Past Masters Forty Four
Author: Various
Date: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00
Description: Another anthology of Public Domain short stories gathered from magazines and newspapers, and which are not readily available, not not available at all, in free ebook form. Humour, satire, crime, adventure and weird. 1: The Madness of Captain Jonas / Albert Richard Wetjen 2: The Tiara / May Wynne 3: Not According to Text / Charles G. Booth 4: His Christmas Orchid / Burke Jenkins 5: Twenty-Four Hours Start / Burke Jenkins 6: Wimple's Fog-Piercer / Burke Jenkins 7: The Anti-Climax of a Bad Man / Burke Jenkins 8: Queen of the Beggars / James Jeffreys O'Brien 9: The Luck of Barney Costello / C. J.

PAST MASTERS

FORTY-FOUR

September 2021

Part 4

Produced by Terry Walker

("Pulpmeister")

Contents

1: The Madness of Captain Jonas / Albert Richard Wetjen

2: The Tiara / May Wynne

3: Not According to Text / Charles G. Booth

4: His Christmas Orchid / Burke Jenkins

5: Twenty-Four Hours Start / Burke Jenkins

6: Wimple's Fog-Piercer / Burke Jenkins

7: The Anti-Climax of a Bad Man / Burke Jenkins

8: Queen of the Beggars / James Jeffreys O'Brien

9: The Luck of Barney Costello / C. J. Hamilton

10: The Two Uncles / Charles Garvice

11: Mr Chubb's Burglar / Ralph Wilhelm Bergengren

12: The Wrong 'Un / Mark Allerton

13: The Hut by the Lachlan / Morley Roberts

14: Blue Blood, or, The Pride of Lady Ambrosia / J. J. Bell

15: The House Among the Pines / E Charles Vivian

16: The Langdon Mystery / Leroy Scott

17: Locked In / E. Charles Vivian

18: "Sycamore": A Ghost Story / Cy Warman

19: The Steerage Passenger / George Bronson-Howard

20: Dickerson's Bag of Gold / Seward W. Hopkins

21: Eliph' Hewlitt on the Millinery Problem / Ellis Parker Butler

22: Ragtime / Sumner Locke

23: As You Choose / Robert W Chambers

24: A Jury of Her Peers / Susan Glaspell

Cumulative Index 31-44

_______________________

1: The Madness of Captain Jonas

Albert Richard Wetjen

1900-1948

Sun (Sydney) 5 July 1942

THE first time I saw Captain Jonas perform, I thought he was mad. We had just seated ourselves at the saloon table and were waiting for breakfast to start. Captain Jonas dabbed at his oatmeal with a spoon, tasted it, sighed, and reached for the sugar. In doing so the sleeve of his uniform jacket upset the salt, and I'll swear after that you could have heard a pin drop. Everyone stopped eating and stared fixedly at their plates.

Captain Jonas got up, white as a sheet, threw some of the salt over his left shoulder, very solemnly walked right around the table three times, and then disappeared upstairs to his quarters again. The saloon steward, without a word, gathered up the plates and took them back to the galley, and I sat with wide, astonished eyes and wondered what next. I had only been on board the Galway some twelve hours, joining her on a hurry call the previous night when she cleared San Francisco. Except for a brief introduction and some words about the ship, I had had no contact with the captain. I looked round the table. No one spoke. But the wireless operator, catching my eye, gave a heavy wink, which enlightened me not at all. Still, it was not for me to question the established ways of a new ship, so I sat like the rest and said nothing.

After perhaps five minutes Captain Jonas came down the private stairs from his quarters, looked us over, cleared his throat, said, "Good morning, gentlemen!" and picked up his napkin. He nodded at the saloon steward then to go ahead, and the oatmeal came back from the pantry. I thought I must be dreaming.

Later I collared the wireless operator, who was young enough to be possibly sane.

"What kind of a Noah's Ark is this?" I demanded. "That salt business, for instance."

"You'll get used to it," said Sparks, grinning. "The salt stuff was bad luck, but he got away from it by starting all over and pretending it never happened. That's supposed to fool the devils or something."

"Are you trying to kid me?" I said suspiciously. "You mean he's superstitious?"

"That's no word for it, chief. You just take a look at the books he reads. And the things you mustn't do on this ship would drive anyone nuts if it wasn't he's an easy-going old boy otherwise."

The Galway's run took us to Honolulu, then Suva, Auckland. Wellington, Sydney, Melbourne, and a few coastal ports before we started back, and I'll swear something happened most of the time. At least, it seemed to me as if it were most of the time.

Coming out of Honolulu, he logged a man for whistling. It was against his rules to whistle at sea unless it was done to charm a breeze along. I went down to the fo'c'sle and had a look at his rules, and sure enough in a frame under glass there was a long typewritten list of things that would not be tolerated under penalty of logging and discharge. Whistling while at sea was one of them. Spitting to windward was another. Bringing cats or women on board and sneezing on deck were forbidden, as it was also forbidden to kill either spiders or rats!

COMING up the home coast we ran into one of those fogs so thick you almost feel as if you could pick it to pieces like cotton wool. On the morning of the third day Captain Jonas began to sweat. Then he dashed out on the bridge shaking all over.

"Do you know," he said hoarsely, "what our draft was when we cleared Sydney? Do you know, Mr. Waters?"

"Why, yes, sir," I started to say, and then stopped, catching my breath. I must have overlooked it myself. "Why, yes, sir," I said. "Thirteen feet for'ard, fifteen aft."

"Thirteen!" he wailed. "Good heavens, man! Why didn't you trim her and get that number under. Us with thirteen in the bows!"

The skipper went below, to look at his books, I suppose, and soon after I heard him sing out. I left the third mate on the bridge and ducked down to see what was the matter, and there the skipper was, white as a sheet and staring at his cabin carpet. It seems that fumbling around his desk he had knocked off it his Chinese luck god, and the image was broken in two.

"I've got it, Mr. Waters!" he said. "You counteract a thirteen with a thirteen. Let them fight it out, you see."

"Yes, sir," I agreed politely, and waited.

"The present course is north seven east," he explained, excited. "We'll shift her to thirteen, and that'll be swinging the ship with the sun, too."

That was about the last straw. I exploded.

"LOOK here, sir!" I shouted.  "Enough's enough! We're trying to navigate a ship, not run a floating astrological madhouse. We're on a course now that takes us well clear of the Banks Islands. Set her further in to the coast and we'll strike."

He stared at me, his face tightening.

"Don't you talk that way to me, sir!" he snapped. "You'll obey orders! Change the course! I've had an unmistakable sign!"

"Sign?" I howled.

"Sign? Have you gone mad?"

He apparently had. There was a chain of rocky islets about twenty miles off the coast. We were pretty well up to them now. To turn in six degrees now sounded like the talk of a maniac.

"Never mind what he thinks!" snapped Captain Jonas. "The course is north thirteen east."

I gave up.

"Well, it's your responsibility, sir," I said. And to the second mate, "All right, check her round."

Well, we crawled along for hours, all through the afternoon, and then just before sundown, the fog cleared, shredded away before the stiffening breeze, and I almost fell off the bridge. We were inside the Banks Islands. Running blind we had placidly ambled through.

"Splendid!" said Captain Jonas, with enthusiasm. "Splendid! I knew!"

Down on the lower bridge I ran into Sparks.

"Sparks," I said wearily. "We might as well close up all our navigation schools. It can't just be luck." And I told him about the course change. He scratched his head.

"Well, I've heard some queer sayings since being on board this madhouse," he said, "but I never heard of counteracting a thirteen with another thirteen."

HOW did he know the course I was sure was right would wreck us? Sparks was looking at the broken image of the Chinese god, the bottom half of which stood on the old man's blotter. And then he uttered a sharp exclamation.

"Well, I'll be damned!" he said.

He turned the bottom of the broken image towards me, and I saw there was a label pasted on it. Obviously the name and address of the firm from whom the skipper had bought the thing. But it gave me a shock. The small handwriting on the label read: Galways Inc. No. 13 E. Street and the name of the city.

There it was, as near as you could want it, the name of our ship. And the word street had been written so you could easily say it read "steer." You know how scrawls sometimes come out.

I started to laugh.

"By God!" said Sparks, wide-eyed. "That's where he got it from. He busted the image, picked it up and saw the label. That was his sign."

"That was his sign!" I choked. "Of all the damned coincidences. That's a laugh..."

And then I stopped and looked at Sparks, and I knew I was going white.

"Come on the bridge with me."

Up there I checked the course.

"What is it?" Sparks wanted to know. "What's the matter?"

"Why," I said, "you see from where we changed... north thirteen east was the only course we could have taken to clear the islands!"

_________________

2: The Tiara

May Wynne

1875-1949

World's News (Sydney) 16 March 1918

A prolific British author of novels and short stories in many genres.

"THE business," said Mr. Rawlden, "is confidential." There was an ensuing pause, during which the two men took each other's measure.

John Gesdell nodded. "Of course," he replied cautiously. "We have a great deal of confidential business to do for our clients."

Rawlden raised his brows as he glanced round this inner sanctum belonging to the famous jewellers. He had heard, it is true, of society ladies pawning or selling family heirlooms, and having their counterparts made in paste wherewith to deceive their husbands. Yes, he had heard, and remarked as much to the keen-eyed business man who had every appearance of a gentleman.

Young Gesdell smiled. "One does not talk of such things," he remarked; "in fact, one does not talk of business at all."

His client's face brightened. "Good," he said in quite naive satisfaction, "that is what I like to hear. Again I repeat, my business is confidential. May I rely on your discretion?"

"Certainly."

Rawlden slipped his hand into his breast pocket, took out a small leather case, deliberately opened it, and brought out a folded paper, which he passed across to the jeweller. The latter spread it out upon the table, and studied the pencilled sketch critically.

"Diamonds?" he queried.

"And emeralds," said Rawlden, drawing a deep breath. "That is the sketch of a tiara which has been in my step-mother's family for generations. She is the last living representative; she had hoped to leave it to my step-sister, who, if she married, was to take my mother's maiden name. My sister, however, eloped when she was seventeen, and went abroad, where she died. The tiara has for many years been in my possession. In March it was stolen from me. I did everything in my power to discover the thief, but the detectives have been at fault. Still, I hope, I am convinced, it will eventually be discovered. In the meantime a niece has unexpectedly put in an appearance. She is my late step-sister's only child, orphaned. My mother has received her. It will soon, I know, be a question of producing the tiara to give to Cynthia. If it had not been for her arrival I feel sure my mother would never have asked to see the jewels again, for her resentment against my sister was acute. The girl changes everything, and I dread the consequences should my mother ask for the tiara and I fail to produce it. My mother has a disease of the heart, and the shock, the anger occasioned by such a loss, might be fatal. You will now understand why I want this work done at once, so that if the original jewels should not have been traced before my step-mother asks for them, I can satisfy her with the paste representation until the jewels are safe once more in my keeping."

John Gesdell was pondering ever the sketch as his client spoke. It was certainly an elaborate explanation to give a mere jeweller, but Gesdell was used to all sorts of eccentricities in his clients' manner of giving orders.

"The work shall be put in hand at once, sir," he said, "though I can give no date for its completion. There is a great deal of fine handling needed here which I shall have to do myself. But you can rely upon my getting it done as soon as possible."

Rawlden nodded and rose.

"If you could give an approximate date," he said carelessly,, "I would call for it."

Gesdell hesitated.

"I am afraid that is impossible," he re-plied. "It is most uncertain. Kindly leave me your address and I will drop you a line when the tiara is finished."

He had an intuitive knowledge that the other hesitated, and again a vague suspicion, born first half an hour before, flashed across his mind. He looked keenly at his client, and the latter, flushing duskly, drew out a card and laid it on the table. Gesdell glanced at it— the address Bartram Rawlden had given was that of a business firm.

When Rawlden had gone, after urgent repetitions about wanting the tiara at once, Gesdell sat down and drew the pencilled sketch close again. It was well done, with neat markings where emeralds and diamonds were to he placed, yet Gesdell did not seem satisfied. He frowned as he studied, comparing the sketch with some other illustrations.

"Queer," he murmured, "that setting is and yet is not conventional. I dare swear that design, irregular as it is, was not the formation of a tiara which has been handed down from one generation to another. There's something wrong somewhere."

In his way Gesdell was a connoisseur in jewels and their setting. Jeweller by trade, he was a gentleman by birth end a rich man into the bargain, yet, being on the right side of thirty and a bachelor, he preferred sticking to trade where many men in his position would have gone into society, which ever opens its doors to the golden key. He laid down the drawing at last, and took up the business card. As he did so he started, half closing his eyes, as a man who suddenly recollects what has escaped his memory.

"Rawlden and Quandy," he murmured. "Of course! And this step-mother of his must be old Mrs. Naughton I have heard Bessie mention. She lives at Chitlay's Court, not a mile from Bessie's house. H'm. I wonder now if Bessie could have me down for a weekend." He took up the telephone receiver with the promptness of one who sets on quick resolve, and two hours later was seated in the train on his way to Harleton, in Herts, scarcely aware himself why he was going.

Mrs. Emsden was delighted to see the brother who had been her closest chum since childhood.

"You dear," she said, hugging him; "but why have you come after yarning so much about the press of business? Are you going in for nervous breakdown?"

Gesdell laughed.

"I look like it, don't I?" he retorted; "but the fact is I am interested in someone in your neighborhood. Will you for once let me ask questions, whilst you refrain, like the heroic soul you are, from asking me any in return?"

Bessie Emsden grimaced.

"You are a privileged person," she said. "I promise, though I don't like doing so a bit."

So Gesdell asked his questions, and after half an hour's brisk conversation was in possession of certain facts.

Old Mrs. Naughton lived at the Court; she was something of an invalid, and had a step-son whom Bessie disliked much, and described to her brother's complete satisfaction. Last week— no— this week, as ever was, a grand-daughter had arrived— very pretty, very colonial, very unconventional, very young.

"Of course, the old cats of the neighborhood are talking," added Bessie. "They must gossip or they'd bust, and they are horrified at this Cynthia Crysingten going to town in the milk-cart, riding the donkey bare-backed through the village, etc. I like the girl. She came to apologise because her dog 'rootled' the garden."

"Good," said Gesdell. "Let it rootle again
and invite her in every time. Chum with her, old girl, if you want to please me. Perhaps you could even ask her in to tea to-morrow?"

Bessie , said she could— and she did. What is more, the fair Cynthia came, saw, and I was going to say conquered, only I'm not so sure that she was not conquered herself. She was a very pretty girl, in the vivid, blue-eyed type, with masses of untidy brown hair, and a gorgeous complexion.

John Gesdell returned to town and business. He set to work the same day on the tiara. It was fine work, as he had said to Rawlden, and he found it most interesting because the pattern was perfectly irregular. He knew exactly, being a connoisseur in antiques, how those jewels ought to have been set, and he became more and more convinced that the original pointing of that tiara was not in the least like the design.

"I would give a good deal to see that original," the young man mused. "Great Scott! It must have been worth a fortune. Curious that the stealing of such an important piece of jewellery did not get advertised in the papers."

He went down to Harleton more than once— after learning from Bessie that Bartram Rawl-den was away from home— whilst Besie, being feminine, and therefore match-making, saw to it that Cynthia was always invited to meet him.

"I'm bubbling with excitement," Cynthia told Gesdell one Sunday. "Grannie is going to give me a wonderful present on my birthday, and I am to wear it at the Rampton Hunt Ball. Guess what it is."

"An emerald and diamond tiara," said Ges-dell promptly, watching the pretty face op-posite in keen scrutiny. Cynthia opened her eyes very wide.

"How did you know?" she cried. "I haven't even told Bessie yet."

Gesdell's smile was enigmatical. "So I am right," he replied.

"You knew— it couldn't have been a guess. Yes, it is an emerald and diamond tiara. The 'Naughton' tiara, Grannie calls it. She told me all about it last night," and the young girl's face grew wistful. "Do you know?" she added, in a burst of confidence, "about my mother, and Grannie thinking that there never would he anyone to wear the Naughton tiara again?"

"Yes," said Gesdell. "I know. But tell me, how does it come to be the 'Naughton' tiara?"

"Grannie told me that, too," nodded Cynthia. "She married an Alan Rawlden, but he took her maiden name. That is always the way. When I," she blushed furiously, "if I," she supplemented, then broke off in that hopeless embarrassment which takes bashful eighteen unawares at times when alluding to a subject we may suppose to be very near her heart.

Mrs. Emsden happened to come in at the moment, and Cynthia greeted her with effusion. "Mr. Gesdell and I have been talking secrets," she said, giving Gesdell his cue; "and I have news for you, too. I am going to the Rampton Hunt Ball on the thirtieth. I do hope you are going to be there. Uncle Bartram is taking me— and if you go you will see my secret, for I shall be wearing it."

Mrs. Emsden was delighted, though entirely on the wrong tack. She supposed the secret Would confess itself in a brand new engage-ment ring, and so looked mighty wise and smiling, so that Cynthia flushed up again and prepared to beat a hasty retreat.

"Of course, dear, I shall go to the hall," cried Bessie, following her little friend, "to take care of John, as naturally he will be going, and I shall have a new dress for the occasion."

It did not surprise Gesdell to receive a call early next week from Bartram Rawlden. He had been expecting this visit, and, in fact, working towards this end. So far he had succeeded in keeping from his client the fact that he had been down to Harleton, and he trusted to a proverbial luck that Rawlden, having been away from home since his young niece's Coming, would not have heard his name men-tioned, or in any way connect him with Cynthia's friends. And he was right.

So far so good, and Gesdell knew at once that he was safe when Rawlden asked if the tiara were finished.

"My niece is to receive it next Week," he said; "though, after all, there need not have been all this trouble about the matter. The private detective who has charge of the case tells me he hopes to place the tiara in my hands in a month's time. So all is well that ends well. I do not mind the expense, as my mother's heart is so weak. The shock of hearing her treasured jewels had been stolen would certainly have killed her."

"What is the reading of the riddle?" thought Gesdell, after Rawlden had gone, taking the paste tiara with him; but, puzzle as he might, the conundrum remained inexplicable. Of one thing, however, he was certain— that paste tiara, triumph of jeweller's art as it was, was no faithful reproduction of the original. And John Gesdell did not trust Bartram Rawlden.

THE NIGHT of the Rampton Hunt Ball arrived in due time, bringing Gesdell once more to his sister's house. He found her not only in raptures over her new gown of amber-colored charmeuse, but with her own conviction that her cherished "match" was actually to be announced to-night!

The Hunt Ball was a brilliant function brilliantly represented. There was an unusal sprinkling of men in pink, and the ladies had been careful in the shading of the dresses to tone with their partners' bright attire.

Bessie Emsden was soon dancing away as gaily as a girl of eighteen, but Gesdell hung back, standing apart from the butterfly group of girls and youths. He was watching for his "belle of the evening."

"Not come!" exclaimed Bessie, coming up to him presently, her pretty face incredulous. "What can have happened? Cynthia is the first debutante I ever heard of being late for her coming-out ball, and she was so keen."

"Well, she's not come, anyhow," snapped Gesdell, sourly. "And I very much doubt if she means to do so. I suppose she thinks it a joke, to sell a fellow a pup like this"—and he went off to the smoking lounge because he did not choose to wait for Bessie's sympathy.

But Beesie Emsden had discretion, and knew better than to show pity to a disappointed swain.

Neither Cynthia nor her uncle appeared at the ball, aiid their defection was much criti-cised by those who felt an interest in the "new" granddaughter who had so mysteriously ap-peared to gladden the hearth of old Mrs. Naughton.

Cynthia had already won friends and admirers for herself in the neighborhood, as well, as critics and disparagers who sneered at her unconventional ways and colonial hoydenishness.

John Gesdell overheard many of the criticisms passed, and champed over the unfriendly ones in wrath. Altogether the Rampton Hunt Ball was a hopeless failure as far as he was concerned, and he was thoroughly disagreeable during the drive home.

Of course, Bessie was disappointed, too— dreadfully disappointed, she declared; but she had so obviously enjoyed herself in spite of certain blighted hopes that John would make no confidante of her.

"I really expect old Mrs. Naughton is ill," said Mrs. Emsden, more cheerfully; "the doctors say she may go off any minute with that heart, of hers, and I suppose Cynthia's appearance on the scene and the very fact of her debut into society have been a strain. I must go round to-morrow morning to inquire."

"I shouldn't bother to do anything of the kind." retorted John; "ten to one you will not be wanted. Probably Miss Cynthia never intended to come to the ball at all."

He wanted Bessie to be shocked, to argue, to reproach him for a remark he did not be-lieve in himself, but she did nothing of the kind, merely asking him to pull up the car window as it was chilly.

Gesdell returned to town by the early train next morning, feeling as cheap as a man can do after being up all night not enjoying himself. Probably he made himself unusually disagreeable at business, and was bored stiff with life by the luncheon hour, when, as he was in the act of putting on his hat, a tele-gram was brought to him.

It was from Bessie, and. ran as follows:— "Come at once. Cynthia in trouble.

"Just like Bessie," thought the ungrateful brother, "saves sixpence, and gives me the Hand's own Journey down to Harleton."

But he lost no time in starting.

Bessie met him in the hall and caught both his hands.

"My dear boy," she cried. "I had to wire because this needs someone to use his brains. Cynthia is in despair. It is all about that wretched tiara."

"Go on," said Cresdell, "go on."

There was no object in saying he had half
expected this.

"Cynthia came down to me soon after break-fast," said Bessie. "I believe she had come to see you. She was half crazy with grief. Would you like her to tell you it all as she told it to me? She is in the library."

John did not reply; he just walked off to the library—and there was Cynthia.

She was crying, poor little girl, but she gulped down her tears at sight of Gesdell, who came forward and took her two hands.

There was something wonderfully comforting in the way he took those hands and held them— fast.

"Little girl," he said simply, "I can help you and I'm going to help you. Tell me the whole tale, that is all I ask."

She looked up at him, at first just a beau-tiful child, in sorrow and distress, then with that deeper expression dawning in her eyes that he was so glad to see.

"I told you," she replied without hesitation, "about the Naughton tiara. Grannie gave it to me on my birthday three weeks ago. Uncle Bartram brought it down. I never was so pleased about anything, it was just lovely. Grannie talked of it being an heirloom, and of more value in the eyes of any Naughton than any money. I could hardly believe it was mine. I— well, if you were a girl like me you would understand. The tiara was put away in a special safe, and Uncle Bartram gave me, a key.

" 'Don't look at it too often,' he said jok-ingly, 'remember I am in town and not here to look after you—and it.'

"He said it so oddly that I was cross, for I never did like him, and I daresay I was rude, for Grannie was vexed— so vexed that I almost took a dislike to my beautiful tiara, which I thought she valued more than me. So I never looked at it—till last night, when I got it out after I was dressed for the ball, and Henker, my maid, fastened it on. Grannie was up in her boudoir, and I went straight up to her. Uncle Bartram was there, pacing up and down, and Grannie lay back in her big chair looking oh! so white.

" 'Come here, Cynthia,' she said in a new sort of voice, and when I knelt at her feet, thinking she would say something nice, she put up her glasses and stared at the tiara. I heard her give a queer little gasp, and I got frightened and asked her what was the matter.

" 'Take off the tiara,' she said, and when I did so, Uncle Bartram came over and they both looked, at it in silence.

"Then Uncle Bartram said hoarsely:—

" 'That is not the Naughton tiara. It is not the tiara I gave Cynthia three weeks ago; the pointings are absolutely different. It is nothing but a clumsy, paste make-believe. The story I heard in town must be true.'

"I didn't understand, I was looking at Grannie, who looked as if turned to grey stone.

" 'Grannie,' I cried, 'what does it mean? Of course, this is the same tiara—my beautiful tiara.'

"But Grannie had dropped the jewels.

" 'A thief's daughter,' she said in an awful voice, 'and a thief. I might have known. The Naughton tiara has been sold, lost, destroyed. I shall never see it again. And I trusted you.' "

Cynthia covered her face with her hands.

"It was terrible," she moaned, "terrible to hear her speak like that, and then she just swayed forward and I would have caught her, but Uncle Bartram pushed me aside, crying out, 'You have killed her, you wicked girl. Go away at once;' and I went, I was so frightened. I came here. I— oh, Mr. Gesdell, do tell me what it means?"

Gesdell's face was so grim that no wonder her cry rang piteously, but the next second the look in his eyes reassured her.

"It means,", he said, "that your uncle has not proved to be a sufficiently clever criminal. Will you come up to the Court with me and hear the explanation?"

They looked at each other, reading the secret which lay between them, yet unspoken.

Then— "Yes," said Cynthia, "I will come with you."

Quite naturally Gesdell drew her to him,
and kissed her— he knew he could not have been mistaken just now, and there could have been no words spoken in such a crisis.

Mrs. Naughton was not dead. Terrible as the sudden strain had been, certain as anyone might have supposed that it would kill her, it had not done so! She had rallied, and the hastily-summoned doctor had been astounded on his second visit to find how far she had recovered.

There is no doubt at all that her step-son was even more astounded than the doctor at the phenomenon. What the full extent of his feelings must have been will be understood presently.

As chance— or fate— had it, Gesdell was able to stop the doctor's car in the drive; when he rejoined Cynthia he was smiling.

"It's all right," he said, "Marley is no fool. He will be back directly in case he is needed."

Then they went on together. It was Cynthia who, with her ready disre-gard of convention, opened the garden door, and let herself and her companion into the house.

"This way," she whispered; "we need not go through the hall, but straight up to Grannie's room by the back-stairs."

Stealthily they stole upstairs. On the landing they met Mrs. Naughton's maid, who was all for stopping their entry into her mistress's room.

"Mr. Rawlden is in there, Miss Cynthia," the woman protested. "I—"

"No one need know you met us," retorted Cynthia, who was showing a splendid though white-faced pluck. She opened the door as she spoke.

