PAST MASTERS

FORTY-TWO

September 2021

Part 2

Produced by Terry Walker

("Pulpmeister")

Contents

1: Honest John's Millions / Ernest M. Poate

2: Jimmy the Lug / Christopher B. Booth

3: The Stolen Story / Ernest M. Poate

4: Gold-Bricked / Lewen Hewitt

5: The Third Pinprick / Ernest M. Poate

6: The Message on the Sun-Dial / J. J. Bell

7: Death at 8.30 / Christopher St. John Sprigg

8: The Monster-Maker / William Chambers Morrow

9: Jimmy Riley's "Turn" / Frederick W. Bechdolt

10: The Baron's Quarry / Egerton Castle

11: The Mystery of Chenholt / Alice and Claude Askew

12: The Mystery of a Midsummer Night / George R. Sims

13: The Chinese Chessmen / William Crawford Honeyman

14: The Twisted Inn / Hugh Walpole

15: The Pearl of Panama / Guy Gilpatric

16: The Javanese Mask / Raoul Whitfield

17:  Inquest / Leonora Wodehouse

18: The Scarecrow / Ethel Lina White

Cumulative Index issues 31-42

_____________________

1: Honest John's Millions

Ernest M. Poate

1884-1935

Detective Story Magazine, 19 Nov 1921

EX-ALDERMAN MORAN tapped on the glass before him; and when the chauffeur had inclined a contemptuous ear, after the manner of taxicab drivers, he yelled: "Go on!" His voice rang shrill. "Drive on past; don't stop!"

The chauffeur snorted audibly, jerked his head in mute commentary upon the crazy whims of his fare, and followed directions. Mr. Moran shrank back into the farthest corner of the cab. His broad, florid face twitched; beads of sweat stood out on his long upper lip, oddly white between two veined, purplish cheeks. His little beady eyes jerked about constantly, as do the eyes of a trapped rat. One thick, shaking hand clutched a small leather bag. The blood roared in his ears; his heart shook him, pounded painfully.

And this had been his last hope; but even the Long Island ferry was closed to him. Beside the vehicular entrance his alert gaze had caught the menace of squared-toed shoes, police shoes.

"That will be Cassidy," he muttered, daring to sit forward a trifle now that his cab was safely turned westward once more. And he sighed deeply, wiped a wet forehead, and fumbled unconsciously for the luxuriant "bartender's" mustache which was no more.

What should he do? All exits from Manhattan Island seemed barred. Absently he caressed the bag beside him, thinking slowly, heavily.

He might try the Bronx— escape to the north in this cab; better, on the surface cars, through Mount Vernon, New Rochelle, Larchmont— But the Bronx! That was his own bailiwick. There men, women, and children knew him by sight; the Bronx was full of his old adherents— and of depositors in his bank!

The yell of a passing newsboy assailed his ears. "Here y' are! Aw 'bout the bank lootin'! Hones' John Moran robs 'is own bank! Here y' are! Extray!"

"Honest John" Moran, ex-alderman and ex-banker, withdrew again into the corner of his cab. No; not the Bronx! Better to be taken by the police than risk himself there.

So he pondered as the cab moved slowly down an avenue, meshed in a long double line of traffic. To escape from the city seemed impossible. To hide in New York? That meant weeks and months of unbearable strain; the continual likelihood of arrest; and no opportunity to enjoy the contents of that well-stuffed bag beside him. And what then?

One after another he shuffled and discarded half-made plans. He scowled, passing a thick, pulpy hand across his eyes. His head ached; he could not think clearly. His jerking, ratty eyes roved constantly, watching the stream of traffic, the passing folk, alert for traffic officers that he might shrink away from them— for Honest John Moran was a well-known figure, and not too well disguised by the sacrifice of his famous curled mustache.

Then as his gaze flitted over a plain, stone-fronted building near Thirty-fourth Street, he started visibly. His lips straightened; the worry left his sagging face. He muttered half aloud.

"Alienists! That's a idear, now, huh? There was Billy Slattery—"

He lapsed into silence, thinking swiftly. There had been Slattery, sure enough ; a worthless lounger, hanger-on at cheap pool rooms, slack-witted, unclean; Slattery, known contemptuously as "Billy the Fit," because liquor was ont to move him to epileptic. convulsions. And this same Billy, three years before, had killed a man in Berman's saloon. Honest John Moran remembered it vividly ; how Slattery had risen from the barroom floor after an exceptionally horrid fit, with distorted face and a maniacal gleam in his red-rimmed eyes; how he had snatched a knife from the free-lunch counter and slashed a total stranger to death; how he had wounded three others and put the whole crowd in peril of their lives before he could be disarmed.

Slattery had been arrested, indicted, tried for murder— and acquitted! There had been a battle of alienists; ponderous polysyllables, interminable hypothetical questions; and the jury's verdict had been "not guilty by reason of insanity." Billy the Fit had heen it! some sort a constitutent of Moran's— an aldermen then— and Honest John had followed the case; had even visited the fellow at Matteawan State Hospital six months later, to find him fat and contented, and talking of his release.

A crafty light grew in the ex-alderman's beady eyes. This worthless loafer, guilty of wanton murder, had been acquitted without difficulty, though he was penniless. And it had been Doctor Bentiron, who lived in that stone-fronted house near Thirty-fourth Street, who had freed him; Doctor Bentiron, whom all New York knew as the greatest of alienists, of medico-legal experts.

If Doctor Bentiron had interested himself in this poor derelict— Heaven knew why!— surely he could be induced to accept the case of ex-Alderman Moran. Alderman Moran was a man of substance, a man of standing in the community; and his trouble was no great thing, like murder, but a mere trifle of embezzlement. Moreover, he had, packed in the bag at his side, three hundred thousand dollars in good, clean money; why, the thing was as good as done! Mr. Moran shared the popular opinion of medico-legal experts, which is not too flattering.

He rapped once more upon the glass. "Hey, you! Turn around; take me to Doctor Bentiron's house. Know where he lives? You c'n leave me there."

The chauffeur nodded surlily; one could see that he was not sorry to be rid of this irritating fare who did not know his own mind. The old car wheezed and rattled out of the traffic stream, turned west to circle a block, and struck back into the avenue once more, going north.

And presently it had pulled up before that plain four-story building whose upper windows were all of opaque wire-glass like the windows of a warehouse. Honest John Moran looked at the cab's meter, bunched in his hand the proper fare, plus a fifty-cent tip, and looked up and down and all about with restless, beady eyes.

Then he clambered out. All in a breath he thrust the little wad of money into the cab-driver's outstretched hand, whirled, and dashed across the side- walk, half running, hat brim low over his eyes, handkerchief to his face. He did not stop to glance at the name, "Doctor Bentiron," cut into the stone beside the entrance, but wrenched the door open; it was at the ground level; and he entered precipitately.

He found himself in a strange room, not at all like the conventional physician's office. It was long and wide; its floor was of white tiling, and the walls were wainscoted with tile. Around three sides ran long, plain wooden benches; and they were well filled with folk who looked up at this newcomer with that resentful sympathy which the sick feel for each other. There were a dozen people, perhaps; a strangely assorted group, where an old scrubwoman in a red shawl sat close beside a slim young elegant in pongee silk. A street cleaner in his soiled whites sat next to a dainty lady in figured organdie, who sniffed at smelling salts, regarding her neighbor askance; then a splendid, white-haired old man in a clerical waistcoat; then a policeman in uniform.

At sight of the bluecoat John Moran flinched. Then he took his courage in both hands and advanced down the room, running the gantlet of outraged stares.

Before him was a brass rail such as one sometimes sees in business offices; and beyond that the end of the room was raised perhaps two feet. Here were desks for busy typists; a private telephone switchboard; a uniformed nurse, and a very large man in white ducks.

The last raised a pleasant, high-colored face to examine this importunate visitor and, seeing the man's state, rose briskly.

"What's the trouble?" he asked.

"I— I gotta see the doc," mumbled Moran. His broad face twitched oddly; the mottled color of it came and went. His voice was slurring, thick. "I gotta see Doc Bentiron right away— quick !"

The other frowned.

"Sorry. You see all these people waiting? You'll have to take your turn."

Honest John gasped. Panic had taken hold of him; as the policeman stirred on his bench, he made an odd, choking sound. He fancied the grip of the law already upon his shoulder, and the stout brass rail creaked and rattled beneath his hands.

"Gotta see 'im!" he repeated. "I gotta! 'S life an' death!"

The huge man in white lifted a hand to thinning hair. His shrewd, kindly eyes appraised the disordered face upturned to him.

"You're a sick man," he declared. "Come this way and lie down for a bit. I'll speak to the doctor." He opened a gate in the rail.

Honest John Moran stumbled up two steps and followed him thankfully ; and not until a door had closed between himself and that policeman without did he draw an easy breath. Meantime the patrolman sat patiently on and never knew that he had missed an important capture.

Moran followed his guide down a hall, past a heavy door guarded by a huge orderly, also in white, and into an alcove beneath the stair.

"Lie down on this couch, old man. Take it easy. Isn't there anything I could do? Blakely's my name; Doctor Bentiron's assistant."

Moran shook his head and subsided upon the leather divan, clutching his leather bag tighter than ever.

"Nope! Gotta see the doc 'imself. 'S important. Tell 'im he won't lose nothin' by it."

Doctor Blakely glanced down at him queerly, with a half-scornful, half-pitying look. "The doctor," he answered clearly, "won't care about that. He doesn't need your money. But I'll tell him." And he turned away. Moran chuckled hoarsely. Bentiron didn't need his money, huh? Be glad enough t' take it just the same, he'd bet! And while he waited he strove to recall all he had heard about this alienist.

An eccentric, they said, who had been known more than once to be impatient with the formalities of law. A man very widely known, so that half New York boasted of his acquaintance; and a "square shooter." This last the encomium of "Pittsburg Slim," a very notorious pickpocket. Well, he'd see. He'd bet the man would listen to reason.

Then the huge, slow-moving Doctor Blakely returned. "The doctor will see you just for a minute. I told him it was life and death. And"— as Moran came forward hastily— "you'd better be sure it is, or he won't like it."

And the ex-alderman chuckled again. As though this doctor's anger were so to be feared! And he went on through that thick oak door, now open.

Moran found himself in a big, bare room, windowless, carpetless, unfurnished, flooded with light from the great skylight which formed its whole ceiling. For an instant he thought himself alone; then he turned to the left and saw that at one end the room had some furniture.

Here stood two huge, squat, revolving bookcases; and between them was a reclining chair, wide-armed, with a long foot rest. And in it sat a curious figure.

It was a lean, slouching old man, untidily wrapped in a faded green bath-robe which hung loosely upon an angular figure. He lay far back in the big chair, thin legs outthrust, his mouse-gray head bent forward so that a short, ill-trimmed beard rested upon his flat chest. He held a cigarette loosely in long, slender fingers, and his eyes brooded upon vacancy.

Those eyes caught Moran's wondering gaze and held it. They were extraordinarily long, wide-set on either side of a great, fierce, promontory of nose; they were dull-gray and opaque, blank as empty windows. And they continued to blink mournfully at the wall, taking no cognizance of the visitor.

Ex-Alderman Moran advanced upon this immobile figure. "This Doc— Doctor Bentiron?" he asked rather uncertainly, for the other did not move, did not glance at him, seemed alseep with open eyes.

He got no reply. The doctor's vacant stare did not change. But a cigarette rose to the bearded lips, glowed briefly, and was withdrawn. Twin jets of pale smoke began to drift from that huge nose. That was all.

"Well, doctor Moran halted before his host, standing uneasily upon one foot; for the room held no other chair. He fiddled with the handle of his bag, uncertain how to begin.

"Doctor, I— I wanta—"

His voice trailed away. The other yawned widely, and "Umphf," he said.

The indifferent grunt held a note of interrogation. Thus heartened, Moran went on.

"I— I'm John Moran. Honest John Moran." He waited for some excla- mation, some show of interest ; but none came.

"Exactly. And why did you shave off your mustache, Mr. Moran?" The irrelevant query came in a dull, dead monotone, dry as last year's fallen leaves.

Moran goggled, irritated by this ignoring of his bad eminence. "Ain't you heard?" he demanded aggrievedly. " 'S in all the papers!"

Doctor Bentiron yawned. "I never read the newspapers."

"Wuh-well, I—" Mr. Moran paused once more, and his thick, over- manicured fingers groped for a mustache end that was not there. He felt affronted, yet vaguely awed, by the weary indifference of this doctor; and his was an errand not easily voiced So he stood for a moment, shifting from one flat foot to the other. They made a striking contrast, these two; the politician point-device— for he had an excellent tailor— in immaculate blue serge, excellently cut and fitted. He was close shaven; his coarse black hair shone with oil; his thick, blunt hands were white, puffily soft, too carefully tended, so that their wide nails glistened. The physician was untidily wrapped in an old green robe whose scorched holes told of the burning ash of many a cigarette; mouse-gray hair and beard were untrimmed, and a soft collar showed his lean, corded throat. And yet, looking at them, the most casual observer would have known that the one, for all his grooming and fine linen, was of the coarsest fiber, and that the other, mauger his careless dress and slouching indifference of posture, was dominant, commanding— an aristocrat of the aristocrats.

And then, in desperation, the thick- set, stocky Moran blurted out his tale, speaking in short, broken sentences. His voice carried an odd, slurring haste ; his broad face jerked spasmodically.

"John Moran— ever'body calls me Honest John," he began, with a queer pride in the nickname which he had betrayed. '"Useta be a alderman. Live up in the Bronx. Gotta private bank there. It's gone bust, doctor." It was noticeable that now, face-to-face with the physician, he left off using the curt "doc."

"Gone bust; papers is full of it t'-day. Short three hunderd grand— an' I got it all here!"

He thrust out the leather bag, defiantly, and paused, breathing hard through his nose.

"Umphf," said Doctor "Well?"

Alderman Moran ground his teeth. Would nothing rouse this graven image to interest?

"I got it here," he repeated; "understand? More'n a quarter of a million, right in this bag! An' they're after me. The ferries is watched; they's bulls ever'where I go, seems like. I can't get outa town; they'll get me— they'll send me up; I'll got' jail. An', doctor, it'd kill me; I ain't well; couldn't stand it!"

"Umphf," repeated the doctor placidly. "You should have thought of that sooner." And still he expressed neither condemnation nor sympathy; still he seemed perfectly detached, indifferent.

John Moran groaned aloud, mopped his face with a shaking hand. "You gotta help me," he cried. "You gotta! I c'n pay; I'll give you a quarter of it— I'll give you half!' He clawed at the clasp of his bag, tore it open, snatched out a great sheaf of yellow bills, and shook it in the face of his imperturbable host.

Doctor Bentiron did not speak. His eyes still brooded upon vacancy; but one thick eyebrow rose faintly.

"How, y' mean? This way. Lookit! 'Member Slattery— him they useta call Bill the Fit? He croaked that guy, but you got 'im off f'r crazy, an' now: he's outa Matteawan again, good as new sd

The doctor did not speak, but his long, dull eyes shifted from the wall. His bearded chin dropped further; he regarded Honest John fixedly from beneath heavy, overhanging brows, as a man might stare at some noxious insect. Moran could not brook that blank, merciless, gray stare; his beady eyes dropped, ran furtively about as though seeking aid from the walls of that bare room. He chattered on, incoherently, insistently, wetting thick lips with a dry tongue.

"You c'n do it. I can't stand f'r Sing Sing— it'd kill me. It ain't bad up t' Matteawan; I been there t' see Slattery. An' it needn't be long— on'y a coupla months 'r so. An' easy as easy! An' I'll pay— oh, I'll pay good!"

He pawed again in the leather bag, dragging out yellow bills and Liberty Bonds by the package. Still on his feet he seemed to grovel, to kneel mentally, so to say, begging for aid. He wore the grotesque semblanceof some fanatic, importuning his god; praying to an immobile, indifferent image which sat behind wreaths of smoke, unheeding.

At last, "Umphf," said Doctor Bentiron, cutting the other short. He took a long pull at his cigarette, dropped it, and fumbled for papers and tobacco. Then, slender, deft hands busy at the rolling of a fresh smoke, he spoke in the same dull, dragging monotone.

"Just what do you want me to do? Talk sense and stop jabbering."

"Wuh—why, get me off. I can't get away; I gotta stand f'r a pinch. You be my expert, see? When they try me f'r— f'r embezzlement— you tell 'em I'm crazy— get me Matteawan, 'stead o' Sing Sing. An' then, coupla months, you c'n get me outa there all clean, see? An' you get half the cush, jus' f'r that."

Remote, imperturbable, the doctor regarded him for a space, stroking his beard. He opened his lips; closed them. A new quality came into his gaze; a searching, impersonal sharpness. Then he touched a button that was set into his wide chair arm. The big orderly appeared as by magic.

"Chair, Hanrahan."

And in a moment an armchair was brought in, and Honest John Moran dropped into it thankfully.

Doctor Bentiron rose, groaning, picked up flash light and little rubber- tipped hammer and slouched over to this new patient. As Moran sat rigid, uneasy as most people are at sight of unfamiliar instruments, he turned a bright light into the little, beady eyes, tapped fat knees with his hammer, and nodded as the thick legs jerked convulsively.

He went through a number of curious, childish tests, whereat Moran must grin furtively; then returned to his big chair.

"You looted your own bank," he drawled. "You found you couldn't get away with the money. So you want me to testify for you; you intend to put in an insanity plea. And in the meantime, what will you do with this money?" A languid thumb indicated the black leather bag.

Honest John Moran considered briefly. Inwardly he began to regret his impulsive confidence. He was in a cleft stick; at this man's mercy. Why had he been so rash?

Then. he took comfort. After all, Doctor Bentiron was known as a "square shooter"'— and, to your practiced politician, it does not seem incongruous that a man who can be bribed to perjury should yet hold to his private word.

"I— I—" He hesitated. '"W'y, you c'n keep that f'r me, doctor. You take out your split an' hold the rest f'r me until I get outa the bug house, see? I c'n trust you." He made a virtue of his necessity.

"Umphf," said Doctor Bentiron, and he blinked mournfully. Then he fell to questioning his guest, plied him with irrelevant queries as to his past life— his age, the date of his birth, the time he served as alderman, the date of election, of the expiration of his term. John Moran answered impatiently, not without certain errors; for his mind was not on this examination.

The physician pushed another button, and Doctor Blakely, his huge assistant, came in.

"Umphf, Blakely. Take this man out to the laboratory and puncture him." And, when Moran would have demurred, he said, "Do as I tell you, if you want my help."

So the alderman waddled obediently out to a white-tiled room full of imposing glass and nickel plate, of glitter ing brass and steel appliances. The other set him down on a flow stool, bared his fat back, leaned over him, holding some sharp tool.

Moran flinched from a sudden stab at his loins; held rigid at the other's warning, waited while Doctor Blakely busied himself mysteriously behind his back with centrifuge and microscope.

Finally he said: "You can dress now. Wait here until the chief sends for you." And he went out.

Moran waited, somewhat intimidated. Beneath the surgeon's plaster Blakely had applied, his back was stiff and sore; a slight, dull headache began to trouble him.

At last the orderly came for him and brought hitn back to Doctor Bentiron's office.

The doctor lay back in his great chair, smoking languidly, as remote, as immo- bile as ever. His long, dull eyes brooded upon empty space. As Moran came in he said:

"Umphf, I've decided to take your case, Moran. I'll engage to have you acquitted as insane if you'll put your- self in my hands."

Then a warm glow swept over the politician's body. The mottled, purplish color of his fat cheeks faded to normal; he chuckled hoarsely. He was pretty clever, thought Honest John Moran; pretty good, he'd say! He had judged this doctor accurately. These experts would do anything for money!

"Aw right, doc," he answered coarsely, and winked. "You're the doctor."

"Umphf. Blakely, telephone for Lieutenant O'Malley to come up here and make the arrest. And you, Moran, give me that money."

Moran hesitated, still clutching his precious bag. "You— you'll take good care of it?"

"Umphf. I will do with it as I see fit. Make up your mind," he answered, as the alderman fidgeted and shrank away.

Honest John Moran sighed deeply. "You— you— I c'n trusht— trust you t' be honesht?" What was the matter with his tongue? The words blurred in his mouth so.  "You'll take care of it?" And he surrendered the bag reluctantly.

"I'll take care of it," promised Doctor Bentiron grimly. "Here, Blakely; have this put into the vault. And take Moran away; let him sit out with Hanrahan until the police get here."

But Honest John hesitated. A new problem vexed him. "Say, doc! Look here; you ain't told me how to act."

"How to act?"

"Yeah. How to make folks think I'm crazy. What'll I do?"

"Umphf. Act naturally. Don't worry about that; leave it to me."

Moran went out, only half convinced. He seemed awful sure of himself, this doctor; but it didn't stand to reason he could make a jury believe a sensible man was crazy without the man played up to it himself. Privately Mr. Moran decided to act his part convincingly. He would pretend to be insane so cunningly that none might doubt; and he would begin at once.

So when Police Lieutenant O'Malley arrived he found the ex-alderman chuckling and muttering to himself, gloating upon the line of conduct he had laid out. And at sight of him the police officer scratched a rust-colored head, eyeing his prisoner askance.

"Y'r under arrest, John Moran," he blurted out in a harsh, rusty voice. "Charged with embezzlement an' misappropriation of funds, an' one thing an' another. Come along t' the house, now. What ails ye, man? Quit y'r grinnin' an' makin' faces like that!"

John Moran laughed aloud. This was going to be easy!

He yielded himself, waived examination, and in due course arrived at the Tombs, still chuckling. He was full of confidence, in high spirits, congratulating himself upon his own cleverness and forethought. And to his lawyer, when that harassed individual arrived, he presented an attitude of quite unjustified optimism, as the attorney pointed out.

"You're in bad, Moran," he said, in- sisting. "They've got you dead to rights, and the best thing you can do is return the money, plead guilty, and throw yourself on the mercy of the court. You might get off with two or three years that way."

Ex-Alderman Moran laughed aloud. "They c-can't touch me," he said boast- fully. "Return the cush? Nix! I got my pipes all laid; lissen."

With exaggerated caution he whispered in the other's ear, gesturing, grimacing. "An' so, y' see, it's all fixed a'ready. Jus' you go see ol' Doc Bentiron— thassall !"

"Humph!" said the lawyer; and he, too, eyed his client askance. "We-ell; you might get away with it at that— if you give the money back."

Moran would hear no word of that. "Nix! Nix! Jus' you go see Doc Bentiron. I got it all fixed with him; he'll tell you what t' do."

So the attorney went, grumbling, and returned some hours later. "Well, that fixes that much. I don't see why you needed to be so darn mysterious about it, though. You don't have to play crazy with me, you know."

Honest John only grimaced and chuckled, winking portentously. All went very well; even his attorney began to be suspicious of his sanity. Oh, he was clever, was Honest John Moran! He was a clever malingerer. He'd fool 'em all and come out of it with a hundred and fifty thousand, anyway.

So the days passed very comfortably, and ex-Alderman Moran sat in his cell in the Tombs prison and schemed and planned and played the lunatic with deliberate caution, chuckling at his success in that part. It was surprisingly easy ; his heart was warm within him at thought of his own wit, and the need to laugh was continually upon him. These fools were so gullible! But even that laughter, apparently causeless, served his turn, so that he need not check it. Seeing him burst into boisterous mirth, there alone in his cell, the warders muttered among themselves and, when they unlocked his door, came in pairs, never singly.

"They think I'm crazy; they're scared!" Honest John Moran exulted inwardly.

And the time slipped easily by; the day of his trial came almost before he knew. So he was led across that dolorous, covered bridge and into the room of the supreme court, trial term, and placed in the dock facing Judge Gallagher, his old friend.

The judge nodded to him stiffly, keen eyes full of mingled contempt and pity, as though he read a sordid tale in the prisoner's face. And John Moran laughed again inwardly. Even this justice believed him insane; he read suspicion in the man's averted gaze.

Moran sat through the opening for- malities in a contented abstraction, A jury was chosen after much argument and many challenges; but the prisoner paid no attention. Let his lawyer see to that; the motions must be gone through with, of course; but it amounted to nothing. He had not sufficient interest even to watch proceedings, but sat with bowed head, mumbling to himself. Just wait— wait! All this was nothing; later, when the expert testimony was taken, then he would listen.

So the prosecution opened its case; an assistant district attorney made a long and impassioned speech, calling John Moran a heartless criminal, the base betrayer of widows and orphans ; and Honest John caught an epithet here and there and chuckled at it.

He found the proceedings tedious, long drawn out. They bored him. Why couldn't Doctor Bentiron start in right away and say he was crazy and get it over with? But, no; matters dragged on and on; his cashier and bookkeeper testified interminably, establishing the theft and its amount. His books were introduced; expert accountants examined them, demonstrated their falsification, showed how Honest John, as president of his own bank, had covered his peculations until they could be hidden no longer. And as the full tale of his devious ways came forth an ominous mutter ran through the crowded room.

The defendant looked about with the detached air of a mere spectator. He saw many familiar faces. There was old Tony Salvaretti— there the widow Flanagan— there another, and another, whose scanty all had been intrusted to Honest John Moran. They glared at him with a bitter animosity which surprised, even grieved him a trifle. What a lot of temper they showed over a few dollars! It was unreasonable. Oh, well; he might make it right with them some day. If his schemes went through, there'd be plenty for all.

And then the last accountant finished, summing up the total of Moran's stealings. "One hundred eight thousand seven hundred and sixty-two dollars and eighteen cents covered by false entries; and two hundred and ninety-six thousand taken in cash and negotiable securities."

"Yah!" cried some one; it was a crippled bootblack, Franky Gambetta. Moran smiled ; the boy had shined his shoes often. "On'y about a hundred dollars in the bank, anyways," reflected Mr. Moran. "Lotta fuss he's makin' about that chicken feed!'

"Honest John!" cried the boy shrilly.

There was a little storm of hissing; fists were shaken; the defendant shrank in his chair.

"Order in the court!" Judge Gallagher rapped smartly with his gavel. "Disgraceful! If there is any more disturbance the officers will clear the room."

And so quiet was restored, and the defense began to present its case. Moran listened uninterestedly. A windy speech; "Steinburg's gotta do somepin f'r his money," he reflected cynically. Then the calling of witnesses began.

The driver of that taxicab first. He told of a trip about the city, from ferry to ferry; of an irritable, distraught fare who didn't know his own mind.

"And did the conduct of your fare —this defendant—impress you as ra- tional or irritational ?"

"He acted t' me like he was cuckoo!"

"Y'r honor, I object!" said the prosecutor.

Next came Police Lieutenant O'Malley; then one and another of the guards from the Tombs. And to each Counselor Steinburg put the same question; and each answered, in his own fashion, "irrational." John Moran laughed aloud; folk looked at him oddly.

Then Steinburg addressed the court briefly; and then came the battle of experts.

"Doctor Bentiron! Doctor Thaddeus Bentiron!"

A lank, familiar figure, clad in loose gray homespuns, rose wearily and slouched forward to the witness chair. Honest John Moran sat forward with a tiny thrill. He caught the alienist's eye, winked at him portentously.

Then a long-winded hypothetical question; so ponderous, so crammed with subordinate hypotheses, that the defendant lost all track of its meaning before the first page was read. A word here and there he caught. "Pupils which do not react to light— exaggerated knee jerks. Lumbar puncture showing thirty-eight cells, positive globulin, and a four-plus Wassermann— speech defect— euphoria " Meaningless words which tickled his fancy so that he laughed again. Old Bentiron was doing this up in style! How he was hocusing the court with his big words!

At last the question wound out its final coil. 'Would you consider such a person to be sane or insane?"

Doctor Bentiron's answer was: "Undoubtedly insane!"

There was a little flurry; the prosecutor whispered with an assistant, rose, and addressed the court.

"May it please your honor, the prosecution asks leave to defer cross-examination of this witness. It may be— call experts in rebuttal, or ask for a commission in lunacy—"

Moran hugged himself. The district attorney was upset, sure enough! He'd been laughing to himself about this in- sanity plea, no doubt; he'd been expect- ing some fly-by-night alienist, some man without a reputation. Now that Bent- iron got up and swore like that he didn't know what to do. Oh, it was all right, all right! He'd get off, would John Moran, easy as easy. Honest John felicitated himself once more in that he had suborned an alienist of such standing.

Counselor Steinburg turned and said: "John Moran; take the stand!"

Moran flinched. He hadn't bargained for this. Yet he rose willingly enough. After all, it didn't make any difference, now that Doctor Bentiron had testified; and he could play crazy in court just as well as at the Tombs. Yes, it was really better; his conduct would clinch matters, convince the jury that Bentiron was right.

He took the witness chair, craftily resolved to act as crazy as man. could act. .

A few unimportant questions; then: "Now, Mr. Moran, is it true that you stole nearly half a million dollars from your bank?"

Moran bridled. "Stole? No, sir! How c'n a man steal from his own bank, I'd like to know?"

"But you took this money, seques- tered it, intending to divert it to your own purposes ?"

"We-ell, I s'pose so."

"That was a great sum of money?"

"Huh! Not s' much, either. Ain't every private bank, though, 'at's got that much t' be taken. 'S a pretty good bank, huh?"

A little murmur, almost of awe, ran through the room. Even the justice looked closer at this man who bragged of the size and stability of the institution he had looted. Moran smiled proudly.

"Quite so. Now, Mr. Moran, what was your purpose in taking this great sum ?"

Honest John Moran's eyes roved about the crowded room. He smiled expansively, leaned forward with an effect of taking every one into his confidence.

"I'll t-tell you aw about that," he declared, again with that rough, slurring drawn. "'S kind of a secret, but I don't mind now. Ever'thing's fixed up; I c'n pay all m' despositors double w'enever I want." A vague suspiration went upon from the crowd; twoscore of tired, anxious faces relaxed, brightened; and John Moran smiled down upon them generously. "I got word," he explained, "about a reel-estate prop'- sition; very secret. I foun' out the U. S. Shippin' Board's gointa dredge out Oyster Bay an' make a harbor there f'r all their boats. Goin' t' make a whole new city out on Long Island; New York won't be nothin' to it! Nossir!"

He leaned back, drawing a long breath, apparently quite oblivious of the bitter disappointment written on his auditors' faces. " 'S reelly m' own scheme," he confided. "Yessir ; thought it all out m'self, an' got them fellers t'? come in. Gointa buy up all that end o' Long Island an' sell it t' the rich fellers. Yessir. Make millions—mill-yons outa that; bill-yons, like enough. M' d'pos'ters don't need t' worry; I'll take care of 'em all w'en this deal goes through."

"Quite so. Exactly." Attorney Steinburg's voice held a note of demure triumph, "I think that is all, Mr. Moran—unless my learned opponent desires to cross-examine?"

The prosecutor shook a chagrined head. "View of developments in. the case, move appointment of commission in lunacy, y'r honor."

Judge Gallagher cleared his throat. "I will adjourn the case until to-morrow," he decided. "As for a commission, I will take that under advisement. The rights of this deferidant must be safeguarded." And he turned a strange look upon John Moran.

Back to the Tombs went the defend- ant, feeling very well pleased with himself. Beyond a doubt he had acted well.

Perhaps he. had been indiscreet; perhaps he had said too much about that real-estate plan; but it didn't seem to have done any harm. He laughed aloud.

"I c'n be just as crazy as any man living!" he said boastfully.

The guards who walked on either side shrank from him, eying him cau- tiously as one who might become violent.

"I expect you can, all right," said one dryly.

Later, three solemn physicians ex- amined John Moran; examined him ponderously, tapping his knees, flash- ing lights in his eyes, asking him all manner of questions. They made him stand with heels together and eyes shut, so that he staggered and would have fallen; they made him try with eyes shut to touch his nose with a forefinger— and he laughed uproariously at his failures.

At last they went away, nodding to each other, and left him alone.

"They think I'm crazy, too," reflected John Moran. "Gosh, that feller Bentiron's a smart one! I wonder, now— I c'n fool 'em all so easy—  An' that tapping m' knees, an' all Say, I bet he gimme somepin! Why, o' course! He injected some kinda dope into m' back, that time, 'at makes m' legs kick out like that. Yessir; an' it fooled even these here other doctors. Y' gotta hand it t' that man Bentiron; he's a wiz! Ain't it lucky I hired him?"

He was taken back to the courtroom; but the trial seemed about over. No one showed any interest. The three physicians appeared and made a long- winded report, full of unpronounce- able words; the judge nodded and dismissed them and turned to the jury.

"You have heard the evidence, gentlemen. I instruct you, therefore, to bring in a verdict of 'not guilty by reason of insanity,'"

Honest John Moran rose, chuckling. "Let's go, fellers. I gotta date up to Matteawan."

At peace with all the world John Moran rode in a chair car to Beacon, New York, with two deputy sheriffs at his elbows. He reached the Matteawan State Hospital and passed through its forbidding gafes as cheerfully, perhaps, as any man ever did.

The routine of admission amused him mildly; the bath, the examination for marks and bruises, the hospital clothing furnished in place of his own; all these were interesting. An interne went over his chest and abdomen, tapped his knees, flashed a light in his eyes, did all those silly things which all the other doctors had done; and Honest John laughed at it. "You fellers're easy to fool," he declared. 'Wonder how long it'll take you t' find out they ain't nothin' wrong with me?" For now that he had been acquitted he felt no further need to pretend.

And the interne eyed him curiously. "Nothing the matter?" he repeated. "That's good. You'll be going home soon, then?"

Moran nodded and winked portentously. "Watch my smoke," he promised. "I ain't got long t' stay here."

Another physician, older, took him next and asked a thousand questions which John Moran answered patiently and jovially.

"You ain't got no rige— eriginal'ty," he averred. 'Ever' last one o' you docs asks me the same things."

The physician went on, questioning, questioning, writing down answers in a notebook. "Are you crazy?" he finished.

John Moran winked again. "I'll tell you about that. Y' see, they'd of sent me up the river right— I'd of got a stretch in Sing Sing. Folks didn't understand what I was doin', makin' lotsa money f'r 'em in reel estate; they thought I was crooked. So I hadda pretend t' be crazy, 'r go t' jail. I done it reel good, too; ol' Doc Bentiron, he helped me. Know him?"

The physician nodded. "So you were just faking?" he inquired casually. "There was nothing wrong with you?"

"Huh!" said Honest John Moran. "O' course! Say, do I look like I was crazy?  You bet not. Go ahead an' make out y'r papers; I s'pose y' gotta do all that. But hurry it up, willya? I wanta get out soon's I can; y' see, I gotta lota money t' spend. How long'll I haveta stay? A month 'r so?"

"We'll see how you get on," answered the other vaguely; and with that Mr. Moran must be content.

But even here the time went smoothly enough. John Moran learned to sleep in a dormitory with twenty-three other men, all insane. He learned to humor his mad companions; learned which of them were dangerous, and when; learned to obey without question, to take his place by the wall when a physician entered the day room and the attendant shouted, "chairs!" He learned many things and found vast amusement in the absurd talk of his fellows.

One, in particular, was most diverting. He was a frail, wizen creature who boasted that he was the strongest man in the world. "I could push that wall down and walk out!" he declared; and John Moran laughed.

"It's all right t' be strong, brother," said Honest John; "but they's easier ways t' get outa here than bustin' the wall down. I ec'n get out w'enever I want, because I'm rich!"

"Rich, are you?" asked an attendant. "How much money have you got, Mo- ran?"

"I got— I got a mill-yun dollars—an' before long I'll have more; lots more!"

The attendant jeered good-naturedly. "Why, Charlie over there's got twenty billions, so he says; and a trunk full of diamonds to boot!'

Charlie nodded solemnly. "Twenty bill-yuns," he mumbled. "Lotsa money."

Queerly, John Moran felt a sudden rush of hot anger. "You have not!" he bawled. "I bet I've got more money'n anybody else in the place!"

Moran's broad face broke out into a mottled flush; his big hands balled into fists. He was strangely, unreasonably angry.

"Here, here! Quit it!" The attendant spoke authoritatively. "You, Moran, be good, unless you want to go into seclusion."

"I wanta get outa here," said Honest John. "I can't waste much more time here. I gotta business deal's gotta be seen to right off. I wanta see the doctor."

"When he makes rounds."

So Moran waited, perforce, until he might accost the ward physician. When at last the physician appeared he called: "Say, doc! I wanna talk t' you."

"Well?"

"I wisht you'd send f'r my doctor t' come up here. You know— Doctor Bentiron. I wanna see 'im."

The ward physician laughed. "Professor Bentiron! He's not likely to come for your sending."

"He will, too! He's my doctor; he's gotta lota money o' mine. Tell 'im I gotta see 'im right off, willya?"

The physician shrugged and walked away without a reply; but next morning he stopped on his way through the ward.

"Oh, Moran! You're in luck. Doctor Bentiron will be here this afternoon; he's coming up to examine a patient for the governor. I'll tell him you want to see him."

Ex-Alderman Moran waited breathlessly for afternoon. He was suddenly conscious of a hot distaste for this place; for its rules and routine, its lack of privacy, of luxury, its population of drooling lunatics and dull, matter-of-fact attendants, who were kindly enough but failed to appreciate the importance of John Moran.

This was no place for him; he sighed for the fleshpots. Was he not a rich man'? And so his thoughts dwelt eagerly upon Doctor Bentiron, who had power to procure his discharge. Doctor Bentiron had placed him here; and, after all, Matteawan was better than Sing Sing; but now he wished to depart. Why did his deliverer delay so long? He'd better be careful, thought ex-Alderman Moran resentfully; he didn't quite realize, perhaps, the power of the man he was thwarting!

And then, at last, the summons came. An attendant beckoned. "Here, Moran; visitor for you! Wash your face before you go out, now! It's dirty."

Honest John Moran followed his guide, walking carefully upon wide-set feet. He stumbled over the threshold, caught himself, and laughed emptily. It would soon be over now; he'd soon be free again!

All down the long corridor he thought with a pleasant warmth of Doctor Bentiron. Good old scout, the doc! He could be depended on! "I ought to do something handsome for him," reflected John Moran.

Then he entered the smal! reception room and perceived a gray, stooped figure awaiting him.

John Moran made a stumbling rush, hand outstretched. "Hel-lo, doc! How's the boy? Aw-ful glad t' see yuh. I been thinkin', doc, I'd oughta look after you. Don't you fret now, I'll take care of yuh; I'll b-build yuh a gran' big hosh-hospistal all f'r y'rself t? run it jus' like yuh want—see?"

The alienist fended off his embrace with the nonchalant dexterity of long practice. "They said you wanted to see me, Moran. Is there anything I can do?"

"Anythin' yuh c'n do?' Moran's brow furrowed with the effort of thought. "Oh! Oh, yah. Say, doc"— in a windy whisper— "how 'bout the cush, huh? Aw that money I lef' with yuh?"

Doctor Bentiron stared. The money? Why, you must have heard in court, didn't you? I turned it in to the district attorney; it went back to the bank so that your depositors got nearly seventy-five cents on the dollar."

Honest John Moran blinked twice and swallowed. Then he laughed loudly, raucously. "Aw, shoot! What's the dif'rence? I got plenty more. Y' know, doc, I'm r-rich. I got lotsa money, I have— more'n a mill-yun, bill-yun doll'rs 'r so? Got lotsa cush; don' need no more. Give yuh a mill-yun 'r so, anyways— yuh c'n build yuh a hoshopital, see?"

The alienist sighed. His long, gray eyes were sad. "All right, old man," he said. "Thanks. I appreciate that. And now I'll say good-by; I've got to get back to the city."

He put out a hand in farewell; but ex-Alderman Moran checked him. "Aw, say, doc! Jus' a minnit— jus' a minnit 'r so! Lookit, how much longer 've I gotta stick up here, huh? I want out! I'm tired o' this place. 'Ve I gotta play crazy any longer?"

Doctor Bentiron looked full at him; gave him a long stare that was vaguely disquieting. John Moran seemed to shrink and shrivel beneath it; his mottled, unhealthy color faded; his eyes filled with childish tears; he plucked at a twitching lip.

"Aw, doc!" he pleaded. "Don't tell me I gotta play crazy any longer!"

Why did the doctor look at him so queerly? Why did he wear that curious expression, as of vague pity? No need to pity John Moran; he was rich; rich and wonderfully strong!

"Play crazy?" repeated Doctor Bentiron slowly. "Play crazy? Why, Moran, haven't you understood yet? Did you think I'd perjure myself for you? Why, man, you are crazy. You were insane the first time I ever saw you!"

"Ain't neither!" replied Honest John Moran, and laughed emptily. He began to pluck at his fingers. "I'm r-rich— worth mill-yuns. Who are you?"

_________________

2: Jimmy the Lug

Christopher B. Booth

(as by John J. Chichester)

1889-1950

Detective Story Magazine June 1, 1920

PROUD parents had christened him James Allen Hammond some thirty-seven years before, but he had been called "Jimmy the Lug" so long that he scarcely knew any other name.

"A lug," be it explained, is the underworld's harshest term of opprobrium; that one word is crookdom's eloquent superlative, conveying all of its sneering contempt for a man despised. A lug is a poor creature who has lost the respect and the protection of the law without having gained, in return, that of the lawless; an outcast from society and equally scorned and shunned by his fellows; a "cheap crook" who steals without profit— a whining, groveling, spineless coward who drifts from work-house to workhouse, seldom finding the nerve to pull a trick that will merit a long stretch up the river.

Jimmy the Lug sat against the grimy plush cushions of the smoker, his thin shoulders humped forward lifelessly, his faded blue eyes absently fixed on the flying landscape. There was pain in his face and pain in his heart; cruel thoughts lashed his brain. Within the past few hours he had discovered that he was still a human being, thinking an thoughts and susceptible to human emotions. His fingers trembled as he dug into is pocket for the 'makings' and rolled hmself a cigarette. He noted, with in habitual sneer on his thin lips, that he young faced man who faced him from the opposite seat was glancing in disapproval at his yellow-stained fingers. Perhaps some of the unreasonable anger which surged in his breast was because his fingers did so plainly brand him a slave to the habit.

The car was crowded, and Jimmy the Lug, when he had boarded the train some miles back, had been forced to wedge himself into a seat beside a portly man who was himself hemmed in by two grips and a couple of sample cases. His seatmate was reading a copy of The Jewelers' Trade Journal. He was, no doubt, a traveling salesman for some wholesale jewelry house.

An hour before Jimmy the Lug had been traveling in the opposite direction. He had changed trains and was making his miserable way back to the city because he had realized suddenly that he did not dare go home.

The jewelry salesman did a surprising and a very foolhardy thing. From his breast pocket he took a small case and opened it, allowing the light to play in a radiant dazzle upon a rich assortment of diamonds which rested in their nest of tissue paper. He twisted the box about to allow the light to strike the stones at different angles while he gazed at them with the fondness of a man who knows gems.

In the eyes of Jimmy the Lug gleamed a light of criminal avarice as he stared at the treasure. There must have been at least twenty of the diamonds, and they were worth close to ten thousand dollars. Jimmy the Lug made up his mind then and there that opportunity would not find him napping.

At this moment there was a warning ahead, and simultaneously pas sengers were pitched forward in their seats. The engine had split a switch at a siding approaching a station and had smashed into the rear of a freight car.

With the impact one of the diamonds shot from its resting place, like a grain of pop-corn in a hot skillet, into mid-air, and dropped to the floor unnoticed— or nearly so. Despite the confusion, Jimmy the Lug had followed the arc of its flight and noted the spot where it rested beneath the opposite seat and underneath the footrest.

The jewelry salesman, unaware of his loss, hastily closed the box and replaced it in his pocket. Jimmy the Lug, body tensed, waited patiently for his chance. He took a newspaper from his pocket and feigned to be reading, but from the corner of his eye he was watching the spot where the diamond lay.

Inwardly he exulted. It was quite the largest stone of the lot and was, he estimated, worth perhaps five hundred dollars.

The passenger occupying the opposite seat was a young man, twenty or twenty-two. His clothes were neat, but they showed evidence of careful mending; his hands were large and knew hard work. His face, at first glance, was pleasant, but on closer inspection it was found to bear signs of brooding; there was melancholy in eves that should have been bright with youth's enthusiasm.

Within the past few minutes this passenger's back had straightened rigidly against the seat, and his lips had compressed into a very straight line, while a harassed look lighted his eyes. Presently he took from his pocket a horn-handled knife and scraped at an entirely imaginary splinter in the palm of his hand; he permitted the knife to drop from his fingers to the floor. This was his subterfuge in leaning forward and groping about under the seat.

From the vantage point behind the newspaper, Jimmy the Lug saw five large, blunt fingers feeling their way around the edge of the foot rest until their outline blotted out the tiny sparkle of light which gleamed from the shadows. Then the young man straightened up, and his hand carried something into his vest pocket.

Jimmy the Lug felt the hot surge of anger in his cheeks.

"Th' dirty crook," he muttered under his breath, for, indeed, he considered that he had been robbed. He sat for several minutes, speculatively studying the young man whose attempts to hide his uneasiness were palpably in effective as he tried to stare idly out of the window.

"Green," decided Jimmy the Lug; "green, and scared stiff. I'll just keep my peepers on this bird."

The accident to the engine had not been serious. Half an hour was sufficient to repair the damage, and the journey was resumed. The jewelry salesman, still unaware of his loss, again turned to his trade magazine. The nervous young man in the opposite seat sat in apparent misery, now and then allowing his fingers to wander guiltily into his vest pocket.

Some miles farther on, the brakeman shouted the name of a town, and the salesman gathered up his luggage. In his wake, but keeping some distance to the rear, followed the unlawful posses sor of the lost diamond, also carrying a grip.

Jimmy the Lug thought rapidly, de bating whether or not he should follow to leave the train meant that he would sacrifice his fare. He estimated that the purchase of another ticket to Chicago from this point would cost about three dollars. In his pocket reposed a lonely five-dollar bill.

"Aw, I'm gonna take a chance," he hastily decided, and he followed disembarking passengers down the aisle Alneeda was a town of some five thousand people with the railroad sta- tion at the foot of a hill about a mile from the business section. A ram- shackle bus met all trains and, for a charge of twenty-five cents, carried travelers to any designated point around the public square.

Jimmy the Lug squeezed into the ve- hicle. He found himself seated beside his quarry. For one brief moment he was tempted to spread out his news- paper and, behind this shield as he pre- tended to read, let his fingers edge their way into the young man's pocket where he knew the diamond was.

The danger was too great; Jimmy the Lug as a pickpocket was a good highwayman, just as a highwayman he was a good safe-blower. He was, in fact, proficient in none of the fine criminal arts; that was why he was Jimmy the Lug. He rejected the idea at once.

Having labored up the hill successfully the bus halted in front of The Alneeda House, and the jewelry salesman climbed out. The young man who had the diamond evidently had intended to alight there, also, but he changed his mind after a moment of indecision. Jimmy likewise kept his seat.

At the second stop, before The Gates Hotel, the second-best hostelry, both alighted. The youngster— for he was just that— registered, and Jimmy did likewise. Having no baggage, the latter paid in advance, reducing his total assets nearly half.

Jimmy remained in the lobby while the other went directly to his room; he lounged about in a chair, thinking things over.

"Aw, whatcha stallin' around tor?" he demanded of himself accusingly. "It's soft pickin; for he's green and scared pink. All you gotta do is walk in on 'im and put over th' little old 'bluff. He'll fall, th' poor boob." He strolled over to the desk and glanced at the hotel register; the name  which appeared just above his own scrawl was 'Henry Ferguson," who was assigned, the clerk's penciled notation showed, to room No. 10.

Jimmy climbed the stairs and found his way to room No. 10. He rapped firmly on the wooden panel.

Henry Ferguson opened the door a few inches; his face paled as he recognized his fellow traveler.

"Scared stiff,' thought Jimmy.

"Did— did you want to— to see me?" stammered young Ferguson.

"For just a minute," answered Jimmy. '"C'n I come in? It's kind of private— what I want to talk to you about."

Ferguson's face showed unmistakable terror, but he allowed his visitor to en- cer.

"I— I guess there must be a mistake," he chattered. "You— you can't have any business with me. What do you want ?"'

Jimmy squared his thin shoulders and set his shifty eyes, with great effort, firmly on the other man's face

"You got a diamond in your pocket that ain't yours," he accused boldly, coming straight to the point. "I'm a man what likes to see right done. I'm gonna make you turn it over to me so's I c'n give it to th' feller it b'longs to."

Ferguson gulped miserably, and his glance turned to the floor.

"I haven't— I haven't—" he choked.

"Aw, yes you have, kid," declared Jimmy triumphantly. Things were coming his way. Tears, miserable, boyish tears, filled young Ferguson's eyes.

"Yes," he whispered, "I— I've got it. Of course you know I've got it. I— I guess you saw me pick it off the floor on the train. Are— are you going to have me arrested?"

"I reckon I'll let you off this time," replied Jimmy with seeming magnanimity. "But, kid, let this be a lesson to you, see?"

"Thank you, sir," Ferguson almost sobbed, "I— I had decided to give it back, but— but I couldn't think of how to go about it. I— I couldn't face the man that it belongs to. I— I'd gone too far, almost, but you'll give it back to the man, won't you? You won't tell him who it was, please. I— I might see him again."

"I won't tell him," promised Jimmy with utmost sincerity, for he had no intention of ever seeing the jewelry salesman again.

Young Ferguson reached into his pocket and handed the diamond— a beautiful stone of some carats— to Jimmy. He sighed with relief.

"I'm glad to be rid of it," he said; then, falteringly. "I— I want to tell you why I took it."

"Aw, fergit it!"

"No, I want to tell you. Maybe you will not blame me so much when you know." And he put his back to the door, barring his visitor's exit

"I had been sitting there in my seat for more than an hour, praying and praying for a few hundred dollars," he began, "and when I saw the diamond fall to the floor and knew that the owner had not noticed it, it just seemed that Providence had answered my prayer. Maybe that's why I was so tempted. I knew that it was worth a lot of money— enough for what I needed. You see, my mother is—"

"Aw, cheese it!" exclaimed Jimmy in disgust. "Nix on that old stall. Whatcha tryin' to string me for? Ain't I told you that I wasn't goin' to turn you in? Now fergit it!"

"You must listen to me," pleaded young Ferguson. "I'm not lying to you; it's all gospel truth. You see, I live out on a farm about ten miles from town here, just a little farm, and right poor land it is, at that. I've been going to college down at Summerville; this is my second year. I knew that mother didn't have any money to speak of, but

two

it wasn't until yesterday that I really knew what she'd done.

"Yesterday I got a letter from our old family doctor; he wrote me that I'd better know just how things were. Mother had mortgaged the farm and gone without most everything to scrape up. the money for me to go to school. None of us Fergusons ever had much schooling, and she wanted me to have my chance. She's worked her finger nails off for me and— and now she's sick— lungs affected— she's dying by inches. There isn't a dollar that I can get hold of for the only thing that will save her life. That's a trip to Arizona.

"So I was sitting on the train, praying and praying, when that diamond popped out of the box and fell right down at my feet.

"I felt bad about it right away, but I tried to tell myself that it was right under the circumstances. When I came up to this room here I knew I couldn't go through with it. I knew that mother would ask me where I got the money. Of course, I could lie to her, but— but she would look at me, and— and, well, mothers always know, somehow; mothers always know. I knew that she would rather die than have me a thief."

Jimmy's shoulders had lost their painfully forced erectness and had slumped forward. His face was again shot across with the anguish which had been so evident on the train; his eyes mirrored hopeless pain.

"Yes, kid," he mumbled thickly, "mothers always know."

Suddenly Jimmy waved his hand to a chair.

"Sit down, kid," he commanded. "I'm gonna slip you some straight dope about th' straight and narrow. This was your first time, wasn't it? You picked up a sparkler what belonged to another guy, and your conscience hurt you. Conscience? I ain't heard that word for long time. It always hurts th' first time, kid; it always does. If I hadn't blowed in, chances are, you'd have gone on mullin' it over and tellin' yourself it was right— and maybe it would have kind of been, at that. I ain't blamin' you so much. It wouldn't be so bad, kid, 'cept there's always a next time— and a next time. And th' next time it would have been easier. I know, kid; | know. I started that way, and it hurt th' first time with me, too— it hurt like fury."

He laughed, a harsh, mirthless laugh, as young Ferguson glanced up at him curiously.

"Oh, I'm a crook, kid," he went on, "a cheap crook what's even took pennies off of a newsboy's stand. I was stringin' you about wantin' to return this rock to th' guy it b'longs to; that was just a stall, see?

"I 'm a crook, kid, an' I've been through th' mill. I thought I'd quit carin'— until to-day; but I found out that a feller never quits carin'. You see, kid, I used to live on a farm, too, and I cut out for th' city when I just about as old as you. I guess that's why I'm handin' you this spiel.

"My first time was when I lifted fifty cents from th' cash register in th' store where I was workin'— just a measly half a buck. It hurt, old conscience did, and kept tellin' me to put it back, and I did— almost.

"Th' second time was easy. It's always easy th' second time— and I've been a crook ever since— just a cheap crook what ain't had th' nerve to steal anything to speak of; just a cheap crook.

"I've sort of got used to jails, and I thought I didn't care any more; but I found out different—to-day. Th' folks at home never got wise to me bein' a crook, for I ain't been home since I left th' first time. I guess they think I've got a job; I dunno, Yesterday I got a letter, too— from my kid brother what's runnin' th' farm for our mother: he says I'm to come home on th' first rattler for— for mother is dyin'.

"I started, kid, but— but I couldn't go home. While I was sittin' on th' train I got to lookin' in the mirror by my seat. I just sat there starin' and starin' at my own mug. Crook was writ all over me; it was like I had an eight-sheet pasted on my back. Kid, | knew my mother would look at me and— and I couldn't look her in th' eye. She'd know; she'd know— just like you said, kid. And I couldn't go home."

A tear splashed down onto clenched hand of Jimmy the Lug.

"Oh, the devil!" he cried. "What's th' use of me tellin' you this stuff? But— well, don't let there be no ond time, kid; don't you let there be no second time."

Jimmy the Lug walked to the door. Young Ferguson eyed him curiously.

"What— what are you going to do with the diamond?"

Jimmy paused, sudden terror tugging at his heart. He could have bitten his wagging tongue off; as he feared, his sudden outburst of confidence had given rise to embarrassing complications.

He thought quickly.

"Kid, I'm gonna do th' first square thing I've done in years," he said. "I'm gonna give this sparkler back to th' gink it b'longs to— unless you want to take it to him yourself."

The latter part of the sentence did the trick that Jimmy hoped it would. Young Ferguson recoiled in horror at the thought of facing the jewelry salesman and confessing that he had been a potential thief.

"You— you will return it— sure?" he queried, still a trifle suspicious.

"Yes, I'll that it gets into proper hands," replied Jimmy as he smiled inwardly at this delectable bit of humor. "Proper hands" meant, to him, a certain fence on Clark Street who would buy a diamond from even Jimmy the Lug.

"Thank you; thank you very much," said young Ferguson.

" 'S all right, kid," returned Jimmy.

Softly he closed the door and descended the stairs to the hotel lobby.

"Th' poor fish," he murmured. "Bu I'm kind of glad I handed him that spiel, anyhow. When's th' next train go to Chicago?" he demanded of the man behind the desk.

"Bus leave in fifty minutes," was the reply.

It was just time for the seven-fifty- eight to be steaming around the curve and up to the little wooden station more than a hundred miles farther west. There would be a young farmer to meet the train, a puzzled, worried young farmer who would wonder in perplexity why his brother had failed to come— why he had failed to come home to the bedside of a dying mother.

A lump came into the throat of Jimmy the Lug. He stood on the side- walk thinking; what went through his mind were not pleasant thoughts. Sud- denly, wild, foolish notions came into his head. His fingers edged down into his pocket where his treasure reposed. He took it out and let it lay in the palm of his hand. Max Bronstein, he told himself, would give him three hundred for it. Not for years had he been so lucky.

He was looking at the diamond in an effort to dispel that crazy idea which he seemed unable to banish from his mind.

"Three hundred smackers!"' he murmured fondly and repeated the magic sum several times.

For perhaps half an hour he stood like that, his thoughts taking him to places far distant, sketching strange pictures.

"You poor simp; you poor simp," he accused himself again and again.

Slowly he moved around the square toward The Alneeda House; here he paused again.

Suddenly his nicotine-yellowed fingers reached into his pocket and squeezed over the stone until the sharp edges cut into his flesh. He dug into another pocket and produced a wad of crumpled cigarette papers. Hands trembling, he wrapped the tissues about the diamond until it made a sizable wad.

He turned quickly and hurried into the hotel, making straight for the desk.

"Say," he demanded hoarsely, "gimme an envelope."

The clerk complied.

"Say," again demanded Jimmy, "you got a man here what come on th' train that arrived 'bout an hour ago; fat man with some grips— travels for a jewelry house?"

"Mr. Gilson, I suppose?" replied the clerk. "He's in the dining room now. Shall I call him?"

"No," answered Jimmy, "you needn't call him; just give 'im this."

He stuffed the lump of tissue paper into the envelope and wet the flap with his tongue.

At the door he paused and turned around just as the hotel clerk was placing the envelope in one of the mail compartments on the wall.

"You poor simp; you poor simp," he told himself again.

IT WAS PAST midnight, and the cramped, aching body of Jimmy the Lug was stretched across the rods beneath a box car. The fast freight roared on through the night— going West.

Clicking over the rail joints, the wheels seemed to hum, again and again in endless refrain, three words: "Mothers always know— mothers always know."

The grime and the dust of the road-bed had ground their way deep into his every pore; the face of Jimmy the Lug was dirtier than it had been in years— but his soul was cleaner.

Jimmy the Lug was going home.

___________________

3: The Stolen Story

Ernest M. Poate

1884-1935

Detective Story Magazine 16 Dec 1919

FOR eighteen months I had been laboring beneath the burden of Doctor Bentiron's enormous practice. With his house patients I had done fairly well, I think; most of them were quiet, chronic psychoses— the doctor's pensioners.

I had refused all new cases. But with his consultation work I had made little headway, of course. People wanted the opinion of Doctor Bentiron, New York's most eminent alienist; and the doctor was in England, heading the Royal Psychiatric Commission. Why should they consult me, his almost unknown assistant? I did not blame them.

None the less, a certain number of cases came my way. So I was not greatly surprised when the office nurse brought me in three cards. It was early; scarcely after eight o'clock. I was at breakfast with my wife and our daughter, Janet Bentiron Blakely— a remarkable child! Although only seven months old, she sat sturdily upright in her high chair, pounding with her spoon and crying "da-da'— just as plain!

I thought that the nurse's beaming face hinted at suppressed excitement; but then, every one smiled at Janet. So I took the cards without glancing at them.

"Three gentlemen, Doctor Blakely," explained the nurse. "They all want to talk to you together."

"Take them back to my office," I directed, "I'll be right down."

I had never used the doctor's big, bare office; that had been empty ever since he left us. But every day its floor was waxed and polished, its blank walls wiped down; every day the doctor's huge reclining chair was dusted with loving care. I saw cases in my own small room at the back of the house.

