricken city.— No trace at all— No way of preventing an epidemic.— Why, it's already begun!"

The alienist raised his head.

"Listen to this," he commanded, and his dry, indifferent tones stilled their clamor for very shame.

"Listen to this: 'Vials of Wrath.' " He read the Star's brief skit aloud, chuckling. "Cleverly done, what?"

"I should think, doctor,'' Morel said in shrilly dignified reproach, "I should think you might take this matter more seriously."

Doctor Bentiron grunted imperturbably. "Use your bean, man," he drawled. "In the circumstances our duty is plain. I take it for granted that these cases of plague have been isolated and arrangements made to fumigate the building and immunize every one in it. Remains to trace the infection to its source and check it there. Wherefore, I read the papers— a thing I rarely do."

He paused to cross his long, lean leg more comfortably, produced rice papers and a little muslin bag of tobacco, and rolled a cigarette with automatic deftness.

Morel rose impatiently. "Why are we wasting time?"

The alienist did not move. 'Sit down, man," he ordered. ''Sit down and shut up."

The flat drawl held neither sarcasm nor annoyance; it was quite expressionless. But Morel subsided, fingering his chin.

"That's better." Doctor Bentiron spoke approvingly. "You, too, Rehburger. Quit ramping around; let me think, if you can't."

The big police officer sat down on the desk corner. The alienist yawned, puffed his cigarette to a glow, and dropped ashes on the rug.

"Now," he went on, each deliberate word accompanied by a little jet of smoke, "let's begin; preferably at the beginning. Morel, when did you miss your cultures?"

"Three days ago."

"Exactly. Seven of them, you said?"

Morel nodded.

"Umphf. Yes." He picked up the Star, " 'The seven vials of the wrath of God,' " he read. "Now, my children, what does that suggest to you?"

He looked at neither of the others, but blinked inscrutably at the bare wall, long, narrow eyes dull and blank in his hawk's face. After a moment he answered himself.

"Nothing any rate, evidently. Oh, well. At any rate the thief was not a trained man."

Rehburger looked bewildered but hopeful. He was out of his depth, and knew it. But Doctor Morel shook his head.

"I don't see it,"' he objected.

The alienist favored him with the merest flicker of one sardonic eye and inhaled deeply.

"Because, my son, he took seven cultures. A bacteriologist would have taken one, or more likely none at all. He'd have inoculated fresh bouillon from your stock cultures. He'd know he could make as many more as he wanted, by transplanting."

Morel nodded grudgingly. "Maybe he did it as a blind," he suggested.

Doctor Bentiron only raised one eyebrow and went on. "An unscientific thief, then; also, a lunatic. Why? Well, would any sane man steal plague bacilli? Even you don't make pets of them, do you? Moreover, he took seven cultures. Obviously, because seven is the perfect number; because it has a mystical significance. There were the 'seven churches,' you know— and the 'seven candlesticks.' Also the 'seven vials of wrath'— which brings us to the Star's article. Last night, probably around eleven o'clock, somebody telephoned the New York Star, calling himself the Archangel Michael. He declared that the first of the seven vials of the wrath of God 'was outpoured upon the city even now!' Umphf! Yes. Exactly."

He paused to roll another cigarette. The others waited for him, absorbed, breathless.

"The seven vials," he resumed presently, "contained 'grievous plagues,' if I remember my Scriptures. And there's not much difference between a vial and a test tube. Let us construct a hypothesis.

"We presuppose an uneducated man, a paranoic with a delusional trend of religious coloring. He imagines himself the Archangel Michael, commissioned by God to carry out the prophecies of the sixteenth chapter of the Book of Revelation, which concerns the vials of the wrath of God. He steals seven cultures of the bacillus of bubonic plague, informs the press, and pours out the first vial. And it seems to have spattered over police headquarters."

Again Doctor Morel shook his head. "We don't know where these men got their infection," he objected. "It may have been miles away."

The alienist's long, dull eye flickered toward him. "Umphf," he commented in the same dry fashion. "Where does Fournier live, inspector ?"

"Up in the Bronx; Webster Avenue."

"And the other— O'Connor ?"

"Out in Flatbush, I think."

"Exactly. The men live ten miles apart. One is an inspector; the other ranks as a patrolman, doesn't he? Yes. So their social relations were probably not intimate. But they worked down here all day in the same room and both developed the plague at the same time. Where is it most likely that they got the infection?"

Yawning, Doctor Bentiron heaved his lean length laboriously up and slouched toward the door.

"Where you going?" asked Rehburger.

"To Fournier's office, obviously; the probable site of infection. Maybe we'll find the bugs that bit two harmless cops."

The prospect did not seem to perturb him; and, with the unconscious courage of the physician, to whom pathogenic bacteria are commonplace, Morel followed unhesitatingly. The chief inspector hung back; in that room two men had been stricken with probable death. Then he hurried after the others, cursing his own cowardice.

4:  Two of the Vials

DOCTOR BENTIRON stood in the center of the room, leaning for- ward from the waist, thumbs in belt. His head was cocked to one side; his drooping cigarette threatened to scorch his short, untidy beard. His wide-set gray eyes drifted vaguely.

A little group of white-clad men appeared in the doorway; they carried strange-looking apparatus. About them clung a penetrating odor of formaldehyde.

"Go away, boys," ordered Doctor Bentiron dully. 'Wait a bit; can't let you fumigate just yet."

Turning from them, he lounged toward the wide littered shelf which ran down one side of the room.

"Bombs— bombs!" He sighed. "How folks do love the good and great. What's this, Rehburger ?"

With a languid thumb he indicated a tight-wrapped cylindrical package, sealed clumsily with purple wax. It was ad- dressed to "R. Louder Griffiths."

"That?" said the chief inspector. "Fournier was telling me about it. Said there'd be nothing in it but sticky ground glass. He opened another just like it the other day, addressed to the mayor. Had some Scripture text in the bottom.

"Ground glass!" repeated the alienist, almost with emphasis. "Sticky ground glass. Umphf! Was that Bible verse from Revelation, now?"

"I don't know," replied Rehburger, uncomprehending; but Doctor Morel gazed at his colleague in mingled admiration and horror. "I think it's around somewhere. Here!"

"Stop!" Doctor Bentiron said suddenly, his drawl gone. "Don't touch it!"

The other drew back, startled

Doctor Bentiron came closer and bent over the table. Still lying on the stiff paper which had wrapped it was a six-inch pasteboard cylinder, its screw cap removed. Beside it was a little heap of stuff like damp sugar.

"Looks like a board-of-health dip-culture container," said the  alienist. "That's why I noticed the other." He rolled it gingerly over with a match, which he straightway dropped on the paper. "You got any like it at the laboratory, Morel?"

"Of course; it's a regular culture mailer. What of it?"

"Umphf. Only this; if you count your supply, I have a nickel that says you'll find seven of them missing.'

"What do you mean by that?" sputtered the little man.

But Doctor Bentiron still stooped over the table, poking delicately with match ends at the sticky granular mess.

"Powdered glass, all right,' he muttered. "Smells like beef broth, too. And here's the text."