When Rawlden saw Gesdell he cursed furiously— but he was too late. Cynthia was by the bedside, where Mrs. Naughton lay propped up by pillows.

"Grannie, dear," she cried, "I have brought John Gesdell to explain about the tiara. Will you listen?"

The sick woman looked from one to the other. It must have been her step-son's face that convinced her.

"Go on," she whispered.

It was Gesdell who replied by drawing out the sketch of the tiara he bad copied in paste. This he laid before Mrs. Naughton and told his tale.

It was all transparently clear now.

Rawlden had never lost the Naughton tiara, but when he heard he would be called on to give it up he had a faulty copy made in paste. On Cynthia's birthday he had given her, in his step-mother's presence, the original heirloom; but, having a second key to the safe, had the same night taken out the original and substituted the paste tiara, relying on Mrs. Naughton instantly recognising the defective design. Then, on the night of the ball, he had come down early and told his step-mother that he had heard tales of his niece's gambling habits, and the influence of some ne'er-do-well colonial, with whom she was in love. He had ended with the hint of how he had also heard of a startling rumor about jewels sold for a great sum to save this lover from ruin, and hardly had he finished his tale when Cynthia in the paste tiara had appeared.

All this story in detail was not, of course, pieced out during that short dramatic scene in old Mrs. Naughton's room. But Gesdell's statement, the drawing, his receipted account, together with Rawlden's wordless fury, were proof enough. The climax, however, was reached outside the invalid's room, where Cynthia remained with her grandmother, whilst Rawlden followed Gesdell, only to learn that the police, summoned by the doctor, were in the house, and a search for the real tiara was in progress.

As Gesdell had said, Rawlden was not sufficiently clever to play the rogue. He had trusted too much to chance, and belief that John Gesdell, of Gesdell and Co., would never hear of the private scandal of an old family heirloom.

The long arm of coincidence had been against Bartram Rawlden, or maybe a higher power had intervened to right the wrong. At any rate, the culprit made his exodus from home that night, in fear of imprisonment, nor was he heard of for many months afterwards. Mrs. Naughton, with the marvellous rallying power of many heart cases, recovered from the second shock of joyful reaction quite easily, and all that remains is to ring down the curtain on Gesdell's reward. All true lovers know already what that was, but equally so they want to hear what is not intended for their ears.

It was after all the excitement was over, when the famous tiara had been found, Rawlden missing, and Mrs. Naughton asleep, that Ges-dell came into the library, where Cynthia was awaiting him.

She turned from the hearth as he entered, and smiled upon him.

"Before I thank you, sir," she said, "I want to know why you kissed me just now?"

Gesdell's answer was entirely satisfactory.

___________________

3: Not According to Text

Charles G. Booth

1896-1949

Detective Story Magazine 28 July 1923

SITTING upon a round rock, "The Preacher" moodily contemplated his fallen state and the limping ruins of a shanty set precariously upon the gravelly slope before him. The sun had gone to sleep beneath a gorgeous canopy, the colors of which were already sombering their tones. Unless The Preacher intended to spend the night in the open, he would have to endure it in the shanty he was regarding with such marked disgust.

They were all the same, these deserted California shanties: lizard- haunted, vermin-infested, and reminiscent of the indescribable filth of a generation of tramps. Notwithstanding this disheveled appearance, The Preacher was a fastidious person.

His grievance against mankind was not unfounded. That morning the Los Angeles police had set, him upon the high road and told him to go and to keep on going. His business at the moment was of a delicate nature, and he had deemed it advisable to obey the instructions of the police.

He had been "operating" in the oil fields. For the benefit of his "clients" he invariably strove to produce the effect of reality. When the headquarters man had tapped him on the shoulder and greeted him with "Come on, Joe," he had been "mucking" about in his oldest, most dilapidated clothing. Later, he would have blossomed forth splendidly in evening dress or cutaway or business suit, as the occasion demanded. They were commonplace in his sinister life.

"What d'you want?" he had barked out of the corner of his thin-lipped mouth.

"You got to get out while the getting's good."

"You mean—

"I mean now!"

He had not even been permitted to draw upon his resources, financial or otherwise, which were not inconsiderable. Nor did he attempt to turn back for that purpose, They would take care of themselves. If the full extent of his scheming was discovered in the meantime, even an hour's delay might cost him his liberty, And he was in no mind to lose that.

San Francisco offered sanctuary. But San Francisco was over six hundred miles to the north, and The Preacher had only ten dollars in his pocket. So he had struck into the interior, slanting toward the mountains, believing, not unreasonably, that the smaller towns were rich in opportunity for one of his peculiar talents. He would acquire a stake; then he would head for San Francisco via Pullman or freight car, as circumstances favored him.

From the foregoing it will be inferred that The Preacher chaplained no congregation— unless that world which hides its brightest lights beneath a multitude of bushels may be so termed.

He was a past master in the art of living by his wits. Step by step he had ascended the ladder of his disreputable craft. Dip, second-story man, con man, and every intervening rung he had trodden cautionsly and forsaken triumphantly.

Just prior to his apprehension that morning he had been selling very off-color stocks. It was a lucrative employment, and it was more nearly respectable than anything he had ever done. Respectability! How he loved the word! Some day, when he had obtained a substantial competence, he would enjoy the satisfaction it connoted.

He was compact of body, smooth of tongue, invested with a superficial air of culture which he had acquired painstakingly for the benefit of his "clients." He knew when to talk, and he knew when to listen. Intelligent women spoke of him as "that nice Mr. So-and-so," His names were many. Keen-witted men said he was a good fellow.

Some ironist of the underworld, appreciating his talents, in a flash of inspiration had called him "The Preacher." The sobriquet had stuck. His name was Joe Shaefer.

All this was with his clothes on, though, and the smooth feel of a clean shave. As he was now, with the gritty, gray dust of twenty-five miles of blistering road upon him, coating his tongue and his dry lips, and with the stench of a thousand automobile exhaust pipes stinging his nostrils, he was like Samson shorn of his hair.

The bleat of an automobile horn roused Shaefer from his melancholy contemplation of his unhappy plight. A huge touring car, headlights glaring in the thickening dusk, was ascending the grade. At the top of the grade, just beyond where he was sitting, the road turned sharply to the right, then descended again. For this reason, apparently, the horn had been sounded, since no car approached from the opposite direction.

The man drove alone, This fact impressed itself upon Shaefer's plastic brain with biting distinctness, to which at first he attached no particular significance. In a moment the car would gain the top of the grade and pass him.

As it neared him Schaefer observed the costliness of its manufacture, the luxury of its appointments. Undoubtedly the man in the driver's seat would be a person of means, of considerable means.

This conclusion suspended itself in Shaefer's brain. He could not decide whether it was of importance to him or not. It swung this way and that, like a weather vane in a vagrant wind.

Now the touring car was within a hundred feet of him. Its blue body and its metal fittings, polished to the brilliance of a steel mirror, gleamed dully in the fading light.

Shaefer's bitter consciousness of the poverty of his condition deepened, generated an intense resentment that focused itself upon this resplendent monster and its comfortably enthroned pilot. He moved stiffly upon his hard seat, and his hand touched the weapon which he invariably carried with him in his hip pocket.

The contact had the effect of some miraculous inoculation. Shaefer sat up suddenly, his brain fired by the determination that had flashed into it. The man was alone and would have money upon him! What better opportunity of replenishing his fortune could he expect to find?

He stood up, his lips pressed thinly together, and signaled the approaching car with his left hand. It drew abreast of him, glided to a standstill. Shaefer ran swiftly to the running board, his right arm held tensely at his side.

"Want a lift?" the man called out in a deep, cheery voice.

"Yea, I want a lift all right!" sniggered Shaefer, and he thrust his automatic into the man's face. "Hand out what you got!" he snarled. "And be quick about it!"

For perhaps five seconds the two men stared at each other in utter silence. The features of the man in the car were obscured by the gathering darkness. The heavy, shell-rimmed glasses he wore, and his peaked motoring cap pulled well over his eyes, still concealed their precise outline.

Shaefer had caught the impression that he was a man of some force of character, one accustomed to command and not to be trifled with. Such men unconsciously radiate the quality of their personalities in a dozen minute ways,

"Come on!" Schaefer continued in his ugly tones. "Let's see what you got!"

The man's mouth— firm and tight-lipped, it seemed to Shaefer— opened slowly. "So you are a stick-up man, are you?" he said in hard, deep, faintly ironical tones. He leaned back in his seat. His hand went to his breast pocket. "Well," he went on, "you seem to have me to rights."

Suddenly, so suddenly that Shaefer had no time to intercept the movement, the man simultaneously flung his head back and struck aside Shaefer's weapon with the back of his hand. The gun exploded, and the man caught Shaefer's wrist in a grip of iron and shook the weapon from his grasp. It clattered into the car.

Recovering himself, Shaefer struck at the other with his left in a withering access of fury, and caught him on the point of the chin. It was a terrific blow, for Shaefer had long since learned how to handle himself in a rough-and- tumble. The blow must have staggered the man, for he let go his crushing grasp of Shaefer's wrist.

Shaefer hurled himself at the man's throat. The other was waiting for him, for the blow had been less damaging than Shaefer had supposed. They blindly clawed at each other over the side of the car, half in it and half out of it. The inevitable happened. Shaefer's weight dragged his antagonist over the side of the car, and they toppled onto the road and rolled over and over. Chance brought Shaefer out on top, his wiry fingers still gripping the other's sinewy throat.

In a frenzy of rage at the man's desperate resistance Shaefer beat the back of his head against the hard ground once, twice, three times. Then his rage fled, and he loosed his grip of the man's throat and stared at the face vaguely discernible beneath him. The man's head rolled to one side in a sickly, suggestive fashion and became still.

A quivering horror surged up from the roots of Shaefer's being, dispelled the remnants of his insane rage. He shook the body; it was limp. He knelt beside it, listened at its heart, felt at its wrist. He could distinguish no sound, no movement,

His horror sickened him. "I didn't mean to kill him!" he mouthed in stricken accents. "I didn't! I didn't!"

But The Preacher and death were nodding acquaintances, and the will to live was strong within him. He got to his feet, his unshaven face shedding the terror that had come upon it, and peered along the road in both directions. There was no other car in sight.

Shaefer stared at the body, his brow furrowed with thought. He must dis- pose of it at once if he would preserve his safety. His eyes fell upon the shanty, the rugged outline of which was softened in the marching darkness, and his face brightened. It was just the place. The body might lie there undisturbed for days; weeks, even.

He caught it by the shoulders, dragged it across the road, and leaned it against the slope where he let it sag down limply. Turning to the touring car, he steered it off onto a narrow strip of gravelly land that divided the slope from the road. Another car might come along at any moment. It was absurd to court disaster.

This accomplished, Shaefer seized the body again and dragged it up the dusty, gravelly slope, inch by inch, foot by foot. Perspiration pearled upon his brow, streaked his grimy face. But at last, with a supreme effort, he got it into the shanty and dropped it with a dull, dead thud on the rotting floor. He straightened his aching back and mopped his glistening brow.

For a moment he stood still, indecision upon his countenance. Then he dropped onto his knees, struck a match, and held the flame close to the still face beneath him.

The man's rough-hewn features were fairly discernible, but those peculiar characteristics of a human countenance which make it individual and recog- nizable were obscured by the gray dust the gravelly slope had sifted upon them. Curiously enough, the heavy-rimmed glasses still retained their place.

The match burned to Shaefer's fingers. He twisted an old envelope, which he found in his pocket, into a taper, and he stuck it in a crack in the floor and lit it. Then he went through the man's pockets and found a bundle of papers and letters and a wallet containing a hundred dollars or so in bills of various denominations.

For a moment or so Shaefer thoughtfully considered the figure before him. His sharp eyes took in the excellent quality of the light-gray suit, gray cap, and substantial shoes, and observed the striking contrast between this attire and his own. When the man was found his clothing might suggest that he was a person of some importance, Shaefer fingered his unshaven chin reflectively. Suddenly the thought that had been hovering at the back of his mind flashed, upon him, took possession of him. He sprang to his feet, a sinister grin on his face, and ran down to the touring car.

In the tonneau he found a suit case and a club bag. The latter, together with an electric torch which he discovered among the car's equipment, he took back to the shanty. Shaving materials and a small mirror were in the club bag.

Working furiously by streaming from the torch, he stripped the man on the floor. of his clothing, stripped himself, got into the other's garments, and dressed the man in his own disheveled attire. They were of a similar build, and the stolen clothing fitted him fairly comfortably.

He spread the shaving materials on the floor and stood the mirror against an empty whisky bottle he had found in the shanty. The problem of water bothered him until he discovered a bottle of toilet water in the club bag and made shift with this, shaving himself stickily but effectively.

Presently he studied the effect in the mirror. He was himself again: suave, confident, a man of affairs. Splendid! he told himself. Not only had he revived his confidence in his own powers, he had perhaps concealed the man's identity— an item of no small importance. His spirits soared. He was Samson restored to his strength again! In the lapel of the coat he wore was pinned a white rosebud. It was badly crushed, but he did not remove it. Its fragrance stimulated him.

He glanced contemptuously at the forlorn figure on the floor. His thin lips curled in disgust. The transformation in the other was more profound than in himself. So much the better! If the man was left long enough, the disintegrating finger of time would finish what he had begun. His satisfaction with what he had done deepened, and he congratulated himself wpon it. In a spirit of mockery he perched the shell-rimmed glasses upon his own nose,  and to complete the transformation he kicked the whisky bottle near one out-flung, limp hand of the body on the floor.

Shaefer pocketed the money and tossed the shaving materials into the club bag. He was about to thrust the papers and letters into a pocket, intending to destroy them later, when his glance fell upon one of the envelopes. An exclamation of astonishment and dismay broke from his lips. The expression of suave confidence upon his clean-shaven face became one of utter terror. The envelope which had produced this remarkable effect was addressed to Colonel Blessington. In the lower left-hand corner of the envelope appeared the words: "Introducing Mr. Norman Aldeen."

The envelope was open; Shaefer took out the sheet within it and read:

Dear Blessington:

Sorry I can't be with you, My old sciatica again. I didn't want to disappoint you, so Aldeen, like the good fellow he is, says he will go out alone. Give him a good time. I don't think he knows any of your crowd. He's chock-full of Meso- potamia, but he's modest and you'll have to crowbar it out of him.

Frederick Northrup.

The note was written on the paper of the Adventurer's Club.

Shaefer read the note again, his face gone suddenly haggard. Colonel Blessington and the Blessington emeralds were synonymous terms in crookdom. Shaefer's mouth had watered a hundred times at the mere mention of those marvelous gems and that indomitable figure, their possessor. The Blessington emeralds! One spoke of them reverently, as of some sacred subject, the mere utterance of which was a profanity. They were perfect; they were unequaled; they were worth t least a hundred and fifty thousand to any crook in the land!

But it was not the name of Blessington that had brought the sweat of terror to Shaefer's brow. Blessington was only Blessington, a stout, indomitable figure institutionalized by his famous gems.

But Norman Aldeen! That intrepid, romantic, unassuming figure of the Mesopotamian sands and the Egyptian deserts, the most famous explorer and archeologist of the day! That international figure whose name during the year preceding his recent return to America had become a headline feature! "Aldeen, the Invincible," they had called him.

He had gone out to dig in the sands of Mesopotamia for the institutions that had sent him, he had said in his blunt manner of speech, and all the Arabs in Eastern Asia should not stop him. For months his gallant company, under his capable leadership, had carried on punitive warfare with the nomadic tribes of that region. But he had completed the excavations he had been sent to make, and those brilliant contributions of his upon old Mesopotamian civilizations had flung his name around the world in a night. Then he had brought his little company out of the desert, intact as it went in. The newspapers had played him up. He had become the idol of the hour.

Shaefer recalled all this in one shuddering gasp of terror. He, Joe Shaefer, had killed Norman Aldeen!

His panic shook him. He thrust the letters. and papers into his pockets, jammed Aldeen's hat upon his head, and snatched up his automatic, the electric torch, and the club bag. Then he dashed down the slope, flung the club bag into the car, and tumbled in after it.

ii

SHAEFER drove furiously into the cool, scented night, his terror-fevered brain dominated by an insupportable desire to fling between himself and that inert figure in the shanty as many hundreds of miles as the great car could cover before dawn.

The night breeze whistled in his ears; telephone poles whirled by; neat orange groves, geometrically patterned, flashed past in rustling, scented processions. Huge blacknesses to the east and the west were the mountains.

Presently Shaefer's hot brain cooled, and he lessened the car's speed. A life- long habit of self-control reasserted itself, and he began to consider the implications of his position.

He had killed Norman Aldeen, he reflected, but it did not necessarily follow that his arrest would result. Very carefully he went over each detail of the affair, No, he had left behind him no indication of his identity. They would probably find Aldeen, there would be a tremendous sensation, and that would be the end of it. He would drive the car several hundred miles to the north, abandon it before dawn, and entrain for San Francisco. Once there, he would be safe enough.

His stolen garments disturbed him somewhat, now. Had he known it was Aldeen he had killed, he would not have made the exchange. Now, on second thought, it dide not matter, though. Aldeen's suit was a common enough shade of gray. However, he would get rid of it in the morning.

Having settled these matters to his satisfaction, he found that his self-confi- dence surged back and his thoughts turned again to the Blessington emeralds. Toward the foothills lay Blessington's great ranch. An expression of cupidity crept into his suave countenance, but immediately changed to one of deep regret when he remembered that the famous gems, in view of the situation he was in, were farther away from him than they had ever been.

Suddenly the recalled the phrasing of the letter of introduction in his pocket. His light-colored eyes dilated at the daring thought that flashed into his brain. "I don't think he knows any of your crowd," Northrup's note ran.

Evidently Aldeen did not know Blessington or his friends personally. If he, Shaefer, were to impersonate the dead. Aldeen, could he deceive Blessington long enough to get his hands on the famous emeralds? But the idea cooled under his keen scrutiny, and he shook his head with an impatient gesture. It was absurd. What did he know of Mesopotamia other than the fragmentary details he had read in the newspapers? He bent over the wheel and thrust the thought from his mind.

Shaefer had driven ten miles or so when he perceived in the .distance the twinkling lights of a small village. It occurred to him suddenly that, beyond an orange or two which he had stolen, he had had nothing to eat since early morning. Thus awakened, his hunger gnawed insistently, and he determined to risk purchasing the food he would need so sorely by morning.

Several minutes later he ran along a paved street and drew up before a cement building which housed a restaurant and a hotel. He was about to get out of the blue touring car when a gray-suited, stout man trotted across the sidewalk from the hotel, hand out-stretched, a genial smile upon his ruddy countenance.

"Is this Mr. Aldeen?" he called out in a throaty voice. "That's Northrup's Blue Hazzard car, or I'll— yes, sir, I'll eat my boots! But what have you done with Northrup?"

The stout man seized Shaefer's nerveless hand and wrung it enthusiastically. "I'm Blessington, sir, Colonel Blessington. And this, as you may know"—the colonel waved a massive hand in an inclusive gesture— "is the town of Blessington."

"Don't tell me I've made a mistake, sir," the man cried jovially in Shaefer's stricken face. "I'm sure I haven't!  Those glasses of yours, and that rose you know! The newspapers have given them a classic significance! Classic, Mr. Aldeen! But what have you done with Northrup? Don't tell me it's his sciatica! Terrible the way he suffers! Got it in South America, you know! Now, sir, do tell me what you have done with Northrup!"

Shaefer's heart felt as cold and as dead as the hand which the colonel had seized in the grip of welcome. Only so transparent a person as this could have failed to detect the panic he felt sure was written in his face. Denial of the identity thrust upon him rose to his lips, but he shut it off with a trap-like closing of his teeth.

He had come in Northrup's car, he wore Aldeen's glasses and Aldeen's rose, and he had come to Blessington. It would have been strange if the colonel had not pounced upon him, In this heart he cursed the absurd whim that had induced him to wear the rose and the glasses, for he remembered now that both were always striking features of the invariably wretched newspaper portraits of Aldeen.

He forced a grin to his dry lips. "Why, of course I'm Aldeen, colonel!" he exclaimed, injecting into his voice that genial tone he usually could affect so  easily. "And it is Northrup's sciatica." He extracted his cold hand from the other's moist grasp and relaced it with Northrup's letter of introduction. "This will explain the situation, I think."

Shaefer had got himself under control by this. He studied the colonel closely and a little contemptuously. He knew the type well enough: Fat and easy-going, wordy and undiscerning; a fund of jokes at his disposal, mostly of the prohibition order, and a private stock which he would display proudly d share generously; probably reducing the number of his daily cigars and menting his waistline and his mounting blood-pressure. But a good fellow and a genial companion for all that— if one did not see too much of him.

And this man was the possessor of the famous Blessington emeralds!

Suddenly this predicament which he had cursed so bitterly but a moment before, assumed a golden tint. The colonel was convinced that he was Aldeen. If he preserved this conviction he might get his hands on the famous emeralds! His heart leaped.

Colonel Blessington pocketed the note. "Too bad!" he ejaculated. "Fine fellow, Northrup. However, we all come to these things. If it's not one it's another. Aren't I right, Aldeen?"

The colonel did not wait for Shaefer's reply to this philosophic observation but rumbled on like a well-oiled machine: "I came down on the off chance of meeting you. Thought something might have gone wrong. These infernal cars, you know! Give me a good horse any day! We'll go back in your car. Mine is across the road." He waved toward a roadster at the opposite curb. "One of the men can bring it."

Shaefer opened the door, and the colonel climbed heavily in beside him. Half a mile or so beyond the village Blessington directed him into a side road which led up to the eastern foot-hills,

The colonel emitted a continuous stream of conversation, the substance of which was mainly the Blessington orange groves, the Blessington home, the town of Blessington, and Colonel Blessington himself. The latter subject he treated exhaustively.

"I tell you, Mr. Aldeen, when I came here first, the place was as bare as one of your Syrian deserts. Sagebrush and sand and cactus! When I think of what has been done—"  The colonel's wordiness had been a source of much satisfaction to Shaefer. At this point he thought it advisable to interject a complimentary remark.

"I suppose you have had much to do with it, colonel?"

The other cleared his throat. His manner suggested that he had been waiting some such question. "Well," he said, "there are people who say if it hadnt been for Colonel Blessington—"

Shaefer shut his ears and returned to anticipatory contemplation of the colonel's emeralds and to the plan he was evolving to get them into his possession.

It was in this manner that The Preacher came to the elaborate Blessington mansion in the foothills.

iii

AT THE colonel's direction Shaefer drove the big car into the roomy garage. He would much rather have left it in front of the house, for he intended to make good use of it before the night was over; but he could not very well insist on doing this in face of Blessington's expressed determination that it should be cleaned and polished by his own chauffeur before it went out again. He glanced at the lock of the garage door. It was a good one, but he anticipated no difficulty in picking it with a piece of stout wire which he always carried upon his key ring.

"Now," said the colonel, when they had installed the car, "take a few minutes to freshen up. Then we'll have a bite to eat. I'm sure you are starving."

When Shaefer had come down from the room that had been prepared for him, he found the cold supper which was set before them quite the best he had ever eaten. Blessington's bottled goods were beyond description.

"Nothing like this in Mesopotamia," gurgled the colonel appreciatively.

He still talked incessantly of nothing in particular, but Shaefer detected in his conversation a tendency toward Mesopotamia and archeology, which he had tried to discourage several times. He realized that the colonel presently would expect him to recount some of Aldeen's experiences. Luckily Blessington was a bachelor, and the friends Shaefer was to meet were not to arrive until the next afternoon. He must make one or two vague references to Mesopotamia and archzology, imply the innate modesty Northrup had attributed to Aldeen, and promise to go into the subject fully the next day. This would hold the colonel's faith in his integrity. Presently they went into the library, smoking the colonels fifty-cent cigars. It was here that Shaefer hoped and rather expected to find the emeralds. His light-colored eyes flashed around the long, book-lined room, but he saw no safe. This did not dismay him, for he had thought it unlikely that the safe which contained the gems would not be concealed.

They settled themselves in over-stuffed chairs before a fire of eucalyptus logs. A dreamy warmth permeated the room. Shaefer thought that everything was going as well as could be expected— if not better.

At the colonel's elbow were cocktail materials. He pushed them toward Shaefer. The latter declined regretfully. He did not explain that he wished to keep his head clear.

Colonel Blessington puffed on his cigar. "Glad to be home?" he remarked tentatively.

The inevitable. moment had come. Shaefer pulled himself together and smiled knowingly. "Rather!" He blew a smoke ring lazily toward the ceiling,

"Pretty warm out there, one way or another, eh?" Colonel Blessington seemed in a listening mood.

"It was exciting at times," admitted Shaefer. His calm demeanor gave no indication of the tumult within him. He had no idea that one could know so little as he about Mesopotamia.

The colonel tried another tack.

"That's a good article in the current Eastern Traveler," he observed.

Shaefer looked up.

"What was that?" he inquired casually.

Blessington seemed surprised. "Why," he exclaimed, "that article on yourself!"

"Oh, of course!" Shaefer reddened. "Yes, no doubt! no doubt!" He got himself in hand again. If only he could induce the old fool to talk of emeralds instead of Mesopotamia!

"Pretty sound man, Tate," the colonel went on.

"Tate?" responded Shaefer cautiously.

The other looked at him in astonishment. "You must know Tate! Henry Tate!"

Shaefer smiled disarmingly. "Oh, Henry Tate! Certainly! Yes, sound, as you say! Sound as a dollar!"

"He writes well, too."

"Yes; he's very clear," ventured Shaefer.

"He says you are a hard man to interview."

"Does he?" The colonel's cigar, en route to his lips, poised in mid-air.

"My dear Aldeen!" he remonstrated. "Of course he does! In this article in the Eastern Traveler."