So presently I kissed Milly and the baby good-by and descended the wide staircase, cards in hand. At its foot Hanrahan, the big orderly, stood rigidly at attention. His broad face was flushed; his eyes danced.

"Good morning, sorr," said he, and his voice bore an odd note of elation.

I looked into the main office. Here also there was a curious atmosphere of animation. Stenographers and nurses, soberly at work, yet wore an air of repressed gaiety, as though they shared some joyous secret. They looked at me smilingly, with little, electric side glances at one another, so that I wondered briefly.

Then I glanced at the cards in my hand, and straightway forgot everything else.

"Jasper Howland," I read, "with Bentley's Magazine; P. S. Rawson, Piquant Stories," and "Francis Whitegood, Editor of Mystery Tales!"

Three editors, calling upon me! I was filled with amazement. Mr. Whitegood I had met before. He had shown great interest in my modest accounts of some of the chief's experiences, and had gently but firmly suppressed certain of my attempts at fiction. Yes, I have tried fo write fiction; but long ago I resigned myself to the recording of fact. I can tell plain tales of Doctor Bentiron's work acceptably enough, but no one seems to care for my own imaginings. Speculating as to the purposes of my distinguished callers, I hurried back to my little office.

There I found the three editors waiting. Mr. Whitegood introduced me to Howland, a stout, carelessly dressed individual, whose slangy, offhand manner accorded ill enough with the dignity of the conservative magazine which he edited. Mr. Rawson, on the other hand, had a precise, almost ministerial bearing; and he selected the racy material which made up that magazine, Piquant Stories. Appearances are deceptive.

"We are a sort of committee," explained Whitegood pleasantly. "We represent— unofficially, of course— half a dozen other editors. A very serious situation has arisen in the magazine field; a clever swindler has victimized half the editors in New York. Something must be done about it; none of us feel safe. We don't know what to do, and after talking the matter over very careftlly we have decided to appeal through you to Doctor Bentiron. Perhaps he can help us."

"I'm sure of it," I declared with conviction. "But the doctor is away, gentlemen; he is still in England. I have had no word of him for months." The doctor was always a poor correspondent.

My visitors looked disappointed.

"But," began Mr. Howland, "we heard that—"

Just then Hanrahan knocked at the door, and without waiting for an answer inserted a beaming face.

"Sorr," said he, and the brogue was broad upon his tongue, "the docther do be callin' ye."

I sat staring at him, open-mouthed, while he chuckled at my amazement.

"The— the doctor!" I stuttered. "Gentlemen, excuse me."

And I rushed precipitately out, my heart pounding.

Upon every face I saw a broad grin; evidently I was the last to learn the great secret. Scarcely waiting to knock, I burst into the long disused office— and there, enthroned in his great reclining chair between the revolving bookcases, sat the chief, Doctor Bentiron, in his own proper person!

He was wrapped in the familiar green bath robe, a little more faded, scorched in a new spot here and there. His long, thin legs were out-thrust; his slender fingers held a cigarette. Immobile, impassive as Buddha, drooping wearily in the great chair, he stared at the bare wall before him with long, sleepy gray eyes.

I choked; there were tears of pure joy in my eyes. It was so good to see him there, so natural!

"Umphf, Blakely," said the doctor dryly. His manner was as casual though it had been an hour, instead of eighteen months, since our last meeting.

I stammered something, I scarcely know what, wringing his hand joyfully, then dashed out into the hall.

"Milly," I shouted up the "Milly! The doctor's back!"

A delighted little scream came back in answer, and my small wife tumbled down the broad stairway, anyhow, clutching Janet to her breast. She darted into the office and climbed into the doctor's lap, baby and all. She hugged him and pulled his whiskers, petted and scolded him in her delicious, bubbling little voice; the swift words tumbled over each other, leaving her quite out of breath. And Janet reached up a tiny fist to grasp the doctor's great hooked nose.

"Da-da, doc!" she cooed, quite plainly.

I stood watching, my heart full. It was a pretty sight. And those who think Doctor Bentiron callous and indifferent should have seen him then. His face was very tender, and the cold, tired eyes were warm and moist.

It was a wonderful reunion, Milly and I talked at once, and little Janet sat on the doctor's knee and babbled softly. The chief sat and listened, as was his wont. He said nothing of his work in England, and it was not until long afterward that I learned he had refused the Distinguished Service Order— for the characteristic reason that he "had too many letters after his name already; to use them all would be cruelty to the alphabet."

So my editorial visitors were quite forgotten for an hour or more. At last I remembered them with a start.

"There are three editors waiting to see you, doctor," said I.

"Umphf," replied the doctor.

"They said it was very important," I urged. "Somebody has been cheating the magazines."

"Umphf," repeated the chief. "Fetch 'em in."

So Milly caught up the baby and hurried out, while I went back to my own office after my neglected guests.

They were still there; a little uneasy, inclined to be irritated, but still there. It told me that their need was great. With what apologies I could muster, I led them through the wide hall to the doctor's bare, sky-lighted office. Hanrahan was already bringing in chairs for them; a special mark of favor, for most of the doctor's visitors had to stand. He kept no chairs in the office, save his own.

The doctor evidenily knew Whitegood and Howland; they introduced the third man, and we all sat down.

"Umphf," said Doctor Bentiron, and settled himself to listen. He blinked at his bare wall as sleepily as ever, but his manner in some way conveyed a hint that preliminaries were over.

Accordingly Mr. Whitegood, who seemed to be acting as spokesman for his fellows, plunged into an explanation.

"We are after one Robert Janeway Miller," said he. '"He's been stealing stories— goodness knows how many! He copied one of Harold Mahler's stories out of my magazine— scarcely bothered to change the characters' names, even— and sold it to Halloran, of Thayer's Magazine. It was published last month. Of course readers spotted the steal right away, and began to write in about it. And the very next week Bentley's came out with 'Love's Denial' by Robert Janeway Miller— lifted bodily from Piquant Stories for May nineteen fifteen!"

Mr. Howland looked rather uncomfortable; the ministerial features of Mr. Rawson widened to a slight smile. "No wonder you fell for it, Howland," he commiserated, "Piquant Stories runs good stuff!"

"Well," continued the editor of Mystery Tales, "there was another case. And we got suspicious of Mr. Robert Janeway Miller, and began to compare notes. A dozen editors got together, and found the that fellow'd been at it wholesale for months— copying stories out of one magazine, with a few minor changes, and reselling them  somewhere else." He glanced at Howland with a quizzical grin.

The editor of Bentley's groaned. "The conscienceless wretch got to me right," he admitted ruefully. "Sold me a story out of my own files, twenty years back, dressed up to date and signed Robert Janeway Miller! Gr-r-r-r! I desire his blood!"

Doctor Bentiron yawned, blinking at his bare wall. "Umphf," said he. "A professional plagiarist, in short. An interesting occupation."

The three editors nodded solemnly. Mr. Rawson took up the tale.

"You can see our situation," he explained. "It's serious enough. Of course, we're onto R. J. Miller now; but there's nothing to prevent him from taking another name and going merrily on. No man can keep track of all the current fiction. Some of us"— and he grinned at Howland— "have difficulty with our own files, even. We're afraid to buy anything, except from our known contributors. So we decided to appeal to you."

"Umphf," replied the doctor, unimpressed, and rolled a fresh cigarette. "Blakely is the literary member of this firm."

Our three guests looked at me politely, but without perceptible enthusiasm. I said nothing.

"Well," pursued the chief, "what do you want me to do?"

"Find Robert Janeway Miller," answered all the editors at once, "so we can have him pinched!" Their unanimity was beautiful.

"Umphf," said the doctor. "Why not find him yourselves?"

"It can't be done,' declared Mr. Howland flatly. "He hasn't left a trace."

"Umphf. Rot," was the chief's languid comment. "Every action leaves a trace. Just what do you know about the fellow?"

"Nothing," replied Whitegood.  "Nothing but his name— undoubtedly assumed— and the number of a post-office box here in New York."

"Nonsense," said Doctor Bentiron. "You have his manuscripts, or some of them, haven't you? And you paid him by check."

Three mournful nods.

"Well," said the doctor, as though the matter were settled. "What more do you want— except time and patience? The post office will have no record, except of his assumed name and the date that he resigned his box—for he has undoubtedly given it up by now. But his manuscripts and the letters he must have written some of you will help; and a check leaves a wide, wide trail." He yawned. "I'm just back, and foot-loose for a few days. And the affair sounds interesting. I'lltake it up. Yes, I'll look into it."

Our guests chorused thanks, but the chief languidly raised a hand. "First," he drawled, "let us see what we really do know of this chap Miller, about whom you three know nothing." He paused to inhale deeply, then went on, each deliberate word accompanied by a little jet of smoke: "I assume that he is a man. Perhaps not; but the methodical and business-like nature of his frauds suggests masculinity. Let us say a man, then; probably young, because of the boldness of his ideas. A young man of considerable intelligence, with a tolerably good sense of literary values. Not every one could select from your magazine, Rawson, a story suitable for Bentley's."

The editor of Piquant Stories looked a trifle hurt, but admitted the truth of this inference,

"We infer, then," resumed the chief, "that he is a young man of literary bent, whose ethical code is decidedly liberal; undoubtedly a constitutionally inferior person whose defect is mainly in the moral field. Also, in all probability, a man who has tried to write fiction, and has failed. One might even infer a grudge against editors; the sort of person who pastes pages of his manuscript together to prove that they were never read, and all that sort of thing: The editors wouldn't buy his own stuff, which was good— well, he'd prove that they weren't omniscient.

"Let us consider the psychology of such a character. He would show the psychic stigmata of inferiority, chief among which is the habit of boasting. Not for nothing have the courts decided that publication is part of the author's remuneration for his work. Despite the risk, Mr. Robert Janeway Miller will never have been able to refrain from announcing himself as a literary person; from showing some one his published works. And through that some one we may be able to locate him.

"I suggest, then, a young person of literary pose; perhaps of long hair, soft collars, Windsor ties, and even velvet jackets. A person who, in certain circles, at least, has been looked upon as a writer; a person who probably has attempted to write, in fact. This man reads many magazines— to select the stuff he plans to steal. He buys them, because he could scarcely copy them in a library without evoking comment. Therefore there will be many in his room. He owns or rents a typewriter; again, because it would be so much safer than dictation. So, you see, we do know something about him, after all.

"Now to find out more. Go, all of you, and communicate with all the editors you know. Get all the manuscripts and letters Miller has sent in— all you can collect. Go to your business offices and collect all canceled checks made out to him. Bring 'em all here, and we will consider this matter further."

With profuse thanks, our visitors took their departure, leaving me alone with the chief. He sat silent for a time, smoking and pondering, then heaved himself up, checking my unasked questions.

"I have talked enough," he drawled, "Come along. I will make my rounds,"

SO THINGS stood until next morning, when Mr. Whitegood returned, alone, bringing half a dozen manuscripts, two short letters, and seven canceled checks,

The letters bore no address; they were brief and uninformative. The doctor examined them and the manuscripts briefly. "All on Sigma bond," said he. "You can buy it anywhere. Written with an old machine; at a guess, I should say a Remington six— the indigent author's friend. Umphf. No doubt some detectives could tell you the factory number of the machine, and the color of our friend's hair; I can't. However, I venture the assertion that Miller has tried, and therefore is trying—they never stop—to market his own stuff under another name, perhaps his own. I suggest, Mr. Whitegood, that you set somebody to work in the various offices, looking for manuscripts written on Sigma bond with a Remington six machine. Compare your findings with these samples, and you may get Miller's real name, and an address. Meanwhile, I'll be looking over these checks."

He picked up the little sheaf of canceled checks. They were on five different banks. All were indorsed "Robert Janeway Miller" in a bold, flowing hand.

"Umphf," said the chief. "Only one cashed at a bank; wherefore I judge that Miller has no bank account in that name. Nor in any other, probably, since the other indorsements are different on all checks."

He examined each check in turn, shuffling them slowly over, sniffing at each one. Then he selected two and passed them to me.

"Blakely, my son, what do you infer from these?" he inquired.

I looked at them. The first bore Miller's indorsement, then the name of Robert J. Smith, then a blurred, scrawling signature, "P. J. O'Callaghan," and then the stamp of a bank. The other had been signed, after Miller's name, by one F. X. Murphy. I shook my head, and passed the two slips to Mr. Whitegood.

He, too, examined them fruitlessly. "I don't see anything," he declared, "'except that they're both dirty and thumb-marked, and smell of stale beer and tobacco."

"Exactly," said the doctor approvingly. "You show rudiments of sense. And from said appearances and odors, I infer that these checks were cashed in saloons. Observe, also, that there is a striking similarity between the writing of Robert Janeway Miller and that of Robert J. Smith. It is my guess that our elusive friend was known as Miller at one saloon and as Smith at the other. Go home. Blakely and I are about to invade a bank or two."

Mr, Whitegood returned to his office, while we two entered the doctor's big blue iimousine and drove to the Fourteenth Street National Bank, whose stamp had followed the signature of O'Callaghan on the first check.

Here Doctor Bentiron asked for the president, whom he knew, as he did almost every one else. It took only a moment to satisfy the chief. Yes, Mr. P. J. O'Callaghan had an account there; he kept a saloon— a Raines law hotel— around the corner on Third Avenue— the Palace.

Without loss of time we set out for the Palace Hotel. Yes, Mr. O'Callaghan was there; a dropsical, pear-shaped man, meticulously clad, diffusing ambrosial scents. His puffy hands were overmanicured, his huge mustache was combed and waxed; but there were pouches beneath his bleared, theumy eyes, and he breathed asthmatically. He was in the twilight state of the habitual drinker; neither completely drunk nor completely sober.

Before him the doctor spread out the canceled check. He blinked at it for a moment, mustering his uncertain wits.

"Do you remember that?" asked the chief.

The other lifted the check and turned it over. "Uh," said he. "Uh-huh. I guesso. 'S a matter with't?"

"Nothing," said the doctor."But  do you know Robert J. Smith?"

The other stared. '"Uh," said he. "Uh-huh. Sure do I know him, the spalpeen! He owes me three months' rent. And where's he gone, sorr, do ye know?"

"So he lived here?" inquired the chief.

Mr. O'Callaghan tapped the check with a blunt forefinger.

"For six months," he averred. "And 'tis all the rent ever I got from him, that check is. Faith, it's glad I am to be rid of him, wid his drinking and clacking that domm typewriter all night. Last month I had an argument with him, and I trun him out. And he ain't been back since. Tell him from me, sorr, t' come and fetch his stuff before I trun it out, too!"

"So his things are still here?' said Doctor Bentiron, "Mind if I go up and look them over?"

Mr. O'Callaghan blinked at him incuriously for a moment; he did not even ask for a reason. "Yes, sure," he agreed, waving his hand with alcoholic expansiveness. "G'wan up, sorr— look all ye like. Give him the key, Mike. 'Tis the second door from the head of the stairs,"

With no more formality than this we gained entry to the room of the absent Mr. Smith. I paid mute tribute to the doctor's persuasive personality.

The room itself was characterless, typical of the Raines law hotel. *

[ * See end note]

Two windows, half obscured by a huge beer sign, fronted the street. Plaster was flaking from the painted walls; the dust-colored floor matting was ragged. In one corner stood a cheap, white iron bed with flimsy, inadequate covers. The place was littered with magazines, new and old, many with torn covers; loose, printed pages strewed the floor, overflowing from a plain pine table whereon stood a battered typewriter— a Remington six. Beside it lay several pages torn from the "Pink Book." In the machine was a sheet of Sigma bond paper. I leaned over it.

Aloud I read:

"He sat rigid at the table, staring moodily at his clenched fists. At last he raised a scowling face.

"You know I love you, Madge,' he blurted."

I glanced at the magazine pages, and read:

"He sat rigid beside the table, scowling moodily at his fists. At last he raised a tense face.

" 'You know I love you, Mary,' he blurted."

"Umphf," drawled the chief, at my shoulder. "That looks like our bird."

He turned over the litter on the table. There were no letters; there was nothing here, or in the ramshackle bureau, to show us where Mr. Miller-Smith had gone—if this had indeed been his abode.

The only personal article, save a few soiled clothes, was a photograph on the dresser.

It was the picture of a flashily pretty girl in a dress rather too low; her pose was affected, theatrical, and across her skirt was scrawled in an unformed, illiterate hand: "To Bob, from your little Hong Kong sweetheart."

"Umphf," commented the doctor cynically, blinking at this charmer with weary, disillusioned eyes. 'That is a person to talk, if we can find her."

Carrying the photograph, he trailed down the stairs to where Mr. O'Callaghan lounged in the bootblack's chair, half. asleep.

"Do you know this woman?" he asked.

The hotel keeper stared dully at the picture. "I dunno," he replied. "Sure, they's a many of those kind, down here."

"Well," said Doctor  Bentiron, "is there a place in the neighborhood called the Hong Kong?"

The other blinked at him. "Uh, uh-huh," he averred.  "Sure, 'tis Muphy's place, over on Fourteenth Street. 'Tis a tough joint, sorr— the Honka-tonk-Kong, as the word goes round here. Uh-huh, 'tis a bad place, wid women and dancing and the like. Now I keep a respectable house. My wife and daughter, they's livin' upstairs."

We walked around the corner to view the "Hong Kong Restaurant, Café and Cabaret," as its sign magniloquently announced. Here things were very quiet, for it was not yet noon. We entered a large and gaudy barroom, set with many small tables. At the back was a staircase with a big sign: "Cabaret Upstairs."

The place was almost empty; a white-jacketed bartender dozed at his station, but jerked himself upright at our entry, smiling a professional smile. He was clean-shaved, black haired, with a curious, blue-white, unhealthy pallor; the edges of his nostrils were red and inflamed. His eyelids jerked rhythmically, obscuring and revealing dead black eyes that seemed swimming in ichor. I frowned to myself; the Hong Kong was indeed a "tough joint." That is a disreputable saloon which employs a bartender showing plain marks of both alcoho! and cocaine.

"Well, sports?" queried this worthy.

The doctor ordered two glasses of amber fluid, but I noted that he did not drink his. Mine also went untouched.

"Join us?" invited the chief suavely.

"T'anks," said the other, and poured himself a drink.

"Ah-h-h!" said he then, and took a sniff of cocaine, quite openly.

"Mr. Murphy in?' asked Doctor Bentiron.

The other shook his head.

"It's Mr. F. X. Murphy, isn't it?" persisted the chief. "And he banks at the Commercial ?"

"Uh-huh," said the bartender sourly.

The doctor produced his photograph and laid it on the bar. "Do you know her?" he demanded.

"Uh-huh," grunted the other. Then he paused, breathing deeply; his dull eyes lighted, a little flush came into his white cheeks. The cocaine was beginning to act; magically, he had become affable, communicative, garrulous.

"Uh-huh," he repeated. "Sure I know her. That's Rosie, Rosie Klein— calls herself Mallowe to the Johns. Some swell Jane, she is— always picks the spenders. Never knowed her t' make but one fumble— when she fell for that writing feller—Hiller, Filler Shiller—"

"Miller?" suggested the doctor quietly.

"Uh-huh— Robert Janeway Miller, he called himself round here. Claimed he was a author— and he did spend it, for awhile. But I knowed all the time he wasn't nothing but a shine. Still and all, he did have money— for a while."

"Mr. Murphy cashed a check for him?" supplied Doctor Bentiron.

"Uh-huh," replied our loquacious host. "From some magazine it was— or so he said. Seems t' me they was some trouble about that, too. I disremember what. Ain't seed him round for a month 'r Say, Bill," to a somnolent individual in one corner, "what was they fighting about that night? You know, Miller and that newspaper feller? Som'pin 'r another about a story, seems to me."

The man addressed heaved himself up and slouched over to the bar. "I'll take a tall one," said he, glancing side-long at the doctor. At the latter's nod, the bartender filled a glass. After drinking, our new informant began his tale.

"Yeah," said he. "This feller Miller, he was in here with Rosie that night. They was both pretty drunk. He had some magazine with him, and he set 'em up all around, twice. 'It's on me,' says he, 'I got a story printed in this here magazine.' Well, us guys all drank, and told him how good he was, like we would anybody that'd buy. Then this here newspaper feller butts in. He's on the Star—I seen him before. 'Le's see it,' says he, and Miller give him the book. Well, he read along a ways, and then he threw the book down. 'You're a liar,' says he, 'and a thief,' he says. 'You stole that story,' says he, and hits him in the eye, and they mixed it for a minute."

"And the boss had Rough Mike trun 'em both out," finished the bartender indifferently. "And I ain't seed Miller since." His eyes began to glaze; his brief animation was wearing itself out.

"And where's Rosie Klein?" asked the chief idly.

"Rosie?" repeated the bartender. "Oh, she's around. Who's she runnin' around with now, Bill?"

"She ain't got nobody just now," replied Bill. "Living in a furnished room over on Third, at Mother Lazarus' place."

I knew the woman; she kept a decidedly shady rooming house, of the sort where no questions are asked. A cutting scrape had brought me there while I was still riding a Bellevue bus.

So we thanked our informants, set up another round, and started out for Mother Lazarus' place.

In all its externals the house was like a thousand other dingy rooming houses. A dark hallway led back between a saloon and a pawnbroker's shop; dirty, uncarpeted stairs brought us up to a sort of sitting-room office on the second floor. Here we found Mother Lazarus, the spider of this sordid web; a hook-nosed old woman with close-set, evil eyes, whose skinny arms and pendulous abdomen gave her an uncanny resemblance to the insect of my metaphor.

She received us with an insinuating smile.

"Vell, gentlemen? Vhat? R-rosie? R-rosie Klein? Ja, she is here. A good girl, R-rosie!"

She rubbed wrinkled, clawlike hands together, smiling evilly. "She sleeps yet, maybe. I call her."

She shuffled laboriously up another flight of stairs to knock upon an unseen door.

"R-rosie, liebchen!" we heard her call. "Schläfst du noch? Two gentlemen—" The oily voice sank to an inaudible whisper.

Presently Mother Lazarus returned, beaming. "Go right up, gentlemen,"she urged. "The first door. A good girl— a good girl, R-rosie!"

Bowing and rubbing her old hands, she indicated the uninviting stairway. We ascended through an odor compounded of boiled cabbage, stale beer, and cigar smoke.

Miss Klein received us quite informally. I do not know what the the old woman may have whispered to her; perhaps Doctor Bentiron's name. So many unlikely people knew the doctor! At any rate, the girl's bearing was neither apprehensive nor coquettish, but quite friendly and businesslike.

The room was close and hot; it smelled of cheap perfumery. The lady herself sat up in a tumbled bed. Her tousled, brass-yellow hair showed a betraying darkness at its roots; her skin was the least bit blotchy, and there was a smear of rouge on the pillow.

Nevertheless, she was strikingly pretty in a hard, shallow fashion. Mr. Miller might have shown worse taste, I thought.

Miss Rosie yawned unguardedly, and pried her last night's gum loose from the headboard.

"You'll havta 'xcuse me looking like this, gents," she apologized. "I ain't no early bird—I don't like worms. Do I look turr'ble, reely?"' She smiled affectedly, turning her head a little, and looked at us cornerwise from bold brown eyes. Seen in that pose, there was no mistaking her; it was the girl of the picture in Robert J. Smith's room— his "little Hong Kong sweetheart."

The doctor smiled at her gravely, "You look very nice, my child," he asured her. "We just want to ask you a few questions about Mr. Robert Janeway Miller."

The girl shrank a little; her lips drew back to show white, even teeth. "You ain't got nothing on me!" she cried shrilly. "I didn't have nothing to do with it!"

"With what?" inquired the chief equably, and she relaxed, laughing uneasily.

"That's one on me,"she admitted. "I don't know what, but I spose they's  sompin', He's one o' those kinda fellahs."

"Perhaps—" insinuated the doctor, producing a yellow-backed bill.

"Oh, gee, yes!" was Miss Klein's fervent, if inelegant reply. "I'd murder me best friend f'r one o' them babies."

The bill disappeared under her pillow, and she leaned forward, greedy eyes alert. "Whadda ya wanta know, mister?" she demanded.

"First, what does he look like?

"Oh, a reel nice-looking boy. Kinda slim, with big, blue eyes and curly hair. A reel, high-toned talker, too— he useta use elegant big words. But they wasn't nothing nifty about his clothes; his hair was too long, and he wore dreadful loose clothes, and big, floppy bow ties. Said it was lit'rary— he was a author, you see, a writing fellah. Miller wasn't reely his name, you understand."

"Do you know where he lives?

"His regular place, y'mean? Nope. He was a reel nice boy— when he had the coin."

She paid his memory the tribute of a little pause, while I pondered her statement; it is the epitaph of many a better man than this plagiarist.

"But he ain't been around f'r a month," Rosie went on brightly. "He ain't comin' back."

"When did you see him last?"

"Oh, pretty near a month ago, down to the Hong Kong. I hang out there, mostly, you understand. We was there one night, and he had a scrap with some fellah— sompin' about some story he'd writ, I don' know just what. Well, anyways, Mike slung 'em both out f'r the rough house, and presently Bob comes around here, all marked up— I didn't wait f'r him, you understand. Well, he was turr'ble excited over it. 'I gotta take two bells,' he says. 'I gotta beat it away from here,' says he, 'onna loop, he says. He was a dreadful funny talker that way. 'Onna loop,' says he, kinda scared, and I thought prob'ly the bulls was after him f'r sompin'." She made the statement quite casually, accepting such a likelihood with the cynical, unmoral philosophy of Fourteenth Street.

"Do you know where he went ?"

She shook her head indifferently. "Nope. He didn't say nothing, on'y he was going to get a job of work and lay low f'r a while. Oh, he stalled around about the 'editors' ring.' He was a great fellah to go on about the 'editors' ring'— said they was all against him, and tried to keep his stuff outa the papers, and that's why he changed his name. And he said they'd caught onto him, and was after him again, and he'd have to get out— 'onna loop!'" She chuckled at the words.

"Umphf," drawled the chief. "You're sure of the words, are you? He said he was going to take two bells and get out on the loop and find him a job of work?"

Rosie gave an emphatic nod. "He was always talking that kinda stuff," she averred.

"One thing more; do you know his real name?"

"Bob Smith, he says." Miss Klein giggled once more. "Them editor fellahs must 'a' been turr'ble smart, t' pick him outa all the Bob Smiths in N'Yawk, seems t' me."

"Umphf," repeated Doctor Bentiron. "Thank you, Rosie," He rose and bowed formally. Rosie seemed a bit overcome by his manner,

"Yes, sir," said she, and bobbed her brassy head. " 'S a pleasure. Come—" and checked herself, real color streaming up beneath the streaky rouge.

But the chief was already descending the stairs.

Outside, I stopped and turned to him hopelessly.

"You've done wonderfully, doctor," said I. "But this ends it. To find Bob Smith in New York City is an impossibility."

"Umphf," said the doctor, rolling another cigarette. "He may take another name. But we're only starting. We have a tolerable description of our man; we know something about his habits. I was assured that he would not be able to keep his literary career to himself. As for tracing him, there's the post office. Some one there may remember him. There are other checks to trace, and the banks will have a complete record of them. There is a typewriter, rented from the Cohen Agency on broadway— did you notice their stencil on the machine— and they will have a record. And I have no doubt that in some editorial office they will find manuscripts written on Robert Janeway Miller-Smith's old machine, but bearing his real name and address. It is only a question of time and patience.

"Moreover, aside from all this, I have a hunch."

I leaned excitedly toward him, having had experience of the doctor's hunches. "I shall take a short cut, which may lead to nothing. Did you observe the significance of Mr. Miller-Smith's colloquialisms— 'two bells— on the loop— a job of work?' "

I was puzzled. "Slang, I suppose," said I. "But it's new to me, I'm afraid."

"Umphf," commented Doctor Bentiron. "Not to me. That, my son, is street-car talk; and once upon a time I also rode the back end."

I stared at him amazed, longing for a biography of this man who had known so many occupations.

"You were a street-car conductor?" I demanded.

"Exactly," murmured the doctor, unmoved. "And those expressions belong to the language of the guild. Wherefore I conclude that our friend has been a street-car man. On the back end, no doubt— the opportunities for profit are greater there.

"Now you may never have considered this, but the uniform of the Metropolitan Railways is an excellent disguise. No one ever looks at a street-car conductor; to the public he is a change-making, fare-ringing mechanism, not a human being at all. Street cars are a grand place to hide, as more than one much-wanted gentleman has discovered for himself. Mr. Miller-Smith has been a street-car man; he promised Rosie to get a 'job of work.' Wherefore I conclude that he has gone back on the line. Yes. Exactly."

He led the way back to the waiting limousine, and presently we were being driven to West Fifty-ninth Street, to the car barns.

As usual, the doctor found friends here. In fifteen minutes we were talking with the division superintendent.

"We are looking for one Robert Smith," explained the chief. "A conductor, I imagine; he is a light man."

The superintendent grinned, shuffling index cards. "There are ninety-odd  Smiths on the Met," said' he. "We have nineteen conductor Smiths runnning out of this barn alone. Three of them are Roberts."

"Umphf," said the doctor. "This man would be an extra, hired about three weeks ago."

"Here you are, then; Robert J, Smith, No. 07819, running on Sixth Avenue. A swing run." He glanced at his watch. "He's off now. He relieves the day man at four-thirty. I'll give you a note to the starter."

The docter took it and thanked him; we went out.

"It's time to eat," declared the chief, "A fair morning's work, I think. Umphf, Yes. Of course, I may be wrong, or our friend may have changed his name, or be over on Third Avenue, or up on the Union, in the Bronx. However, we'll see."

We drove home for a late lunch. I made hurried rounds, and at four o'clock we set out for the corner where the conductors on the Sixth Avenue line are changed.

The chief approached the starter here, who was already busy initialing the time sheets of the off-going day men and hustling the swing force onto their cars.

That official read the superintendent's note. "Yes, doctor," said he amiably.

The chief did not mention our suspect's name. "We are looking for a slim young fellow with big blue eyes," he explained. "He rides the back end. He wears his hair too long, and probably has a big bow tie. He writes for the magazines. Know him?"

"A long-haired feller," repeated the starter. "Writes f'r th' papers? Yeah, sure I know him. That'll be Bob Smith. Claims he's just on the cars t' get stuff f'r a book— 'local color,' he cails it.

"Yeah. He's a smooth article, that feller. He goes up on the carpet, soon's he reports; spotter caught 'im three fares short. Here he comes now."

A slender youth was approaching, uniform cap set jauntily askew upon long, curling hair. A huge Windsor tie lowed down over his uniform coat.

"You, Smith!" snapped the starter. "Rooney gets your car. Report to the super, at wanst."

The young man flushed, and turned sullenly away.

"One moment, Mr. Robert Janeway Miller," said the doctor softly.

The other whirled on him. "Well ?" said he.

Then his eyes began to dilate, and the sullen color slowly left his cheeks.

"Who told— how do you " He broke off. "My name is Smith," he cried angrily. 'I don't knew anybody called Miller."

"Rosie Klein told me," replied the chief gently.

"But— but—" protested the other, half mystified and wholly frightened.  "Rosie didn't know— nobody knew where I was going!"

Doctor Bentiron yawned. "Nevertheless, I found you," he drawled. "Come along, son. We can bring a dozen witnesses to identify you as Robert Janeway Miller, professional plagiarist. The man who plans to sell stolen stories, and get away with it, is very ill-advised to pose as an author. Umphf, yes."

And the doctor beckoned to a passing policeman.

No doubt you all read in the newspapers of the trial of Robert Janeway Miller; it was given wide publicity at the time. Plagiarism is an offense more serious than many people think.

As a result, Mr. Miller— or Smith, which proved to be his real name— will be engaged for another three years in that unpopular vocation facetiously known as "making small ones out of large ones." And the editors of New York have a measure of security in buying fiction from unknown authors.

* Raines Law: an 1896 New York law restricting sale of alcohol on Sundays to Hotels, if served with a meal, or in a bed room. Countless low bars promptly added a "kitchen" and a rigged up a bedroom or two, and carried on Sunday trading. Many Raines law hotels were brothels. —Pulpmeister

_______________

4: Gold-Bricked

Lewen Hewitt

Detective Story Magazine 8 Jun 1920

Nothing is known of this author other than that he published a dozen or so short stories during 1920 to 1922, mostly in Detective Story Magazine

IN the little sitting room was a garish, pink-rosed carpet; on the pink-rosed carpet was an old-fashioned, black-hair sofa; on the black-hair sofa, rocking back and forth, his right hand rubbing his right knee with the regularity of a piston rod, his left hand grasping an envelope, sat the man who had swallowed the hook.

Already he had guessed what had happened— not that it took any unusual powers of perception to reach the one conclusion; but, to give him his due, already he had guessed it. For a lingering moment a wisp of hope straggled across his mind, a mirage that the note might prove it all a horrible mistake. Mustering a desperate courage, he ripped open the envelope and read:

Mr. Dersy:

You will no doubt be surprised when you read this letter to find out that you have been the victim of the old gold-brick game. Now my advice to you is to keep it to yourself, as you will only make yourself the laughingstock of the community and have all the school children hollering out: "There goes old Gold Brick!" In fact, it will be hard for to make any one believe that you could possibly have been such a big fool a to pay out such a large sum of money for a chunk of bras. I simply write this letter to save you from being humiliated and pointed out as one of the biggest fools in seven States. But do as you like about it, for when you this letter me and Injun Joe and the assayer will be in Canada having a good time on your money. Now don't get a foolish idea into your head or be advised by any of your friends to try to get us, for you will only be throwing away your money, as we know exactly to take care of ourselves, and alway our future mapped out plain and make no mistakes in our movements, and to conyince you of this I will simply say that you are the fifty-fourth man we have beaten in your State, and two of them lived in your county. Should you, after studying this over, decide you want to get even, all you will have to do is to give us the name and address of some one you know who has got plenty of money, and we will give you one-fourth of what he loses and possibly a little better. Just put an ad in the personal column of the Chicago Sunday Blaze, and say: "Ed: Contract in sight." Then we will write to you. Now I know if you will look at this matter reasonable it will be to your advantage later on. That ts all. Injun Joe says you are a good man, and he likes you. Good-by. Big Ed

There was only a single ray of real sunlight in the whole leaden atmosphere: Perryville knew nothing of his misstep. At noon, when he walked heavily to his warehouse office, the sign, "J. Ringfield Derby, Agricultural Implements," was undefaced. Nobody had lettered Gold Brick under his name. Nor that afternoon, when he depleted the home wall safe of a package of bonds he kept on hand for just such an emergency, to add four thousand dollars to his limited bank account, did President George W. Sterrett chirp jovially: "Well, I see you learned something at last; you're locking the stable after the horse is stolen." Nor again that night, while he gulped down his supper at the American House, did anybody ask him what had become of Big Ed, the rough but generous mining prospector, late of the Rocky Mountains. No, Perryville was mercifully unaware of what had befallen Derby.

He had learned his lesson; it had been expensive, but thorough. It was to be regretted, however, that instead of sweetening his nature it had hardened him and turned inside out all the ugly corners of his disposition.

"You will, huh?" he said to Mr. Behrend's nondescript hound when that animal gave him the customary evening growl; and with the words he shot out his right foot to such purpose that the dog profited by his lesson.

As he checked over the evening mail in his home he came upon an enclosure for a Groundrite cultivator which exceeded the proper amount by ten dollars. Carefully and at length he had explained to Webster Hennings that prompt payment meant a discount ; and here the fool had sent him the full catalogue price.

Smoothing the check upon the table, he regarded it moodily. "You can't teach some people. They want to throw away their money. They ain't happy unless they do throw it away. If they don't look out for themselves, what right have they got expecting anybody else to do it for 'em?"

There was no answer, unless perhaps it might be found between the lines of the gold-brick letter. Mr. Derby took this communication from his pocket and read it through again with con- tracting face. Then, viciously crumpling the sheet, he tossed it into his safe and stalked into his bedroom. When he emerged he had a revolver in one hand and a bottle of oil in the other.

The balance of the evening he spent oiling and cleaning the weapon, and snapping it at a black smudge on the door. The revolver was in excellent shape indeed when a disquieting thought arose. "Suppose I shot him; suppose I put a bullet 'clean through him— that wouldn't get me back my two thousand dollars."

Dropping his revolver on the table, he stared blankly at the wall safe. No, his two thousand was quite gone, just as the letter said, and all the fireworks in the world couldn't bring it back again. In fact, there was no possible way of recovering it unless—

He went to bed to sleep over it. Many an idea too gross to be embraced, is not at all too gross for a little long-distance flirtation.

ii

MORE than once, in the melancholy days that followed, J. Ringfield Derby spread out his list of customers and wondered idly which prospects might be interested in the jolly game of getting something for nothing. Discarding the poverty-weighted, the struggling youngsters, the pensioners, he narrowed the list to a half dozen solid, prosperous farmers who would not be averse to a plan whereby ten cents might be exchanged for ten dollars. It was a game, a fascinating, absorbing game, that grew more fascinating and more absorbing the longer it was played.

He did not actually decide to turn in any names to the Gold Brick Brothers ; but neither did he cease playing the game. Indeed, he sounded delicately Mr. Podarski and the elder Wallins. Podarski was jumped and cleared from the board upon proving himself "land poor." On the other hand, old man Wallins made no bones about admitting that he had a dollar here and a dollar there, and that if he could find something "as safe as it was good," he'd be "willin' to resk it."

The game grew to be a passion. Many a cigar and many a pint of kerosene Derby burned in his midnight speculations. But in the end he came to a highly creditable conclusion. "No," he said shrewdly; "no, not him. Not anybody around here. I'm respected in Perryville, same as my father before me. It would be bad business."

The golden summer which had brought Big Ed and his brick of brass gave way to an even more golden autumn. On a certain mild, languid day in late September the jangling of the bell over the warehouse door called Derby to his office.

Awaiting him was a tall, lean, sun-burned, awkward individual. He nodded and cleared his throat.

"My name's Carlin," he said slowly. "Come from Windsor to see you about some machinery."

Derby puzzled for a moment. He might have explained that Felsman handled the Groundrite line in Windsor, but he was cautious. His greeting ran: "Glad to know you, Mr. Carlin. What kind of machinery are you buying ?"

Carlin rubbed the red stubble on his chin. ''You— you don't understand," he said apologetically. "I don't want to buy nothin'. I want to sell. I'm leavin'— goin' East to New Hampshire, and I got a harrow and—"

Derby shook his head. "Sorry. Can't afford to buy second-hand truck; don't care what condition it's in. Better put it up at auction and take what it'll fetch."

The other accepted the verdict with acertain air of sad finality. "I see," he said with a half sigh, "I see. I guess you're right. Felsman said the same thing. Anyhow, I got somebody handlin' the farm, and he can sell the machinery with the place. I got the money for the live stock already, and I sold some town lots I had in Wind- sor." He thrust an explorative hand into his breast pocket.

Derby had an idea. It was an idea not remarkable for fair dealing or hon- esty, but somehow the dividing line was no longer clear to the man who had been tricked out of his money.

"How long are you going to be around this part of the country?" he asked.

"Jus' long enough to get out, that's all,' Mr. Carlin observed with a hint of passion. "My family's East already. My brother was workin' the old man's farm, but he died las' month— inflammatory rheumatism— went to his heart— and the old man sent for me. I guess the East is all right, but—" He stopped and wiped his forehead with a handkerchief.

"But the Middle West is better, huh?"

Carlin grimaced. "Dunno as it is. You hear a lot about the farmer and about the State helpin' the farmer and all that; but lemme tell you, Mr. Derby— and I'm not knockin' you implement dealers at all; Felsman always treated me square— lemme tell you, there's a whole lot of people in the cities that's jus' waitin' for a chance to skin us farmers. I'm givin' you gospel truth, too." He leaned forward in his chair, and then, apparently about to speak, hesitated. "Mr. Derby," he said finally.

"Well?"

"I wonder if you'd do me a sort of favor?"

"What is it?" asked the implement man. His voice was cold.

"I got some—something I want to turn into money, and J forgot to take it to the bank in Windsor. It's—" He fumbled in his trousers pocket and drew out a_ small tobacco — sack. Smoothing a sheet of newspaper on the desk, he dumped from the bag: its yellow contents.

"Mr. Derby, that's gold, honest-to-goodness gold. I want to get some cash for it. My nephew's a miner out in—"'

Derby drew in his head like a turtle. Then, shooting it out, he banged the desk with his fist till the little yellow particles jumped and scattered. "You, too!" he snorted.

'Me, too?" Carlin's face was brick-red. "What do you mean?"

"You know what I mean." And Derby laughed. It was not exactly a pleasant laugh, but it was long and loud. It was the first outburst of the kind that he had enjoyed for weeks, and he made the most of it.

"I dunno what you mean."

"Oh, no, you don't know what I mean. You ain't got an idea. You never met a man that found a gold mine. You never got introduced to an Injun that had to see some of your money before he was willing to let you have a third of the gold. Oh, no!" He laughed again. "Wait a minute." He jumped from his chair to lay a restraining hand on the indignant Carlin. "You needn't feel sore at me. I got something to show you."

Round-eyed, Mr. Carlin watched the implement dealer unlock the middle drawer of his desk and display a small medicine bottle filled with scraps and grains of yellow ore.

"That's all I got for my money," he said briefly.

Carlin extended a big red hand.

"Gold-bricked!' he ejaculated.

"Gold-bricked!"'

They stared solemnly at each other till Carlin broke the silence by saying: "I'll be dummed!"

"What are you going to do about it?"

"What can you do about it?"

"Did they write you a letter?"

"You mean after I bit ?"

"Yes."

"They never wrote me any letter that I see. No, they never wrote me nothin', They jus' walked off with two thousand five hundred dollars and left me a nice brass brick and this here— mebbe sixty dollars' worth of gold— and that's all."

"And you ain't going to do anything about it?"

"Do anything!

Say, if there was anything I could do I'd do it. I want the money, and I want it bad. Mr. Derby," he creaked up from his chair, "if I thought I could put them crooks behind bars ''d—I'd walk barefoot to Los Angeles and back again." He stamped to the farther wall of the office.

"Of course I wouldn't tell the folks around Windsor any more than you'd tell the folks around here. But I did write to the Chicago police, and they said it wasn't their business to handle outside cases, but they'd turn the whole thing over to the Burke Detective Agency. The agency said—" He fumbled in his pocket. "No, the let- ter's in my grip. Anyhow, they said they were interested and wanted to hear more about the case." Carlin ran his fingers between collar and throat. "That's all I know. But when I go through Chicago you can bet your last cent I'm goin' to drop in at the place and tell 'em everything I know. Might get some of my money back sometime. But I don't care so much about that. I want to— get— them— crooks."

Derby stared intently at the wall. "If we could only catch 'em," he muttered, "we wouldn't lose anything; you can bet on that, even if we had to make 'em buy their way out." He straightened up suddenly. "Suppose— suppose there was a way of reaching 'em! Suppose— Look here, Carlin, I got to talk with you some more. Come over to the bank with me. I'll tell 'em who you are, and you don't have to worry about what they think or what they don't think. They'll take care of the gold for you. And look here; I'l put mine with yours and you cash it all. Then we'll go over to my place— I'm baching it in the old house— and we'll figure out what we can do."

The trip to the bank held no embarrassment for either. Mr. Carlin, of Windsor, was properly introduced to President Sterrett, and after jocularly explaining that he had found the gold in his back pasture, and that he was trying to sell the whole farm to Mr. Derby, he told a plausible story of money loaned to a nephew now working a claim in Colorado.

The president of Perryville's First —and only—National Bank nodded wisely. "We've handled this stuff be- fore, but I guess our correpondents in Chicago will take care of it. You call ina few days for the money. Too bad it doesn't really grow on your farm."

Carlin laughed boisterously as he clapped Derby over the shoulders. "I'm tryin' to sell my farm to Mr. Derby, anyhow. It's the best little twenty-five acres you ever looked at."

The conference that night in the Derby sitting room with its pink-rosed carpet was a long and an intent discussion. Curtains drawn, the green- shaded lamp lighting the table, the pair talked over tentative plans of campaign.

"It might work," agreed Carlin. "It sure might work. And like you say, there ain't no chance of doin' it unless we pretend to act as dee-coys to other fools, same's the crooks say in the letter. And I guess you wouldn't do that— be a real dee-coy, I mean— any more than I would." He looked sharply at Derby.

The implement dealer shook his head. "Not me."

"All right, then; let's look at the way things stand. They say you can get hold of 'em by puttin' an ad in the Chicago Sunday Blaze. Now, lemme show you what the detectives said to me."

From his valise he pulled a crumpled envelope. Blowing into its open end till it gaped wide, he extracted an engraved letter-head.

BURKE NATIONAL DETECTIVE

AGENCY, New York City, New Orleans,

Chicago, Omaha, San Francisco.

"Got enough offices," he grunted out. The letter was brief and businesslike:

In response to your communication, turned over to us by the Chicago police department, I wish to say that we are much interested in your case, and will be pleased to investigate a soon as we have further information

I beg to suggest that operative W. B. Scanlon of this agency see you personally and get all the particulars from you. As you state that you are leaving Windsor, will you be kind enough to let us know where you can be found, that we may arrange an interview?

It was signed, in bold script, "P. H. Phair," with the man's official position indicated by two explanatory lines: "Chief Operative, Chicago Branch, Burke National Detective Agency."

"Well," said Mr. Derby meditatively, "I don't see that we can lose anything by talking to this man Scanlon."

Carlin looked doubtful. "I don't know much about private detectives," he admitted, "but I guess they don't work for their health."

"If we don't pay 'em anything we don't lose anything."

Carlin shrugged his shoulders. "That's right, too. And I'll bet you a good cigar, Derby, that I don't pay 'em anything, whatever you do."

Lighting a cigar that was not a good cigar, the implement dealer smoked thoughtfully.

"You want to get where your family is just as soon as you can. That's right, ain't it? Well, what say if we start things right off by putting the ad in the Blaze and writing to the agency to-night—"

"Sounds like good business to me. I jus' keep my hands shut, though. I can't afford to lose any more than I have."

"But the advertisement—"

"Oh, that won't break either of us. It'll be under a dollar, and we can split it between us. But that's the last cent."

Derby exhumed a tablet of writing paper. The man hunt was on.

iii

IT WAS evident that Big Ed had access to the Chicago dailies because, in addition to word from the agency, Tuesday's first train brought this letter:

Friend Dersy: I have got to admit that you are showing good sense in this busi- ness. Do not try to double cross us and we will give you one fine square deal. But first we got to know all about what you have to tell us, and the best way is for you to come to Chicago, and Wednesday afternoon at three-thirty be on the second floor in the Northwestern Station. You will see there near the information stand a man wearing a straw hat with a blue ribbon. You can pick him out easy because there won't be many straw hats around, and all you have to do is to follow him and he will arrange .for somebody who can talk with you. Now, Mr. Derby, you know we like you, and all you got to do is to treat us right, but do not try to get any police or detectives in on this, because we have every- thing fixed so it would do no good. Come by yourself and do as you are told and we will all make money.

Your friend, Big Ed

Derby puzzled over the situation. "Looks as though they're trying to sew things up," he ventured.

Carlin was optimistic. "Sure. That's their business. But if the detec- tives can't handle 'em, you and me can." He became thoughtful. 'Don't it seem to you, Derby, that this agency is tryin' pretty hard to get money out of us? Ain't they after a fee of some kind ?"

"They're sending this Operative Scanlon here, that's a cinch."

"We ought to feel out Scanlon, and if he don't sound right we don't need to tell him anything about what we are doin'."

At noon when the 12:05 Chicago train puffed and halted at Perryville, it discharged from the chair car a stocky, black-haired individual with a face as stolid and unemotional as his square-toed black shoes.

Unerringly from the crowd at the station he picked out the committee of two.

"I'm Scanlon," he said shortly.

In the warehouse office the conference was held, with Derby as host sitting on the desk.

"That's all, huh?' snapped Mr, Scanlon, after hearing both stories, together with minute descriptions of "Big Ed," the "assayer," and "Injun Joe."

"That's all."

"So you both got stung the same way and by the same gang, huh? I didn't know there were two of you."

From his pocket the detective extracted a package of little cigars and, without offering them to the others, selected one for his own lighting.

"You've been gold-bricked, all right. The only question is, do you want to get hold of those crows or not?"

"You can't get 'em any too fast to suit us."

With a puff of smoke the detective gestured toward Derby. "You understand, both of you, that our expenses are paid by the people we work for." Derby watched Carlin's face screw into an agonized wink. "Now, chasing criminals don't cost much, but ten dollars a day and expenses puts a good operative on the case, and fg

Carlin interrupted. "As far as I'm concerned you can stop right there. I ain't throwin' away good money after bad."

The detective turned his poker face toward Carlin. "If you don't want to spend a little money, why did you write us in the first place?"

"I didn't write you," Carlin fired back. "I wrote the police."

"And I feel the same as Mr. Carlin," Derby added stubbornly. "I ain't throwing good money after bad, neither."

Operative Scanion surveyed the ash end of his cheroot with great interest.

"We aren't one of these fly-by-night agencies," he said slowly. "We can't live on publicity, but a little free newspaper advertising now and then is just as good to us as money. Maybe the chief won't stand for this— but it looks to me that if we could round up this gang we'd be making a little reputation on the side. Suppose we agree to keep our eyes Open; can we count on getting all the help you can give us?"

Derby and Scanlon assented.

The detective rose from his chair. "Well, that's all I want to know. There isn't anything else, huh? You haven't 'got any pictures of any of them? They didn't write you any letters?"

"Not me," said Carlin, shooting a significant glance toward Derby.

"I haven't got anything," echoed the implement dealer.

"Look here! Am I right?" demanded Carlin, when Operative Scanlon had impassively boarded the 3:15 for Chicago. "If that agency catches 'em there's something more in it for the agency than advertising. I guess yes!"

"It looks funny."

"Well, if we want to get any money out of this thing we've got to— No, I guess we couldn't."

"You mean, catch 'em ourselves?"

Carlin nodded. After a thoughtful pause, he said: "But this here Scanlon ain't the whole agency. We ought to go and see the chief himself. That's what I was goin' to do when I first got his letter. I never got anything yet by dealin' with understrappers."

"Sounds good to me," Derby as- sented. "You're going East anyhow, so it's on your way, and I've got to get to Chicago some time this month. After we see the chief— what's his name ?— Phair?— we can decide what we want to do about meeting the fellow at the Northwestern Station."

Less than twenty-four hours later plans had become action. The Chicago branch of the Burke National Detective Agency was located on the eighth floor of the Skylow Building, and there, after checking their grips at the Palmer House, Derby and Carlin made their tortuous way.

On the door of No. 827 a neatly gold-lettered sign pointed their desti- nation.

At a roll-top desk sat a middle-aged gentleman in a dark gray suit. As they entered he removed his gold-rimmed eye glasses, which were attached to his vest by a long silk cord. With his close-cropped mustache, his hair gray- ing on the temples, and his businesslike but decidedly pleasing expression, he did not seem to resemble any of the detectives whose careers Mr. Derby had followed in his perusals of newspapers and other reading matter. Nor did the room itself bear any resemblance to the traditional detective head-quarters, unless it was for the big letter file with its top drawer labeled "Closed Cases," and a black panel hang- ing on the wall where, under the general heading of "Operatives," a series of wooden pegs were inserted in holes opposite a series of numbers. On each side of the room closed doors to ad- joining offices were marked "Private."

Glancing at the neatly typed memoranda before him, the man at the desk turned to his callers. "If this is Mr. Wilkinson, I believe our appointment was for two-thirty this afternoon, wasn't it?"

"We ain't got an appointment," volunteered Carlin, "but we came, anyhow. My name's Carlin. From Windsor," he added,

A momentary hesitation preceded a genial smile. "Sit down, gentlemen. I am in charge here— my name is Phair. I think I place both of you. I am glad you have decided to cooperate with the agency. Scanlon seemed to have the impression that you were not very anxious to help."

Carlin cleared his throat. "Oh, we're willin' to help, all right."

"What's the trouble, then? Certainly it is to our mutual advantage to put this deal through. He told you all about the various rewards, of course?"

Derby nudged Carlin and was nudged in return. "No, sir, he did not. He wanted us to hire him at ten dollars a day and expenses."

The pleasant expression on Chief Operative Phair's face gave way to a frown, suggesting that on occasion he could be decidedly unpleasant. "I'll talk to Scanlon," he said shortly. Twisting in his chair, he opened the left top drawer of the desk. "Let me show you a picture. Do you recognize this man?"

There was no need to study the photograph held before them; the hair, the forehead, the eyes, the nose, the mouth— in spite of the missing mustache— told the story.

"That's him," blurted Derby. "That's Big Ed."

"Yes, sir, that's the prospector, all right. I'd know him if I was to see him in the dark."

The chief operative chuckled. "That sounds final. I have been packing that photograph around with me for fifteen years, ever since I left Salt Lake City. It's an old picture, but if you recognize the likeness it takes away the last doubt in my mind. Gentlemen, that is a photograph of Joe Temple, alias 'Dummy' Freeberg, alias Henry Cook, alias quite a lot of other names, and withal the most thorough-going rascal I've ever had the pleasure of meeting."

Derby frowned viciously at the picture.

"How long he has been stalling as a gold-brick operator, I do not know," continued Phair, "but when I last had a finger on his career he was pulling rough stuff. In 1910 he went through the Union Pacific Limited and lingered long enough to put a bullet through the son of John T. McCullough, of New York. Old Man McCullough has a standing reward of five thousand; the express people offer two thousand five hundred, and some State and county rewards bring the total up to ten thousand. And I'm not saying there isn't a bit more. That is why we want your prospector."

The chief leaned back in his chair, beaming.

"Ten thousand dollars?" Derby repeated incredulously.

"Yes, sir, ten thousand dollars. And there is just half that amount offered as a standing reward to any one of our operatives who can bring him in."

Again Carlin nudged Derby. The man from Windsor had been right.

"Suppose we brought him in?"

The eyes of Chief Phair opened. "You! You mean you know where he is?"

"I don't mean anything," retorted Derby. "I'm just asking."

"If you get this man—your agency, I mean," Carlin pointed his finger at the detective, "that brings you a lot of good advertising in the newspapers. Ain't | right?'

"We are established," said the detective curtly. "Everybody knows us."

"Don't it bring you good advertising?"

The chief brought his revolving chair down with a bang. "You have got something you are holding out on me. Come! What is it?"

Carlin stuck out his lower jaw.

"Suppose we have? Suppose we know where to lay hands on this Dummy Cook, or whatever his name is? Well, there ain't nothing to keep us from turnin' him over to the reg'lar police, is there?"

Phair opened his hands. "I'll admit," he said slowly, "that we do want to capture this man ourselves. Perhaps we have reasons other than those mentioned that I do not care to go into. But I will tell you this, as man to man: Whatever Scanlon did or said, I am here to be square with you. Bring in your man, and I will give you fifty per cent of the rewards; perhaps I may do better than that. Turn him over to he police, and you will likely get nothing at all. But I want to tell you in advance," he added, bringing his right palm down on the arm of the chair, "that you had better come clean with me about what you know and allow us to handle the capture. You are not picking daisies when you go after this bird."

He paused to give them opportunity for reply. Neither spoke.

"All right," said the chief, nodding. "Think it over. But whatever you decide to do, let us help. That will be best for all hands. Don't worry about Scanlon; he is reliable, even if he is trying to pay off the mortgage on a house in Oak Park."

Derby and Carlin had the opportunity of seeing Operative Scanlon in the corridor. He nodded, but his usually impassive face was twisted into a scowl.

"When the chief sees him he'll get a dressin' down, all right," remarked Carlin exultantly, ringing for the elevator.

iv

DERBY was thinking hard. Once again on the street, he led the way to Michigan Avenue and thence to the open field south of the Art Institute.

"We've got to figure out about this afternoon," he said, when they were beyond earshot of the crowds. "At three-thirty I meet the fellow with the straw hat—"

Carlin looked at him sharply. "Don't leave me out of this. I'm goin' to be there, too."

Any faint idea of playing a lone hand vanished. "Sure; that's all right. But you've got to keep out of sight. I'm the one he's to meet."

There was a jealous quality in Carlin's vopice. "Before you get through you may be mighty glad I'm there. If there's any trouble, Derby, jus' remember I'm the best rough-and-tumble scrapper in Windsor County."

His companion ignored the possible threat hidden in the words. 'We don't wamt to look for any trouble. All this fellow can do is to make an appointment for me to meet Big Ed. When he does that we can figure out whether to handle it between you and me or call in the agency."

"Now you're talkin' sensible. But I'm goin' to be there; we don't take chances. Anyhow, I don't want to; what's more, I ain't goin' to."

Derby agreed, but there seemed to have entered between them a thin wedge of hostility that lasted until they parted on the east side of the Madison Street Bridge.

"Now, here's where I drop out and follow you the rest of the way. If Big Ed shows up we better grab him right off. If he don't you talk business with the fellow in the straw hat. And if you want me, you jus' yell, and I'll come runnin'. Fool 'em good now!" And with a final handshake Carlin dropped back into the crowd.

Though a trifle excited, Derby was not nervous. If anything, he split through the crowd with a certain added ease and assurance. Past the taxi men by the curb, past the newsboys, he walked with alert and confident step; once inside the building, he mounted the broad stairs to the train-level floor. It was twenty-five minutes past three.

With an effort to appear casual, he wheeled about that he might glimpse the lurking Carlin; but the other was nowhere in sight. Derby walked toward the elevators and stood there waiting and watching the steps up which he had just come.

It was three-thirty when, coming unexpectedly from the smoking room, a slim young man with a natty, blue-ribboned straw hat marched briskly to the information booth. For a long moment he stood slowly surveying the great room. As his eyes rested on Derby they held fast. With an almost indistinguishable gesture of his head the young man nodded toward the stairway and, turning, proceeded down the stone steps.

Derby took a deep breath and followed. Twice the other glanced about, each time nodding with that slight movement of the head.

The straw hat led the way down the stairway and through a door to the right. Derby followed. He found himself on a curving stone platform, with a taxicab waiting alonside. The young man, whose face seemed vaguely familiar to Derby, winked slyly.

"We can't talk here," he said. "That's why I flagged the cab. You can't tell what these Chicago bulls are up to. There's always some of them hanging around this place. We want to get away where I can make a date with you to meet your friend Big Ed. All right, George."

Derby was not sure whether he was helped into the taxi or whether he stepped into it of his own accord. But certain he was that a moment later the car wag driving west along Madison Street. A fleeting misgiving was over- shadowed by the triumphant realization that he was leaving Carlin behind. Meanwhile the young man with the straw hat carried on a continuous chatter:

"We got to use precautions, see? Trust nobody. That's the dope. I'd like to talk with you now. But we got to wait a little. When we get by ourselves it'll be cuckoo. You treat us right and we treat you right. Ain't it right ?"