He spread out a crumpled bit of cheap, blue-lined tablet paper, crusted like a Christmas card with shining particles. On it was one brief line of writing, in a cramped, painful scrawl:

See Revelations, ch. xvi. vs. 2.

"Umphf. Got a Bible about, Rehburger ?"

The inspector pawed at his grizzled head. "I guess so," he answered "Chaplain."

He disappeared, returning in a moment with a slender black book. Doctor Bentiron leafed it through.

"Here we are. Revelation, sixteenth chapter— 'Pour out the vials of the wrath of God.' Second verse: 'And the first went and poured out his vial upon the earth; and there fell a noisome and grievous sore upon the men,' Exactly."

Working with the utmost caution not to touch it, he rolled container, wrapper, and contents together in a newspaper.

"Here, Morel," said he. "That's the first vial; and the first of your seven missing cultures, with only two infections to its discredit— so far. And here," picking up the unopened parcel, "is the second vial, unless I'm greatly mistaken The mayor first, then Griffiths; politics, then finance. Take 'em along, Morel; smear 'em, culture 'em, and you'll get back part of your stolen bugs, anyhow."

He turned toward the door. 'Here, boys,' he called to the board-of-health operatives. ''Come in and get to work. Put ninety-five per cent carbolic all around here, and on the desk, too. Then seal up and use formaldehyde. Better fumigate three times, at forty-eight-hour intervals, before you open up Leave everything as it is, Rehburger; don't even try to take out any records. And you, boys—when you're through here, stop downstairs; have Doctor Larcum give you each a shot of serum. He must have some by this time. You see to that, Morel; you've got the Haffkine serum at your shop, haven't you? Exactly. Rehburger and I had better have a shot, too— just to be on the safe side."

The three investigators filed out, leaving the office to the board of health's fumigating squad.

5: Daniel

BACK in the chief inspector's office, Doctor Bentiron dropped once more into that bewildered official's pet chair.

"Umphf," he grunted, depositing a million deaths upon the desk. "I'll feel safer when we get these bugs back in the laboratory."

Mechanically he set about the fabrication of another cigarette, while the others waited. Patently Doctor Bentiron was in charge of the situation.

He exhaled a vast cloud of smoke. "Ours is a clever lunatic," he vouchsafed. He might have been commenting upon a surgeon's technique. "He put powdered glass into his containers, then poured plague cultures over it. His note was at the bottom, of course; one couldn't fish it out without covering his fingers with sticky bits of glass. And when the victim brushed them off a few pieces worked under the skin, carrying the bugs with them. You know, plague is usually transmitted by the bite of infected fleas; but this was much surer. Our lunatic overlooked one little thing only: public men are suspicious of such packages. They look like gas-pipe bombs. Otherwise, his honor the mayor and Mr. R. Louder Griffiths would now be down with the plague, instead of two insignificant cops— in which case our paranoic would probably be free to open his third vial."

Doctor Morel had been fidgeting and grimacing all through this long didactic speech. Now he broke forth.

"No doubt— no doubt!" His reedy voice was irritable. "Let me remind you that he's not caught yet. All this reasoning may be very clever; but why don't you do something? If you're right, some madman has my cultures, and God alone knows what he's doing with them now. Good heavens, Bentiron! Won't anything stir you up? You've no more blood than a fish."

"Umphf," Doctor Bentiron replied, unmoved. 'Don't be an ass." He slid farther down in his chair, crossing his thin legs. His long dull eyes brooded upon vacancy

"No," he continued in the same flat drawl, "such problems are solved by thought. Ever try that, Morel, old top?"

The bacteriologist mumbled profanely. Doctor Bentiron ignored him, to address the chief inspector.

"Any suggestions?"

That official's face of an intelligent pig did not change. He was not without discernment, this man Rehburger .

"You deal 'em, doctor," he invited. "I'm sitting in."

"Umphf," agreed the doctor. "Well, then: Day before yesterday the cultures were stolen. Yesterday the first package was sent to the mayor, and got in its work down here. Am I right?'

"Professor Morel said three days," objected Rehburger.

"This is the third," Morel explained, flushing.

"Exactly. 'Three days' sounded so much longer." The alienist grinned faintly. "Well, Griffiths got his this morning. I infer, therefore, that our paranoic works on schedule. He's probably busy all day. To-night he will prepare and mail his third bacteriological bomb, and somebody else will be favored in the morning— unless we prevent. We have, then, until supper time, at least, before he'll make a move; and until nine to-morrow before any one else is endangered— time enough, if need be, to publish a warning in the newspapers. Meanwhile, let us proceed in an orderly fashion. Morel wants us to run around in circles, emitting frenzied cries; but that's undignified— and exhausting.

"Instead, let's sum up. As you know, perhaps, paranoia is a disease of late middle life, and rarely occurs in women, We have, then, a man of from fifty to sixty years, uneducated, over-religious, who knows that cultures of Kitasato's bacillus are deadly, and who has access to your incubators, Morel."

The bacteriologist started violently. "Nonsense!" he cried. "Ridiculous! Are you suggesting that one of my people stole them?"

Doctor Bentiron's reply was uninformative. "Umphf," said he. '"Let's go. Better come along, Rehburger; this seems reasonably important."

The chief inspector called a department car, and presently the oddly assorted trio disembarked before the grim red-brick bulk of the Lawton Laboratories. A faint odor of chemicals hung in the air, mingling with the varied perfumes of New York's East Side. Above the rumbling of ash carts, the shrill r-r-ring of a passing ambulance, sounded whines and yelps from the roof cages, full of animals to be used for experimental purposes.

Doctor Morel led them in. Here none smiled at his hairless chin, his head of a preternaturally wise infant; here he was chief. His meager chest swelled; he strutted before them.

Inspector Rehburger, huge and solid in his gold-braided uniform, clumped martially after; the alienist trailed wearily in the rear. His loose joints sagged as though there were no pith left in him.

Morel led down a long hall, heavy with the scent of drugs, and into a spacious, north-lighted laboratory office.

"Sit down, gentlemen," he invited, "and—"

The alienist cut him short. "Here," he said, thrusting out the packages which he still carried. 'Have these opened, smeared, and cultured first."

Morel took the bundles, laid them on a long glass-topped table and paused to slip on heavy rubber gloves. He no longer appeared ineffectual; now his movements were deft and assured.

Taking the sealed parcel first, he cut the string, broke the seals, and unwrapped a pasteboard carton exactly like the other. He unscrewed its cap and dumped a quantity of sticky crystals upon a glass tray.

"More ground glass and bouillon," he reported. "And here's a bit of paper at the bottom."

'And on it," suggested Doctor Bentiron, "in the same handwriting, 'Revelation, xvi. 3?' "

Morel nodded. Rehburger gave the apathetic speaker an admiring look.

"Umphf." said Doctor Bentiron. "That refers to the second vial; it was poured out on the sea. I wonder how our lunatic got around that?"

"Mr. Griffiths is president of the International, Mercantile Marine Corporation," suggested Rehburger diffidently.

The doctor blinked at him in vague approval. "'Well done, cop!" he applauded. "I could make a psychiatrist out of you."