Shaefer bit deeply into his cigar. "To tell the truth, colonel," he said, forcing a grin to his twitching lips, "I haven't read it. I read so much— about myself—" Shaefer paused; his suave countenance expressed a modest embarrassment.

Blessington flung his head back and roared with laughter.

"Northrup was right when he said we'd have to crow-bar it out of you! Well, I'm going to let you off until to-morrow. Grimshaw and Morrison are tremendously interested in you. I give you fair warning, sir; they'll not let you off."

Shaefer concealed his vast relief and smiled good-naturedly. "I'Il do my best," he promised.

So that was over! Now if only he could get the colonel onto the subject of emeralds!

"Your modesty reminds me of a story I once heard about a man," the colonel said puffily. "He was in the jewelry trade—"

Shaefer seized upon this golden opportunity. "Pardon me, colonel," he interrupted swiftly, "your allusion to jewelry reminds me that you bear some reputation as a collector of precious stones. I seem to remember hearing of the Blessington diamonds, or the Blessington pearls."

The colonel blew a huge cloud of smoke at the ceiling. "Emeralds, Aldeen. The Blessington emeralds!"

Shaefer nodded. "Yes, emeralds— now I come to think of it." His eyes rested ever so lightly on the other.

Pride of possession crept into the colonel's ruddy countenance. "Yes," he admitted with praiseworthy modesty. "My collection is esteemed rather highly. You are interested in stones?"

Shaefer nodded with the proper degree of enthusiasm. "Yes, indeed! I saw quite a few of them in the East."

"Did you! Whose were they?"

Shaefer bit his lip. He had not counted on Blessington's connoisseur's enthusiasm. "Oh, er, I met a buyer for one of the London houses in Cairo. I've forgotten his name. He had a lot with him. Rubies mostly."

The other nodded, and  Shaefer thought he had got out of the difficulty rather neatly.

"My great grandfather began collecting emeralds a hundred years ago," the colonel explained. "His descendants have added to the original number. I may tell you, sir, the collection is worth at least three hundred thousand dollars."

Shaefer expressed his astonishment and concealed his delight. This was better than he had expressed!

"You may as well see them now," the colonel went on, easing himself out of his chair and walking toward the door of the library.

Shaefer followed, his manner casual. Actually he was trembling with excitement. His eyes were bright, contracted a little, and riveted upon the slow-moving Blessington., The next minute or two would reveal the success or failure of his scheming. Would he be able to observe the mechanism of the colonel's burglar-alarm devices? Perhaps. Could he get close enough to Blessington to read off the combination of the safe as he turned the dial? It seemed unlikely. Failing these desirable eventualities, he would crack his host on the head with the butt of his automatic, tie him up, and make off with the stones. It was ridiculously simple.

The colonel, unaware of his guest's scrutiny, chatted pleasantly with Shaefer as the latter, having picked up a magazine, followed him into the hall. Bless- ington crossed the reception hall to one of a number of panels depicting land- scapes painted on the wainscoting— it was the fifth from the right and the third from the floor, Shaefer noted— and pressed the two right-hand corners of the panel. The panel slid back, and the colonel, without comment, pulled down an electric switch set in a niche behind it. An alarm connected with the safe, no doubt, Shaefer concluded. He would remember that. When the colonel turned round, Shaefer stood within the library door idly turning the pages of the magazine.

Coming into the library again, Blessington stopped before a section of the bookcases devoted to thick volumes of philosophy which, doubtless, he had never read. He removed Herbert Spencer's Principles of Psychology, which stood at one end of one of the shelves, and inserted a chubby finger into a boring in the heavy oak end of the shelf and pulled mightily. Some nine square feet of philosophy of various kinds swung outward on hinges.

Behind it stood a heavy iron safe which was bolted to the floor of the room.

Blessington dropped onto his knees, squinted at the dial, and turned it indecisively several times.

Shaefer peered cautiously over his shoulder, still turning the pages of his magazine, but to his intense disappointment he could make nothing of the figures on the dial, the safe being completely in shadow. His fingers clasped the automatic in his pocket. Luckily the library door was shut, and the servants were in bed. His mouth tightened; his compact body tensed for that one swift, downward, stunning blow that should deliver a fortune to him.

The colonel turned around with a rueful grin, and Shaefer became ab- sorbed in his magazine. "My eyes are not as good as they were, Aldeen. You might hold that reading lamp on the table," he requested, naturally enough, for nothing was further from his undiscerning mind than suspicion of the integrity of the great Aldeen.

The pitch of desperation to which Shaefer had whipped himself momentarily obscured the significance of this request. Then it flashed upon him.

The old fool was playing into his hands! He held the reading lamp over the colonel's shoulder, and the numbers upon the dial sprang into his range of vision.

"To the right twenty-three, left seventeen, right ninety-eight, left one hundred." Guided by the colonel's pudgy fingers, the combination sang itself into Shaefer's receptive brain. His blood tingled in his veins. At last he was to see, to touch, and, later, to possess, the famous Blessington emeralds, those gems of which a hundred fabulous yarns had penetrated the dark and devious paths. of crookdom.

The colonel set two covered, shallow trays upon the table. "You must tell me, Aldeen, if in all your travels you have ever seen a finer collection than this." His tone suggested considerable doubt of such a possibility.

Slowly and ceremoniously, as if he were uncovering some ancient relic, Blessington drew the wooden slides along their grooves, laid them aside, and parted the white satin covers beneath. "There!" he exclaimed to the awed Shaefer.

Arranged in the form of crescents upon two couches of gleaming white satin lay the Blessington emeralds, like green fires on a lake of ice. They were
indescribably beautiful. The light of life lay in their hearts, winked auda- ciously at the astounded Shaefer. At the apex of each crescent rested a great, gorgeous stone, a king at the head of a realm of princes.

Shaefer stared at them like a man who has come upon a treasure, the mag- nificence of which trebles his expectations—as indeed he had.

"Superb!" he whispered at last. "Superb!" He touched the two great emeralds with trembling fingers, lifted them, set them in the palm of his hand, caressed them reverently as if they were twin philosopher stones.

"There are seventy-four of them," he heard the colonel rumble complacently as from a great distance.

"Great grandfather, Elias P. Blessington, collected twenty of them; grandfather Jonas F., twenty-two; my father, Daniel D., eighteen; and I, the rest."

Shaefer nodded absently. It was their value, not their chronological history that enthralled him. They should bring at least two hundred and fifty thousand if he sold them right. What a haul! His heart pounded at the thought of it.

"Well, sir, what do you think of them?" demanded Blessington in challenging tones,

Shaefer descended to reality. "They are wonderful!" he exclaimed enthusiastically.

The colonel laughed triumphantly and returned the ae the safe.

"I thought you'd say so," he declared puffily when he had closed the safe and returned its philosophic barricade. "I intend to go on collecting them as long as I live," he continued when he had thrown "on" the switch in the hall. Shaefer glanced casually at his watch. It was nearly midnight. A fever of impatience to do what he had to do and to get away, fell upon him. He pretended to conceal a yawn behind the back of his hand. The colonel saw it as Shaefer intended he should and, examining his own watch, suggested that they retire.

iv

WHEN he had come into his room and locked the door quietly behind him, Shaefer unstrapped Aldeen's suit case, the contents of which he had not yet seen. Within it he found a dark blue suit which he determined to put on over the gray one and thus add to the confusion of his pursuers.

Having deftly removed all tailor's identification tags from both suits, he pulled the blue on over the gray. The fit was uncomfortable but bearable. A pair of heavy golfing stockings, which he discovered in the club bag, he drew on over his boots.

This accomplished, Shaefer sat down at a writing desk and in a disguised handwriting wrote:

Dear Colonel:

Awfully sorry to leave you at this early hour, but a forgotten engagement compels me to do so. I shall probably be back before dinner to-night. I have a key which fits the lock of the garage, so it is not necessary for me to rouse you or the chauffeur. I shall explain more fully this evening.

Norman Aldeen.

Shaefer grinned sardonically as he reread the note. He had no hope of it fooling the colonel for very long, but it might delay his pursuit for several hours. He laid the note upon the table and looked at his watch. It was one o'clock. He would wait half an hour.

At precisely one-twenty-nine Shaefer tood up, pocketed his automatic, and picked up his flash light; decisiveness of movement characterized every action, He gave a last look around the room and, finding everything to his satisfaction, snapped out the light and stepped into the corridor, closing the door softly behind him.

The entire first floor of the house was in utter darkness. Having located the secret panel and thrown the switch, he passed into the library and pushed the door to behind him. The shadows within the room fled before the sweeping circle of light thrown by his torch. He flung open the French windows to facilitate his escape, should some unforeseen emergency develop.

This accomplished, he swung aside the barricade of philosophy, dropped onto his knees before the safe, and directed the circle of light upon the combination dial. His long, sensitive fingers trembled as he swung the dial back and forth in the numbered sequence that should open the magic door of fortune. Completing the combination, he seized the handle. It held! He tugged at it madly, the sweat of sudden desperation upon his forehead. It still held! A withering imprecation broke from his dry lips.

But he pulled himself together again, remembering, as he did so, that he might have twirled the dial too rapidly for the drop of the tumblers. He swung it back and forth once more, whispering the talismanic numbers, a warm moisture upon his tingling body.

Again his fingers grasped the handle, but a moment elapsed before he could compel them to obey the urge of his will and attempt to turn it. The bolt shot back with a metallic click that sped a wave of ecstasy through him. He flung open the door, whipped out the jewel trays, and 'thrust his quivering fingers among those shimmering green fires. Their touch, cooler than ice to his hot hands, thrilled him with an unprecedented happiness. He scooped them up, cupped his hands, and drank in their flaming beauty.

Here lay the key to that life of comfort, security, and respectability which he had craved since reaching his years of understanding. Respectability! The word sang in his ears! Not that he cared a rap for the morality of the term. It was only a profound admiration for that quality of solidity, which the term also connoted, that his worthless and dangerous contact with life had so deeply instilled in him.

He let the flaming mass cascade between his parted hands into one of the satin-lined trays beneath. It fell, a shimmering yellow and gold and green waterfall, a minute Milky Way in the room's tiny heaven,

The exigencies of the present recalled him. He stowed the emeralds away in the pockets of his inner suit, returned the trays to the safe, locked the door, and swung the bookcase section back into its place. Then he extinguished his torch and was about to make for the open window when he remembered, with a shiver of apprehension, that he had not yet rethrown the switch in the hall. He turned toward the library door.

At that moment there came a sharp click, and the room was flooded sud- denly with light. Within the open door stood Colonel Blessington, a flushed and very indignant-looking colonel indeed, and a compactly built man with a rugged, haggard face, vaguely familiar to Shaefer, whom he regarded with a peculiar expression of mild amusement.

For perhaps ten seconds this impres- sive tableau endured in unbroken si- lence. During this minute span in the spin of the suns an eternity of thought whirled in Joe Shaefer's brain. He saw Aldeen, dead, in the shanty; he saw himself taken by this compact, haggard-faced man— a cop, no doubt, for he had seen his face somewhere in his troubled past; he saw himself dying the ignominious death the law had decreed to him. And he saw the solitary chance that remained to him.

The window was open, he had a gun in his pocket; Blessington was dressed and probably had the keys of the garage upon the key ring which he knew Blessington carried. The squandering of life that stood between him and his liberty troubled Shaefer not in the least. One hangs as easily for one dead man as for three. It was his only chance, and he took it.

He dropped the electric torch and clatched the automatic in his coat pocket, directed it upon the haggard-faced man, and fired. But he was just one second too late— so thin is the hair that suspends life above death!— and the bullet went wide. The haggard- faced man had fired from his coat pocket, too. Shaefer felt a thud as of a mighty fist upon the middle of his body. A sharp, dreadful agony seized upon him, then a sickening nausea. His legs crumpled like dried reeds; a cold mist swept down upon him, chilled him to the bone. Through it he saw vaguely the haggard-faced man leaping toward him, a wisp of gray smoke coiling up from his right-hand coat pocket.

Then the floor rose to meet him, and he lay on his back, twitching a little. The mists thickened around him, obscured his vision, but he could still distinguish the haggard-faced man who was bending over him now, deep concern upon his white face. Who was this man? Some phantom from his receding past, no doubt.

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" said the man in deep, gentle tones. "I didn't mean to kill him!"

The man's deep voice, and those familiar words which Shaefer himself had uttered so recently, touched the strings of his aching memory. Suddenly the knew, and the irony of it twitched his thin lips into a blasphemous curse.

But apparently the haggard-faced man thought The Preacher was asking a question, for he nodded his head as if he were answering one.

"Yes," he said in his deep voice, "I'm the man you didn't quite kill. I'm Norman Aldeen, the explorer."

________________

4: His Christmas Orchid

Burke Jenkins

1879-1948

The Argosy December 1905

World's News (Sydney) 24 Feb 1906

ON THE DAY before Christmas Ben Stockton was low in funds and spirits. Ben was an actor— "out of a job." It is true he hadn't been so long, having graced the shrine of matinee idolatry but the week before.

Just at this time, however, the impecunious state coincident with the cessation of his Thespian duties was particularly irksome. For, be it known, Ben had been paying most rigorous court to Bella Calvert.

Now, Bella had admirers; Bella was wealthy; Bella was worth while. So is it any wonder that Ben tore his hair a little on this Christmas eve when he thought of a fitting gift and the price thereof?

Ben glanced ruefully from his window at the early darkening street, snow-banked and slushy.

A florist's delivery auto, in gorgeous, rubber-tyred glory, stopped before the house. A heavily-gilded boy trotted up with a box. the bell rang, and Ben heard a knock at his door.

Ben set the box upon the table, fished into his vest pocket for his knife, and cut the silk cord. There was revealed before his astonished gaze the orchid.

What orchid? Why, the only one spoken of that winter—the one that had drawn crowds to the windows of "Hartley, the Florist",  the one of fabulous value.

It was unmistakable, for Ben had seen it many a time and oft, and, besides, Ben knew Hartley himself, who had given him an inkling of its value.

Ben searched for the card.

"From an admirer," is a feminine hand, was all that could be learned.

Any one who knows anything about matinee idols knows that Ben Stockton immediately ascribed the gift to the genus matinee girl, with the trifling difference, mayhap, that this one went the others a little better and hence argued herself a little more of a fool.

But Ben surely was tickled. Here was just what he'd been pining for.

He squinted at his dress shirt to see if it would stand another wearing, decided no, and began pulling away at the studs.

An hour or so thereafter he was ushered into the Calvert drawing-room and caught the wish of skirts on the stairs.

"Good evening, Miss Calvert." Ben rose hastily, but with due regard for the orchid box tuck-ed carefully under his left arm.

"Good evening, Mr. Stockton," answered Miss Calvert cordially as the shook hands. "How cold it must be outside."

"Quite so," assented Ben, whose hands were chilled from nervousness.

"Miss Calvert, I trust that, in keeping with the season, you will allow me the honor." Ben passed over the box with Delsarte grace.

None could bow better than Ben— in a play.

Miss Calvert smiled her pleasure and toiled at Ben's hard knot. Ben came to her relief with his blade.

Softly nestled in fern and tissue lay the orchid. Miss Calvert started at sight of the renowned flower.

"Yes, Miss Calvert, it is the Hartley orchid; but what could be more fitting than that the one flower should go to the one woman?"

"You overwhelm me, Mr. Stockton."

"Nonsense, Miss Calvert; It's but a poor tribute, and the only thing at all that has lifted it above the commonplace has been the difficulty I expected in forcing Hartley to part with it. He finally consented, however, and so I now have the pleasure in the realisation that the things that are dearly bought art those that are really worth while."

But Ben's pleasure was short-lived.

A chilliness was creeping into that well-heated drawing-room. Something was wrong.

Miss Calvert's eyebrows had lifted. Conversation lagged and topics grew choppy.

Ben grew uneasy, rose, and backed himself, hat to breast, out into the evening air, murmuring the while a lame well-wishing for the festal morrow.

Once on the street, his thoughts flew fast.

What was the matter? Why had the glow of genuine cordiality faded into repressive dampness?

Then came the awful realisation!

Maybe— oh, ye gods— maybe she, Bella Calvert, was the one who had sent that orchid to him!

"All over," cried Ben. "Everlastingly gone; queered for ever!"

He fingered madly for a match, started a cigarette, and wandered aimlessly in the abandon of despair. But the very completeness of the wreck of his hopes of Bella seemed, somehow or other, to lend some comfort.

Suddenly Ben stopped short.

His right fist rose and slapped its way into his left palm in an emphasis to the startling of a stray cur.

"It's worth a trial!" cried Ben. "I will do it."

Aimlessly gone, he made straight for Hartley, the florist.

Hartley himself was in.

Ben wheedled, Ben cajoled, Ben whined for the name of the one who had bought the orchid and sent it to him.

Ben most know for sure in order to carry out his scheme.

But Hartley was obdurate; Hartley had his instructions— the name was to be withheld.

Finally, however, upon Ben's calm assurance that it was a matter of life or death to him, Hartley yielded his duty to his friendship, and admitted it was Miss Bella Calvert who had bought the famous flower. His assistant had sold it to her that very day. Ben's thanks inundated the whole shop.

He leaped for the door and made for a tele-phone booth. Now, Ben, being an actor, was something of a ventriloquist also; so when Bel- la Calvert went to answer the 'phone it was a
voice far from Ben Stockton's that queried:

"Hello! Is that Miss Calvert?"

"Yes," admitted Bella from her end of the wire.

"Well, this is Mr. Hartley, the florist. Miss Calvert, there has been a most unpardonable mistake made in connection with the orchid which you bought."

Bella straightened in interest and— was it hope?

"Well?" she asked.

"The clerk," went on Ben, with deliberation and without a quaver in the feigned voice, "the clerk who sold you the orchid was a new man, and I was out at the time of the transaction, as you know."

"Yes," assented Bella.

"Well, when I came in the clerk went out to his luncheon without telling me he had sold the flower to you. Now, a gentleman came in shortly thereafter, bought it from me, and wouldn't even trust me to deliver it. This was probably due to the fact that, when it came to the actual sale of my famous orchid, which, you know, I have almost come to love, I hesitated somewhat to let him have it at all.

"He was probably afraid that I would repent after he had gone, and so made sure of it by taking it himself. Accordingly, I have been unable to rectify the error.

"All that I can say, Miss Calvert, is to express my most profound regret, return the money, and trust you not to be too hard on me."

Bella Calvert breathed into the transmitter in contentment.

"Of course, I'm much disappointed," she said, "but I suppose it can't be helped. Don't return the money, but make a suitable selection of other flowers and send them to the same address to which I ordered the orchid to be forwarded."

__________________

5: Twenty-Four Hours Start

Burke Jenkins

Argosy, May 1909

THE astrologer swore roundly, though not in Persian, when the little bell tinkled cheerily in announcement of another arrival.

Of course it meant more money, but even so public a servant as a reader of the stars for struggling humanity certainly must have some time to himself. It was already eleven-thirty, and he had made it a rule to give no audiences later than eleven.

Indeed, when was he to get any sleep? Did he not have a date with a star that was to rise about 2 A.M., the meeting to take place on his roof, with a telescope as chaperon?

But though he grumbled thus, Chan edra, the soothsayer, whose advertisement appeared every Sunday, tucked his feet into his tasseled slippers, drew on his somber cloak, dropped into his most effective stride, opened the door, and gave entrance to his visitor.

That the young fellow who rushed in excitedly needed something was most evident, and perhaps he was right in thinking that here was the place he could get it.

"You are Chanedra. the astrologist?" he cried wildly.

"I am," admitted Chanedra calmly, both for effect and to moderate the oth- er's nervousness. "Won't you be seated?"

The young man sat down tentatively on the very edge of the chair indicated and jumped into wordiness.

"Now, it isn't that I've got any faith in predictions or fortune-telling, or any- thing of that sort," he began, "but it's just as the very last resort. This thing's got to be stopped; it's got to be explained, or something. It's getting too much for me!"

"Just a minute, my dear fellow," interrupted Chanedra coldly. "If you have no faith, why are you here? And if I am to follow your story, suppose you begin with some common source that both of us can understand."

The evenness of the astrologer's tone told upon the youth.

"I never noticed the thing until after I had graduated from college," he went on in a far more collected manner. "Indeed, the very first instance was the time I tried to start The Galloper."

"You are still too vague for me," broke in the seer.

"Well, then, I'll state facts as clearly as I can. As I indicated, I graduated some four years ago. I was accounted bright enough in my studies, and ranked well enough up. I was rather versatile of accomplishments and found some difficulty in deciding upon my vocation in life. Finally, however, it seemed best to me to start a newspaper in a small way, for I had been particularly successful in college journalism.

"Accordingly, I rented a little plant with a front office, and got out a first edition of what I was pleased to call The Galloper. I worked pretty hard on the make-up of the sheet, and was more than satisfied when I scanned it over before I sent it out. But not fifteen minutes after the papers left the place an acquaintance of mine came trotting into the office.

" 'Well,' said he, with a grin, 'I'm blamed if I can see the joke in the thing, Dobson; but I suppose it's some new advertising wrinkle of yours.'

" 'What're you talking about?' I asked him.

" 'Why, look here.' He slipped from his pocket a copy of my new paper, The Galloper, then he once more fished into his coat and brought out another paper.

" 'Look at the elate on this,' said he.

" 'Why, it's the 30th,' said I. 'It's my first issue.'

" 'Now look at this one,' and he proffered the other sheet to me.

" That paper, which bore the strongest possible likeness to my own, was dated the 29th.

" 'What the—'

" 'And what's more,' continued he, 'I bought this paper yesterday.'

" 'What!' I cried.

" 'Then you know nothing of it?'

" 'Not I,' I answered truthfully, but he went away, laughing at what he took for my drollery.

"Three more days I tried to run that paper, but every one of my editions had been duplicated and set on sale; and, mark you this, before, a day before, I had printed them myself, or indeed had even written half of them. Somebody certainly had a wonderful scoop on me.

"Then, one night, I had an idea come to me while I was in bed. It was a patent for an automatic door-opener. It was practical in every detail— worked to a nicety. I got out my model of it and sent it to Washington.

"The result? After the customary delay, I received a letter, along with my model, which was therewith returned. The letter stated that, by the most remarkable coincidence, they had issued the patent rights upon an identical affair such as mine, which they had received the very day before mine arrived at the patent office. The letter even intimated that they wondered how I should have got hold of the idea so soon. Can you beat that?

"Then I wrote a novel and took it to a publisher. I saw his brow cloud as he scanned the opening sentences of my manuscript; then he turned on me sharply.

" 'You made a little mistake in bringing this particular manuscript to me,' said he, 'for it happens that I have just, only yesterday, consented to publish the original.'

" The thing was getting on my nerves by now. Four other attempts I made to forestall my unseen and premature copyist. Until finally to-night the last straw fell on me. I'm not boring you?"

" Scarcely," answered the astrologer softly.

"Of course, you must know," the young man continued, "that my best efforts to succeed in the world were being put forth in the hope of inducing a certain young lady to share her fortunes with—"

"A-ha!" sibilated Chanedra. "They are always in things."

"Yes," assented the other, "and this very night, frenzied almost beyond my- self, I rushed over to her house, threw myself at her feet, and poured out my love for her. Would she come to me and let us make our way together?"

"And the result? "

"Listen. She was kind; too kind, for I guessed even before she had said it. Only last night she had been proposed to and had accepted that mythical, mystical enemy of mine!"

"What!" cried the astrologer, betrayed into genuine surprise. "You have even seen this other?"

"Oh, how I've tried ! But something, almost uncanny, always prevents my running up with him. He's a veritable will-o'-the-wisp to me, though he's anything but such to others.

"But, tell me, have you ever heard of such a case? Am I losing my mind? Can you help me?"

Chanedra rose languidly and stepped over to where a ponderous volume lay open upon a small table.

"Where were you born? " he asked as he turned the pages.

"I was born in Philadelphia."

"When? Be exact as to time."

"The morning of July 26, 1873."

For a full five minutes the seer consulted the page; then he turned slowly upon his caller and said:

"There is little I can do for you, young man. But I can help you to understand the most unfortunate circumstances under which you were born."

"How? What?" the other cried eagerly.

"Well, it happened that upon the morning of the 25th of July of that very year, and in the self-same city of Philadelphia, this 'other' you speak of was born. You see the significance, don't you? The same stars ruled the planets at that time; and so the same destinies will be yours. But with this exception— he has twenty-four hours start of you!"

"You must be mistaken. You're chaffing me. How do you know when the fellow was born, anyway? A-ha, now I've got you!"

"Have you? Well, it appears that again he had the head start of you; for in this very room, at this very hour last night, I gave him a reading and advised him to propose to the girl."

"Great Heaven! And I? Must I go through my entire life doing the things this scoundrel does on the following day?"

"I see no other way," answered the seer compassionately.

"Then I'll kill myself!" cried the miserable young man.

"I'm afraid even that is denied you," answered Chanedra calmly, "for, as he happens to have achieved the object of his heart, and sees a happy life before him, it seems to me that he will be the last man to commit suicide. Of course, you understand that he must do the deed the day before you can ever hope to carry out the purpose."

Then it was, on that instant, that the visitor dashed madly out into the midnight; while Chanedra, the astrologer, folded another dollar bill among the others, winked at the telescope, and crawled into bed.

___________________

6: Wimple's Fog-Piercer

Burke Jenkins

The Cavalier, July 1910

TO BE exact, it was just thirteen days after my return from Patagonia with Tadbury Wimple that I got hungry.

I don't mean ordinary, little every-day hungry; I mean hungry. Accordingly, from the vantage point of a park bench, I viewed the situation, and rumination fast pointed me to demand justice from the benighted, visionary, but lovable little cuss who had lost my job for me on The Planet.

I walked over to the old shop.

Surprise, disappointment, and disgust met me; for a dust-free rectangle over the grimy door showed where his sign had been, and a futile rattling of knob betrayed that the bird had flown— moved— hiked.