Past dance halls, chop-suey parlors, and transformed saloons the taxi rat- tled, slowing and stopping now and then in the jam of traffic, till, with a final jolt, it drew up before a five-story building labeled "Hotel Maywood."

"Here we are. Here's where I hang out. Now we can talk. Ain't it a fact ?"

There was no likelihood that the hotel would ever rival the Blackstone; it was small, cheap, and decidedly fourth-class. Yet it reassurred Derby, who, in spite of the cheerful conversation of the straw-hatted young man, had vaguely feared their destination might be some horrible sooty dive on the river front. It was broad daylight; behind the hotel's plate-glass window two commonplace individuals who might have been salesmen of farm machinery stretched their legs.

"It's respectable, see? That's why I live here. Nobody suspects nothing." They were entering the lobby. "My room's on the fourth floor." The colored porter at the elevator smiled with all his teeth. "Fourth floor, George. Here we are." They turned down the hall, stopping before room No. 422. "Right in here."

The young man with the straw hat opened the door, standing back to allow Mr. Derby to enter. The room was dark; over the window of the far side an opaque curtain had been drawn. Derby stepped in, alone; the door closed behind him.

"How are you, Mr. Derby?"

It was the voice which at that moment the implement dealer wished least to hear. At the click of the switch, the light in the center of the room flared on, revealing Derby face to face with the late "prospector."

There was no doubt of the identity of the man. Though his face was clean shaven, his mustache clipped, his clothes and speech those of a city dweller, he was the prospector; he was Big Ed.

"Now, Mr. Derby, we're all trusting you. But before we go any further I want to tell you something for your own good. Don't try to start anything here."

Derby protested weakly.

"No, I'm certain you are on the level with us, but—don't start anything. This hotel is what we call a 'joint.' If aman gets killed here it makes no dif- ference to anybody, as long as he doesn't stain the carpet. You treat us right, and we treat you right. Under- stand, Mr. Derby? But if you begin to get rough'—the ex-prospector shook his head—"well, you would much bet- ter have stayed in Perryville."

"I don't want to treat anybody rough," said Derby a little unsteadily. "All I came down here for was to give you a little information. But I didn't expect to see you so soon."

Big Ed's face lighted with a mollified smile. "The sooner the quicker. If you get it over, Mr. Derby, you don't have to hang around Chicago. Now, what's doing in Perryville? Who's on the list? I'm in just as much of a hurry as you are. Let's have it quick."

As a boy confronted with an examination question may suddenly forget the essential point, so did Derby. The names he had planned to reel off glibly faded and disappeared as though they had been sponged from a slate.

"Why— a—" he began, "you take a—"

Big Ed leaned forward, frowning.

"There's—there's—"

"Let's go.

"Why— the names—"

He was interrupted by an enormous finger shaken under his nose. "I knew! I knew all the time! I told 'em not to fool with you. You've put somebody wise. That's why I insisted they bring you here, All right. You're just where I want you. You tried to double cross me, and I'm going to beat you up till you will never feel like double crossing anybody else."

Tipping over his chair, Derby backed to the wall. His throat was dry, and the words he intended came to sound only as incoherent raspings.

"Why—er—"

"Put up all the fight you want to. I can break you in two with my fingers."

Big Ed stepped back, scowling as though to let the implement dealer look him over. Not for nothing had this powerful-jointed six-footer chosen to play the part of the rough-and-ready prospector.

"You—mis-mistaken—" Derby was gasping.

"Mistake! You'll think you are a mistake in about ten seconds. Why, you—"

Cowering against the wall, Derby felt one great arm circling his back, while a hamlike hand clamped over his mouth, The back-bending grip tightened. In the brutal grasp he was no more than a baby. Feebly he lashed out with his feet, only to kick thin air.

v

THERE WAS a swish as the bedroom door burst open. Though he could not see, he could feel somebody rushing behind Big Ed.

"Hands up, you dirty crook!"

There was no mistaking the voice. As the great arms slacked and untwisted Derby glimpsed over Big Ed's shoulder the red, earnest face of Carlin.

"And keep 'em up!" The voice rang exultantly. "Derby, we got 'im! We got ym!"

Twisting his head to make sure his neck was not broken, Derby watched Carlin back the other into a corner of the room.

"Well, I got here, didn't I? I see the straw-hat fellow pull you mto a cab, and I pretty near lost you then; but I come here in time, all right, all right. Keep your hands up, you big crook! Search him, Derby, and see if he's got a gun on him."

There was no gun.

"Pretty slick, hey?" Carlin commented.  "He didn't want nobody to pick him up for carrying concealed weapons."

Derby glanced anxiously at the door. "We got to be careful of this place."

"Oh, I guess we don't have to be any more careful than anybody else. I've never shot anybody yet, but this ain't the first time I had a revolver in my hands." He shook the weapon in Big Ed's direction. "If any of your friends come into the room," he added impressively, "the first shot goes right into you."

"We've got to get him out some way, though," Derby protested.

"I've fixed that. I telephoned the chief as soon as I saw you go into the hotel. Somebody'll be here right off. I didn't know, though, I was goin' to get the big crook himself."

For the first time a smile tipped Big Ed's mouth. "Fair enough," he said. 'Bring on everybody. You can't kid me, and there's nobody got anything on me. Let's say you did get gold-bricked. Well, you got gold-bricked because you wanted to get something for nothing, because you were a fine pair of crooks yourselves. You can't prove anything against me, and.I'll get you laughed out of your home towns."

Once more Derby's nerve was functioning. "We'll take care of that," he said. "And now, my friend, let me give you a piece of advice. There's two of us here listening to everything you say. You better save your voice till you get to somebody who wants to hear you talk."

Big Ed relapsed into sulky silence.

Passed five long but uneventful minutes before knuckles battered loudly at the door. It was Operative Scanlon, with a most unpleasant expression on his face.

"Well, you got 'im," he announced gruffly.

"Yes," Carlin assented, "we got 'im. Don't make any mistake about that. We did it. All you have to do is to hang onto him."

The sight of a pair of handcuffs brought a volley of protest from Big Ed. "You haven't got anything on me. Nobody has. I'm willing to go along without wearing those things."

Without deigning an answer the detective snapped one circlet around the wrist of the bunco man and the other on his own left.

"Let's go," he ordered.

Ed resisted no more, but walked so close to the detective that the two seemed merely a pair of friends side by side. Through the bare lobby the procession led, and out and into a wait- ing taxi.

As they hitched through the busy streets, it was Carlin who told buoy- antly how he had followed Derby, bribed the elevator boy to get the right floor, and used his own ingenuity in finding the room. The detective and the prisoner, one as glum as the other, were both quiet during the entire trip except for one feeble protest on the part of Big Ed that "nobody had nothing on him."

Closely bunched, the four entered the Skylow Building and, with Carlin in the lead, burst into the door of the agency.

Chief Operator Phair wheeled slowly about in his chair, quite as though such experiences were an everyday matter.

At sight of Big Ed he smiled blandly.

For a moment detective and criminal stared hard at each other; then Derby noticed Big Ed's jaw droop.

"Phair's my name," remarked the chief pleasantly. "How are you, Mr. Temple, or Mr. Dummy Freeberg, or whatever you happen to be calling yourself now ?"

"I—I ain't—

"Oh, yes, you are," interrupted the chief, "I notice you recall me. Thinking back to the time when I was a fly cop in Salt Lake City, aren't you? Well, we've got your number right Take him directly over to police headquarters, Scanlon, and get a receipt for him. We may be able to do a little something for you yet, Scanlon, in spite of your greediness,"

The detective yanked at the handcuffs.

"Let's talk this thing over," whined Big Ed.

"Talk it over with the police," said the chief suavely. "You will find them a great bunch of conversationalists. Take him along, Scanlon."

With the exit of the handcuffed prisoner, the chief beamed amiably at Derby and Carlin.

"Well," he said, "it seems to be all over but the shouting."

"And the paying," added Carlin.

Mr. Phair grew grave. "Half of ten thousand és

Derby raised his voice. 'You told us you would do better than that." "Five thousand is a good deal."

"Mr. Derby is right," Carlin said stoutly. "You said you'd do better than half."

The chief leaned thoughtfully back in his chair. "I guess I did— I guess I did. There is one thing I'm mighty proud of, and that's my record. I aim to be square with every man; besides"— he threw back his head—"besides, if I did not tell you before I'll tell you now that this is the biggest criminal we've ever hooked. We have a good deal more coming to us than the public rewards. What do you say to six thousand ?"

"We got him for you," Carlin insisted stubbornly. "If it hadn't been for us, first and last, you wouldn't have laid hands on him. Seven thousand five hundred to split between us ain't much more than we lost."

For another moment the chief sat thoughtfully; then, twisting in his chair, he pulled out a bank book.

"Here's the check, then. Now, the best thing you can do, Mr. Carlin, is to come around here to-morrow morning at eleven, and I shall be glad to take you over to the bank and identify you."

Carlin studied the check carefully. "That's all right, but I'm gettin' out of town to-night. There's a train on the Pennsylvania at seven."

The chief busied himself with a sheaf of papers from the filing case. Derby noted that they were marked "Temple."

"That's up to you two, of course," he nodded.

Carlin held the check to the light. "I don't care. I got money enough to keep me goin', and I'd jus' as soon turn in a big fellow like this in that little New Hampshire burg." He chuckled happily. "How about it, Derby? I guess my check on the Windsor Commercial Bank is good with you, ain't it?"

Derby did some thinking.

The hesitation seemed to irritate Carlin. "It don't matter to me. I'll take your check or you can take mine. You jus' write me one for three thousand two hundred and fifty, or I'll write you one for three thousand two hundred and fifty. Anyway so's we get half."

Half! Derby did a little mental arithmetic while his eyes narrowed greedily. "I'm going to stay here to testify in the morning, so I'll give you my check. That'll be easiest all round."

vi

IT WAS only ten forty-five next morning when Mr. Derby appeared at the Skylow Building for his eleven-o'clock appointment. He tried the door to the Burke National Detective Agency; it opened at his touch. But no cheery chief operative wheeled to greet him. Neither was there a desk, nor a filing cabinet, nor signs marked "Private," nor anything else in the room save four walls, a ceiling, and a floor. In a panic he sought the elevator starter.

"Burke Agency?" said that official. "Oh, they moved out last night. They just come in on a shoe string, they tells me, and was only here a week when the home office busted up, they says. They was just sub-letting that one little room, Hey? What's the matter? Nearest telegraph office? Oh, we got a sub- station in the basement."

Scribbling so fast that he could hardly read his own writing, Mr. Derby dashed off a telegram directing the Perryville First National Bank to stop payment on the check he had given to Carlin. Then he sought the open air. Stung by a sudden thought, he turned into the nearest drug store and borrowed a city directory. He ran his finger down the long list of banks in a futile attempt to locate the one upon which he held a check for seven thousand five hundred dollars. It was not to be found. He swallowed with difficulty.

"It must be a new bank," he reassured himself. 'Yes, it might be a new bank. This is an old directory."

At one o'clock, following a fruitless two-hour search, he went back to his hotel.

"No, Mr. Derby, no telegram for you. But here's a special delivery letter that just came,"

Hoping against hope, he tore open the envelope. The letter ran:

Dear Friend Derby: By this time you probably see that you have been stung again, but that is all right, because you have got to learn somewhere and some time; and if you had not tried to double cross me and Carlin and the detective you wouldn't be where you are now. Do not make any trouble about it, because, as we said before, we are now where nobody can touch us. But to show you that we don't have any hard feelings, I am going to tell you something. Carlin, you will probably know before I tell you, is Injun Joe, who you met at night in that barn, and who didn't talk much to you at the time. The man at the depot was the assayer, and the only two others of our gang acted as detectives this time. So you see there are only five of us, and in a few weeks we got over five thousand dollars from you alone, to say nothing about what we got from others. You can see the profits for yourself, as our expenses are almost nothing. We are thinking of going into this business on a big scale, and, Mr. Derby, we know you are a good sport, and if you want to invest a little money with us we can promise you—"

"Mr. Derby! Mr. Derby! Telegram for Mr. Derby!"

Mechanically he took the yellow message. It was from the president of the First National Bank of Perryville:

Check cashed by your friend Carlin this a. m. when he collected gold money. Stated you had bought his farm.

_________________

5: The Third Pinprick

Ernest M. Poate

Detective Story Magazine 26 Aug 1919

SHIFTING uneasily in his chair, the small man plucked at his lower lip with thin white fingers.

"I'd appreciate it very much, Mr. Johnson," said he, "if you could let the interest go over a month or so. My wife is sick." His voice was low and uncertain; he made the plea rather hopelessly.

Johnson straightened behind his desk. His broad jaw was set; his coarse yel- low mustache bristled.

"It can't be done," he answered flatly. "You understood our terms, doctor, when you signed this note." He tapped it with a blunt, emphatic forefinger. "You'll just have to settle, that's all. Or else we can call on the insurance company. You got a good job; you'd ought to be able to pay this right up, out of eighteen hundred a year, let alone trying to default your interest."

"My wife has tuberculosis," repeated the other feebly. "I ought to send her South."

"I don't care nothing about you or your wife!" roared Johnson out of his thick chest. "You pay up! D' you hear?" He pounded the desk. "Pay up, or take the consequences, that's all!"

The other sighed. "Very well, Mr. Johnson. If I must, I must. The company would dismiss me if you made a complaint. They won't keep any employee who deals with loan sharks, you knew that, of course. But, Johnson"— the doctor's stooped, ineffectual figure straightened, and his reedy voice took on a deeper note— "Johnson, if my wife should die— then God help you!" And he walked out.

From the other desk Seligman spoke gutturally.

"Now, Johnson, you could be a little easier there, maybe?" he inquired. "To be careful is no harm, you understand."

"Yah!" exploded Johnson. "That feller! Why don't he pay his debts, then? Sick wife, huh? All them suckers got some such yarn."

"To pay up is all right, too," said his partner placidly. "But you should look out for that man a little. Also these doctors can sometimes do queer things. Once in Kiev—"

"Yah!" yelped the other, laughing boisterously. "That little skinny yap! 'Doctor' J. Elihu Perkins!" he intoned, and laughed again, leaning back in his chair. "Why, with them side whiskers on his little flat face, he looks just like a sheep. Blaaaa! Blaaa!'' he mocked.

"Like a sheep he is," agreed Seligman, undisturbed. "But mine girl brings home a book from her school, and somewhere in that book I read it, 'Beware the fury of the patient sheep!' "

But Doctor Perkins sent his interest money week by week without further protest. Johnson thought of him no more; so many debtors threatened! And so the weeks passed, and Johnson sat at his desk day by day, hardening his heart like Pharaoh of old.

At last Doctor Perkins, a shabby, stooping Moses, came back into the private offices of Johnson & Seligman, salary loan brokers. His thin face was a shade whiter, his whiskers a thought more gray; on his left arm was a band of crape.

He walked slowly up to Johnson's big desk and stood there, his small, pale eyes fixed in a hard stare. He still looked sheeplike; but the big broker was conscious of a vague disquiet. He wished that Seligman were back from the bank.

"Johnson," said the doctor quietly, "I have come to pay my debts."

While the other grinned at his own brief uneasiness, he fumbled in a pocket, brought out a small, tight wad of bills, unrolled it, and picked therefrom a small, bright object which he handled gingerly. Then, with a sudden dart, he pricked the big, freckled hand that lay upon the desk.

Johnson half rose, crouched for the spring which should annihilate this insect; rose, and stood for a moment in stupid wonder, gripping his desk edge with clammy hands; then subsided gradually into his chair. First one arm, then the other, dropped to his sides, inert; his feet slid slowly from beneath him; his cropped, bristly head rolled onto one shoulder; his flaccid, crumpled shape grew very still; he did not even wink. Only his eyes seemed alive. The doctor watched silently, smiling an ugly smile.

"Just a pin prick, Johnson," said he. "Just an ordinary pin,dipped in a drug I know. They use it on frogs, mostly; it's really too good for you. But it works; doesn't it, Johnson ?" He spoke to the agonized, living eyes that glowed in the moveless face. "You can't move; can you, Johnson? You can't even wink! But you can hear me, can't you? You know what I'm telling you, right enough!

"Yes," he went on, "I've come to pay my debts. My wife is dead, Johnson; dead because I hadn't money to send her South. And so you're going to die. Oh, not to-day! No; this is uncertain stuff, but I think I figured it about right. You'll lie like this about eight hours; then you'll get well. I want you to have time to think it over, Johnson. Think it over carefully, while you are waiting for the next pin prick, too. You'll get over that, too; and then, some day, the third— and you won't get over that one.

"Think it over, Johnson! Think it over!" With a bitter little chuckle the doctor departed.

The silent figure huddled in the chair, inert. Only the tortured, unwinking eyes seemed to live. So for an hour, for none dared disturb the broker in his silent moods.  Then his partner returned, and straightway there was hurrying confusion.

An ambulance called; he was loaded onto a stretcher.

"Old Johnson's had a fit," whispered his stenographer shrilly. "Serves him right, old skinflint!"

And Johnson heard, but could not move.

And so they bore him home, and he lay motionless on his wide bed, staring at the ceiling. He scarcely breathed. His doctor came, and stroked a neat beard, talking vaguely of a seizure.

Johnson lay helpless, listening; his brain was electrically alive. With all his force he strove to coerce his palsied throat. "Poison! Poison!" screamed his brain; but his lips did not move. From far away he seemed to hear his partner's guttural tones: "Beware the fury of the patient sheep!"

In a few hours he had regained control of his limbs, and the next day found him at the office as usual; but he walked delicately, for his confidence was shaken.

He had told his story to his doctor, who listened dubiously and spoke of post-apoplectic hallucinations.

"But there is such a poison?" he burst out, exasperated.

"Oh, yes— curare," said the other. "It paralyzes all voluntary muscles without affecting consciousness. But the whole thing is absurd; it was nothing but your imagination trying to explain to your mind why you couldn't move. Now, about your diet—"

Uncertain as to his own memories, Johnson said no more. But he took care to cancel Doctor Perkins' debt. He stamped the note "Paid," and sent a collector out with it. Next day the man brought it back.

"Can't find that man Perkins," he reported. "He's quit his job, and his house is closed. Neighbors say he's left town— gone to Sioux Falls or some place in Dakota."

Johnson resumed his usual blustering manner; but at times he seemed ill at ease. Of nights he slept poorly, wak- ing again and again from horrid night- mares of palsied fear. He drank more than usual; his temper grew ragged; once, when he pricked himself on a paper clip, he jumped up with a cry like the yelp of a kicked dog, then stormed his stenographer into tears for giggling at his overturned chair. There were these slight changes; but out- wardly he was the same. He bolstered his confidence by repeating that Perkins had left the city. He tried to make him- self believe the whole thing a delusion; once he burst out to himself, "That sheep!" and laughed aloud. But his laughter was strained to his own ears. And then, one night as he thrust aggressively through the street crowd, there came a sudden sharp prick at the back of his neck. He whirled, crying out, and gripped scandalized scrub-woman; before he could speak he had sunk again into that hideous quicksand of paralysis.

A neat-looking elderly man in worn overalls waved the crowd back. "Get back, people," he cried. "Can't you see the gentleman's had a fit?" Johnson's anguished eyes looked up into a thin, white-whiskered, sheeplike face. He strove again to cry out, and could not.

The next day, still scarcely able to control his uncertain limbs, Johnson drove to the police station. The horror of the thing was rooted in him. To lie loglike, a living brain in a dead, moveless body; to strive through eons of time, whipping an impotent will against muscles that seemed severed; to strain breathlessly toward one slight movement, only one; to feel it almost begun, and then to know that in spite of all effort he still lay flaccid and inert— it was not to be borne by man. He stared at the police captain with haunted eyes.

That officer heard him patiently. "He was a doctor, you say? Doctor Perkins? That was the first time, and this time he was a plumber, or something. And what does your own doctor say?"

Desperately Johnson persisted. The other spoke in large, soothing phrases, as to a child, then began to look nervously about.

"Thinks I'm crazy," muttered Johnson, and went out, broken. From that day he did not go upon the streets alone. He called up a private detective agency and employed a bodyguard. To that phlegmatic person he told his tale. The burly guard listened indifferently, quite unimpressed,

"Don't you fret," he reassured Johnson. "You'll be safe with me— safe as a church!' And Johnson imagined that his lips were silently framing: 'Bug-house!"

The big broker labored through days and nights of black fear; not fear of death, for in his way he was brave enough; but of that dreadful palsy, that state in which not so much as an eyelash would yield to the urge of his will. His firm jaw grew flabby, pouches came beneath the hard blue eyes; his broad face fell away in dragging lines, like melted wax. He started at shadows, flinched from every swift movement; he learned to sit in corners, back to the wall. For hours together he sat at his desk, brooding sullenly, until his very bodyguard watched him askance. He took to muttering to himself; his gray, lined face gradually set itself into a tragic mask. And always his terror-filled imagination shrank within him from that third, last pin prick which was to come.

So for months, until drink and fear had brought him to the likeness of an old, old man, who sat mumbling, shaking a palsied head. Then his motor car broke down. His guard hustled him half unwilling, into the subway entrance a few yards off, for it rained.

The detective shoved him, into a crowded express.  At the far end of the car Johnson seemed to see a flat, sheeplike face. Stark terror gripped him; he screamed aloud, grabbing at his companion's arm, and surged violently backward.

A sharp point stabbed his cheek; his breath wheezed out as from a body blow; he crumpled silently to the floor, When his guard stooped over him he was dead, a pin point of blood on his cheek,

As Johnson's body was being carried out a shopgirl explained with injured volubility to all who would listen:

"You c'n see fer yourself it ain't a long hatpin. If he hadn't of shoved right against me like that it wouldn't never of touched him. 'S matter with him? Heart disease? Huh!"

__________________

6: The Message on the Sun-Dial

J. J. Bell

1871-1934

FOR A GOOD MANY weeks the morning mail of Mr. Philip Bolsover Wingard had usually contained something unpleasant, but never anything quite so unpleasant as the letter, with its enclosure, now in his hand. And the letter was from his cousin, Philip Merivale Wingard, the man to whom he owed more benefits, and whom he hated more, than any man in the world. Certainly the letter was rather a shocking one to have place in the morning mail of a gentleman; but, oddly enough, it had never occurred to Bolsover, as he was commonly called to distinguish him from the other Philip, that he had long since forfeited his last rights to the designation.

The letter was dated from the other Philip's riverside residence, and ran as follows:

Cousin Bolsover,

I send you herewith an appeal just received from a deeply injured woman, to whom you have apparently given my name, instead of your own. This ends our acquaintance. If you insist on a further reason, I would merely mention your forgery of my name to a bill for £500, which fact has also been brought to my notice this morning. In the face of these two crimes it does not seem worth while to remind you that for seven years I have tried to believe in you and to help you in a material way.

You will receive this in the morning, and it gives you forty-eight hours to be out of this country. Within that time there is a sailing for South Africa. My banker has received instructions to pay you £500, one half of which you shall send to the writer of the enclosed. On that condition, and so long as you remain abroad, your forgery is my secret. This is your last chance.

Philip Merivale Wingard.

Bolsover, enduring a sickness almost physical, reread the letter. The enclosure did not trouble him, except is so far as it looked like costing him £250. But the discovery of his forgery shook him, for it was a shock against which he had been altogether unprepared. He had not dreamed of the moneylender showing the bill, which was not due for six weeks, to his cousin. What infernal luck!

Bolsover read the letter a third time, seeking some glimmer of hope, some crevice for escape. Hitherto he had regarded his cousin as a bit of a softy, a person to be gulled or persuaded; but every word of the letter seemed to indicate a heart grown hard, a mind become unyielding.

Go abroad? Why, that would simply be asking for it! The clouds of debt were truly threatening, but if he continued to walk warily at home they might gradually disperse, whereas the outcry that would surely follow his apparent flight would, like an explosion, bring down the deluge of ruin.

What a fool was Philip! It did not occur to Bolsover then that, during all those seven years, he had lived by fooling Philip. And the most maddening thought of all was that had Philip not come back from the Great War he, Bolsover, would be in Philip's place to-day! That, indeed, was the root of the hatred, planted in disappointment and nourished from the beginning on envy and greed, and lately also on chagrin and jealousy, since Philip had won the girl, as wealthy as himself, whom Bolsover had coveted for his own.

Bolsover's mouth was dry. He went over to the neglected breakfast-table, poured shakily a cup of the cooled coffee and drank it off. He took out and opened his cigarette-case. His fingers fumbled a cigarette, and he noticed their trembling. This would not do. He must get command of his nerves, of his wits. Raging was of no use. He lighted the cigarette and sat down.

Somehow he must see Philip; somehow he must prevail on Philip to abate his terms— either that, or induce Philip to pay all his debts. But the total of his debts amounted to thousands, and some of them were owing to persons whom he would fain avoid naming to his straitlaced cousin. Still, he must make the appeal, in the one direction or the other. The situation was past being desperate.

HE KNEW that his cousin was entertaining a house-party. On the mantelshelf was a dance invitation, received three weeks ago, for that very evening. He did not suppose that Philip would now expect to see him, as a guest; yet for a moment or two he dallied with the idea of presenting himself, as though nothing had happened. But there was the possibility, a big one, too, to judge from this damned letter, that Philip would simply have the servants throw him out!

He looked at his watch— 10.20— and went over to the telephone. He ought to have phoned at the outset, he told himself. Philip might have gone out, on the river with his friends, for the day. The prospect of seven or eight hours of uncertainty appalled him.

But at the end of a couple of minutes he heard Philip's voice inquiring who was speaking.

'Philip,' said Bolsover quickly, 'bear with me for a few moments. I have your letter. I must obey it. But, as a last favour, let us have one more meeting. There are things—'

'No! I have nothing to say to you; I wish to hear nothing from you.'

'There are things I can explain.'

'No! Excuse me. My friends are waiting for me. Good—'

'Philip, let your invitation for to-night stand. Let me come, if only for an hour.'

'What! Let you come among those girls, after that letter from that unhappy woman? A thousand times, no!'

'Well, let us meet somewhere, during the evening, outside the house. I shan't keep you long. Look here, Philip! I'll be at the sun-dial, at ten, and wait till you come. Don't refuse the last request I'll ever make of you.'

There was a pause till Philip said coldly:

'Very well. But, I warn you, it can make not the slightest difference.'

'Thank you, Philip. Ten, or a little after?' Bolsover retained the receiver awhile.

But there was no further word from his cousin.

He went back to his chair and sat there, glowering at space. Undeniably there had been a new firmness in his cousin's voice. While he did not doubt that Philip would keep the tryst, he could no longer hope that anything would come of the interview. That being so, what was left for him?

To a man like Bolsover the disgrace was secondary; the paramount dread was a life without money for personal indulgence. He had been cornered before, but never so tightly, it seemed, as now. For the first time in his unworthy career he thought of death as the way of escape, knowing all the while that were he in the very toils of despair, he could never bring himself to take the decided step in death's direction. But he toyed gloomily with the thought, till his imagination began to perceive its other side.

What if Philip were out of the world?

At first the idea was vague and misty, but gradually it became clear, and all at once his mind recoiled, as a man recoils from the brink of a precipice—recoiled, yet only to approach again, cautiously, to survey the depths, searching furtively the steep, lest haply it should provide some safe and secret downward path. And peering into his own idea, Bolsover seemed to see at the bottom of it a pleasant place where freedom was, where fear was not. For while Bolsover had no illusions of inheriting a penny in hard cash from his cousin, he knew that a small landed estate, unencumbered, was bound on his cousin's death to come to him: and on that estate he could surely raise the wherewithal to retrieve his wretched fortunes. The greatest optimist in the world is the most abandoned gambler.

A maid came in to remove the breakfast things.

'Ain't you well this morning, Mr. Wingard?' she inquired. Bolsover, resident in the private hotel for a good many months, had been generous enough in his gratuities to the servants.

'Feeling the heat,' he answered, wiping his brow. 'Dreadfully sultry, isn't it?'

'It is 'ot for May. Guess we're going to 'ave a thunderstorm soon. Shall I fetch some fresh coffee, or would you like a cup of tea?'

'Thanks, but I have got to go out now.'

Perhaps he was thankful for the interruption.

THE BANK with which his cousin dealt was in the Strand. Feeling weak, he took a taxi thither. He was known at the bank, his cousin's instructions had been duly received, and the money was handed over to him, without delay. He rather overdid his amusement, as he realized afterwards, at his shaky signature on the receipt. 'Looks as if I had been having a late night,' he remarked, passing the paper back to the grave cashier.

As the door swung behind him, he called himself a fool and wiped his face.

He lunched leisurely at an unusually early hour. He preceded the meal with a couple of cocktails, accompanied it with a pint of champagne, and followed it with a liqueur. He felt much better, though annoyed by an unwonted tendency to perspire. On his leaving the restaurant, the tendency became more pronounced, so much so that he feared it must be noticeable, and once more he took a taxi, telling the man to go Kensington way. A little later, he was sitting in a shady part of Kensington Gardens. He had wanted to get away from people.

For a while he felt comfortable in body, and almost easy in mind. He was now quite hopeful that Philip would see the unreasonableness of the terms of that letter, which had obviously been written in haste. After all, his debts amounted to no more than £6,000— well, say, £7,000— a sum that would scarcely trouble his cousin to disburse, especially as it would not be required all at once. No doubt, Philip would kick, to begin with, and deliver a pretty stiff lecture, but in the end he would capitulate. Oh, yes, it had been a black morning, but there would be another story to tell by midnight. Bolsover smoked a cigarette or two, surrendered himself to a pleasant drowsiness, and fell into a doze.

HE AWOKE heavy of limb— hot in the head and parched, and with a great spiritual depression upon him. He must have a drink. He looked at his watch. Only 4.30. His hotel, however, was not far distant, and thither he went on foot.

The hall porter presented an expressed letter which had come at midday. The writing was familiar, and Bolsover was not glad to see it. In his room he helped himself to brandy before opening the letter— a curt warning that a fairly large sum must be paid by noon on the morrow. It acted as a powerful irritant and brought on the silent frenzy against things and persons which had shaken him in the morning.

He took another drink, and presently his fiery wrath at fortune gave place to the old smouldering hate against his cousin, who now seemed to block the road to salvation. He unlocked and opened a drawer, and for a long while sat glowering at the things it contained, a revolver, which he had purchased years ago on the eve of a trip abroad, and a package of cartridges, never opened.

He saw himself at the sun-dial in Philip's garden, the loaded weapon in his pocket. He saw Philip coming in the darkness, from the house with its lights and music. And then he began to realize that the house was not so very far away, and imagined how the report of the revolver would shatter the night. He must think of another way, he concluded, shutting the drawer, and turned to the bottle once more.

It was near to seven o'clock when he went out. He ought to have been drunk, but apparently he was quite sober when he entered the cutler's shop in the Paddington district. He was going abroad on a game-hunting expedition, he explained, and wanted something in the way of a sheath-knife. This was supplied, and with the parcel he returned to the hotel.

After dinner he dressed, not carelessly. The brandy bottle tempted, and he put off the craving with a dose much diluted. He took train to a riverside station, then a cab for the last two miles of the journey. At five minutes before ten he was in his cousin's grounds.

The ancient sun-dial stood in the centre of a rose garden, which was separated from the house by a broad walk, a lawn and a path, and walled round by high, thick hedges. Beyond the bottom of the rose garden was a narrow stretch of turf, and then the river.

THE NIGHT was very dark; the atmosphere heavy, breathless. It seemed to Bolsover, waiting by the dial, that the storm might burst at any moment, and his anxiety was intense lest the deluge should descend and prevent the coming of Philip. Though the knife, loosened in the sheath, lay ready in the pocket of his cloak, he kept telling himself that he would never use it, save as a threat; that he had bought it only to strengthen his courage and purpose. The effects of the alcohol apart, the man was not quite sane. A brain storm was as imminent as the storm of nature.

Peering, listening, he stood by the dial, seeing above the hedge the glow from the open windows, hearing dimly the chatter and laughter of the guests. He had arrived in the garden to the sound of music, but soon it had ceased, and now the pause between the dances seemed very long. He argued that Philip, who doubtless desired secrecy as much as himself, would leave the house only when a dance was in progress, and, fingering the knife's haft, he cursed the idle musicians and the guests resting on the verandah, or strolling on the lawn.

THE MINUTES passed, and at last the music started again. And when Bolsover, savage with exasperation, was telling himself that another dance was nearly over, he became aware of a sound of footfalls on gravel, and a dark figure, with a glimmer of white, appeared in the gap.

Philip Merivale Wingard came quickly down to the dial and halted opposite his cousin.

'So you are here, in spite of my warning,' he said.

'Philip, I came to ask—'

'Ask nothing. Did you get the money from the bank?'

'Thank you, yes.'

'Have you sent half of it to the woman?'

'Yes,' Bolsover lied. 'Let me explain—'

'No!' the other interrupted. 'I am going to tell you why I am here. I have decided to let you have a further five hundred, which will give you a start, wherever you may settle abroad. It shall go to you as soon as I receive your address there. But I must have your signature to a promise, that for five years you will not attempt to return to this country, without my permission. Will you sign?'

No man is so infamous that he cannot feel insulted. Bolsover felt insulted, and once more the silent frenzy shook him.

'Come,' said Philip, laying a single sheet of notepaper on the smooth table of granite. 'Here is a simple promise written out by myself— I need not say that all between us is private— and here is a pen. I'll hold a match while you sign. Come, man, unless you wish us to be discovered!'

Bolsover, his right hand in his pocket, moved round till he was against his cousin's left arm.

'Take the pen,' said Philip.

'One moment,' Bolsover returned in a thick voice.

He took a step backwards, threw up his arm, and drove the knife down between Philip's shoulders. In that moment he experienced a sort of sickness of astonishment at the ease with which the blade penetrated; in the next moment he stepped back, withdrawing the knife and holding it away from him.

Philip squirmed, made a choking noise, and fell across the broad dial, one hand clutching at the far edge. The paper, dislodged, fluttered to the feet of Bolsover, who picked it up, pocketed it, and retreated up the path, backwards, yet with eyes averted from his handiwork. And having reached a distance of seven yards, he turned right round and stood with hunched shoulders, waiting for the ghastly labouring sound to cease. Had he not killed Philip after all? For a little while he knew not what he did—prayed, may be—and then the end came, a gasping, choking noise, a slithering sound, a soft thud. He turned slowly about. There was a heap, slightly moving on the path under the dial, and then—there was a heap that was very still.

Bolsover remembered his own safety. Running softly on the grass verge, he came to the gap in the lower hedge, passed through, crossed the strip of turf, and halted at the river's edge. From the river came no sound at all. The most enthusiastic of boating people had sensed the coming storm. Gingerly Bolsover fitted the knife into its sheath, and slung it far out into the darkness. He tore the paper into tiny bits, and scattered them on the black water. Slowly they drifted away.

By a roundabout route he reached the main walk leading to the house, and deliberately went forward to the door. The servant in attendance, who knew him as his master's cousin, received him as a late arriving guest; if he noticed his pallor, he was not interested.

And the pallor was not so extreme. Bolsover was playing a part now, and so intent thereon that in a measure he forgot why he was playing it.

Before long he was among the guests, greeting those whom he knew, explaining that he had just arrived and was looking for the host, his cousin. A curate, a particular friend of Philip's, whom Bolsover had always rather disliked, remarked that he thought he had seen Philip go out by the French window of the library, about ten minutes earlier.

'You appear to be feeling the heat, Mr. Wingard,' he added. 'You look quite haggard.'

'Yes, I want a drink,' Bolsover answered somewhat roughly, and was going to get it, when a girl, who with her partner had strayed to the rose garden, ran into the hall, screaming that Mr. Wingard was lying by the sun-dial, dead— murdered!

It had come sooner than Bolsover could have wished, and for the moment he was staggered— but appropriately so. He was the first to recover his wits, and, as was his natural duty, proceeded to take charge, ordering a servant to phone for doctor and police, and requesting several of the men guests to accompany him to the scene, with the elements of first aid, lest life should still be there.

'We shall want lights!' cried Mr. Minn, the curate, whose company Bolsover had not requested. 'I'll get my torch from my overcoat.'

SEVERAL TORCHES were procured, and the party hurried down to the rose garden. The young man, whose partner had brought the alarm to the house, met them with a word of warning to prepare for a dreadful sight.

'He was alive, and no more, when we found him, but he's gone now,' the young man added. 'I'm glad you've come. I've used all my matches.'

'Did he speak?' asked the curate, as the others gathered round the dial.

'Oh, no; didn't even attempt it, poor chap. I fancied, though, that he tried to make signs.'

'How so?'

'Towards the dial above him. And then he collapsed— in my arms. Heavens, I'm all bloody— everything is bloody!'

'Go up to the house and take some whisky,' said the curate kindly. 'But stay a moment! Did you look at the dial? Was there anything unusual about it?'

'Blood— and a fountain pen.'

'A pen!'

'Lying against the pointer.'

'Did you remove it?'

'Didn't touch it. It's a gold pen with a green stone in the top.'

'His own,' said Mr. Minn. 'What on earth—? Well, don't wait, Mr. Marshall. I think you will find the library window open, so you can slip in and ring for a servant to fetch your overcoat to cover the— the stains. This is terrible!' The curate gave way to emotion. 'Poor Philip! My good friend and the best of men!'

Presently he joined the group. Bolsover was speaking.

'I wish we could take him to the house, but dare we do so before the doctor— and the police— have seen him?'

'I'm afraid we must wait,' said a guest.

'I felt a spot of rain just now,' said another. 'We can't let him lie here if the storm breaks. What do you say, Mr. Minn?'

The curate did not seem to hear. He was playing the shuddering light of his torch on the dial.

'Gentlemen,' he said unsteadily, 'please give me your attention for a moment.'

There was a catching of breaths at the sight of the dark pool and rivulets on the smooth grey stone, followed by faint exclamations as the beam caught and lingered on the gold pen.

'His own pen, gentlemen— and with it he has written something on the dial, for there is one line of ink not quite dry— and the nib of the pen has given way.'

The beam moved towards the right, and stopped.

Here was no blood; only some writing— of a sort. The guests leaned forward, peering— all save Bolsover, who shrank back, open-mouthed, the sweat of terror on his skin. Had the dying man left a message?

'Figures!' softly exclaimed a guest.

'Yes,' said Mr. Minn, producing a pencil, following with the point of it the wavering, broken lines and curves. 'A one— a three— a nought— a six— an eight— another nought— and something that might have been a four, had the nib not broken, or had the hand not failed. One, three, nought, six, eight, nought—'

A big drop of rain splashed on his hand, and he started as though it had been blood.

'If the storm breaks now, this message, which may be a clue, will be lost!' he cried. 'Will one of you run to the house and fetch something waterproof to cover the dial? Hurry, please!'

A guest ran off. Another drop fell, and another, on the dial.

Mr. Minn handed the torch to his neighbour, saying:

'Kindly, all of you, direct your lights on the figures.' He whipped out a little notebook. 'In case of accidents, I shall make a copy as exactly as possible.'

There was a silence while he drew, rather than wrote down, the figures.

Bolsover's panic had passed. There was nothing in those large ill-formed figures that could in any way draw attention to himself. He cleared his throat, and said:

'Mr. Minn, do these figures convey anything at all to you, as a friend of poor Philip's?'

'Nothing, Mr. Wingard.' Mr. Minn shook his head. 'But whatever their meaning, they must surely represent almost the last thought— if not the very last thought— of our cruelly murdered friend— and an urgent message. Whether or not they may provide the police with a clue—'

There was a blinding glare, a stunning crash, a throbbing silence in the blackness, and the clouds turned, as it seemed, to water.

THE INQUEST was over, the jury returning an open verdict, the only verdict in keeping with the evidence, as every person in court had agreed. The fact that Philip must have had an enemy made a mystery in itself. The figures written on the dial were a mystery also; a search through Philip's papers had revealed nothing with which they could be connected. Mr. Minn was, however, congratulated by the coroner on the presence of mind which he had shown in recording them.

Bolsover won the sympathy of all by his quiet, frank answers to the coroner's questions, by his tribute to the high character and generosity of his late cousin, and by his sad, pale, stricken appearance. Yes, there was a small estate to come to him, but other expectations he had none, the gifts of his cousin in the past having been almost princely.

On the fatal night, he explained, being detained in town, he had arrived at his cousin's house, shortly after ten. His inquiries for his cousin brought from Mr. Minn the reply that his cousin had gone out, and immediately thereafter came the shocking news. It was possible that the crime in the rose garden was committed while he was walking up the avenue; but if so, it must have been done silently. At this point he had asked for a glass of water, and the coroner had expressed himself satisfied.

On the morrow, he attended the funeral, as chief mourner, looking a wreck of a man. But with the turning away from the grave, the worst was over. He was safe! Only one duty remained— his presence at the reading of the will.

It was not a large gathering, and Bolsover was the person least interested. The will had been made five years ago. Bolsover, his heavy lids almost closing his eyes, listened indifferently till—

'And to my cousin and friend, Philip Bolsover Wingard, the sum of fifty thousand pounds, free of legacy duty.'

He nearly fainted. It was Mr. Minn, the curate, who brought him a drink.

LUNCH had been provided for the mourners, but Bolsover begged to be excused. He was feeling far from well, he said, and wished to consult his doctor in town, without delay.

'I think you are wise, Mr. Wingard,' said Mr. Minn, kindly. 'You are looking ill, and no wonder. But before you go, I would beg for just a few minutes' talk. Let us go to the rose garden, where we shall not be disturbed.'

'Very well,' assented Bolsover. He had hoped never again to enter the rose garden, but did not see how he could reasonably refuse to do so now. Anyway, it would be the final torment.

In silence they crossed the lawn, and passed through the gap in the hedge. In silence, also, since Bolsover had not the speech for protest, they came to the sun-dial.

Mr. Minn bared his head, and said:

'As God Almighty's rain has washed away all the signs of this tragedy, so is His infinite mercy able to wash away the sin that caused it. Amen.'

He replaced his hat and looked very gently and gravely at Bolsover.

'Mr. Wingard, I wish to show you something. I wish to show you Philip's last thought before he died.' So saying he took out his notebook and a scarlet chalk pencil.

'The figures!' muttered Bolsover, wondering.

'Yes,' replied Mr. Minn, and proceeded to copy them carefully from the page to the stone, thus:

'It is strange,' said Mr. Minn, adding a touch to the '3', 'that the truth did not strike us at once. It did not come to me till early this morning. And yet, once we make allowance for the penmanship of a man dying quickly and in pain, struggling to write in the dark, the thing becomes as plain as day.'

'Not to me,' said Bolsover thickly; 'but, as you know, I am worn out and—'

'Only a minute more,' said Mr. Minn gently. 'I want just to tell you that those marks were not figures at all.'

'Then I'm blind.'

'We were all blind, but now we see clearly. Observe that "1" and that "3"; note how they are rather close together. But bring them quite together and we have a "B".' Mr. Minn drew a sprawling 'B' on the dial. 'Then the nought becomes an "O", and what we took for a six is really an "L"— see, I put them down after the "B"— and what might well pass for an eight must now be accepted as an "S"—so! Then we have another "O", and, next, the greater part of a "V"— and there the nib broke, or the hand failed. But surely— surely enough is there, Mr. Wingard, to show you your cousin's last thought, or message.'

On the dial, written in scarlet by Mr. Minn, appeared these two lines:

Over the face of Bolsover, gazing dumbly thereon, came a greyish shadow.

Mr. Minn, watching narrowly, raised his left hand as with an effort, while his own countenance paled.

Followed what seemed a long silence. Then, all at once, Bolsover lifted up his face, a dreadful, hunted look in his eyes. His gaze sought the gap in the upper hedge, then fled round to the gap in the lower. In each gap stood a burly man, a stranger.

The curate wiped his eyes.

'My friend,' he said softly, 'I will pray for you.'

__________________

7: Death at 8.30

Christopher St. John Sprigg

1907–1937

Detective Fiction Weekly May 25 1935

IT WAS SHEER impertinence on the part of X.K. to threaten the Home Secretary himself, for the Home Secretary was a poor man. In any case, even had he been rich enough to pay the exorbitant ransom demanded by X.K. as the price of sparing his life, the Ministerial head of law and order in England could hardly knuckle under to a criminal, however gifted that criminal might be.

Gifted X.K. certainly was. Ten times he had threatened. Seven victims had paid without demur. Three had refused.

Three were dead.

Death came to one of the three in the form of a heavy object falling from an attic, found on search by the police, three minutes later, to be empty.

The second man had died from the noiseless puff of a silenced pistol, fired, as it afterwards turned out, from an ambulance that was no ambulance, but a fake.

The third had been incautious enough to think that whisky from a sealed and branded bottle was safe. He died, after about two hours' suffering.

X.K. had by now enough ransom money to satisfy the most extravagant criminal, for each of the seven timorous men had been millionaires, and he had soaked them unmercifully.

ONE MIGHT have expected X.K. to have ceased his deplorable activities and become an honest and respectable citizen, perhaps giving generously to hospitals, and in due course attaining a knighthood and an honoured grave. But this course did not appeal to him. Or else the detailed and widespread investigations of the police were irritating him. Or else he was actuated by an artist's pride in creation. Or by a spirit of impish mischief. Or by a personal dislike of the Home Secretary—Sir Richard Jauntley.

All these theories were advanced by individual police heads when an excited Home Secretary, trying hard to disguise the nervous quiver in his voice, summoned them to his office by telephone, and showed them the following message, written with the usual X.K. typewriter:

'£20,000 or you die at 8.30 a.m. G.M.T. on November 13 next. Answer yes (if willing) in The Times personal column, signing yourself "Sweetheart." Any attempt to mark the money, or to deviate in any way from the instructions I shall give you for handing it to me, will entail exactly the same penalty as refusal—X.K.'

Like all X.K.'s letters, this, by some sublimely impudent trick, was written on Government notepaper and sent, post free, in an O.H.M.S. envelope.

At another time Gooch, who did not get on with his temporary head, might have laughed at X.K.'s nerve. Jauntley was nobody's sweetheart, not at the tautest stretch of an overheated imagination.

Jauntley pulled angrily at a ragged white moustache and turned to Paule, Gooch's colleague.

'Damned inefficiency! There's no other word for it. Here's this man. Laughs at us! Threatens me! Me!'

'And he's always done what he's threatened, hitherto,' said Hamerton, the third member of the conference and of the so-called 'Triumvirate' which ruled the re-organised C.I.D.

Jauntley paled again at this reminder the nature of the menace. 'What do you suggest?' he asked irritably. 'That we should give in to him?'

'Good heavens, no, sir!' said Hamerton, his almost Oriental face, with its melancholy whiskers, showing a faint trace of amusement at his Chief's jumpiness. 'I think he's gone too far this time. He's given a date; an exact time. He's never done that before. The thing is for you, sir, to be put at that time in an obvious sort of place, a tempting place, where X.K. can get in, but can't get out again. A trap, in fact.

'I mean metaphorically, of course,' he added, seeing that his remark might otherwise suggest some monster patent mouse-trap with Sir Richard as the dangling and helpless bait.

And indeed it did evoke some such image in his hearer, for Jauntley snorted.

'Oh, I'm to be the tethered goat for the tiger, am I? No, thank you! X.K. says I'm to be killed at a certain date and time. Right, I survive it. Public confidence rises! Our job's done! Instead of this nonsense of putting me where he can get at me, make me absolutely inaccessible.'

PAULE had up till now ventured no suggestion. Now he spoke, his young, student's face thoughtful behind the thick-lensed spectacles. 'Supposing this exact time business is all a bluff? It may be intended only to put us off our guard before and after the time mentioned.'

'That has to be considered,' admitted Gooch. 'So from this moment Sir Richard must be strictly guarded.

'And I must ask you, sir,' he added, turning his huge red moon-face to the Chief, 'not to touch any food or drink without consulting the expert we shall put at your disposal. None the less, my personal opinion still is that X.K. will strain every nerve to fulfil his promise to the letter.'

'An aeroplane,' suddenly exclaimed Sir Richard, whose mind, neglecting unimportant details, had been working at high pressure on X.K.-proof refuges.

Hamerton shook his head mournfully. 'Very risky. He might tamper with the structure. Or go up in another aeroplane with a machine gun. No, you stay on the ground, sir, where we can keep an eye on you!'

'A submarine,' suggested Sir Richard, with less confidence.

Gooch made a clicking noise. 'Dreadfully vulnerable! He'd just torpedo you. Or send down a diver. Remember the fellow's ingenuity.'

The discussion proceeded for some time on these lines. The three police officials had suffered a good deal of unmerited criticism during their conduct of the X.K. investigation in the past; and they could not help getting a certain malicious pleasure now from their superior's evident funk, nor even refrain from augmenting it by pointing out flaws in his desperate expedients. Even his scheme of having a hole cut in a cliff face and being walled up in it for a day had objections.

'A whiff of poison gas through a tube,' suggested Hamerton, casually running a lean brown hand through his drooping whiskers; and Sir Richard went pale.

'Or he might slip in the hiding-place just before you did,' said Gooch, with a barely perceptible wink at Paule, and the Home Secretary found this prospect even more distressing. Alone with X.K. for a day!

IT MUST not, however, be supposed that three high police officials were unequal to the task of guarding Sir Richard Jauntley against the most far-fetched machinations of X.K. When he had exhausted his fantastic expedients, and was prepared to listen to sense, they put their heads together and worked out a satisfying plan.

The vaults of the Bank of England were put at their disposal. In a central vault were arranged three chairs, in which would sit Gooch, Paule and Hamerton— and no one else. Each was to be armed. In the middle of the vault, their chairs ranged round it, they placed a structure which had been specially completed for the occasion. It consisted of a cell of thick bullet-proof glass, locked according to a combination known fully only to Sir Richard Jauntley.

Gooch, Hamerton and Paule each knew two letters of the six-cipher combination, and, therefore, their united knowledge was necessary to open it. It will be seen from this fact that the men involved had not even flinched from the possibility that one among them might be X.K., a circumstance that had some justification in X.K.'s surprising inside knowledge.

The Home Secretary was to sit inside this glass cube, a revolver in his hand. Mindful of Hamerton's suggestion of poison gas, the cell was ventilated into the vault by a filtering apparatus, so that even if the whole vault were filled with poison gas, Sir Richard would still escape.

THE EVENTS on the fatal day were as follows. At 6 a.m. six police experts, assisted by architects, inspected the central vault and all communicating and adjacent rooms and passages. They searched the bare massive structure for concealed weapons, unexplained pipes or wires, or any other body unaccounted for. In view of the guard normally stationed at the Bank, and the precautions always taken in connection with the vaults, the existence of any sinister apparatus was in the highest degree unlikely, and none was, in fact, found.

Having been given the 'all-clear,' three cordons were formed round the vault. The two inner cordons were men from the Yard, aided by picked Bank officials. The outer cordon was formed by armed Guardsmen.

Each cordon could only pass visitors through a door having a lock set for the occasion to a combination known in whole only to Sir Richard Jauntley, but divided among Paule, Hamerton and Gooch, and also among the three senior officers in each cordon.

At eight o'clock on the morning of November 13th, an armoured car pulled up at the Bank. No whisper of the threat to the Home Secretary had been allowed to reach the public, and so its arrival was hardly noticed.

Sir Richard and his three companions passed slowly through the cordons. In each case they were not only carefully scrutinised by the three senior officials of each cordon, but their finger prints were compared with a chart to make sure there was no impersonation. All these precautions gave a reassuring sense of security to the Home Secretary, who had, up till then, felt unpleasantly like a condemned murderer awaiting a doubtful reprieve.

THE LAST massive door clanged to behind them. Sir Richard got into his glass cube and sat there awkwardly, feeling ridiculously like a fish in an aquarium. The three police heads sat round him, silent, each with a revolver on his knees. Sir Richard picked up his, looked at it, and put it down again. Then he looked at his watch. It was 8.10. Twenty minutes to go.

A cough from Gooch echoed hollowly. Except for the chairs and the glass cube, the vault was bare, and lit only by the steady glow from the naked light bulbs, set in the roof, behind metal guards.

The four men were buried deep in the soil. It was utterly impossible for any visitor from the outside world to reach them. A flood, a revolution, or another Fire of London, would all pass unnoticed over their heads. Anyone trying to sap his way to them would encounter cement, iron plates, granite, and even water.

All four men began to feel a little foolish. What a massive defence they had devised to ward off the feeble powers of a pseudonymous brigand!

At 8.29 Sir Richard Jauntley glanced at his wrist watch and smiled. He made some gesture of contempt, and his lips moved, but of course they could not hear him through the glass. Quite suddenly his smile changed to a grimace of pain; his whole face contorted. He got up, flung out his arms wildly, and writhed on the floor. He twitched violently twice, and then was still.

When they got to him he was stone dead.

WELL, there it was. X.K. had succeeded beyond all hope. And presently, as the three men knew, the Press would be carrying a message of terror which would make every future exaction of X.K. easy. So easy that his victims would be afraid even to report the matter to the police, afraid to do anything but pay up at once.

There was no sign of anything lethal in the glass cube. They could not associate the symptoms with any known poison—no drifting odour of almonds, such as is left by hydrocyanic acid, none of the acute agonies and foam-flecked lips of strychnine.

There was no wound upon him.

Their examination was made hurriedly. The police surgeon could go into the details.

'Well, we're beaten, for the moment,' said Hamerton grimly. 'We must have Sir Charles Martell for the post-mortem.'

Gooch was looking several years older.

'Poor old Jauntley,' he said, his moon-face pale. 'To think I laughed at him for being in a funk! Only an hour or two ago.'

'Pull yourself together, old chap!' replied Hamerton, with the coldness of the expert who sees nothing but his job. 'Here's a problem. Don't think of anything else. It's a tough problem, but we must solve it.'

'Well, I must leave that to you for the moment. I shall be spending the next twenty-four hours being badgered by Cabinet committees,' said Gooch.

Paule took off his glasses and polished them thoughtfully. It was the first really big problem, as he understood it, that he had been called upon to face. He was only thirty-two, and his rise in the C.I.D. had been meteoric. He had been pitchforked into it by old Lord Goolmouth, with no qualifications except a University degree and a telling analysis of a much-reported crime which he had made casually at dinner at a house party of Lord Goolmouth's. The point was that the police had happened to be wrong, and Paule's analysis, pointing to an apparently innocent witness as the murderer, had happened to be right. Everyone had thought at first that Goolmouth was in his dotage. But Paule had risen like a comet. His talent for organisation, oddly enough, and not any brilliant solutions, had been the main cause of his progress. His keen analytic mind certainly had been useful from time to time, but in seven years it had never once been presented with a really first-class problem.

Now it had, and he wondered if, in the lapse of years spent in routine, it had grown a little rusty. He replaced his glasses with a sigh. Impossible to do anything until the surgeon had done his work.

LATE that afternoon Paule accompanied Hamerton into the room in which Sir Charles was busy over his gruesome task. The naked body on the slab, with its pathetic heap of clothes and neatly-ranged personal effects nearby, was too familiar to cause either of them much uneasiness.

Sir Charles hummed gently to himself, as was his wont during post-mortems, and there was an occasional clink and splash of an instrument dropped in a glass beaker. The air was heavy with the pungent aroma of formalin.

'Found anything, Sir Charles?'

'Oh, yes, simple enough! I spotted it at once. He's been killed with my poison!'

'Your poison!' exclaimed Hamerton, his hand dropping from his whiskers.

Sir Charles rubbed his chin with a quizzical smile. 'Yes, mine. Mind you, I hardly regarded it as a poison when I discovered it. It is a medicine. T.T.1, I christened it in the article I wrote on it, but my colleagues insist on calling it Martelline. Well, well, I suppose it might have a worse name! And to think poor old Jauntley succumbed to it. Why only yesterday in the Athenaeum—' Sir Charles' garrulousness was his only fault, and Paule interrupted him.

'How do you mean it's a medicine?'

'It is a stimulant to the heart and the central nervous system. But of course if the heart is over-stimulated— whoosh! Complete and instant collapse. That's what happened here.'

'And what is a fatal dose?'

'Well, there is the pure extract, such as I experimented with, and the highly dilute form in which it would be supplied for hospital use.'

'I mean in the pure extract?'

'An ox was killed,' said Sir Charles slowly, 'with a dose which consisted of one cubic millimetre of water, in which the pure extract was dilute in the proportion of 10,000 parts to one.'

'Sounds a lot,' said Hamerton vaguely. Paule, whose mathematical training grasped precisely at this figure, stared. 'But, good heavens! Such a dose would be almost invisible.'

'Exactly,' replied Sir Charles affably.

'But—is it possible?'

Sir Charles smiled. 'I see you are unfamiliar with the literature of the endocrine glands. Pure extracts of their basic secretions—such as pituitrin—act violently on the system even in microscopic doses. Martelline is an extract from the pineal gland—an organ hidden by the convolutions of the cerebrum.'

'But how could this devil have got hold of it!' exclaimed Hamerton.

'Unfortunately I described its preparation, which is reasonably simple, in the columns of Nature,' admitted Sir Charles. 'I did not, of course, appreciate the possibility of its use as a poison. Our friend is evidently a well-read man. The odd thing is, I believe I am the only man who could have guessed that Jauntley did not die from natural causes. The symptoms of Martelline poisoning are absolutely undistinguishable from those of collapse due to syncope, except that the Martelline also stimulates the suprarenal glands, which discharge a quantity of adrenalin into the bloodstream. I did not mention this fact in my article, and in the ordinary way no pathologist would think of testing the bloodstream of a syncope victim for excess adrenalin. In spite of his cleverness, therefore, your man never guessed that the one man who could detect his crime would examine the body. That at least shows he is liable to error.'

'Wasn't the article signed with your name?'

Sir Charles shook his head. 'No. With my pseudonym Hormone. I have contributed to the medical press so often under that pseudonym that any medical man would know who Hormone was, but a mere layman would probably not associate it with the Home Office pathologist.'

PAULE was pacing up and down the room, lost in thought. His moods of abstraction, frequent enough, marked him as a dreamer, even if a successful dreamer. His absent-mindedness had sometimes caused inconvenience, but his colleagues had grown resigned to these fits of reverie, and waited only for the flashing glimpses of intuition which sometimes— not always— lightened them.

'How would it be administered, Sir Charles?' went on Hamerton.

The surgeon stirred a beaker of boiling water reflectively. 'By the mouth. Or intravenous injection. The injection would be more rapid in its effects.'

'But how could it be done?' asked Hamerton helplessly, 'so that he would die at a fixed time. How long does the stuff take to act?'

'Ten seconds, say, if administered by the mouth. Practically at once if given intravenously.'

'Then how was it done?'

'That's your job,' said Sir Charles cruelly. Then relenting: 'Well, one idea does occur to me— a capsule with a specially tough wall, with a fatal dose inside in a dilute form. Until the wall of the capsule was digested, the drug wouldn't act.'

'Of course!' said Hamerton with relief. 'He was poisoned before he got to the Bank!'

Paule suddenly woke up from his abstraction. 'Poisoned before he got to the Bank?'