Morel touched a button, and an orderly appeared; a severe-looking man of fifty-odd, gray mustached, gray faced, with deep-set eyes.

"Yes, doctor?"

"Oh, Daniel— er, that is, Tom; ask Doctor Josephson to step here, please."

The orderly nodded. "Yes, Doctor Morel," he answered respectfully, and turned away with a crackling of crisp white coat. Despite his painful briskness, his hobbling gait and gnarled rheumatic hands told of fast-coming age and infirmity.

"Poor old Tom," Doctor Morel said, almost affectionately. "He can't last much longer. He's been here thirty years now."

"You called him Daniel," began Doctor Bentiron— but the door opened again and Doctor Josephson entered, eye shaded, goggled and clad in the long, duster-like coat of the laboratory worker.

"Oh, Josephson," greeted his chief, already busy with slides and stains, "take smears of these two specimens and stain for Bacillus pestis. Then plate both specimens and culture them through."

The taciturn Josephson nodded, took samples with a flamed platinum loop and disappeared.

He had scarcely gone when Doctor Morel whirled on his stool, almost up- setting his big microscope.

"You're right, Bentiron,' he proclaimed. "It's plague; I'm sure of it." He prodded the sticky masses with a gloved finger, gloating upon them. "Bacillus pestis; millions and billions of 'em. The deaths of a whole city full, right there, Rehburger !"

The big policeman drew away, shivering.

"Umphf," said Doctor Bentiron. "That's that. Now then, what employees have access to your incubators?"

Morel glared at him. "All my people are perfectly trustworthy," he retorted.

The alienist was unimpressed. "Have you any particularly religious orderly?" he inquired.

"Why— why, yes. There's Daniel— Tom, that is. He was just in here. But he's perfectly reliable; been here thirty years. Why, he tends my private incubators!"

"From which those cultures were stolen?"

"Quite so! Tom reported the theft to me."

"Umphf," Doctor Bentiron said. "I thought you called him Daniel?"

Morel grinned. "Just a nickname. The students got to calling him 'Book o' Daniel' because he was forever quoting the prophets to them, and we've all taken it up this last year or two. His name is really Tom— Tom— why, I don't know his last name; never remember hearing it."

Doctor Bentiron stared dully out of the window. "Here he comes now," he said.

6:  Five— By the Clock

THE orderly hobbled across the floor. "Doctor Josephson's compliments, sir," he reported, "and he says them is plague bacilluses sure enough, he thinks, sir. And he's started the plates."

"Tom," Doctor Bentiron said indifferently.

"Sir?" The orderly faced him, respectfully sedate.

"They say you're a Bible student, Tom."

The orderly glanced at his chief, as for permission. Morel nodded.

"I'm a great reader of the Word, sir," he answered with modest pride.

"Exactly." The alienist's voice was dry and dull as ever, but in some way it carried a subtle encouragement. "Now, I've heard it said that the prophecies of Revelation were being fulfilled; that the Great War was the battle of Armageddon. What do you think about it?"

The old man straightened; his shaggy brows worked up and down, his deep- set eyes burned.

"No, sir," he answered, respectfully but positively. "No, sir! The Word tells of wars and rumors of wars, and about signs and portents in the heavens. That would be these here flying machines, I'm thinking. But Armageddon is not yet, sir— not until—" He broke off short. "Yes?" prompted his questioner.

"And are any of the prophecies fulfilled ?"

"Oh, sure, sir. Yes. I may be wrong, but as I read it we've passed Revelation, chapter thirteen. The beast with seven heads,' sir— that was Germany, with its emperor and kings, that overcame the saints f'r a season and was wounded with th' sword but still lives. And then the other beast would be them bolsheviks, and its two horns in Lenine an' Trotsky. Yes, sir; the sickle is in the harvest, even now!" His husky voice deepened, grew louder; he gestured with twisted, rheumatic hands. "This great Babylon shall fall! Ain't I seen the sign in the heavens, according to Revelation, fifteen, one? The days of the seven last plagues is here, sir!"

With shaking hands he fumbled in a pocket and drew out a copy of that morning's Star, folded to show a certain headline.

"Lookit!" he chattered, his great eyebrows working up and down. "Lookit! Even this godless paper knows it. The seven vials of the wrath of God is opened up, sir, and this great Babylon shall be destroyed and her smoke shall rise forever and ever!"

He threw his arms abroad and stood panting.

"Umphf," said Doctor Bentiron placidly. "You speak as one having authority."

The other turned a working face upon him; his whole body shook visibly. "Authority:" he raged. "Authority? Has it not been revealed to me, in a vision of the night? Sure, I saw the wondrous sign in the heavens, and even this paper"— he shook it in their faces— "even this godless paper bears me out. Revelation, sixteen, two and three— sure, the first vial and the second vial is poured out already!"

Doctor Bentiron checked him. "The second vial?" he said quickly. "Tom, the Star only speaks of the first!"

During this colloquy Morel had stared at his employee with much the expression of a man whose pet dog has gone mad. Amazement, reproach, and horror were mingled in his look; now he could contain himself no longer

"Tom!" he burst forth. "Tom! You old—old— You stole those cultures yourself!"

The orderly stopped short. A film spread over his hot eyes. A mask of crafty stubbornness covered his excitement.

"I've been here a long time, Doctor Morel," he answered respectfully, "and nobody's said anything against me before. It ain't fair nor right, sir, to be talking that way."

Injured innocence rang in his voice, but his strange eyes wavered.

Doctor Bentiron directed a scathing glance at his host. "Idiot," he intoned dryly; "imbecile! See what you've done."

The bacteriologist flushed. "Tom never talked like that before," he defended himself.

"Umphf," Doctor Bentiron said. "You didn't know how to start him off. And when I got him going, you had to butt in— in ample time to keep us from finding out anything. He won't talk now; will you, Tom?"

The orderly bent his head to hide a cunning smile. "There's nothing for me to say, sir," he answered.

"Umphf," the alienist said, unsurprised. 'Yes; exactly. Well, we'll just keep you here, my friend, while we search your room."

Tom said nothing. His manner was unruffled, confident. He glanced at the office clock with another crafty, secret smile

"Have somebody in to watch him, Rehburger," directed the alienist. "Better get a cop. And we'll see what we can do."

He glanced again at old Tom's composed face, and scowled. "I don't like this," he confessed. "Morel, you've made a mess of things!"

While a patrolman, called in from the street, watched the old orderly's every movement, the three investigators gathered in the hall.

"He wouldn't keep the stuff here," decided the alienist; "but he must have it where it's easy to get at. It'll be in some sort of homemade incubator, too; he knows that much. In his own room, therefore, where nobody would ask in- convenient questions. Where does he live, Morel?"

The little bacteriologist blinked. "Why," he hesitated. "Why, I don't know. Never heard. You know how it is, with these old chaps; they get to be fixtures; one takes them for granted. Tom was always here on time."

"And as long as he wasn't late, he could have slept on the roof with the guinea pigs, for all you cared," finished Doctor Bentiron. "Oh, well, find out.  Scatter, you and Rehburger; go through the place; ask everybody. We've got to get his address!"