I gave vent to relieving profanity and was answered in kind by a grinning street gamin who had edged near.

"Be ye's lookin' fer the dippy guy?" came the word from under the tattered cap.

"How?"

"Ain't yer trailin' the old geezer, as is crippled under the lid?"

"I'm calling on Mr. Tadbury Wimple," I replied with dignity.

"Well, there ain't no use gettin' frostbit about it; 'cause I'm just the candy when it comes to knowin' where he's at now."

"You know where he moved?" said I in quickened interest.

"Sure," accented the urchin.

I waited the information. None forthcoming, I fingered my final nickel into view.

"Six-Ninety-Five West Sixty-Ninth Struut!" yelled the kid, snapping the coin from me and beating, hot-foot, to a pie-shop.

It was a long and disagreeable walk; for the morning's threaten had finally decided on a steady, fine drizzle; and this was coupled to an even more disgusting mist which was thickening by the minute.

The house I was in search of proved hard by the North River and I arrived there pretty well soaked and uncomfortable; but a certain cheer came to me as I viewed the old sign of "Tadbury Wimple, Inventor" which graced the entrance of the new quarters. Said quarters proved of different situation as to altitude from the former hangout; for underneath the bell was the guide: "Five flights, west."

I trudged the five and thumped imperiously.

"Well, well, Dick boy," greeted the little old fellow, folding his arms and surveying me delightedly. "Balm to sore eyes you are."

Then his face lit up with that wild enthusiasm I was coming to know so well.

"And just in time, too. You couldn't have picked a better day."

"For myself," said I in some feeling, "I never saw a much worse day. Tad, I'm broke. Haven't landed even a whisper of a job; and what's more, I'm hungry to the last hole in my belt."

"So?" answered Tad in that peculiar upward inflection of his, and within thirty seconds he had whisked things before me from a cupboard to a drawn-up table— some deviled ham, half a loaf, two oranges, a bit of cheese, and a passably cool bottle of stout.

I fell to and felt better.

"Why the move?" I asked him finally. "And to such an out-of-the-way neighborhood?"

"Dick," replied Tadbury seriously, "I am not the man who will consult his own personal comfort. I live simply that my work may live and live longer, at that, than I."

"I see," said I quietly.

"I came way over here," he continued, "in order to be near the river."

He swept his arms toward the two westward windows whose panes were, beaded with the mist.

"Why the river?" I queried. "I thought that you would have already perfected the new magazine for the automat—"

"Dick," he cried in the nearest I ever saw him to anger. "I'm no longer interested in destruction. My guide is Grant— 'Let us have peace.' "

"Oh!" said I mildly.

"Dick," demanded Tad impressively after sufficient interval for effect, "what is the greatest menace to man? In other words, what one thing has man, so far, been least unable to battle against?"

"Woman! " I cried.

"Woman!" snapped Tadbury in disgust at me. "No, not woman, but fog. F-o-g."

"Fog? Well, they're both equally impossible to see through."

"To see through!" yelled Tad, fanatically delighted. "Aha, there you've got it, Dick. Think of the menace to shipping. Ask any old sailor what he most fears at sea. He'll tell you; and tell you without a moment's hesitation— fog!

"We've armed the reefs with lighthouses, guarded the channels with buoys, equipped the coasts with guards, but what has up to now been done to defy that which puts all these to naught in a second of its conquering mantle? What instrument copes with fog?"

"None," I admitted calmly, for I was smoking one of Tad's cheroots by now.

"None, eh?" he chortled in boyish glee. " You mean none that you've yet seen. But, look you here, Dick, boy!"

He trotted to one of the windows, on the sill of which rested a tiibelike arrangement that fairly bristled with wires.

"What's that?" I queried, knowing my part.

"That!" he cried in rising tone. "That— is Wimple's Fog-Piercer! That has downed Nature's last stand against man."

"Do you mean to tell me, Tad," said I, rising and going toward the window, "that you can see through a fog with that thing?"

"Didn't I tell you you had picked exactly the right day to find me? Out there, Dick, is fog; " he indexed toward the river, "and here," he patted the tube, "is its conqueror."

" How do you handle the thing?"

Tad threw in a switch that was fixed to the side of the tube, and passed me the whole rather bulky cylinder.

"Here's the eye-piece," he explained. "Use it, to all intents and purposes, like a telescope."

I took the thing from him and leveled it, while Tad threw open the window, letting the bank of mist roll to us; for it was very thick by now.

More to humor him than anything else, I squinted a doubting eye into the lens he indicated.

I confess I was startled. Immediately there leaped before me a soap factory's chimney on the Hoboken shore.

I swept the tube northward. Out of the gloom, and in an ample field of vision, there appeared the freight-yards of the West Shore, the dye-works, a ferry-boat leaving its slip.

Then I pointed the thing toward the mid-stream; then nearer our own shore.

But one second I gazed on a sight that made me leap.

"Come on, Tad!" I yelled, dropping the fog-piercer and clattering down the rickety stairs to the street.

ii

"WHAT in the name of Nick?" panted Tad wheezinglv, as he ran up to me on the near-by wharf.

"No time now. I'll explain afterward," said I quickly, as I motioned him to help me put a volunteer service dory overside. I had seen the boat from the window.

Into it we popped, and I caught up the oars. Then I turned for my direction. Fool that I was, I hadn't thought of this contingency.

Tad chuckled gleefully as he produced what had been making a large bump under his coat. He had had sense enough to snatch the fog-piercer from where I had dropped it.

Once more I sighted the tube, caught my direction, then dug oars fast. Two minutes thereafter we could hear cries for help, and within another five I had succeeded in bringing up alongside a man struggling with diminishing strength.

We hauled him aboard.

But it was not till we had hauled him up those five fiendish flights, rolled him medicinally over a keg, and trickled some brandy into him that a blinking eye gave sign of life

After this first sign, however, his recovery was rapid; and within a half-hour after I had first seen the tug ram the launch he had been in and sink it, he was looking about him inquiringly.

He appeared to be a man, though, that it would be hard to disconcert; for, after a hasty glance around, he inquired:

"How were you able to see me out there in the fog?"

He addressed his question to me, but I thought it only fair that all explanation and credit should go to Tadbury, the inventor; so I kept silent, and let Tad make the most of his triumph.

A flitting wave of secrecy first stole over his chubby countenance, but this was quickly mastered by chest-heaving pride. He passed the invention toward the man.

"Wimple's fog-piercer," he explained with wonderful dignity.

"And you?" asked the man, as he took the proffered tube.

"I am Tadbury Wimple," admitted Tad modestly.

And then, just as I had done, the man sighted the piercer out across the river. His amazement seemed to be the final thing to free him from all hint of his recent ducking. He became intense in his questioning.

"How long have you been manufacturing these instruments, Mr. Wimple?"

"That," said Tad, "that is the first, the embryonic output. In fact, I have not yet begun to manufacture."

This seemed to delight the man hugely.

"Splendid. And you are open to propositions, Mr. Wimple?"

"Meaning?" asked Tad guardedly.

"Meaning monetary. Come— I might as well be perfectly frank with you," went on the man after a minute of brow-puckered self-communion. "My name is Smith, and I'm forever indebted to you, of course, for having rescued me. But maybe we can help each other. And here's how:

"As I say, I'm Smith— Walker Smith; and I'm an Englishman, a Londoner, in fact. Now, Professor Wimple, what are your terms for the entire English land rights for your fog-piercer?"

"Land rights?" queried Tad in surprise. "I have so far only considered the benefits at sea of my discovery."

"And in that you have failed to remember a wonderful field for the invention," explained the man. "Fact is, I'll come out with the entire thing. I, Walker Smith, am president of the Lavender Taxicab Service of London."

"Oh! " cried Tad and I in unikm.

"You have doubtless either experienced or heard of that curse to London traffic, the London fog?"

"Of course!"

"Well, my proposition is for the manufacture in London of one thousand of the wonderful fog telescopes as a starter. I wish to equip every car of mine with the invention. Think of the stroke I'll make over all rivals! "

"Well, I'll be—" I started; but Tad inquired softly:

"Your proposition again, Mr. Smith?"

"Briefly and directly stated thus. You and your assistant (pointing to me, and thus giving me a job) are to sail with me on Saturday for London. There I will equip you with a workshop and tools for the making of the instruments. As fast as they are manufactured, I'll put them into active use on my cars. But my rights must be exclusive."

"And?" queried Tad meaningly.

" And for this," went on Smith, " I hereby agree to make you a direct payment of one hundred thousand pounds upon the completion of the thousand instruments."

By combined support, Tad and I managed to keep standing.

"Furthermore," continued the Londoner, "I, of course, incur all expense of the voyage, and so forth— everything, in fact. Now, Professor Wimple, what say you?"

How Tad ever did it, I give up. He actually managed to wrinkle his forehead into almost thought.

"English land rights only?" said he.

"English land rights only!" emphasized Smith.

"Then," said Tad slowly, "I'll do it."

We agreed to meet him on the deck of the Saturday steamer; he shook hands; worded again his profuse thanks for his rescue, which he really seemed almost to have forgotten; then he left.

I took the fog-piercer from the table where it lay and kissed it reverently.

Tad seemed rather pleased over the way the thing had developed.

iii

TAD AND myself were prompt in arriving at the steamer on Saturday. Tad guarded a small carpet-bag coddlingly, for in it reposed the original and only fog-piercer, the prototype of those we were to make in London. I carried simply a small paper-grip containing a razor and my other shirt.

Two minutes before starting time Tad inquired casually:

"Have you seen Mr. Smith, Dick?"

"No, I haven't," I gritted harshly, for doubt had begun to dawn in me. I never was trustful, anyway. But I was wrong; for, just as the final line was cast loose, there leaped forward in the interval the person of the Englishman, Smith.

He passed close to us as we stood on the deck, and even as he did so he said hastily:

"Follow me immediately, gentlemen."

And, keeping to his rapid pace, he led down the saloon stairs, and made immediately for our staterooms which he had secured adjoining. Tad and I were to occupy one, Smith the other.

Just before quitting the deck, however, somehow I noticed particularly a keen-eyed man who was scanning every arrival. But I further noted that he took no notice of Tad and myself.

" Gentlemen," offered Smith, after we had seated ourselves in the stateroom allotted to us, "I shall have to acquaint you with a certain secrecy I shall have to observe on this voyage."

"Yes?"

"Yes. Perhaps you observed a man up there on deck? Eh?"

"Several," said Tad, with a grin.

"I know, but any particular one?"

"Yes, a particular one," said I.

"Aha, I see you are observing, Mr. Hardy. Now, that man is named Gates, Wilbur Gates. And he's head and control of my greatest rival, the Crimson Car Association, so called. So far, I must admit, not one advance have I made in taxicab service, but what he has done me out of my triumph by copying my ideas.

"It follows, therefore, that the greatest secrecy must be observed. I'll beat him to this greatest of all inventions yet. You understand me ? "

Tad and I lost no time in thought.

"Perfectly! " we agreed unanimously; and then Smith opened a bottle.

The voyage proved absolutely uneventful. Land was raised in record time and we prepared to debark. I bent on my other shirt, and Tad caught up his grip. But, opening the door between our stateroom and Smith's, we saw no sign of said gentleman. Instead, propped up for view, was a slip of paper.

Shall meet you, gentlemen, at eleven to-morrow night at the corner of Tickman Street and Tilbury Lane. Observe secrecy. Until then, yours, Walker Smith.

Tad and I spent the next day picking up
dropped h's around London; then managed to find Tickman Street and Tilbury Lane. From the shadow of the corner house came a familiar voice:

" Come on in, gentlemen."

We entered a dark half, turned to his guidance, and stepped across a raised thresh¬ old into a dimly-lit room of some size.

" This," said Smith, " will be the workshop. Pretty nicely located, eh, professor?"

From the introspective eye of Tadbury I could see that he was already noting the place for his lathe— here he would have the brazing furnace— there the lens polisher. Oh, I knew Tad.

"Great!" he chortled finally.

"I'm delighted it suits you," glowed Smith. "Now, here's the wherewith to purchase your equipment." He passed Tadbury a goodly handful of notes. " And now, professor, when can I expect the first hundred ?

"You see, I'm all impatience. Fact is, I have decided to make my first coup by equipping just a hundred cars. As I have the entire rights, I needn't fear. I'm in somewhat of a hurry, because I'm a little doubtful as to what the scoundrel Gates has up his sleeve."

"Say the hundred in a fortnight," said Tad thoughtfully.

"Splendid!" cried Smith, and without another word he turned and left us.

Forthwith, on the morrow we got to work on the making of those fog-piercers. I could help Tad quite a bit; for I'm somewhat handy at tools; and each succeeding one was easier to put together than the preceding.

From time to time Smith would drop in on us of an evening, chat a while, and leave. He always took with him as many as we had completed up to the time of his visit.

Finally came the all-eventful day when the first hundred had been made.

"Great!" ejaculated Smith, with glowing approval. "And it looks almost as though the fates were with us in everything! "

"How?" I inquired.

"Why, naturally, being a native Londoner, I'm distinctly up on our fogs. I've been watching the weather for the past two days; and if we don't have the rip-snortingest dense fog commencing to-morrow, I'll eat my hat, as you Yankees say."

"Think so?" asked Tad, intensely interested, now that his invention was so near its final test.

"I know it! " cried Smith firmly, as he bundled up the last dozen piercers, preparatory to leaving us. "And now that our first hundred is completed; furthermore, my hundred cars equipped therewith; with my hundred chauffeurs thoroughly coached in the use of this greatest of instruments; well— look you, gentlemen, for the papers of day after to-morrow! I miss my guess if you don't find interest therein."

Whereupon Mr. Smith tucked the bundle under his left arm,- shook hands with his free fist, and left us.

iv

SMITH was right. The next day was terrible as to fog. A thick blanket of greasy smoke hid everything in that indefinable color so peculiar to London.

I had the greatest difficulty in managing Tadbury. Almost for the first time I could remember, he was awfully nervous. Up and down that workshop he'd pace.

Finally I grew desperate. I decided to waive aside my own comfort. I suggested a game of pinochle. Tad tumbled.

Nothing ever got it over pinochle to Tad.

And so I thumbed those greasy cards, even up into the next day; for I knew that sleep would be impossible.

And just as the first rays of a slightly clearing dawn stole in on us at our table came the first rumble of the hubbub.

Usually they don't cry an extra in London. They're content with a blazoned placard. But this thing was too much for them. Even as in the old U. S. the newsies began to run up and down, yelling their news with purposeful unintelligibility.

"Dick," cried Tad to me, "run out and buy one."

I left the shop on the jump, caught a paper from a yeller, paid him too much, and sprang back into the shop alongside Tad.

Together we read:

STUPENDOUS!

The most daring and stupendous day of crime has passed over London.

Yesterday, during the thick fog that held us, houses were most unaccountably entered; carriages and cabs were held up at the pistol point; diamonds even snatched from ladies therein. How the criminals were enabled to see through the smoke that proved so baffling to the police is still a mastery.

Detective Grey, of Scotland Yard, has the most plausible theory, however. He attributes the entire hundred robberies to the leadership of Gentleman Ginger whom he has been trailing for nearly a year.

Detective Grey says that he almost had him in custody on a steamer that arrived from America about a fortnight ago; but that the noted criminal managed to give him the slip just as the steamer touched.

But Detective Grey promises more revelatiors today. He says that he saw the scoundrel Ginger in several conversations with two men who appeared to be Americans. One was a small, bald individual of near-sighted vision; the other, taller and of somewhat military bearing.

Grey even goes so far as to connect them in some way with the means of the robberies; for he says that he is confident they assisted said Gentleman Ginger to escape from an overturned launch in the Hudson River, New York City, at the very moment when he, Grey, was about to get his man.

Singularly enough, they managed to rescue him in just such a fog as dimmed things, for us yesterday.

Now, it is hoped—

But that's as far as Tad and I got.

First, there came an imperious knock from the street door. But little time was given for an answer, for immediately thereafter the door gave way before massive shoulders.

One peek I got at the helmets of a full score of London "bobbies," and this through the keyhole of the inner door.

I flung open a rear window that gave upon a narrow alley. Catching up the bewildered Tadbury, I dropped him bodily to the flags below; then I followed.

"Come on, Tad! " I cried as I led it hot-foot down the alley to a back street at its end.

And Tad came— at a pace, moreover, that kept me digging to equal. Talk about Love lending wings! Commend me to old man Scare!

But, take it from me, it wasn't one whit too swift; wasn't swift enough, in fact. Doggone those athletic Englishmen anyway, say I.

Whistles sounded behind us. Answering whistles took up the cry ahead. And just then I spied a park and whirled toward its entrance path. You see, I was in hopes of sheltering bushes.

But bushes wouldn't have availed long had it not been for what Wimple had told me was man's one unconquered curse of nature.

I mean fog. And did I bless it, as it once more settled its dimming mantle thick about us ? Answer is, I did!

Nor could I see a thing myself. But I was satisfied anyway, even though it caused me to lose Tadbury in the mix-up.

Fact is, I didn't see Tadbury Wimple again in London.

Indeed, I never once laid eyes on him until I recognized him alongside me pouring bran-mashes into a feeding trough on the cattle steamer coming home.

___________________

7: The Anti-Climax of a Bad Man

Burke Jenkins

Argosy, September, 1907

"STRANGER, your name, sah?"

"Caldwell," I answered; "nephew to Colonel Caldwell."

"What!" exclaimed the spokesman of the crowd. "Honored to make your esteemed acquaintance, sah. You will pardon my apparent bruskness, but we must know our friends in these here parts. We're electing a sheriff, you see, and according, we can't be too careful."

I nodded my appreciation of the force of such caution, and without more ado mingled freely with the assembled mountaineers. One after another, candidates were named only to be met with such comment as: "He's too narrer-chested." "Ain't got but one eye, and can't shoot straight with that!" "Got too many chillun to leave," etc., etc.

Finally a raw-boned hunk of angularity unwrapped himself from a nail keg, and I beheld before me one who was destined to become a stanch friend, "Dog" Hankly.

"Feller citizuns," drawled Dog, "I reckon as how you fellers'll come to the right conclusion finally. Now, I know it ain't jist the regular thing fer a man to nominate hisself, but seeing as how I know myself pretty tolerable well, why, I jist name you Dog Hankly fer sheriff of this here county."

The hilarity that met this outburst was general and instantaneous.

"Why, Dog, you'd shy at yer own shadder," cried one. "How 'bout the Widder Perkins's rollin'-pin that time you popped the question? Why, that same female had you paralyzed, Hanky."

This came from a five-footer of bristly mustache.

"Dog, old feller," broke in another patronizingly, "you're plumb all right at trainin' dogs, givin' the devil his due, but shore, now, you know right well enough you don't possess the sand to make the mortar for a sheriff of this locality. 'Tain't a tea-party, five-o'clock neighborhood."

"Friends," and Dog drew himself up almost to straightness, "I'm none good at the speechifying. If I wuz I'd go on ter show you how it ain't no sign a feller ain't got grit even if he is afraid er his shadder, or, worse yet, shemale critters. But it strikes me that wunst I writ twelve times in my copy-book this here line: 'Actions speak louder than words.' This same bein' some true, I'm here ter say that, as the main object o' this here election is ter git a man who can hold his own against Kinston and his gang, I'm ready ter do that same."

"Aw, come, now, Dog, we've wasted time enough," broke in some one.

"One squint at Kinston's hip-pocket'd give you fever 'n' ager fer a week."

"I mean jist what I say!" emphasized Dog, bristling somewhat. "And to show I do, why, I— I'll take Kinston hisself when he stalks around town to-morrer, if you'll give me the warrant."

The joke of all this was too much for the crowd; so, with loud acclamations and much guffawing, they invested Dog Hankly with the necessary power, and awaited impatiently the coming proof.

Even I delayed my visit to a mine to witness the outcome of this boast of Hankly's as to his handling Kinston, the desperado whose notoriety had reached far beyond the bounds of this little county. For nonchalance in cold-blooded murder, Kinston had branded himself king.

By ten o'clock we were all on hand, grouped about the store, before which ran a low porch without a rail. Neither Kinston nor Hankly had shown up yet, and accordingly, everything was feverish conjecture and expectancy. Finally a dust-cloud down the pike spoke of another arrival.

From the cloud emerged Kinston of the steely orb. With his characteristic precision, he eyed every man before dismounting; then he threw the bridle-lines over his pony's head, reached easily to his hip, slung forward his holster, and came, with an easy stride, among us.

He was granted his usual little "circular space of safety," as he called it, and finally, planting his back against the side of the house, he lounged into easy attitude and bit off a chew. Not a sign of Dog Hankly yet!

"Bet he won't show up at all!" grunted the five-footer disgustedly, in an aside.

"Take yer!" answered another, "fer dog my cats if there he ain't."

From his low shanty across the road emerged Dog in all the casualness of a small errand. He was picking his teeth with a fish-bone. Half-way across the road he threw away the bone, straightened a little, and made an unswerving line for Kinston, on the porch. Breathless is no word for the state of our suspense. At first Kinston eyed him casually, as was his wont.

Then, Hankly's direction deflecting by not a hair, he took on a quickened interest and toyed casually with the pistol-grip. Dog strode on forward with no waver. Up jumped Kinston.

"Far enough, you! " he cried. "Whirl your circle, or I'll let in daylight!" He brandished that pet of his.

On came Dog.

"Br-r-rh!" growled the pistol.

On came Dog.

"Whang!" zipped the next shot.

On came Dog.

Six times that iron coughed, with no swerving on Dog's part. Then a wild fear crept into Kinston's face. He threw the discharged weapon at Hankly's head; Hankly ducked, and past him sped Kinston in a pretty dodge. He gained his horse, mounted, and clattered out of town.

We were all too paralyzed to speak. Even Dog Hankly did not see fit to break the silence. Instead, he strolled on back to his cabin. We saw him pass on out to his shed, and fifteen minutes later he once more hit the road. This time he was mounted, and by a long rope leash he led the last hound which he had been training for my uncle, Colonel Caldwell.

The next afternoon, at about three o'clock, a small boy brought startling intelligence.

Two men, a horse, and a dog were coming up the road. We filed out to witness events. Dog Hankly sat astride his cayuse; from the saddle-pommel stretched a rope, and at the other end strode Kinston, the mighty fallen, securely bound.

Well, did they make that lank Dog Hankly sheriff? Did they apologize in a superabundance of profuseness? I should smile.

And Dog and I grew old together, for business and health kept me long in that region. Men came from miles around to see and meet the man who had stood the fire and made the capture of Kinston, the outlaw. Late one autumn afternoon, as Dog and I sat chatting on his back porch, the topic turned to that "opportunity" which is supposed to knock once at every man's door.

"Somethin' in it!" grunted Dog musingly, "if yer couple it with luck and a little ingenuity."

"I don't exactly catch your drift," I answered.

He looked sharply around to see if' any one was by, and then, leaning over, said: "I'll jist bust if I don't tell some one how I got this here reputation of mine."

"Your reputation about that Kinston affair— about your being the bravest man in the Old North State?"

"Exactly!" he answered.

"Well, I sure won't tell," I pledged.

"Yer see," said Dog, "when Kinston sprang by me and got away I got plumb disgusted, and made up my mind to take that hound I'd been training over to your uncle to change my spirits.

"Now, I got along by the spring down there at Doe's Crossing, and thought I'd take a drink. According, I approached the bushes around the water, and what should I hear but a voice come out of that shrubbery.

" 'Don't shoot, Hankly,' it said; 'I'll come peaceable.' Then, sir, out crawled Kinston, scratched with briers and clean out of heart. I played the card which had fallen right in my hand— bound him up some secure, and brought him along. Yer see, I'd kind of 'got his goat' by walking up to that there bloody gun of his."

"That's just it," said I. "Surely, facing that fire was brave!"

"Well, not exactly as might be supposed," exclaimed Dog. "Yer see, the day of the election I had seen Kinston buy two quarts o' booze. So, that night, the night before the gun-play, I slips off to his cabin in the woods, rolls him over in his dead drunk, and takes the bullets out of that old muzzle-loading revolver of his.

"Phew!" sighed Dog, in relief. "I'm glad to get that out of my system after all these years!"

___________________

8: Queen of the Beggars

James Jeffreys O'Brien

The Illustrated Detective Magazine Sept 1931

Possibly the only published story of this author, whose identity is unknown. For non-New Yorkers, "el places" refers to the elevated railway which once ran in Manhattan up until the mid-50s, and still exists in some outer boroughs.

"BEGGARS' TRUST!" I ejaculated.

"Exactly," said the city editor. "The begging racket is big business nowadays. You can't mooch a thin dime unless you belong. All the spots, Brooklyn Bridge, the Grand Central and Pennsylvania stations, subway and el places, to say nothing of the theatre district, are divided among certain favored beggars. Even the club zone, I'm told, is worked nights by a relay of janes."

"A great yarn, if true, Chief," I commented. "I've noticed that the bridge and other places seem to be manned by regulars all the time. You never see a new face around."

"Let a new one try to muscle in," he stated significantly, "and they'll make a complete cripple of him!"

"You certainly have some inside dope," I remarked.

"Well, it's a hot tip— from an officer friend on Blackwell's Island (now called Welfare Island).... Remember that whining beggar— the 'Prince of Wails' we called him—who won a year at hard labor?"

"The baby with his own limousine and gold-buttoned chauffeur?"

"The same," he nodded. "Well, he's been gossiping.... Looking for a hospital job in the prison, I guess.... Maybe we can get him to talk later on.... Might promise to help him with an out... he's got six hard months to go."

"Probably the Commissioner of Corrections will fall for—"

"Yeah! And probably you'll be telling me how to run this sheet next," snapped my superior. "What I want from you is some speedy leg work.... You ever been in Gyp Leary's flop-house ?"

"If you mean the 'Tub of Blood'— no!" I answered.