'Yes. X.K. could have worked out the exact time a capsule would have taken to digest, and administered it beforehand, so that Jauntley died at 8.30 exactly.'

Paule shook his head. 'I don't think that's possible; is it, Sir Charles? Not to fix the time to the minute— or the second as it was in this case!'

'Quite impossible, for the exact lapse of time depends on unknown factors. The rate of secretion of the gastric juices, for instance, vary from hour to hour in every subject. One would have to allow a possible error of ten minutes, or a quarter of an hour, each way.'

'Anyway,' added Paule, 'Briggs and Thomson are here, so that we could check the matter with them.'

HAMERTON sent for the two constables to whom had been given the task of guarding Jauntley until his arrival at the Bank.

'Briggs, we have reason to believe that Sir Richard Jauntley took some form of capsule or pillule on the morning of his death. Is that possible?'

Briggs thought carefully.

'I should say it is impossible, sir,' he said at last. 'As you know, we were on guard in his room all night, and he certainly took nothing then.'

'Perhaps he used to carry a box of medicine in his clothes, and the poison was substituted for one?'

'No, sir. It occurred to us that X.K. might conceal an explosive or something in Sir Richard's clothes, so as each article was handed to us by his valet, we went through the pockets and checked the contents with Sir Richard. There were no medicines of any kind.'

'Perhaps it was concealed in his breakfast? In a piece of bread?'

'Sir Richard had nothing but a cup of coffee, sir. He was going to take his breakfast afterwards.'

'Very good, Briggs.'

HAMERTON ruffled his iron-grey hair, his almost Oriental passivity momentarily disturbed. 'I shall believe in magic in a moment!'

Paule stopped his pacing in mid-career and looked at the wall. He seemed to be speaking to himself.

'Jauntley was murdered at 8.30 exactly. No outside power could have reached him in the Bank vault. So that power must have been already with him, whatever it was. It wasn't a capsule or a pillule— and it was a power that knew Greenwich Mean Time.'

With a sudden dart Paule strode across the room to the little table at the foot of the slab on which Jauntley's clothes and effects were ranged. His long white fingers dabbled among them for a moment, then he lifted up the dead man's wrist watch, a glittering toy on a chromium-plated strap.

'Logically he should have been killed by this!'

'But how, Paule?'

Paule did not answer. He took a penknife and attempted to open the back of the watch. 'Queer,' he muttered, and pulled out a magnifying glass. 'What do you make of that? The lid's brazed on!'

Then he gave a low whistle. 'Look!'

Hamerton went to his side and peered through the glass, following Paule's pointing finger. 'Why, it's only a pit in the chromium plating at the back. You often get those flaws.'

'Doesn't look like a pit to me. However, let's set the watch to 8.29, and see what happens.'

They waited.

Paule gave a gasp. 'See that!'

From the 'pit' a tiny sliver of wire, hardly visible even under the glass, had darted out and vanished again.

'A sting!' breathed Paule. 'A poisoned sting! And coated with Martelline, or I'm no policeman. Can you find if it is, Sir Charles?'

'I think so,' said the pathologist, holding the watch gingerly by the strap. 'I suppose there's a little reservoir of it inside through which the needle affair passes. The simplest way would be to try it on a live animal, but I don't like using them if I can help it. However, I think I can produce something from my bag of tricks that will serve the purpose. Yes, here's a section of living heart muscle in solution.' His expert fingers ranged the object deftly before the policemen. 'I set the watch to the critical time again, and as the sting comes out, there, I dab it with this wet camel-hair brush. So! As a result, the brush is loaded with whatever poison is on the sting, provided it's water-soluble, and Martelline is. Now I dip the brush in this solution, and stir. Ah!'

Before their astonished eyes the pale section of muscle had contracted convulsively.

Paule's hand quivered with excitement as he picked up the fatal watch.

'How diabolically ingenious. I suppose it has been substituted for his ordinary watch, and is an exact imitation of it. Where was Jauntley's watch put at night?'

Briggs was recalled and remembered that the watch had been kept on a little table, with the dead man's money, in the dressing room, beneath a window.

'An open window, Briggs?'

Briggs nodded.

Hamerton sighed. 'Knowledge of the dead man's habits there. The watch was changed for another through the open window I expect, with a hooked stick or lazy tongs, while the police were guarding him in the other room! All right, Briggs, you couldn't have foreseen it.'

'I can't help feeling,' said Paule thoughtfully, 'that X.K. has not quite finished with us. This is obviously meant to be the neatest job he has ever done, but he has left one rough edge, this watch. I admit he never guessed we should find out that Jauntley did not die of heart failure, but the fact remains we have this watch, and some day, perhaps, with the watch wound up, and the hands at 8.30, the sting might be noticed…'

'What are you getting at, Paule?' said Hamerton, puzzled.

'I have a kind of hunch that X.K. will try to get this watch back!'

'If he does!' exclaimed Hamerton grimly.

'We must give him some incentive, though,' said Paule. 'What about getting this story in the evening papers: that it has been discovered that Sir Richard Jauntley has been poisoned by Martelline, and the police are now hoping to discover how the poison was administered?'

THE EVENING papers splashed this discovery, accompanied by guarded interviews with medical correspondents, most of them a little out of their depth with a new drug.

And then the 'phone rang in Hamerton's office.

'Superintendent Hamerton? Lady Jauntley speaking. I have just remembered two or three trinkets of sentimental value that poor Richard had with him when he died. A locket with my portrait in, for instance, pinned inside his waistcoat pocket. I wonder if I could send someone down for them?'

Hamerton agreed, replaced the 'phone, and stared incredulously at Paule.

'Lady Jauntley! Trying to get the watch back!'

Then he added: 'But that would explain everything! The inside knowledge. The O.H.M.S. letters!'

Paule smiled. 'Have you met Lady Jauntley?'

'Yes.'

'I ask you, Hamerton, could she possibly be X.K.? I've got a strange feeling, through brooding over this case, that I know exactly the kind of man X.K. is. I feel I shall recognise him at once. I may be wrong; but I'd be ready to stake my reputation it's not Lady Jauntley, nor any kind of woman I've met, for that matter!'

'Well, what shall we do about Lady Jauntley's request?'

'Wait and see!'

THE TABLE with Sir Richard Jauntley's belongings on it had been moved into Hamerton's office. Half an hour later there was a discreet tap, and Higgins, Jauntley's servant, was shown in. He was dressed in black, with a pale thin face, and a high bald forehead backed by a few strings of dark hair.

Paule stepped forward.

'What precisely are the things you want, Higgins?'

'These, sir!' Higgins held out a slip of paper. On it was written in Lady Jauntley's handwriting:

'Little gold locket.

Silver propelling pencil.

Signet ring.

Wrist watch.'

Paule looked up suddenly from the slip of paper and caught the eyes of the manservant. They were black, with dilated pupils, in which Paule could see his own inverted image. In that moment he had the odd sensation of being in the presence of some being different in kind from himself. More intelligent perhaps, more powerful, and yet pitifully lacking in some obvious quality every child possesses.

'Morality, I suppose,' thought Paule afterwards.

In that moment Paule knew he was in the presence of X.K.

Then Higgins' eyes dropped.

'Please wait in the next room, Higgins. Take him in, Briggs!' said Paule, giving the constable the secret signal which indicated that the witness was not to be allowed to leave without permission.

'We have to get an authorisation,' he explained to Higgins.

'What on earth did you do that for?' asked Hamerton, a little reprovingly, for Paule was technically his junior, though the difference in authority was so slight as to receive no more than the tribute of an intermittent deference from Paule.

'That man is X.K.!' said Paule.

'But how do you know?'

'As one knows things like that. In my bones!'

'But can you prove it?' asked Hamerton reasonably.

'That's a different matter,' said Paule, running his hands through his red hair. 'May I ring up Lady Jauntley?'

He asked the astonished widow a number of questions. How did the idea of sending for the locket come to her? Well, as a matter of fact, in conversation with Higgins. Did he suggest it? Good gracious no, it was her suggestion, she was sure. Did Higgins suggest the items to be retrieved? He had helped her. The wrist watch? She could not remember.

Paule banged down the receiver a little angrily.

'What a psychologist the man is! Of course the suggestion came from him. But he naturally led Lady Jauntley on in conversation so that it seemed to come from her. Her evidence would count for nothing in the witness box. In fact she'd be evidence for the defence.

'How can we get him, Hamerton?' he finished desperately.

'Hold him for three or four hours! Meanwhile I'll get every man I can spare on the job.'

HIGGINS was, in fact, held for forty-eight hours. During that time his rooms, his clothes, and his past were searched expertly and exhaustively. And nothing came of it. His clothes and rooms contained nothing to connect him with X.K. He was the son of poor but honest parents, and had been in service all his life.

'But, of course,' said Paule, 'that is just what you'd expect of X.K. He's a genius, a criminal artist, with more cunning and less morals than any man born of woman. He probably delighted in seeming an ordinary humdrum servant, attentive and respectful, and meanwhile, in his hours off, exercising his fiendish power over the persons and properties of the greatest in the land. In his time off he's someone we can't even guess, with a huge fortune, and perhaps the most respected name. How can we trace the connection without a clue? Higgins can become X.K. in such a way as not to leave his tracks behind!'

'Well, what are we to do, my lad?' asked Hamerton.

'Let him go, I suppose,' answered Paule bitterly. 'Let him go on murdering and terrorising, while we stand helpless. Do you realise what X.K.'s release means, Hamerton? The end of law and order! The rule of the criminal! For thousands of imitators will rise up, inspired by X.K.'s success. And thousands of rich men will fear them, terrified by Jauntley's death!' There was a silence. Paule's chair clattered suddenly. 'I've an idea! Have him sent in!'

Higgins came in, quiet, obsequious, eyes deferentially downcast. 'I hope my innocence is proved, sir. The suggestion was a terrible shock, and me so devoted to my master.'

'And so clever at reading his confidential reports and using his post-bag!' exploded Hamerton.

Higgins looked at the policeman with a humble smile.

'Really, sir, as if I should dream of such a thing!'

PAULE ignored Hamerton's outburst. He was swinging a glittering wrist watch gently by its strap. 'Higgins, would you have any objection to putting on this watch?'

Higgins looked at the watch and then into Paule's eyes. Both men were silent for a full minute. It seemed to Hamerton as if he were a spectator at a duel between Paule and Higgins, fought with invisible weapons of the mind, and that he was no more than a piece of furniture, playing not even the part of a 'property' in the drama enacted before his eyes.

'No; why should I object?' Higgins said at last.

'I thought you would have no objection. No innocent man could. Hold out your wrist.'

'Silly, it seems to me,' said Higgins, his eyes as unblinking as a lizard's.

'Hold out your wrist!'

Higgins extended it.

'It's a dreadful thing to fall under suspicion, Higgins,' went on Paule dreamily. 'Particularly suspicion of being X.K. Think of being shadowed everywhere, day and night. Never a moment's peace. Everything pried into. No more liberty to lord it over the lords of the earth. Never a minute's respite to slip into your other personality. Always the possibility of a slip. Always feeling an inferior, hunted creature.'

'I don't know what you are talking about,' said Higgins coldly. He looked down at the watch. 'Look 'ere, this thing's wrong. It says twenty-eight minutes past eight; and it's only quarter past four by your clock!'

Suddenly Hamerton perceived the full implications of this puzzling conversation. Paule had trapped Higgins. If Higgins was innocent, he would be unconcerned at the progress of the hands to the fatal hour. If he were guilty, however, he would be bound, on pain of death, to snatch it off before the time of striking. What a risk! Supposing Higgins were innocent. But of course Paule would have put the sting out of action. The test was a brilliant bluff.

'Never mind about the hands,' Paule was saying sharply. 'The watch is going— that's the great thing. X.K. was a great man,' Paule went on in the dreamy tone again, 'and I don't think that kind of life would appeal to him— to be a harried, hunted creature, after frightening the greatest people in the world. He was an artist, was X.K., and knew when a work of art was complete.'

A wild gleam kindled in Higgin's eyes. His lips became chips of stone. The thin pale face changed unbelievably, became the face of a maniac, of a saint who by some incredible combination of circumstances has irretrievably damned himself.

'Yes, he was an artist,' he shouted, 'the greatest criminal the world has ever known!'

His face flushed, and changed again; his arms sawed at the air; he slid off his chair. After a twitch or two he was motionless— dead.

HAMERTON gazed at the body in horror. 'Paule, what have you done? I thought it was a trap! That he'd prove himself guilty by— taking off the watch!'

'Nothing of the sort,' said Paule. The tension of his contest had left him lax and depressed. 'I knew Higgins was X.K. and he knew that I knew. I was trying to persuade him that though we couldn't prove him guilty, it was better that he should die than be subjected for the rest of his life to our attentions. You see, I was banking on the colossal vanity of the criminal. It was a bluff, for we couldn't have fulfilled our threat. But I won.

'We'd better write our report,' added Paule. 'While being cross-examined, the prisoner made a confession and killed himself with a watch snatched from the table, which thus proved to be the instrument of Sir Richard Jauntley's death! The report will be quite true, because Higgins' last words were a confession.'

NO ONE besides Hamerton ever knew of what the Superintendent called, 'Paule's Private Murder.'

'But I tell you it was suicide,' Paule would reply, not too well pleased with this joke.

X.K. was never heard of again, but a certain hotel mourned the absence of a mysterious stranger, who used to appear suddenly, spend lavishly, and disappear again.

__________________

8: The Monster-Maker

William Chambers Morrow

1853-1923

The Argonaut 15 Oct 1887, as "The Surgeon's Experiment"

Weird Tales Dec 1928

A YOUNG man of refined appearance, but evidently suffering great mental distress, presented himself one morning at the residence of a singular old man, who was known as a surgeon of remarkable skill. The house was a queer and primitive brick affair, entirely out of date, and tolerable only in the decayed part of the city in which it stood. It was large, gloomy, and dark, and had long corridors and dismal rooms ; and it was absurdly large for the small family— man and wife— that occupied it. The house described, the man is portrayed— but not the woman. He could be agreeable on occasion, but, for all that, he was but animated mystery. His wife was weak, wan, reticent, evidently miserable, and possibly living a life of dread or horror— perhaps witness of repulsive things, subject of anxieties, and victim of fear and tyranny; but there is a great deal of guessing in these assumptions. He was about sixty-five years of age and she about forty. He was lean, tall, and bald, with thin, smooth-shaven face, and very keen eyes; he kept always at home, and was slovenly. The man was strong, the woman weak; he dominated, she suffered.

Although he was a surgeon of rare skill, his practise was almost nothing, for it was a rare occurrence that the few who knew of his great ability were brave enough to penetrate the gloom of his house, and when they did so it was with deaf ear turned to sundry ghoulish stories that were whispered concerning him. These were, in great part, but exaggerations of his experiments in vivisection ; he was devoted to the science of surgery.

The young man who presented himself on the morning just mentioned was a handsome fellow, yet of evident weak character and ruihealthy temperament— sensitive, and easily exalted or depressed. A single glance convinced the surgeon that his visitor was seriously affected in mind, for there was never bolder skull-grin of melancholia, fixed and irremediable.

A stranger would not have suspected any occupancy of the house. The street door— old, warped, and blistered by the sun— was locked, and the small, faded-green window-blinds were closed. The young man rapped at the door. No answer. He rapped again. Still no sign. He examined a slip of paper, glanced at the number on the house, and then, with the impatience of a child, he furiously kicked the door. There were signs of numerous other such kicks. A response came in the shape of a shuffling footstep in the hall, a turning of the rusty key, and a sharp face that peered through a cautious opening in the door.

"Are you the doctor?" asked the young man.

"Yes, yes! Come in," briskly replied the master of the house.

The young man entered. The old surgeon closed the door and carefully locked it. "This way," he said, advancing to a rickety flight of stairs. The young man followed. The surgeon led the way up the stairs, turned into a narrow, musty-smelling corridor at the left, traversed it, rattling the loose boards under his feet, at the farther end opened a door at the right, and beckoned his visitor to enter. The young man found himself in a pleasant room, furnished in an- tique fashion and with hard simplicity.

"Sit down," said the old man, placing a chair so that its occupant should face a window that looked out upon a dead wall about six feet from the house. He threw open the blind, and a pale light entered. He then seated himself near his visitor and directly facing him, and with a search- ing look, that had all the power of a microscope, he proceeded to diagnosticate the case.

"Well?" he presently asked.

The young man shifted uneasily in his seat.

"I— I have come to see you," he finally stammered, "because I'm in trouble."

"Ah!"

"Yes; you see, I— that is— I have given it up."

"Ah!" There was pity added to sympathy in the ejaculation.

"That's it. Given it up," added the visitor. He took from his pocket a roll of banknotes, and with the utmost deliberation he counted them out upon his knee. "Five thousand dollars,'' he calmly remarked. "That is for you. It's all I have; but I presume— I imagine— no ; that is not the word— assume — yes; that's the word— assume that five thousand— is it really that much? Let me count." He counted again. "That five thousand dollars is a sufficient fee for what I want you to do."

The surgeon's lips curled pityingly — perhaps disdainfully also. "What do you want me to do?" he carelessly inquired.

The young man rose, looked around with a mysterious air, approached the surgeon, and laid the money across his knee. Then he stooped and whispered two words in the surgeon's ear.

These words produced an electric effect. The old man started violent- ly; then, springing to his feet, he caught his visitor angrily, and trans- fixed him with a look that was as sharp as a knife. His eyes flashed, and he opened his mouth to give ut- terance to some harsh imprecation, when he suddenly checked himself. The anger left his face, and only pity remained. He relinquished his grasp, picked up the scattered notes, and, offering them to the visitor, slowly said:

"I do not want your money. You are simply foolish. You think you are in trouble. Well, you do not know what trouble is. Your only trouble is that you have not a trace of manhood in your nature. You are merely insane— I shall not say pusillanimous. You should surrender yourself to the authorities, and be sent to a lunatic asylum for proper treatment. "

The young man keenly felt the intended insult, and his eyes flashed dangerously.

"You old dog— you insult me thus ! " he cried. "Grand airs, these, you give yourself ! Virtuously indignant, old murderer, you! Don't want my money, eh? When a man comes to you himself and wants it done, you fly into a passion and spurn his money; but let an enemy of his come and pay you, and you are only too willing. How many such jobs have you done in this miserable old hole? It is a good thing for you that the police have not run you down, and brought spade and shovel with then. Do you know what is said of you? Do you think you have kept your windows so closely shut that no sound has ever penetrated beyond them? Where do you keep your infernal implements?"

He had worked himself into a high passion. His voice was hoarse, loud, and rasping. His eyes, bloodshot, started from their sockets. His whole frame twitched, and his fingers writhed. But he was in the presence of a man infinitely his superior. Two eyes, like those of a snake, burned two holes through him. An overmastering, inflexible presence confronted one weak and passionate.

"Sit down," commanded the stern voice of the surgeon.

It was the voice of father to child, of master to slave. The fury left the visitor, who, weak and overcome, fell upon a chair.

Meanwhile, a peculiar light had appeared in the old surgeon's face, the daw of a strange idea; a gloomy ray, strayed from the fires of the bottomless pit; the baleful light that illumines the way of the enthusiast. The old man remained a moment in profound abstraction, gleams of eager intelligence bursting momentarily through the eloud of somber meditation that covered his face. Then broke the broad light of a deep, impenetrable determination. There was something sinister in it, suggesting the sacrifice of something held sacred. After a struggle, mind had vanquished conscience.

Taking a piece of paper and a pencil, the surgeon carefully wrote answers to questions which he peremptorily addressed to his visitor, such as his name, age, place of residence, occupation, and the like, and the same inquiries concerning his parents, together with other particular matters.

"Does any one know you came to this house?" he asked.

"No."

"You swear it?"

"Yes."

"But your prolonged absence will cause alarm and lead to search."

"I have provided against that." "How?"

"By depositing a note in the post, as I came along, announcing my intention to drown myself."

"The river will be dragged."

"What then?" asked the young man, shrugging his shoulders with careless indifference. "Rapid undercurrent, you know. A good many are never found."

There was a pause.

"Are you ready?" finally asked the surgeon.

"Perfectly." The answer was cool and determined.

The manner of the surgeon, however, showed much perturbation. The pallor that had come into his face at the moment his decision was formed became intense. A nervous tremulousness came over his frame. Above it all shone the light of enthusiasm.

"Have you a choice in the method?" he asked.

"Yes; extreme anesthesia."

"With what agent?"

"The surest and quickest."

"Do you desire any— any subsequent disposition?"

"No; only nullification; simply a blowing out, as of a candle in the wind; a puff— then darkness, without a trace. A sense of your own safety may suggest the method. I leave it to you."

"No delivery to your friends?"

"None whatever."

Another pause.

"Did you say you are quite ready?" asked the surgeon.

"Quite ready."

"And perfectly willing?"

"Anxious."

"Then wait a moment."

With this request the old surgeon rose to his feet and stretched himself. Then with the stealthiness of a eat he opened the door and peered into the hall, listening intently. There was no sound. He softly closed the door and locked it. Then he closed the window-blinds and locked them. This done, he opened a door leading into an adjoining room, which, though it had no window, was lighted by means of a small skylight. The young man watched closely. A strange change had come over him. While his determination had not one whit lessened, a look of great relief came into his face, displacing the haggard, despairing look of a half-hour before. Melancholic then, he was ecstatic now.

The opening of the second door disclosed a curious sight. In the center of the room, directly under the skylight, was an operating-table, such as is used by demonstrators of anatomy. A glass case against the walil held surgical instruments of every kind. Hanging in another case Avere human skeletons of various sizes. In sealed jars, arranged on shelves, were monstrosities of divers kinds preserved in alcohol. There were also, among innumerable other articles scattered about the room, a manikin, a stuffed cat, a desiccated human heart, plaster casts of v arious parts of the body, numerous charts, and a large assortment of drugs and chemicals. There was also a lounge, which could be opened to form a couch. The surgeon opened it and moved the operating-table aside, giving its place to the lounge.

"Come in," he called to his visitor.

The young man obeyed without the least hesitation.

"Take off your coat."

He complied.

"Lie down on that lounge."

In a moment the young man was stretched at full length, eyeing the surgeon. The latter undoubtedly was suffering under great excitement, but he did not waver ; his movements were sure and quick. Selecting a bottle containing a liquid, he carefully measured out a certain quantity. While doing this he asked:

"Have you ever had any irregularity of the heart?"

"No."

The answer was prompt, but it was immediately followed by a quizzical look in the speaker's face.

"I presume," he added, "you mean by your question that it might be dangerous to give me a certain drug. Under the circumstances, however, I fail to see any relevancy in your question."

This took the surgeon aback ; but he hastened to explain that he did not wish to inflict unnecessary pain, and hence his question.

He placed the glass on a stand, approached his visitor, and carefully examined his pulse.

"Wonderful!" he exclaimed.

"Why?"

"It is perfectly normal."

"Because I am wholly resigned. Indeed, it has been long since I knew such happiness. It is not active, but infinitely sweet."

"You have no lingering desire to retract?"

"None whatever."

The surgeon went to the stand and returned with the draft.

"Take this," he said, kindly.

The young man partially raised himself and took the glass in his hand. He did not show the vibration of a single nerve. He drank the liquid, draining the last drop. Then he returned the glass with a smile.

"Thank you," he said; "you are the noblest man that lives. May you always prosper and be happy! You are my benefactor, my liberator. Bless you, bless you ! You reach downfrom your seat with the gods and lift me up into glorious peace and rest. I love you— I love you with all my heart!"

These words, spoken earnestly, in a musical, low voice, and accompanied with a smile of ineffable tenderness, pierced the old man's heart. A suppressed convulsion swept over him; intense anguish wrung his vitals; perspiration trickled down his face. The young man continued to smile.

"Ah, it does me good!" said he.

The surgeon, with a strong effort to control himself, sat down upon the edge of the lounge and took his visitor 's wrist, counting the pulse.

"How long will it take?" the young man asked.

"Ten minutes. Two have passed." The voice was hoarse.

"Ah, only eight minutes more!... Delicious, delicious! I feel it coming.... What was that?... Ah, I understand. Music... beautiful!... Coming, coming... Is that— that  water?... Trickling? Dropping? Doctor !"

"Well?"

"Thank you, thank you.... Noble man... my savior... my bene... factor.... Trickling... trickling.... Dripping, dripping.... Doctor!"

"Well?"

"Doctor!"

"Past hearing," muttered the surgeon.

"Doctor!"

"And blind."

Response was made by a firm grasp of the hand.

"Doctor!"

"And numb."

"Doctor !"

The old man watched and waited. "Dripping... dripping."

The last drop had run. There was a sigh, and nothing more.

The surgeon laid down the hand. "The first step," he groaned, rising to his feet; then his whole frame dilated. "The first step— the most difficult, yet the simplest. A providential delivery into my hands of that for which I have hungered for forty years. No withdrawal now! It is possible, because scientific; rational, but perilous. If I succeed— if? I shall succeed. I will succeed.... And after success— what?... Yes; what? Publish the plan and the result? The gallows.... So long as it shall exist, and I exist, the gallows. That much.... But how account for its presence? Ah, that pinches hard! I must trust to the future."

He tore himself from the revery and started.

"I wonder if she heard or saw anything."

With that reflection he cast a glance upon the form on the lounge, and then left the room, locked the door, locked also the door of the outer room, walked down two or three corridors, penetrated to a remote part of the house, and rapped at a door. It was opened by his wife. He, by this time, had regained complete mastery over himself.

"I thought I heard someone in the house just now," he said, "but I can find no one."

"I heard nothing."

He was greatly relieved.

"I did hear someone knock at the door less than an hour ago," she resumed, "and heard you speak, I think. Did he come in?"

"No."

The woman glanced at his feet and seemed perplexed.

"I am almost certain," she said, "that I heard footfalls in the house, and yet I see that you are wearing slippers."

"Oh, I had on my shoes then!"

"That explains it," said the woman, satisfied; "I think the sound you heard must have been caused by rats."

"Ah, that was it!" exclaimed the surgeon. Leaving, he closed the door, reopened it, and said, "I do not wish to be disturbed today." He said to himself, as he went down the hall, "All is clear there."

He returned to the room in which his visitor lay, and made a careful examination.

"Splendid specimen!" he softly exclaimed; "every organ sound, every function perfect; fine, large frame; well-shaped muscles, strong and sinewy; capable of wonderful development— if given opportunity.... I have no doubt it can be done. Already I have succeeded with a dog— a task less difficult than this, for in a man the cerebrum overlaps the cerebellum, which is not the case with a dog. This gives a wide range for ac- cident, with but one opportunity in a lifetime! In the cerebrum, the intellect and the affections; in the cerebellum, the senses and the motor forces; in the medulla oblongata, control of the diaphragm. In these two latter lie all the essentials of simple existence. The cerebrum is merely an adornment; that is to say, reason and the affections are almost purely orna- mental. I have already proved it. My dog, with its cerebrum removed, was idiotic, hut it retained its physical senses to a certain degree."

While thus ruminating he made careful preparations. He moved the eoueh, replaced the operating-table under the skylight, selected a number of surgical instruments, prepared certain drug-mixtures, and arranged water, towels, and all the accessories of a tedious surgical operation. Suddenly he burst into laughter.

"Poor fool!" he exclaimed. "Paid me five thousand dollars to kill him! Didn't have the courage to snuff his own candle! Singular, singular, the queer freaks these madmen have! You thought you were dying, poor idiot! Allow me to inform you, sir, that you are as much alive at this moment as ever you were in your life. But it will he all the same to you. You shall never be more conscious than you are now; and for all practical purposes, so far as they concern you, you are dead henceforth, though you shall live. By the way, how should you feel without a head? Ha, ha, ha!... But that's a sorry joke." He lifted the unconscious form from the lounge and laid it upon the operating-table.

ABOUT three years afterward the following conversation was held between a captain of police and a detective:

"She may be insane," suggested the captain.

"I think she is."

"And yet you credit her story!"

"I do."

"Singular!"

"Not at all. I myself have learned something."

"What?"

"Much, in one sense; little, in another. You have heard those queer stories of her husband. Well, they are all nonsensical — probably with one exception. He is generally a harmless old fellow, but peculiar. He has performed some wonderful surgical operations. The people in his neighborhood are ignorant, and they fear him and wish to be rid of him; hence they tell a great many lies about him, and they come to believe their own stories. The one important thing that I have learned is that he is almost insanely enthusiastic on the subject of surgery— especially experimental surgery; and with an enthusiast there is hardly such a thing as a scruple. It is this that gives me confidence in the woman's story."

"You say she appeared to be frightened?"

"Doubly so— first, she feared that her husband would learn of her betrayal of him; second, the discovery itself had terrified her."

"But her report of this discovery is very vague," argued the captain. "He conceals everything from her. She is merely guessing. "

"In part— yes; in other part— no. She heard the sounds distinctly, though she did not see clearly. Horror closed her eyes. What she thinks she saw is, I admit, preposterous; but she undoubtedly saw something extremely frightful. There are many peculiar little circumstances. He has eaten with her but few times during the last three years, and nearly always carries his food to his private rooms. She says that he either consumes an enormous quantity, throws mueh away, or is feeding something that eats prodigiously. He explains this to her by saying that he has animals with which he experiments. This is not true. Again, lie always keeps the door to these rooms carefully locked; and not only that, but he has had the doors doubled and otherwise strengthened, and has heavily barred a window that looks from one of the rooms upon a dead wall a few feet distant."

"What does it mean?" asked the captain.

"A prison."

"For animals, perhaps."

"Certainly not."

"Why?"

"Because, in the first place, cages would have been better; in the second place, the security that he has provided is infinitely greater than that required for the confinement of ordinary animals."

"All this is easily explained : he has a violent lunatic under treatment." "I had thought of that, but such is not the fact."

"How do you know?"

"By reasoning thus: He has always refused to treat cases of lunacy; he confines himself to surgery; the walls are not padded, for the woman has heard sharp blows upon them; no human strength, however morbid, could possibly require such resisting strength as has been provided; he would not be likely to conceal a lunatic's confinement from the woman; no lunatic could consume all the food that he provides; so extremely violent mania as these precautions indicate could not continue three years; if  there is a lunatic in the case it is very probable that there should have been communication with someone outside concerning the patient, and there has been none ; the woman has listened at the keyhole and has heard no human voice within; and last, we have heard the woman's vague description of what she saw."

"You have destroyed every possible theory," said the captain, deeply interested,  "and have suggested nothing new."

"Unfortunately, I can not; but the truth may be very simple, after all. The old surgeon is so peculiar that I am prepared to discover something remarkable."

"Have you suspicions?"

"I have."

"Of what?"

"A crime. The woman suspects it."

"And betrays it?"

"Certainly, because it is so horrible that her humanity revolts; so terrible that her whole nature demands of her that she hand over the criminal to the law; so frightful that she is in mortal terror; so awful that it has shaken her mind."

"What do you propose to do?" asked the captain.

"Secure evidence. I may need help."

"You shall have all the men you inquire. Go ahead, but be careful. You are on dangerous ground. You would be a mere plaything in the hands of that man."

TWO DAYS afterward the detective again sought the captain.

"I have a queer document," he said, exhibiting torn fragments of paper, on which there was writing. "The woman stole it and brought it to me. She snatched a handful out of a book, getting only a part of each of a few leaves."

These fragments, which the men arranged as best they could, were (the detective explained) torn by the surgeon's wife from the first volume of a number of manuscript books which her husband had written on one subject,— the very one that was the cause of her excitement.

"About the time that he began a cettain experiment three years ago," continued the detective, "he removed everything from the suite of two rooms containing his study and his operating-room. In one of the book-cases that he removed to a room across the passage was a drawer, which he kept locked, but which he opened from time to time. As is quite common with such pieces of furniture, the lock of the drawer is a very poor one; and so the woman, while making a thorough search yesterday, found a key on her bunch that fitted this lock. She opened the drawer, drew out the bottom book of a pile (so that its mutilation would more likely escape discovery), saw that it might contain a clue, and tore out a handful of the leaves. She had barely replaced the book, locked the drawer, and made her escape when her husband appeared. He hardly ever allows her to be out of his sight when she is in that part of the house."

The fragments read as follows: "...the motory nerves. I had hardly dared to hope for such a result, although inductive reasoning had convinced me of its possibility, my only doubt having been on the score of my lack of skill. Their operation has been only slightly impaired, and even this would not have been the case had the operation been performed in infancy, before the intellect had sought and obtained recognition as an essential part of the whole. Therefore I state, as a proved fact, that the cells of the motory nerves have inherent forces sufficient to the purposes of those nerves. But hardly so with the sensory nerves. These latter are, in fact, an offshoot of the former, evolved from them by natural (though not essential) heterogeneity, and to a certain extent are dependent on the evolution and expansion of a contem- poraneous tendency, that developed into mentality, or mental function. Both of these latter tendencies, these evolvements, are merely refinements of the motory system, and not independent entities; that is to say, they are the blossoms of a plant that propagates from its roots. The motory system is the first...

"... nor am I surprized that such prodigious muscular energy is developing. It promises yet to surpass the wildest dreams of human strength. I account for it thus: The powers of assimilation had reached their full development. They had formed the habit of doing a certain amount of work. They sent their products to all parts of the system. As a result of my operation the consumption of these products was reduced fully one-half; that is to say, about one-half of the demand for them was withdrawn. But force of habit required the production to proceed. This production was strength, vitality, energy. Thus double the usual quantity of this strength, this energy, was stored in the remaining...

"...developed a tendency that did surprize me. Nature, no longer suffering the distraction of extraneous interferences, and at the same time being cut in two (as it were), with reference to this ease, did not fully adjust herself to the new situation, as does a magnet, which, when divided at the point of equilibrium, renews itself in its two fragments by investing each with opposite poles; but, on the contrary, being severed from laws that theretofore had controlled her, and possessing still that mysterious tendency to develop into something more potential and complex, she blindly (having lost her lantern) pushed her demands for material that would secure this development, and as blindly used it when it was given her. Hence this marvelous voracity, this insatiable hunger, this wonderful ravenousness; and hence also (there being nothing but the physical part to receive this vast storing of energy) this strength that is becoming almost hourly herculean, almost daily appalling. It is becoming a serious...

"...narrow escape today. By some means, while I was absent, it unscrewed the stopped of the silver feeding-pipe (which I have already herein termed 'the artificial mouth'), and, in one of its curious antics, allowed all the chyle to escape from its stomach through the tube. Its hunger then became intense— I may say furious. I placed my hands upon it to push it into a chair, when, feeling my touch, it caught me, clasped me around the neck, and would have crushed me to death instantly had I not slipped from its powerful grasp. Thus I always had to be on my guard. I have provided the screw stopper with a spring catch, and...

"...usually docile when not hungry; slow and heavy in its movements, which are, of course, purely unconscious ; any apparent excitement in movement being due to local irregularities in the blood-supply of the cerebellum, which, if I did not have it enclosed in a silver case that is immovable, I should expose and..."

The captain looked at the detective with a puzzled air.

''I don't understand it at all," said he.

"Nor I," agreed the detective. "What do you propose to do?"

"Make a raid."

"Do you want a man?"

"Three. The strongest men in your district."

"Why, the surgeon is old and weak!"

"Nevertheless, I want three strong men; and for that matter, prudence really advises me to take twenty."

AT ONE O'CLOCK the next morning a cautious, scratching sound might have been heard in the ceiling of the surgeon's operating-room. Shortly afterward the skylight sash was carefully raised and laid aside. A man peered into the opening. Nothing could be heard.

"That is singular," thought the detective.

He cautiously lowered himself to the floor by a rope, and then stood for some moments listening intently. There was a dead silence. He shot the slide of a dark-lantern, and rapidly swept the room with the light. It was bare, with the exception of a strong iron staple and ring, screwed to the floor in the center of the room, with a heavy chain attached. The detective then turned his attention to the outer room; it was perfectly bare. He was deeply perplexed. Returning to the inner room, he called softly to the men to descend. While they were thus occupied he re-entered the outer room and examined the door. A glance sufficed. It was kept closed by a spring attachment, and was locked with a strong spring-lock that could be drawn from the inside.

"The bird has just flown," mused the detective. "A singular accident! The discovery and proper use of this thumb-bolt might not have happened once in fifty years, if my theory is correct."

By this time the men were behind him. He noiselessly drew the spring- bolt, opened the door, and looked out into the hall. He heard a peculiar sound. It was as though a gigantic lobster were floundering and scram- bling in some distant part of the old house. Accompanying this sound was a loud, whistling breathing, and frequent rasping gasps.

These sounds were heard by still another person— the surgeon's wife; for they originated very near her rooms, which were a considerable distance from her husband's. She had been sleeping lightly, tortured by fear and harassed by frightful dreams. The conspiracy into which she had recently entered, for the destruction of her husband, was a source of great anxiety. She constantly suffered from the most gloomy forebodings, and lived in an atmosphere of terror. Added to the natural horror of her situation were those countless sources of fear which a fright-shaken mind creates and then magnifies. She was, indeed, in a pitiable state, having- been driven first by terror to despera- tion, and then to madness.

Startled thus out of fitful slumber by the noise at her door, she sprang from her bed to the floor, every terror that lurked in her acutely tense mind and diseased imagination starting up and almost overwhelming her. The idea of flight— one of the strongest of all instincts— seized upon her, and she ran to the door, beyond all control of reason. She drew the bolt and flung the door wide open, and then fled wildly down the passage, the appalling hissing and rasping gurgle ringing in her ears apparently with a thousandfold intensity. But the passage was in absolute darkness, and she had not taken a half-dozen steps when she tripped upon an unseen object on the floor. She fell headlong upon it, encountering in it a large, soft, warm substance that writhed and squirmed, and from which came the sounds that had awakened her. Instantly realizing her situation, she uttered a shriek such as only an unnamable terror can inspire. But hardly had her cry started the echoes in the empty corridor than it was suddenly stifled. Two prodigious arms had closed upon her and crushed the life out of her.

The cry performed the office of directing the detective and his assistants, and it also aroused the old surgeon, who occupied rooms between the officers and the object of their search. The cry of agony pierced him to the marrow, and a realization of the cause of it burst upon him with frightful force.

"It has come at last!" he gasped, springing from his bed.

Snatching from a table a dimly burning lamp and a long knife which he had kept at hand for three years,  he dashed into the corridor. The four officers had already started forward, but when they saw him emerge they halted in silence. In that moment Of stillness the surgeon paused to listen. He heard the hissing sound and the clumsy floundering of a bulky, living object in the direction of his wife's apartments. It evidently was advancing toward him. A turn in the corridor shut out the view. He turned up the light, which revealed a ghastly pallor in his face.

"Wife!" he called.

There was no response. He hurriedly advanced, the four men following quietly. He turned the angle of the corridor, and ran so rapidly that by the time the officers had come in sight of him again he was twenty steps away. He ran past a huge, shapeless object, sprawling, crawling, and floundering along, and arrived at the body of his wife.

He gave one horrified glance at her face, and staggered away. Then a fury seized him. Clutching the knife firmly, and holding the lamp aloft, he sprang toward the ungainly object, in the corridor. It was then that the officers, still advancing cautiously, saw a little more clearly, though still indistinctly, the object of the surgeon's fury, and the cause of the look of unutterable anguish in his face. The hideous sight caused them to pause. They saw what appeared to be a man, yet evidently was not a man; huge, awkward, shapeless; a squirming, lurching, stumbling mass, completely naked. It raised its broad shoulders. It had no head, but instead of it a small metallic ball surmounting its massive neck.

"Devil!" exclaimed the surgeon, raising the knife.

"Hold, there!" commanded a stern voice.

The surgeon quickly raised his eyes and saw the four officers, and for a moment fear paralyzed his arm.

"The police!" he gasped.

Then, with a look of redoubled fury, he sent the knife to the hilt into the squirming mass before him. The wounded monster sprang to its feet and wildly threw its arms about, meanwhile emitting fearful sounds from a silver tube through which it breathed. The surgeon aimed another blow, but never gave it. In his blind fury he lost his caution, and was caught in an iron grasp. The struggling threw the lamp some feet toward the officers, and it fell to the floor, shattered to pieces. Simultaneously with the crash the oil took fire, and the corridor was filled with flame. The officers could not approach. Before them was the spreading blaze, and secure behind it were two forms struggling in a fearful embrace. They heard cries and gasps, and saw the gleaming of a knife.

The wood in the house was old and dry. It took fire at once, and the flames spread with great rapidity. The four officers turned and fled, barely escaping with their lives. In an hour nothing remained of the mysterious old house and its inmates but a blackened ruin.

________________

9: Jimmy Riley's "Turn"

Frederick W. Bechdolt

1874-1950

The Red Book Magazine April 1913

IT was Sunday afternoon and the band was playing in the upper yard. The air of all the prison was laden with throbbing melody.

The strains of the Blue Danube Waltz of Strauss floated over across the flower garden by the main gate. Eight condemned murderers, drinking their two hours of air, were pacing up and down their little enclosure— to and fro, ever to and fro, like caged animals. Occasionally they threw back their bowed heads that they might hear better. On the other side of the low parapet, trusties walking through the garden with their arms folded according to the rules, caught the sobbing refrain and whistled or hummed snatches to themselves. Down by the hospital, convalescents basking in the sun stirred their legs as if the subtle spirit of the dance might have captured them. And in the upper yard, among the striped crowd about the band, young convicts gave, themselves up to the thrall and waltzed in pairs.

Barred windows and outer doors of steel looked down upon the musicians and their audience. Stone walls loomed about them, tall and sheer. Yet, walking on the summit of a grey wall, a guard instinctively had slackened his hold on his rifle and was gazing far away.

Jimmy Riley was sitting off to one side within the upper yard. He sat alone and he frowned as he listened to the melody. He was a little man and still young, as the years go. His visored convict cap was pulled down on one side. His jaw was thrust forward. Jimmy Riley's face, in those somewhat brief intervals when he wore citizen's garb, had always suggested a length of lead pipe and a dark alley. When stripes adorned the coat beneath it and the cap above, that face complied with all artistic rules of harmony. Now the frown and out-thrust chin accentuated every forbidding line among his features.

Yet Jimmy Riley was only wrestling with a project whose worst motive was histrionic vanity.

This project had recurred to him intermittently for some months. This afternoon it demanded decision. And the band had come along with the Blue Danube Waltz, aiding its importunities. Jimmy Riley's scowl deepened and he hummed the lines. Humming, he rose abruptly to his feet.

"I'll take a flier at it anyhow," he muttered.

He was crossing the upper yard now. His mind went back to the evening of the last Fourth of July: He was sitting in one of the rear benches of the chapel. Up front, on a dazzling stage, a quartette of his co-laborers in the jute mill, their stripes doffed for evening dress, were responding to the last tumultuous encore. They were singing an old-time ballad. And he, Jimmy Riley, was listening, full-throated— yet not too heavily laden with emotion to prevent that envy like feeling which is called artistic emulation.

"Hell," he reassured himself now, "I c'n sing rings around dem guys."

"Hey!" Jimmy Riley stopped abruptly at the voice. He had reached the boundary between the upper yard and the flower garden. "Where you going?" A guard stood before him scrutinizing him suspiciously. For, when a man is talking to himself, trouble is often riding on the prison wind.

"I want to turn in me name f'r de con-show." Jimmy Riley noticed that look of scrutiny. "I was sayin' over me turn," he explained.  The guard waved him permission to pass into the flower garden. And, behind his back, "Humph ! Who'd think that bug would get him," he said to one of the prison officials. The two of them laughed quietly.

Arms folded, Jimmy Riley made his way to the clothes room. The clothes room trusty was chairman of the com mittee in charge of the convict show. He was a grey-haired man; his position was responsible. He greeted his visitor tersely, heard his errand and took out paper and pencil.

"Riley," he noted down; then, "Number 31292." He looked up. "What have you got?" he asked.

Jimmy Riley flushed, and looking him in the eye answered in that high-keyed voice peculiar to the very tough— a voice which sounded like a fierce whine:

"Fav'ryte old ballats."

"What!" The clothes room trusty stared at him. "Favorite— Goin' to dance?"

"Naw! Ballats. Singin'. See? Dem old time songs. I c'n—" Jimmy Riley was crimson now.

"Never mind; we'll give you your try with the rest to-night," the other cut him short.

Free from this ordeal and rankling with outraged diffidence, Jimmy Riley crossed the garden toward the upper yard. His arms were folded. He was glowering.

"Aw, I'm a nut," he told himself. "Dese guys is bound to hand me de worst of it. Dey'll let some hop-head kid yell his head off. An' me—"

He entered the upper yard enwrapped in gloomy forebodings. The band had ceased playing now. The musicians had gone back to their room to doff their frogged jackets and reappear in stripes. The members of the throng in the yard were gossiping in pairs, pacing up and down, or indulging themselves in a "rubber" at the gallery where the women visitors sat. A fight started in "Crazy Alley." Many hurried to a point of vantage. The warden was entering the prison; and twenty or more turned their backs on the more tumultuous attraction, that they might gaze after the new official. He was walking toward the yard captain's office— it might be a commutation, for all that anyone could tell

All these various in idents, baits for Sunday afternoon curiosity and inciden tal to the hour before dinner, which in its turn preceded the early lock-up, left a trio of convicts isolated near the lower end of the shed in which the band had played. Jimmy Riley saw the three; and as he saw them, one of them "gave office."'

A pair of eyes suddenly widened, and with an almost imperceptible movement of his head Jimmy Riley widened his own eyes in mute reply. Then, slowly and by a circuitous route, so that to any onlooking guard the meeting would appear purely accidental, he approached the trio.

A notable trio they were, according to Newgate Calendar standards: a trio to avoid if one were a timorous citizen— or a convict with his credits. There was Jonah Sheedy; it needed only a single discerning glance to tell that he was the brains of the group: outside "stall" in several big sneak thefts— and when a man gets that comparatively safe post during a larceny it means he has done all the planning. A long, lean convict was Jonah Sheedy, with a face as cold as stone. Pat, the Gun, and Shang Murphy were "yeggmen" or safeblowers of the bolder type. Professionally, the latter handled Morse drills and nitro-glycerine; the former, an automatic revolver. Each had gained reputation with his tools.

Curiously enough, as he drew near to them, Jimmy remembered that these three were "in bad.' His own copper was untouched, a circumstance due to the leniency of the new warden's administration, where a man had to seek for trouble if he wanted it. Thus far Jimmy Riley had seen no trouble worth the hunting.

Jonah Sheedy greeted him quietly and immediately plunged into business. "Are ye game?" he demanded. "Like ye used to be?"

Jimmy Riley's face tightened to ferocious ugliness. He had reason to be proud of his reputation. A red shirt in another reformatory institution, where scarlet was officially designated as a target for guards' rifles in case of any trouble, was one page of his record.

"Wotcha askin' that for?' he whined belligerently.

Jonah Sheedy chuckled. ''Would ye take a chance?" he asked.

"I took me chance while you was smokin' hop an' lettin' yer pals rot in jail." Jimmy Riley scowled as he delivered this bit of Sheedy's biography.

A venomous glint leaped from Jonah Sheedy's eyes. He went on, however, quickly and evenly. "Listen. We aint got much time. I know ye're right. Want to lam out wit' us?"

At this suggestion of a plan to escape, Jimmy Riley's narrowed eyes flew open. A light gleamed in them.

Sheedy nodded. "It's all framed." As he talked he looked about him for fear of eavesdroppers; and the two bullet- headed yeggs kept up the same constant roving of their eyes. "There's a plant comin'. It's due outside the walls this week; guns and nitro enough to blow up the whole works. See? Four nice new suits o' clothes waitin' over the hiil when we make it. We got a man ready to pack them gats inside— and the soup. His time's up in three weeks. Now—"

"Blow!" Shang Murphy interrupted in a sharp whisper. "The guard's pipin' us off."

Immediately, but with apparent carelessness and with a slowness which demanded repression on all their parts, all four "blew" one at a time. Departing, each made some remark on the topic of the day— the coming convict show.

Five minutes later the fight in "Crazy Alley" was a thing of the past; the warden's visit had taken that official only to the photograph gallery; and again the upper yard was filled with its milling crowd. Then came the line-up for dinner. After the meal the lines marched away for the early Sunday lock-up.

Down by the dining room Jimmy Riley fell out and joined a small crowd of striped men. These were the candidates for the con-show try-out. With them he made his way to the chapel.

The tower bell was clanging. It stopped. The long lines of convicts be gan to move to the different tiers. The lock-up was on.

The cell doors began to slam. Follow ing each deep, metallic crash came the rattle of a "bull lock" as it snapped home in the cell behind. The noise welled forth upon the calm Sunday air: "BOOM! Rat-tat! BOOM! Rat-tat! BOOM!" Swift, sharp and loud, until the entirety came in one continuous roar. It was a metallic yell to all the sun-and-shadowed world; a grim, iron-throated proclamation that all was not well— that sweetness and light were not the only things in life.

At the foot of the steps which led to the chapel, Jimmy Riley listened. He was hearing that lock-up from the outside for the first time.

He found a seat in the chapel. He remained by himself; and, for a while, he paid no attention to what was going on about him.

At length Jimmy Riley began to take note of the try-out. The five committee- men, who were convicts in good standing, occupied front seats. Their report would go to the warden; and, if approved by him, would stand. Committee-men always had a pride in making programs which would remain unchanged. These five were very critical.

The candidates were going to the stage in alphabeticai order. The list was long; the chapel was one-quarter full. Many were being discarded. Some of these had nothing to offer; some had time-worn acts; some were inefficient.

There was a contortionist ; he got applause. A Spanish dancer won his place easily. A basso sang and received warm approval. A quartette were left on probation— the same four who had aroused Jimmy Riley's envy six months ago. He frowned. A young highwayman, who wanted to balance a lighted lamp on his chin, was ruled out. Some one else sang. Jimmy Riley shook his head. Already the judges had a list one half too long. "'Reg'lar concert," he growled to the man in front of him.

At last the clothes-room trusty called, "Riley."

Jimmy Riley felt a queer tightening at his throat as he walked forward. He climbed the steps to the stage. The clothes-room trusty was talking to another committtee-man, and fumbled for his list of names. Then,

"What is your turn?" he called.

Jimmy Riley cleared his throat huskily. He felt an awful diffidence; his knees were trembling. The clothes-room trusty awaited his answer.

"Fav'ryte Old Ballats." The announcement came high keyed in that fierce whine.

Some one in the rear of the room laughed. Jimmy Riley rubbed the knuck- les of one fist on the palm of the other hand.

"Go on." It was the clothes-room trusty. 'Want the piano to give your key?"

Jimmy Riley shook his head. "Naw!" he whined.

He saw all those faces staring up at him; he saw the amusement on many of them. He cleared his throat again. He took a step forward. He threw back his head. His face— in spite of the stripes on the coat beneath it— had lost much of its ferocity. He bowed stiffly.

"Silver T'reads Among de Golt," he said and swallowed something hard.

Then Jimmy Riley sang.

Darling, I am growing old,

Silver threads among the gold—

The voice— that ferocious whine which had proclaimed Jimmy Riley's toughness— had gone. Now his tones rose, sweet and clear and high. For Jimmy Riley was what they call a counter-tenor. Those faces down there in the seats had suddenly become tense.

Line after line, thin and clear as a lute, each syllable trembling with its load of sentiment, Jimmy Riley sang on. He finished the last stanza. The clothes-room trusty had bowed his head ; his eyes were wet. And other faces in that audience were working.

There was a death-like silence now. Jimmy Riley had hoped for a little ap- plause. Some of the others had got a "hand." He gazed down on them all; his jaw tightened; he turned away.

Into the silence came a low exclamation. Then the committee-men and rivals alike paid him tribute with stinging palms.

That evening, after the last candidate had finished, Jimmy Riley walked across the yard to his cell. Under the glaring arcs, clustered on their lofty masts, he walked. In his ears rang a phrase. He had heard it as he passed the committee on his way to his seat:

"A headliner! The best on the bill!"

Down there in the blue-white glare, Jimmy Riley trod— not the beaten earth of the prison yard— but on the lightest air.

A week later, while the band was playing outside the walls, and the prison orchestra was furnishing the music in the upper yard, three convicts drifted to gether at a little distance from the Sunday afternoon crowd. They stood talking riely; and before anyone observing them could have decided whether they had assembled purposely or by accident, they separated. During that interval Jo- nah Sheedy and his bullet-headed confederate settled two things.

"Wot about Red Shirt?" Shang Murphy demanded as soon as he came. "Red Shirt" was Jimmy Riiey's nickname, earned during that previous servitude.

"I give him the office twice, this week, and he kept in the clear; he won't talk wit' me," Jonah Sheedy explained swiftly. The two others uttered a furious oath together.

"Leave him be. He knows wot he wants." Sheedy's glinting eyes belied his pacific words. "We're strong without him."

"He'll spill it, and—" Pat, the Gun, began ; his face was covered with wrin- kles of deadly fear.

Sheedy cut in on him. "Stow that. He'll never stool in a thousand years. And I got me eyes on him. If he makes a crooked move, I'll cut his head off."

"Riley's right," Shang Murphy said surely. "But what's got into him? It aint—"

"Listen," Sheedy interrupted again. "The stuff is planted; and in t'ree days it comes in. Ye got to take care of it then. I done my end. We aint got time to gas our heads off now. Ferget Red Shirt and get busy."

From the other end of the upper yard Jimmy Riley watched the trio gather and then separate. He scanned their faces. 'Talkin' about me," he said to himself. "And dey got de plant outside. I kin see Sheedy tell ut as well as if I heard him."

A few minutes later the line-up for dinner came. After the meal Jimmy Riley went to Number 3 Room. Mr the prisoners whose names were on the con-show program occupied that compartment together.

The room was crowded. Many lay in their bunks conning their lines aloud. Several of Jimmy Riley's fellow-thespians were rehearsing. A pair of young burglars stood in the middle of the floor, hurling Weber and Fields repartee at each other. At intervals they stopped their slap-stick comedy and argued over the adaptability of lines for local hits. As Jimmy Riley entered, "I make a hit mit the vomens," shrieked the short comedian.

His tall, striped partner raised one hand. "Say. We c'n change that. Let's see. I got it! 'Make a hit mit the board'.  We'll slip in some stuff about a parole and get a big laugh."

A grey-haired old forger was practicing on a 'cello over in one corner. The contortionist, who in private life had picked pockets, was tving himself into a striped knot on the floor.

Jimmy Riley sat on the edge of his bunk. The German comedians rattled on; the cello droned; in the next room the orchestra was rehearsing the big overture; the air was full of incongruous sounds: discords, brief harmonies, and German gutturals; on the floor the contortionist squirmed. Jimmy Riley neither heard nor saw. He put his square chin on the palms of his two hands and he pondered. He was weighing one end of a dilemma against the other.

If that trio who had conferred in the upper yard could have seen him now and read his thoughts, their faith in human nature would have been shattered. For Jimmy Riley was debating over the violation of the first and greatest command ment in the crooks' decalogue: the commandment which says, "Thou shalt not stool."

To him who recognizes no compromise, solution of ethical problems is indeed hard. Jimmy Riley had never known such a thing as middle ground. You either walked this world, a moral pariah, outside the city of respectability's walls ; or you trod it's streets which are pro- tected by the ramparts of the law. In the former case you were loyal to your fellow lepers; in the latter you were arrayed against them.

Sitting here, on his bunk's edge, he muttered once, "Stool pigeon. Ugh!" He spat on the floor.

Yet he did not arise, as one who has arrived at a conclusion. He continued to sit there with his chin in his hands. The hours passed. Jimmy Riley wrestled with his problem. At last he saw what he had never seen before—a compromise.

"De warden wont know who tips it," he thought. "He can't give me nuttin'. He can't pertect me. I take me own chances." He threw back his head and brought his hands down on his knees. "Dat's more'n any of dat bunch would do. Jonah Sheedy's got it comin' to him anyhow."

Before the bugle sounded for lights out, he sat inside of his bunk and com- posed a letter. He printed it. No man could trace that hand. It was a slow task ; and when it was done, he read it over.

Warden, dear sir: get Wise 3 cons is in the Frameup Wot i write about outside Is a plant guns and Soup is Planted outside the Wall and in 1 weak Some con neer fineshin his Toult well pack Them threw the main Gait yu Pipe and do not git him but ther is 3 cons waitin for it wen he delivers yu can grab 2 of them reseavin the Goods the Uther wun is jonie wise and yu got to luk for him yurself i do not want any- thing and am yrs trewly xyz.

"That's enough to wise any guy," he told himself when he had done reading. He sealed an envelope over the letter and addressed it to the warden. On Sunday evening there was always considerable mail going out. The guard took this as Jimmy Riley knew he would— along with many other epistles; and lost its identity in the shuffling of them.

That night Jimmy Riley slept easy. He had settled his ethical doubts. He had nothing on his mind now save his part in the con-show program and the pro- tection of his own life.

Since the advent of the new warden a change had come into the prison. It provoked much argument among the convicts. Stool pigeons had been abolished. The lack of furtive eyed traitors who had peddled information for emoluments had been accompanied by one vast sigh of relief. Peace grew where constant suspicion had engendered many brawls. But some prisoners shook their heads, declaring that the new warden was "easy" and would be overwhelmed.

When the captain of the yard and two guards took four big caliber revolvers and a flask of nitro-glycerine from a convict who was in the very act of delivering these to Shang Murphy and Pat, the Gun, the news fairly flew. There was now a unanimity of sentiment. "The warden was a wise guy after all."

Curiously, the fact that the warden had learned this without the aid of regulation stool pigeons lent a new aspect to the affair. There was, instead of sympathy for the culprits, a pretty general feeling that they had gone out of their way in seeking trouble for themselves— and others.

"Who tipped it off, and why?" That was the big question

Among the prison officials this question was more earnestly discussed than it was among the convicts. Man and motive re- mained a mystery. The finger of sus- picion pointed toward two men, Jonah Sheedy and Jimmy Riley. For both had been seen talking to the bullet headed pair who were now safely locked in solitary. But which?

"Let them go," said the officials. "We'll keep an eye on them."

So it came that, during the weeks preceding the con-show, Jimmy Riley went his way, scowling more than ever, keeping his eyes constantly roving— a sullen and suspicious figure. And Jonah Sheedy, with circumspection born of cold-hearted craft, walked to and from his work; nor gave any sign to show how he had marked for his own a long, sharp-edged bread knife in the dining room.

Thus all remained as mute as men of stone. The pair in the incorrigible ward patiently awaited the news of the stabbing. Jonah Sheedy bided his time; he knew that Jimmy Riley knew. Jimmy Riley realized that knowledge of Jonah Sheedy's. He realized that somewhere iv a knife, long since selected for his murder. He waited too; nor showed by a flutter of an eyelid how closely he kept vigil over his imperiled life.

In those weeks, however, Jimmy Riley showed all the temperamentality of prima donna on the eve of her metropolitan début. He had stopped smoking cigarettes; he had got permission to procure cough drops; he wore a neckerchief bound round his throat.

"I gotta keep me pipes right," he told clothes-room trusty.