So the two men began their search. Doctor Bentiron returned to Morel's office, moved its most comfortable chair into a corner, and sat there, relaxed, immobile, smoking one cigarette after another. He said nothing. His dull narrow eyes brooded upon the wall before him. He seemed half asleep.

Time dragged inexorably on; two o'clock came, and three. Morel and Rehburger continued their fruitless quest ; but no one in all that great building knew where old Tom lived.

Doctor Bentiron sat still, smoking and pondering. The pile of ashes and cigarette butts beside his chair grew higher; he smoked faster and faster, until the air about him was blue.

Across the office old Tom sat in a straight-backed chair, gnarled hands idle in his lap, calm and untroubled. Again and again he glanced at the office clock, always with that secret smile.

No one thought of lunch. A sense of impending horror grew and grew until the tension became unbearable. Only the old orderly seemed untouched by it.

At last Doctor Bentiron heaved himself up. His face was as placid as ever ; but his lean fingers bungled a fresh cigarette, tearing its paper. He lounged out into the hall, to find Doctor Morel there alone, gnawing his fingernails.

The alienist raised one eyebrow.

"No use," Morel confessed hopelessly. "Nobody knows anything about it. Rehburger's gone to that cigar store on the corner. There's a clerk there—"

"Umphf," Doctor Bentiron said. "Morel, I'm uneasy. The old man's too confident; and he keeps watching the clock. What time does he go off duty?"

"At four. He's due back at six in the morning, to feed the animals."

"And it's after four now. Morel, he's looking for something to happen at a certain time. I don't like it."

He turned back into the office.

"Take him out," he told the policeman. "Keep him in the hall for a while and watch him!"

Left alone, the alienist set a chair beneath the clock. With a shamefaced glance over his shoulder he climbed on it, and set the clock hands ahead thirty minutes.

"I don't know," he muttered. "I don't know what it means; but this might give us a little leeway."

He strolled back into the hall. Rehburger had returned, alone.

"Nothing doing. But that fellow thinks maybe old George, down at the morgue, might know. He's seen 'em take the car together."

"Go get him!" Doctor Bentiron said curtly.

The chief inspector hurried out and in ten minutes returned with old George, the lame morgue keeper, still shirt-sleeved and rubber-aproned. His calloused fingers were thread-scarred, tied here and there with dirty rags; he leaned on a crooked cane and grinned toothlessly.

"Take Tom away," ordered Doctor Bentiron, and the orderly was led back into his chief's office.

"Now, George— do you know his name, and where he lives?"

"Who? Ol' Tom McGuire? Sure do I, sorr; 'r at least, I think so. I was there wanst, f'r a bit of a night-cap." Through the open door of Morel's office came the mellow tones of the wall clock, striking five. At the sound old Tom laughed aloud, hoarsely,  triumphantly.

7: By The Hand of a Child

DOCTOR BENTIRON whirled on his heel. His face was white. He hurried down the hall.

Old Tom was standing beneath the clock, arms spread in a gesture of triumph. His shaggy brows worked; his eyes blazed. Seeing the alienist, he laughed again, crazily.

"It's done!" he said gloatingly. 'It's done an' over with now! You think y'rselves very clever, th' lot of yez, but the mar-rak of th' beast is in y'r foreheads. Who are you, or the likes of you, to interfere with the Lord's anointed ? Sure, it's done an' over with; the vials of the wrath of God is all poured out!"

Doctor Bentiron gripped the old man's shoulder. So fierce was the look in the doctor's eyes that the orderly quailed beneath their glare.

"What do you mean?" Doctor Bentiron demanded. "Explain!"

"Leave me loose; you hurt. Sure, my little girl done it. If I wasn't home on time, she's to pour 'em all out th' windy. It's done now."

"What's under your window? Answer me, man!" In the physician's cruel grip the old man staggered and swayed.

"Underneath? Sure. It's a kindergarten! A roof kindergarten, full of little kids, t' carry the curse home t' th' inhabitants of Babylon, th' wicked!"

There was a stunned silence. Awestricken, horrified, all who heard stared at each other, open-mouthed. Morel swallowed with a queer, clicking sound; Rehburger sobbed aloud.

"Oh, th' poor little kids!"

Suddenly galvanized, Doctor Bentiron leaped into action. He loosed Tom's shoulder so that the old man stumbled and fell.

"Come, men," he urged them. "We've got half an hour. I set the clock ahead. You, George, show us the way. Come!"

Stooping, he gripped the old orderly's collar and jerked him upright; catching the morgue keeper's arm, he hurried out. Rehburger and Morel, infected by his energy, tumbled after him.

The police car stood at the curb; seeing this frantic exodus, its chauffeur started his engine.

"In front, Rehburger," ordered the alienist. "Clear the way!"

He shoved old Tom into the tonneau and clambered after, still gripping the morgue keeper's arm; Morel climbed in last, and they were off with a jerk.

Doctor Bentiron transfixed the orderly with a stare so menacing that even the fanatic was cowed.

"Move," he said softly, "just move once, and I'll kill you, Tom!"

He turned his head. "Up in Harlem, you said. What street?"

"East Wan Hunderd an' Siventy-siventh, th' Bronx, sorr, I th-think," stammered the morgue keeper, who alone understood nothing of this strange affair.

"Think!" Doctor Bentiron said. "You'd best be sure!"

"I— I am, sorr!"'

And so began a wild ride northward. The heavy car leaped and swayed, tearing through traffic at a dangerous speed. Its siren sounded constantly ; Rehburger urged the reckless chauffeur to fresh recklessness. In the rear, old Tom was sunk into lethargy. His head was bowed; his lips moved soundlessly. The morgue keeper kept up a patter of frightened prayers; Morel was crying openly. Tears hopped down his cheeks. "Oh, those little, little children!' He sobbed. "I've got three myself, Bentiron!"

Doctor Bentiron, braced in a corner, had resumed his impassive mask. He no longer showed any agitation, but he glanced at his watch continually.

Up Fifth Avenue the car roared, cut-out open, while the traffic opened before them. Their siren blasted a path, like the trumpets of Joshua before Jericho They were through and away— across a Harlem River bridge, bounding over the uneven pavements of the Bronx.

"Eight minutes," warned Bentiron.

They clamored up Webster Avenue, rounded a corner on two wheels, skidded into a hydrant, crumpling one fender.

"How far?" cried Rehburger.

"Next corner, sorr!" answered old George shrilly.

With screaming brakes the big car slid to a stop, piling its occupants against seat back and windshield. They tumbled out.

Doctor Bentiron was first; he still gripped old Tom. "May need him getting in," he muttered grimly.

"Which floor?"

The alienist looked up. Next the corner building, and one story lower, was a converted private residence. It bore a neat sign; "Miss Ransom's Private Kindergarten."

"Top!" he snapped, dashing into the hallway.

Up four flights of steep stairs they stumbled, panting, breathless, trembling with excitement and impending horror.

Doctor Bentiron glanced at his watch.

"One minute!"'

"Front or back?"