"You can call it Sweet Marie," said he. "But you're due to crash in there in some way. It's the headquarters of the beggars' trust.... Ever meet this Gyp Leary?... No!... Well, it might not be so easy to  break in right.... Chase up and see Inspector Laughlin; I guess he can wise you."

A FEW minutes later I was rounding the corner of Park Row— newspaperdom's Main Street in those days— and then I made a break that I was to remember later. On the plaza at the Brooklyn Bridge entrance was the beggar that pre-empted that spot daily during the lunch period. We called him "Twisting Tommy," from the way he writhed his body, and had often tried to guess the amount he took in his two hours.

One of our bright young members had discovered that the innocent breast pocket, into which he frequently emptied his tin cup, was lined with a length of rubber inner tube that stretched down below his belt. Anyhow, I now accosted the twisting one.

"How's the beggars' trust, Tommy?" I asked chidingly.

The cripple whirled about like a dervish at my words, for I had approached him from the rear. His face was no longer contorted, it was frozen stiff. Then he recognized me and something like a snarl escaped him.

"One of them Smart Aleck reporters, eh?" His tones were menacing and his ugly mouth snapped like that of a turtle. "Well, yuh better keep yer trap shut about us beggars if you don't want yer"— he caught sight of the big traffic cop sauntering up— 'pennies, plee-ase!" he croaked and twisted off; not, however, until he had given me a murderous look from under the flopping brim of his hat.

It was an hour before I could get to Inspector Laughlin, who was in looking at the line-up of crooks that are paraded before the masked detectives at headquarters every day, and he was in no easy frame of mind.

"So you wanta ease in that Gyp Leary's dump, huh?" he growled. "I don't mind tellin' you the only dealings I'd have with him would be to bash him on the head.... As for those lousy bums, the less a clean young feller like yourself has to do—"

"But— Inspector— this is a story," I started to plead. "I—"

"Don't bother me with your bums!" he grumbled with finality. Then he turned to several other reporters who had edged into the office.

"So you wanta know about this new Park Place robbery?" he barked. "And pan the poleece for not makin' arrests?"

"Well, Inspector," ventured one of their number apologetically, "you know this is the fifteenth robbery in less than three months."

"And don't I know it's the fifteenth," the burly head of the detective bureau avowed heatedly. "If it was any of the regular house prowlers there'd never been a second robbery."

"Then you think this 'climber,' as you call him, is a new crook.

"He is!" asserted the inspector vigorously. He paused and his tones became ominous. "But, after I lay my hands on him, he'll be old— when he gets out!"

Well, I had nothing to do with the series of Park Place robberies, seemingly committed by some master crook, able to climb like a steeple-jack; my business was far removed from that diamond-studded lane, in the haunts of beggardom, and thither I was due to leg.

Out in Mulberry Street I took my bearings. The "Tub of Blood," I was aware, was but a few blocks away in Roosevelt Street, but this was no hour of the day for action there. I decided to patronize a groggery I knew of in nearby Park Place and see if I could pick up a little information.

It was some hours before I managed to ingratiate myself into the circle of assorted derelicts I found there, and that only after setting up round after round of so-called booze that sold at fifteen cents a shot. Indeed, if I had not managed to spill a good deal of it, I should have been fit to be tied long before I left the place. As it was, I managed to restrain my inward shudders and keep my head. After a time first one of my companions and then the other mellowed. And, piece by piece— from this one and that one— hearsay and dare say— I learned:

That begging was in the big dough.... The racket was so tight you couldn't chisel in unless you could square yourself.... The take for some was as much as seventy-eight bucks a day.... The theatre stem was the best and went to the king pins.... That out-of-town beggars trying to cut in were fanned with loaded canes or crutches into accident wards.... That they were a lot of punks before they were organized by this new dame.... Called her the "Queen Bee," the beggar stiffs, 'cause she packed a sting in either hand... . She devil, she was, and could outdrink and outfight any man in her push... Cokie, too, they say, though none of us ever seen her.... Give her credit, though, she sewed up the racket so no one could get a license without her say-so.... And those punks were ridin' around in gas buggies now, instead of patrol wagons.... Makin' real jack instead of little ones out of big ones.... Hah— hah! A fat chance a strange guy had to see that dame —more likely he'd get his eyes closed, and lucky at that. ... Yeah! Things were tough for a bo on the bend!

As I staggered out into the early dusk with these phrases running through my head like ticker tape, I was as near befuddled as I ever want to be. Grabbing a taxi, I was landed at Perry's drug store, where I asked the old doc to give me something for the poor old bean.

A half hour later I stood at some distance regarding the gloomy portals of the "Tub of Blood." I had almost given up puzzling over a way to break in when the inspiration came. I would go into that gathering place of beggars— and beg from the beggars!

My breath, I was aware, fitted me for my new rôle, but the rest of me was a little too hygienic. In jigtime I had the tie off and the collar and cuffs dirty enough to match my face, which I had rubbed with dust. A few more such touches and I was lurching across the street and through the doors of the flop-house.

At a long bar were lined up more than a score of men in as many stages of drink. Never had I seen men so strangely assorted and dressed in such odds and ends of human habiliments. They looked as if some great Moloch had gathered them up and then spewed them out. From a big back room, which was the place for the flops at night, as I learned later, came sounds of raucous laughter, the music of an accordion and a mouth organ, husky voices raised in ribald song, then applause, mostly from thumping canes and crutches.

"Say, brother," I breathed into the ear of the nearest one, "I'd commit murder for a square meal!"

The bleary-eyed and beef-faced man I had addressed looked at me unbelievingly and then raised his one hand as if to high heaven.

"S'help me!" he gasped. "Are yuh bracin' me for coin— in here?"

I nodded miserably.

"Lookahere, Spinner,' he called weakly, nudging the man nearest to him with an elbow. "Here's a bundle stiff lookin' for coin for chow! An'— an'— he comes here!... Ha-ha-ha! ... Ho-ho-ho!"

His making white streaks on his face. "We oughta let the queen see him... . He'd give her a laugh... . Im-ag-ine, Baby Face comin' here— of all places— to pan a guy!" His mirth overcame him once more. "Say, who did yuh think I was," he gasped presently, "Mister Astergilt?"

"You look all right to me," I quickly defended. He swallowed at that, looked at the Spinner, then back at me.

"You're tootin' dam' right, young feller.... You ain't so dumb, eh, Spinner?... Well, jus' fer that I'm goin' to set yer up to the' drinks and eats."

He waved his one arm to a bartender. 'Me fr'n' will have some redeye an' so will Spinner an' me."

From a pocket he pulled a great fist of coins. 'Only chicken feed, young feller— that's me small change pocket, eh, Spinner?"

That worthy now regarded me attentively.

"On the bend, son?" he asked, not unkindly. "Where didcha lam from?"

"Up state," I answered, choking over that red-eye.

"The queen must see him," interrupted my patron at that instant. "She's gotta have a laugh. Let's yuh an' me take him back, Spinner. Mebbe she's blew in."

Through the back room, crowded with a flotsam and jetsam of humanity, I walked between my two newfound friends. Then we passed through a narrow hallway into a room that appeared to be an extension to the building.

"This is the side show," hiccoughed the one-armed beggar, now plainly the worse for drink. "Mebbe it's not so good, bringin' yuh here, but yer so blessed innercent, eh, Spinner?"

I looked about the room as the one-armed beggar sought a chair to his liking. On the shelves of one wall and dangling from hooks were artificial legs, arms, iron braces of various shapes, and what appeared to be several straight jackets. Okes now directed my attention to a glass case at his right and explained about eye veils that gave one the appearance of blindness, artificial scars of silk tissue, as well as face twisters of rubber and whalebone to be clamped in the jaws.

He was just calling my attention to a child's size wagon, arranged to conceal one's legs, when doubled under, and arouse pity for a supposedly legless wight, when a hoarse whisper assailed our ears.

At the sound my two beggar friends jerked up and glanced toward a small door at one side.

There, framed in the shadow, was the tall, statuesque figure of a woman, dressed in black she was, and all that I could dimly see was a white, gaunt face, from which eyes of strange brilliancy looked out.

"You— Okes and Spinner— what does this mean? Who is that young man?"

Her voice was hardly more than a whisper, and yet it bespoke a woman of culture. That it bespoke more than that to the two beggars was evident from their demeanor.

"Ah, now, Queen," faltered Okes. "We was goin' to give yuh a prize laugh, we was ?

"And doubtless give away our little secrets at the same time!" came in that same near-whisper, in which each word was so clearly enunciated. There was no menace in her tones, no hint of a threat that I could discover, and yet Okes was atremble, his one hand shaking like an aspen. Spinner, too, was hardly a shade less fearful

Decidedly, the gossip I had heard that afternoon about this queen of the beggars was all too true.

"Ah, now lis'en," started the onearmed beggar, "I—"

"l listen," came the interruption. "Just step in here.... And, you, Spinner, keep company with your young friend!" That worthy looked at me with his white face as the small door closed behind the two, but his lips did not move. A clear look I had had of the face of the mysterious woman as she stood aside for the beggar to enter, and I did not wonder at his emotion.

For if ever a face betokened a lost soul, it was that of the queen of the beggars. Lifeless, bloodless, it was, and as still as death. As for those strangely brilliant eyes, they looked like orbs of colofed ice.

"God! She looks like a living corpse!" I said to myself.

A feeling of dread came over me at what this inhuman creature might do. If she was not insane, then certainly she was without feeling or a spark of mercy. She would send one to one's death without a trace of emotion, I was certain, and would go to her own death in the same manner.

I glanced covertly at Spinner and his twisted foot. Artificial or not, I was aware that he could not move rapidly.

A backward glance at the door through which we had entered, and I was on my feet and dashing through the narrow hallway. I heard the thump of Spinner's foot in the room behind me, but I dared not attempt a run through that crowded back-room.

So, breathless from the beating of my heart, I sauntered into the thick of the crowd and wended my way toward the bar-room. If I could reach that I had a good chance to bolt into the street.

Even as the thought came to me I heard the husky shout of Spinner. I was within a few feet of the outer room now, preparing to leap through the door, when a twisted figure appeared, to bar my path. I was looking into the murderous eyes of Tommy, the Twister.

"Here, fellers!" he shrieked. "Here's a damned reporter!"

As he uttered the last words I catapulted into him and he dropped like a bag.

As I stumbled over his form, I could feel a dozen blows rain on my back and shoulders. I rose to my feet and went down again, several figures sprawled over me, fists belaboring me.

From under this mass I looked up at the big sputtering arc-light that illuminated the bar-room. Suddenly there was a crash and the light went out. A minute later the weight of the bodies on me was lightened; then another figure rolled off, and another. As I gasped for air a groping hand grasped my arm, pulled me up, propelled me towards the street door.

"Out you go!" a voice hissed in my ear. "I'm an under cover-man—government narcotic agent— beat it like hell or crawl in a dark hallway!"

I felt myself being pushed into the street, staggered a few doors away and towards the curb. Now I was holding onto to something to keep on my feet. I looked up and my dazed eyes took in a baker's wagon.

I pulled myself up on the wheel to which I had been clinging and sprawled across the seat. I heard voices and the wild thump of canes and crutches as I eased backward and slumped over into the wagon.

It was midnight before I was able to 'phone the office.

"Where in the heck have you been?" demanded the night city editor. "Don't you ever report in?"

"I'm reporting now that I'm going to get another job," I told him icily.

"Another job?" He stammered. "Where— what—"

"In a side-show," I said. "I've got pretty black-and-blue ornaments from my head to my feet. So long, old timer, see you at the circus!"

"IT'S THIS WAY, Jim," said the city editor pursuasively, as he stood at the foot of my bed the next afternoon. "I know you're feeling rotten, but you're the only one who can carry on this beggar yarn. And now that I've got it all fixed for that bird on Blackwell's Island to turn stool pigeon.

"What?" I exclaimed, attempting to leap out of bed, and sinking back with a groan.

"Yes. We promised to have him turned out if he gave us the real dope he's been hinting about. So I have a pass for you Hd

"Give it to me, Chief!" I jabbered. "And call a taxi."

Everything was fixed when I arrived at the city prison on Blackwell's Island. The sight of my police card, identifying me as a reporter, brought a deputy warden.

A few minutes later I was left alone with the whining beggar who had agreed to turn informer in exchange for his liberty. Even though he was willing, it was a hard job to get all the facts from him, for he was abjectly afraid and showed it by his cowering demeanor.

I finally "yessed" him in his request for a police guard to escort him to a train west. After that, with many a hem and halt, he rattled on for more than an hour. Back on the main shore once more I called the city desk.

"Say, boss," I said, "this beggar racket is bigger than you thought. In fact its inner circle is a criminal organization of beggars, among them several jewel experts, that covers theaters and cabarets on the watch-out for over-jeweled dames.... That last Park Avenue robbery of Mrs. Gushow, the big power man's wife, was their work. One beggar spots her at a theater, another when she arrives at a cabaret looking like a Christmas tree, so a few hours later there's two hundred thousand dollars in jewels missing from their mamma.... Yes!... The procedure is to get the license number of their limousine and flash it to some central point.... With that the queen gets the address and sends the "Climber" on the job.... No.... The lookout beggars only get steer money—that is a percentage for spotting the victim—but that's a-plenty, to hear our stool talk. No, not one of 'em has ever seen the Climber.... But he's supposed to be some sort of acrobat or ex-circus performer, able to climb anything with the aid of a rope.... It's said he can throw a lasso with the best of 'em; pull himself up on a fire-escape like a monkey."

THEN I listened to the city editor as he rapidly outlined a plan. We were to turn over our information to Inspector Laughlin and ask him to let us work with him.

"We won't take any of the credit," he ended, "so the old boy will be tickled pink to give us the inside on the stories. Cleaning up those fifteen jewel robberies will probably add as many years to his life."

Inside of twenty-four hours the far-flung police net was working with the precision for which it was noted. Bear he might be in appearance and manner, but the burly inspector was a fox in action. Every beggar stationed in front of theater or cabaret was now under shadow of a headquarters detective, and that detective in turn was covered by another posing as a taxi driver. In the telephone exchange at police headquarters other detectives were at the ends of special wires leading to the several telephone exchanges of the White Light district. Still another squad of headquarters men waited in a fast ear, equipped with wire-tapping apparatus, to answer a hurry call.

Thus the trap was set for the so-called queen of the beggars and her satellites. If a beggar should leave his post in front of theaters or cabaret to 'phone or dispatch some messenger to do the same, there would be a dick to overhear the call; if he meant to send some one with his information there was the supposed taxi driver to give pursuit. And once the secret 'phone number of the organization was learned there was the wire-tapping squad to rush on the job.

A perfect plan, as I complimented the inspector, except for the human element. Only an inadvertent move on the part of someone could upset it.

"I've got fifty-odd picked men on the job," the inspector informed me as I waited at headquarters, "and I'd use the whole damned force if it was necessary."

He frowned mightily and chewed at his cigar. "If there's a word of truth in what that stool told you we'll be havin' some word in a night or so."

"He's got nothing to gain by lying, inspector," I said, "and everything to lose."

"He'll lose every tooth in his head," assured the head of the detectives, "if he's settin' us on our ears for nothing.... No; you're right.... He'd be bughouse to give us any wrong chatter."

The inspector's prediction was right, for it was the very next night that the tense voice of a detective called off certain numbers in Inspector Laughlin's itching ear.

That was about midnight, and some ten minutes later another detective at a different post was repeating the same telephone number. With that the myriad wheels of the city's intricate police system was in motion.

An hour later the inspector found me nervously pacing his private office.

"There's nothing on for tonight, as near as we can make out," he told me. "Simply some of 'em reporting in. But we have the address of that telephone— on East Fifty-fifth Street." He looked at me keenly. "You'd know that woman if you saw her," he continued. "How would you like to keep your peepers on the place?"

"Fine and dandy!" I vociferated. "Just let me—"

"Not so fast, me bucko," he interrupted. "You're not goin' to a picnic, you know.... Crooks that lift a million dollars of jewels in a few months aren't going to treat you pretty if they spot you on the job.... So, maybe, I'd better send one of my men with you."

"Not with me, Inspector," I protested. "Let him cover me. That won't be so conspicuous."

Some ten minutes later I was in a taxi speeding in the direction of East Fifty-fifth Street. Behind me, I knew, was a department car carrying the young detective who was to be my protecting shadow.

Dismissing the taxi a block away from my destination I sauntered eastward until I came to the street number the inspector had given me. An old residence once, it had been altered into small apartments. I glanced up at the third floor windows and saw that they were dark. Then I ambled to the corner and idly lounged in a doorway.

Looking around I could see my shadow nowhere. Probably he had already found a hide-out and made himself invisible. I decided I would discover one for myself that would give me an unobstructed view of the house in which the queen of the beggars received the reports of her beggar spies. Not so easy as I thought.

But I finally found a point of vantage on a fire escape fronting an empty apartment. It was on the second floor and gave me a good view of the windows on the third floor opposite. I congratulated myself— until it started to rain about two o'clock.

At three, soaked to the skin, I figured that the time had passed for jewel robbers and sneezing reporters. However, sharp on the stroke of twelve the next night, I resumed my vigil on the fire escape. The weather bureau had said "Fair and warmer," but it was already misting up and there was a snap to the air. I pulled up my coat collar and squatted down on the fire escape tailor-fashion.

"There may be something doing anytime now," the inspector had informed me before I left headquarters. "So, for Pete's sake, don't go off the job for a split second. That dame is the brains, no mistake, and if we don't land her we'll be flat tires."

HOWEVER, after I'd kept to my cramped position for an hour, with another drizzle starting in, I was not so optimistic as Inspector Laughlin. In fact, I was looking disconsolately at the third floor opposite, my thoughts occupied with coffee and wheat cakes, when the click of a door from across the street brought me up with a jerk. The windows above were still dark, my hopes small, but, nevertheless, I leaned forward to peer through the mist. A tall figure was emerging from the vestibule of the house opposite— the tall figure of a woman!

I was on my feet instantly, every nerve alert. For, if I was not mistaken, the woman now striding along the sidewalk was no other than that dread creature of the death-mask— the Queen of the Beggars!

So sudden was the apparition that I almost stumbled from the fire escape in my eagerness to descend. I reached the corner of Lexington Avenue after a spurt that left me breathless. Barely a block away, keeping close to the shadows of the building lines, was the tall figure in black. I hurried so as to shorten the distance between us, then settled down to keep pace with the long stride of the one I stalked.

I was just congratulating myself on my fine strategy when my quarry disappeared. I had been lighting a cigarette one instant, and the next the street ahead of me was empty of all life. The queen of the beggars had disappeared as if by magic.

I bolted across the street and into the next block feeling like the sap I was. So cocksure had I been, that the bird had slipped from under my very nose. As the minutes passed and I continued to wait, a thought— or a hunch, if you will— gradually intruded itself on my consciousness.

However, it was some time before the full realization of its import came to me. For backing up that block of houses across the way was a row of Park Avenue apartments. Eureka!... Park Avenue apartments were the specialty of the so-called queen of the beggars and her organization!... And by entering one of the houses opposite she would have access to the rear of the other apartments, there to assist the Climber in another jewel robbery.

For a moment I was on the point of dashing across the way, then I bethought myself of the young detective from headquarters and the help he might render. So I pussyfooted back to Fifty-fifth Street, keeping a sharp look-out, but there was no sign of him. An hour had elapsed since I had lost sight of my quarry, and I felt it would be foolish to waste any more time in search of him.

I was turning in my tracks, to follow my original idea, when I was electrified by her reappearance in the lonely street. Out of a house, well toward the corner, she had glided like some wraith, and was now coming toward me in long strides. I darted into a hallway and held my breath. As the mysterious woman in black, her footfalls without sound, swept by my hiding place, there came the tinkling of metal on the sidewalk and I saw something bright.

Some minutes later I had it in my eager grasp. It was a pinkey ring, of platinum, set with a star sapphire. My actions might be called foolhardy after that, but the detective sent to cover me could not be found, and I was like a hound on a leash at the prospects of such a big story. Probably it was the messenger boy coming along the street that gave me the idea, for he had no sooner come up with me than I was grabbing his cap and book, and thrusting a bill into his hand.

"Here," I said. "Let me have these!... Now try and find the nearest copper and tell him to come back here.... Third floor!"

With that I bolted up two flights of stairs and knocked at a door. There was a pause before a voice came.

"Who is that?" it demanded in a husky whisper.

Though I shivered as I recognized that voice I had heard in the rear room of the "Tub of Blood",  I held to my purpose.

"Telegram," I announced a little faintly. A lock was shoved back and' the door opened. Cap in hand I entered and blinked in the sudden light.

"Well—well, where's the telegram?" came in that same terrible whisper.

"You damned young fool!" was growled in my ears as I felt two powerful hands grasp my throat and shut off my wind. "I'll teach you to meddle in my affairs!"

Even as I sank into unconsciousness I realized who my assailant was; a fleeting sight of a large framed photo on a mantle had given me the clue! It was Homer Eldridge, the once famous female impersonator, who had lost his voice through illness just as he was about to crash into the movies!... Eldridge, who had become an athlete of parts in answer to the jibes of his male critics, as well as big game hunter, mountain climber, explorer!

A tremendous crashing sound brought me back to consciousness. I raised my head to see several coppers, followed by men from headquarters, surge into the room. "A tough job— took all of ten minutes to crash that," muttered the foremost one in uniform, as he lowered an axe. "And what have we here?"

"You have Inspector Laughlin— here!" bellowed a voice from the rear, as that burly one shouldered his way in. "So out with all of you!"

His shrewd eyes swept from me to the slumped figure in a chair, then around the room.

"Where's the jewels?" he demanded of the slumped figure.

"Trunk!" came the labored answer. "Iron box."

"So, you're Homer Eldridge, huh?" growled the head of detectives after a quick glance at that photo. "Never liked the jib of you. How come you're in this racket?"

"Cancer of throat.... Thousands for operations. ... All through!... And dope costs fortune." There came a faint gurgle from the suffering man's throat. "So what was a bullet.... Or, well, a prison, though I'd never live to see that through!"

That gurgle sounded louder now, and the head dropped forward like a dead weight. A hypodermic syringe clattered to the floor from nerveless fingers. The once great female impersonator had taken his last curtain.

_______________

9: The Luck of Barney Costello

C. J. Hamilton

1841–1935

World's News (Sydney) 27 Sep 1919

Catherine Jane Hamilton was an author and journalist, born to a Somerset family with Irish roots, who also wrote under the pen name, Retlaw Spring.

NEVER was anyone so unlucky as Barney Costello. If he tried to light a fire, it invariably went out; if he played a game of cards, and everything depended on his getting double sixes, he was sure to turn up nothing but deuce-ace: if he went out to shoot, he missed everything, from a pigeon to a plump partridge. In fact, ill-luck dogged his path whatever he did or said. By profession he was a farmer and cattle-dealer near the town of Athlone, but, if he took a horse to the fair of Ballinasloe, some accident was certain to befall it; either it went dead lame, or it dropped a shoe, or was badly kicked, and always with the same disastrous result, that Barney returned disconsolate without having had a single advantageous bid. Sometimes, like Moses Primrose in The Vicar of Wakefield, he fell a prey to a clever sharper, who, at the last, made some bargain with him that was even worse than exchanging a serviceable mare for a gross of green spectacles.

Barney, too, was invariably unlucky in love. Being rather susceptible, he was generally in love with some girl who would never look favorably on him. If he went to a dance or a wake he was sure to be left standing wedged up against a wall, without a partner, or handed over to some faded spinster or portly widow who was glad to have a word with any man at all. And yet Barney was not an ill-looking fellow. He was tall and broad, with rather a slouching gait; his eyes were small, but bright as diamonds; and he had a splendid set of white teeth which lit up his face when he smiled. So it did seem rather cruel of Fortune that he should be condemned to this continual and unvarying run of bad luck. The last straw was when he fell hopelessly in love with pretty Eileen Rafferty, who, after two years at a convent school, returned to her father's farm to set all the young men around wild about her.

Barney had often had games of hop-scotch with her when she was a small child, but when she appeared grown-up at a dance in her father's barn, with her tawny-red hair waved about her winsome face, and her very short pink frock displaying to the full her shapely ankles, he gave in on the spot, and knew that he was indeed, for the first time, genuinely and desperately in love. But, as usual with poor Barney, his advances met with no encouragement. When he said timidly, "Why, Eileen, is that yerself?" she only tossed her head saucily and said. "Who else would it be, you great omadhawn!"

Barney did not like being called an "omadhawn," which means "a stupid, awkward lout," and so he collapsed to his customary position behind the door, and had to content himself watching Eileen dancing a jig with the best dancer in the barony, Tim Halloran. How they sprang lightly in the air, twisting and turning, clasping each other's hands, and executing all sorts of difficult steps, while he stood neglected and forlorn! The next time Eileen's short pink skirts whisked past him, he muttered in despair, "Wirra, wirra, why's luck always agin me?"

'Arrah, Barney, what ails ye?" said a lean little spinster, commonly called "Katty the Squint," sidling up to him; "ye look mighty down in the mouth. And why arn't ye dancin"? It's could work lookin' on. So it is!"

"I'm not much hand at it, Katty, to tell the honest thruth. It's little chaps like Tim that can take the flure. He wouldn't turn the scales at eight stone, and I'm over twelve. He has the luck of the worrld, and I haven't! God help me!" And Barney gave a sigh that came firm the bottom of his big heart.

"Yis," remarked Katty, smartly. "I hard Peggy the Pishogue say...."

"What did ye hear th' ould divil say?" cried Barney, eagerly. "The wise woman that lives acrass the bog, ye mane?''

Katty nodded her head. "She's mighty knowledgeable. Every word she sez comes as thrue as Gospel. She said Mick Brennan's cow 'ud die, and it did. She said Mary Scanlon 'ud git married to long Ned Nolan, and she did!"

"But what was it she said ov me, Katty?" cried Barney, devoured by curiosity.