The afternoon before the first performance, they tried on their costumes.

The chapel had been prepared; the stage littered with newly painted scenery; benches extended back to the very rear wall. Jimmy Riley was to wear a dress suit.

"Some class to dis marble front," was his comment as he strutted to and fro efore the committee.

He sucked a cough drop; and, when he had changed back again to his stripes, he wrapped his handkerchief tightly bout his throat.

Down in the main dining room at the hour of cleaning up, the trusty whose task was cutting bread came to the steward. "I'm short one knife," said he. "I don't know where it went."

The steward reported the matter to the captain of the yard. It lacked an hour of the beginning of the con-show. To search two thousand prisoners would consume a half a day; and would probably bring no results save general suspicion and unrest. The captain of the yard notified the guards at the chapel door.

As the line, of which Jonah Sheedy was a member, was filing into the chapel, there was a delay.

"They're fanning every man," said some one in the rear.

Jonah Sheedy smiled. He had visited the chapel that afternoon on pretext of borrowing a book. With his fellows he was searched, and passed on to his seat.  Having been an expert sneak thief before he became an outside "stall," he managed, in passing to the bookshelves, to get back that bread knife— from the place where he had hidden it. One deft motion on his part; no man saw it; and onah Sheedy had sixteen inches of cold steel between his jacket and his body. Now a sixteen inch blade next to one's anatomy compels a certain rigidity of posture. Jonah Sheedy sat very straight.

The audience filled the chapel so tightly that the front seats nearly abutted the orchestra. Owing to the extent of the prison's population it would need two more performances in order that all the convicts might witness the festival. But this first evening had the most representative crowd.

Down in the front row the eight condemned murderers sat, devouring every act with a monstrous and pathetic avidity. Six rows back, the warden and a number of invited guests, among these three members of the prison board and half a dozen newspaper men, made a variation in the color scheme, an island in the sea of stripes.

The warden sat smiling. One seeing him would have said that he was enjoying this, carefree. Yet the warden was enduring the ordeal of maintaining an imperturbable demeanor, while wondering at what instant trouble was going to break. A week ago some one had stolen sheet metal from the machine shop— a theft whose object was a mystery. And mysteries are disquieting in an over- crowded penitentiary. To-day that bread knife had gone. The guards had been warned; they were watching closely. But uncertainty is unpleasant; and the warden had to strive sometimes when he laughed at the stage jokes.

Not so the striped audience; they laughed carefree. Even the pallid eight in those front seats— less than one hundred feet from the gallows in the adjacent building— forgot the grim briefness of life's remaining span and gave way to mirth, when the lank German comedian exposed the fat German comedian's foolishness of method in trying for a parole.

"Vy dond't you get Chimmy Riley to sing dot stuff to the boardt?" he demanded.

The audience howled; for word of Jimmy Riley's counter-tenor voice had long since gone through the prison. On the rear bench, sitting very straight and feeling a cold pressure against his abdomen, Jonah Sheedy smiled Many glanced down their programs for Jimmy Riley's name. That was the star number in the show; and now it was only two turns away

"James Riley, the Peerless Tenor, With Favorite Old-Time Ballads." Thus it read.

Back of the scenes Jimmy Riley was struggling into his claw hammer coat. rhe stiffness of his starched shirt bosom seemed to make him very awkward. He was perspiring freely. Through the wings he could see the 'cello player, who had followed the two German comedians. He listened to the 'cello player's music, then to the applause— to an encore. He finished his dressing. The contortionist was now tying himself into knots. Jimmy Riley felt a hand on his shoulder.

"Better take a drink of water." It was the clothes-room trusty.

"Sure," Jimmy Riley whined; "me pipes feel foggy." He swallowed the water at a gulp.

A moment later he was standing before a mass of upturned faces which seemed to be floating on a sea of stripes. The glare of the footlights was in his eyes. He bowed.

The audience watched him— a little figure, immaculate in evening dress, bowing as stiffly as if his body were made of wood. Now he stood erect. His bullet head went back; his hard grey eyes glanced over the whole room; they reached the rear seats; they hung there ever so briefly. In that instant the eyes glinted ; the square jaw shoved forward ; and the shadow of a smile— a smile that went the wrong way of the mouth— made Jimmy Riley look tougher than any man had ever seen him.

The face changed. The eyes gazed far away. Then Jimmy Riley sang.

Darling, I am growing old,

Silver threads among the gold—

Clear and sweet and high, the notes flowed liquid from his lips— line after line, trembling with a sentiment which brought tears over cheeks all seamed with the marks of crime. He sang it through; and then the room was silent. He knew the meaning of that silence now. When the applause came deafening, he bowed again stiffly. He responded to one encore, then another, and then a third.

The con-show lasted late. The audience moved out slowly in order that its component parts might be properly marshaled. Jimmy Riley had changed back to his stripes and had gone outside with the other performers before the last line had left their seats. The actors, by special favor, were to have supper at the "offi- cers' and guards' mess." They stood there waiting.

The last line was passing them. A guard stood near the performers; and another stood at the summit of the stairs beside the chapel door. These kept their eyes on the file of outgoing convicts. Jo- nah Sheedy passed through the door; he descended the steps. Then the line broke.

The lean, striped figure of Jonah Sheedy was leaping into the midst of the little group of convict-actors, straight upon Jimmy Riley.

Jonah Sheedy's striped arm swept upward from his waistband; it plunged down. The glint of sixteen inches of steel streaked blue under the lofty arcs. The arm came up again; then down once more.

The guard at the foot of the steps was upon him now. The guard by the door hurled himself down the short flight and joined his fellow officer. They pinned Jonah Sheedy to the earth; they wrested the knife from his fingers.

Jimmy Riley lay close by. Blood was flowing over his stripes.

The warden was outside the walls, in the captain of the guard's office, when the news came. He hurried through the main gate into the prison. The captain of the yard met him and the two proceeded straight to the incorrigible ward; they talked with the trio of prison breakers there. When they came down from the solitary cells they visited the turnkey's office and there they interviewed Jonah Sheedy, who was quite candid now. By reason of this it was nearly an hour after the stabbing before the warden stood in the hospital beside Jimmy Riley's bed.

The prison doctor was carrying something from the room. He held it up and winked at the warden. It was the sheet of tin which had been missing from the machine shop; it had been bent to fit over a man's chest. The warden did not smile. He looked down on Jimmy Riley; he spoke dispassionately. There was a cold dignity in his voice.

Jimmy Riley looked up at the warden "If Sheedy come tru," said he, "I'll talk Sure, I copped dat tin. I was wise to him layin' fer me. See? I had to look out fer me pipes." He gestured toward his bound head. "He only got me on de head. I c'n sing tomorro' night all right."

"Sheedy says you wrote that letter." The warden's face did not betray his curiosity.

"Sure," Jimmy Riley whined; "dat's w'y he was sore."

"Why didn't you sign your name?" the warden shot the query at him.

"I aint no stool pigeon. I didn't want auttin'." Jimmy Riley scowled.

"Why did you write it?" The captain of the yard broke in. "You stopped a break—"

"Aw, say,"— Jimmy Riley's voice rose, high-keyed and tough,— "I don't want nuttin'. I looked out fer me own self. I only wrote it— Say, aint you wise? If dem guys had lammed and done some killin', dey'd of queered de con-show. See? I wanted to sing dem fav'ryte ballads; dat was why."

___________________

10: The Baron's Quarry

Egerton Castle

1858-1920

1909

"OH, NO, I assure you, you are not boring Mr. Marshfield," said this personage himself in his gentle voice— that curious voice that could flow on for hours, promulgating profound and startling theories on every department of human knowledge or conducting paradoxical arguments without a single inflection or pause of hesitation. "I am, on the contrary, much interested in your hunting talk. To paraphrase a well-worn quotation somewhat widely, nihil humanum a me alienum est. Even hunting stories may have their point of biological interest; the philologist sometimes pricks his ear to the jargon of the chase; moreover, I am not incapable of appreciating the subject matter itself. This seems to excite some derision. I admit I am not much of a sportsman to look at, nor, indeed, by instinct, yet I have had some out-of-the-way experiences in that line— generally when intent on other pursuits. I doubt, for instance, if even you, Major Travers, notwithstanding your well-known exploits against man and beast, notwithstanding that doubtful smile of yours, could match the strangeness of a certain hunting adventure in which I played an important part."

The speaker's small, deep-set, black eyes, that never warmed to anything more human than a purely speculative scientific interest in his surroundings, here wandered round the skeptical yet expectant circle with bland amusement. He stretched out his bloodless fingers for another of his host's superfine cigars and proceeded, with only such interruptions as were occasioned by the lighting and careful smoking of the latter.

"I was returning home after my prolonged stay in Petersburg, intending to linger on my way and test with mine own ears certain among the many dialects of Eastern Europe— anent which there is a symmetrical little cluster of philological knotty points it is my modest intention one day to unravel. However, that is neither here nor there. On the road to Hungary I bethought myself opportunely of proving the once pressingly offered hospitality of the Baron Kossowski.

"You may have met the man, Major Travers; he was a tremendous sportsman, if you like. I first came across him at McNeil's place in remote Ireland. Now, being in Bukowina, within measurable distance of his Carpathian abode, and curious to see a Polish lord at home, I remembered his invitation. It was already of long standing, but it had been warm, born in fact of a sudden fit of enthusiasm for me"— here a half-mocking smile quivered an instant under the speaker's black mustache—"which, as it was characteristic, I may as well tell you about.

"It was on the day of, or, rather, to be accurate, on the day after my arrival, toward the small hours of the morning, in the smoking room at Rathdrum. Our host was peacefully snoring over his empty pipe and his seventh glass of whisky, also empty. The rest of the men had slunk off to bed. The baron, who all unknown to himself had been a subject of most interesting observation to me the whole evening, being now practically alone with me, condescended to turn an eye, as wide awake as a fox's, albeit slightly bloodshot, upon the contemptible white-faced person who had preferred spending the raw hours over his papers, within the radius of a glorious fire's warmth, to creeping slyly over treacherous quagmires in the pursuit of timid bog creatures (snipe shooting had been the order of the day)-the baron, I say, became aware of my existence and entered into conversation with me.

"He would no doubt have been much surprised could he have known that he was already mapped out, craniologically and physiognomically, catalogued with care and neatly laid by in his proper ethnological box, in my private type museum; that, as I sat and examined him from my different coigns of vantage in library, in dining and smoking room that evening, not a look of his, not a gesture went forth but had significance for me.

"You, I had thought, with your broad shoulders and deep chest; your massive head that should have gone with a tall stature, not with those short sturdy limbs; with your thick red hair, that should have been black for that matter, as should your wide-set yellow eyes— you would be a real puzzle to one who did not recognize in you equal mixtures of the fair, stalwart and muscular Slav with the bilious-sanguine, thick-set, wiry Turanian. Your pedigree would no doubt bear me out: there is as much of the Magyar as of the Pole in your anatomy. Athlete, and yet a tangle of nerves; a ferocious brute at bottom, I dare say, for your broad forehead inclines to flatness; under your bristling beard your jaw must protrude, and the base of your skull is ominously thick. And, with all that, capable of ideal transports: when that girl played and sang to-night I saw the swelling of your eyelid veins, and how that small, tenacious, claw-like hand of yours twitched! You would be a fine leader of men— but God help the wretches in your power!

"So had I mused upon him. Yet I confess that when we came in closer contact with each other, even I was not proof against the singular courtesy of his manner and his unaccountable personal charm.

"Our conversation soon grew interesting; to me as a matter of course, and evidently to him also. A few general words led to interchange of remarks upon the country we were both visitors in and so to national characteristics— Pole and Irishman have not a few in common, both in their nature and history. An observation which he made, not without a certain flash in his light eyes and a transient uncovering of the teeth, on the Irish type of female beauty suddenly suggested to me a stanza of an ancient Polish ballad, very full of milk-and-blood imagery, of alternating ferocity and voluptuousness. This I quoted to the astounded foreigner in the vernacular, and this it was that metamorphosed his mere perfection of civility into sudden warmth, and, in fact, procured me the invitation in question.

"When I left Rathdrum the baron's last words to me were that if I ever thought of visiting his country otherwise than in books, he held me bound to make Yany, his Galician seat, my headquarters of study.

"From Czernowicz, therefore, where I stopped some time, I wrote, received in due time a few lines of prettily worded reply, and ultimately entered my sled in the nearest town to, yet at a most forbidding distance from, Yany, and started on my journey thither.

"The undertaking meant many long hours of undulation and skidding over the November snow, to the somniferous bell jangle of my dirty little horses, the only impression of interest being a weird gypsy concert I came in for at a miserable drinking-booth half buried in the snow where we halted for the refreshment of man and beast. Here, I remember, I discovered a very definite connection between the characteristic run of the tsimbol, the peculiar bite of the Zigeuner's bow on his fiddle-string, and some distinctive points of Turanian tongues. In other countries, in Spain, for instance, your gypsy speaks differently on his instrument. But, oddly enough, when I later attempted to put this observation on paper I could find no word to express it."

A few of our company evinced signs of sleepiness, but most of us who knew Marshfield, and that he could, unless he had something novel to say, be as silent and retiring as he now evinced signs of being copious, awaited further developments with patience. He has his own deliberate way of speaking, which he evidently enjoys greatly, though it be occasionally trying to his listeners.

"On the afternoon of my second day's drive, the snow, which till then had fallen fine and continuous, ceased, and my Jehu, suddenly interrupting himself in the midst of some exciting wolf story quite in keeping with the time of year and the wild surroundings, pointed to a distant spot against the gray sky to the northwest, between two wood-covered folds of ground— the first eastern spurs of the great Carpathian chain.

"'There stands Yany,' said he. I looked at my far-off goal with interest. As we drew nearer, the sinking sun, just dipping behind the hills, tinged the now distinct frontage with a cold copper-like gleam, but it was only for a minute; the next the building became nothing more to the eye than a black irregular silhouette against the crimson sky.

"Before we entered the long, steep avenue of poplars, the early winter darkness was upon us, rendered all the more depressing by gray mists which gave a ghostly aspect to such objects as the sheen of the snow rendered visible. Once or twice there were feeble flashes of light looming in iridescent halos as we passed little clusters of hovels, but for which I should have been induced to fancy that the great Hof stood alone in the wilderness, such was the deathly stillness around. But even as the tall, square building rose before us above the vapor, yellow lighted in various stories, and mighty in height and breadth, there broke upon my ear a deep-mouthed, menacing bay, which gave at once almost alarming reality to the eerie surroundings. 'His lordship's boar and wolf hounds,' quoth my charioteer calmly, unmindful of the regular pandemonium, of howls and barks which ensued as he skillfully turned his horses through the gateway and flogged the tired beasts into a sort of shambling canter that we might land with glory before the house door: a weakness common, I believe, to drivers of all nations.

"I alighted in the court of honor, and while awaiting an answer to my tug at the bell, stood, broken with fatigue, depressed, chilled and aching, questioning the wisdom of my proceedings and the amount of comfort, physical and moral, that was likely to await me in a tête-à-tête visit with a well-mannered savage in his own home.

"The unkempt tribe of stable retainers who began to gather round me and my rough vehicle in the gloom, with their evil-smelling sheepskins and their resigned, battered visages, were not calculated to reassure me. Yet when the door opened, there stood a smart chasseur and a solemn major-domo who might but just have stepped out of Mayfair; and there was displayed a spreading vista of warm, deep-colored halls, with here a statue and there a stuffed bear, and under foot pile carpets strewn with rarest skins.

"Marveling, yet comforted withal, I followed the solemn butler, who received me with the deference due to an expected guest and expressed the master's regret for his enforced absence till dinner time. I traversed vast rooms, each more sumptuous than the last, feeling the strangeness of the contrast between the outer desolation and this sybaritic excess of luxury growing ever more strongly upon me; caught a glimpse of a picture gallery, where peculiar yet admirably executed latter-day French pictures hung side by side with ferocious boar hunts of Snyder and such kin; and, at length, was ushered into a most cheerful room, modern to excess in its comfortable promise, where, in addition to the tall stove necessary for warmth, there burned on an open hearth a vastly pleasant fire of resinous logs, and where, on a low table, awaited me a dainty service of fragrant Russian tea.

"My impression of utter novelty seemed somehow enhanced by this unexpected refinement in the heart of the solitudes and in such a rugged shell, and yet, when I came to reflect, it was only characteristic of my cosmopolitan host. But another surprise was in store for me.

"When I had recovered bodily warmth and mental equilibrium in my downy armchair, before the roaring logs, and during the delicious absorption of my second glass of tea, I turned my attention to the French valet, evidently the baron's own man, who was deftly unpacking my portmanteau, and who, unless my practiced eye deceived me, asked for nothing better than to entertain me with agreeable conversation the while.

"'Your master is out, then?' quoth I, knowing that the most trivial remark would suffice to start him.

"True, Monseigneur was out; he was desolated in despair (this with the national amiable and imaginative instinct); 'but it was doubtless important business. M. le Baron had the visit of his factor during the midday meal; had left the table hurriedly, and had not been seen since. Madame la Baronne had been a little suffering, but she would receive monsieur!'

"'Madame!' exclaimed I, astounded, 'is your master then married?— since when?'— visions of a fair Tartar, fit mate for my baron, immediately springing somewhat alluringly before my mental vision. But the answer dispelled the picturesque fancy.

"'Oh, yes,' said the man, with a somewhat peculiar expression. 'Yes, Monseigneur is married. Did Monsieur not know? And yet it was from England that Monseigneur brought back his wife.'

"'An Englishwoman!'

"My first thought was one of pity; an Englishwoman alone in this wilderness— two days' drive from even a railway station— and at the mercy of Kossowski! But the next minute I reversed my judgment. Probably she adored her rufous lord, took his veneer of courtesy— a veneer of the most exquisite polish, I grant you, but perilously thin— for the very perfection of chivalry. Or perchance it was his inner savageness itself that charmed her; the most refined women often amaze one by the fascination which the preponderance of the brute in the opposite sex seems to have for them.

"I was anxious to hear more.

"'Is it not dull for the lady here at this time of the year?'

"The valet raised his shoulders with a gesture of despair that was almost passionate.

"Dull! Ah, monsieur could not conceive to himself the dullness of it. That poor Madame la Baronne! not even a little child to keep her company on the long, long days when there was nothing but snow in the heaven and on the earth and the howling of the wind and the dogs to cheer her. At the beginning, indeed, it had been different; when the master first brought home his bride the house was gay enough. It was all redecorated and refurnished to receive her (monsieur should have seen it before, a mere rendezvous-de-chasse— for the matter of that so were all the country houses in these parts). Ah, that was the good time! There were visits month after month; parties, sleighing, dancing, trips to St. Petersburg and Vienna. But this year it seemed they were to have nothing but boars and wolves. How madame could stand it— well, it was not for him to speak— and heaving a deep sigh he delicately inserted my white tie round my collar, and with a flourish twisted it into an irreproachable bow beneath my chin. I did not think it right to cross-examine the willing talker any further, especially as, despite his last asseveration, there were evidently volumes he still wished to pour forth; but I confess that, as I made my way slowly out of my room along the noiseless length of passage, I was conscious of an unwonted, not to say vulgar, curiosity concerning the woman who had captivated such a man as the Baron Kossowski.

"In a fit of speculative abstraction I must have taken the wrong turning, for I presently found myself in a long, narrow passage. I did not remember. I was retracing my steps when there came the sound of rapid footfalls upon stone flags; a little door flew open in the wall close to me, and a small, thick-set man, huddled in the rough sheepskin of the Galician peasant, with a mangy fur cap on his head, nearly ran headlong into my arms. I was about condescendingly to interpellate him in my best Polish, when I caught the gleam of an angry yellow eye and noted the bristle of a red beard— Kossowski!

"Amazed, I fell back a step in silence. With a growl like an uncouth animal disturbed, he drew his filthy cap over his brow with a savage gesture and pursued his way down the corridor at a sort of wild-boar trot.

"This first meeting between host and guest was so odd, so incongruous, that it afforded me plenty of food for a fresh line of conjecture as I traced my way back to the picture gallery, and from thence successfully to the drawing room, which, as the door was ajar, I could not this time mistake.

"It was large and lofty and dimly lit by shaded lamps; through the rosy gloom I could at first only just make out a slender figure by the hearth; but as I advanced, this was resolved into a singularly graceful woman in clinging, fur-trimmed velvet gown, who, with one hand resting on the high mantelpiece, the other hanging listlessly by her side, stood gazing down at the crumbling wood fire as if in a dream.

"My friends are kind enough to say that I have a cat-like tread; I know not how that may be; at any rate the carpet I was walking upon was thick enough to smother a heavier footfall: not until I was quite close to her did my hostess become aware of my presence. Then she started violently and looked over her shoulder at me with dilating eyes. Evidently a nervous creature, I saw the pulse in her throat, strained by her attitude, flutter like a terrified bird.

"The next instant she had stretched out her hand with sweet English words of welcome, and the face, which I had been comparing in my mind to that of Guido's Cenci, became transformed by the arch and exquisite smile of a Greuse. For more than two years I had had no intercourse with any of my nationality. I could conceive the sound of his native tongue under such circumstances moving a man in a curious unexpected fashion.

"I babbled some commonplace reply, after which there was silence while we stood opposite each other, she looking at me expectantly. At length, with a sigh checked by a smile and an overtone of sadness in a voice that yet tried to be sprightly:

"'Am I then so changed, Mr. Marshfield?' she asked. And all at once I knew her: the girl whose nightingale throat had redeemed the desolation of the evenings at Rathdrum, whose sunny beauty had seemed (even to my celebrated cold-blooded æstheticism) worthy to haunt a man's dreams. Yes, there was the subtle curve of the waist, the warm line of throat, the dainty foot, the slender tip-tilted fingers— witty fingers, as I had classified them— which I now shook like a true Briton, instead of availing myself of the privilege the country gave me, and kissing her slender wrist.

"But she was changed; and I told her so with unconventional frankness, studying her closely as I spoke.

"'I am afraid,' I said gravely, 'that this place does not agree with you.'

"She shrank from my scrutiny with a nervous movement and flushed to the roots of her red-brown hair. Then she answered coldly that I was wrong, that she was in excellent health, but that she could not expect any more than other people to preserve perennial youth (I rapidly calculated she might be two-and-twenty), though, indeed, with a little forced laugh, it was scarcely flattering to hear one had altered out of all recognition. Then, without allowing me time to reply, she plunged into a general topic of conversation which, as I should have been obtuse indeed not to take the hint, I did my best to keep up.

"But while she talked of Vienna and Warsaw, of her distant neighbors, and last year's visitors, it was evident that her mind was elsewhere; her eye wandered, she lost the thread of her discourse, answered me at random, and smiled her piteous smile incongruously.

"However lonely she might be in her solitary splendor, the company of a countryman was evidently no such welcome diversion.

"After a little while she seemed to feel herself that she was lacking in cordiality, and, bringing her absent gaze to bear upon me with a puzzled strained look: 'I fear you will find it very dull,' she said, 'my husband is so wrapped up this winter in his country life and his sport. You are the first visitor we have had. There is nothing but guns and horses here, and you do not care for these things.'

"The door creaked behind us; and the baron entered, in faultless evening dress. Before she turned toward him I was sharp enough to catch again the upleaping of a quick dread in her eyes, not even so much dread perhaps, I thought afterwards, as horror— the horror we notice in some animals at the nearing of a beast of prey. It was gone in a second, and she was smiling. But it was a revelation.

"Perhaps he beat her in Russian fashion, and she, as an Englishwoman, was narrow-minded enough to resent this; or perhaps, merely, I had the misfortune to arrive during a matrimonial misunderstanding.

"The baron would not give me leisure to reflect; he was so very effusive in his greeting— not a hint of our previous meeting— unlike my hostess, all in all to me; eager to listen, to reply; almost affectionate, full of references to old times and genial allusions. No doubt when he chose he could be the most charming of men; there were moments when, looking at him in his quiet smile and restrained gesture, the almost exaggerated politeness of his manner to his wife, whose fingers he had kissed with pretty, old-fashioned gallantry upon his entrance, I asked myself, Could that encounter in the passage have been a dream? Could that savage in the sheepskin be my courteous entertainer?

"Just as I came in, did I hear my wife say there was nothing for you to do in this place?" he said presently to me. Then, turning to her:

"You do not seem to know Mr. Marshfield. Wherever he can open his eyes there is for him something to see which might not interest other men. He will find things in my library which I have no notion of. He will discover objects for scientific observation in all the members of my household, not only in the good-looking maids— though he could, I have no doubt, tell their points as I could those of a horse. We have maidens here of several distinct races, Marshfield. We have also witches, and Jew leeches, and holy daft people. In any case, Yany, with all its dependencies, material, male and female, are at your disposal, for what you can make out of them.

"'It is good," he went on gayly, 'that you should happen to have this happy disposition, for I fear that, no later than to-morrow, I may have to absent myself from home. I have heard that there are news of wolves— they threaten to be a greater pest than usual this winter, but I am going to drive them on quite a new plan, and it will go hard with me if I don't come even with them. Well for you, by the way, Marshfield, that you did not pass within their scent to-day.' Then, musingly: 'I should not give much for the life of a traveler who happened to wander in these parts just now.' Here he interrupted himself hastily and went over to his wife, who had sunk back on her chair, livid, seemingly on the point of swooning.

"His gaze was devouring; so might a man look at the woman he adored, in his anxiety.

"'What! faint, Violet, alarmed!' His voice was subdued, yet there was an unmistakable thrill of emotion in it.

"'Pshaw!' thought I to myself, 'the man is a model husband.'

"She clinched her hands, and by sheer force of will seemed to pull herself together. These nervous women have often an unexpected fund of strength.

"'Come, that is well,' said the baron with a flickering smile; 'Mr. Marshfield will think you but badly acclimatized to Poland if a little wolf scare can upset you. My dear wife is so soft-hearted,' he went on to me, 'that she is capable of making herself quite ill over the sad fate that might have, but has not, overcome you. Or, perhaps,' he added, in a still gentler voice, 'her fear is that I may expose myself to danger for the public weal.'

"She turned her head away, but I saw her set her teeth as if to choke a sob. The baron chuckled in his throat and seemed to luxuriate in the pleasant thought.

"At this moment folding doors were thrown open, and supper was announced. I offered my arm, she rose and took it in silence. This silence she maintained during the first part of the meal, despite her husband's brilliant conversation and almost uproarious spirits. But by and by a bright color mounted to her cheeks and luster to her eyes. I suppose you will think me horribly unpoetical if I add that she drank several glasses of champagne one after the other, a fact which perhaps may account for the change.

"At any rate she spoke and laughed and looked lovely, and I did not wonder that the baron could hardly keep his eyes off her. But whether it was her wifely anxiety or not— it was evident her mind was not at ease through it all, and I fancied that her brightness was feverish, her merriment slightly hysterical.

"After supper— an exquisite one it was— we adjourned together, in foreign fashion, to the drawing-room; the baron threw himself into a chair and, somewhat with the air of a pasha, demanded music. He was flushed; the veins of his forehead were swollen and stood out like cords; the wine drunk at table was potent: even through my phlegmatic frame it ran hotly.

"She hesitated a moment or two, then docilely sat down to the piano. That she could sing I have already made clear: how she could sing, with what pathos, passion, as well as perfect art, I had never realized before.

"When the song was ended she remained for a while, with eyes lost in distance, very still, save for her quick breathing. It was clear she was moved by the music; indeed she must have thrown her whole soul into it.

"At first we, the audience, paid her the rare compliment of silence. Then the baron broke forth into loud applause. 'Brava, brava! that was really said con amore. A delicious love song, delicious— but French! You must sing one of our Slav melodies for Marshfield before you allow us to go and smoke.'

"She started from her reverie with a flush, and after a pause struck slowly a few simple chords, then began one of those strangely sweet, yet intensely pathetic Russian airs, which give one a curious revelation of the profound, endless melancholy lurking in the national mind.

" 'What do you think of it?' asked the baron of me when it ceased.

" 'What I have always thought of such music— it is that of a hopeless people; poetical, crushed, and resigned.'

"He gave a loud laugh. 'Hear the analyst, the psychologue— why, man, it is a love song! Is it possible that we, uncivilized, are truer realists than our hypercultured Western neighbors? Have we gone to the root of the matter, in our simple way?'

"The baroness got up abruptly. She looked white and spent; there were bister circles round her eyes.

" 'I am tired,' she said, with dry lips. 'You will excuse me, Mr. Marshfield, I must really go to bed.'

" 'Go to bed, go to bed,' cried her husband gayly. Then, quoting in Russian from the song she had just sung: 'Sleep, my little soft white dove: my little innocent tender lamb!' She hurried from the room. The baron laughed again, and, taking me familiarly by the arm, led me to his own set of apartments for the promised smoke. He ensconced me in an armchair, placed cigars of every description and a Turkish pipe ready to my hand, and a little table on which stood cut-glass flasks and beakers in tempting array.

"After I had selected my cigar with some precautions, I glanced at him over a careless remark, and was startled to see a sudden alteration in his whole look and attitude.

" 'You will forgive me, Marshfield,' he said, as he caught my eye, speaking with spasmodic politeness. 'It is more than probable that I shall have to set out upon this chase I spoke of to-night, and I must now go and change my clothes, that I may be ready to start at any moment. This is the hour when it is most likely these hell beasts are to be got at. You have all you want, I hope,' interrupting an outbreak of ferocity by an effort after his former courtesy.

"It was curious to watch the man of the world struggling with the primitive man.

" 'But, baron,' said I, 'I do not at all see the fun of sticking at home like this. You know my passion for witnessing everything new, strange, and outlandish. You will surely not refuse me such an opportunity for observation as a midnight wolf raid. I will do my best not to be in the way if you will take me with you.'

"At first it seemed as if he had some difficulty in realizing the drift of my words, he was so engrossed by some inner thought. But as I repeated them, he gave vent to a loud cachinnation.

" 'By heaven! I like your spirit,' he exclaimed, clapping me strongly on the shoulder. 'Of course you shall come. You shall,' he repeated, 'and I promise you a sight, a hunt such as you never heard or dreamed of— you will be able to tell them in England the sort of thing we can do here in that line— such wolves are rare quarry,' he added, looking slyly at me, 'and I have a new plan for getting at them.'

"There was a long pause, and then there rose in the stillness the unearthly howling of the baron's hounds, a cheerful sound which only their owner's somewhat loud converse of the evening had kept from becoming excessively obtrusive.

"'Hark at them— the beauties!' cried he, showing his short, strong teeth, pointed like a dog's in a wide grin of anticipative delight. 'They have been kept on pretty short commons, poor things! They are hungry. By the way, Marshfield, you can sit tight to a horse, I trust? If you were to roll off, you know, these splendid fellows— they would chop you up in a second. They would chop you up,' he repeated unctuously, 'snap, crunch, gobble, and there would be an end of you!'

"'If I could not ride a decent horse without being thrown,' I retorted, a little stung by his manner, 'after my recent three months' torture with the Guard Cossacks, I should indeed be a hopeless subject. Do not think of frightening me from the exploit, but say frankly if my company would be displeasing.'

"'Tut!' he said, waving his hand impatiently, 'it is your affair. I have warned you. Go and get ready if you want to come. Time presses.'

"I was determined to be of the fray; my blood was up. I have hinted that the baron's Tokay had stirred it.

"I went to my room and hurriedly donned clothes more suitable for rough night work. My last care was to slip into my pockets a brace of double-barreled pistols which formed part of my traveling kit. When I returned I found the baron already booted and spurred; this without metaphor. He was stretched full length on the divan, and did not speak as I came in, or even look at me. Chewing an unlit cigar, with eyes fixed on the ceiling, he was evidently following some absorbing train of ideas.

"The silence was profound; time went by; it grew oppressive; at length, wearied out, I fell, over my chibouque, into a doze filled with puzzling visions, out of which I was awakened with a start. My companion had sprung up, very lightly, to his feet. In his throat was an odd, half-suppressed cry, grewsome to hear. He stood on tiptoe, with eyes fixed, as though looking through the wall, and I distinctly saw his ears point in the intensity of his listening.

"After a moment, with hasty, noiseless energy, and without the slightest ceremony, he blew the lamps out, drew back the heavy curtains and threw the tall window wide open. A rush of icy air, and the bright rays of the moon— gibbous, I remember, in her third quarter— filled the room. Outside the mist had condensed, and the view was unrestricted over the white plains at the foot of the hill.

"The baron stood motionless in the open window, callous to the cold in which, after a minute, I could hardly keep my teeth from chattering, his head bent forward, still listening. I listened too, with 'all my ears,' but could not catch a sound; indeed the silence over the great expanse of snow might have been called awful; even the dogs were mute.

"Presently, far, far away, came a faint tinkle of bells; so faint, at first, that I thought it was but fancy, then distincter. It was even more eerie than the silence, I thought, though I knew it could come but from some passing sleigh. All at once that ceased, and again my duller senses could perceive nothing, though I saw by my host's craning neck that he was more on the alert than ever. But at last I too heard once more, this time not bells, but as it were the tread of horses muffled by the snow, intermittent and dull, yet drawing nearer. And then in the inner silence of the great house it seemed to me I caught the noise of closing doors; but here the hounds, as if suddenly becoming alive to some disturbance, raised the same fearsome concert of yells and barks with which they had greeted my arrival, and listening became useless.

"I had risen to my feet. My host, turning from the window, seized my shoulder with a fierce grip, and bade me 'hold my noise'; for a second or two I stood motionless under his iron talons, then he released me with an exultant whisper: "Now for our chase!" and made for the door with a spring. Hastily gulping down a mouthful of arrack from one of the bottles on the table, I followed him, and, guided by the sound of his footsteps before me, groped my way through passages as black as Erebus.

"After a time, which seemed a long one, a small door was flung open in front, and I saw Kossowski glide into the moonlit courtyard and cross the square. When I too came out he was disappearing into the gaping darkness of the open stable door, and there I overtook him.

"A man who seemed to have been sleeping in a corner jumped up at our entrance, and led out a horse ready saddled. In obedience to a gruff order from his master, as the latter mounted, he then brought forward another which he had evidently thought to ride himself and held the stirrup for me.

"We came delicately forth, and the Cossack hurriedly barred the great door behind us. I caught a glimpse of his worn, scarred face by the moonlight, as he peeped after us for a second before shutting himself in; it was stricken with terror.

"The baron trotted briskly toward the kennels, from whence there was now issuing a truly infernal clangor, and, as my steed followed suit of his own accord, I could see how he proceeded dexterously to unbolt the gates without dismounting, while the beasts within dashed themselves against them and tore the ground in their fury of impatience.

"He smiled, as he swung back the barriers at last, and his 'beauties' came forth. Seven or eight monstrous brutes, hounds of a kind unknown to me: fulvous and sleek of coat, tall on their legs, square-headed, long-tailed, deep-chested; with terrible jaws slobbering in eagerness. They leaped around and up at us, much to our horses' distaste. Kossowski, still smiling, lashed at them unsparingly with his hunting whip, and they responded, not with yells of pain, but with snarls of fury.

"Managing his restless steed and his cruel whip with consummate ease, my host drove the unruly crew before him out of the precincts, then halted and bent down from his saddle to examine some slight prints in the snow which led, not the way I had come, but toward what seemed another avenue. In a second or two the hounds were gathered round this spot, their great snake-like tails quivering, nose to earth, yelping with excitement. I had some ado to manage my horse, and my eyesight was far from being as keen as the baron's, but I had then no doubt he had come already upon wolf tracks, and I shuddered mentally, thinking of the sleigh bells.

"Suddenly Kossowski raised himself from his strained position; under his low fur cap his face, with its fixed smile, looked scarcely human in the white light: and then we broke into a hand canter just as the hounds dashed, in a compact body, along the trail.

"But we had not gone more than a few hundred yards before they began to falter, then straggled, stopped and ran back and about with dismal cries. It was clear to me they had lost the scent. My companion reined in his horse, and mine, luckily a well-trained brute, halted of himself.

"We had reached a bend in a broad avenue of firs and larches, and just where we stood, and where the hounds ever returned and met nose to nose in frantic conclave, the snow was trampled and soiled, and a little farther on planed in a great sweep, as if by a turning sleigh. Beyond was a double-furrowed track of skaits and regular hoof prints leading far away.

"Before I had time to reflect upon the bearing of this unexpected interruption, Kossowski, as if suddenly possessed by a devil, fell upon the hounds with his whip, flogging them upon the new track, uttering the while the most savage cries I have ever heard issue from human throat. The disappointed beasts were nothing loath to seize upon another trail; after a second of hesitation they had understood, and were off upon it at a tearing pace, we after them at the best speed of our horses.

"Some unformed idea that we were going to escort, or rescue, benighted travelers flickered dimly in my mind as I galloped through the night air; but when I managed to approach my companion and called out to him for explanation, he only turned half round and grinned at me.

"Before us lay now the white plain, scintillating under the high moon's rays. That light is deceptive; I could be sure of nothing upon the wide expanse but of the dark, leaping figures of the hounds already spread out in a straggling line, some right ahead, others just in front of us. In a short time also the icy wind, cutting my face mercilessly as we increased our pace, well nigh blinded me with tears of cold.

"I can hardly realize how long this pursuit after an unseen prey lasted; I can only remember that I was getting rather faint with fatigue, and ignominiously held on to my pommel, when all of a sudden the black outline of a sleigh merged into sight in front of us.

"I rubbed my smarting eyes with my benumbed hand; we were gaining upon it second by second; two of those hell hounds of the baron's were already within a few leaps of it.

"Soon I was able to make out two figures, one standing up and urging the horses on with whip and voice, the other clinging to the back seat and looking toward us in an attitude of terror. A great fear crept into my half-frozen brain— were we not bringing deadly danger instead of help to these travelers? Great God! did the baron mean to use them as a bait for his new method of wolf hunting?

"I would have turned upon Kossowski with a cry of expostulation or warning, but he, urging on his hounds as he galloped on their flank, howling and gesticulating like a veritable Hun, passed me by like a flash— and all at once I knew."

Marshfield paused for a moment and sent his pale smile round upon his listeners, who now showed no signs of sleepiness; he knocked the ash from his cigar, twisted the latter round in his mouth, and added dryly:

"And I confess it seemed to me a little strong even for a baron in the Carpathians. The travelers were our quarry. But the reason why the Lord of Yany had turned man-hunter I was yet to learn. Just then I had to direct my energies to frustrating his plans. I used my spurs mercilessly. While I drew up even with him I saw the two figures in the sleigh change places; he who had hitherto driven now faced back, while his companion took the reins, there was the pale blue sheen of a revolver barrel under the moonlight, followed by a yellow flash, and the nearest hound rolled over in the snow.

"With an oath the baron twisted round in his saddle to call up and urge on the remainder. My horse had taken fright at the report and dashed irresistibly forward, bringing me at once almost level with the fugitives, and the next instant the revolver was turned menacingly toward me. There was no time to explain; my pistol was already drawn, and as another of the brutes bounded up, almost under my horse's feet, I loosed it upon him. I must have let off both barrels at once, for the weapon flew out of my hand, but the hound's back was broken. I presume the traveler understood; at any rate, he did not fire at me.

"In moments of intense excitement like these, strangely enough, the mind is extraordinarily open to impressions. I shall never forget that man's countenance in the sledge, as he stood upright and defied us in his mortal danger; it was young, very handsome, the features not distorted, but set into a sort of desperate, stony calm, and I knew it, beyond all doubt, for that of an Englishman. And then I saw his companion— it was the baron's wife. And I understood why the bells had been removed.

"It takes a long time to say this; it only required an instant to see it. The loud explosion of my pistol had hardly ceased to ring before the baron, with a fearful imprecation, was upon me. First he lashed at me with his whip as we tore along side by side, and then I saw him wind the reins round his off arm and bend over, and I felt his angry fingers close tightly on my right foot. The next instant I should have been lifted out of my saddle, but there came another shot from the sledge. The baron's horse plunged and stumbled, and the baron, hanging on to my foot with a fierce grip, was wrenched from his seat. His horse, however, was up again immediately, and I was released, and then I caught a confused glimpse of the frightened and wounded animal galloping wildly away to the right, leaving a black track of blood behind him in the snow, his master, entangled in the reins, running with incredible swiftness by his side and endeavoring to vault back into the saddle.

"And now came to pass a terrible thing which, in his savage plans, my host had doubtless never anticipated.

"One of the hounds that had during this short check recovered lost ground, coming across this hot trail of blood, turned away from his course, and with a joyous yell darted after the running man. In another instant the remainder of the pack was upon the new scent.

"As soon as I could stop my horse, I tried to turn him in the direction the new chase had taken, but just then, through the night air, over the receding sound of the horse's scamper and the sobbing of the pack in full cry, there came a long scream, and after that a sickening silence. And I knew that somewhere yonder, under the beautiful moonlight, the Baron Kossowski was being devoured by his starving dogs.

"I looked round, with the sweat on my face, vaguely, for some human being to share the horror of the moment, and I saw, gliding away, far away in the white distance, the black silhouette of the sledge."

"Well?" said we, in divers tones of impatience, curiosity, or horror, according to our divers temperaments, as the speaker uncrossed his legs and gazed at us in mild triumph, with all the air of having said his say, and satisfactorily proved his point.

"Well," repeated he, "what more do you want to know? It will interest you but slightly, I am sure, to hear how I found my way back to the Hof; or how I told as much as I deemed prudent of the evening's grewsome work to the baron's servants, who, by the way, to my amazement, displayed the profoundest and most unmistakable sorrow at the tidings, and sallied forth (at their head the Cossack who had seen us depart) to seek for his remains. Excuse the unpleasantness of the remark: I fear the dogs must have left very little of him, he had dieted them so carefully. However, since it was to have been a case of 'chop, crunch, and gobble,' as the baron had it, I preferred that that particular fate should have overtaken him rather than me— or, for that matter, either of those two country people of ours in the sledge.

"Nor am I going to inflict upon you," continued Marshfield, after draining his glass, "a full account of my impressions when I found myself once more in that immense, deserted, and stricken house, so luxuriously prepared for the mistress who had fled from it; how I philosophized over all this, according to my wont; the conjectures I made as to the first acts of the drama; the untold sufferings my countrywoman must have endured from the moment her husband first grew jealous till she determined on this desperate step; as to how and when she had met her lover, how they communicated, and how the baron had discovered the intended flitting in time to concoct his characteristic revenge.

"One thing you may be sure of, I had no mind to remain at Yany an hour longer than necessary. I even contrived to get well clear of the neighborhood before the lady's absence was discovered. Luckily for me— or I might have been taxed with connivance, though indeed the simple household did not seem to know what suspicion was, and accepted my account with childlike credence— very typical, and very convenient to me at the same time."

"But how do you know," said one of us, "that the man was her lover? He might have been her brother or some other relative."

"That," said Marshfield, with his little flat laugh, "I happen to have ascertained— and, curiously enough, only a few weeks ago. It was at the play, between the acts, from my comfortable seat (the first row in the pit). I was looking leisurely round the house when I caught sight of a woman, in a box close by, whose head was turned from me, and who presented the somewhat unusual spectacle of a young neck and shoulders of the most exquisite contour— and perfectly gray hair; and not dull gray, but rather of a pleasing tint like frosted silver. This aroused my curiosity. I brought my glasses to a focus on her and waited patiently till she turned round. Then I recognized the Baroness Kassowski, and I no longer wondered at the young hair being white.

"Yet she looked placid and happy; strangely so, it seemed to me, under the sudden reviving in my memory of such scenes as I have now described. But presently I understood further: beside her, in close attendance, was the man of the sledge, a handsome fellow with much of a military air about him.

"During the course of the evening, as I watched, I saw a friend of mine come into the box, and at the end I slipped out into the passage to catch him as he came out.

" 'Who is the woman with the white hair?' I asked. Then, in the fragmentary style approved of by ultra-fashionable young men— this earnest-languid mode of speech presents curious similarities in all languages— he told me: 'Most charming couple in London— awfully pretty, wasn't she?— he had been in the Guards— attaché at Vienna once— they adored each other. White hair, devilish queer, wasn't it? Suited her, somehow. And then she had been married to a Russian, or something, somewhere in the wilds, and their names were— ' But do you know," said Marshfield, interrupting himself, "I think I had better let you find that out for yourselves, if you care."

_______________________

11: The Mystery of Chenholt

Alice and Claude Askew

1874-1917; 1865-1917

The Adventures of Police Constable Vane M.A., 1908

The book from which this story is taken is incredibly rare, and I cannot find a prior magazine publication date.

IT WAS many weeks after his terrible night in the "mummy house" that Reggie, still feeble from his illness, his broad shoulders a little bent and rounded, was able to resume his duties. It was evident that he was unfit for active work, that change of air and scene was necessary for him, so the police authorities decided to transfer him temporarily to the country. I think I have made it clear that Reggie was a favourite both with his superiors and his subordinates, all of whom showed real sympathy for him during his illness.

Well, Reggie was given charge of the police-station of a small Surrey town, the name of which it is not necessary to mention. It is sufficient to say that it stood on high ground, and in the neighbourhood of the fragrant pine woods. Under these cheerful auspices, his health improved wonderfully; he soon held himself erect once more, and resumed the favoured cigar, a habit which he had not indulged since his convalescence. I had missed that long cigar during his visits to me at this period; Reggie was not the same man without it.

He soon became as popular at X— as he was in London. In so small a town it may easily be imagined that his duties were not very exciting; there were no thrilling adventures to report to me— luckily, considering all he had gone through. One experience, however, is worth recording, though, as a matter of fact, it concerned Violet Grey almost more than her fiancé.

Reggie's one trouble in his new position was that he saw so little of Violet, so he was naturally delighted when an opportunity presented itself of summoning her in her professional capacity to his neighbourhood. This is how it happened.

Reggie was requested one day to see a gentleman at the police-station on a private matter. There was a good deal of mystery about the letter which requested an appointment; it stated that the writer would call at a certain hour on a matter of vital importance, but gave no name or address. Reggie examined the letter with curiosity; he did not like anonymous epistles, and he had had some experience of "cranks."

The handwriting, too, seemed a trifle shaky. "Statements to be received with caution," was Reggie's decision as to the manner in which he should treat his intending visitor.

When, in due course, the stranger put in an appearance, my cautious friend was more favourably impressed. The ill-written letter was accounted for by an admitted lack of education, an admission made with peculiar frankness. Frankness, indeed, appeared to be the chief characteristic of Mr Grimsby, the name by which the visitor announced himself. It seemed impossible to doubt his word. He was a tall, clean-shaven man of forty or thereabouts, soberly dressed in black, a trifle nervous, perhaps— a nervousness indicated by twitching fingers—but otherwise straightforward in manner. He was the very type of his profession, which it required no detective instinct to guess.

"I am butler, sir, to Mr and Mrs Darrell," he said; "they live just outside Chenholt, a village about a couple of miles from here. I expect you know it." He spoke with peculiar precision, accenting his words carefully—a strange contrast to his badly expressed letter.

"Yes?" queried Reggie.

"I have been with Mr Darrell for three months now," continued Grimsby, "and I have noticed something which has alarmed me considerably. I have thought it over day and night, it has been an oppression to my mind. So I decided at last to come and ask your advice."

He paused. "What have you noticed?" asked Reggie.

The butler approached a little closer to my friend. His fingers twitched nervously, but his voice was steady enough as he whispered rather than spoke: "I fear that Mr Darrell is poisoning his wife." He raised his blue eyes— weak eyes they were— with evident sincerity. The man believed what he said.

Reggie knew the Darrells of Chenholt by repute. A young couple, not long married, who had settled in Surrey during the last year. The wife was popularly supposed to have provided the money of the ménage, but, for the rest, they were considered a happy and loving pair.

"This is rather a startling statement, you know," said Reggie, "and one that you should not make without very definite grounds for suspicion. Have you got these?"

"Grave suspicions, yes," answered the man. "I am sure of it in my own mind. Mrs Darrell has been in ill-health for the past three weeks— ever since Mr Darrell took to dosing her. He always gives her the medicine himself, and she seems to get worse after it. I have seen him over and over again tampering with the bottles. And I have heard him talking— talking to himself, as he does it. I have seen him give her the medicine, and noticed his face as he hands it to her. At meals, too, he has furtively added something to her wine, drops from a bottle or powder from a paper— many times I have seen this, but, of course, I couldn't interfere."

Reggie knit his brows. "But there's nothing in all this to go upon," he said, "there's not the smallest proof even of anything wrong—"

Grimsby interrupted sharply. "Proof, no," he said; "but what's the good of proof when the woman's dead? I tell you I'm sure of what I say. That man is poisoning her— very slowly, so as not to arouse suspicion. He does it all so carefully, with such fiendish thought— but he doesn't know that I'm on the watch, that I'll put a stop to it, somehow."

The words were wild, quietly as they were spoken. Reggie glanced up sharply. The man stood steady and self-possessed before him.

"What do you wish me to do?" asked Reggie; "I can't act upon such vague information. You are probably wholly mistaken."

"I'm not mistaken," answered the butler, with conviction. "I haven't watched day after day for nothing. To anyone in the place the thing must be clear—he must think that I'm blind."

Grimsby spoke very earnestly. His manner impressed Reggie, even against his judgment. "I want to save my mistress, sir; that is why I have come to you. In a little while it may be too late. What do you advise?"

Reggie rapidly thought out a plan, one that could do no harm, whatever the true facts of the case might be.

"Is there any way of getting a detective in the house?" he asked, "a woman, for choice, to be with Mrs Darrell? Are any of the servants leaving?"

The idea seemed to strike Grimsby as feasible. "Yes," he replied eagerly, "Mrs Darrell is on the look-out for a new maid, and there is great difficulty of getting one in the country. She has applied at the registry office here several times, I know. Anybody that came through them—"

Reggie stopped the flow of words. "I doubt very much if there is anything in what you have told me, Mr Grimsby," he said, "but there can be no harm in supplying Mrs Darrell with a new maid. I will see to this, but, remember, I will accept her report as absolute, however contrary it may be to yours."

Mr Grimsby was in nowise nonplussed. "By all means, sir, let it be so," he said. "I am convinced that the lady will see the truth of my statement. Believe me," he added, "it is a case of life or death, and, if we act at once, we may save Mrs Darrell."

With these words the butler took his leave, leaving Reggie distinctly impressed by the evident sincerity of his intentions.

Violet had no particular case on hand just then; so much Reggie knew. She would not mind spending a few days in Mrs Darrell's service to confirm or refute the accusations of the butler. It was an irregular proceeding, quixotic, perhaps— but there was the outside possibility that the life of a woman might be at stake. And Reggie decided that if he took the only other course, that of communicating directly with the Darrells, the result might be merely that of postponing the evil day for the proposed victim.

Violet, communicated with by telegram, fell in with her lover's views, and arrived hurriedly at X—, prepared to undertake her new duties should she be accepted. I must admit that in all this I could see rather more than professional zeal, and, when Reggie told me the story, I was inclined to laugh at him. "That's all very well, old fellow," he answered, "but if we did work things in, conveniently to ourselves, remember there was a very serious motive behind it all."

It was useless my pointing out that Reggie hadn't much faith in his own motive. He wouldn't admit that for a moment.

So it came about that Violet entered the service of Mrs Darrell as lady's-maid. There was very little difficulty to be overcome. The registry office at X— recommended her highly, and Mrs Darrell, considering the difficulty she had met with in finding a maid at all, was not particular about references. Besides, as Reggie pointed out, anybody would have engaged a girl like Violet as soon as she presented herself.

"Report to me fully anything you notice," Reggie had told her, "never mind how trivial it is. Nor do I mind how often you come to make your reports."

"Certainly, Inspector Vane," she answered, laughing; "but isn't it a new thing for you to teach me my business?"

For the first few days the reports, generally received through the post, were negative.

"I can't say I see anything wrong as yet," wrote Violet; "the Darrells seem the most devoted couple on the face of the earth. Certainly she is a bit of an invalid, but then she is such a soft, delicate little person that you could well imagine a breath of wind blowing her away. I can't see how she could stand even three weeks of slow poisoning. I have never surprised a sharp word between the two, and he looks as if he positively adored her. It is quite true about her having the money, which, of course, he would come in for on her death— so there's a motive, if that goes for anything. Then it's true, also, that Mr Darrell physics her; she takes a tonic which he gives her three times a day. I haven't succeeded in getting a sample of it yet, but I will before long, and that'll be the great test. I don't see how they behave at meals, as, naturally, I don't have access to the dining-room. Mr Grimsby is always on the watch; I believe the man is quite genuine, but I think he is disposed to make much of trifles, and to allow his suspicions to dominate everything. As for Mr Darrell, I can't say I like the man, but between that and suspecting him of murder there is a great difference."

After a matter of ten days or so Violet's communications altered somewhat in their tone.

"There is a mystery of some sort in this house," she wrote, "but where it is I can't quite make out. Twice already I have heard footsteps wandering about at night-time. I must tell you that at the end of the passage where I have my room there is a large cupboard in which I know Mr Darrell keeps his chemicals. This cupboard is always locked. There is a staircase close by which leads to a kind of laboratory, where Mr Darrell experiments when the fancy seizes him. He is by way of being a chemist, you know. Well, in the dead of the night I have heard footsteps mounting the main staircase, and going towards that cupboard, then the sound of bottles being moved about, and finally the returning footsteps. Somehow it has seemed to me that after these events Mrs Darrell has been worse. Do you think it possible, Reggie, that there can be something in this poisoning story after all? That this man is killing his wife so slowly and so skilfully as to avoid all breath of suspicion? I don't quite know what to think as yet— but I'm sure I don't like Mr Darrell. One thing, however: if it is he, why should he go to his cupboard at night? He might have it open all day without exciting alarm— but this is certain: he never does go there by day."

The next letter recounted a peculiar experience. "I couldn't stand the mystery of those footsteps any longer, Reggie, so I lay awake last night listening for them. I knew they would come. When I heard them passing close to my door I slipped into a dressing-gown and went out. It was rather weird somehow, and I believe I was a little frightened. There is a large window at the end of the passage, near the cupboard, and, as it is without a blind, the moon shone in, making long, eerie shadows on the walls. Everything else in the house was so still, too; there was nothing but those muffled footsteps. Peeping out of my door, I could see a dark figure at the end of the passage, so, plucking up all the courage I could muster, I advanced. I got quite close to the night wanderer before he heard me; he was standing in irresolute attitude at the foot of the stairs leading to the laboratory. The cupboard door was ajar. He wore a heavy dressing-gown and carpet slippers, and, when he turned to me, I saw, to my surprise, that it was not Mr Darrell, as I expected, but the butler, Grimsby. His face was very pale, almost blue in the moonlight. When he saw me he put his finger to his lips. 'Hush!' he said.

" 'What is it?' I asked. 'Why are you here at this time of night?'

" 'So you are on the watch, too?' he whispered. 'I have followed him tonight—as I have followed him many times before. He has been at the cupboard again. Don't you see it is open?'

" 'Do you mean Mr Darrell?' I asked. 'Where is he?'

" 'He went upstairs to the laboratory. He is there now.' The face of the man was perfectly ghastly in its pallor. 'Soon he will come down again and lock the cupboard, then make his way softly, softly to his own room. We must not let him catch us here, Miss Grey; that will never do. You must go back— go back to your room.'

"I suppose I ought to have stayed where I was, Reggie, but do you know what it is to be overtaken by sudden panic? I fancied sounds descending the staircase, I saw that tall man with his ghastly face gesticulating in front of me, the pale moonlight just caught the edge of a mysterious-looking row of bottles in the half-open cupboard—I couldn't stand it, and literally turned round and flew back to the protection of my own room, where I locked the door and stood holding the handle trembling with fear. Wasn't it silly of me? I didn't think I was so emotional, but that man in his long dressing-gown, and with his swinging arms, frightened me. Will you forgive me for not finding out anything? And what do you make of it all? I have never heard the footsteps of two people, but then Mr Darrell might reach the laboratory from his room without coming up the main staircase."

It was the day following this that Reggie received a letter which filled him with alarm. This is what it said:

"I am not very well, Reggie. I don't think it is much, and I don't want you to be alarmed; but the fact is, I have taken a dose of Mrs Darrell's medicine. I am afraid there can be no doubt that there is something wrong with it, or I should not feel so ill now. It happened like this. The day after the experience of which I spoke in my last letter I thought I had better say something to Mrs Darrell—to warn her of possible danger. It was just before lunch, and she was about to take her tonic—her husband had just brought it in to her. She is a dear little woman, and always talks familiarly to me, so I had no hesitation in speaking.

" 'Do you think it wise to take all these medicines without the advice of a doctor?' I asked.

"She laughed heartily— though I thought her looking very ill. 'Why, this is the most simple of tonics,' she answered, 'I take it three times a day. It picks me up wonderfully.' She looked at me sympathetically. 'You are pale this morning, Violet,' she said, 'I'll give you a dose of it, and you'll see what a good doctor my husband is.' She poured out a dose and handed it to me.

"Well, Reggie, I decided to take it. I concluded that if Mrs Darrell swallowed three doses a day, it could not hurt me much, and its effect upon me might decide a very vexed question. I took it, and now, as I am writing, an hour after my lunch, I feel horribly ill. I suppose the effect will soon pass off, but oh, Reggie, I fear there is no doubt of the poisoning. Poor little Mrs Darrell, it is too wicked."

It is needless to capitulate all that Reggie wrote in answer to this letter. His forcible expressions may be imagined. Shortly his instructions were that Violet was not to touch another drop of medicine in the Darrells' house, but that if she could get a sample of it for analysis so much the better. And very soon afterwards she contrived to do this, giving it personally to Reggie one day when they contrived to meet. "And oh, Reggie," she said, "I still feel so ill, though it is days since I took the nasty stuff." Her pale face did not belie her words.

Reggie looked at her anxiously. "We shall have to get out of this, dear," he said. "In the meanwhile you will be very careful, won't you?"

He did not delay in getting an analysis of the medicine which he had obtained. It proved to be perfectly innocuous.

When he learnt the result Reggie tugged at his moustache dubiously. "It's a rummy go altogether," he pondered, "and I can't make head or tail of it. The one thing is, Violet must be got away."

And, indeed, this course soon became imperative, for Violet's health gave real cause for alarm. Without perceptible reason, she became weaker, though she was loath to acknowledge it even to herself.

"You must tell Mrs Darrell that you are obliged to leave her service because of ill-health," Reggie urged one evening when he had walked over to Chenholt to visit Violet. Mrs Darrell saw no objection to her maid receiving occasional visits from her friends. "Leave tomorrow, if possible, Violet. This sort of thing mustn't go on. I don't know where the mischief is, but I'm not going to have you submitted to it, anyhow."

Violet promised obedience, sorry as she felt for Mrs Darrell. "I would give a lot to know who is injuring her," she said.

"It's much more important that someone is trying to injure you," growled Reggie. "You will leave tomorrow, Violet?"

"Yes, I'll leave tomorrow," she answered, steadily, and with that assurance Reggie bade her good-night.