Old George shook a bewildered head. Rehburger thrust a burly shoulder against a door; it quivered; a panel cracked.

Tom, still helpless in the alienist's grasp, grinned covertly; reawakened hope gleamed in his sunken eyes.

"Not that— not that! Rear flat!" cried Doctor Bentiron.

Leaving an outraged, kimono-clad housewife to gape from her shattered door, they all raced down the dark hall.

"Time's up!' said Doctor Bentiron grimly, hand on the door.

It was unlocked. They all piled into a meanly furnished sitting room, whose one window was open.

"Pour, Betty— pour 'em out!" screamed old Tom.

A little girl of ten years turned from the cheap alarm clock, whose hands showed precisely five o'clock, and started for the wall cupboard.

With maniacal strength old Tom tore away, crossed the room in one bound and snatched open the cupboard door. A lighted lamp tumbled to the floor.

He snatched a cotton-stoppered test tube from its rack— the fury of his grip crushed its fragile glass— and turned at bay.

He menaced them with a kitchen knife dipped in the deadly virus.

"It's the plague," he warned them. "Wan step, an' I'll cut ye!"

All shrank away; Rehburger drew his revolver.

Bewildered and frightened, the little girl began to cry. Doctor Bentiron patted her shoulder soothingly, drew her behind him and out into the hall.

They were at a deadlock. Old Tom began to inch toward the open window, the broken vial in his hand still half full. Rehburger raised his pistol.

"No," whispered Doctor Bentiron.

He drew on thick dogskin gloves, then slipped off his coat and wrapped it about one arm. He advanced slowly, his face calm.

"I don't agree with you, Tom," he began casually. "Your reading is all wrong. We haven't reached the days spoken of in the sixteenth chapter. How do you explain the ninth chapter of Revelation' How about the mountain of fire being cast into the sea? That hasn't happened."

The old man looked at him scornfully. "Ye're no Bible student," he said sneeringly. "It's easy explained. Anyways, that's in the eighth chapter, not the ninth."

Doctor Bentiron laughed aloud. "Nonsense! It's the ninth. Don't you know your Bible, man?"

The old man frowned, his sinister purpose forgotten.

"I do! I do so!" he answered, childishly indignant at the slur. "It's the eighth chapter!"

"You can't prove it!" The other advanced imperceptibly.

"Prove it?" cried Tom. "Lookit here!"

He dropped his knife. Still holding the broken test tube in his left hand, he caught up a Bible from the table and leafed its pages expertly. They were all interlined and scored with notes.

"See there!" He pointed  triumphantly. "I told you it was the eighth chapter !"

Doctor Bentiron stepped to his side.

"Why, so it is!" He looked over the old man's shoulder. "How stupid of— you!"

His gloved right hand settled with a grip of steel upon the other's left wrist.

The fearful tension relaxed. Rehburger's breath came out in an audible grunt. Morel advanced, catching the broken test tube deftly in a newspaper as it fell from the old man's hand.

"Hypodermic in my left hip pocket, Morel," directed the alienist. 'Give him a hundredth of hyoscine and a half of morphine— though he seems quiet enough now."

Indeed, old Tom was half fainting. The prolonged strain, and now this crushing of all his insane hopes, had been too much for him.

"Poor devil!" Doctor  Bentiron sighed. "His days are numbered. Get an ambulance, Rehburger."

Tom waited docilely. His lined face was peaceful; his lips moved beneath the clipped gray mustache; his eyes were beatific. At last the stretcher appeared.

"Bellevue, I  suppose— psychopathic ward?" inquired the chief inspector.

Doctor Bentiron shook his head.

"Contagious Disease Hospital," he said, and pointed to the old man's cut fingers. "Fournier and the other may possibly pull through; but poor Tom must have absorbed millions of plague bacilli."

Tom, strapped to his stretcher, disappeared into the hall. The alienist glanced about.

"That ends the epidemic," he declared. "Morel, there are four of your cultures untouched. Send for the board of health; here's a horrid mess to clean up. Carbolic, corrosive sublimate, formaldehyde, everything. Take no chances."

He turned to the forlorn child. "Come, baby," he said invitingly. "Let's go buy us a dolly."

______________________

17: The Sparrow

Christopher B. Booth

Detective Story Magazine 5 Feb 1921

AS he gazed into the dull, expressionless eyes of his client, G. Pittman Jones gestured impatiently. "But, Miss Bennett!" he exclaimed. "You must talk to me; I'm your lawyer. Your sister has employed me; how can I defend you, how can I save you from prison— possibly the gallows— unless you take me into your confidence? We are alone, the walls are thick and there are no eavesdroppers. Don't keep up this shamming any longer; you're not talking to the detectives now, but to your attorney!"

The girl, for she seemed little more than that despite the haggardness of her face, did not reply. She continued to stare blankly at the drab, vacant wall of the visitors' room of the county jail.

"Come, Miss Bennett," pleaded the lawyer, "I can't be coming here every day if you are going to maintain this stubborn make-believe of insanity. The date of your trial is growing near; we've had two continuances already and the State's attorney will fight another one. He wants you to go to trial— he says that he's going to hang you!"

Still the young woman failed to respond. G. Pittman Jones was baffled; he had been counsel for many clients, but never one like this. Many of them, true, had feigned insanity but they were crafty enough to become rational during those periods when Jones desired to talk with them.

Ada Bennett, charged with the murder of Alderman "Benny" Regan, sat lifelessly, slumped over in her chair, knees crossed. Suddenly G. Pittman Jones' arm shot out and the edge of his rigidly extended hand smote her sharply just below the knee cap.

"Huh!" grunted Jones. "She surely didn't know that was coming and— no reflex!" He took a match box from his pocket and, under pretext of lighting his dead cigar, thrust the flaming stick near her eyes. The pupils remained fixed and distended.

The lawyer compressed his lips and lowered his eyelids thotghtfully. Presently he continued his tests, familiar to all alienists. After a time he went to the door and called the turnkey.

"l'm finished now," he called; "you can take her back to her cell." Ada Bennett failed to move at the turnkey's none too kindly command to "come on" but arose like a docile child when he took her arm and urged her forward.

On his way out, G. Pittman Jones stopped in the front office to chat a moment with Jailer McGoorty; they had been friends for years and Jailer McGoorty often sent clients to Lawyer Jones. For this little act of friendship he expected and got a frequent ten-dollar bill. It was McGoorty, in fact, who had aided Ada Bennett's sister in her selection of an attorney.

"Well, that's one dom fine case I sint ye; I'm after thinkin', Misther Jones, that's one case that you won't win."

G. Pittman Jones took a deep puff on his cigar.

"Half an hour ago, McGoorty, I would have agreed with you," he re- plied slowly, "but now I don't. I think I'm going to free that woman. Her mind is gone—entirely gone."

"Yis," chuckled Jailer McGoorty, "like th' brain of th' fox it is. She's after bein' th' clever actress, she is. But th' old stall won't get her freed— not with th' State's attorney takin' such a personal int'rest in th' case. He's sayin' that she must hang."

Attorney Jones sat down near Jailer McGoorty and stared absently at the toes of his own cracked shoes.