"Wait a bit, will ye? I'm comin' to that. She's great at cup-tossing," continued Katty, eager to enumerate the wonders of her oracle. "With yer tay-cup in her hand, she'll tell very thing that's goin' to happen: whether ye'll git marrid, how many childre ye'll be havin', and the like ov that. Och, there's nothin' to bate her— nothin'!"

"What did she say of me, Katty, allana?" asked Barney, coaxingly. "Did she say the luck 'ud iver turn?"

"Haven't ye a mole under yer left ear?" asked Katty, mysteriously.

"I have, yis, to be sure I have!"

"Well, Peggy the Pishogue sez that anyone that has that is borned to be hanged! Ye'll end yer days on the gallows as sure as fate."

"Glory be to goodness!" exclaimed Barney; "sure, this bates Banagher. This 'ud be the finish, and no mistake. Hasn't Peggy the Pishogue come to live acrass the bog?"

"She has," answered Katty, "in a weeny little cabin with a stack ov turf at the side. Ye can't miss it, there isn't another for miles and miles."

"I'll go and see her to-morra'," cried Barney; "nothin'Il keep me."

"Well, do, and maybe she can tell ye some thin' to take the charm away. They say she has great dealin's wid fairies, and, more be token, it's from them she larns all she knows. My blessing goes with ye, Barney. I know well it's a good heart ye have, though the luck does be agin ye terrible."

Barney waited to hear no more. Leaving the lighted barn and the gay music of the fiddlers as they played "What a Beau Your Granny Is." and "The Cruiskeen Lawn," he plodded home, sadly and forlornly, bewailing his bad luck. Not a stray smile had he been able to win from Eileen, who, radiant with triumph, danced away with her numerous admirers, utterly regardless of him.

All next day it rained steadily and unceasing ly, as only in Ireland it can rain. Towards evening it cleared, and Barney, taking his big ash-stick in his hand, set off across the bog for the residence of Peggy the Pishogue. His Irish terrier, Finn MacCoole, followed closely at his heels. It was five o'clock when they started, and a tiny crescent moon peeped softly out of the grey clouds like a child angel. Barney knew his way, and he strode briskly along until he came in sight of the cabin owned by Peggy the Pishogue. She herself was sitting crooning over the turf fire, a little wizened woman who might be any age; some gave her a hundred, others much less. She was smoking a blackened pipe, with a black cat beside her.

At the sight of Barney's dog the cat gave a bound, flew up the chimney, and out on the roof, where she remained, her green eyes gleaming like a glow-worm's in the darkness.

"I hope I find you well, ma'am," observed Barney, politely, for he knew that every wise woman likes to be treated with extreme consideration.

"I'm not meself," answered the seer. "How can I be, with whisky the price it is? Sure, I niver git a taste ov it at all, at all."

Barney's hand went into his pocket, and he took out half a crown. "Maybe this'll git ye just a taste to go on with," he said, slipping it into her dirty palm.

"I'm behoulden t'ye, Barney Costello," she answered; "and now what is it ye want with me? Is it coortin' ye're afther, or horse dealin', or what?"

"I was tould ye're great at 'spells and charms," continued Barney, "and I want ye to take the bad lack off me. Sure I can't help it, I was born with it; born with a mole behind me left ear."

"Ah!" remarked Peggy, with a sagacious nod of her head, "that's bad! Ye're  born to be hanged."

"And is there no cure at all?" demanded Barney, eagerly, "no cure at all?"

"Well, there is!" said Peggy, mysteriously "If a girl, a vargin, fair and fresh as the mornin', kisses you of her own accord, without axin', the bad luck'll go like a shot!"

"That'll niver happen to me," cried Barney; "ne'er a wan ov thim'll even take a look at me, and as for kissin'...

He stopped, he could not find a word strong enough for the impossibility of such a thing.

"Who knows?" said the hag, chuckling. "But mind, if it comes to pass, ye'll have to give me a pound note!"

"One! Sure it's two or three itself I'd give ye!"

"Take three drops of this bottle," she said, pulling out a small phial from her pocket, "and whistle three times when ye're crassin' the bog, and see what comes."

Barney did as he was told. To make security sure, he swallowed three drops from the phial Peggy had given him before he left her cabin. They tasted remarkably like plain water, with a dash of peppermint in it, but Barney was not the man to question any remedy or-dered by a wise woman of Peggy the Pishogue's reputation. When he was out on the bog, he pave the three whistles she had prescribed, and then strode bravely along, with Finn following closely at his heels. The moon had now risen higher in the dark sky, and shed a silvery gleam over the bog, with stacks of turf piled here and there on it, showing black against the half-light of the October evening. Barney walked warily, prodding now and then with his thick ash-stick, for he knew well that it was dangerous to leave the narrow beaten path. There were bog-holes about, deep and dangerous to anyone who fell into them.

Suddenly he heard the sound of bagpipes, playing on in front of him, very softly and delicately. And yet he could see no one. Straining his eyes, he thought he saw a very little man, in a red cap, bobbing up and down a long way off. Then the tiny figure disap-peared, but the playing went on, louder and more distinctly than before. And, strange to say, the tunes were the very same Barney had heard the night before when Eileen was dancing. He looked round. There was something spectral and uncanny about the wide expanse of flat bog, without a house, or a tree, or a hill, to break the monotony. Was it haunted by the good people? Barney went on more warily than ever, for he knew he was approaching the most dangerous place, where many had lost their lives. The mysterious, music had gradually ceased. There was a profound silence everywhere.... Suddenly his ears were assailed by a loud, sharp cry. He looked round; he could see nothing, nothing but a basket of eggs overturned. The next minute the cries began again: Finn pricked up his ears, and began to sniff about. The cries continued louder than before.

JUST AS Barney was leaving the cabin of Peggy the Pishogue, Eileen Rafferty was standing at the open door of her father's farm, which looked out on the hog. She thought she heard the distant sound of bagpipes.

"Arrah, Eileen," cried her mother, "can't ye come in out ov the could? Sure, ye're been rampagin' about all this blessed day like a hen on a hot griddle. What ails ye, girl alive?"

"Nothin' ails me," replied Eileen sharply. "Is it thinkin' ov Tim Halloran ye are?"

"Faith, it's not. I wouldn't be bothered with a little Jackeen like him. He's well enough to dance a jig with, but... Lord save us! Isn't that the pipes I hear playin' away like mad? There they are agin!"

"It's fairy music," cried Mrs. Rafferty, crossing herself. "If ye want to hear them nearer, put your shawl over yer head, and run across to the Widdy Doolin with half a dozen eggs; she axed me for a few, and I've got her as many as I could gather. Be quick, the moon'll be goin' in!"

Eileen obeyed. She wanted to do something, anything, to get rid of this strange unrest which had taken possession of her.

"How is it," she thought, as she set out, "that I can't git Barney Costello out ov me head to-day? It's terrible onlucky they all say he is; born to be hanged, no less; and yet… and yet..."

The moon had gone in now, and the heavens were dark and lowering. Eileen, careless of where she went, had strayed from the path, and now, suddenly, without warning, down she fell right into a deep boghole! The cold water was up to her waist; she stretched her arms, but she could not raise herself. Every minute ehe seemed to be sinking deeper and deeper. There was nothing solid under her feet. Black ness, despair all around. Her cries for help were unheard. The bog at this time of the evening was deserted. A terrible death was in sight...

Something warm touched her wet cheek. It was a dog licking her face. Out of the darkness came a man's voice calling to her. Clutching hold of Finn's rough coat, she raised herself an inch or two, and now, in distinctly, she saw Barney Costello bending over her; she felt herself gripped in the power-ful grasp of his strong arms. Another pull, another— and another— and now Eileen stood upright beside him, freed from the yawning blackness of the bottomless boghole!

"Glory be to goodness, Eileen, but I've saved ye!" cried Barney.

"Ye have! Ye have!" she exclaimed, clinging closer to him. She was saturated through and through, her skirt was dripping, and streams of black bog-water were running down her cheeks like rain.

"I'll niver call ye an omadhawn agin," she sobbed. "Sure ye're the best in the whole worrld. There's no one that's a patch on ye. What can I iver do for ye? Tell me, quick!"

There was a shining light in her eyes that made Barney's heart beat quicker. He could have told her in one word what she could do for him, but, just as it was on the tip of his tongue, he remembered the strict injunction of the wise woman, "a girl, fair and fresh as a May morning, must kiss you of her own accord, athout axin'." So he refrained.

"Ye can do somethin'!" he whispered, and his eyes, though small, shone like stars, and his voice was as soft as the evening breeze when it touches the tufts of bog-cotton. "Can't ye give a guess what it is?"

"I b'lieve I can," she answered, shyly. The next minute her arms were round his neck, and she was kissing him, not once, but twice, and many times!

"There! Is that what ye're manin'?'' she asked, shyly.

"It is, it is! Glory be to goodness, it is! Do you know what ye're afther doin'?"

"Swilling ye all over with dirty, black bog water?"

"No, by the powers! But ye're afther takin' the spell ov bad luck off me. I felt it slippin' away like a lump ov lead."

"Arrah, Barney, what d'ye mane at all?''

Then he told her everything; of his secret love for her; of his despair at her cruelty; and of his visit to Peggy the Pishogue. When he finished he said, "Sure, I niver thought it 'ud come to pass. But it has, it has! Ye've made me a happy man this night, Eileen, aculshla. I'm not envying Tim Halloran or e'er a one on the livin' airth."

"Ye'd no call to envy him,'' said Eileen; "It was yerself I liked all the time. I couldn't get ye out ov me head this blessed day. That was why I wint out, and I heard the music, too," she added, softly.

"Well, thin, there's nothin' for it but to ask yer father afore the day's oulder. Catch a good hoult ov me, Eileen, acushla; sure, there won't be any more fallin' into bogholes as long as I'm to the fore. Is that yer basket beyant on the turf?"

"It is, it is," cried Eileen. "Sure, I was just going acrass to carry thim few eggs to a lonesome widdy, whin I missed the path, and down I fell. Sure, it's there I'd be now only for you and Finn. "Won't I give him the good male ov mate whin we get home? Yis, and, more betoken, the drumstick ov a turkey all to himself."

Finn gave an appreciate wag of his tail as though he thoroughly understood this wel-come announcement, and the happy trio plodded their way joyfully to Rafferty's farm on the edge of the bog.

"Arrah, Eileen, what ails ye?" cried Mrs. Rafferty, as she surveyed her daughter's drip-ping garments. "Is it in the Shannon ye've been?"

"No, but in a black boghole. And it's well I'm not in it now. It's thanks to Barney that pulled me out, Let me upstairs to clane the bog-wather off me. Sure, I know I'm a holy show!"

Eileen pushed past her mother, and Barney made his way into the kitchen, and dried his wet clothes by the roaring turf fire, while Finn eagerly devoured the plate of meat set before him by order of his future mistress. It was all settled that night. Barney was accepted as a suitor for the Pride of the Barony, and the day was fixed for Christmas week. From that fateful evening all Barney's bad luck fell away like water from a duck's back. And, instead of bad luck, a rapidly advancing tide of the best luck in the world set in. He got fancy prices for his cattle; there was an enormous competition for his horses; and all his cows had heifer calves of the best breed. When Eileen took her place as queen of his hearth and home, this welcome tide of good luck increased by leaps and bounds. Comely children, mostly boys, grew up around them, so that it became a popular saying, "May you have the good luck of Barney Costello!"

________________

10: The Two Uncles

Charles Garvice

1850-1920

World's News (Sydney) 4 Oct 1919

Immensely popular and prolific British author who mostly wrote serials, which were subsequently printed as novels. More than 150 flowed from his pen, mostly romantic melodramas.

WHEN the surgeon had induced Jack Enderby's bones to join together and literally had set him on his legs again, he, the surgeon, said, "Better go to some quiet place in the country and slack a bit; what about a farm?"

So First-Lieutenant John Enderby, late of the R.F.A., found himself at Withypool farm— which is in Devonshire— and also in clover; for Mrs. Tovey, being a childless woman, mothered Jack so satisfactorily that before a fortnight had passed he was able to saunter about the farm with a scarcely perceptible limp, and with his arm as often out of the sling as in it. The only thing that marred his perfect contentment was the regret that he was still unable to help Mr. Tovey, who, of course, was short-handed.

One afternoon Jack was sitting on a gate and wondering what would happen if he ven-tured to join the old men and a boy who were cutting the grass in the corners of the six-acre, when he saw an eye-arresting figure which was swinging across the field towards the mowing machine. It was the first land girl he had seen, and he stared and drew a long breath; for never, off the musical-comedy stage, had he ever beheld a more graceful, fetching, and heart-stirring sight. She was young, lissom, and straight as an arrow; and though the well-fitting breeches, gaiters, and tunic gave freedom of movement to every limb, there was not a hint of fastness, much less of immodesty; and she was evidently unconscious of her beauty and her charm. In short, she was a farm laborer poetised.

She mounted the machine, and drove it with perfect ease and skill, and was so absorbed that Jack thought that she had passed him without seeing him; he was wrong, of course, for she had not only noticed him, without appearing to do so, but could have told you the color of his eyes and hair, and given a fairly accurate description of his tweed suit and necktie. This capacity is one of woman's most precious gifts. On the third round, and just as she was abreast of him, something happened to the harness of the near horse, the mower came to a standstill, and the boy, who happened to be near, began to fumble with the slipped chain. The girl grew impatient, and, in a voice which, though it was soft and musical, was imperative, slanged the lad in the purest Devonshire.

Jack got off the stile and limped up to the girl, and as he raised his hat and looked up at the goddess of the chariot he caught his breath again. It was just possible that he had seen a more beautiful girl, but he could not remember having done so. She was not only beautiful, but the very presentment of perfect health: her complexion was that of a sun burnt tea-rose, her dark grey eyes shone like stars, her lips were even redder than the cherry, and her dark hair, soft as silk, curled bewitchingly under her jaunty hat and about her small and shapely ears. He was so struck that he could not form the conventional greeting, but in silence linked up the chain, and then, raising his hat, stood aside. The goddess inclined her head graciously, said "Thanks," laconically, and drove on.

When Jack went into the kitchen for his tea. she was already at the table.

"This be my niece Kitty," said Mrs Tovey, beaming on them both. "Her's come to help her uncle, like a good lass. This is Lootenant Enderby, Kitty. Been wounded in this plaguey war. Wounded bad."

"Oh, I'm all right now, thanks to you, Mrs Tovey," Jack hastened to put in. I hope you hadn't any more trouble with the cutter,

Miss—?"

"Brandon," said Kitty, filling in the pause. "Oh, no thanks. You're accustomed to horses?"

"Gunner," responded Jack. "You also are, I see." She nodded over the huge slice of bread and butter with which a charming but eminently useful set of teeth was busy.

"I've been here two mouths. Oh, you haven't seen me before because I've been on a week's holiday. Came back in time for the hay harvest."

"I envy you," said Jack, with a sigh; "it's pretty rough luck to be limping about and not be able to lend a hand when there is so much to do."

"Oh, you'll be all right soon, I hope," she said. "What was it?"

"He broke his leg, two ribs, and his arm on the field of battle," Mrs Tovey promptly answered for him. "He was just a bag of broken bones."

Jack laughed, the girl laughed, the ice was broken, and they chatted freely, Mrs Tovey punctuating the talk, so to speak, by piling relays of clotted cream— Jack was an invalid and therefore privileged— on his plate.

"I've a grave suspicion that your aunt in tends fattening me for Michaelmas," he protested.

"Yes, we shall die together," said Kitty. "Aunt, if you ask me to have another slice, I'll— I'll kiss you! Well, I must be off."

When she had caught up her soft hat and swung out, Jack ventured to remark that Miss Brandon appeared to be very strong.

"Aye, her be!" responded Mrs Tovey proudly, "Her come of a good stock, bless her! Us Brandons be the longest-lived family in these parts. Farming stock, all of us, from time immortal; and Kitty takes to it nat'ral, as you may say. There ain't a better judge of a foal or a steer in all Devon. Hers got it in her bones, and her uncle's main proud of her, I can tell 'ee."

With reason, thought Jack. He thought other things also; one being that it was strange that, notwithstanding her belongings and sur roundings, she should be a gentlewoman, if ever there was one; a lady in manner and speech and movement. At supper he studied her closely. Now, when a man begins to study a woman he is either beginning to hate or to love her; he cannot regard her with indifference.

The next morning he continued his study in the open air, and his longing to bear a hand overcoming his prudence, and setting at naught his doctor's injunction to "do nothing and keep on doing it," he took up a rake and set to work, as well as one sound arm and a crocky one would permit him, to rake in the hay. Miss Kitty came upon him in the act.

"What are you doing?" she demanded severely.

"I'm supposed to be working," he replied, with a meekness strange in Jack Enderby.

"Put that rake down immediately," she said, still more severely. "Put it down," she repeated as he hesitated. "I'm foreman here, Mr. Enderby, and I like to be obeyed."

"Most women do, I've noticed," said Jack ruefully as he laid down the rake.

"Oh, don't look like a martyr," she said, with a laugh. "If you really want to potter about— I mean, be useful— you may fetch the men's beer; you can carry it with one hand, I suppose?"

"With my teeth," said Jack cheerfully, and he went off for the jar. She found several other uninjurious little jobs for him, and Jack's gratitude and satisfaction were touching, especially when any of the jobs necessitated his being near to her. In short, he spent a singularly happy day.

''Where does Mr Enderby come from and who is he?" Kitty asked her aunt that evening.

"Us dunno rightly," replied Mrs. Tovey, rubbing her nose reflectingly. "But us was given to understand as he was a kind of clerk in Lunnon before he went to the wars."

Kitty nodded. "I see. Wonderful the way the London clerks fought. Some of them heat the Prussian Guard. Wonderful! But

Mr. Enderby doesn't look like— well, a City man; he's different, somebow. I should have thought he had led an open-air life; he's broad-chested, and has been very strong— but, there! One's conventional Idea of a clerk is all wrong—must be."

"He's a gentleman, whatever he's been," remarked Mrs. Tovey decisively, and Kitty nodded absently, but with full concurrence.

In a few days Jack's strength increased so obviously that Miss Kitty permitted him to take a larger share in the general labor, and with a disastrous result— Jack hurt his injured arm. He camouflaged, but in vain. Miss Kitty, who was near him, saw the irrepres-sible wince, the sudden pallor. Her own sun-burnt face went rather pale as she said:—

"Put that fork down and come straight to the farm."

"But—" began Jack pleadingly. Miss Kitty stamped her small but thickly-shod foot.

"Come at once!" she said imperiously, though in a low voice; and Jack meekly trudged beside her. "Take off your coat— here! Let me help you," she said, when they had reached the kitchen. She got the coat from him, turned up the shirt-sleeve, and, fetching some hot water and a sponge— her own sponge— found the bruise, superimposed, as the surgeons say, on the old trouble, and proceeded to bathe it. She performed the task with a softness and tenderness of touch which surprised Jack, who knew how strong the shapely hand was. Her head was bent so temptingly near his lips that he lowered his head and had nearly kissed the soft, dark hair, when she looked up suddenly an said:—

"There! I think I've done that pretty well for a novice, but I really think you ought to have a nurse with you."

"I disagree with you," he said with emphasis, but almost inaudibly.

'"What did you say?" she asked.

"Nothing; that is, I was only trying to thank you. Now, I suppose you'll insist on my doing nothing for the future, just loafing about, which I hate."

"Exactly," she retorted, "unless you send for a nurse. I haven't the time for this sort of thing."

"I'm sorry," he said, "because —I've learnt a bit about wounds and bruises— I'm convinced that this arm of mine will require a great deal of attention. This sort of injury is often more serious than it appears. Yes, I am afraid I shall want constant attention."

"Then you will have to get it from Aunt Tovey," said Kitty promptly. "Here, I'll help you on with your coat." She held it up for him; but, instead of donning it, he put his sound arm around her and gazed into her eyes, with a desperate audacity, with the imploration of a man whom love has utterly overcome.

"What—what are you doing?" she demanded, with fiery indignation in her voice— and a melting tenderness in her eyes.

"I'm— I'm going to kiss you, if you'll let me," he said, a trifle hoarsely. "I want to kiss you, because I love you. Oh, Kitty, you know I do! Badly, very badly!"

She lifted the coat so that it veiled her lips, but over it those glorious eyes of hers shone with now so bewitching a tenderness that it made Jack's brain swim.

"Oh, Kitty, do you— do you really care for me?" he said brokenly, as if he were face to face with the most wonderful fact in the world.

"I— I really think I do," she said, with a smile that had tears behind it.

He pressed her to him; she lowered the coat, and their lips met. There was a little orchard at the back of the house, an orchard meant for just such lovers as they were, and Kitty, shamelessly neglecting her work, sat beside him on a bench made for one, and listened as he spoke the words which are old as the hills and yet will ever be new.

"But, dearest, you ought to know that you are making an awfully bad match," he said, after one of the pauses during which the lips are so employed as to render speech impossible. "I have to earn my living. I'm only a clerk, and deucedly paid at that."

"A clerk may marry a farmer's niece," she said demurely.

"We shall be very poor," he insisted.

"If we keep out of the workhouse— they'd separate us, wouldn't they?— I don't mind how poor we are, so that we share our poverty," she said, with so divine a smile that he found no further words.

"I must get back to work. Good gracious! Why, do you know how long we have been here?"

"I should say about thirty seconds," he replied promptly. "Must you go? Shall I tell Mrs. Tovey, darling?"

"No! Oh, no!" she answered quickly, and with a sudden blush. "Let us have our secret to ourselves for a little while. I must write a letter—"

"So must I," he said, with a sudden frown. "One more, dearest—"

"You said 'one'," she checked him. "Let me go—"

That night at supper, if Mrs. Tovey had not been so absorbed in her ministrations to the hungry crew, she must have noticed the embarrassed pauses which occurred in the usual fluent converse of the two young people, and possibly intercepted the tender glances which passed between them; indeed, their eyes could not meet without conveying their owners' mutual rapture. As to Mr. Tovey, he never noticed anything but his food when he was in doors, though his vision was sharp enough outside.

THREE DAYS later two old gentlemen alighted at the station near Withypool. One was a tall, thin, soldierly man, with closely-cropped hair, and a bristly, white moustache; in short, the kind of colonel which Mr. Punch loves to draw. His name was Enderby. The other was a short, stout— not to say podgy— gentleman with a rubicund countenance, and, though he didn't look it, he was a peer of the realm; to wit, the Marquis of Lotherby. As they got out of the train, they frowned and scowled at each other. The colonel growled, "Lotherby, what the devil is he doing down here?" And the marquis said to himself. "That old fire-eater, Enderby. "What brings him here, I wonder. Confound him!"

Sad to relate, these two old fellows had once, and not so very long ago, been club acquaintances, and something more— friends; but, alas, on a certain night the colonel had accused the marquis of revoking— which was bad; and had proved his charge— which was worse. The marquis had flung down his cards, uttered words which should never be heard in a club, or anywhere else, and— hence these scowls.

There was only one fly at the station. The colonel got it, and as he did not offer his fellow-traveller a seat, the marquis had to reach the inn in a farmer's cart. This did not improve his temper, and when the waiter informed the pair that lunch was ready, and that he had laid their places at one table "for company," the marquis swore, and insisted upon sitting at a separate one. Across the room the two old friends scowled at each other fiercely, and, it is to be feared, did not enjoy the quite excellent meal. When it was finished, the colonel, who had booked the fly, lit a big and very black cheroot, stamped out of the room, and was driven to Tovey's farm. A youthful and very striking figure was leaning against the gate mending a whip-lash, and the colonel began:—

"Young man, can you tell me—? God bless my soul!" he broke off with amazement, "it's a girl. Ahem! Can you tell me where I shall find Mr. Enderby?"

"He is in the hay field," replied Kitty; and, to the further amazement of the colonel, her eyes filled with tears.

"What— what on earth's the matter?" he demanded. "Da— dash it all, don't cry! Are you in trouble?"

Now, notwithstanding his fierce eyes and bristling moustache, the dear old colonel was one of the softest-hearted men in the British Army, and, consequently, was moved instantly by beauty in distress. "Are you in trouble, my girl?"

"I'm in love." said Kitty, with a blush, and yet with a trustful gaze, for women are quick to detect a man's character.

"W— what! Well, why don't you marry the man? I'll wager he's ready enough!" he grinned. "He's isn't a wrong 'un, I suppose? You look too sensible—"

"He's the rightest one that ever lived," she said, a trifle indignantly. "And, yes, he's willing— he says he's dying— to marry me; but— but my people— my uncle won't consent; and he's my guardian."

"Tut, tut!" growled the colonel. "And there's nothing against the young man? It's money, I suppose?"

"He is a clerk, and doesn't earn much, I suppose, but he has enough for me— besides, if he hadn't a penny—!" declared Kitty.

"Yes, yes! I know; all girls say that. All the same, you've a right to marry whom you please, especially if he's all right. You know what I mean. Who is this guardian of yours?"

"Lord Lotherby—" said Kitty, looking round guardedly.

"Old Lotherby!" exclaimed the colonel, who, by the way, was five years older than the Marquis. "Old Lother— Dash it, it's just like him! So he's cut in and interfered, has he? I'll give him a bit of my mind— ahem, I forgot! We're not on speaking terms."

"Oh, what a pity!" said Kitty regretfully. "But won't you come in and see Mrs. Tovey, and have some cream?" In Devon they offer you cream and cider on the slightest provocation. While the old colonel and the maid had been talking, the Right Hon. Lord Lotherby, being compelled to walk, had met a young man, of a rather grave countenance, pacing meditatively in one of the lanes.

"Ah, ahem, can you tell me the way— Why, I am sure I know you; Jack Enderby, isn't it? Colonel Enderbys nephew; we met— where did we meet?"

The two men shook hands. His lordship had been favorably impressed by Jack on their first acquaintance, and inquired with genuine interest as to his doings.