It was about nine o'clock when Reggie left the house to walk back across the fields to X—. It was a warm night, and as he descended the broad stone steps of the front door, he noticed that the blind of the dining-room close by him was up, and the window open. Mr and Mrs Darrell had just finished dinner, and were chatting gaily over dessert. She was lying at full length on a sofa drawn up to the table— a concession to her delicate health. It was quite a pretty, homelike scene, suggestive of anything but that which was uppermost in Reggie's mind at the moment.

As he was about to pass on, the door opened, and Grimsby entered. Mr and Mrs Darrell looked up in evident surprise, not expecting interruption at that hour. There was an expression in the butler's face which made Reggie draw back into the shadow of the doorway, where he could see without being seen, and hear without giving indication of his presence. He could not have explained what it was, but somehow he sniffed danger with that indefinable feeling which is rare in man, unless he has trained his senses to the appreciation of it.

"What do you want, Grimsby?" asked Mr Darrell, with some show of annoyance.

The butler advanced silently to the table, standing with his back to Reggie, and fronting his master. In this way his face was hidden from the watcher's view, but the twitching of his fingers, as his hands were alternately raised and then dropped to his side, was very evident. His voice when he spoke was frank and easy, as it had been on his visit to the police-station.

"I have come to tell you, Mr Darrell, that I have found you out."

"What do you mean?" cried Darrell, rising. "You must be drunk, Grimsby. Leave the room immediately."

"I have found you out, sir," repeated the man. "After many days and nights of watching, you stand convicted, to my mind." His hands clutched the side of the table, and he fixed his eyes upon Mr Darrell. "Murderer!" He brought out the word with a jerk, and then stood silent.

Darrell was a big man, muscular and active. He turned to his wife: "Don't be frightened, dear. I'm afraid Grimsby has been drinking. I will take him off to bed." Master advanced upon man only to be confronted by the muzzle of a revolver presented at him by the butler. Reggie's hand was on the sash of the partially open window, but, seeing Grimsby's movement, he paused. Precipitate action meant danger.

"You are a murderer, Mr Darrell," continued the butler, calmly, "and I propose to shoot you. You see quite well that you can't escape, for I hold you covered by my revolver. It is loaded in six chambers, and I bought it on purpose to shoot you with."

Darrell resumed his seat with splendid sang-froid. "Very well, Grimsby," he said, "you propose to shoot me, and, as you say, I cannot escape. But you won't mind telling me first whom I have murdered?"

"You are murdering your wife, poisoning her by degrees." The man spoke slowly, deliberately, to all appearance sane, yet his action was that of a madman. "And you must die for it."

Mrs Darrell gave a sharp cry. She had risen to a sitting position on her sofa, and had been staring at the scene in helpless terror.

"No, no, Grimsby," she cried; "what are you thinking of? My husband is very good to me."

"I am certain of what I say, madam," returned the man, without relaxing a muscle; "and in your interests I propose to shoot your husband." With his disengaged hand he drew out his watch and laid it on the table. "I give you two minutes more, Mr Darrell. It will be good for your soul if you confess before you die."

Darrell looked at his wife, and his face was very pale and set. He was evidently meditating a sudden dash, Reggie outside was preparing to climb in by the window as quickly as he could, when he was arrested by Mrs Darrell's voice.

"Grimsby," she said, and her voice had the calmness of despair in it, "what you say is true. I have known for some time that my husband was poisoning me." Darrell looked at her sharply; then he understood, and held his peace. She rose very quietly, and went to the butler's side. "It is very just that he should die, but it is not you who should take the vengeance." Her voice hardly faltered. "Give me the revolver, and let me kill him."

This was a new development, and it seemed to impress the butler. But the hand which held the revolver did not flinch, had it done so Darrell would have immediately seized his chance. Facing the window as he did, he now saw help approaching in the person of Reggie, but with splendid courage he gave no sign. With a caution remarkable in a man of his inches, Reggie scaled the sill and stood on the floor of the room.

"No, stand where you are, Mrs Darrell," cried the madman; "if you move another step I fire. It is not right that a woman should kill her husband. Fate has made me your avenger." He glanced at his watch as the poor little woman stopped, gazing spellbound at the scene. "Now, Mr Darrell, one— two—"

He got no further, for the next second Reggie's arms were round him. The weapon exploded harmlessly, and the monomaniac was thrown to the ground, struggling, kicking, and biting, but helpless in the grip of the two men. Mrs Darrell staggered back to the sofa, and fell in a dead faint.

"So the whole story of secret poisoning was pretty quickly exploded," concluded Reggie, "and I felt a shocking fool ever to have been taken in by a madman's yarn. But you have no idea, Arthur, how rational a monomaniac of this sort can be, and how often evidence lends itself to his tale. Would not anyone have been suspicious under the circumstances I have told you? We found out subsequently that Grimsby's wife had been accidentally poisoned by a dose of oxalic acid, taken by mistake for Epsom salts, and he had been accused of causing her death. He was acquitted, but the thing weighed so much on his mind that it sent him off his head. He was reasonable enough in every other way, but on the subject of poisoning— well, you know what mischief he brought about. As fate would have it, Mr Darrell happened to dabble in chemistry, and that cupboard full of chemicals probably started Grimsby's suspicions. He managed to obtain a key of it, and he knew all that it contained. Of course, he imagined Mr Darrell's nightly visits to it. After all, the worst sufferer was poor Violet, who was really ill from some nasty stuff he mixed with her food, under the impression, of course, that he had found Mr Darrell's poison, and would try its effect upon a third person. But she's all right now, thank Heaven, and Grimsby, I believe, is in the county asylum, where he fancies everybody is trying to poison him."

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12: The Mystery of a Midsummer Night

George R. Sims

1848–1922

The Sketch, 9 Aug 1911

I WAS TRYING to persuade my friend Detective Inspector Chance to write his reminiscences.

"I have often thought of doing what you suggest," he said. "In fact a year or two ago I got a young journalist friend of mine to put one of my cases into story form. But he had not gone far with it before I found that it came out too much like a novelette, and not like a detective's way of putting things. So the story was left unfinished. You can read it, if you care to."

The famous detective took a manuscript from his desk and handed it to me.

At eight o'clock on a bright June morning the inhabitants of the West Country village of Farley Royal had gathered together in little groups to discuss the amazing happening that had come to disturb the rural peace in which they passed their uneventful lives.

Half-an-hour previously the Squire, Mr Deane West, had been seen driving through the village in his pony chaise. It had passed from lip to lip that he was on his way to Brentbridge, the nearest town, to obtain the assistance of the police in unravelling a mystery.

In the hush of the midsummer night the Squire's youngest son, Eric, a bright little fellow of four, had been stolen from his father's house, taken from the cot in which he lay asleep by the side of his nurse's bed.

No one in the house had heard a sound. The nurse had not missed her charge until she woke at six in the morning. Then she saw that the boy was gone, and that a blanket was missing from his cot.

The Squire, when he was informed of the disappearance of little Eric, at once concluded that it was an act of revenge on the part of some evil-doer against whom in his capacity as a Justice of the Peace he had been severe.

His boy had been stolen "to spite him."

It was with this idea that Squire West had hurried off to place the matter in the hands of the Superintendent at Brentbridge Police Station.

But long before the Squire returned the mystery of his child's fate had been solved.

Some of the villagers and servants, searching the grounds of the house, had discovered bloodstains on the floor of an old disused outhouse that had a vault beneath it. The discovery caused the searchers to examine the vault. There the body of the child had been discovered. The throat was cruelly gashed. The lifeless little form was wrapped in the missing blanket. When the Superintendent from Brentbridge arrived with a couple of officers, it was only to learn that he had no longer to search for little Eric West, but to discover the author of a cruel and apparently purposeless crime.

Beyond the Squire's own suggestion, that it must be someone whom he had offended, there was no imaginable motive for such an inhuman deed.

But it was difficult to accept the distracted father's theory.

No sound had been heard during the night. The child had not uttered a cry, as it was almost certain that he would have done when he found himself being carried through the house in the dead of night by a stranger.

A dog was left loose in the grounds at night to protect the house, a lonely one, against burglars.

The dog had not barked.

The dining-room door, and the window that gave access to the grounds were found a little open when the servants came down. They had been carefully fastened the night before. But there was not the slightest evidence that the window had been forced from the outside.

The suspicion of the police was at once centred on the occupants of the house, but their first investigation failed to furnish them with a clue. It seemed impossible that any one of them could be guilty of such a deed.

"That," said John Chance, as I returned the MS to him, "is as far as my friend had written. But that is just how matters stood when I accompanied one of the cleverest detectives of Scotland Yard to Farley Royal to assist him in unravelling the tangled thread.

"And tangled it certainly was.

"When we arrived on the scene we found not only the villagers but the people of the neighbouring town, had pretty well made up their minds.

"Some suspected the Squire, and others were strongly convinced that the maid, Alice Lee, was the guilty party.

"My superior officer—I was not an inspector then—took charge of the investigation in the house, and left me to ramble the village and make my own outside inquiries. But every night we met, and compared notes.

"Mr West had been married twice. His family consisted of his second wife and seven children— four by his first marriage. Of these, the two elder were not living at home. The two younger— Madeleine, a girl of sixteen, and Edward, a boy of fourteen— had just returned from boarding-school. The children of the second marriage were two little girls and Eric, the four-year-old boy with whose tragic fate all England was ringing.

"All the occupants of the house on the night of the tragedy, including even the unhappy mother had been subjected to a searching examination before we arrived. Not a trace of blood had been found on any particle of clothing in the possession of any member of the household.

"My Chief had made particular inquiries about a missing nightdress belonging to Miss Madeleine.

"But this had been accounted for. It was proved that this young lady and her mother had, before my Chief investigated the matter, been making inquiries of the laundress concerning its disappearance.

"A maid distinctly remembered putting it with the washing the day after the crime was committed and sending it to the laundress.

"It was in consequence of the laundress failing to return it that she was reprimanded by Mrs West for losing it.

"When we took charge of the case there was already a public clamour that Mr West and the nurse should be arrested.

"The conclusion at which certain people had arrived was that there was an intrigue between the Squire and the nurse, who was an attractive-looking girl, and that something had happened which might have led to the boy—who was alleged to have been in the habit of carrying tales to his mother—betraying their secret.

"The questions that were being asked to the Squire's detriment were these:

"Why did he order his carriage and drive the long distance to Brentbridge when there was a policeman much nearer?

"The route taken by the carriage lay through open country. He might while driving— he drove a pony carriage and was alone— have disposed of the weapon and other incriminating evidence against himself.

"Why had he not shown the slightest indignation against the nurse, who had allowed the boy to be taken away from the room in which she slept?

"Why, instead of suspecting her, did he defend her when it was hinted that things looked black against her?

"The points urged against the nurse, Alice Lee, were these:

"How could the child have been taken from the bed without her knowledge?

"It was proved that the door-handle of the bedroom creaked. If a strange person entered the room in the silence of the night why did she not hear it?

"Why, when she acknowledged that she missed the child when she woke at six, did she wait till seven o'clock before she knocked at her mistress's door to inquire 'if Master Eric was with her'?

"My Chief, having certain ideas of his own, ignored the local theory, but his views were over-ruled. By order of the local superintendent, Alice Lee was arrested and taken before the magistrates.

"But beyond the suspicion entertained by the general public there was nothing to go upon. Not an atom of real evidence could be produced and the girl was discharged.

"The local police had blundered, and blundered badly. Scotland Yard was now upon its mettle.

"The arrest and discharge of the nurse had raised popular excitement to fever-heat. The whole country had taken up the mystery of a midsummer night, and our failure to furnish a clue to it was being hotly discussed in the Press. Into the London papers a torrent of correspondence was pouring, and the Times had a leader on the subject.

"That someone in the house was guilty I felt certain. No stranger to the place could have passed the dog who was loose in the grounds. It was a savage animal, and would bark fiercely even if it did not attack a midnight intruder. The only possible theory as to motive so far was the one that incriminated the Squire and the pretty nursemaid.

" 'Who will give us the clue?' said the Brentbridge officer one day when we had all met together, discussing the situation.

" 'Chance,' replied my Chief, looking at me encouragingly. He had enormous faith in me, you see— but it was a faith which up to that time I had unfortunately not justified.

"The local officer shrugged his shoulders. 'Chance does not come into this case,' he said; 'I am convinced that I arrested the guilty party in Alice Lee. If the magistrates had been wise they would have given a long remand. As it is she is free, and has left the neighbourhood.'

" 'She has gone to stay with her father in London,' I urged; 'you can always arrest her again.'

"'I shall,' was the reply, 'and at the first opportunity.'

"THAT EVENING I dropped into the village alehouse. I wanted to distract my thoughts by listening to the gossip of the village worthies.

"The talk, as I anticipated it would, soon turned upon the tragedy, and the villagers presently fell to discussing the different members of the family.

" 'Ay,' said one old fellow, 'it's my belief as all the Wests be more or less mad.'

" 'What have they done,' I asked, 'to make you think that?'

" 'Well— the first Mrs West was in a 'sylum onst, I've heerd; and Miss Madeleine her daughter, ha' done some queer things. Do you remember, Willum,' he said, turning to the local butcher, 'when her and Master Ed'ard run away dressed up, and went to a hotel at Bath?'

" 'Ran away,' I said, 'and dressed up?'

" 'Yes— you see, they didn't hit it off somehows with their stepmother; leastways, Miss Madeleine didn't— and she could always do as she liked with her brother. You wouldn't believe as one fine day she got some of his clothes and dressed herself up as a boy. Then she cut off her long hair, and she and him run away and got to Bath, and went to the hotel and asked for rooms for the night, as bold as brass.'

" 'Really!'

" 'Yes, they did. But the landlord, he see as they hadn't got no luggage, and he couldn't make 'em out; so he calls the landlady in, and she hadn't looked at the young gentleman with the 'acked hair a minute afore she says, "Young gentleman, you're a gal."

" 'Then the boy got frightened, and he owned up as the other boy was his sister; and the landlord found out who they was, and he wired to Squire, and Squire went and fetched 'em back.'

" 'Yes,' struck in the landlord of the inn, turning to me, 'it's gospel true, but there's one thing as Mr Peters ain't told you. When they was a-wondering what on earth Miss Madeleine could ha' done with her hair as she'd cut off she owned up and told 'em. She'd put it into a tin and thrown it into the vault in that there disused outhouse in the shrubbery, the same place as the poor little chap's body was found in.'

"I waited till the house closed at ten o'clock—I wanted to hear anything more that might be said—and then I went straight to my Chief's lodgings.

" 'We've got it,' I cried, as I entered his room.

" 'Got what?'

"The clue. Four years ago, Madeleine West ran away from home because she hated her stepmother. She dressed up as a boy, cut off her hair and hid it in the vault in the outhouse in the shrubbery. The murderer of little Eric West is his half-sister, Madeleine. She killed him because she hated her stepmother, and she concealed the body in the old hiding-place— the one she had used before.'

"My Chief grasped my hand. 'Chance!' he exclaimed. 'I knew that sooner or later you would find the clue. And you have.'

" 'You accept it?' I said gleefully.

" 'Accept it? Of course I do— it only strengthens my own suspicions of the girl. I've never been satisfied with her explanation of the missing nightdress.'

" 'Let us put the two things together,' I said. 'If Madeleine committed the crime her nightdress would be blood-stained. There's a nightdress she cannot account for. It has been lost in the wash, she says— but the laundress denies ever having received it. The boy is found in an unfrequented part of the grounds in a vault the girl had used once before, to hide incriminating evidence— the evidence of her flight. The motive of the murder is the motive of that flight: Hatred of her stepmother and jealousy of the boy, who was her father's favourite. That is motive enough for a girl whose mother was once in an asylum. What are you going to do?'

" 'Tomorrow I shall arrest Madeleine West.'

"MY CHIEF was as good as his word. The next day he arrested Madeleine West and took her to Brentbridge.

"The clue that I had given him was not evidence, and he made no reference to it. His main point was the missing nightdress. Madeleine West was remanded for a week, during which time she was kept in jail. When she next appeared in court, the housemaid swore the missing nightdress was put in the basket, and the laundress swore that if it was, she never received it.

"But this time it was Scotland Yard that was credited with having made a false move. The magistrate, after hearing the evidence, discharged the girl on her father's undertaking to bring her up again 'if called upon.' Then the Temperance Hall, in which the inquiry had been held, rang with the applause of the public.

"As I left the court, I saw my Chief. I turned to him anxiously, and said, 'Do you still believe that I gave you the clue?'

"He looked me straight in the eyes, 'I am sure,' he answered.

"But I had done him a bad turn. The next day he paid the penalty for his 'false move' by being taken off the case and recalled to the Yard, and I returned with him.

"WITH THE failure of the second arrest in the Farley Royal mystery, the task of the police was practically over. The inquiry was carried on by the Press and the public. In the last leading article written on the subject before the excitement died down, the writer thus summed up the situation:

"'Mr West has explained all his actions that were suspicious; Madeleine West has told her story. The charge against her was an imprudence: that against the nurse, Alice Lee, an injustice. The truth concerning the murder of little Eric West is locked up in the conscience of its perpetrator and the judgment-book of Heaven.'

"It was the conscience of its perpetrator that revealed it at last.

"Four years later, Madeleine West made a voluntary confession.

"She had entered a religious retreat, and one day she laid her guilty soul bare to a priest. This is the story as she told it. She had taken one of her father's razors from his drawer, some days before the date of the murder. Shortly after midnight she had stolen into the nurse's room, taken the sleeping child from its bed, withdrawn the blanket to wrap it in, passed through the dining-room, opened the window, and gone out into the grounds with only her nightdress on, but with goloshes on her feet because they made no noise. She had remembered that she had once hidden her hair where nobody found it, till she told the searchers where to look. Remembering this, she had carried the boy to the disused outhouse, behind the shrubbery, and killed him there.

"While her father was away in search of the police she had cleaned the razor and replaced it in his case. The missing nightdress was not the one she wore. That she had burnt. But it left her with only five, and she knew she would have to account for six. So she put out the one she was wearing to go with the soiled linen to the laundress.

"When it had been entered on the washing-list, she managed to get it out of the basket again. In this way she was able to produce five out of her six nightdresses, and to rely on the evidence of the maid to prove that the sixth had gone to the wash.

"On the day that Madeleine West was found guilty—the capital sentence was afterwards commuted to penal servitude for life—my old Chief, then retired, was in court. As we came out together he grasped my hand.

"'Chance,' he said, 'my belief in your clue was never shaken. I knew that you were right.'

"THAT," said my friend Inspector Chance. "is the story of the tragedy at Farley Royal. The truth came to light at last, but one terrible idea has always haunted me in connection with it.

"If Madeleine West in putting back her father's razor had left upon it a single mark that could have connected it with the deed, what might the end of my story have been?"

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13: The Chinese Chessmen

James M'Govan

(William Crawford Honeyman, 1845–1919)

Using the name James M'Govan, New Zealand-born Scottish author William Crawford Honeyman penned a long series of police stories under the heading "The Edinburgh Detective", commencing in the 1870s. This story is from an American dime novel publisher, who published a set of 13 stories under the title "The Edinburgh Detective: His Last Confession" in Old Cap Collier Library in 1883.More than likely the stories were pirated, not unusual in 19th century USA. The Editor is preparing the full 13 story edition as time permits. This is a taster.

THE PLACE where the murder took place is a manufacturing town more than twenty miles from Edinburgh, which I may name Grangely, and in this town the man murdered, Josiah Fletcher by name, had enjoyed the reputation of being the best-hated and worst-tempered man in the community. He was a bachelor, and so I suppose had never got the corners rubbed off him; but apart from that, he appears to have been grasping and stingy in the extreme, especially when the sufferer happened to be poor and not able to retaliate.

I was called out to investigate the affair because there were several very peculiar circumstances which the local police could not unravel. These can be readily summed up. Fletcher was an old man, and had at one time been a hedger and ditcher, but by a life of rigid economy had saved enough to purchase a rickety tenement atone end of the town, which was just falling to pieces. A small factory happened to be built near the building, and Fletcher let this ruin of his in single rooms to the workers as dwelling-houses. As a landlord he was known to exact the uttermost farthing, and never to part with a penny till forced. He was hated by his tenants, and continually quarreling with them and others, so I guessed that the task of ferreting out the person among all these wdio had taken upon him the crime of ending Fletcher's existence would be no easy one. There was surprise, excitement, and busy speculation on the event in the town, but, so far as I could find, no pity or regret.

Fletcher had lived alone in a two-roomed cottage at the outskirts of the town, and occupied hirriself chiefly in tilling a large garden, the produce of which he sold. A woman came once or twice a week to clean the house or help him ill the garden, but she did not sleep in the place, and was always gone by eight or nine o'clock at night.

It was this woman, Sib Chapman by name, who discovered the murder, at least twenty-four hours after it had been committed. It was her day for coming to work for Fletcher, and she was there by six o'clock in the morning. She found the door shut, but after knocking for some time, and getting no answer, she tried the latch and found the door unlocked. Thinking that Fletcher had gone out to the garden at the back, she fearlessly entered, intending to begin her work; but she got no further than the kitchen, which was also Fletcher's sleeping place. She saw the form of the old man stretched on the earthen floor in an awkward heap, face downwards, with a crimson pool beneath his face, and big splatches of the same color at different parts of the floor, as if the unfortunate man had staggered or walked about after receiving his death wound. Some of these splatches had dried, thus indicating that the crime had been some time done. Horrified almost into fainting, the woman bent over the prostrate figure, and at once guessed, from the waxen pallor of the features, that life was extinct, and wisely refrained from raising the body, or moving it in any way. Indeed, there was a gap in the throat partially visible from the side, which gave her a wholesome aversion to any closer inspection.

''The auld meeser's deid— murdered very likely for his siller, or maybe jist cut his ain throat in ane o' his mad fits," was her first reflection. "I hope naebody will think it's me that has dune it?"

Away she ran to the nearest house with the  startling news, and in a very short time she had no lack of company or assistance in the house of the deceased. These were all promptly turned out as soon as the police appeared, accompanied by a medical man. Fletcher's form was raised, and pronounced to have been lifeless for twenty-four hours.

The cause of death was a long and deep wound in the throat. There were no decided traces of a struggle having taken place, but two very striking facts were speedily discovered. The first was that no knife or other letlial weapon could be discovered near the body, or in the house, stained -with blood, or in any way indicating that it had been used in the commission of the crime; and the second was a crimson foot-print on the cam'staned floor, near the spot where the body had been found, which sliowed clearly the marks of about a dozen round tackets or hob nails in the sole, and nearly the whole outline of an iron heel.

The body of Fletcher had no boots, but slippers on the feer; and the boots he usually wore, which were found by the fire, were so caked with earth about the sole and heel, that it would have been impossible to get a print of the hob-nails or heel without first having them cleaned. Besides, in size and shape, the footprints of blood on the floor did not match the foot of the deceased, even if the nails had not been caked over with his garden delving.

The foot which had made the imprint appeared to have stepped inadvertently into the crimson pool and thence on to the unstained portion beyond. It had stepped in the direction of the back room, and the window of that room,which looked into the garden, was found open. To follow the footprint, was now the object of the investigators.

No trace of it was to be found in the back room, but there were confused and rough footmarks on the earth outside of the window. A bunch of pansies had been trodden on and crushed, and further across the grounds there were indications of a pause having been made and the earth disturbed. A little scraping up of the soil with a hoe which happened to be lying near soon laid bare a long clasp knife, open, stained with blood, and ground to a keen and razor-like sharpness of edge and point. This knife was readily identified by Sib Chapman as having belonged to Fletcher, but she said nothing at the time of an incident which had impressed the fact upon her memory. There was now no doubt in the minds of the police that a murder had been committed, but how it happened that Fletcher had been slain with his own weapon they wer(i unable even to guess. What the object had been was not so mysterious. By the direction of Sib Chapman an inspection of an old meal crock hidden at the bottom of a wooden chest by the fire was made, and a bundle of banknotes, which Sib declared she had seen there a few days before, had vanished. The only other thing missing was a valuable set of ivorv chessmen, which I found had quite a history of its own.

The police of Grangely traced no one, arrested no one, and finally sent for me to help them out of the difficulty; and the first thing which staggered me in the case was this missing set of chessmen. It seemed strange and incomprehensible to me how such a man as Fletcher should have had such a set as they were described to be, for he knew no more about tlie royal game than the man in the moon. lie did not even play draughts, and though said to be cracked on many points, he was in regard to money, or valuables likely to produce money, one of the wisest of the wise. When first Sib alluded to these Chinese chessmen in my hearing she said—

''Oh, it was them that Fletcher and his freend Bailie Broon was aye quarreling aboot. A'cuisin o' Fletcher's dee'd in Edinburgh and he got the chessmen, but Bailie Broon, who's a relation, said that he should have got them, and so they were aye feucht, feucluin' aboot them."

"Do you mean that they actually came to blows about the chessmen?" I asked, wondering why Bailie Brown had not been looked after sooner.

"No, but they were aye cauglin' and quarreling, and at last Fletcher tellt me no to let the Bailie in if he cam' near the hoose when I was there. He said the Bailie wanted to buy the chessmen, but they couldna agree aboot the price; and ae day I saw him busy sherpin' his knife on a razor-hone, and he tellt me it was to cut Bailie Broon's throat if he bothered him ony mair."

I qiiestioned the woman closely upon this point in case she might have inverted the facts; but no— she described Fletcher sharpening the knife and grinding it to a point, and all the while malignantly gloating over the fact that it was for Bailie Brown's throat that the keen edge was being prepared.

That being the case, how did it come that the knife had been used with such terrible power against his own?

Bailie Brown, I found, was a man of position and worth, very much beloved, and of a gentle, kindly disposition, and it did seem improbable that such a man should have suddenly changed into a ferocious murderer and robber. The general opinion of those who had heard the circumstances detailed was that the Bailie had right and justice on his side in his claim to the chessmen, but being a man averse to going to law he had submitted to his grasping relation. Now I did not think it likely that anyone so circumstanced would have taken a man's life and then carried off the very thing likely to direct suspicion to himself, even had he been goaded to the act in a moment of frenzy; but I thought that there could be no harm in seeing the Bailie and getting a little information from him on the subject.

Another point was that though the meal crock had been emptied of money nothing in the box had been disturbed or unduly tossed about in laying the treasure bare, thus clearly indicating that the robber had some knowledge of the hiding place and of Fletcher's habits.

I found the Bailie's house to be quite a contrast to that of the deceased. It was a large, fine building at the other end of the town, and not far from a factory which owned Mr Brown as the chief proprietor, I went to the house, though it was midday, and asked for the Bailie.

I was invited to enter, but shortly the servantreappeared with the statement that the gentleman I sought was at the factory, but would be sent for. While I waited a curious idea came into my head, and I rang a bell at my elbow, and iisked the servant to oblige mo with a look at a pair of the Bailie's boots. Quite a change came over the girl's face at the request. I had given no name, and she appeared to think me not nearly such a great man when I asked for the boots.

"Oh, vou are the shoemaker?" she said, and forthwith she brought me a pair of boots of the kind known as half Wellingtons.

They were very light and neat, and much smaller than I had hoped for, and there was not a trace of a nail or iron heel about them. From the style of the boot I took the Bailie to be a neat little man, and not the burly, rough customer whom I had pictured as the murderer.

"Ah, you've brought me his best boots," I remarked, anxious for information; "it's the cotirse ones I wanted—the heavy ones, with tackets in the soles."

"Tackets?" cried the girl, in evident amazement. "I never saw them, and I clean all the boots he has."

"What! never saw the nails in his boots?"

"Never; he wouldn't put on a boot if it had so much as a sprig in it," she said, with great firmness. "I'm sure of that, for I once had to take a pair back on that account."

"Then you may take these away," I remarked with a smile, "for I am not the shoemaker, after all."

She seemed to believe me, and also that I was an escaped lunatic, for she snatched at the boots and vanished with great alacrity. I could hear her and her mistress in the lobby, spying me through the keyhole, and speculating in whispers as to whether I was likely to be dangerous or outrageous.

Presently the Bailie arrived and walked into the room— a slight, little man, as I had pictured him. I gave him my name at once, and that seemed to upset him a little. I cannot say that it was a look of guilt which instantly flashed across his face, but it certainly was one of excitement and uneasiness. He seemed to tremble and fear me— what had he to dread if he was innocent?

"I suppose you have come to talk about Fletcher's death?" he remarked, at length, when he had bustled about the room a little and so recovered countenance to some extent. Isn't it very singular that that set of chessmen which he and. I often wrangled over should have been taken away?"

"It is singular, and I wish you to give me some description of those chessmen, for they will be much more easily traced than money."

"I heard of the money being taken, too," he hurriedly continued;  but, in spite of that, I have an opinion quite opposed to that of the police here. I don't suppose you would care to hear it?"

I quietly negatived the supposition, studying his face closely the while, and not making much of the attempt,

"Well, my opinion is that Fletcher committed suicide," rejoined the Bailie, with great firmness.

"And afterwards ran away with his own money and the set of chessmen— eh?" I answered, with an incredulous smile. "Ho, no; that won't do. The medical man declares that he could not live five minutes with a wound like that in his throat; so how can you account for the knife being buried in the garden?"

"Was it actually?" he said, with a scared look; for we had kept many of the details quiet.

"It was, I assure you, and we have pretty good evidence that the deceased did not put it there."

"I believe that! I believe that!" cried the Bailie, fervently. " It is impossible that he could have put it there," he added with extraordinary decision. " I know that— at least, I think that," he stammered more nervously.

I sat watching the man, and analyzing and weighing his words, but utterly failing to sum them up. He seemed to be innocent, yet to know something of the crime; to be eager to have the mystery cleared up, and frankly communicative, yet to be keeping something back which might assist me materially. I questioned him regarding the chessmen, and learned that they were a valuable set, elaborately carved, as only the Chinese can carve ivory, and worth at least £1 a piece.

"I've had my eye on them for years," he added, "and it was always understood that I was to get them when my friend died; but Fletcher was first on the ground after the death, and he stuck to them out of- sheer spitefulness. He had no use for them, and was miserly enough to be eager for the money they would bring, yet he would not gratify me by selling them, either to me or to any one else who might have resold them to me. Death alone could relax his grasp. A singular fact is that I meant to have gone over and reasoned with him on the subject; indeed, I resolved to do so only a night or two before his death; but— but," and here he wavered a little and seemed confused; "but I never had the chance."

"You mean that you had not time or opportunity to go over?" I said, simply. He crimsoned to the ears, and hurriedly answered—

"No. I mean that I never saw him again in life. Oh, he was mad, undoubtedly. It is not good for man to be alone. I still hold most positively that he had committed suicide."

"Do you not think it more than likely that some needy tramp had taken his life, and afterwards robbed the bouse?"

"No; for how could a tramp know that a set of chessmen were worth carrying off? There are circumstances which I cannot account for, but I am sure it was a suicide."

Of course; it was to his interest to get us to believe that when he was under suspicion himself. He was right about the chessmen, though; the same thought had occurred to me very early in my investigations; and I now began to wonder if the Bailie could have employed someone to steal the chessmen, and if that robbber, being resisted, had unexpectedly found himself a murderer. I left the Bailie and made some inquiry for any disreputable character about the place likely to be so employed, but I was told that the number of such characters was legion, and made little progress in that direction.

I had to return to Edinburgh unsuccessful, and a day or two later received a note from Bailie Brown, enclosing a cutting-from the advertising columns of one of the Edinburgh papers. The advertisement ran something like this—

"To Curio Collectors. —Rare set of Chinese chessmen for sale."

The address given was that of a well-known Edinburgh dealer in such articles; and the note of the Bailie was to the effect that if I thought it worth while I might; being fn the city, go and see the chessmen, and ascertain if they were honestly come by, and whether they resembled the set stolen from Fletcher's house, some peculiarities 'of which he described. Mysurprise and bewilderment at the curious discoveries which followed may be faintly imagined. I went to the address of the dealer, whom Jhad spoken with frequently before, and, after some idle talk, asked to see the Chinese chessmen which he had advertised.

"I knew there was something coming, Mr. M'Govan," he laughingly responded. "I look upon you as a kind of stormy petrel— when I see you walk into my shop, I know there's mischief not far behind. But for once you're off the scent. There's nothing wrong with that set of chessmen, for I bought them from a Bailie, no less."

He brought out a curious casket as he spoke, which I examined with the most intense interest. It answered the description given by Bailie Brown in the most minute particulars, and on opening it and lookiqg over some of the pieces I found other points confirmed.

"Well, what was the name of the precious Bailie who sold you these?" I asked at length.

"Bailie Brown," was the prompt reply. "He belongs to Grangely."

"Impossible!" I got out the word in a shout, for the answer was the very last I should have expected. I must have looked strangely horrified, for the dealer looked alarmed at once and said—

"There is something wrong then, after all?" and yet he gave me all the particulars; told me he was a relative of Leighton Brown, who, I had heard, had just such a set of men, and got them at his death, which happened not long ago."

"What was the man like— little, slight figure, dark hair, gentlemanly manner?"

"No, not the least like it. He was a very common man for a Bailie; big, strong fellow, with sandy-colored hair, sun-browned face, and heavy, tacketed boots."

"Tacketed boots? you're sure of that?" I cried, with great eagerness.

"Quite, for they made noise enough. He was clownish in everything but the price he screwed out of me for the chessmen. He knew their value, I tell you."

"Would you know him again?"

"Ay, in the dark. I wondered why he kept his right hand so much in his trousers' pocket, but when he did take it out I saw the reason— he had by some accident lost the middle finger. A blind man could tell him by that."

I took possession of the chessmen, and while doing so chanced to notice that some of the carving on the outside of the casket had got filled with earth, thus silently indicating that it had been buried in the ground, and then but imperfectly cleaned.

The earliest train took me to Grangely, where my first visit was to Bailie Brown. I had now no idea that he was guilty, and told him all I had discovered, and showed him the chessmen, which he identified almost at a glance. Yet it was apparent to me that the news agitated him powerfully; even before I had described the man who had so boldly taken his name and title. When I did describe the man, and came to the right hand wanting the middle finger, his pallor and concern increased.

"It looks like there was a plot against me," he feebly remarked; "but my conscience is clear whatever may happen. I think I know who has done it— it's Willie Melvin."

"Willie Melvin? Who and what is he?"

"Anything or nothing; an idle scamp, who's been in jail nearly as often as there are hairs in his head. He's a great poacher, and I wonder I did not think of him before, as it was said that Fletcher used to help him to get rid of the game. It was sent into the city hidden among Fletcher's cabbages and curlies."

I had no time to lose. I got the Bailie to describe the position of Willie Melvin's home, and started for it alone, though he advised me strongly to take a man with me. The house was quite outside the town, a wretched hovel, with a garden in front, and a pig grunting in its stye noisily. A man stood by the stye, smoking lazily, with his right hand in his trousers' pocket— from force of habit, I suppose. I had no doubt of his identity though I had never clapped eyes on him before, and went up to him boldly, saying—

''Hullo! Willie Melvin, I want you"

I suppose he must have seen me, though I had not seen him, for he instantly changed countenance. He was but a big lump of cowardice after all, for he submitted to be handcuffed without a word.

"What is it for?" he at last sullenly inquired, while a slipshod woman whom I took to be his wife came out and stared at us without any great surprise.

"The murder of Josiah Fletcher," I quietly answered.

He laughed loudly and carelessly.

"Ye can tak' your oath I didna dae that," he said, with a look of relief, "though maybe I ken wha did."

"I suppose you did not do the robbery either?" I returned as cheerfully. "The chessman, I suppose, went and buried themselves, and then dug themselves up, walked into Edinburgh, and sold themselves to a dealer on purpose to get you into trouble?"

His jaw fell, and with a painfully crestfallen look he relapsed into a silence which lasted till I had him in the station-house, before the Fiscal of the town. He had no very intelligent explanation to offer, and was locked up, w'hile I took some men out to his home with spades, and turned up a part of his garden till w'e came on a bundle of bank notes enclosed in a tin soapbox, and pretty well sodden with the burial. At first Melvin had no explanation to offer regarding the treasure in his garden, but seemed to conclude that the Chinese chessmen were rather strong for him, for he asked to be heard by the Fiscal a second time, and then made an extraordinary statement and accusation.

He had been passing along near Fletcher's cottage at a late hour, when he was surprised to see Bailie Brown leave the cottage in great haste, and so excitedly that he omitted to close the door after him. After waiting for some time Melvin passed through the hedge, crossed the road, and entered the house. All was dark, and in crossing the kitchen floor he stumbled and fell over something on the floor.

Striking a light, he found that the "something" was Fletcher's body lying in a pool ofblood. Close by lay an open clasp knife.

"Bailie Broon has murdered him and left the knife there, so that it might look like a suicide," was Melvin's exclamation; and he immediately began to consider how he himself might profit by the discovery. He thought of extorting blackmail from the Bailie, the price of his silence, but finally concluded to let that scheme stand over for a little till he saw how things worked, and meantime to take what loose money the crock happened to contain. He then remembered about the chessmen, and decided to take them too, so that the guilt might be the better fastened on the doer of the deed. Bailie Brown. Then, that it might not be mistaken for a suicide, he lifted the knife and plunged it point first into the garden behind, stamping it down with his feet and scraping some loose earth over the spot. The chessmen he first buried in a field at the back of Bailie Brown's house; then, hearing nothing about them, he lifted them and buried them in his own garden, and finally took them into Edinburgh and sold them in the manner already described.

This queer story was utterly ridiculed, but it chanced that one of the gentlemen present during Melvin's emission of the declaration, remembered distinctly meeting Bailie Brown on the night in question coming hurriedly from the direction of Fletcher's cottage. Other circumstances cropping up, there was no alternative but to arrest the Bailie. It was now that gentleman's turn to make a strange statement. Confronted with the declaration of Melvin, he admitted that he had been in the cottage of Fletcher at the hour stated, and had left in the manner described. He had gone to argue some point about the chessmen, and, receiving no answer to his knock, had lifted the latch and entered. All was dark, and so ominously still that he took a match from his pocket and struck a light. Fletcher was lying on his face quite dead, as described by Melvin, and with a clasp-knife lying open near his hand. He was greatly horrified, and so struck with the fact that he was there under suspicious circumstances that he decided to say nothing of the matter to any one, which resolve he acted upon till forced to declare the truth for his own protection.

This statement, I fear, was credited quite as little as that of Willie Melvin's had been before it; but two singular facts turned up a few days later to modify the scepticism. At the sale of Fletcher's effects a Bible was discovered, having pins stuck into certain leaves, along with a bit of the deadly nightshade, a toad's foot, and some other auxiliaries of witchcraft. In the same book was found a written paper in which Fletcher declared that he was being tormented by Bailie Brown, by means of evil spirits who haunted him night and day, and were always striving to get a hold of his knife that they might cut his throat. They might yet succeed, the paper went on to declare, but if they did his blood would be on the Bailie's head, and the murder lie at his door. He was nevertheless hopeful that some charms which he was working with the Bible would invert the whole, and make his enemy's plotting fall back upon his own head.

The second confirmation came from a relative the deceased, who had come from a distance to wind up his affairs, and who produced several letters of Fletcher's, couched in the same insane terms, and full of ravings of the same description. The conversation and manner of Fletcher for sometime before his death was also recalled in evidence, and at length Bailie Brown was set at liberty. Willie Melvin was put out of mischief's way by being about the same time sent to prison for five years, for his share in the work. As for the chessmen, they are now in the Bailie's possession, and he tells their story a great deal more proudly and better than I have done here.

_______________

14: The Twisted Inn

Hugh Walpole

1884-1941

The Smart Set June 1915

MR. BANNISTER chose his carriage with some care. He was always careful in the train because if you had work to do it was obviously necessary to have the place to yourself— when people were talking nothing could be done.

It was a dark, windy day in late November. The platform at King's Cross was nearly deserted, and it was all very cold and gloomy. The bookstall stared vacantly across the empty lines and its books and papers fluttered discontentedly as though they protested indignantly against their unhappy neglect— a porter pushed a load of luggage vacantly down the platform and ran into Mr. Bannister; he apologized still vacantly and passed on, dreaming.

Mr. Bannister chose his carriage— a dirty, unappetizing third class furnished with six highly colored representations of "The Spa Longton," "The Beach," "Hicheton-on-Sea," "The Station Hotel, Trament," "The High Street, Wotton"— illustrations that were neither truthful nor entrancing.

Mr. Bannister was thin and wore glasses; he had high cheekbones and sandy hair—his eyes were pale gray, watery and red at the edges; his great-coat was threadbare and shiny, his collar was a little frayed and his trousers had never been intended to turn up. Mr. Bannister was a journalist.

Times were hard just then, and, to be strictly truthful, his meals had, of late, been desperately uncertain. On Monday there had been breakfast, on Tuesday lunch, on Wednesday an excellent supper, owing to the happy discovery of a new friend; but to-day there had, as yet, been nothing— he sat in the corner of his carriage and thought of sausages.

During a year and a half he had worked on the Daily Post and pay had been, on the whole, regular. He was a bachelor and claims on his purse were few, so things had gone well with him.

But the Daily Post had found the world a cold and unfeeling place and had passed silently away, leaving very few to regret its departure. Mr. Bannister missed it very sincerely, and he discovered how hard life could be. Everything that he handled seemed to be a lost cause, and one paper after another faded away at his eager touch— he depended, eventually, for his living, on the crimes and misfortunes of his fellow men— the world seemed to his tired brain a procession of thieves and murderers with the divorce courts for a background.

To-day he was hurrying down to a little village in a remote part of Wiltshire to investigate a crime of the night before. It was an affair of the usual kind—a woman had been murdered and there were suspicions of a lover. Mr. Bannister went to it as he would to his bath or morning cigarette—to his heated brain murder was the game that everybody played; and he must be back again by the evening to report on a religious revival meeting in Clapham. The clouds were lifting—it was long since he had had two jobs in one day, and the Telegraph had given him both of them. The Telegraph was an excellent paper.

They had told him that he must be prepared, if necessary, to sleep there during the night— it would be annoying if that were to happen— he would miss the revival. He determined, therefore, to be as speedy as possible, and he would, he hoped, be able to catch the four-thirty train back to town.

It was dark and stormy and the wind whistled outside the carriage—the scudding clouds seemed to catch the top of the trees and drag them in their own hurrying direction— but the riots clung to the gray earth and the furious heavens tossed the trees back again to their original abiding-place.

Mr. Bannister's coat was thin and he shivered in his corner— it was too dark to see, and the train shook so that it was impossible to write; he flung his notebook down and stared moodily out of the window. He was very hungry and was inclined to regard the world as an evil place; his mind flew back to his younger days when his ambition had challenged heaven and his poverty had seemed certain proof of genius. He had breakfasted on Swinburne, lunched on Pater, and dined on Meredith— now his library had been sold to pay his debts and his debts were still unpaid; he was very hungry.

At a small wayside station there came an old woman—a very massive old woman with a bright print skirt of blue and an immense bosom; she had also a large basket, a bundle of sticks and a little boy. The basket and the sticks she placed carefully at her side; the boy she flung behind her— he fell into the corner and crouched there, against the cushions, softly sobbing.

From her treatment of the boy Mr. Bannister concluded that she was cruel, and he hated her cruelty— so he looked at her sternly and frowned. She sat staring straight in front of her, her hands planted firmly on her knees— she was an enormous woman.

It was growing very dark and horribly cold— it was curiously dark for that time of day, Mr. Bannister thought— moreover, the pangs of hunger came crowding upon him, and, to forsake their company, he plunged into conversation.

"It is strangely dark for the hour," he said, and he coughed nervously. But the woman made no reply; only the little boy ceased his sobbing and sat up in his corner to stare amazedly at Mr. Bannister.

"It is a dreary day," he said with a little sigh— but perhaps the wind and the noise of the train had drowned his words, for she gave no answer and sat there without movement.

She was rude as well as cruel, he thought, and he leaned back in his corner and desolately thought of murders and religious meetings and the profitable emotions of highly strung people.

He sat thus for a very considerable time. The train rushed furiously forward, and the landscape grew darker and darker. "There must be a terrible storm coming," thought Mr. Bannister— he watched the ebony blackness of the sky, the dark wavering outlines of fantastic trees, the sudden whites and grays of spaces of cloud and the clear shining of sudden pools.

Within the carriage there was silence, and obscurity gathered in the corners and hid the colored views mercifully in its arms; the outline of the enormous woman was black against the window and the curve of her great basket stood out hooplike in front of her.

Every now and again the train stopped, but no one ever seemed to get in or out, and the desolate little stations with their pathetically neat gardens stared at the train forlornly as though they would have liked to stay and talk for a little time.

Mr. Bannister felt quite sorry for the little gardens— he was arriving at that state of worldwide sympathy consequent on an empty stomach. He was growing vaguely uneasy— he should surely have arrived at his destination some time before. He was afraid lest he should have passed his station, and so he spoke again to the woman.

"Can you tell me," he said politely, "whether we have passed Little Dutton? I am afraid that I must have missed it."

But she did not answer him, and her silence frightened him so that he dared not speak to her again. The consequences of missing his stations would be very serious indeed at such a crisis in his affairs. There were plenty of other persons ready to take his place and the Telegraph could scarcely afford to pay men who missed their trains.

He could not understand the darkness. He had left King's Cross in the morning and, slow though the train had been, it could not be more than lunch-time now. But the carriage was most horribly dark, and only vaguely from beyond the window he caught distant outlines of trees and somber houses.

Then suddenly he saw a star. There could be no mistake. Vividly, brilliantly, it sparkled at him through the carriage windows. A star! Then the darkness was no pretense, no sudden and furious storm as he had supposed. It was night.

But it couldn't be. He was to have arrived at Little Dutton before one, and now it was dark. Then there came to him the horrible certainty that he had slept— there could be no other possible explanation. He must have slept for hours, and Little Dutton must have been left, far, far behind. The horrible discovery left him breathless. He would have to pay for all those miles that he had traveled, and he had nothing to give for them. He had ten shillings; it had been in his eyes a treasure trove on which he would have many meals in the future, and now it must go to pay for a fruitless journey, and even then it would not be enough. He began to speak excitedly to the woman.

"I have slept— I must have been sleeping for hours. Look, there's a star— and I only left King's Cross an hour ago and it was morning. I must have passed Little Dutton hours ago. It is really dreadfully unfortunate— I can't think how it happened. I've never done anything like that before. But where are we going to now? Shall I be able to get out somewhere and change and be back in Little Dutton to-night? It's really most dreadfully important— I haven't the least idea—"

And then suddenly the train stopped. Through the carriage window a station lamp gleamed mistily. The large woman collected hurriedly her basket, her sticks and her little boy and vanished through the door. Mr. Bannister hurriedly followed her.

He leaned out over the platform. It was a tiny wayside station with two lamps and a wild porter with a long beard. He cried discordantly: "All change! All change!" and rushed furiously up and down and looked into every carriage.

"All change!" he cried at Mr. Bannister and hurried on.

So Mr. Bannister got out and faced the situation. His watch, he found, had stopped; it was bitterly cold and the wind drove furiously down the platform. Above his head the stars and a round-faced jesting moon watched him coldly and without feeling.

He grasped the porter by the arm and tried to explain the situation. "I want to get back to Little Dutton to-night— I must get back— it's very important."

"Little Dutton!" The porter looked at him and laughed in the depths of his beard. "Never heard of it. But you can't, anyhow. You can't get anywhere to-night. Six in the morning—"

"There are no trains!" Mr. Bannister stared at him miserably. "Oh, but that is most unfortunate. Then I must sleep here!" He thought dismally of his ten shillings and all the noble plans that had been nipped in the bud. "There is an inn?"

"Oh, yes," said the porter, and again he laughed. "Yes, there is an inn," and he passed off down the platform.

Mr. Bannister pulled his poor cloak more tightly about him and searched for a road. It was visible enough, stretching whitely for a time in front of him and then of a sudden fearfully black where the trees closed darkly in on it. Down this went Mr. Bannister and cursed himself for a fool. By an unnecessary and ill-judged sleep he had, perhaps, missed the turning point of his career, and how he was to get back in the morning he had no idea. It occurred to him as strange that the porter had never asked him for his ticket— it was indeed a most fortunate chance and, at the thought of it, his spirits went up a great many degrees and he felt a little warmer.

He disliked the blackness of the road and fancied that he was followed. For a moment he stopped and listened to make sure, and it seemed to him that the footsteps also stopped. Then suddenly there flashed across the road in the moonlight a rabbit. His heart beat furiously and he almost screamed. Then the silence and the perplexing moonlight were too much for him, and he took to his heels and ran, panting, down the dark road.

The wind whistled as he ran— it caught his coat and wrapped it, confused, round his legs— it slapped him on the face and brought water to his eyes.

Then, at a turn of the road, he came upon the inn. It stood out very plainly in the moonlight, and he wondered whether it was the brilliant white spaces and the dark caverns of shadows that gave it its strange appearance. For that it was strange there could be no question. It stood there on the edge of a wide and moonlit moor. There seemed to be no other houses near it. It was a thing of gables and overhanging eaves and large diamond-paned windows—it was strangely crooked in shape, and, looked at from the road, seemed to lean curiously to one side. There were lights in the lower windows and the door stood ajar. He passed through it into the dim, uneven hall.

It was dark and musty, with a close, unpleasant feeling of closed windows—on his right the door was open and he turned into a small room, dusty, with the desolate air of a place long forsaken by human beings. Prim chairs of a faded pink chintz and hard little wooden legs, a round and shiny table, bare save for a little green worsted mat in the middle, and a stiff horsehair sofa were the only furniture of the room. On the walls there was nothing to hide the faded green of the wallpaper with the single exception of a large photograph hanging by the door. Onto this the quivering light of a cracked lamp shining from the window sill flung an uncertain light. Mr. Bannister started at it with horror. It was the photograph of the large-bosomed woman in the train. She glared down at him as she had stared before into space— cold, menacing, horrible.

Then he found at his side a little man whom he knew to be the innkeeper—a man round as a ball, with a chubby face and bright brown buttons on his waist-coat.

"I should like a bed," explained Mr. Bannister. "I have most unfortunately missed my train, and I cannot leave until five to-morrow morning. What are your charges?"

"The room will be three shillings— breakfast extra," said the little landlord—he had a voice like a chaffinch.

"And I will have some bread and cheese and beer," said Mr. Bannister. "Could you tell me the time?"

The landlord looked at him— his eyes dilated, his cheeks grew white and his hand shook. Then he leaned forward as though he would whisper in Mr. Bannister's ear; then, as suddenly, he stepped back again, and vanished through the door out into the passage.

Mr. Bannister chose one of the hard pink chintz chairs and waited for the bread and cheese. The room was a room of a thousand ghosts, and the lamp on the table created a shifting curtain of shadow that crept from corner to corner and stole, like the fingers of a gigantic hand, over the dark green wall. Through the little diamond-paned window glimmered the white expanse of the moor under the moon— a magic lake of frosted silver.

He felt very sleepy and hungry. He had no thought now of the expenses of to-morrow and of the letting slip of so great an opportunity. His one wish was for food and a splendid bed into which he might sink down, down, down, with the sheets billowing great waves about him, and so sail on a sea of dreams to a land where journalists were kings and hunger was for those who deserved it.

The eyes of the photograph followed him round the room and he moved from one hard little chair to another in a hopeless attempt to avoid their gaze, but he gave it up and slipped back into his corner and closed his eyes. Soon his head was nodding and he thought that he slept— but it was a very confused sleep, for people came creeping into the room and out again, and he thought that they were bringing his bread and cheese, but they only looked at him and then crept away, silent as they had come.

Then at last he awoke with a start, for someone was in the room— he sat up in his chair and rubbed his eyes; at the table were seated two men, bending over the lamp, their heads nodding as they talked and flinging giant shadows on the wall behind them.

They wore curious huge black hats that fell, villainously, with most sinister effect, over one ear; they wore, moreover, black cloaks that hung in somber folds behind them over the backs of the pink chintz chairs— he could not see their faces. At their side were large glasses filled with ale, and they glittered in the light of the lamp. Then Mr. Bannister, sitting silently in his dark corner, overheard their conversation.

"They are all asleep. There is no one here."

"No— the man is alone— we are the only travelers."

"The box is under the bed. You know your directions. I will be waiting for you at the bottom of the passage—"

"One blow will be sufficient. When I strike I strike hard."

These muttered sentences struck terror into Mr. Bannister's heart, his hands gripped the sides of his chair and his legs shook so that they knocked against each other.

Against whom could their plot be intended? Supposing it should be meant for himself? At the thought he nearly screamed aloud. But it could not be for him. They did not know that he was there; he was a traveler and there was no box beneath his bed— at any rate no box of which he had any knowledge. The woman looked down at him from the wall and he shuddered. She was in it, you might be sure.

The men were silent, but their great hats still nodded against the wall. He had seen a play once at the Kensington and the villain had worn a hat like that. He had been a horrible man, that villain, and Mr. Bannister had hissed from the upper circle. Then it came to him in a flash that it must be the landlord of whom they had been speaking; he had wanted to speak to him before and he had been horribly afraid— it was the little rosy-cheeked landlord with a voice like a canary whom these men were plotting to murder.

The men were no longer silent, for one of them was snoring— his head had sunk down onto the table and his arms sprawled in front of him; the other also was asleep— only his head was flung back and his hands were clenched— and, even now, his face was hidden under the shadow of his hat.

Mr. Bannister thought it strange that such villains should fall asleep so speedily, but now was the moment for escape. He would go and warn the landlord. He rose, trembling, from his chair and crept softly round the table, his eyes fixed on the sleepers.

One of them moved, and Mr. Bannister stood transfixed with terror, his hands clasping the edge of the table, his breath coming in short gasps, his eyes round as saucers— but nothing followed. They were, both of them, sound asleep, and he turned to the door.

The handle creaked in his grasp, and he thought that this must certainly waken them, but there was still no movement, and he escaped.

The passage was as dark as the grave. There was, he thought, no time to be lost, and he groped his way by the wall. The passage was heavy with the smell of decaying things. Mr. Bannister thought of cabbage and a damp church in winter-time.

He knew that he must hasten, but progress was very slow and the passage seemed to have no end. He had a confused feeling that people were on all sides of him, and he imagined white faces in the dark and the soft steps of hidden pursuers. He could not understand why the passage was so long. The inn had not seemed a very large place— but this was interminable. The air grew thicker and thicker around him and he wondered whether he was descending into the heart of the earth. The thought of a living grave terrified him, and he leaned against the damp wall, his poor coat flapping against his trembling knees, and his hands stretched in front of his face as though to guard it from unseen horrors into which he might at any moment plunge.

Then, with a sigh of relief, he saw light ahead, and, to his surprise, found himself back in the little entrance hall through which he had passed on his first arrival. But had he? As he glanced around him it seemed strangely familiar, and yet he had thought that he had come straight from the door into the narrow passage. On his right he saw an ancient and trembling staircase that vanished into a higher floor. It was perhaps up this that the landlord had gone— at any rate, he must warn him, and then he would escape out of this place as soon as might be.

The stairs led him on to a dim passage and he could not see the end of it, but opposite to him there was a door. There might be other doors to right and left, but he could not face the darkness that stretched on either side, and so he turned the handle and entered the room.

It was an enormous bedroom and through the open window streamed the light of the moon. There was very little furniture in the room. A large oak cupboard stood to the right of the window, and in the center there was an enormous bed— an ancient four-poster with faded red curtains and little wooden lions carved on the posts.

From one of these posts a body was hanging. At the sight of it his throat became horribly dry; his eyes burnt in his head like fire; suddenly frozen into stone, he stood there, choking with horror. It was the body of a little man, and it hung with its limbs swaying a little from side to side. The head lolled forward and was strangely gray in the light of the moon. It was the little landlord with a voice like a chaffinch. Mr. Bannister could see his brown buttons shining with the swaying of the body.

"I am too late. Oh, dear, I am too late," he cried, and then he turned to flee. But, as he turned with the handle of the door in his grasp, he heard steps on the stair. Someone was coming stealthily with muffled feet. "Stockings!" thought Mr. Bannister. He turned back into the room. He knew that the steps would not pass the door. He looked at the moon and then he looked at the body swaying in front of him and then he looked at the oak cupboard. "They will find me here," he thought; "they will think that I have done—that."

He rushed wildly to the window, but there was no escape there. There was a hideous drop that he dared not face. Then he saw the cupboard and he flew into it, closing the door behind him.

It seemed to be full of spiders' webs— they clung about his face and his hands and were thick about his hair, but he knelt there with his back against the wall, watching for the door to open.

It opened slowly, and into the light of the moon they stepped softly, their dark cloaks trailing behind them and the shadow of their black hats hiding their faces. "I knew who it would be," thought Mr. Bannister. He sank down in a heap on the floor of the cupboard and his teeth chattered in his head. He knew that there was no escape.

They did not seem to notice the body that swayed to and fro from the bedpost. They stepped slowly across the room, flung back the door of the cupboard and dragged out Mr. Bannister.

He fell in a heap at their feet. "I didn't do it," he cried. "I didn't, really. You know I didn't— I never saw him before to-night. I had only asked him for a bed and some bread and cheese. I have come from London. I have missed my train. I was going to Little Dutton."

They dragged him across the floor, one on each side of him, and in a moment the room seemed to be full of people. They poured in through the door and stood in an excited crowd sound him, and they all talked at the same time.

They wore, for the most part, large white cotton nightcaps, and many of them held little brass candlesticks with little candles burning brightly—the flames guttered a little in the breeze from the open window.

"I told you so— I knew he'd done it— he must die at once— in the middle of the night, too."

But he could only cry helplessly: "I didn't do it, I tell you. I was going to Little Dutton and night came on so quickly—" but he couldn't get any further because he couldn't remember what came next.

And then the door opened and the crowd made way respectfully. It was the woman of the train. She came toward him smiling grimly, and he knew that his doom was sealed.

"You tell them!" he cried, crawling toward her. "You know that I was in the train. I was in the same carriage. Tell them I didn't do it—you know I couldn't!"

But she smiled grimly and motioned with her hand. Someone brought forward a rope, and in a moment it was about his neck.

"No— no— not that!" he cried. "I am a journalist. It is murder!" But they raised him in their arms, and he knew that they were going to hang him from the bedpost by the side of the little landlord. The nightcaps closed round him; the candles flickered in the breeze; the woman watched him with quiet eyes.

"This is Little Dutton," she said to him, and she touched him on the arm. "I hope you will forgive my waking you, sir, but this is Little Dutton, and you would have passed it."

He thanked her as he rubbed his eyes. She was sitting soberly opposite him, the basket on her knees, and the little boy watched him silently from the corner.

"Oh, thank you." He gathered his gloves and his stick. "I have been sleeping, I am afraid—thank you very much."

As he stepped out onto the platform he looked at his watch. It was a quarter to one— lunch-time; and he was very hungry.

And so it was a dream. He was conscious of a feeling of intense regret. The wind passed howling down the platform; the porter frowned at him as he gave up his ticket—the main street of Little Dutton stretched drearily in front of him.