"And that's a queer thing, too, McGoorty," he said; "a mighty queer thing. I confess that I haven't been giving the case a great deal of my time; the sister came to me and paid me a retainer— it was small; I made it small because I saw that she needed the money very badly.

"I simply took it for granted that the Sennett woman was shamming— just as you did. I have now found out that she's not shamming!"

"Faith, Misther Jones, an' I'm neither judge nor jury; save your say for th' trial. You'll need all your words then, I'm after thinkin'."

"I'm mostly talking to myself," replied G. Pittman Jones; "I reason things out better when I talk aloud.

"You probably remember the facts better than I do; I confess that I haven't given the case the time that I should. Let us go over the facts. .

"Ada Bennett was Alderman Regan's sweetheart. They were going to be married. The police find— or claim to have found— that Regan and the girl quarreled a day or so before the shooting."

McGoorty nodded.

"And," proceeded Attorney Jones, "on the night of July the sixteenth, the bartender in Alderman Regan's saloon heard a pistol shot in the back room. He rushed to the rear and found Regan on the floor— dead."

"Shure!" agreed McGoorty. "An' why don't ye go on, Misther Jones. Th' batrender found Regan dead, beaten over th' head with a stove poker, an' shot through th' heart. Th' pistol, still shmokin', was lyin' on th' floor, an' there stood Ada Bennett with the stove poker in her hand!"

"All that tallies with the facts as I have previously heard them," nodded G. Pittman Jones; "I grant you that it looks bad, very bad for my client, but the law does not send insane people to prrson— or worse."

"Providin' they're insane," snorted McGoorty, "but th' old insanity stall's been worked so frequent, Misther Jones, that it's hard to get a jury to swallow it any more."

"And there's a mighty queer development in this case that I am to defend," went on Lawyer Jones; "State Attorney Tilson is not ordinarily so vindictive, so avowedly bitter toward women whom he prosecutes. Never before has he demanded the death sentence for a woman!

"Oh, I know what you will say, Jailer McGoorty; you will say that the State attorney is peeved because there have been so many acquittals in cases where women were being tried for murder, angry because the newspapers have pointed out that it is impossible to convict a woman of murder in this city. Tush!

"Now, if State Attorney Tilson and Alderman Regan had been close political or personal friends there might be the answer; but such was not the case— most emphatically not. Think it over, McGoorty; there's something behind this. There is, as we used to say, a nigger in the wood pile, and I propose to tear down a couple of cords of facts and have a look at the ebony citizen."

Opinion was somewhat divided on the question of whether or not G. Pitt- man Jones had clear title to the frequently applied term "a successful criminal lawyer." If success is to be measured by the size of one's bank balance or the mode of one's clothes, the negatives win. If, on the other hand, we are to accept the word of various and sundry persons who escaped the terrifying embrace of the long arm of the law through the efforts of Lawyer Jones, then he most emphatically was.

G. Pittman Jones did not look prosperous and he was no more prosperous than he looked. His practice was confined exclusively to the trial of criminal cases and criminal lawyers have found it discouragingly true that those persons with an ability to pay large fees seldom are faced with the necessity of paying them.

Many other members of the bar were open in referring to G. Pittman Jones as a "shyster." His long and successful record in winning cases, his almost uncanny ability in selecting and swaying a jury was generally laid to "trickery." Attorneys sneered at him, his shiny and carelessly unpressed clothes, and his methods— until they faced him in a court room. In a court room one forgot that Lawyer Jones needed a new suit and a shine and, more than often, a hair cut.

G. Pittman Jones' fees were small; there were many, many times when he charged no fee at all; there were times, also, when he secretly sent money from his own pocket to the family of an unfortunate whom he was called upon to defend. This secret generosity, together with a passion for "playing the ponies" kept his finances in a continual state of low ebb.

It was a story not generally credited, but nevertheless true, that Lawyer Jones had refused a fee of twenty-five thousand dollars to defend the erring son of a millionaire.

"I often defend those technically guilty but never those morally guilty," Jones had once remarked; lawyers to whom the remark was passed said that he was both a liar and a fool.

The date of Ada Bennett's trial drew nearer and G. Pittman Jones, working feverishly to put his finger on the vulnerable spot in the State's case, was baffled. Not once had he been able to arouse to life his client's seemingly paralyzed consciousness. True enough, he had called in alienists who would testify that the woman was insane; that meant little better than nothing. The State would produce alienists who would swear that she was shamming; probably they would have a preponderance of medical experts, for neither Jones nor his client had the money to pay for "expert testimony." Besides juries were becoming more and more chary of alienists; more and more they were refusing to be bewildered and hypnotized by the many-syllabled medical terms.

G. Pittman Jones had, it was true, found out some things which had aroused suspicion in his own mind as to State Attorney Tilson's possible motives, but suspicion is no substitute for evidence.

"Well, Misther Jones," remarked Jailer McGoorty when the lawyer called at the.county jail the day before the trial, "you're still after thinkin' that you're goin' to get an acquittal for Ada Bennett ?"

Lawyer Jones sat down and shook his head; he could be frank with his friend McGoorty.

"I'm beginning to doubt it, McGoorty," he admitted. "I am satisfied that Tilson has an ulterior motive in this unusually vigorous prosecution. As always, the newspapers are interested in the trial of a woman for murder and Tilson has issued a statement to-day that he will demand the death penalty; he says that so long as women have insisted on absolute civil equality with man, they can no longer be permitted to play upon their femininty and use their tears when tried for a crime. He states that it was a cold-blooded murder and that she must be hung."

"Yis, I read it, Misther Jones, an' a very bitter attack it is. An' what are your suspicions regardin' Misther Tilson's motives, Misther Jones?"

"Humph!" said Lawyer Jones, narrowing his eyes. "I have discovered, for one thing, that Alderman Kegan's death was a very, very fortunate thing for State Attorney Tilson's political fortunes. Alderman Regan had declared war on Tilson's  renomination in the primaries and— Tilson could not get the party nomination with Regan against him. The murder was the only thing that permitted Tilson to win. The State attorney's office is a very lucrative position, McGoorty."

"Yis, there might be somethin' in what you say," admitted the jailer with a grave nod of his head; "I hadn't thought of that, Misther Jones. But what can you do?"

"Nothing, McGoorty, absolutely nothing," replied Lawyer Jones with a sad sigh.

The day of Ada Bennett's trial was as gloomy as G,. Pittman Jones' thoughts; the sky as heavy as the lawyer's heart. A dose of very bad weather from Medicine Hat had swept down upon the city the night before. The knife thrusts of cold had struck the thermometers and the mercury shriveled down in the glass tubes and the newspapers began to talk pitifully of "the city's suffering."

Jones was at his office early; he had gotten up before the steam had and his fingers were numb as he fumbled with his papers, thrusting them into his worn portfolio. His office, shabby like himself, was five blocks from the crim- inal courts building. He buttoned his collar about his neck and went down to the street on his way to the court house.

He had accomplished three of the five blood-congealing blocks when he almost trod upon— the sparrow!