"D.S.O.! Capital! And pulling round completely, I hope. Good!— though, if I may say so, you don't look— eh?— quite the thing."

"I'm rather upset to-day," said Jack, moved to a confidence by the same impulse which had moved Kitty. "My uncle, the colonel— you know him—"

"I did," said Lord Lotherby in an undertone.

"—Has written to say he intends cutting me off with the proverbial shilling; why isn't it half-a-crown, I wonder."

"Good heavens, why?"

"Well, Lord Lotherby— I— the fact is," stammered Jack. "I'm in love, with the best, the sweetest—"

"Yes, yes! I know; they always are."

"—Girl in in all the world; but my uncle objects to her because she's a farmer's niece."

"By gad, sir; it's just like him!" exclaimed his lordship indignantly. "Beastly pride, that's what it is. Ridiculous! All that sort of nonsense is out of date! A farmer's daughter— well, well, niece— is as good as a peer's daughter— or— or—nearly."

"She's a gentlewoman from top to toe, every inch of her!" said Jack fervently.

"Well, then—! And that old fire-eater— who quarrels with his best friends, sir! Yes, a fire-eater— would wreck two young lives—! Gad, I'll speak to him! Yes, I will; I'll let him hear the truth for once in his life. Why, there's his fly waiting. I'll go straight for him. You make yourself scarce—"

As Jack went round the side of the house, the colonel came out of it alone; and the two old men marched up to each other.

"A word with you, Lord Lotherby—" began the colonel, stiff as a ramrod.

"I should like to speak to you. Colonel Enderby," commenced his lordship, with stately dignity. "I am informed that you propose to treat your nephew— a friend of mine, Colonel Enderby— with great injustice because he refuses to jilt an innocent girl—"

"And I am told on the best authority that you intend to disown a charming young lady, your niece, because she is going to marry—"

"Allow me to tell you that this unwarranted interference—" said his lordship sternly.

"That this attempt to dictate to me—" began the colonel, very red, and his eyes protruding. Then he stopped, his eyes protruding still further; and his lordship stared, his eyes also open to their widest; for Kitty and Jack had come round the corner, arm in arm.

"Jack!" ejaculated the colonel.

"Kitty!" exclaimed his lordship.

"How are you, sir?" said Jack cheerfully. "Yes; here we are. We thought we'd come and explain. You see, I didn't know till a minute or two ago that Kitty was Lord Lotherby's niece— Mrs. Tovey's related— how is it, Kitty?— no matter! Kitty's always called her 'Aunt.' And so shall I. And Kitty didn't know that I was your nephew." It was a rather confused explanation; but it served.

"Yes, and we're so glad you consent— both of you," murmured Kitty, with her most bewildering smile; and she went and kissed her uncle, and Jack got hold of the colonel's hand and wrung it gratefully.

"Well, I'm da—" gasped the colonel.

"Ladies— I mean lady— present, colonel!" warned his lordship. "Tut, tut! Well, well! It seems to me that these young people—"

"Have made fools of us!" growled the colonel.

"Oh, no, uncle!" said Kitty. Then she laughed. "I knew that it wasn't necessary. No, no! I don't mean—"

"She means we've made fools of ourselves," said Lord Lotherby, smilingly. "And I'm afraid she's right, colonel. Let's hope we're not such fools as to lose the opportunity of—"

"Of making up our foolish quarrel," put in the colonel generously, and he held out his hand.

"Aren't they a couple of old dears!" said Kitty as the two old men marched into the house arm in arm and laughing heartily.

"Dearest, it seems too good to be true; kiss me at once or I shall think I'm dreaming!" said Jack. "Let's go into the orchard. They won't want us; they will be too much taken up with each other."

"Like us," whispered Kitty, pressing his arm.

___________________

11: Mr Chubb's Burglar

Ralph Wilhelm Bergengren

1871-1947

Munsey's Magazine Jan 1913

World's News (Sydney) 15 March 1913

HARTLEY CHUBB abandoned a useless effort to convince himself that he was almost asleep. He sat up stiffly on the edge of his bed, his stocky figure lightly but appropriately clad in pink and purple pyjamas, and his bare feet beating a disgusted tattoo on the  bare floor.

Pale moonlight pensively illuminated him. With equal pensiveness it revealed the ghostly shapes of shrouded furniture; the daily garments of Mr. Chubb himself, which be had conveniently hung on the open door of his closet; and the solid bulk of his large trunk, locked, strapped, and labelled, on which lay a railway time-table, a box of crackers, an open tin of potted meat, a package of cigarettes, and a half-filled suit-case.

From the area below his window the long, plaintive yowl of a nocturnal cat leisurely split the silence; and then a dosen other ambitious felines all yowled together. Mr. Chubb glanced hopelessly about his apartment. Everything that could possibly be thrown at a cat had been conscientiously locked up by Mrs. Chubb before she went away for the summer.

He get up with a solemn kind of patience, pattered to the window, and peered down the fire-escape into a well of darkness whose lower depths eves the August moonlight failed to penetrate. Above, below, and on either side of him the Duke of Burgundy Chambers— designed for families with not more than two children—  reflected the moon in apparently endless rows of empty windows.

Under ordinary circumstances no cat, no combined orchestra of all the leading cat vocalists in New York, could have kept Hartley Chubb awake. He was one of those square-jawed and rather bullet-headed young Americans who have thus far escaped the alarmists who insist upon writing startling essays about the nervous conditions of American civilisation. He had a good digestion, a good conscience, a good wife, a good little daughter, and a good position in a substantial law firm whose senior partner had known bim ever since he was a baby.

To-morrow, he hoped, he was going to join Mrs. Chubb at their seashore cottage for a well-earned vacation. But at ten o'clock that morning Mrs. Chubb had telegraphed desperately for a new cook and housemaid, and had added one more item to the thousand and one trifles that make the last day before a vacation a severe test for any disposition.

To put the matter briefly, the whole wonderful machinery of our civilisation— telephones, automobiles, and messenger boys— had broken down and failed to meet the emergency. The success of Hartley Cbubb's vacation hung on the meagre hope of better luck in the morning. Much as he loved his wife, he knew that it was not for him to appear before her cookless and house-maidless.

These cats in the area constituted one large and final straw, and the back of the camel began to bead under it. Hartley Chubb leaned far out of the window and shouted:—

"Scat! Scat! Scat!"

The bitter, indignant cry floated away in the vast spaces of the city— and with it floated away the last remnant of Hartley Cbubb's customary placidity. His vocal effort, if it had been noticed at all, seemed to have been taken for enthusiastic encouragement. Figuratively speaking, he was a broken-backed camel.

Arming himself with a walking-stick. Hartley Chubb grimly stepped out on the fire escape and began a rapid descent. His apartment was only on the eighth fioor of the Bufce of Burgundy. Summer had practically depopulated that magnificent house of two-children families, save for a few stray men like him nobody was likely to observe a descent, which, despite Its necessary and serious object, might easily be regarded as lacking in personal dignity.

Dwarfed and insignificant against that gigantic precipice of windows, the pink and purple pyjamas descended, flight by flight, toward the cat-haunted darkness, until another apartment hotel cut off the moonlight, and Hartley Chubb was only two flights removed from his destination. He peered ahead to see where he was > going, and discovered that the window below him was dimly illuminated.

The cats were still busy, all unconscious of approaching vengeance, and the determined Chubb in no mood to stop short of the bottom.  He came down more cautiously. Then he stood still and peered in through the open window.

It was an apartment geometrically similar to his own, and shut up for the summer. But the coverings had been removed from the bureau; the drawers had been ransacked; and on the top of that piece of furniture, cheerfully regardless of its polished surface, burned the stub of a candle. It illuminated the eccentric spectacle of a man dressing himself, without the usual formality of taking off the clothes he already had on, in garments that he was taking out of the closet.

He was a thin, narrow-chested individual, and the garments had evidently been made for a large, stout man. Evidently, too, they were this large, stout man's winter garments. The sheet with which his thoughtful wife had covered them lay on the floor, and a familiar, odor of moth-balls penetrated as far as the window; but here was a moth against whose violence Hartley Chubb, in his pink and purple pyjamas, was the only available moth-ball.

The back of the narrow-chested individual was turned toward the window. Both his arms were inserted in the sleeves of a coat that went on with difficulty over his own ill-fitting jacket. The cats still sang in the area, but the watcher had momentarily forgotten them. He stepped noiselessly through the window, caught the coat by its collar, and turned it down and back so expeditiously that the arms of the would-be wearer were promptly and tightly pinioned.

The captive wriggled violently, and stared In haggard surprise over his left shoulder; but the firm grip of Hartley Chubb seemed to take all the fight out of him. He soon stopped wriggling, and the two stood silent, one holding the coat tight down over the other's arms, and that other staring dejectedly Into the closet from which he had taken it.

It is surprising, under some circumstances, how much thought can be packed into a minute. Never before had Hartley Chubb captured, a burglar, and, now that he had one, he was seriously puzzled to know what to do with him.

He might, to be sure, hang on and shout for assistance— but the more he thought of it, the less he liked the idea. If nobody heard him, it would be a silly waste of effort. If anybody did bear him, be would have to explain, and explain publicly, how he had happened to be on the fire-escape. And then it would get into the newspapers. The very head-lines presented themselves vividly to Mr. Chubb's imagination;—

"Thought He Was Care— Started Out in Pyjamas to Kill Cat, and Caught Burglar!"

With illustrations! Willing as he might be to accept the fame of having captured a burglar single-handed, the idea of being nicknamed "Care" by Jocular associates did not in the least appeal to Hartley's personal dignity— of which quality he perhaps had more than he actually needed. It began to appear to him that it was not his business to police the Duke of Burgundy; that he was not personally acquainted with the gentleman whose winter garments he was protecting; and that this burglar, after all, had done nothing to him.  It was he who had butted in and disturbed the burglar.

In his perplexed state of mind he shook his captive vigorously. The wretched criminal was so weak and unresisting under his hands that the whole proceedings began to seem unsportsmanlike, as well as ridiculous.

"Why the dickens," exclaimed Hartley Chubb disgustedly, "don't you fellows work for a living, like the rest of us? You're a nice kind of burglar, you are— making war on society by stealing clothes that don't fit you! In which pocket do you conceal the usual deadly revolver?"

The burglar shuddered.

"I never owned a pistol in me life, sir, he replied in a kind of whimper. "I never shot one of 'em oft, sir. I don't like the explosion. I've been a thief, all right, sir," he added desperately; "but if you'll just look at me with that candle, sir, I think you'll tee that I'm not a member of the criminal class.  At least, not by me own wish, air."

Puzzled as he was, there seemed to Hartley Chubb to be something sincere and convincing in this pitiful outburst. He shook the burglar again, on general principles. Then he pushed him toward the bed, and gave him another shake by way of emphasis.

"You sit down and keep still," he advised firmly, "or you'll get worse than a shaking.  Understand me!"

As the man collapsed, sitting on the edge of the bed, Hartley Chubb stepped backward toward the bureau and secured the candle. The illumination, brought nearer to the burglar's dejected features revealed a thin, commonplace face with wet eyes that blinked in the candle-light. Black hair straggled over a narrow forehead, and a prominent Adam's apple worked nervously above the burglar's untidy collar. But the features thus disclosed were wretched and miserable, rather than orimlnal; and Hartley Chubb had never heard of such a thing as a burglar who wept when captured.

He put the candle back on the bureau.

"If you're not burgling," he said sternly, "will you be kind enough to satisfy a young man's natural curiosity? Are you collecting the rent?"

The burglar's eyes glittered. A passing anger seemed to stir in him, and to be snuffed out immediately by his complete dejection,

"If you was as hungry as I am," he replied bitterly, "I guess, sir, that this situation wouldn't seem so merry, sir." He had a queer manner of speaking, this burglar, interlarding his sentences with "sirs" in a way that struck his listener as somehow reminiscent of somebody he had met elsewhere. "I haven't any food or lodgin', sir, and no money to buy 'em. And I haven't been able to pick up work, sir. That's what makes criminals, sir— yielding to temptation once and getting caught, and not having another chance, sir, to get honest emr ployment I guess a man has a right to live. Anyhow, sir, I'd climbed over the fence outside, Just to get a place to sleep, and when I see that the house was closed for the summer, I thought, sir, as I might find a window open I and maybe somethin' tinned in the pantry."

"I dislike to remind you of it," said Mr. Chubb, "but this isn't the pantry; nor are the garments you are now wearing properly to be described as tinned."

"No, sir. I know that, sir. But I'd been through the pantry. Nothin' in it, sir— not even a breakfast food. I haven't had a meal in me stomach these two days, sir, and anything I could pawn would get me a breakfast. I'm a thief, all right; but I don't want to be, sir. I've tried it once, and I guess I got what I deserved, sir. I fell down once, and let temptation walk away with me, because it looked so easy. Now I've tried it again under force of circumstances, sir— but I affrays get caught! It don't pay, sir. You see, I was working in an hotel as extra man, and one of the guests, sir, went off and forgot a ten-dollar bill. I put it in me pocket, sir, instead of turning it in at the office. I hated meself for havin' done it, sir, and when they caught me I was trying to sneak it back where I found it. But I went to gaol for It, sir, and I guess that's the end of me. You can believe me or not, sir, but if I'd been able to get any kind of work since I came out of prison, I wouldn't be here, sir. I'm not cut out for it, sir."

"You don't seem to be cut out for s criminal career," admitted Hartley Chubb thoughtfully. "At least, not in the grand manner. Nor I for a plain-clothes man. I don't put on enough plain clothes— and by Jove, you put on too many! I may be a fool, but I'll be handed if I know what to do with you. What is an extra man in an hotel, anyway?"

"He helps everybody," explained the burglar. "He's a little bit of everything, sir, from cook to chambermaid.  He goes where he's needed, sir, all over the shop, sir."

Hartley Chubb took a thoughtful promenade back and forth across the apartment.  When he again looked at the burglar, that despondent criminal had got his arms out of the coat and sat with his hands  between his knees moodily at the dusty carpet. Certainly nobody could accuse him of looking dangerous, and his last words—and his last words: "cooks, and makes the beds, and he works in the dining room"— repeated themselves over and over in Hartley's inner consciousness.

He took another turn across the apartment. Vast possibilities of freedom from the servant girl problem began to open before him.  Why not, he asked himself— specially with a vacation coming in which to watch the beginning of the experiment.

"See here," he said suddenly. "Can you cook?"

The burglar looked up. Hea seemed to forget for a moment that he was a burglar. He spoke proudly, and with an air of authority.

"My father was a chef, sir, and my mother a chambermaid. They broght me up with a proper knowlegde of both branches of the profession. I picked up the dining-room work myself, sir. What's the use of punishment, sir,  if you don't get a chance to profit by it, sir?"

Hartlet Chubb yawned cheerfully.  Outside the window the cats still yodelled, but Hartley, now that he had reached a decision, began to feel sleepy.

"Omitting ethical discussion,"  he said, "would you mind returning this room to tha condition in which you found it?"

"Yes sir,' said the burglar briskly. "Done immediately, sir."

He set promptly about it.  The large stout gentleman's winter garments went back into the closet;  the sheet went over them. The burglar spat on his finger, skilfully removed the candle-grease from the bureau, and restored its wrappings.  And Hartley Chubb, sitting in the window, watched him  with increasing satisfaction.

"I guess you'll do," he remarked approvingly. "Now. Listen to me. If you'll agree to give up burglary, I'll agree to give you seventy-five dollars a month as cook and housemaid in a private family, subject, of course, to Mrs. Chubb's approval."

The burglar stared, and his Adam's apple  worked desperately. Hope gleamed in his eyes, and he touched his forelock.

"Thank you, sir," he said huskily. "I'll do my best, sir." He hesitated. "It would be better, sir, under the circumstances,  sir, if the missus doesn't know how you came to engage me, sir— at least, not until I've made good, sir."

"That's wise, too, come to think of it," agreed Hartley Chubb. "Not a word ot the missus until you've made good. And now that's settled, if you'll follow me up the fire-escape we will eventually broach a box of crackers and a can of potted beef  at the eighth storey. I'm starting on my vacation, and you can begin work  in the morning by packing my suitcase."

_______________

12: The Wrong 'Un.

Mark Allerton (William Ernest Cameron)

1881-1939

World's News (Sydney) 26 Oct 1918

ACROSS the desk in his private office Austin Caird stared gloomily at his confidential clerk. He was a big, heavily-built man, with a massive head and an aggressive chin. He might have been a retired prize-fighter instead of a company promoter and share touter, and at the moment his expression was not one to inspire confidence.

His clerk was a thin wisp of a man with very sharp black eyes and a hooked nose.

"Looks uncommonly like as if we must put up the shutters," said the clerk.

Austin Caird grunted savagely.

"We've still got a chance," he said.

"It's a mighty poor one."

"Well, it's a chance." He picked up a letter which lay before him, and read it again. It bore the address of a vicarage in Somerset

"Dear sir," he read. "Some years ago I bought, on the advice of your circular, a few hundred Mosquito Oil shares, which I afterwards sold at a good profit. I wrote to you at the time, expressing my thanks, and I now venture to ask you if you can advise a young parishioner of mine, Mr. Richard Lavery, as to another safe purchase. By the death of his father he has come into a fairly large sum of money, which he is anxious to invest to the best advantage. I have told him of the success of my dealings with you, and he would be glad of your advice. He is spending a few days in London, and I have told him to call on you. Perhaps you will accept this letter as an introduction.

"I am, yours faithfully,

"William J. Somming."

"Has Somming bought anything from us since this oil deal?" asked Caird.

John Melford, the clerk, shook his head. "He came out of that dashed well." he replied. "But, hang it all, we've nothing to put this Lavery on to."

"There's Amalgamated Concessions," suggested Austin Caird, looking at his desk.

His clerk made a clicking sound.

"I should say that you'll have the devil's own job to sell him any of those, unless he buys them on the nail," was the reply. "They're one of the jokes in the City just now. I wish you'd never touched them."

"They cost me a cool four thousand, too,'' put in Caird. "And they're to blame for all this trouble. By James! To think that I allowed myself to be taken in by a plausible old fool like Fisher!"

The two men relapsed into a moody silence. Luck was running right against Caird.

At the time when people with money seemed to be keeping it in their stockings and refused to be tempted by the safest of gilt-edged securities, Caird found himself with only the wildest of speculative concerns on his hands. His former successes were forgotten. When his name was mentioned in the City a laugh of ridicule was the result. Caird's hide was thick, and he was affected only by the financial tightness that embarrassed him. In his luxurious office he was like a spider suddenly bereft of the supply of flies that were necessary to his existence.

"Have we had any applications for Amalgamated Concessions?" he asked abruptly.

"Not one," was the prompt reply. "Not likely either. With all these beastly paragraphs in the financial papers."

"And it's ten to one this chap Lavery has read them," growled Caird. "Every fool with money to invest wallows in the financial press. However, let's hope he calls."

Austin Caird dismissed his clerk and applied himself to the worrying consideration of how to raise the wind.

Shortly before lunch time Mr. Richard Lavery made his appearance. He turned out to be about thirty years of age, clean shaken, with the sun-burnt complexion and frank eyes of a country-man. His manner was charmingly ingenuous.

He opened the conversation by saying that he was awfully obliged to Mr. Austin Caird for seeing him.

Austin Caird motioned him gravely and courteously to a chair. His expression was no longer aggressive. He was businesslike in a quiet, benign fashion. He begged to be excused while he spoke into the telephone. Into the instrument he gave instructions for the purchase on his own account of three thousand pounds' worth of Great Westerns. John Melford, who was at the other end of the wire in the next office, received the instructions.

"Now, what can I do for you?" asked Mr. Caird briskly.

"Well, Mr. Somming recommended me to come to you about investing some money," began Richard Lavery. "I've consulted my lawyer and a stockbroker, and they can sug-gest nothing like those oil shares you put Mr. Somming on to."

"What interest do you want?" demanded Caird.

"As much as I can get," was the laughing reply.

"I see. And how much money do you want to invest?"

"I've got six thousand all told, and I've got to live on that. If I could get ten per cent, I could do that easily in the country."

Mr. Caird began a discursive review of the situation. He elicited the facts that Richard Lavery had no occupation, that he was engaged to be married, that his tastes lay in the direction of hunting and golf, and that he was unwilling to engage in any business that might interfere with those pursuits. Austin Caird suggested that his client ought to select some fairly safe concern for his money.

"I can think of nothing that is absolutely safe at the moment," he said. "Look how even Consols have gone down. And what yield do they afford? Hardly anything. Now, let me think."

Richard Lavery waited anxiously and in silence while Caird thought.

Austin Caird raised his head suddenly.

"There's Amalgamated Concessions, of course," he said. "They're dirt cheap at present. There's a small fortune waiting for the man who is sporting enough to buy them at present."

Richard Lavery was all eagerness to hear about them. Caird explained in highly technical language the resources in minerals, timber, water power, and so on, possessed by Amalgamated Concessions of Canada. He admitted that the bears had been at work and that the company was rather under a cloud at present.

"That's bound to come all right," he concluded. "I reckon that in a year's time those shares will have trebled in value, and they'll pay a handsome dividend."

"But why don't you buy them?" asked Lavery, artlessly.

"Only wish I could," said Caird, darkly. "But I daren't. I'm in a rival concern, and if it leaked out that I was interested in Amalgamated Concessions— well, you understand, of course."

Richard Lavery said that he did. He also said that he would like to buy the shares. Caird's heart leapt within him as he explained that the entire issue could be secured for ten thousand pounds.

"That's cheap, isn't it?" asked Lavery. "Dirt cheap."

"But I've only got six thousand."

Austin Caird leant forward confidentially.

"You leave it to me," he said, with a wink. "And now," he felt in his waistcoat pocket as he spoke, and was relieved to find two sovereigns there, "what do you say to a little lunch."

"I should be delighted," replied Lavery. "Only I'm lunching with Miss Forester— I think I told you I was engaged to her. But if you lunch with us—"

He was pressing, and Caird agreed. He had no wish to be bored by the company of a sentimental young couple, but he wanted to clinch the deal.

Edith Forester proved to be a charmingly attractive girl. It was at once evident to Caird that Lavery's visit to him had been the subject of earnest speculation. He adopted his most benevolent and paternal air towards her. She, he was soon told, was the daughter of a clergyman in the East End; she had been engaged to Dick for six months; they had met in Somersetshire; that now that Dick had all his money everything was plain sailing; that they were going to have a good time for ever and ever; that Dick wasn't really lazy, but when they could live on their money it would only be greedy to seek to earn more.

Austin Caird told himself that the man who starved in a world where there were two such fools to be plucked deserved his fate. He watched them with a fat, complacent smile on his face, and he thanked heaven for the Rev. Mr. Somming and for his lucky speculation in oil.

When he left to hurry back to his office he wrung their hands and truthfully assured them that he could not remember being more pleased to meet two young people. He was also careful to make an appointment with Dick Lavery for the following morning.

When his clerk heard the news his little eyes shone.

"I do believe you've done it again, Mr. Caird," he cried admiringly. "You're a wonder, you are! Six thousand will just pull us out of this mess. It's an act of Providence."

Austin Caird permitted himself to smile self-appreciatively. The gods are kind to those they love, and Austin Caird in the course of his adventurous career had proved again and again that Mr. Micawber's trust in something turning up was justified.

His first caller the next morning was not Dick Lavery, but Miss Forester.

"Has Dick been there yet?" she cried excitedly, as soon as she entered the private office, and when she heard that he had not, she looked much relieved.

"I've been trying all morning to catch him," she explained. "I want to ask him not to buy those shares."

For a moment the room, with its bright red carpet and leather chairs, and the maps and plans on the walls, danced before the eyes of Austin Caird. With a mighty effort he pulled himself together.

"What's that you say?" he cried, harshly. "Yes. You see the shares might go down, and then he'd lose all the money, and shouldn't be able to get married, and—"

"But the shares can't possibly go down," insisted Caird, loudly.

"Can't they?" timidly.

"Certainly not. They'll go up. You'll make a small fortune. You'll be able to have your car. You'll be able to have all the pretty dresses you want."

"You understand." went on the girl quietly, "how dreadfully important it is that we should always have our capital? If anything should happen to that money I don't know what we should do, because dear old Dick could never earn any. You see, he hasn't been brought up to earn money, and—"

"That'll be all right," said Caird, reassuringly, but his heart was still beating wildly from the effect of the fright he had got. "You see."

"If you are quite, quite sure—"

"My dear young lady, do you think it is any advantage to me to advise Mr. Lavery to buy these shares? Of course not. But if you neglect this opportunity you will be making a grave mistake. Ah, here is Mr. Lavery."

The young man bustled into the room.

"Hullo, Edith!" he cried. "How jolly to find you here! Good morning, Mr. Caird. Now, about those shares. I've had a nasty knock this morning!"

Again Austin Caird's heart bumped against his expansive waistcoat.

"I find I've only got five thousand," went on Lavery. "I suppose I couldn't get those bally shares for five thousand? I've set my heart on them. I've been doing sums, and I've found out that if they pay the ten per cent, you suggest I'll have my six hundred a year. Not bad, eh, Edith?"

Austin Caird gnawed the end of his pencil. There was something about Lavery's manner that roused his suspicions. He believed that the young fool had the audacity to seek to drive a bargain, that he had the entire sum demanded all the time. Still, the shares were not worth five pounds to him, and five thousand would recoup his loss.

He made a pretence of delay. He rang up John Melford in the outer office several times and addressed him by varies names. He even clapped on his hat, and went out to see a man about the matter. He did not get farther than the corridor outside. There Melford begged him to take what he could get without delay.

He re-entered his room with an expansive smile.

"You are very lucky," he said to Lavery. "I've worked it. Let me have your cheque, and you can have the share certificates this afternoon."