For a moment he had touched Romance. For a moment he had been the center of a crowd— he had lived. Now he was back again— a journalist in quest of a sordid murder case.

He wrapped his shabby coat around him and sighed. Was it, after all, a dream? Perhaps for a moment he had wakened—for a moment he had been Bannister the Romantic—Bannister the center of life and death.

He turned into a shabby restaurant and ordered a chop. Opposite him there sat a commercial traveler, a little run to seed.

"Cold," said Mr. Bannister.

"Very," said the traveler— and then added as he watched the dust whirl past the window:

"It's a dull world."

"Not so dull," said Mr. Bannister, and he winked as one who has been through a great experience. "I could tell you things..." he said— and he laughed.

____________________

15: The Pearl of Panama

Guy Gilpatric

1896-1950

The Saturday Evening Post, 6 April 1935

IN THE REGION around Leadenhall Street and St. Mary Axe, which is the administrative center of London's shipping world, there is no man more highly respected than Virgil Hazlitt and none of whom his fellow men know less. Forty-three years ago he joined Clifford, Castle & Co., Ltd., as junior clerk; today he is the firm's General Manager and the outstanding genius of the British Mercantile Marine. Myopic, bald and crabbed, Mr. Hazlitt remains a spry and serviceable relic of the heyday of the Empire, when Victoria was queen, sail was giving way to steam and Mr. Kipling (or maybe it wasn't) was able to remark with some justification that the sun never set on the British flag. Thanks to Mr. Hazlitt's methods of management Clifford & Castle's cargo fleet has increased from four vessels to twenty-three; the firm has seldom passed a dividend, and even in present slack times when hundreds of thousands of tons are laid up rusting in the estuaries, the C. & C. ships are one and all at sea with cargoes which Mr. Hazlitt, in his unaccountable way, has contrived to book at a profit. According to his baffled competitors, old Virgil Hazlitt is in league with the devil.

Now all of the foregoing is public knowledge which anyone may glean from the liftman at the Baltic Exchange or the bemedaled hero of Zeebrugge Mole who whistles you a taxi at the portal of Lloyd's. But of Mr. Hazlitt's private life, of Hazlitt the man, of Hazlitt the human being, the inquirer will be hard put to it to uncover a single revealing fact. Cavilers declare, quite bluntly, that he isn't human at all, which means that he isn't as they are; and this, in turn, means that he isn't a mixer. For he has few friends in business and none outside it; he shuns those luncheons, conferences and other gabby mediums of contact so dear to the gregarious herd, and instead of making speeches about business over banquet tables he transacts it quietly over his desk. He works day and night; he never delegates to another a job which he can do himself; and he can do everything.

Mr. Hazlitt's knowledge of ships and shipping is encyclopedic and his memory is prodigious. He can tell you out of his head, for example, that the Durhamcliffe Castle (eastbound through the Gulf of St. Lawrence with a grain cargo and at the moment, according to the "D"-flag on his ships' position map, just off the tip of Anticosti Island) is burning 17.5 tons of coal per day whereas ten months ago she was burning only 15.2; and he knows that this is due to the condition of her boilers. Things like this he remembers. The only thing he cannot remember is where he puts his eyeglasses, and until he hired the mountainous Mrs. O'Halloran as charwoman in the company's offices, it was not uncommon for fourteen clerks to be searching for them at once. Mrs. O'Halloran is unerringly able to discover his glasses on his nose, a faculty which Mr. Hazlitt considers nothing less than genius.

It is probable that Mrs. O'Halloran knows as much about Mr. Hazlitt as any living person. But there was a time last spring when the old gentleman's behavior became very strange indeed. His routine was upset. He seemed preoccupied. His habitual testiness was varied by moments of unprecedented geniality. Not only was Mrs. O'Halloran puzzled; she was intensely worried.

"Yus, dearie, I don't 'arf like the look of it," she screamed from her window through the misty May twilight of Catsmeat Yard to Mrs. Jessup, who was skinning an eel on the doorstep of No. 6. "The squinty old weasel's not 'imself; 'e was worse today than 'e was yesterday, and lor-lumme if I know wot to myke of it."

"But do yer really think 'e's going orff 'is chump?" demanded Mrs. Jessup, whose husband was steward of the Inchcliffe Castle. "Good 'eavens, Veronica dear, if old 'Azlitt goes barmy, I 'ate to think wot will 'appen to Clifford & Castle's and orl our menfolk at sea!" The eel wriggled violently so Mrs. Jessup tied a knot in it and jerked it tight.

"Just hexactly wot is the matter with 'im, Missus O'Halloran?" came Mrs. Gonigle's voice from the second floor of No. 6. "Now that my louse of a 'usband 'as finally got promoted donkeyman of the Ormcliffe, it'd be rotten luck hindeed if something was to 'appen to 'Azlitt and the 'ole ruddy line go to smarsh!"

Mrs. O'Halloran nodded grimly, observing as she did so that wives of C. & C. deckhands and firemen were bulging from windows on all four sides of the yard.

"'E's neglecting 'is work, that's wot 'e's doing," she went on, raising her voice for the benefit of the new auditors. "Oh, now, mind ye, 'e still does work enough fer six, but that's only 'arf enough fer 'im. Sumping— sumping 'as come over 'im— I can't explyne just wot it is, but I feels it— yus, I feels it!" She smote her forehead with one hand and with the other reached back and turned down the gas stove, upon which a beef heart was commencing to sizzle. "Why, at four o'clock this very arfternoon, instead of dictating his regular narsty weekly form letter to the Captains of orl the ships, rysing 'ell with 'em about this and that, 'e puts on 'is 'at and goes out fer a walk. Yus, girls, out fer a walk, right in the middle of business hours!"

"Oh, blyme!" exclaimed Mrs. Gonigle in dismay.

"It's bad, bad, bad," sighed Mrs. Jessup who, the half-skinned eel still showing signs of life, was flogging it lustily against the doorstep.

"Lawks, it's a tradegy!" chimed in Mrs. Flynn, of No. 4, taking a quick one from a bottle of gin which she shoved back under her apron. "But tell us, Missus O'Halloran, dearie— hexackly wot mykes you think 'e's losing 'is mind?"

Mrs. O'Halloran lit a cigarette and puffed at it thoughtfully before replying. "Well, as close as I can figure it out there's sumping wrong with 'is 'ead. I don't know whether 'is brains is curdled or wot, but it must be. Every few minutes 'e stops whotever 'e's doing and sits back and rubs the top of 'is crown.— Got 'is bald spot polished like me own brarss doorknob, till even a bleddy 'ouse-fly couldn't get afoot'old on it. And besides that, 'e's orl ways complaining about the cold, cold draught."

"The cold, cold draught from where, dearie?"

"The cold, cold draught from where, you arsks— and that's wot I arsks too! 'Ere we are, sweating and sweltering in the month of May with only sixteen foggy days so far; but though 'is windows is tight shut and a shilling's worth of coal is blyzing in 'is grate, 'e still keeps fussing about 'is 'ead being in the cold, cold draught. Now frankly, lydies, wot the flyming 'ell do yer myke of that?"

"Well," declared Mrs. Jessup despondently, "it means 'is brains is frowsty, no doubt about it. 'E's got chilblains on 'em, and they're starting to ferment, as one might say. Oh, I'm very much afryde that it's only a matter of days before they trice 'im up in a straight-waistcoat and tyke 'im orff yammering to the mad'ouse!"

"Yus," sighed Mrs. Tousey, of No. 3, "and then wot'll 'appen to Clifford & Castle's, our 'usbands' jobs, and us?"

"Starvytion and the dole, that's wot'll 'appen!" opined Mrs. Jessup, tramping back and forth upon the eel, to make it tender. "In these 'ere putrid times, jobs is scarcer than scarcer. Oh dear, oh dear, why couldn't the mean old dotard pick a decent time to go orff 'is chump while he was about it?"

"Indeed, why couldn't 'e?" demanded Mrs. O'Halloran, hurling her cigarette butt at a skeletal tom-cat which was prospecting in the garbage pail below. "Well, all we can do is 'ope fer the best, 'oping that it won't be the worst!— Soak 'im in winniger fer at least three minutes, Missus Jessup, dear, or else 'e'll go wiggling orl over the bleddy stove. Don't fry 'im, dearie, stew 'im, stew 'im, and may the good Gord 'ave mercy on us orl!"

ii

MR. HAZLITT snapped open his watch and squinted at it. "A quarter to four!" he muttered. "By gad, I've got to hurry!" He laid aside the tonnage graph upon which he had been drawing lines like silhouettes of icebergs and pushed the buzzer button on his desk. "Sit down, Miss Melcher," he said when his stenographer appeared. "I just want to dictate— er, to dictate a— Mrs. O'Halloran! Mrs. O'Halloran! I do wish you'd be more careful about my glasses! I had them a minute ago, and— well, well, so I have, so I have!— But now that you're here, Mrs. O'Halloran, just take a look at that window." He shuddered and rubbed his bald spot. "There's a draught, a cold draught coming from some place...."

Mrs. O'Halloran stood squarely, or rather, roundly, before his desk and placed her hands on her hips. "Now see 'ere, Mr. 'Azlitt," she said with finality, "this 'ere mykes five times today yer've complyned about the cold draught, and there ain't none. The trouble is with yer own bald 'ead, Sir, and I says it meaning no disrespeck to you. Wot you need is a bit of a wig, Sir— a two-pea is wot they call 'em— to keep yer brains warm. Yer can buy yerself a nice yellow one with curls on it, or even ..."

"A wig?" Mr. Hazlitt tensed. "A toupee? For me? Why, how old do you think I am, Mrs. O'Halloran?"

"Eighty-seven," said the charwoman, without hesitation.

"Rot! I'm only sixty-three!" Mr. Hazlitt would have given further vent to his indignation on this score had he not been so elated on another. For secretly, through many long weeks, he had hoped, yearned, dreamed of hearing this very suggestion. He wanted a toupee more than he had ever wanted anything in his life, but he lacked the courage to buy one on his own initiative. People would call him a fop, a burned-out dandy, a vain old fool. But if the idea were to come from somebody else— if he were able to say, "Ah yes— my friends kept after me!— Health reasons, don't you see?"— well, in that case it would be different! Hence his elaborate complaints about draughts, his rubbing of his bald spot, his constant angling all through the office for the suggestion which Mrs. O'Halloran (hosanna to her!) had volunteered.

"H'm, a wig," he repeated, tapping his fingertips together in simulation of deep thought. "Why, upon my word, such a thing never occurred to me! But then, why not, why not? What do you think about it, Miss Melcher?"

"I agree with Mrs. O'Halloran, Sir," simpered Miss Melcher, whose legs were not too bad and who knew it. "It is a very chic idea."

"Really? Mm, I must think it over.— Ha, a toupee, to be sure! Well, now, Miss Melcher," he consulted his watch again and cleared his throat briskly, "take a letter to Mr. Campbell, Chief Engineer, S.S. Inchcliffe Castle, care Gaskell & Waterman's Shipyards, Sunderland; a-hem: My dear Mr. Campbell, semicolon: I have your memorandum report of the 18th ult. in re engine-room repairs now in progress under your supervision. This progress is not satisfactory. Furthermore, Item Six, Specification Three, relating to thrust block bearings, is an outrageous..."

Miss Melcher crossed her legs from east to west and coughed discreetly. "I beg your pardon, Mr. Hazlitt, but the Inchcliffe isn't at Sunderland, she's on the way home from Yokohama. According to the map she's just passed through the Panama Canal. Perhaps you're thinking of the Normancliffe. But the thrust block job is really in the Swalecliffe, which laid up at Clydebank day before yesterday in Hammond's Yards."

"Eh?" Mr. Hazlitt looked at her in blank disbelief. "Eh?" he whirled in his swivel chair and faced a large-scale wall-map of the world from which jutted twenty-three little paper flags each marking the position of one of the company's vessels. Yes, Miss Melcher was right— there was the Inchcliffe's flag at Colon, the Normancliffe's at Sunderland, and the Swalecliffe's in the Clyde, exactly as he himself had located them that morning. He removed his glasses and pressed his hands against his eyes. "Dear me!" he said, expelling a tired sigh, "I— I fancy I've been trying to handle too much detail. I think I'll step out for a little walk, Miss Melcher; you can write that letter to Mr. Campbell."

"Yes, Sir," said Miss Melcher. "His name is Mr. Sanderson."

Mr. Hazlitt made a helpless gesture with his sleek top hat and headed for the door.

Once on the sidewalk of St. Mary Axe he heaved his shoulders as though striving to cast off a heavy burden and turned southward. "Well, tomorrow you'll have your toupee! Oh, Hazlitt, you gay dog, you!" He started a chuckle but as he saw the clock on the bank the chuckle turned into a groan. "Four-ten already! You're too late, Hazlitt! By gad, what a rotten slave's life you do lead yourself! Too much detail, m'boy—  you're swamped, swamped, swamped by detail!"

iii

IT WAS June; the S.S. Inchcliffe Castle, battered, rusty and salt-streaked, lay in Limehouse Commercial Docks discharging that portion of her Japanese cargo which was consigned to London. Leaving the day after the morrow she would traipse across to Antwerp to unload the remainder and then return for a thorough and much-needed refit. She had been away for five months, and plainly though her exterior showed the ravages of the voyage her internals were even more travelworn. This afternoon her Chief Engineer, Mr. Glencannon, was in his room conferring with a certain Mr. McTooth about the repairs. Mr. McTooth, a former shipmate of Mr. Glencannon's, now represented the Vulcan & Atlas Marine Engine and Boiler Works, of Greenock, and had come to estimate on the job.

"Weel, now, look ye here, Colin," he said, producing from his briefcase pencils, paper, a slide rule and a corkscrew, "working oot this estimate in the ordinurra way wud be a vurra cumplicated motter, but I see no reason why you and I canna cooperate to sumplify it. After all, Colin, the only thing whuch consairns us is that my bid shud be a shade lower than the others. Am I richt?"

"No, Andrew, ye are wrong," said Mr. Glencannon, a dour, stocky gentleman with a ruddy face and a walrus mustache. "Yere bid must be the lowest, it is true; but the most important thing..." he extended his hand, rubbing finger and thumb together as though feeling a banknote, "... the most important thing is my little rake-off, and if ye want this job, dinna ye dom weel lose sicht o' the fact!"

"Oh, why Colin lad!" Mr. McTooth drew himself up righteously. "Ye forget who ye're talking to! An old-estoblished and provairbially-ethical firm lik' the Vulcan & Atlas Marine Engine and Boiler Works wud be the last in the world to try and do ye oot o' yere fair and just perquisites. Why, I'm surprised at ye for e'en suggesting it!"

"I want 10 percent," said Mr. Glencannon, bluntly.

Mr. McTooth gasped. "Ten percent? Oh, losh, mon, be reasonable! After all, I must figure things so the shop mak's a few bawbees o' profit oot o' it!"

"I dinna care a fig what profit ye mak', as lang as I mak' my 10 percent," shrugged Mr. Glencannon. "If 'twull help ye any to look ower the secret and confidential bids whuch yere competitors have soobmitted, here they are."

"Ah, noo ye're talking!" said Mr. McTooth, producing a quart of Duggan's Dew of Kirkintilloch from his briefcase. "Do ye open that, lad, and let us lubbricate oursels against the dry mothemotical labors we have ahead o' us. H'm," he took up the estimate of his principal competitor. "Here's Hutchinson & Derby. Why guid heavens, Colin, they're high— high! Just offhand, noo, I'd say they were a guid 25 percent above what we could do it for, if we were to scamp things a bit."

"Weel, scamp things a bit," said Mr. Glencannon placidly. "—Then just add 20 percent instead o' 10 to yere estimate for me, and ye'll still be 5 percent lower than they are."

Mr. McTooth considered the matter. "But can ye get it past auld scrooge Hazlitt? Remember, Colin, he's no doot got some figures o' his ain, by this time!"

"Haw, can I?" scoffed Mr. Glencannon. "I've mulcted the dom auld ram oot o' hoonderds o' poonds ere this, and I foncy I've no forgotten the knack. O' coorse," he downed another slug of Duggan's and wrinkled his eyes shrewdly, "o' coorse, Hazlitt's a vurra canny fish, as weel ye ken, and it isn't every mon who can flummox him. If at the last minute I find it expedient to change yere figures aroond a bit, can I depend on ye to stond by them?"

"Aye, o' coorse ye can! Use yere ain discretion!" said Mr. McTooth. "I'll just draught the whole thing oot in the rough for ye so ye can tak' it up informally with him when ye see him tomorrow. Losh, but wudn't ye think the stingy auld brute wud appoint a reegular Engineer Superintendent to look after such matters, instead o' sticking his nose into everything himsel'!"

"Aye, wudn't ye!" agreed Mr. Glencannon. "Weel, this time again his pairsimony will cost him dear!"

Mr. McTooth took his leave but left the bottle; with it and the sheaf of estimates Mr. Glencannon went forward to the saloon, spread the papers on the table and set about preparing himself for his interview with Mr. Hazlitt on the morrow. Writing in his notebook he was halfway through a digest of the various bids which was a masterpiece of distortion, falsehood, fraud, piracy, barratry and camouflage when he was interrupted by a cough. Looking up, he saw the steward.

"Aye, Jessup, what is it?" he asked.

Jessup wiped his chin with his dishrag and glanced cautiously behind him into the alleyway.

"I've got some news fer yer, Sir," he said. "—Confidential news from the horffice."

"Oh, aye?" said Mr. Glencannon. "Are we all aboot to be laid off, or what?"

"No, Sir," Jessup shook his head. "This 'ere is good news, as far as you're concerned. Yer see, Sir, from wot Veronica O'Halloran tells my missus, old man 'Azlitt 'asn't been 'imself lately.— Gorn slack in 'is work, 'e 'as, and acting that strynge that there's many people thinks 'e's in 'is second child'ood. Bought 'imself a wig, no less, and 'as taken to dressing fancy! Well, within the past week or so 'e's been bellyaching about 'aving too much detyle to hattend to, and Sir John Castle and some of the other directors 'ave been telling 'im as 'ow 'e ought to 'ave a Hengineer Superintendent to relieve 'im of some of it. At first he pertended like 'e didn't care fer the idea, but pretty soon 'e says yus, there might be sumping to it, but 'oo could 'e happoint to fill the job? Then," Jessup lowered his voice, "then, Sir, there's some of the gempmen mentions Mr. MacLean, of the Bournecliffe Castle, others favors Mr. Ogilvie, of the 'Ardcliffe, and some of 'em speaks up fer you."

"—For me?" Mr. Glencannon's hand trembled as he lifted his glass, and so did his voice as he asked, "For me? Losh, Jessup, dinna keep me in suspense! How— how did they decide it, mon?"

Jessup flicked his dishrag. "It 'asn't been decided yet," he replied. "They've left it to Mr. 'Azlitt to choose from among the senior hengineer horfficers of the line. It'll be a nice cushy shore job right 'ere in London at 'andsome pay, and— well, Sir, a word to the wise is sufficient!"

"Ye're dom richt it is!" agreed Mr. Glencannon. "A thoosand thonks to ye, Jessup, for giving me the tip! But all the same, great swith, I bitterly resent their mentioning me in the same breath— er," he fumbled in his pocket for a clove, "—in the same breath with droonken whusky-guzzling louts lik' Malcolm MacLean and Alec Ogilvie!— No, Jessup, no! What Clifford & Castle's need is a mon lik' mysel'— a mon o' vost experience and stairling chorocteir— steady, abstemious, efficient and incorruptible! For seventeen years I've sairved in the putrid engine rooms o' this line, and today—" his face flushed and he beat his tumbler belligerently on the table, "—and today neither you nor I nor any other mon can look me in the eye and say that I have stolen a single soliturra farthing that was no my just due!"

"No, Sir," said Jessup, retreating in confusion down the alleyway. "I—I was just telling yer, that was orl, Sir!"

For a moment Mr. Glencannon sat snorting with righteous indignation; then, seizing the bottle, he poured himself a mighty hooker to steady his nerves. Lifting the tumbler to his lips, he was astounded to find it empty, and simultaneously he became aware of a warmly tingling irritation in his subabdominal region.

"Ah, foosh!" he snarled, "what deevil's hondy work is this?" Holding up the tumbler against the light, he saw that it was a mere bottomless tube; its base, reduced to splinters, was glistening on the table amongst the estimates.

"Ho, so that's their toctics, is it?" he fumed, writhing in his chair and endeavoring to shake the stinging liquid from the forward slack of his trousers. "—Weel, ye fulthy hounds! (Aye, I mean you, Malcolm MacLean, and you, Alec Ogilvie!) I'll— I'll show ye who's the best mon yet!"

iv

AT THREE o'clock the following afternoon Mr. Glencannon, bearing with him a large paper bag somewhat as the Greeks bore gifts, was shown into Mr. Hazlitt's oak-paneled sanctum. He was astounded at the change which had come over the General Manager. There was the wig, sure enough— a lifelike confection of iron gray, tastefully parted on the side. Instead of his gold pince-nez Mr. Hazlitt was wearing rimless glasses of the kind called invisible; his stand-up collar and black cravat had given way to a soft blue shirt with tie to match, and he had discarded his black tail coat, striped gray trousers and patent leather shoes for tweeds and brown suede oxfords.

"Ah, Glencannon!" He extended his hand and smiled the first smile the Engineer had ever seen on his face. "Sit down, sit down Glencannon— the armchair there— that's it! Well, I hear the good old Inchcliffe's engines gave you a bit of trouble on the home passage. But now, ha, ha, I fancy a lay-up of a month or six weeks will put everything to rights, what?"

"A month or six weeks?" repeated Mr. Glencannon, swinging into action without delay. "Ah noo, noo, Sir, I fear ye've been talking to some o' the shipyard people!— Noturally, the langer they can string oot a job the better they lik' it. But obviously, Sir, it's no to the interests o' Clifford & Castle to have a ship laid up for any such period!"

"Eh?" whinnied Mr. Hazlitt incredulously. "Do you mean the job can be done quicker?"

"I do," said Mr. Glencannon positively. "By using my pairsonal influence I can guarantee to have it finished in a fortnight, or three weeks at the vurra most."

Mr. Hazlitt sat back, produced a gold-tipped cigarette from a brand new platinum case, and very deliberately lighted it. For the first time in all history an Engineer had suggested that a refitting job could be done in less time than the yards had estimated. The situation was not only unprecedented, it was astounding!

"Well," he nodded, trying not to cough as the smoke tickled his unaccustomed tonsils, "I must say I like your spirit, Glencannon. —Pleasant as it is for a ship's engineer to have a bit of extra time ashore, ah-hem!, it plays hob with her earnings. And now as to the costs of the job; er, I myself have consulted one or two firms and have jotted down a few figures which I believe ought to cover things nicely. Here, I'll just read the totals off to you."

He read, and as he came to the end of his list, "Well?" he asked, and in his voice was a challenge and in his eye a victorious twinkle, "how does that sound to you? Just about rock bottom, eh, Glencannon? No margin for— ah— for anything in the way of cumshaw, baksheesh, graft and so on, what?"

Mr. Glencannon turned upon Mr. Hazlitt a gaze like that of a faithful collie whose honesty has been wrongly impugned but who is nonetheless determined to protect his master from harm.

"Why, Muster Hazlitt!" he said. "I— I hardly know what to say! The figures ye've just quoted are no' merely high, they're rideeculously, lavishly extrovagant! They're proctically the same as those quoted me by Hutchinson & Derby's thieving reepresentative day before yesterday, and at least 40 percent higher than I can get the job done for elsewhere."

"Forty percent higher!" Mr. Hazlitt gasped. "Oh, now, see here, Glencannon, that's incredible! I'm prepared to concede that these figures of mine may be subject to some slight revision, but ... 40 percent, oh, my dear fellow!"

Mr. Glencannon felt that the psychological moment had arrived. He leaned forward and pounded his fist upon the desk. "Muster Hazlitt!" he thundered, "it's time for a show-doon in the engineering monogement o' this company! For monny and monny's the year I've been painfully aware that we were paying too much— aye, vurra much too much!— for all the boiler and engine work we've had done. The repair shops are crooked one and all— because under our present system, they have to be! Unless they grease the palm o' the ship's engineer, they canna get the job! But for mysel'—" he rose from his chair and beat his breast dramatically "—for mysel', I'm— I'm thoroughly sick o' it! I canna bite the hond that feeds me— no, not I, Sir! So here are the figures o' an ethical firm, the Vulcan & Atlas Works o' Greenock—the fair and square, the true, the honest figures, and— and—" he made a helpless but heroic gesture "—I'm— I'm here to sairve ye, Sir!"

There was silence while Mr. Hazlitt studied the estimate. "Extraordinary!" he said at length, tweaking a hair out of his right nostril and contemplating it studiously. "Extraordinary! But, well, if you and they agree it can be done for this price, it's good enough for me! Mr. Glencannon, in behalf of Clifford, Castle & Company, Limited, I want to congratulate and to thank you!"

Mr. Glencannon bowed. "I've merely done my juty, Sir," he murmured, "though I'm pairsonally deeply grateful for yere kind praise. Oh, and by the way, Muster Hazlitt—" he reached for his paper parcel and layed it deferentially upon the desk, "I've taken the liberty o' bringing ye a little trifle whuch I picked up in Cristobal and whuch I hope ye'll accept with my compliments."

"A present for me? Oh, I say, Glencannon! Why by George, it's a Panama hat!—A beauty!"

"Aye, a Panama hat— a vurritable pearl o' Panama!" agreed Mr. Glencannon. "Ye'll note that the weave is proctically as fine as fine linen, or e'en finer, Sir. Aloss, such croftsmanship is rare, nooadays— almost a lost art! That's why such hats commond a pretty penny, e'en when ye buy them on the Isthmus where I bocht this one."

Mr. Hazlitt was delighted. Also he was somewhat embarrassed. It was the first time in his forty odd years with the company that anyone had given him anything, and he was at a loss for words. He rose, went to the mirror in the clothesrack and set the hat on his head. It fitted him perfectly. There was a rakish sweep to the brim, and all in all he felt that it made him look years younger. Nothing, nothing could have pleased him more.

"Glencannon," he said, "I can't begin to tell you how grateful I am!"

Mr. Glencannon made a deprecating gesture. "It's merely a most inodequate expression o' the odmiration I've always had for ye, Sir," he said. "There's monny an Engineer in the line's employ that thinks ye're a sneak, a sniveler, a weasel, a scoondrel and a Chinese stinkpot— in addition, o' coorse, to being an auld fool. They mak' no bones aboot saying so. But I—" his voice broke "—but I feel different, Sir!"

Mr. Hazlitt winced, resumed his place at the desk and shuffled his papers. Then he leaned back, whistling softly and gazing at the ceiling. The Engineer could see that he was deep in thought. At length he nodded as though arrived at a decision.

"Yes!" he said, half to himself. "Yes! Glencannon, this has been a most enlightening interview. You've opened my eyes to a lot of things, and I won't forget it! You're sailing for Antwerp tomorrow; well, perhaps before you go you'll hear something that will interest you! Good-bye, Glencannon, and— thanks!"

When the Engineer had gone, Mr. Hazlitt heaved a long, comfortable sigh. "Well, that's decided it!" he said. "No doubt about it, Hazlitt, Glencannon's the man for the job.— With him running things, you'll have time to— to play a little. Lord knows you've got it coming to you, Hazlitt; you've never played in your life, and you haven't many years left!" He looked at his watch. "Well, come on!" he ordered himself gruffly. "Now's the day and now's the hour!" Taking a final glance at his hat in the mirror, he left the office.

As usual, he headed southward. Two blocks, three blocks he walked. He was tense with excitement. At length he halted on the corner opposite a tearoom labeled "Ye Cake and Candle Shoppe." Yes, there she was at her table in the window.

"Now, Hazlitt, buck up!" he muttered. "Stop trembling! You've got to go right in and speak to her, today—after all these months you've got to go in, you've got to, got to! Ah, look, she sees you! She's smiling! It'll be easy, it'll be easy..." With elaborate jauntiness he produced his platinum case, took out a cigarette and flipped his lighter.

POOF!

There was a blinding flash. Mr. Hazlitt's Panama hat vanished in a cloud of smoke and a stench of burned celluloid. Stunned, he put his hand to his head, and realized in horror that the hair of his wig had vanished with it.

He was vaguely aware that a crowd had gathered. "—Now see 'ere!" the voice of the law was saying, "yer can't shoot off fireworks in the street, Mister, so move along before I tyke yer in charge!"

Mr. Hazlitt turned toward the tearoom window. She was still there. She was choking on a muffin.

In a taxi and on the verge of collapse, Mr. Hazlitt removed the smoking debris from his head and examined it. Of the wig, nothing remained but the webbed fabric foundation. Of the hat, the only thing left was the leather sweatband. Dully he turned it inside out. On it were words stamped in gold.

" 'Genuine Panama,' " he read. " 'Genuine Pan ... no, 'Pam'— 'Genuine Pamana.' And here, below, it says 'Made in Japan'!"

v

THE S.S. Inchcliffe Castle was about to sail for Antwerp. Captain Ball and the pilot were on the bridge, the mates were at their respective stations on forecastle and poop, while down below Mr. Glencannon was keeping one eye on the gauges and the other on the engine-room ladder.

"There's still time!" he muttered confidently. "Haw, haw!— Ah, losh, when I think o' how yon bondit o' a McTooth will feel when he hears he's got to do the job at a loss! But o' coorse with me as Clifford and Castle's Engineer Superintendent, giving oot the repair contracts for the whole dom line, he'll no dare raise a beef aboot it!"

The main exhaust blew off like a pent-up tornado. The telegraph clanged and the pointer went to STAND BY. The Third Engineer came down the ladder with an oblong package addressed to Mr. Glencannon.

With unsteady fingers the Chief tore off the paper, disclosing a handsome box of cigars and an envelope. "Losh!" he gloated, "here's the guid news, no doot aboot it! Ye're on yere last trip to sea, Glencannon; 'twull no' be lang the noo before ye say fareweel for guid and all to this fulthy swill barge and to the maggoty life o' an engineer at sea!"

He took a cigar, bit the end off it and lighted it in the flame of a duck lamp. "Noo let's see, let's see!" he opened the envelope and shook out the letter.

It read:

My dear Glencannon:

For some time past the Directors have been urging me to appoint an Engineer Superintendent to relieve me of the detail which our established method of operation has always placed upon me. I was persuaded that they were right and was about to make such an appointment when the able and efficient way in which you handled the matter of those repairs estimates demonstrated how unnecessary a Superintendent would be. You showed what can be done, and now I shall insist upon all our other engineers following your example. Furthermore, I have now eliminated certain distracting matters which were recently claiming too much of my time and hence I will be able to give the work my general supervision as in the past. Many thanks to you for saving me from an extremely foolish step

Sincerely,

Virgil Hazlitt.

Beneath the signature was scrawled, "I believe you'll agree that the theory 'There's no fool like an old fool' is pretty well exploded!"

Mr. Glencannon, chewing his cigar, was still scowlingly wondering what it all meant when BANG!, there was a shattering detonation and the cigar's incandescent fragments went rocketing into the utmost corners of the Inchcliffe Castle's engine room.

____________________

16: The Javanese Mask

Raoul Whitfield

1896-1945

Black Mask Dec 1931

A CHINESE BOY answered the veranda bell which had made a musical, clanging sound within the house. The house was on the outskirts of Manila; it faced Oriental Road, and the Pasig River was at its rear, beyond a garden of palms and jungle growth. The Chinese boy had slick, black hair and dark, wide eyes. Jo said:

"Señor Gar— Monsieur Lemere has sent for me."

The Chinese boy bowed and opened the polished door wide. His eyes held a frightened expression. As the Island detective stepped into a large, square room a deep-toned clock struck the hour of eight. The tones echoed and reechoed through the house.

From the distance, from some spot beyond the screened and shuttered windows, there came a low cry which graduated into a high wail and then fell again to the low note. Jo Gar removed his pith helmet and ran stubby, brown fingers through his gray hair. He looked questioningly at the house-boy.

"What is that?" he asked in his toneless voice.

The house-boy made the sign of the cross. His face showed fear—the whole, brown fatness of it.

"He weeps for Señor Delancey— it is the Americano's boy," he replied,

Jo Gar said: "Gerry Delancey?"

The Chinese boy nodded. "I am Monsieur Lemere's boy," he explained.

The Island detective smiled very slightly. "And for that reason you do not weep," he said.

A hoarse voice called out suddenly, from a room above:

"Tanyo, damn you! Show Señor Gar up here. Hurry, damn you— hurry! You're all the same— the whole stinking breed of you. Chatter, chatter talk nonsense— all the time— day and night—"

The voice was shaken, uncertain. It was almost as though the speaker were damning the house-boy in order to hear his own voice. Jo Gar half closed his gray-blue eyes and glanced towards the broad stairs. The house-boy said:

"You come, please—"

He moved almost soundlessly across the waxed floor. Manila was hot, had been hot for weeks. Hot with the reek of the tropics. But this house was cool almost damp. There was an odor of incense. It was a good, well-built house, and the Island detective imagined that the typhoon winds did not rock it too much, in season. Not even so much as they rocked the building in which he had his small office, just off the Escolta, Manila's main business street.

There was a small room to the right of the stairs, and the house-boy halted in the doorway, stood to one side. He made a small but graceful gesture with his left hand and said softly:

"The Señor Gar."

Jo Gar smiled a little at the boy's use of the word "the." He went into the room and saw that Lemere was standing with his back to a large screened window. Lemere was a big man, over six feet tall and weighing more than two hundred pounds. He was supposed to be of French descent, but he had lived for some fifteen years in the islands. He had brown hair and eyes and high cheek bones, and a mouth that Jo Gar did not like. The lips were too thin and straight.

Lemere said in his hoarse voice, speaking in English and with little accent:

"These damned Chinks and Filipinos—"

He checked himself abruptly, realizing that Jo Gar was a half-breed, and that there was Filipino blood in his veins. The Island detective said nothing. From the jungle growth at the rear of the house, somewhere between it and the river, there came the wail of Delancey's house-boy. Lemere put large, brown hands to his ears and shook his head slowly from side to side. Then he took his hands away and shouted hoarsely:

"Tanyo— have that damned yelling stopped! Tell that boy I'll come down there and beat him—"

His voice trailed off. He stared at Jo Gar as though he were seeing him the first time. He said:

"Good— I'm glad you came. Delancey's dead. Murdered."

Jo Gar said: "Murdered?"

Lemere nodded. "I haven't sent for the police yet, haven't made any report. Wanted you to come here first. They bungle things so much. And you seem to get somewhere. So I sent for you. I'm glad you came."

Jo Gar's gray-blue eyes moved around the room. It was comfortably furnished in wicker; there were fan-back chairs made in the great Bilibid prison, several tables and wicker book shelves. From the large windows one looked over the garden to the Pasig; two hundred yards or so distant, and curving sharply at this point.

The Island detective looked at Lemere again. He recalled that the Frenchman had lived with Gerald Delancey for several years, in this house. That is, they had lived together during the six months or so they were in Manila. The rest of the time they spent in travel about the Islands, and around China and Japan. They collected for one of the biggest curio houses in the Orient— Rescelli. They were pretty well known in Manila; both were members of the English Club; each was a bachelor. They were together a great deal; Jo recalled that only a week or so ago he had seen them attending a soccer game, near the old Walled City.

Lemere said:

"This is pretty rotten, Señor Gar. Coming as it did—"

Jo Gar said: "The death occurred here— in this house?"

Lemere ran fingers across his forehead, shivered. He went to a small table and poured himself a drink of what appeared to be brandy. When he looked questioningly at the Island detective, Jo shook his head.

"No thanks," he said. "It would be well if I were to see—"

Lemere nodded. "That's what I took the drink for," he breathed. "Gerry was my— best friend—"

He moved past Jo, and the Island detective followed him. They went along a narrow hall, came to a closed door. Lemere opened it, went into a room that was becoming dark. Jo followed him in, halted near the door. The room was about ten feet wide and quite long. Thirty feet, perhaps. It had only two small windows; there was a heavy odor of incense. The windows were at each end of the room, which apparently ran from the front to the rear of the house. Each window was screened.

The wall space was almost covered by the objects hanging on it. There were native shields and spears, head-dresses of various types, tribal, religious markings and poles, strings of beads— wooden and stone and metal. On the several tables of the room were small objects of all types, weapons and trinkets and cooking utensils— mostly tribal. The room was fairly dark; it had a somber feeling. At one end of one table there was a crude incense burner, and though the incense was only ash, the odor was still strong. There were two wicker chairs, and near the small window that faced towards the Pasig River there was a low couch covered with a brownish rug of some sort of rough material.

Lemere stood for several seconds looking towards the couch, then turned away from it. His eyes met Jo's briefly; he said:

"On the couch— where I found him. I haven't— touched a thing in here."

The Island detective moved towards the body on the couch. He was thinking, as he went towards it in the dusk, with the odor of the incense in his nostrils, of strange death— poison by incense or liquid. The room gave him that sort of feeling.

But the body of Gerald Delancey held nothing mysterious in the way of death. He lay flat on his back, his eyes staring at the ceiling, wide. There was a bullet wound in the left temple and another in the throat. Both wounds were small, and from the one in the temple little blood had flowed. The right fist was clenched; the left held the material of the couch cover in a tight grip. There was a half bitter, half sardonic smile on Delancey's rather sallow face. It was almost as though he had expected death, and had mocked it when it had come.

Delancey had been a small, rather slight man. He had sparse, blond hair and blue eyes. In death he seemed to have grown smaller.

Jo Gar turned slowly and looked about the room. Lemere sank into one of the wicker chairs and wiped his perspiring face with a handkerchief. The wailing in the growth back of the house had stopped. One of the small river tugs made a whistle sound. The Island detective's eyes came away from the curios on the walls. He moved nearer Lemere.

"You had quarreled," he said slowly.

Lemere took his handkerchief away from brown eyes swiftly. He sat erect in the chair, his lips working without making sound. Jo said: "I did not say that you had killed Delancey. I said that you had quarreled."

Lemere was breathing heavily. "That damned Chink!" he muttered. "I hate the breed—"

Jo spoke with faint impatience. "Your nerves are not good. You sent for me before the police because you felt one whom you would pay would be more sympathetic. You have had recent trouble with Delancey, and you are a bit worried about the police."

Lemere did not speak. Jo said: "Your house-boy told me nothing. But you were foolish to have told him he must not speak of the quarrel you had with Delancey. That might cause trouble. Many humans quarrel, but few murder because of that fact."

There was a little silence. Lemere said heavily:

"We quarreled over business. I thought he was letting some of the stuff we got in Java go too cheaply. We've been doing badly lately. This depression has hurt our business, which is a luxury business. Our nerves were bad, too. We had a nasty scrap last night, and another just after siesta time, this afternoon. There are five of us living here— and I took the Chinese cook and my house-boy and went into the city, at four o'clock. I was angry and thought of finding another place. A place for myself and the servants."

He paused. Jo spoke softly:

"That left Delancey and his house-boy here."

The Frenchman shook his head. "His house-boy went away yesterday, to visit his parents. He returned here from north of the city at seven o'clock. I had come back, by that time and had found— the body. I returned with the servants at about six-forty. The cook went into his quarters to change his clothes. I called Delancey's name several times, then came up here. This is stuff we haven't sold to Rescelli for one reason or another. We use the room often. The door was half opened— and things were just as they are now."

Jo Gar seated himself in a straight backed wicker and looked around the room. His eyes went from one hanging object to another. As he used them he said:

"The house was locked?" Lemere shook his head.

"The front door was not locked. The screen door was closed, on the veranda, and the rear door was locked. But the front door was not locked."

Jo Gar's eyes rested on a spear that looked as though the design was Igorrote.

"Just why did you take the cook and your house-boy along with you, Lemere?" he asked slowly.

Lemere swore. "I was sore— and the Chink cook was my find. I've had him for five years. He's good. My idea was to get out of here with my servants; I didn't intend coming back—they were mine and I wanted them out—"

The Island detective nodded. "But they would have been forced to return for their things."

Lemere said heavily: "You don't believe me, Señor Gar?"

Jo said: "Yes, I believe you, Monsieur Lemere."

The Frenchman wiped his face with the hand-kerchief. His left hand was shaking.

"I had a place in mind— one that I could get right into. I had the feeling that I'd show it to my servants and say: 'We move into here tonight.' But I cooled down on the way in. I was coming back to suggest to Gerry that we go into some cold weather for a change.

We've made a little money. And when I got here—"

He broke off and stared towards the lounge. Jo said:

"You looked for the gun— did not find it?"

Lemere said: "Nothing had been touched in here. I didn't see any gun. I thought at first he might have gone crazy, killed himself. We keep the guns downstairs in a closet. They're all there."

Jo said, "Delancey had perhaps— an enemy?"

Lemere shook his head. "He had few friends, and no enemies so far as I know."

The Island detective frowned. He rose suddenly and went to a corner of the room that was quite dark. He stood looking towards the wall and said quietly:

"Nothing was missing from this room?"

Lemere shook his head. "Not a thing," he replied. "I've looked around—"

"What was it that has hung here— and does not hang here now?" Jo asked steadily.

Lemere rose with swiftness for his size. He reached the Island detective's side, stared towards a small space on the wall that was a different color from the rest. It was cleaner— dust had not accumulated on the spot. Lemere drew in a deep breath.

"Good God!" he muttered. "There is something missing. I didn't notice it—in this corner—"

Jo Gar spoke softly: "What was here, Monsieur Lemere?"

Lemere said: "A mask— A Javanese mask. When we had the argument, after siesta time, I remember seeing it. I stood over here, and Delancey was at the other end of the room, shouting. I looked at the mask—"

He went close to the wall and said: "It hung on a nail. There was a mouthpiece in the back of it, of bamboo— it hung on that. The nail's still here."

Jo Gar nodded. "What about the mask?" he asked. "Was it valuable— and who got it? How and where?"

And for the second time the Island detective expected something touched and colored by the tropics, the jungle, tribal customs—and got nothing of the sort. Lemere said:

"It wasn't much. Ten years old, maybe. I got it for the equivalent of a couple of American dollars, at Bangkop, the capital of Java. It was a dance mask, made of wood. Pretty good sculpture, but not important. Painted red and black— and gold color. A demon mask."

The Island detective said: "A demon mask?"

Lemere frowned. "But that doesn't mean anything. It was a dance mask, but not a ceremonial dance mask. They use them in their plays— the good spirits wear masks and do sort of a fighting dance with the bad spirits, the demons. It usually ends up with the good spirits winning. This missing mask had staring eyes and a wide mouth with gold, long teeth. It was held between the teeth of the dancer, by the bamboo mouthpiece. There are many of them in Java. But where could it—"

He broke off. Jo Gar said: "If it wasn't important, why did you buy it?"

The Frenchman shrugged. "It was cheap— I got it just before we left. Had some Dutch money I didn't want to bother changing. And anyway, there's a nice profit in that stuff. I can sell it in the States for around fifty dollars."

Jo Gar said a little grimly: "You mean that you could sell it for that price, if you had it."

Lemere said hoarsely: "But where did it go?"

The Island detective smiled a little. "And why did it go?" he asked in return. "Was Señor Delancey with you when it was bought?"

Lemere shook his head. "No," he said. "He's never cared much about it— no reason why he should. He glanced at it when I showed it to him, that's all. I don't think he ever spoke of it."

Jo spoke quietly: "Is there any chance that you might be mistaken as to the mask's value? Any chance that someone might have demanded the mask and on being refused—"

The Frenchman said: "Not a bit," very decisively.

Jo Gar sighed. He went over and looked down at the body of Gerald Delancey. Then he turned away and said thoughtfully:

"You left Delancey after a quarrel, leaving him alone in this house. You were gone two hours and forty minutes, and the front door was not locked. When you returned Delancey was dead. Apparently from bullets in the brain and throat— the autopsy will clear that up. The gun used was missing, and also a Javanese dance mask that you had noticed hanging here on the wall during your last quarrel."

Lemere ran his tongue over moist lips and said: "Yes—and the mask was of little value."

Jo Gar nodded slowly. "Of little value, apparently," he said. "Now, will you please send the three servants to me here? And then send for the police."

Lemere said softly: "Damn the police."

The Island detective went to the small window that faced the Pasig. It was growing quite dark. The screen was very securely fastened.

"I'm afraid damning the police would do little good," he suggested. "Please send for them and tell them the truth. They will do interesting things."

Lemere said grimly: "All right— and what will you do, Señor Gar?"

The Island detective spoke tonelessly: "I shall talk and think," he replied. "Counteracting a bad habit with a good one."

The Frenchman moved towards the door of the long, narrow room.

"You've got to help me, Señor Gar," he said huskily. "I will pay you well. This is a terrible thing."

The Island detective watched a banca move down-stream, lanterns lighted. He did not reply to the Frenchman and Lemere spoke again, hoarsely.

"I'll telephone the police."

He went from the room and his footfalls made sound on the stairs that led to the floor below. Jo Gar moved away from the small window and looked with half closed eyes at the nail which had held the object that was gone. He said very softly:

"A Javanese mask— of little value—"

Sadi Ratan stood in the living room, downstairs, looking more handsome than ever. His drill uniform fit his fine figure very perfectly. He spoke in his usual, loud voice.

"Major Kelvey is at Baguio; I will handle this murder myself— I have the authority. Your cook and house-boy were with you during the time you were absent from this house— they are therefore exonerated. The murdered man's house-boy I am not through with. He is shifty and uncertain, and I have already caught him in one lie."

Jo Gar widened his eyes and Lemere said in a surprised tone:

"He lied, eh?" He was silent for several seconds, then spoke thoughtfully: "Well, he could have been here while we were away."

Jo Gar looked at the lieutenant of Manila police and then inhaled smoke from his brown-paper cigarette. Sadi Ratan frowned at him. "Doctor Renan states that the bullet in the brain of the dead man would have caused instant death. There is no chance of this being suicide— because the gun has not been found. The screens of both windows are secure, and it would not have been possible for the Americano to have tossed the gun out, in any case."

Jo Gar said: "Lieutenant— you have learned a motive for the murder? His servant had reason to kill him?"

Lieutenant Ratan said sneeringly. "Chinese servants do not always need motives for murder. A sudden rage—"

The Island detective smiled. "You are correct, of course," he said.

The Frenchman spoke in an excited tone. "My ——! I'd almost forgotten that! Gerry struck this Chink Gao, several days ago. Struck him with his walking stick. Hit him twice."

Sadi Ratan said: "Ah! He did that, Monsieur Lemere?"

The big Frenchman frowned. "Of course, that doesn't mean—"

He broke off. Jo said: "In the Islands many masters strike their servants, unfortunately."

Sadi Ratan said loudly. "Why did he strike Gao?"

Lemere hesitated. He looked at Jo and then at the lieutenant of Manila police. He shrugged.

"I suppose you should know the truth," he said. "It doesn't mean that Gao is guilty of murder. He's been wailing ever since he learned that Delancey was dead. But he was caught in the curio room, upstairs— by Gerry. Or rather, he was caught just outside the room. He had one of those carved Igorrote spoons on him. The handle shaped into a head. Not very valuable, but Gerry was pretty sore. He called him a thief and hit him a few cracks."

Sadi Ratan said: "Ah! His servant was a thief. But why did he not inform the police?"

Lemere shrugged again. "The spoon had no great value. We've got a drawer full of them in one of those tables up there. You know how servants are-they take a fancy to something, and just want it. Gerry thought the cane blows would cure him from petty theft like that."

Jo said slowly: "The Chinese are usually quite honest, Monsieur Lemere. They give the least trouble—"

The police lieutenant said sharply: "There are some forty Chinese serving terms in Bilibid prison, Señor Gar."

The Island detective bowed slightly. "You are undoubtedly correct, Lieutenant," he stated.

The Frenchman spoke softly but hoarsely. "I don't think Gao did it," he said. "He may be a petty thief, but he isn't a killer. He's never had a gun, and I don't think he can shoot."

The lieutenant of police spoke grimly. "That can very easily be determined. But first we will go to his quarters and search for the mask that is missing. I think we will find it."

A clock struck ten. There was a breeze blowing across the Pasig, but it was not a very cool one. The Frenchman blinked at the police lieutenant.

"You think we will find— the Javanese mask?" he breathed. "You think—Gao stole it?"

Sadi Ratan shrugged, and his dark eyes met Jo Gar's with faint contempt.

"He is a thief and a liar. The mask and the spoon were worth little. But he was whipped and he hated the one who had whipped him. He knew that the Americano and you had quarreled, Monsieur Lemere. The bullets that killed Delancey were not fired at a great distance. And the fact that one entered the brain and another the throat proves that the murderer was not a fine shot. It would not have been difficult for this servant of his to have bought or stolen a gun. And after he had killed he stole the mask. He might have thought it had value, and we would be thrown off the track. Or he might have stolen it to show his contempt— the Chinese are strange people."

Jo Gar chuckled, and watched anger flare in the police lieutenant's eyes.

"And the Manila police are strange people, also," he said softly. "Very strange."

Sadi Ratan said loudly: "Because you were fortunate in the shooting gallery murder—"

Jo Gar chuckled again. "Go and search for the Javanese mask, Lieutenant Ratan. Do what you will with this servant, Gao. It will be all very foolish. He did not murder Delancey, and I do not think he stole the mask."

The lieutenant of police drew in a sharp breath. He stood very erect and glared at the Island detective. He started to speak, but did not. Lemere spoke wearily:

"Delancey is dead, murdered. The mask is the only thing missing from that room, so far as I know. The servants are witnesses to the fact that I was away when the murder occurred. It happens that we were together all of the time and there are others who saw me, of course—"

Sadi Ratan smiled. "You are not suspected, Monsieur Lemere. The only fault I have to find with you is that the police were not notified before Señor Gar."

Jo Gar smiled pleasantly. "The handicap of arriving after me is nothing to a man of your ability, Lieutenant," he stated.

The Filipino looked hatred at the Island detective, and Jo Gar thought of the difference in this second-in-command to the American head of the Manila force— and the dead Juan Arragon. This man hated him. Arragon had disagreed with him, argued with him, but he had never hated.

"And, too," Jo said quietly, "you might not have noticed that the mask was missing from the room. I am glad to be able to give you that information."

Sadi Ratan turned away. At the door of the living-room he turned.

"Will you please accompany me, Monsieur?" he asked Lemere.

Lemere glanced at Jo Gar, who nodded.

The Frenchman said: "Won't you come along, Señor Gar?"

Sadi Ratan frowned but Jo Gar smiled a little.

"You are kind," he replied. "But you wish me to search for the murderer even though the police are working to the same end?"

Lemere said hoarsely. "Of course, Señor Gar."

Jo Gar nodded. "Then I shall not bother with the servant, Gao," he said quietly. "I shall walk about the grounds a bit."

Sadi Ratan said with sarcasm: "Perhaps you will find the gun that was used, Señor."

The Island detective nodded. "In that event I will show it to you immediately, Lieutenant," he said very softly. "I will call to you."

The lieutenant of Manila police said nastily:

"And if I do not answer your call, it will be because I am busy talking with Delancey's murderer."

"Or because you are busy talking with the one you think is Delancey's murderer," Jo said gently.

The servants were quartered in a small, wooden building in the growth behind the house; when Jo heard the voice of Ratan and Lemere grow faint, as they went towards the Pasig, he walked to a screened window and looked towards Oriental Road. It was a narrow dirt road, and there was little traffic on it. After a short time he went up the stairs and into the curio room again. He spent some time inspecting the wall surface where the mask had hung. The coroner had not yet arrived; even the act of handling the dead was not hurried in the tropics.

Jo Gar said very softly:

"Lemere has a good memory, but important thoughts occur to him only when he has been pushed. He did not notice the mask was gone until he was told of something being missing. He did not remember that this Gao was a thief or that he had been beaten, until he had been told by Ratan that the servant had lied. And yet, he says that he has a perfect alibi— and I believe him. Why then, does he attempt to throw suspicion—"

He stopped talking softly; his ears had caught the sound of a creaking board. It had been a very little sound, but he knew instantly that it had been made by a bare foot. Someone was coming up the stairs.

Jo moved swiftly and silently towards a large shield leaning against the wall near the couch on which the body rested. The shield was of wood, and appeared to be a tribal protection against spears. It was painted in gaudy colors, crudely, and was almost as tall as Jo. The room was dimly lighted— and the light was at the opposite end; little of it fell upon the spear shield behind which Jo crouched.

He could see the doorway, though his body was in shadow and his face was so brown that there was little danger of his being seen. He guessed that whoever was coming up the stairs had made a mistake— had thought the three of them had left the house.

Seconds passed, with Jo Gar breathing very quietly and holding his body motionless. He commenced to think that no human was coming up. The house was of wood, and all wood in the Islands was constantly attacked by ants and was rotting. The creaking sound might not have been caused by a footfall. But he remained quiet and waited. A minute passed, and the greater portion of another. Still Jo did not move.

And then a figure was in the doorway. It did not pause there or inspect the room. It passed swiftly inside and moved towards the shield.

Jo Gar recognized the house-boy when he was ten feet or so from the shield.

He was not Gao, the dead man's servant. He was Tanyo, the one who had greeted the Island detective, had let him into the house. Lemere's house-boy!

The Chinese was out of Jo's vision now, but Jo could hear his quick breathing. There was a little scraping sound, and then the sound of foot-falls, very light. The house-boy was moving rapidly towards the doorway; he went through it and vanished from sight. Going down the stairs he was very careful, but once again there was the creaking sound, fainter this time.

The Island detective remained quiet for perhaps thirty seconds. Then he moved from behind the spear shield, stood up straight. His eyes widened, then grew very narrow. He walked cross the room and stood looking at the Javanese mask.

It hung on the nail, and it was as Lemere had described it. A red, black, and gold, eye-staring demon mask. The sculpture was good; the wood looked soft. Jo did not touch it. He turned slowly and looked towards the covered body of Delancey. He was frowning.

After a few seconds he went very quietly from the room and down the stairs. He descended by using every other step, and he was lucky. There was no creaking sound beneath his weight. In the living-room he stood by a screened window that was at the front of the house and tried to reason it out.

He was sure that Lemere had wanted him to leave the house with them, for the talk with Gao. He did not leave and Lemere was not able to warn Tanyo. That was one idea— that Tanyo had obeyed the instructions of his master. But the reason for returning the mask was not clear, nor was the reason for removing it in the first place, if Lemere had done so.

The Island detective shook his head. He said: "No," very softly. After a few seconds he went to a screened door that led from the room to the patio at the rear, opened it and then slammed it shut, without leaving the room. He coughed several times, and lighted one of his brown-paper cigarettes. In another room he heard movement and the sound of water running.

He thought: Tanyo returned the mask for Gao. They are both Chinese. Tanyo realized that the other house-boy was suspected. Gao had stolen some things, among them the mask. Lemere may have known the mask was missing, or he may not have noticed it until I called his attention to it. That gave him the idea— and he stated that he had seen it on the wall during his quarrel with Delancey. But he really thought that Gao had it, and that Gao would be seriously involved.

The Island detective sighed and said again: "No."

He did not think that Lemere had murdered Delancey, but he had a strong feeling that the Frenchman was hiding something. He heard a wailing voice in the distance and guessed that Sadi Ratan was using severe methods on the house-boy, Gao. Raising his voice, he called:

"Tanyo!"

After a few seconds there were light foot falls and Lemere's servant came into the room. His face was expressionless now; the fright had gone from his eyes. Jo Gar smiled at him, and spoke softly.

"A murder is a very serious thing, Tanyo," he said. "Many facts must be learned. When you left the house with Monsieur Lemere you saw the Americano?"

Lemere's house-boy said: "Yes— him very mad. Him stand at top of stairs and damn Monsieur. Monsieur— him say no talk. Him very mad, too, but him say no talk. We go."

The Island detective nodded. He asked questions about where they went and learned the places. They were away from the house two hours and forty minutes, but at all times they were together. Jo said: "It was very hot, after siesta time. Monsieur Lemere— he had no drink?"

The Chinese boy nodded. "He had drink— with much ice. We all have same drink— him good."

Jo Gar smiled. "You had drinks together?" he asked. "Where?"

Tanyo said: "At the drink place of Montanya, off the Escolta, not long way from—"

The Island detective interrupted quietly. "I know the place," he said. "That is all."

Tanyo turned away from him. Voices sounded— the voices of Lemere and Sadi Ratan. Jo lighted another cigarette from the tip of the shortened one. Tanyo went from the room as a screen door slammed at the rear of the house. Ratan said loudly:

"He will talk much, and tell the truth— when we have taken him to the station. Major Kelvey would have it done that way. In his absence I will—"

He stopped talking as he entered the living-room and frowned at Jo Gar. The Island detective smiled pleasantly.

"You found the Javanese mask?" he asked.

Lemere shook his head. "But this Gao acts guilty," he breathed. "You know what this is likely to be— Gao did the killing, damn him—but we'll never be able to prove it. I doubt that he'll confess or break down. Poor Gerry."

The Island detective spoke very quietly. "I did not find the gun, Lieutenant Ratan."

Sadi Ratan smiled nastily. "Of course not," he muttered. "And as for the missing mask—"

Jo said: "It is missing no longer. It hangs on the nail in the curio room, from which it was taken."

Lemere's big body swung towards him; the Frenchman's eyes were wide, staring. He was breathing quickly and the fingers of his large hands were twitching. Sadi Ratan said:

"The Javanese mask— is back in the room?"

Jo said: "Yes— it was returned while you were questioning Gao." Lemere breathed: "Good God! Why?"

Sadi Ratan went swiftly from the living-room and up the stairs.

Lemere stood motionless except for the twitching of his fingers.

Jo said softly: "You would really like to know why the mask was removed, then returned, Monsieur Lemere?"

The Frenchman stared at him, then nodded. The Island detective said:

"The mask had not been hanging from the nail for perhaps a week. You did not see it there when you quarreled with Delancey. You did not even think of the mask, until I suggested that something had been taken. And when I said that— you thought I believed it. You saw an opportunity, and you did not tell me the truth. There was not so much dust on the spot from which the mask been taken as on the other uncovered spots of the wall, but there was some dust. Quite a bit. More than could possibly get there in a few hours' time. Or in a day's time."

Lemere said: "Nonsense."

Jo Gar spoke again, very softly. "You did not go from here to find another place to live, this afternoon, after the quarrel. You pretended that was the reason, and you took the servants with you. You kept them with you— even drinking with them at Montanya's place— a place not usually visited by one of your station. Nor does one of your position ordinarily drink with servants—he goes to one place and the servants to another. But you did it the other way because you were in need of a perfect alibi— you must not be alone during those two hours and forty minutes, Monsieur Lemere."

Lemere said in his hoarse voice "You are telling me that I murdered Gerry Delancey—"

Jo said: "You know that I am not telling you that. You were not in the house when the American was murdered. And I think that you are aware of the fact that this house-boy of his, Gao, will have as good an alibi as you and your house-boy and cook have. You do not want Gao to suffer for a crime you know he did not commit."