The bird had fallen, half frozen, to the pavement; Lawyer Jones almost stepped upon it. He had almost a womanly tenderness for the feathered family and, instinctively, he leaned over and took the sparrow, which made one desperate attempt to flutter away, into his own number fingers. He slipped it into his pocket.

The trial of Ada Bennett started as other trials, except perhaps that State Attorney Tilson glared across the attorneys' table at G. Pittman Jones with greater ferocity and looked as though he expected Jones to spring some surprise on him. Tilson was a big, heavy man with massive jaws and beetling brows; he towered a full head above Jones who, in repose, was mild mannered and with quiet but penetrating gray eyes.

"I'm gonna hang Ada Bennett," Tilson remarked at Lawyer Jones.

"You mean you think that you are." The attorney for the defense smiled with an assurance that was entirely assumed. He had not even a shred of hope to which he could cling; it was the weakest case he had ever brought into court. He had only a few witnesses, friends of Ada Bennett's, who would swear that she loved Alderman Regan, loved him too much to kill him. And the State would answer that she loved him so much, so jealously that she did kill him— brutally, as a tigress would slay. There were, of course, a few alienists who would testify that they considered the woman insane; but the State had the defense outnumbered two to one on this score.

Tilson made his opening address to the jury, outlining the horrifying brutality of the crime, ridiculing the woman's blank-eyed pose, and demanding that she pay the penalty on the scaffold.

"One ray of hope," murmured G. Pittman Jones; "Tilson is so brutal in his arraignment that he may create sympathy for her— but what a slender ray!"

The trial moved swiftly. The State's witnesses were brief in their testimony and Jones' cross-examination equally so. The lawyer was unable to break down the story that Ada Bennett and Alderman Regan had quarreled, and that she had gone to the alderman's saloon to effect a reconciliation. The bartender told his story; how he had heard the pistol report and, rushing hack, found Regan dead, shot and beaten, and the girl standing near with the stove poker in her hand and the smoking revolver on the floor. She had uttered no word, the bartender said, answered no questions and made no denial of guilt.

Lawyer Jones, when his meager little handful of witnesses had testified and it was apparent that the weight of their testimony was nil, took Ada Bennett by the arm and led her to the witness box. He hoped against hope that the jury would read the truth in her face, in her wide-staring eyes.

As he stepped back to ask the question which would remain unanswered, the sparrow, warmed back to life by the heat of the court room, emerged from the pocket of Lawyer Jones' overcoat and, with a whir of wings, began dashing from window to window in its search of freedom.

State Attorney Tilson glanced up, startled, but his surprise was no greater than that of G. Pittman Jones who had quite forgotten the rescued bird.

"It's a trick; it's a trick!" shouted Tilson, leaping to his feet, his face red with rage. "It's one of that shyster's tricks! He turned that bird loose in the court room; I saw him." Which was not true,

The judge rapped with his gavel and frowned reprovingly at the enraged State attorney.

"I tell you it's a trick!" cried Tilson. "He's trying to create sympathy for this murderess! He's trying to compare her to a bird struggling for freedom! I tell you it's a trick! He's always pulling off some dramatic stunt, the shyster."

"Mr. Tilson," said the court, "you will apologize to—"

But Tilson, his temper master of his reason, rushed to the near-by window where the sparrow was beating impotently against the pane, seized a long stick which is used for opening and closing the upper sashes, and flailed wildly at the frightened bird. His aim was true and the sparrow tumbled to the floor— crushed to death.

G. Pittman Jones had too strong a sense of the dramatic not to take advantage of the incident. He turned to the jury.

"The State attorney has suggested a most fitting simile," he said, "this defendant, her mind gone, is like a helpless bird beating its wings against the barriers and— the State attorney is trying to crush out her life with the same cruelty that he used in crushing out the life of that sparrow!"

"And that," murmured Lawyer Jones to himself, "will at least save her from the gallows."

Ada Bennett was leaning forward in the witness chair, her eyes on the sparrow, as if fascinated.

"That— that's just the way he killed my Ben," she whispered, but the whisper had reached every corner of the court room; a murmur arose.

"Silence!" hissed Lawyer Jones. "Her mind is coming back— let her talk."

"I object!" shouted Tilson.

"Objections overruled," replied the court.

"Tell us how he killed Ben," commanded G. Pittman Jones in a soothing, but compelling voice.

"Just— just like he killed the bird," she said slowly, her voice becoming stronger. "He beat Ben to death— beat him to death with the stove poker; and—and then he— he shot him.

"I— I was going to see Ben; I had just entered the vestibule of the rear room, I heard them quarreling; I didn't want to intrude. I was going to go away and then— then he grabbed the poker and struck Ben over the head— once, twice, three times, but Ben wasn't dead, so— so he shot him.

"I— I rushed in and grabbed poker but— it was too late. Len was— dead."

Lawyer Jones was quivering with excitement.

"Who killed Ben?" he asked slowly.

"That— that man; the man who killed the bird!" she said.

"Point to him now," commanded Jones.

Ada Bennett pointed her finger toward State Attorney Tilson.

"He killed Ben," she said.

Tilson, his face ashen, leaped to his feet.

"It's a lie— it's a trick!" he cried hoarsely. "The woman's insane; she's crazy, as crazy as a loon. She don't know what she's saying. She's crazy!"

Judge, jury, and spectators were leaning forward with tense muscles.

"Tilson," cried Jones, "your own face, your own words convict you; you killed Alderman Regan!"

The judge, recovering his judicial composure, lifted his gavel but thought better of it as he looked into the State attorney's fear-distended and pasty face.

"You went to Regan's saloon to make a deal with him to support you for the nomination," went on Lawyer Jones in ringing tones; "he wouldn't make a deal with you. And you couldn't be nominated without his support. Your nasty temper got the best of you; you killed him in a burst of anger. You fled out the side door. You hid and made ready for flight but decided that no one would take this woman's word against yours— you, the State attorney. Then you learned that her mind was gone, a blank. Fearing she might recover, you tried to hang her to keep her from talking."

Tilson looked wildly toward door.

"Sheriff,"ordered the Court, "arrest that man."

State Attorney Tilson whipped out a revolver and shot himself through the mouth.

G. Pittman Jones sank weakly into a chair.

"Pete," he whispered in an awed voice to one of the bailiffs, "every law- yer in town will accuse me of staging the whole thing; they'll say 'Another one of Jones' cheap pieces of melodrama to get publicity.' And they're wrong— wrong."

"Yeah?" said the bailiff with questioning skepticism.

"Well, I don't care what they say about me," and G. Pittman Jones laughed. "It simply proves the adage: 'Justice is mighty and will prevail.' "

"Uh-huh," grunted the bailiff, "providin' you've got a smart lawyer."

_____________________

Index to "Past Masters" stories, by author.

Issues 31-40

I never envisaged this series of original anthologies going into so many issues, and the ever-growing index to all issues was becoming unwieldy.  Accordingly, I have now divided the Index.  This Index commences with Past Masters 31.

The Index to Issues 1 to 30 can be found in Past Masters 30, or as a stand-alone document uploaded to the Kindle and Epub libraries at MobileRead.

The stories are arranged in Alphabetical order of Author's surname, or if the author's name is consistently a pseudonym, that pseudonym (eg "Owen Oliver").  They are then in alphabetical order of title, disregarding "A", "An" and "The".

____________

Cleve F. Adams

Frame For a Lady 38

Lewis Allen

Pinched 39

Robert L. Ahern

Murder Needs No Motive  34

Anonymous

The Lady Detective's Story 32

F. Anstey

The Talking Horse  34

Alice and Claude Askew

Phyllis in the Wood  40

Lillian Bamburg

The Missing Pearls  39

Robert Barr

The Doom of London   39

Charles Beadle

The Double Scoop 39

Wolcott LeClear Beard

A Ledge of Safety 33

Frederick R. Bechdolt

The Case of Mimbres  37

Randolph Bedford

Filamena's Hula 39

The Man Who Held the Wires  39

H Bedford-Jones

Apache Gold 31

The Arizona Callahan  37

The Devil's Fire 31

The Devil is Dead 31

The Fog at Fiddler's Green 31

The King's Pipe  34

Lady of the Evil Eye 31

Sons of Kalewa 31

Leslie Beresford

Eastern Guile 35

Christopher B. Booth

In His Brother's Job  40

Mr Clackworthy and the Auto Rim  40

Mr Clackworthy Goes to Jail 40

The Sparrow  40

Ellis Parker Butler

An Experiment in Gyro-Hats  37

Hats and Lilies 37

The Heckby Hill Murder 38

Mr. Marston's Chauffeurette  40

Egerton Castle

The Closed Door  35

Anna Alice Chapin

By Way of Experience 40

C. Langton Clarke

The Detective for the Defense 33

Dorothea Conyers

Lord Hillayton's Settlement 35

Ted Copp

Blackmail Moll 36

Frederic Van Rensselaer Dey

The Bigelow Murder Mystery  40

Charles Dickens

To be Taken with a Grain of Salt  39

Captain Dingle

Homeward Bound 33

Deferred 33

George Allan England

Buzzards   38

Drugged  38

George Manville Fenn

Lady Florry's Gems  34

Francis Flagg

The Blue Dimension 33

The Heads of Apex 33

Elliott Flower

The Elusive Ten Dollar Bill 36

J. M. Fry

The Ring   38

Emile Gaboriau

The Little Old Man of Batignolles

Lady Gilbert

Aurora's Treasure 35

Guy Gilpatric

The Crafty Jerko-Slovaks 32

One Good Tern  35

The Ladies of Catsmeat Yard  37

Winifred Graham

Pan   39

Beatrice Heron-Maxwell

The Dancer's Mascot  35

Headon Hill

Rogue's Legacy  32

J. L. Hornibrook

Captain Cronhelm's Blunder 35

S. B. H. Hurst

The Brightest Jewel of Them All  32

Marianne Kent

A Black Diamond  35

Otis Adelbert Kline

The Dragoman's Slave Girl 35

George L. Knapp

The Family Compact  37

Thomas H. Knight

Old City of Jade  36

Alun Lewis

Private Jones 39

William J Locke

Ladies In Lavender 36

Charles J. Mansford

The Dervish of the Nile Pyramid 34

The Great Dial of the Gold-Finders 33

The Hidden Egyptian Shield  34

The Lost Fetish of Walai 35

The Veiled Idol of Kor 32 '

The Wizard of Swazi Swamp   37

Mrs. L. T. Meade

Beauty Dear 32

The Yellow Dragon Vases 32

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

The Strange Case of Captain Gascoigne 31

With the Eternal Fires 32

The Small House on Steven's Heath 33

"To Every one His Own Fear"  34

C S Montanye

Prey  40

Arthur Morrison

A Lucifo Match 36

Clarence Herbert New

The Attack from Moscow 32

Bill Garford’s Last Play (Culpeper Zandtt) 36

The Boss (Culpeper Zandtt)  37

A Challenge to the Submarine  36

The Island of Heaven and Hell 32

The Man Who Forgot  37

The Mystery at Mulungban  (Culpeper Zandtt)  37

A Night in the Kremlin 34

The Secret of Banda Sea 34

Owen Oliver

The Cape Conspiracy  35

A Pretty Woman 31

A Rapid Conveyance  36

Success 40

Frederick C. Painton

Narcotic Man  36

What! No Imagination? 38

Max Pemberton

The Cripple at the Mill  34

Last Across 39

The Lepers Guest   37

G. G. Pendarves

The Eighth Green Man  35

Hugh Pendexter

It Might Have Happened Otherwise  32

Kingbird 33

The Raven Mocker 33

A New Keeper of the Wampum  39

Ernest M. Poate

Doctor Bentiron's Addict Case 40

Plain Soda 40

Three Alike 40

Through the Looking Glass 40

Vials of Wrath 40

Well Done 40

Lewis Ramsden

Désirée 32

C. S. Raymond

The Wireless Death 36

Robert Reeves

Alcoholics  Calamitous 39

Bail Bait  39

Dance Macabre 39

Morgan Robertson

The Subconscious Finnegan 36

Arthur Somers Roche

The Dayless Diamonds 32

A Flutter in Finance 32

"Illimore!" 31

The Premiere Danseuse 32

The Robbery at the Café Ravasan 31

The Victim of Amnesia 31

William Merriam Rouse

The Nitwit 36

Victor Rowan

Four Wooden Stakes  38

Perley Poore Sheehan

Dead Men Talk  38

Annie S. Swan

The Diplomat  38

William Alexander Taylor

Intermere  33

Guy Thorne

Sir Patrick Armagh's Knife

Florence Warden

Grimgriffenhoof  39

F A M Webster

Towards Morning 33

Carolyn Wells

The Mystery of the Jade Buddha 40

Henry S. Whitehead

Jumbee 37

Raoul Whitfield

The Caleso Murders 32

Diamonds of Dread  38

Inside Job 36

Rivals of the Clouds 31

Silence House 36

Sinners' Paradise 33

William Alron Wolff

Bait, Hook and Sinker  34

_________________

Table of Contents

1: Mr. Marston's Chauffeurette / Ellis Parker Butler

2: Phyllis in the Wood / Alice and Claude Askew

3: The Bigelow Murder Mystery / Frederic Van Rensselaer Dey

4: Success / Owen Oliver

5: Prey / C S Montanye

6: Doctor Bentiron's Addict Case / Ernest M. Poate

7: Mr Clackworthy and the Auto Rim / Christopher B. Booth

8: Plain Soda / Ernest M. Poate

9: The Mystery of the Jade Buddha / Carolyn Wells

10: In His Brother's Job / Christopher B. Booth

11: Mr Clackworthy Goes to Jail / Christopher B. Booth

12: Well Done / Ernest M.  Poate

13: Through the Looking Glass / Ernest M. Poate

14: By Way of Experience / Anna Alice Chapin

15: Three Alike / Ernest M. Poate

16: Vials of Wrath / Ernest M. Poate

17: The Sparrow / Christopher B. Booth

Index to Past Masters 31-40