Lemere said sharply: "I know nothing of the sort. You're talking—" The Island detective said gently: "You have just said that you did not believe this Gao would confess or be broken down. It is your idea that this murder should be unsolved, even though you have sent for me, and are apparently working with the police."

Lemere laughed harshly, bitterly. "I never heard such rot in my life. I never—"

Jo's gray-blue eyes were growing small. "Tanyo is your servant, and faithful to you. He returned the mask, which you had somewhere in the house. He thought I was with you and the lieutenant, as you had planned for me to be. I saw him return the mask. I think that you wanted Lieutenant Ratan and myself to believe that Gao had stolen it, had become frightened, and had returned it. You wanted to implicate Gao, but not to convict him—"

Lieutenant Ratan came into the room, holding the Javanese mask between two fingers that were handkerchief covered. He said to Lemere:

"This is the missing mask— the one that was missing?"

Lemere said unsteadily: "Yes."

Sadi Ratan smiled narrowly. "It will show the fingerprints of Gao, I think. He returned it, or had it returned by one of the other servants, because he was frightened. Delancey probably caught him in the act of stealing it, they fought, and the Americano was killed. Gao has hidden the gun, but he did not hide this. He thought that to return it would confuse us all the more. Or perhaps he did not think it had been missed and was afraid it might be."

Jo Gar smiled at Lemere. "You see?" he said. His voice was very calm. "You were correct when you told me you had sent for me because the police bungle so much."

Sadi Ratan swore in his native tongue. The Island detective said very slowly:

"I will tell you what you did, Lemere. You had quarreled much with Delancey lately. You felt that he was ruining the business in which you were partners. You did not murder him— nor did you have him murdered. But you knew that death was close to Delancey, and you made that death simpler. You left him alone, and he was murdered. You know who murdered him, but you have attempted to protect that murderer and to implicate a servant you did not think could be convicted. Death for Delancey means that you will control the business— where a separation would mean that one would have to buy the other out, or the business would be split up. You saw death coming— and you stood aside."

Lemere's eyes were slits. Sadi Ratan muttered something that the Island detective failed to catch. Lemere said shakily:

"You don't know anything about our business arrangements, Gar— you don't know that his death means control of all of it for me."

Jo smiled a little. "I can find out," he said simply. "I think that is just— what it means."

There was a little silence. Lemere's big body was swaying a little. He breathed heavily and kept his eyes on the gray-blue ones of Jo. The Island detective said:

"Who fired those two bullets— who murdered your partner, Lemere?"

The big Frenchman said heavily: "Damn you— I don't know!"

But fear showed in his eyes now. Jo Gar saw it, and Sadi Ratan saw it. The Island detective said:

"That is true, you do not know. You were not here to see. But who did you expect would kill Delancey, Lemere?"

The Frenchman shook his head savagely from side to side. His lips were wet and his nerve was breaking. He had done a terrible thing, in stepping aside, and he knew it. Jo Gar said quietly:

"I doubt that you would now be protecting a man. I think Delancey was murdered with a small caliber gun held in the hand of a woman—"

The big man screamed fiercely. "No— for ——'s sake, Gar— no! I'll tell you the truth. The servants lied, and I lied. I left them in town, across the Pasig. I came back here—"

Jo Gar said: "No, please. You have lied, but do not lie again. You did not murder Delancey. Who was the woman—"

The big man made a swift movement with his right hand. Sadi Ratan cried out: "Stop!" Jo Gar moved his body swiftly to the left and ripped his own automatic from a pocket of his duck trousers. There was crashing sound in the room— once, twice. Smoke curled from the gun as it slipped from Lemere's creased fingers, but the bullet had gone wide of the Island detective.

Sadi Ratan kicked the gun aside. Jo Gar went close to the big man. "You are very foolish, Monsieur Lemere," he said quietly, "to let your temper get the best of you. You have now done something for which the police can exact a penalty. And perhaps, while they have you in custody, they can obtain from you the name of the murderer of your partner."

"I cannot tell," Lemere said between clenched teeth, "that which I do not know."

There was a little silence, then Sadi Ratan said in a less confident voice:

"We must find the woman." Jo Gar shook his head.

"You must, perhaps," he replied. "I am a peculiar man, and I feel that I have done enough. You will find it difficult even if you get a name, though I do not think she will use a mask to throw you off. But I am finished with the affair."

Sadi Ratan said with a touch of nastiness: "Perhaps you think it would be too difficult."

Jo Gar smiled. "Perhaps," he agreed.

LESS than ten days later, in his hot office off the Escolta, Jo Gar read of the suicide of one Marie Saronocca. She had been a half-breed and she had loved well if not too wisely. She had loved one Gerald Delancey, but he had refused to continue loving her. So she had hated him and she had killed him. The Filipino paper in which Jo read the item stated that she was very beautiful, and that her small house in the old, Walled City, contained many curios of native, Island tribes— and from China and Java. She left a written confession of her crime, and in it she did not mention Monsieur Lemere. Another item, in the next column, stated that Lieutenant Sadi Ratan, of the Manila police, had suspected a woman of Delancey's murder, and been working hard on the case.

Jo Gar used a palm leaf fan to bring warm air on his brown face.

He laid the paper aside, and smiled. He said a little wearily:

"It is so easy to work hard. So many people work hard— and accomplish practically nothing."

___________________

17:  Inquest

Leonora Wodehouse (writing as "Loel Yeo")

1904-1944

The Strand Magazine, April 1932

Leonora Wayman was the 10-year-old daughter of P G Wodehouse's wife Ethel when they married in 1914, and  was legally adopted by Wodehouse.  She married into the Cazalet family, and this was her only published story.

MEMORY IS AN odd thing. I can always remember to perfection a mass of unimportant details. So many men stretched end on end would encircle the earth; the exact number is 23,549,115. Thirty and a quarter square yards equal one square rod, pole, or perch. These things and many more I never forget. Yet on the occasional days I can snatch to go up to London (and I being a country doctor they are rare enough), I never fail to leave my shopping list behind. It is only as the train pulls out of London that I remember the instruments I meant to buy.

I overtook the Stanton express as it was grumbling out of the station, and flung myself on to somebody's lap. My apologies were accepted. He was elderly and inconspicuous and neat, and I knew I had seen him before, but though I still knew rice, sago, and pepper to be the chief exports of North Borneo, I couldn't remember where we had met.

People who live the same sort of lives grow to look alike. Thirty years of the same office, the same suburb, the same daily papers, and they end with the same face. Thin and a little anaemic. Eyes the faded blue of much-washed laundry. In summer and winter always a raincoat and an evening paper.

It was a chilly, foggy evening, the typical raw January day which the inconsequence of the English climate always produces in the middle of October; the window-panes were steaming with the heat of the compartment, and I lay back recovering my breath, wondering where I had seen the man opposite me before. A high white collar held his chin erect. He sat upright on the edge of the seat.

Suddenly he coughed. It was more of a mannerism than a cough, you felt it did his throat no good at all. And I remembered that we had last met on the afternoon of the coroner's inquest two years ago at Langley Abbey.

As one noticed little things in the midst of great excitement during the occasional silences in the dining-room on that day, I remember watching the shadow of the elms stretch themselves across the lawn, hearing the cawing of the rooks, and in the room the creaking of the constable's boots and the dry little cough of the solicitor's clerk who gave his unimportant but necessary evidence clearly and concisely.

THE ONLY THING about Langley that suggests an Abbey is the stainedglass window of the bathroom, otherwise it is just one of those solid square Georgian houses. Its gardens and park are lovely. I was practically brought up there with the Neville boys, so I know the place backwards. When they were both killed in 1917 old Sir Guy Neville sold it as it stood to John Hentish.

It's funny how the character of a place changes with its owner. Under the Nevilles, Langley had been a friendly house. The park gates stood open and so did the doors and windows of the house itself, muslin curtains swinging gaily in the breeze. There were village fêtes in the park, and the Abbey was part of the life and conversation of all the villages round.

With John Hentish there came a change. Sir Guy was asked to inform the county that the future tenants disliked society, and hoped people would not give themselves the trouble of calling. The park gates were shut and stayed shut. The windows were tightly closed and the muslin curtains hung straight and lifeless behind them. The house developed a thin-lipped, austere look. The only people who gave themselves the trouble of calling were the postman and the tradesmen. And gradually Langley Abbey dropped out of the annals and conversation of the county.

As for me, the house that had been so much a part of my life having shut me out, for ten years as I drove over to Maddenly to prescribe for Miss Taunton's varicose veins or dose Master Willie Twinger, I averted my eyes from the park gates as one would passing a friendly dog whose temper had become changed and uncertain. And then one afternoon four years ago I found a message in my consulting room asking me to go up to the Abbey at once.

After that I went there regularly, at least three times a week. Practically the whole house, I found, presumably through lack of interest, had been left exactly as it was bought from the Nevilles. The hall was large and ran the width of the house, that is French windows opening on to the lawn faced the front door. The floor had a higher polish than I remembered, and there were fewer lights. The furniture was ugly but solid, mostly Victorian. Two long tables, an oak chest, some stiff chairs, and a Burmese gong. There were several pairs of antlers on the walls, some lithographs of the early Christian martyrs, Saint Sebastien looking extraordinarily fit and cheerful with about forty arrows through his body, a twenty-pound trout Sir Guy had caught in Scotland, and one fairly good tapestry.

Old Hentish had converted what had been Lady Neville's morning-room into a bedroom and bathroom. Off the bedroom, what we had known as the drawing-room had been made into a very beautiful library. Both rooms were large, with high ceilings, and had French windows opening on to the lawn. He lived almost entirely in this suite and seldom left it.

Hentish, though he had faith in me as a doctor, disliked me as he consistently disliked everyone. He was, without exception, the most unpleasant, disagreeable old swine I have ever met. Practically the only pleasure I ever received in his company was derived from jabbing the needle into his arm. He soon exhausted the supply of London nurses, and finally I persuaded Miss Mavey from Maddenly village to take the post, she having nursed an invalid mother for fifteen years who could have given even old Hentish points for unpleasantness. No man, of course, could live long in John Hentish's condition, for, besides heart-trouble, he had advanced cirrhosis of the liver, but because death frightened him he listened to me, and so with electrical treatments, diet, and drugs, his general health improved.

SOME WOMEN are eerie. Miss Taunton has been bedridden for years, yet she's one of those women whose cousin always knew the murdered man's aunt. This time her sister-in-law's maid's niece had married the son of the overseer of the Hentish Paper Mills in Ontario. Like all women, Miss Taunton had a profound contempt for detailed accuracy, but fundamentally her facts are always correct. Hentish, apparently, during the first forty years of his life had spent seven separate fortunes; the figures are Miss Taunton's. He had been the most dissolute man in London, also in Buenos Aires, where the standard is higher and competition keener. He was hard, grasping, and avid for power; there wasn't a man in his paper mills or his gold mine that wouldn't be glad to see him boiled in oil. 'And that,' said Miss Taunton, impressively, 'I got more or less straight from the lips of his own overseer.'

Miss Taunton's attitude to God is rather that of a proud aunt; she sees all the motives so clearly and is often a jump ahead of the game. When John Hentish's health failed, her attitude was that of one whose advice had been taken, for she was a firm believer in the wages of sin. Her own varicose veins she knew had been sent to test her—take the well-known case of Job—she took them rather as a compliment than otherwise, applauded God's attempt at impartiality, and forgave him frequently.

I never knew whether old Hentish had any affection for his nephew or not. William was his heir and they quarrelled, of course— over money, among other things—but I think more than disapproval he enjoyed the sense of power it gave him to see his nephew flush as he threatened to stop his allowance, which was a generous one. William's specialities were women and horses. I suppose he was good-looking in a dark, sinister sort of way; he had inherited all his uncle's unpleasantness and developed it with some ideas of his own. He used to motor down to Langley occasionally for two or three days at a time.

SO LIFE drifted on placidly and uneventfully. Sometimes after I had seen old Hentish I used to wander down to the boathouse, for the lawn sloped down to a lake fringed with red willow, and I would sit there thinking out beautiful unappetizing diets for the old man. Then one afternoon my telephone rang. It was Miss Mavey.

'Dr Mellan? Oh, Dr Mellan, will you please come down at once. Mr Hentish is dead!'

JOHN HENTISH had died from an overdose of morphia taken in a glass of sal volatile. The inquest was held that same evening in the Abbey dining-room. Mr Duffy, the coroner, sat with Police-constable Perker at the table, the rest of the household at the end of the room. Mr Duffy blew his nose, and the Vapex on his handkerchief mingled with the smell of leather and pickles. He turned a watery eye on Croucher, the butler.

'Is everybody here?'

'Everyone with the exception of Mr William Hentish, sir. He has not yet returned home.'

'Thank you. Call Dr Mellan.'

My testimony did not take long. History of John Hentish's illness, cause of death, etc. Miss Mavey was called next, and under the impression that she was on trial for her life, opened with a magnificent defence, giving seven distinct alibis for the afternoon.

'You say,' the coroner asked her, 'that the morphia with which you sometimes had occasion to inject the deceased in order to relieve intense pain was kept on the top shelf of a medicine cupboard, clearly labelled “morphia”?'

'I do,' said Miss Mavey, looking like the Trial of Mary Dugan. 'Anyone else will say the same.'

'The cupboard has a glass door, I understand. The sal volatile and a glass were placed on a small table beneath the cupboard containing the morphia. Is that correct, Miss Mavey?'

Miss Mavey paled, knowing that all she said would be used in evidence against her.

'In a sense, yes.'

'In a sense?'

'A spoon was also kept on the table,' said Miss Mavey, determined to conceal nothing.

'This medicine, this sal volatile, did the deceased take it at regular hours?'

Miss Mavey turned this over. A trap?

'No, sir, only to relieve the pain if it came on sudden,' she said, guardedly.

'When Dr Mellan gave his opinion that death was not due to natural causes, but to an overdose of morphia, you looked in the bathroom. You found the phial, which when you went off duty was in the cupboard and had contained twenty grains of morphia, lying empty on the table beside the sal volatile. Is that correct?'

'Dr Mellan asked me to look when he saw that the morphia had been put in the glass of sal volatile. I touched nothing, I swear it before Almighty God.'

'Was Mr Hentish in the habit of helping himself to this sal volatile?'

'Yes, sir, if there was no one in the room to get it for him.'

'Miss Mavey, are you of the same opinion as Dr Mellan that the morphia could not have been taken accidentally?'

'No.'

'No! Then you think it could have been taken accidentally?'

'Yes. I mean yes I'm of the opinion that no it couldn't have been taken accidentally.'

'That is all. Thank you.'

Miss Mavey, still under the shadow of the scaffold, gave a shuddering sigh, and borrowing the coroner's Vapex, sank on to a chair, inhaling deeply.

Croucher, the butler, was questioned next.

'You say,' said the coroner, 'that on receipt of the telegram this morning, Mr Hentish showed signs of anger?'

'Distinctly, sir.'

'What then?'

'He asked if Mr William was in.'

'Was he?'

'No, sir, he had left in his car at 9.30.'

'What then?'

'He told me to go to hell, sir, and take his blasted nephew with me, sir, but before I went to get Troubridge and Hay on the telephone.'

'His solicitors?'

'Exactly, sir.'

'Then what?'

'He rang and gave me instructions for the car to meet the 1.45 train. His solicitors were sending down a member of the firm.'

'On arrival he was shown straight into the library, I under-

stand?'

'Yes, sir.'

'What then?'

'After about fifteen minutes the library bell rang and Mr Hentish asked me to witness his signature to a new will.'

'After you had signed the will, anything else?'

'The usual instructions to go to hell, sir.'

'Then I understand the house was quiet until 4.30?'

'Yes, sir. The solicitor's gentleman left the library a few moments after I did. There were standing instructions never to disturb Mr Hentish until Miss Mavey woke him at 4.30. Today the bell pealed violently, and on my entering the library Miss Mavey informed me that Mr Hentish was dead. I remained in the room until the doctor's arrival.'

The solicitor's clerk was called.

'Your firm had instructions from Mr Hentish by telephone this morning, I understand, to draft out a new will?'

'Yes, sir.'

'You were shown into the library on your arrival. What happened?'

'I read Mr Hentish the new draft, which he approved with one alteration. He rang for the butler and we both witnessed the signature.'

'Did it strike you there was anything in Mr Hentish's manner to suggest he contemplated suicide?'

'Difficult to say, sir.'

'And after you had signed the will?'

'I remained with Mr Hentish ten minutes or so. He wished to discuss a matter of income tax. I then left the library and went and sat in the garden until train time, as is my custom.'

'You've been here before then? On the same errand?'

'Usually, sir.'

'Mr Hentish was in the habit of changing his will?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Often?'

'Seven times in the last ten years, sir.'

There was a silence. The butler was called again.

'I find a memorandum on Mr Hentish's desk, Twiller and Dwight, Thursday at 12. Can you explain this?'

'His tailors, sir. He told me to telephone and have a fitter sent down tomorrow at twelve.'

'When did he give this order?'

'At breakfast, sir.'

'Then as late as the breakfast hour he was obviously not contemplating suicide. Was he in a bad or good mood?'

'Mr Hentish was never exactly sunny-tempered, sir, but he seemed average.'

'It was only after he received the telegram that his mood changed for the worse?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Mr William came down from London last night, you say?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Did he appear on good terms with his uncle?'

'He seemed slightly nervous at dinner, if I may say so, but trying to be pleasant, I thought, sir.'

'You say he hasn't been in all day?'

'Oh yes, sir. He returned this afternoon but went out again.'

'This afternoon! At what time?'

'Well, sir, I noticed his car in the drive when I passed through the hall to witness the signature, sir. That would be about 2.30, and it was still there when Miss Mavey rang, but when I opened the front door to the doctor about fifteen minutes later it had gone.'

In the silence the smell of pickles became sharper. All our chairs creaked. The same idea had suddenly occurred to everybody.

'Did Mr William know of the arrival of the telegram?'

'No, sir, he had already left when it came.'

There was another silence.

'Then he didn't know that Mr Hentish intended changing his will or that Mr— Mr— that his solicitor was sending down a representative?'

'No, sir.'

PEOPLE are funny; they can see a man every day for twenty years, know his face, mannerisms, idiosyncrasies, but they've only to hear that his wife has left him, that he's shot his mother, and they'll stand for hours waiting for a glimpse of him.

Practically all of us at the inquest had seen Mr William Hentish frequently during the last two years, some longer; and none of us had ever been particularly elated at the sight, yet when the front door banged as Croucher stopped speaking, and footsteps echoed on the polished floor of the hall, all the eyes in the room turned and became fixed on the handle of the mahogany door. There were people in that room to my certain knowledge, notably the butler and myself, whose day ordinarily could be made simply by not seeing Mr William Hentish, yet as his footsteps echoed nearer, the drone of a solitary bluebottle in the room seemed like the roar of an aeroplane in the silence. Our chairs creaked as each of us leant forward and became still.

The footsteps stopped, the handle turned, and our chairs creaked sharply once again.

I don't know exactly what change we all expected to see in William Hentish, but I remember a feeling of vague disappointment as he stood in the doorway looking just the same as when I had last seen him. When he was told of his uncle's death, and the manner of it, he seemed surprised.

I've often wondered why magistrates and coroners ask the questions they do. Mr Duffy knew William Hentish as well as I did, he'd been splashed often enough with mud from his car in the winter in our narrow village street, yet the next fifteen minutes was entirely taken up with proving his identity.

The questions seemed to go on endlessly. William Hentish wore his customary look of not caring much for the smell of those immediately about him, but he gave his answers quietly and without emotion. He said that he had returned soon after lunch, gone straight through the hall on to the lawn to the boathouse. He sat there until the stable clock struck 4.30, then returned to the house, intending to go in and see his uncle, who, he knew, would be awake by then. He didn't go in because when he reached the hall the library door was ajar.

Police-constable Perker, the official recorder at the inquest, was taking down notes in longhand. A hollow moan was his signal that the pace was too much for him and the questions would cease until he caught up. Presently the coroner continued:

'Through the open door you say you heard Miss Mavey telephone Dr Mellan? But why should this stop you from seeing your uncle?'

'I thought he had probably had another attack and wouldn't want to see me just then.'

'I understand you were not here when the telegram arrived.'

'Telegram?'

The coroner turned to Perker. 'Constable, please read out the telegram.'

Police-constable Perker first got his notes up to date, then there was a roll of drums as he cleared his throat.

'Telegram to John Hentish, Langley Abbey, Langley, Norfolk. Subject secretly married to Miriel Demar yesterday two p.m. Duke Street register office. Awaiting instructions. Signed Ross.'

All our eyes were on William Hentish. I think be became a little more rigid and a pulse throbbed in his temple. The cruet-stand on the table rattled like an express train as Constable Perker settled down to his notes again.

'Is this information correct, Mr Hentish?'

'Yes.'

'You were not aware that your uncle had your movements watched?'

'No.'

'You were married secretly, I presume, because you felt Miss Demar would not have been your uncle's choice of a wife for you?'

William Hentish flushed. 'My uncle was a difficult man. He disapproved of whatever he hadn't arranged himself. My wife was a chorus girl. In time he would have come round, he always did.'

'And in the meantime?'

'He would have forbidden me the house for a month or two, I suppose.'

'And cut you off in his will?'

'Probably.'

'Supposing he had died before reinstating you in the will?'

William Hentish smiled.

'That is a remote contingency now.'

There was an angry moan from Constable Perker, who spelt by ear and preferred words that he had heard before.

'You haven't seen this gentleman before, then?'

Mr Duffy pointed out the solicitor's clerk, who coughed discreetly. William Hentish looked at him, then turned back to the coroner.

'Not consciously. Who is he?'

'He was sent down on your uncle's instructions from Troubridge and Hay with the draft of a new will.'

William Hentish turned quickly to the clerk.

'Did my uncle sign it?'

'Yes, sir.'

'May I ask the contents of the new will, the existing one?'

The clerk managed to clear his throat in the form of a question to the coroner, who nodded back an answer.

'Mr Hentish left his entire fortune to cancer research.'

'And the former will? The one he revoked?' the coroner asked.

'Everything to his nephew, William Hentish.'

While the clerk was speaking William Hentish sat silent, except that a pulse hammered again in his temple. By chance he caught the cook's eye. I saw him start. She was so obviously a woman who hadn't murdered her uncle looking at a man who had murdered him. And I think it was only then that he realized the danger of the case building up against him.

He had known his uncle would disapprove of a marriage which could probably not remain secret long. He had known his uncle's precarious state of health, had often prepared John Hentish's sal volatile for him, and knew about the morphia. He had only to walk into the library from the garden. He would know from experience that his uncle's rage at being disturbed in the middle of the afternoon would be enough to bring on an attack; and as he had often done before, he would get old Hentish some sal volatile from the bathroom, this time with a generous helping of morphia. Perhaps he had stood with curiosity watching his uncle gulp it down, had seen the purple settle under the eyes, then picking up his book, had walked quietly back to the boathouse. Perhaps he had even sat there reading until the stable clock chimed.

THE CORONER spoke.

'You say, Mr Hentish, that you didn't leave the garden until you heard the clock strike?'

Until then William Hentish had answered the questions put to him abruptly and with an appearance of indifference. Now his answers became more hesitant, and he paused before he spoke. He was already on the defensive. Our chairs creaked as we leant forward for his answer.

'No.'

'You didn't go near the library the whole afternoon?'

'No.'

'But you could have. Without being observed. Isn't that so, Mr Hentish?'

'Yes, I suppose so. But I repeat that I didn't.'

The cook's sniff re-echoed round the room, which had become nearly dark. Our faces were now only a blurred outline, and a cold breeze rustled Constable Perker's notes. The stable clock clanged eight.

'Then we have only your word for it that you sat in the boathouse all afternoon, Mr Hentish?'

'I'm afraid so.'

There was a silence. Suddenly the solicitor's clerk cleared his throat and spoke.

'It is quite true what Mr Hentish says with regard to his movements. I can substantiate that. Directly I left Mr Hentish I went and sat under the cedar tree whilst waiting my train time. I noticed young Mr Hentish sitting in the boathouse smoking. I don't think he saw me, but his statement is correct. He never left there until the stable clock struck.'

Human nature is weird. Instead of a deep sense of thankfulness that a fellow-creature's hands were not stained with the blood of another fellow-creature, I think that everyone in that room, with perhaps the exception of the coroner, who saw a chance of getting home to a hot mustard bath after all, felt aggrieved that William Hentish's hands were not stained with blood. Probably it was because anyone with an eye for drama could see that William Hentish was perfect for the role of villain, an aggressive manner, tall, with a black moustache and large white teeth. His hands should have been stained with his uncle's blood, he looked better that way, it suited him. Speaking for myself, preferring, as I do, like the rest of mankind, to believe the worst of my fellow-men, I felt that if he had not murdered his uncle, it was simply because he didn't happen to think of it.

After we had recovered from our natural disappointment, Croucher lit the gas brackets, and the questions, innumerable and interminable, began again. The clerk could add nothing, he could only say that he had seen Mr Hentish sitting as he had said in the boathouse the whole afternoon. The butler was called again, so were Miss Mavey, still at bay, and I. The question of the morphia arose.

'Might not Mr Hentish's insistence,' Mr Duffy asked the room in general, 'on the presence of morphia easily accessible, be attributed, apart from its properties in the alleviation of pain, to his possible contemplation of self-destruction?'

Constable Perker put down his pencil.

'That's coming it too hot for me, sir. Can I put it in my own words? You mean, did he pop himself off, sir?'

The questions and answers continued, but the evidence of a completely disinterested witness was too overwhelming, and on a statement from Miss Mavey that the old man had often spoken wholeheartedly in favour of self-slaughter (actually, I think, he was advocating it for her and not for himself), the coroner, as the stable clock clanged nine, brought in a verdict of suicide while of an unsound mind.

I didn't see whether William Hentish spoke to the little clerk in the dining-room or not, but he walked, frowning, across the hall as if it were empty, through the huddled group of servants, past the rest of us without a sign or word; the front door slammed, his motor roared and whined, and he was gone.

The presence of death does strange things to a place. As we stood in a group near the front door, making arrangements for the following day, the hall seemed lifeless and cold, our footsteps and voices had a hollow sound; somehow the windows reminded me of staring, dead black eyes, for the curtains had not been drawn. The gas jet droned and made the shadows of the stag's head and horns flicker and leap jerkily across the ceiling. A steady draught from an open door edged behind the tapestry, bellying it out till a naked old satyr leaned amorously towards Miss Mavey. She stood gazing after William Hentish.

'Think of losing a fortune, all that money wasted on charity!'

She sighed and sneezed. The solicitor's clerk put down his satchel and helped her on with her coat.

'It won't be wasted,' he said, gently.

A car drew up to the door, the coroner looked at his watch and turned to the clerk. 'That will be the car to take you to the station, I think. Thank you for your evidence. We shall need you again, I'm afraid. I'll communicate with you in a day or so.'

The clerk picked up his satchel and coat and hat.

'I shall be at your convenience, sir. Goodnight, gentlemen.'

THE SCREECH of the engine's whistle jerked me awake. I must have dozed for about two hours, because the train was already rattling over the points approaching Cranham Junction. My back was numb from lying so long in one position, huddled in my overcoat. I stretched myself. The clerk was still opposite, sitting stiffly erect, his worn gloves neatly buttoned over his wrists, his satchel by his side. I leant forward.

'You don't remember me?'

'Indeed, yes, sir. It is Dr Mellan. I had the pleasure at the inquest at Langley Abbey.' He coughed. 'The Abbey is still for sale, I understand.'

'Yes. Quite deserted. I often wander over there; I've known the place all my life, you know.'

I yawned.

'So the Hentish fortune went to charity after all. I wonder young William didn't contest the will. He would have had a case— uncertain temper of the old man, suicide while of unsound mind, etc.'

'I suppose he was afraid he might be reaccused of murder, sir. There was only my word for it that he didn't leave the boathouse. My word between him and a certain accusation of murder with strong motives for it.'

'He's gone abroad, they say.'

'To South America, sir. His mother left him a piece of property in the Argentine. He is doing well, I understand, sir. Mr Troubridge, head of my firm, sir, says it has been the making of him.'

'He'd have only gambled the money away if he'd had it. He promised to be as hard and selfish as his uncle was. It's funny— though he altered his will so often, I always thought old Hentish meant his nephew to have the money in the end. I thought he just enjoyed frightening William by disinheriting him.'

'A sense of power, sir?'

'Yes, the idea of doing good always seemed to sicken him. Odd, he loathed humanity, yet he will be remembered as one of its great benefactors. All that money to cancer research …'

I leant forward.

'It's curious,' I said, 'that no one has ever noticed that you can't see the boathouse from the cedar tree. The willows screen it from view. I've often wondered if you planned it or whether it was on an impulse.'

The lights flickered as the train rattled through a tunnel. The little clerk coughed.

'Purely impulse, sir. In a small way I am a student of literature, and it has always struck me as curious that it is generally considered the unhappy ending if charity gets the money instead of the dissolute young heir. An alternative to be averted at all costs. The book I am reading now, sir, deals with a missing will. The hero is at the moment lying handcuffed and gagged on a deserted wharf.'

'And the tide is rising?'

'Swiftly, sir. He has three hours till midnight, in which to find a certain paper, otherwise his aunt's fortune reverts to charity.'

'And he finds it in time?'

'Yes, sir.'

'You'd have ended it differently?'

'Yes, sir.'

There was a silence.

'I'VE ALWAYS wanted to know when the idea occurred to you,' I said.

He coughed.

'Mr Hentish's days were obviously numbered, sir. When he was signing the will I thought what a fine thing it would be if he should die before a change of heart. Otherwise, I knew I should soon be down at the Abbey to alter the will again in young Mr Hentish's favour, and I knew him too well to hope that anyone but himself and the bookmakers would benefit by the money. Too like his uncle, sir.'

'I suppose old Hentish started talking about William and got into a rage at having been deceived over the wedding. That would bring on one of his attacks.'

'Yes, sir. His face got purple and his lips went white. I stood watching him, hoping it might be fatal. He told me to go and pour him out a glass of medicine from the bottle on the table in the bathroom. The directions were on the bottle, he said. I'm a little short-sighted, sir; it took me a little while to get my bearings. When I got my reading glasses on the first thing that caught my eye was the phial labelled morphia, and while he was yelling at me from the library I opened the cupboard door, took out the morphia, and poured it into the glass of medicine. He took the glass from me. "You damn fool," he said, and drank it down.'

'Swallowed it too quickly to suspect anything, I suppose.'

'He just drew a deep breath, closed his eyes, and leaned back in the chair. I went into the bathroom and wiped my fingerprints off everything, which I understand is the correct procedure in murder. Then I returned to the library, collected my papers and replaced them in my brief case. Mr Hentish sat perfectly still. I don't know whether he was breathing or not. When everything was in order I went out into the hall, closing the library door quietly behind me. I rang the bell for Mr Croucher, and told him I should remain in the garden till my train time. “Is the old screw quiet?” he asked me, and I said he was.'

'Did it occur to you that William Hentish might be accused?'

'No, sir; the fact that the will was not in his favour seemed to preclude that. I didn't know he was unaware of my presence at the Abbey, or the reason for it.'

'I suppose you saw him across the lawn to the boathouse?'

'No, sir, I didn't. I must have been dozing at the time. I took a chance on corroborating his story. It was the least I could do, I thought, sir.'

'Do you never feel a twinge of remorse about it?'

He looked surprised.

'Remorse! The money went to cancer research, sir. Have you read their last report? They've made great strides forward. Remorse! Oh no, sir. I've too great a regard for human life for that.'

The train quivered as the brakes checked the engine's speed, and the clerk peered out of the window. 'This will be my station, I think.' He gathered up the evening paper and his brief case. As the train groaned to a standstill a porter flung the door open and the fog bellied into the carriage.

'Cranham Junction. All change for Kedam, Stukely, Rye, and Wyming. All change,' he chanted. 'Any baggage, sir?'

'No thank you.' He turned to me. 'I've enjoyed our conversation very much, sir. I wish you good night.'

THERE IS no silence more complete than the silence which follows the cessation of machinery. It intensifies all other sounds, the hiss of escaping steam, the clank and rattle of milk cans and the muffled chant of the porter. 'All ch-aa-nn-ge.' Suddenly the engine throbs, there is a jerk and a scraping as the wheels turn. Green lights, red lights, porters, old women, solicitors' clerks, loom large in the mist for a second through the moisture on the window-panes; the scraping of the wheels becomes more rhythmic, takes on a deeper whine; and the train rolls you on beyond them all.

_____________________

18: The Scarecrow

Ethel Lina White

1876-1944

Serpents in Paradise 2012

I have been unable to find first publication information on this, one of many short stories by Ethel Lina White.

"THIS IS death!" thought Kay.

It had come so suddenly that she felt no fear. The first pang of horror had not yet stirred within her brain. She was numb with sheer surprise.

A moment ago, she had been laughing into the eyes of a man whom she believed to be her friend. They were dull eyes, dark in colour.

Suddenly, they had grown dense as mud, and then burst into a green flame. Even as she stared, hypnotised by the change, his fingers shot out and gripped her throat.

The supper-room was of discreet arrangement. Other couples were whispering on the other side of the screen. The orchestra jerked out jazz in a deafening blare.

Kay had one moment of stark realisation. Rescue seemed hopeless. The fingers around her neck were clamped like an iron vice. Already everything was beginning to swim.

"The end!" she thought.

Then it grew dark.

THAT WAS OVER three years ago. Today, Kay was, apparently, not a penny the worse for her experience. She carried no scar on her throat, and only the least bruise on her nerves.

A waiter— who had miraculously chanced to glance round the screen— had been her salvation. Afterwards, she had a conversation with the head doctor of the mental hospital where Waring was confined.

"It was such a shock," she said, "when he suddenly turned on me, because I always thought he liked me— quite."

"May I ask the exact nature of your relations?" inquired the doctor.

"He'd asked me to marry him," answered Kay frankly, "and I had refused him. But we went on being friends. I had not the slightest idea that he harboured any grudge."

Dr. Perry smiled down at her, for he liked her type; a healthy bobbed-haired girl with resolute brown eyes.

"I hope you will try to forget all this bad business," he said. "Remember, you've now nothing to fear."

And now, for the first time in three years, Kay was afraid.

It was all William's fault.

William was the man to whom she was engaged. He was a doctor in the nearest town, and he rang her up whenever he had a chance. The wire was their blessed line of communication, and Kay rushed to the telephone the instant she heard the preliminary tinkle.

She was about to broadcast a kiss, when she was arrested by his words.

"Look here, Kay. I've news. But—don't be alarmed! There's nothing in the world to be frightened about."

And then, of course, she began to feel afraid.

"What's the matter?" she asked.

"Well— Waring's escaped."

Involuntarily, Kay glanced out of the window. In front of her was an expanse of bare fields, with low hedges, running to meet the white skyline. It looked windswept and very empty.

She laughed, to show William Tree that she was not afraid.

"Well, if he comes here, I shall be in the soup."

William hastened to reassure her.

"I'll be over with you as soon as my old stinkpot will bring me. Don't worry about Waring! I'll fix everything all right."

Smiling, Kay hung up the receiver. It was a definite comfort to know that she would soon be seeing William. As he resembled an ardent pugilist rather than a soothing young physician, the mere sight of him would be bracing.

She lit a cigarette and sat down to think. But her thoughts were curded with memories of the old hectic life, when she had been an art student at Chelsea, and the harmless flirtations, which had culminated in the tragedy of Waring.

Again she saw the tawdry restaurant revolving around her in mad circles of light and colour, as the fingers tightened round her throat.

She shuddered. It was unpleasant to reflect that, at this moment, Waring was in her neighbourhood— hiding behind outhouse or hayrick— picking up her trail. He might be twenty miles away—or he might be near.

Unpleasant, too, to dwell on her isolation. She and her mother were alone on the chicken-farm, for they could afford no outside labour. And her mother— called by maternal request 'Milly'— was, at this juncture, hopeless.

In other respects, however, she was the mainstay of their speculation, for, while Kay did the rough land-work, she tended the incubators, with excellent results. The worst thing about her was her appearance; a featherweight of a woman with hollow rouged cheeks, she looked ridiculous in the trousers which were her idea of a smart country outfit.

Kay shook her head in decision.

"Milly musn't know."

She walked to the window and looked out over the checkerboard of fields. The nearest bungalow was more than a quarter of a mile away. She could see the telegraph wires which bordered the main road, and also her own solitary line, shaking in the wind.

But, with the bareness, came a sense of security. She was grateful for the absence of undergrowth with its sinister suggestion of concealment.

Suddenly, as her eyes wandered on, her heart gave a sharp double-knock and then seemed to stop.

Standing amid the young trees of the cherry orchard, was a man.

THE NEXT MOMENT she burst into a peal of laughter.

Her man was a scarecrow.

She had made him the preceding evening—shamelessly neglecting her chores and her proper share of work, in the thrill of a new job. Her artistic training had assisted in his manufacture, so that he was a padded masterpiece of reality.

To help the illusion, the scarecrow was not dressed in the usual rags. In the absence of these— and reflecting that weather could not spoil it, during the short time that the cherries were ripening—Kay had clothed her dummy in a weatherproof left behind him at the bungalow by her brother, who was on a ship.

Its collar was turned up to meet nearly the broad-brimmed slouch hat. Big boots, with padded leggings and stuffed gloves completed the outfit.

IT WAS ALMOST dark when her task was completed. This was the first time she had seen the scarecrow by daylight.

It had given her a distinct shock. Her nerves were still quivering, as she stood gazing out of the window. The scarecrow was so grotesquely lifelike. In the distance, he seemed to assume a real personality. His movements appeared to be independent of the wind. As she watched it, she almost expected to see it walk from the orchard.

She began to grow nervous.

"I'm sure I never made that," she murmured. "It looks alive."

There was no time for idling, for she had yet to visit the egg-house. But, even as she took out the key, she knew that work was impossible, unless she first satisfied herself about the scarecrow.

She was surprised at her own distaste. As she swung open the gate leading into the orchard, she recoiled instinctively at the sight of the figure lurking amid the dwarf trees.

It seemed to be waiting for her. At any moment—she expected it to spring.

"Absurd!" she said aloud.

Screwing up her will-power, she ran towards it, like a young war-charger. And, as she came nearer, it lost its lifelike outlines, and became—quite definitely—a stuffed dummy.

"Thank Heaven!"

In that half-sob of relief, Kay learnt the measure of her fear.

Then, at the sound of a familiar hoot from the lane, she dropped the key of the egg-house on the grass, and rushed back to the bungalow. She reached it, just as the dilapidated car chugged to the door.

Although not given to demonstration, they hugged each other.

"I'm still here," laughed Kay, releasing herself. "You'll never get rid of me, and you'd better give up hoping."

Then Milly appeared, and before Kay could warn him, William had blurted out the situation.

"You've both of you got to clear out this instant, and come back with me into the town," he commanded. "It's only a question of hours. Dr. Perry and his staff are out, combing the district."

Kay— a big bonny girl in breeches though she appeared— was ready enough to go. The opposition came from an unexpected quarter— the fragile Milly.

"The idea!" she exclaimed. "Do you expect me to leave my chicks and incubators, at this critical stage? It's monstrous."

William and Kay beat themselves, in vain, against the wall of her resolution. She refused to hear argument.

"All I know is," she declared, "that every penny I possess is wrapped up in this farm. And as for Waring, I'm not frightened of him. I always found him most quiet and unassuming. In fact, quite impossible. Besides, I had some experience in that Chelsea riot of Kay's."

As William groaned, Kay's face suddenly lit up.

"Milly's right," she asserted. "We're safer here. To begin with, we don't know that he will want to attack me again. And if he does, how can he possibly find us here?"

William smoked in silence for a time.

"That's true," he said presently. "Presuming it is a case of l'idée fixe, he can't know where you are. The only way he can find out is through me."

"You?" cried Kay.

"Yes. He connects us. He was jealous of me before he went off his rocker. He'll probably make a bee-line for Chelsea. Do the people at your old studio know your address?"

Kay shook her head.

"There have been relays of tenants since then. The tide has long ago washed away all traces of poor undistinguished me."

"Good. Well, he'll do a bit of lurking there— and then he'll stalk me."

Kay promptly clapped his cap upon his head.

"Then back you go, my lad, before you give the show away."

Even as she spoke, a shadow chased away her smile.

"You don't think he's already followed you here?" she asked.

"Not he," said William. "He's not had time to get back from his Chelsea lurk. I believe if I do a bit of lurking myself, he'll step into my trap, and then you'll be safe again."

KAY HELD his arm rather tightly as they walked towards his car; and William's kiss, too, was lingering— and his voice slightly husky.

"Bless you and keep you safe! I— I don't like the idea of leaving you two women alone, without a man."

Kay began to laugh.

"But we have got a protector. One of the best. He scared me, and he'd scare off anyone."

Still laughing, she ran him round to the orchard-gate, and pointed to the scarecrow.

"Look! There's our man."

TOWARDS EVENING, the wind rose yet higher, driving before it sheets of torrential rain. In spite of her common sense, Kay dreaded the hours of darkness. Their ugly matchbox bungalow seemed no protection against the perils of the night. She heard footsteps in every gust of wind— voices in every howl. Sleep was out of the question, and she made no attempt to go to bed.

"If I have to die, I'll die in my boots," she resolved.

Rather to her surprise, the valiant Milly shared her vigil, although she asserted that her anxiety was on the score of the roofs of the chicken houses. Together, the two women sat in the lamplit sitting-room, listening to the rattle of corrugated iron, the slash of the rain against the windows, and the shrieking of the wind.

And, as Kay waited, those tense moments of ordeal at the Chelsea restaurant took deferred payment of her nerves. The menace of Waring overshadowed his reality. He seemed always to be just the other side of the wall, outside the window, outside the door; watching, waiting, listening—gloating over her distress.

As the hours passed slowly and the uproar increased, she felt that she would almost welcome his actual presence—as something she could get at grips with—rather than this long drawn-out torture of suspense.

Presently, a sigh from Milly distracted her attention, and she saw that her mother had fallen asleep—one rouged cheek pressed against the tablecloth.

She stirred the fire, and, having glanced at the clock, nerved herself to unbolt the window.

To her relief, the night was over. Vivid white gashes striped the torn sky.

"The dawn!" she cried joyfully.

She thought vaguely of making fresh tea; but—overpowered with sudden weariness— she sank into the nearest chair and dropped into a deep sleep.

Dr. William Tree also spent a bad night. On his homeward way, his ancient boneshaker struck permanently, so that he had to accept a tow back to the town.

His first action had been to ring up the sanatorium. Dr. Perry, who was obviously distraught with worry, had no news beyond the fact that it was believed that Waring had been recognised on the London express.

"Chelsea," murmured William.

He went to bed feeling annoyed and worried, and lay listening to the buffets of the wind. Several times, he thought that someone was making a forcible entry through his window; and it struck him that his own jerry-built villa, on the fringe of the town, must be a fortress in comparison with the lonely bungalow, exposed to the full fury of the storm.

About seven o'clock, he felt he could ring up Kay, without shortening her sleep, and he dashed to the telephone.

After waiting impatiently for several minutes, the operator spoke down the wire.

"Sorry, but the line's out of order."

William's heart grew leaden with apprehension.

"Why?" he snapped. "What's wrong?"

"It's the gale," explained the operator. "There are lines down all over the country."

William accepted the explanation, but he did not like it.

His young practice was still in the flopping stage and his case-book was awkwardly spaced. It would be impossible to get out to the bungalow until the late afternoon; but he decided to express a letter which would reach Kay that morning, to cheer her with news of his intended visit.

He dashed off his note, meaning to cycle with it to the post office, before breakfast. Just as he was on the point of leaving the surgery, however, his ears caught the exaggerated sound of laurel-bushes scraping against the thin outside wall of the villa.

In a flash, he concealed himself behind the door and waited.

The lower sash of the open window was lifted still higher, and a man slipped into the room. William had a vision of a furtive figure and an unshaven blur of face, as the intruder tiptoed to the mantelshelf and pounced on the letter addressed to Kay.

It made William sick to listen to his exultant pants and chuckles, as he gloated over his prize. He felt his own muscle, and thanked his Maker for endowing him with supernormal strength.

TEN MINUTES LATER, Dr. Perry was listening to his breathless but triumphant message.

"Dr. Tree speaking. I'm holding your man here. How soon can you lift him?"

"Immediately," was the prompt answer. "I can just catch the express. That'll be quicker than car, and bring me in at nine-thirty. Hold him, whatever you do. He's cunning and slippery as an eel."

William rang off, and then called up a colleague to take his morning round. Deciding to postpone his meal, since it was doubtful whether the brain-specialist had yet breakfasted, he sank into a chair, to wait, in lethargic relief, after his strain.

Presently, he glanced at the clock. It was twenty minutes past nine. His responsibility was nearly over. He decided to walk to the gate, in five minutes' time, in order to greet Dr. Perry.

He drew a deep breath at the thought. Heaven alone knew what it would mean for his peace of mind, when he knew that Waring was safe back in the sanatorium.

He looked up, with a start of surprise, as his housekeeper opened the door and Dr. Perry hurried into the dining-room.

"Got him safe?" he asked.

"Boxed and barred."

"Good."

The specialist wiped his brow and accepted a cup of coffee.

"A couple of my men are coming along directly," he explained. "I hadn't time to wait for them. The instant I got your message I dropped everything and came. He'll take some shifting."

"He's a bit of a man-eater," admitted William. "I'm very sorry I didn't meet you, Doctor. I fully intended to."

As he spoke, he glanced at the clock. It was still twenty minutes past nine.

"Hullo!" he exclaimed. "Clock's stopped. What time d'you make it?"

The specialist glanced at his watch.

"Twenty to ten. A clock that stops just about the right time could be a source of real mischief," he added thoughtfully.

"Quite," agreed William. "Was your train late?"

"I didn't catch the express, after all. Lost it by a minute. I came by car, but I stepped on the gas."

He stopped to watch the rain which was pelting against the window. It reminded him of something.

"By the way," he said, "when the rain came on, I couldn't stop to put up the hood. And, as I didn't want the seats to get soaked standing outside, I took the liberty of running the car into your garage."

William's face turned grey.

"The garage?" He spoke with an effort. "But— it was locked."

"Not locked. A bar across the staples."

"I know."

William leapt to his feet.

"Hurry, man!" he cried. "You've let Waring out!"

As he dashed through the door, his eye fell upon the clock, and he reflected bitterly, that had he been waiting at the gate, as had been his intention, the tragedy would have been averted.

For a stopped clock— the most harmless object in its futility— can, on occasion, become potent with the powers of life and death.

WHEN THE TWO MEN reached the shed— which served for garage— the double doors were wide open and the car had gone.

They stared at each other, in stunned horror.

"Didn't you see him when you ran your car in?" asked William.

"No. It was dark and he was possibly hiding behind the door. Why—in Heaven's name— didn't you lock the door?"

"Key was lost, and I hadn't bothered about it, because no one would want my old stinkpot. And the garage seemed the safest place for Waring, as it was without windows. I'd warned my housekeeper and the surgery-boy—and there was no one else."

"But why didn't you truss him up?"

William shrugged wearily.

"What with? I keep bandages in my surgery, not rope. We had the devil of a dust-up. By sheer luck, I knocked him out, and when he was groggy, managed to drag him to the garage."

"But— later?"

"Later? I was all in. Think I'd risk a second fight in the garage, and probably get knocked out myself? I thought I'd wait for you and your men to tackle him. The chances were a thousand to one against anyone letting him out, and he'd be there now, but for that infernal clock."

Dr. Perry shrugged his shoulders impatiently.

"Well, there's no time to waste. We can trace him through the car. That is, if he's not too cunning to dump her, once he's got clear away."

SUDDENLY, William's mind recovered from its shock. He had a ghastly recollection of his letter to Kay shaking in the fever of Waring's clutch.

"My God!" he cried. "He's gone after the girl!"

It taxed Dr. Perry's specialised training to calm his frenzy, and restrain him from riding off on his old push-bicycle, in pursuit. He was still shaken by his brain-storm, when the car—hired, by telephone, from the nearest garage—splashed over the muddy road, on its way to the bungalow.

The sky was blotched with heavy clouds, which travelled over the heavens and burst in local storms, like slanting black wires. Sometimes, a white gleam of light would pass, like a searchlight, over the fields. The scene was unearthly and foreboding as a bad dream.

William sat in dumb agony, wrenching his thoughts from the fear that they might be too late. Yet he was stung by the irony of the rescue. They two were responsible for the situation. They had unloosened a ravening Waring upon a defenceless Kay. One had supplied her address and the other had given him liberty and a car.

At last, they reached the bungalow, set amid its cropping chicken-coops and pens.

William rose up in his seat and then gave a shout of joy.

"They're safe! Hullo!"

He pointed to a rising slope, where two figures were outlined against a livid sky; one, in trousers and incongruous dangling green earrings—the other in short wine-red skirt and sweater, facing the wind with the vigour and radiance of youth.

Dr. Perry gave them but one glance.

He, too, had risen in his seat and his keen eye had espied a far-off object in a tributary lane.

"The car. Ditched. Look out, Tree! He must be somewhere near."

"If he is, we'll soon have him out," responded William cheerfully, leaping from the car.

"What's that?" asked Dr. Perry sharply, as they passed through the gate.

William laughed.

"Took you in, too? That's Kay's scarecrow."

"A mighty realistic one." Dr. Perry gave it a longer look. "Come, there's not much cover here."

It was the work of a few minutes to search the chicken-houses, although William stopped in the middle, to greet Kay and her mother and to explain the situation.

Fortified by daylight and the presence of two men, both remained calm.

"He might have slipped into the bungalow, while we were out," said Kay. "It's plain he's nowhere here. Come and look!"

Dr. Perry, however, lingered. His eye swept over field and low hedge. There was no ditch or furrow, and hardly cover for a fox.

Then his glance was once again caught and arrested by the scarecrow.

He touched William's arm and spoke in a low voice.

"I'd like a closer inspection of that gentleman."

The two men advanced warily: but, as they drew nearer the scarecrow, the illusion of humanity faded.

Dr. Perry laughed.

"A fine take-in," he confessed. "Your young friend has some idea of anatomy. Studied art, you say? Well, now for the bungalow."

The scarecrow hung mute and lifeless. It had played its part in the grim conspiracy. It had held the eye and distracted the attention of those who might have made a closer search.

Directly the voices had faded behind the closed doors of the bungalow, there was a stir, followed by a disruption, in a large pile of leaves, rotting into mould.

From under the heap, emerged an earth-stained figure, which writhed its way swiftly over the grass, to its ally— the scarecrow.

A MINUTE LATER, the scarecrow hung again on its supporting poles. The collar of its weatherproof met the brim of its hat; its hands and legs looked no more lifelike than the padded gloves and breeches, which were buried with the rest of the straw, under the leaf-mould.

There was only one difference. A button— wrenched off, in the mad haste— was missing from the middle of the coat.

But the scarecrow was content. It had only to wait. It must not stir a muscle, lest someone should be watching from the bungalow. Its two enemies were there. And to hang from the pole, like a bat, was easy, for while the body was slack, the mind could wander.

The scarecrow knew that she was here. It had heard her voice as it lay under the pile of leaf-mould. But there was another voice beside, and he wanted her—alone.

It knew it had but to wait, and she would come. On the ground, beside it, lay a key. She was always dropping keys. Once, she had dropped the key of her flat in the scarecrow's studio, and, because it had grasped the obvious implication, she had made a terrible scene.

She would fool men no more. The scarecrow was waiting for her to come. Two minutes would suffice— and then, its enemies might come.

They would find nothing left of any use to them.

INSIDE THE bungalow, voices were raised in discussion and laughter. Only Dr. Perry chafed at the delay, for he was anxious to pick up the trail. Milly— who had donned femininity with high-heeled French shoes and a long red cigarette-holder— tried to charm him in vain.

"Waring can't be far off," he asserted. "You and I'd better move on, Tree."

William shook his head.

"If he's lurking around, I'm not going to leave Kay."

"Oh, I feel quite safe now." Kay laughed happily. "But I'll own up, I simply can't face another night."

"You shan't," declared William. "If he's not caught by then, I'll sleep in the sitting-room. But it will be safer to catch him. Perhaps, I'd better look around for about half an hour."

Dr. Perry clinched his decision.

"Wisest course, Tree. We're bound to get him if we're systematic. I'll follow the road in the car, while you beat the fields."

"In this rain, and without a coat?" protested Kay indig-

nantly.

Then her face cleared.

"I have it. The scarecrow is wearing Roly's old Burberry. You'd better have that."

"Righto. That's a clinking dummy of yours, Kay."

She gurgled.

"I loved making it. And I feel a worm to strip it, when it protected us so nobly through that horrible night."

William walked to the door, but turned, on the threshold, at Kay's voice.

"I just want to see you, one minute, in the kitchen."

He knew what she meant. He had not kissed her yet. With a sheepish beam on his face, he hastened to follow her into the adjoining room.

Fate must be blind, for how otherwise, could she deliberately fight against the helpless? Even while the lovers lingered— Kay's cheek pressed against William's tweed shoulder— the wind shook the last drop from the inky cloud.

William— self-conscious but aloof— appeared from the kitchen, in obedience to Dr. Perry's hail.

"Sorry to keep you waiting. Kay wanted something nailed up. Hullo! It's stopped raining. Good egg! I won't bother about that coat now, Kay. Sooner we're off the better."

Milly kissed her hand to the men, and then called to Kay.

"When you've seen them off, just take these eggs to the egg-house, angel."

"All right."

Kay picked up the basket and then turned to the empty nail on the wall.

"Now, what have I done with that blessed key?" she cried, "I know I had it yesterday."

"Always losing keys," laughed William.

"Think back," advised Milly.

Kay proceeded to think back, to Dr. Perry's ill-concealed annoyance. But, suddenly, she gave a cry of triumph.

"I know. I was just going to date those eggs, yesterday, when I heard William's stinkpot. I must have left it in the orchard."

She walked with the men to the orchard, and the scarecrow heard her voice. At the sound of her laughter, it tensed its muscles. The waiting was nearly over.

HER HAND ON the gate, she turned to wave farewell to the two men. She felt happy in William's presence, and in the warm glow of her relief. The night held no more terrors for her. William would be there. Even the sun was going to shine for her.

Her joy was visible in the radiance of her smile. The brightening light bronzed her brown hair. William thought he had never seen a sweeter picture.

"Do look at my scarecrow," she said with a chuckle. "It's waiting to make love to me. Wouldn't you like to touch it and see if it's alive?"

Both men laughed as they shook their heads.

"You don't get us twice," said William. "We've been had, both of us."

"I'm not surprised," said Kay. "He scared me, and I made him. Good-bye— and don't be long!"

The men turned away and she opened the orchard gate, just as the sun broke through the cloud.

It travelled over the field and fell upon the scarecrow. As it did so, a spark of fire glinted from the gap in its coat, where the button was missing.

Kay only noticed her key. She was running towards it, when she felt William's hand upon her arm.

"Come back!" His voice was low and tense. "Perry, make ready! That scarecrow's wearing a watch-chain."

End

Index to "Past Masters" stories, by author.

Issues 31-42

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

The Mystery of Chenholt 42

Phyllis in the Wood  40

Stacy Aumonier

Mrs. Huggins's Hun  41

The Perfect Murder  41

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

Jimmy Riley's "Turn"  42

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

J. J. Bell

The Message on the Sun-Dial  42

Leslie Beresford

Eastern Guile 35

M. McDonnell Bodkin

The Murder on the Golf Links  41

Christopher B. Booth

In His Brother's Job  40

Jimmy the Lug 42

Mr Clackworthy and the Auto Rim  40

Mr Clackworthy Goes to Jail 40

Mr Clackworthy's Pipe Dream  41

Mr. Clackworthy's Return  41

The Sparrow  40

Tardy, but on Time (as by John J. Chichester)

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 Baron's Quarry 42

The Closed Door  35

Anna Alice Chapin

By Way of Experience 40

G. K. Chesterton

The White Pillars Murder 41

C. Langton Clarke

The Detective for the Defense 33

Richard Connell

The Grim House  41

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

J. S. Fletcher

The Manor House Mystery  41

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

The Ladies of Catsmeat Yard  37

One Good Tern  35

The Pearl of Panama 42

The Rolling Stone  41

Winifred Graham

Pan   39

Beatrice Heron-Maxwell

The Dancer's Mascot  35

Lewen Hewitt

Gold-Bricked 42

Headon Hill

Rogue's Legacy 32

William Crawford Honeyman

The Chinese Chessmen  42

J. L. Hornibrook

Captain Cronhelm's Blunder 35

Oliver Madox Hueffer

Mistrusted Sight 41

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

Marie Belloc Lowndes

Popeau Intervenes  41

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

William Chambers Morrow

The Monster-Maker 42

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

A New Keeper of the Wampum  39

The Raven Mocker 33

Wolf Medicine 41

Ernest M. Poate

Doctor Bentiron's Addict Case 40

Honest John's Millions 42

Plain Soda 40

The Stolen Story 42

The Third Pinprick 42

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

Helen Simpson

A Posteriori   41

George R. Sims

The Mystery of a Midsummer Night  42

Christopher St. John Sprigg

Death at 8.30  42

Annie S. Swan

The Diplomat  38

William Alexander Taylor

Intermere 33

Guy Thorne

Sir Patrick Armagh's Knife  39

Hugh Walpole

The Twisted Inn 42

Florence Warden

Grimgriffenhoof  39

F A M Webster

Towards Morning 33

Carolyn Wells

The Mystery of the Jade Buddha 40

Ethel Lina White

The Scarecrow  42

Henry S. Whitehead

Jumbee 37

Raoul Whitfield

The Caleso Murders 32

Diamonds of Dread  38

Inside Job 36

The Javanese Mask 42

Rivals of the Clouds 31

Shooting Gallery  41

Silence House 36

Sinners' Paradise 33

Leonora Wodehouse

Inquest  42

William Alron Wolff

Bait, Hook and Sinker  34

_________________

Table of Contents

1: Honest John's Millions / Ernest M. Poate

2: Jimmy the Lug / Christopher B. Booth

3: The Stolen Story / Ernest M. Poate

4: Gold-Bricked / Lewen Hewitt

5: The Third Pinprick / Ernest M. Poate

6: The Message on the Sun-Dial / J. J. Bell

7: Death at 8.30 / Christopher St. John Sprigg

8: The Monster-Maker / William Chambers Morrow

9: Jimmy Riley's "Turn" / Frederick W. Bechdolt

10: The Baron's Quarry / Egerton Castle

11: The Mystery of Chenholt / Alice and Claude Askew

12: The Mystery of a Midsummer Night / George R. Sims

13: The Chinese Chessmen / William Crawford Honeyman

14: The Twisted Inn / Hugh Walpole

15: The Pearl of Panama / Guy Gilpatric

16: The Javanese Mask / Raoul Whitfield

Unnamed

18: The Scarecrow / Ethel Lina White

Cumulative Index issues 31-42