"Oh, I say, that's awfully decent of you!" cried Lavery. "I'll give you my cheque right away." He wrote hurriedly, and passed the slip of paper over. "Will you post the certi-ficates to me?" he asked. "I'm staying at the Metropole. Now we mustn't detain you. Mr. Caird. I hope to call on you before l leave town. You've been a perfect brick."

The girl and he took a hurried departure.

"Is it all right?" panted the clerk when Caird had smiled his adieu.

"I've got his cheque," was the reply.

Together they stood at the window, and watched Dick Lavery and the girl hurry along the narrow street.

"What a juggins!" murmured Melford.

"I've never met his like before," said Caird; "no, never. And I've met a few mugs."

He uttered an exclamation of sheer astonish ment as he saw these two young people, happy in their new possession, stop in the middle of the narrow street and abandon themselves to their mirth.

"They'll laugh on the other side of their mouths before long," observed Melford.

"Go and cash this cheque as quickly as you can," was Caird's reply.

The clerk was able to inform Mr. Caird next morning that the cheque had been met. At the same time he drew his employer's at tention to a significant paragraph in a financial paper.

"We understand that the ill-fated Amalgamated Concessions Company, which Austin Caird has persistently touted, has been taken over by Mr. Fisher, of Moorgate Street."

Caird grunted. "They've got hold of the wrong end of the stick," he said. "I bought the damned thing from Fisher."

But the next morning in the money columns of a popular daily there was the brief announcement of the discovery of silver in the land of Amalgamated Concessions. His evening paper elaborated the story. The city editor wrote in amusing vein, confessing that the critics were confounded, and that Amalgamated Concessions was going to turn out trumps after all.

"What the devil does it mean?" cried Caird hoarsely.

But his clerk could venture no explanation. It came the following day, when Caird met Dick Lavery in Throgmorton Street. It was Dick who stopped him.

"I say, those shares you sold me are making a bit of a stir, eh?" he said.

Caird, somewhat nervously, agreed. "You haven't sold them to a man called Fisher?" he asked.

"You mean my uncle?"

"Your uncle!" Austin Caird steadied himself against a pillar-box.

"You don't mean to say he's bought 'em back?" he breathed.

"Yes, rather. You see. I was out there. I'm by way of being a mining engineer. And he asked me to report on the property. A gold mine isn't in it. I wrote and told him so. But the silly ass had sold the concern to you, as it appears."

"And you—"

"Well, if he'd offered to buy it back you'd have smelt a rat. So he put me on the job."

"But the Rev. Mr. Somming— who is he?"

"Oh, he's my uncle again. He knew those oil shares you were offering were a sprat to catch a mackerel, and he couldn't very well buy in his own name—"

"My God! It's a trick, a swindle! It won't stand in law," shouted Caird, his face purple with passion. "You see! I'll have those shares back."

"I guess not," was the quiet reply. "We gave you every chance. When I called on you I knew that you were almost certain to offer me those shares, if you took me for a big enough tool. I'm not annoyed because you did. But my uncle is a jolly decent sort. If you'd played the game he'd have let you in. But you didn't."

"What do you mean?"

"Just this. You were ready to sell what you thought were dud shares to a chap who was relying on them for his living, a chap about to be married. When my sister— yes, she is my sister— called on you and begged you not to let me have them, you kept on telling her fairy tales. It didn't matter a tinker's curse if you beggared us. So we let you in, and feel jolly happy about it, too. I serves you right."

Austin Caird strove for breath.

"But I did know that the shares were all right. It's happened just as I told you it would happen," he panted.

Dick Lavery winked slowly.

"Then why worry?" he said, "We ought all to be pleased. So long. If you can put me on to any other good things let me know. But I think you struck a wrong 'un to spring this deal on to."

It turned out as Austin Caird's confidential clerk had gloomily prophesied. The shutters went up on the establishment of a particularly dangerous firm of share touts.

____________________

13: The Hut by the Lachlan

Morley Roberts

1857-1942

World's News (Sydney) 4 May 1918

IT TOOK Jim Grey hard riding to get down again to the River Lachlan from Conoble, away north in the Back Blocks, for it had rained ever since he had crossed the Willandra Billabong going north. And now a cold southerly wind blew up with the rain and set him shivering as he splashed through the big swamp on the Inner Road, running along the river from Euabalong to Condobolin.

"Wish I was in Forbes," he growled. "To blazes with the bush in this weather! It's a fine place for those who like it, but now I'm hankering for old England."

As he came out of the swamp he saw ahead of him a swagman whose walk he seemed to know.

"Now where have I come across that bloke?" asked Jim. And, slapping his wet thigh, he said:— "My continental! It's the queer cove I met last year on the Uglo Creek."

And presently he drew up alongside the man, who turned and nodded, but at first did not recognise him.

"Aye," said Jim to himself, "this is the cove! I remember the beggar's beard, and those eyes of his, and what Arria Bill let on about him."

"Bill Sadler's lookin' for someone, and I'll be sorry for the —— cove when he finds him," was what the Arria bullocky had said.

"What cheer, mate?" asked Jim, when the foot-man turned.

"Why, mate," said Sadler with a grim smile, "there's mighty little cheer a night like this. But you and I have met before— somewhere?"

"My oath!" said Jim, " 'twas down on the Uglo, a year back.''

"Aye," said Sadler, as they went on. "Why, we was camped together for a week, more or less, down on that same creek in weather like this. Good coves, down on the Uglo!"

"Where are you camping?" asked Jim.

"I was reckonin' to camp at the old hut jest along here," replied Sadler.

"Same with me," said Jim. "Hand me up your swag, old son. I'll carry it for you."

And without more said, Bill Sadler swung his swag off. his back and handed it up to the horseman. They went on in silence for a good half-mile, and the dark came down upon them suddenly. Presently Jim spoke.

"You ain't found that cove yet, Sadler?" he asked, almost casually.

"Eh?" said Sadler, starting.

"The cove you are looking for," said Jim, staring at him.

"Oh! him," replied Sadler, without looking up; "no, I ain't found him yet."

Jim saw him pull at his beard.

"If I had I shouldn't be hereabouts," he said. "Not hereabouts, I reckon. Did I tell you anything about him, mate?"

"Why, no," said Jim, "it wasn't you. It was him they called Ginger. A long, thin cove, working on Arria, driving bullocks, with a tongue as long as his whip."

"Oh! him," said Sadler, "yes, I remember I told him something. I have to at times. The Cove I'm lookin' for has a red head, too."

"Ginger allowed it was healthy for the other cove you didn't find him," said Jim.

But Bill Sadler didn't answer. And Jim Grey repeated his own words to. himself.

"Not healthy for the cove."

It was a way he had of chewing the cud of things.

And then they came to the bend of the winding Lachlan in which the old hut stood. Suddenly Jim saw the dark shadow of the hut in front of them. He dismounted, unstrapped a pair of hobbles from the off-side dee, hobbled the horse, and unsaddled him.

"Poor old chap," said Jim, as he rubbed the animal's nose, "it's not comfortable for you, old son, but there's decent feed and plenty of water."

And he went into the hut with his saddle, his own roll of blankets, and Bill's heavier swag.

"I'll make the fire," said Sadler. "'Tis the thing one wants a night like this. 'Tis a'most better than tucker. A fire's a good companion, mate. There's many a man in the bush who has no other friend than a fire."

He was down on his knees in the old fire-place, grubbing in the dark for some pieces of half-burnt wood.

"Well, you start it," said Jim, "an' I'll go and rake up some logs."

And presently Sadler had a fire begun, no bigger than a man's hand, yet in half an hour the flames drew up the chimney and the big logs hissed in the falling rain that came down it. By the side of the fire Jim piled a whole heap of small logs, and one or two as beavy as he could carry. He hung up the outside blanket of his swag and set it steaming.

"What tucker have you got, mate?" he asked, as he stood drying by the fire.

"Flour and sugar and tea," said Sadler, "but no meat."

"Well, I've got some mutton, but I'm out of bread," said Jim. "I don't reckon to travel with bags, just now."

"Aye, you have been doing better," said Sadler, looking at him. "I thought as much from your rig-out and the horse."

"Only so-so," said Jim. "I'm working for a chap in Forbes. But he's a mean man and I'm full up of the bush. I've a kind of notion that I'd like to go back home— to England."

"I reklect you said as much down on the Uglo," mused Sadler.

"Did I?" said Jim bitterly. "Well, I'm likely to be spoutin' the same guff for the next ten years, unless I get a mate to keep me to it."

And Sadler looked up at him.

"Some day I'll be back there myself," he said suddenly, "when, when—"

And he paused, staring in the fire.

"Are you dead sure he's in this country?" asked Jim Grey.

"Dead sure," replied Sadler. "I heard of him last no later than yesterday. Coming this way, he was!"

He put out his bags with flour in them, and tea and sugar.

"Here, give me your billy.. I'll get some water," said Jim.

"Mind you don't slip in," said Sadler. "'Tis a tricky path down to the Lachlan, and the water is deep. But likely you savvy that."

It certainly was dark down by the river, and the track was slimy with mud. Just where it turned down sideways there was a very steep bank, and Jim almost went over it. He shivered when he saw the glimmering pool be-neath him, and climbed down more carefully. He was glad to get back to the warm hut, and put the billy on the fire. Then he took off his coat and shook it and hung it up. He unstrapped Sadler's blankets for him, and put the wettest one to dry. By now Sadler had his flour poured out on the table and was mak-ing dough.

"Shall I make johnny cakes, mate?" he asked.

"The quickest tucker's the best, ain't it?" asked Jim.

"Then johnny cakes," said Sadler.

They ate, and drank their tea, almost in silence. But they were both thinking of the same man.

"Everyone meets everyone along these roads," said Jim to himself. "Here I've met this same Bill Sadler twice. I am always meetin' men I know. We coves wander everywhere. I'm gettin' sick of it."

And when they had eaten their meal they both filled their pipes, cutting tip Barrett's twist and rubbing it up in. their haads. Jim lent Sadler his knife.

"I lost mine," said Sadler; "at the very last camp I lost it. I'm sorry I did, for it was a good one— quite a weapon."

"Use mine," said Jim.

"Has the river got a move on?" asked Bill

Sadler presently.

"Not a stir," said Jim. "It's only heavy rain east and south-east of Forbes that makes her move. But when she does come down, she comes down. I have seen her run a banker here."

"Aye," said Sadler; "I was fair floated out of my blankets one day three years ago. Nigh drowned, I was."

"These rivers drown a few," said Jim. "They drown quite a few."

And Bill Sadler nodded.

"Aye," he said, "and they might drown more who'd never be missed."

When he had smoked his second pipe, squatted on his hunkers by the fire, he said, without looking at Grey, who was then on the bench at the end of the table:—

"Did Ginger, him at Arria, tell you anything about— about me?"

He poked himself in the chest with his thumb as he spoke.

"Aye," said Jim thoughtfully. "He guffed a bit, but t don't know whether it was true, mate."

"Oh! Ginger, he knew," said Sadler, nodding. "I told 'im years ago. One has to at times. He's a towney of mine. It's something to meet a towney in this blasted bush. Did Ginger tell you about— about her?"'

"He let on about some woman," said Jim thoughtfully, "but I disremember it mostly."

Bill Sadler went down upon his knees and fed the fire with sticks. Presently he said:—

"No, you wouldn't remember. She was, a pretty girl when I knew her first, mate, and I thought she'd marry me. But she chose the other man, and I went off to the States. I'm an engineer, I am, and I worked in steam-ships on the Lakes, and on the Mississippi. And I heard she wasn't happy, and that he beat her. She'd got a little money, not much. Just a little house property that her father left her. She might have married higher than either him or me. But he took her away from home, and the house was sold. But I found out from a sailorman that he was in Australia, flashing it with a couple of hundred quid. The sailorman had known him at home, and he asked him where his wife was. And what do you think he said— now what do you think, mate, that he said? He let on 'To hell with her! She and me parted brass rags a year ago in the old country. Whimperer, she was!' That's what he said, mate! And this sailor man asked him where she was now, and where he had left her. And he would not tell him, but he let on she was all on her own. What he said was, 'Serve her —— well right.' "

And there was a long silence, and presently he said:—

"What would you do if it was you and you got him?"

"Kill him." said Jim quietly.

And Sadler put out his hand, and said:— "Shake, mate, shake hands on that." And the two men shook hands.

Sadler got up presently and laid his dried blankets in the bunk. He took off his coat and then his shirt, and stood stripped to the waist, while he dried the shirt before the fire.

"You keep a mighty good body on you, all the same," said Jim presently.

"Aye," said Sadler: "I was always a stout man, though grey. But waiting to get even ages a man."

And Jim saw the muscles of his back ripple and grow rigid. And again Sadler repeated:—

"Waiting to get even ages a cove. This beard of mine, mate, was black a while ago, and now sometimes I think it will be white before I meet him. And then I think maybe there won't be another grey hair in it before I put my hands on him."

He pulled on his shirt again, and sat down on the biggest dry log by the fire, and for the first time smiled a little.

"I shall be glad to get back to England." he said; "back to machinery. This country is a fine country for those who like stock, but give me machinery. I'm happy when I hear an old engine pound out her music, mate. It is music to the likes of me. And here only once in a while I get so much as a job of tinkering up an old one. What will you do, mate, if you go home?"

"Blue my cheque, and come out again." said Jim Grey, with a gloomy smile upon his sunburnt face.

"Was it a woman who sent you out here?" asked Sadler.

But Jim shook his head.

"I have not seen one yet that I so much as wanted to buy a hat for."

"There's a lot of 'em not worth the price of one," said Sadler seriously. "But it won't matter when your time comes whether she's worth it or not. You are the kind of a cove that will buy some girl a shopful. You crawl out of this, mate, and get home. If you are the sort of man that is wanted here you'll come back. I shan't. Once an en- gineer, always an engineer. But I would rather hump my bluey for twenty years, and in the end die like a dog on a wet sack, than not keep after the man I'm looking for."

"I am sorry for him when you meet him," said Jim.

"Sorry?" said Sadler. "Sorry?" And for a long time he did not speak again. They heard the rain come down, bat- tering heavily on the tin roof. In some places it came through holes, and made puddles on the floor. The fire steamed and spat viciously, but it threw out a mighty heat and was very comforting.

"Well, we'll keep a good blaze goin'," said Jim, as he threw some more wood on it. "I'd be narked to be one of the poor blokes who are camped under a box tree to-night."

"Aye, poor devils," said Bill Sadler. "You're right, mate. We might keep up a good fire. One never knows if some cove might come along wet and hungry. But I'm ready for a doss. Ain't you, mate?"

"Right you are," said Jim. "Let's turn in."

Sadler got into his bunk first. He did not quite lie down, but lay with his head in his hand, smoking his old clay pipe. To Jim, who looked at him in the bright light of the fire, it seemed that he had a fine, strong face, But it was hard and lined, and above everything it showed a dogged purpose. And Jim, who had never had any great purpose in his life, wondered at it. He half opened his mouth as if he wished to say:—

"Why don't you chuck it, old son?" But he said nothing. As well might a man preach against the nature of things, or the rain, or the Lachlan in flood, or the bush on fire. He saw that.

"It's— its like drink, wantin' to kill a man," said Jim.

Perhaps what was in his mind touched Sad- ler's conscience. He reached out and knocked the ashes from his pipe, and looked across to the younger man, who was now in his bunk, and said:—

"You see, mate, I've Just got to do it. I can't help what I feel. It's here— here!"

He knocked upon his very heart. And with that he lay down.

In a few minutes he appeared to be fast asleep. Jim heard him breathing deeply, even easily. For the first time in his life it seemed to the man who was awake that there was something fine in a big purpose. He wished he had one of his own. He knew he was doing nothing for himself and little for other people, and he knew he had seen men, like himself, who gradually became even less, tramps, the merest sundowners. He sighed as he lay down.

As he was falling asleep a loud crackle of the drying wood-in the fire almost woke him. It sounded as loud as a gunshot. As he turned over he seemed to hear a cooee in the distance. He wondered whether some belated traveller was looking for a camp; trying to find the old hut, It might be.

"If he came near enough he'd see the fire," thought Jim Grey. And then he really did fall asleep.

When he woke again he had no notion how long he had slept. He was lying with his face towards the old slab wall. By now the fire should have died down a little, but it seemed to him it was much brighter. It crackled as if new wood had been put on. Suddenly he heard a cough, and, turning in his bunk, he saw the figure of a stranger squatting by the fire. For a moment he thought that

Bill Sadler had got up, finding that he could not sleep, and then he saw that the man by the fire was no one he knew. He heard him speak to himself in a kind of snarl.

"Snorin' swine," said the man by the fire, "Comfortable, ain't they? And they 'aven't left no tucker about. And I'm wet, wet to the skin! Nice country this, ain't it?"

And Jim Grey felt a sudden, instinctive dis- like of him. But all the same, he said:—

"Well, mate, if you are wet you can dry yourself, can't you, without wakin' other folk that were wet a while back?"

And the stranger turned round savagely. He was a sandy man and heavily built.

"Ow, you're awake, are you?" he said. " 'Ave you got any tucker?"

He has the air of one who never gave thanks, but took all things as his natural due. Jim knew that there were two cold Johnny cakes upon the table, but be felt reluctant to say so. But at last he did.

"Johnny cakes," snarled the stranger, "johnny cakes! Ain't you got no meat?"

"No!" said Jim shortly. And the stranger shrugged his shoulders, just as though he thought that Jim Grey had taken what belonged to him. Every word he spoke made him more like those who had ceased to labor and had become parasites.

"What there isn't you can't have." said Jim. "But there's a fire."

"Aye, and I could burn myself in it if I liked, couldn't I?" said the stranger. "I've come down the river, tramp, tramp, squelch, squelch, and 'oles in my boots. That's been the day's work. And I was nigh drowned to-day, let alone the rain. Fell in the river, I did. A little more, and I'd never 'ave got out. Got any bacca?"

Jim threw him down half a fig of Barrett's twist. He picked it up without any thanks but very eagerly.

"Lend me your knife." Jim threw down his knife without a word. Bit by bit the stranger cut a pipeful against his thumb, and rubbed it up in his hands, and then said:—

"Why, it's damp, nigh wet."

And suddenly Jim got into a fury. A little more and he would have jumped out of his bunk.

"Then dry it, damn, you!" said Jim.

"Ow," said the stranger, "civil, ain't 'e? That's the kind of cove one meets in this country. I Just say, polite enough, that the bacca's damp, and he ups and says, "Dry it then, damn you!' —— country this Australia! To 'ell with them as sent me 'ere. I wish I'd never seen some of them as sent me 'ere,"

And the more Jim Grey heard the more he loathed the man. He turned away and said:—

"Dry up that jaw, and let men sleep. You'll be waiting my mate, and if you do that you'll be sorry."

"Ow," said the other man, "I'm to dry up, am I? I'm to dry up. Whose 'ut is this. I wonder? I've camped 'ere before, and maybe I will again. Damn the place! Damn the whole show! Oh! All right, I'll dry up."

And, still crouching over the fire, he smoked the damp tobacco he had cadged.

At last Jim fell asleep again. But he slept uneasily. He woke very soon, and yet perhaps it was not so soon, for the fire had died down a bit. The newcomer was lying alongside of it, wrapped in his blankets. He was snoring heavily, and even in his sleep seemed angry and discontented. He was muttering when Bill Sadler woke up and turned round to find Jim was awake.

"I had a dream, mate." said Sadler. "I dreamt of—of him, you know. I heard his voice in my dreams. I should know it if I was dead. I remember when he spoke to that poor sir,I before me, and the way he did it. I got him by the throat. But she put up both her hands to me, and said, 'For God's sake, don't, Bill. Go away! Go away!" When he got his voice back he cursed me, and said, 'You get out of this house, she's my wife.' Did I tell you that?"

"No," said Jim. "You didn't tell me that." Then Sadler caught sight of the man camped down by the fire.

"Hullo,'' he said, "have we got a new mate in the hut, Jim?"

"Aye, he came in a while back," said Jim. "Grousing swine! He wanted tucker."

"Poor devil," said Sadler.

"I told him there were two johnny cakes," said Jim, "and he just cursed. Wanted meat, he did! He asked for tobacco, and when I gave him some, he said, 'Why, damn my skin, it's damp!' "

"Did he now?" said Sadler. "Ah, there's a lot of men on the road like that. What sort of a chap, is he to look at?"

"Oh! Just sandy," said Jim. "Sandy, eh?" said Sadler. "Very sandy," said Jim.

"My man's sandy," said Sadler.

"Yes, you said so," said Jim. "Well, if this is the one you want, you can take him out and drown him. Good-night, old son."

And once more Jim turned round and tried to get to sleep. He never knew whether he did sleep or not, before he heard somebody speaking. It was the man by the fire.

"Them two in the bunks, snorin' and comfortable, and me on the 'ard ground, steamin' in the damp. Curse the —— pair of them, and everyone, everyone!"

Once more Jim looked out and saw him squatting by the fire, an ugly, gloomy figure, with the blanket over his shoulder, smoking at his now empty pipe and feeding the fire with little sticks. And as the light grew stronger Jim suddenly looked across to Sadler's bunk. He saw that Sadler was not asleep, but was lying reared up on both hands, and staring at the man by the fire. Sadler's face was livid. He did not move. He was like a figure cast in lead. And then Jim saw his big eyebrows work up and down, saw his mouth open, saw him moisten his lips with his tongue. And suddenly he turned his head and saw Jim looking at him. He smiled very oddly and nodded at Jim several times. He held out his right hand and beat down on the air with it two or three times, as if to say, "For God's sake, don't do or say anything, because this man, this man is mine!"

And when he had moved his hand like that he turned to Jim and nodded once more. And slowly, very slowly, Jim saw him shift his position, draw his legs up, and lift them over the side of the bunk. The fire grew brighter still, and the man who fed it muttered to himself. It seemed to Jim Grey as he watched that Sadler saw nothing but the man by the fire, and remembered his mate no more. And he who crouched by the flames hunched his shoulders uneasily. Perhaps he felt there was someone behind him, looking at him. Suddenly he turned towards Sadler, and Jim watched, wondering, as the two men stared at each other. Jim knew that his mate's eyes must look dreadful, for he saw the other man suddenly grow rigid and let the blanket fall from his shoulders. He put down his short clay pipe with a shaking hand, laying it in the hot ashes, not knowing where he put it. Then Sadler spoke. As he spoke he had hold of his own hands and worked them together.

"Dickson," he said. "Dickson!"

"That's not my name," said the man by the fire. "No; that's not my name!"

"Bob Dickson," repeated Sadler.

"That's not me; I don't know the cove," stammered the stranger.

"You liar!" said Sadler, dropping from his bunk.

And the other man tried to speak, but for a moment could not. He put his hand up to his throat, and swallowed, and then snarled:—

"Well, what if I am Bob Dickson?"

"Where is she?" asked Sadler. "Where is she? Tell me?"

"Who d'ye mean?" asked Dickson.

"Your— your wife," said Sadler.

"What's she to you?" snarled the other man.

"A lot," said Sadler. "A lot! Where is she? Where did you leave her?"

"Leave her? She left me in London," said Dickson.

"You took her little money and came out here with it. I know that," said Sadler

"That's a lie," said Dickson.

"What is she doing-doing now?" asked Sadler.

"Doing? 'Ow should I know? Go and look for her on the streets," said Dickson.

And even as he spoke he sprang up and got away from Sadler. And Jim saw that he had the knife, which he had lent him, in his hand.

"Mind, Bill mind, he's got my knife," cried Jim.

But Sadler was perfectly quiet. He looked in front of him as if he saw no one.

"This hound says I'm to go and look for her— on the streets! My little girl, my little girl!"

And then he turned towards Dickson, who shrank away.

"Stand back," he said thickly, "or I will put this knife into you."

But even as he spoke he went round the little broken table, which stood on stakes driven into the earth. And Sadler followed him. And presently, with his eyes still upon Sadler, Dickson felt for the door, and turned and jumped through it, with Sadler after him. And even as they went, Jim cried out:—

"Oh. Bill, Bill!"

He sprang out of his bunk and ran barefoot after them into the rain and the darkness, which was now lighted faintly by the moon in a broken space of windy sky. By its light he saw the two men, like two dark shadows, running towards the river. Jim called out:—

"Mind the river, Bill, mind the river!"

And then he lost them in the thick and crackling brush. But he knew that his mate now had hold of Dickson, for he heard him scream:—

"Lemme go, or I'll knife you!"

And he heard Sadler laugh. Then they were down upon the ground together. Jim heard them fall, although he could not see them. He rushed through the tangle of the scrub and was thrown down by the exposed root of a gum tree on the very verge of the river's bank. He saw the two men rollihg over and over and writhing. He heard Dickson scream.

"Oh! Bill! Bill!" cried Jim.

And then both of them went over the bank. He heard another cry and a heavy plunge into the deep, quiet waters below. He found the path and slipped down it, and, coming to the edge of the water, almost fell in. And then he heard someone swimming. In his hand Jim found he held a heavy club of gum. He heard himself say:—

"If that's Dickson that comes up, I'll kill him, I'll kill him!"

So he cried out:—

"Who's that? Is that you, Bill?"

And even in the darkness he knew it was his mate, and he held out the stick to him and helped him ashore.

He saw the surface of the water, three or four yards from the shore, broken by something else rising. At that moment the full moon shone clearly. There was a hand, an arm, above the surface of the stream, which grasped at the empty air. Then he saw it sink, as if the man who held it up had been drawn down by something in the depths of the silent river.

And Sadler sat down in the slimy mud and sobbed to catch his breath.

"He's gone, he's gone!" cried Jim.

"Aye, he's gone," said Sadler. But he spoke very, very quietly.

Together they climbed the steep and slip-pery bank. Now Jim was the stronger, for even when they reached the level ground Bill Sadler leant upon him. And so they came to the hut. Bill sat down heavily on the little bench alongside the table and laid his head upon his arms. The water ran off him in a pool upon the ground.

"Did he cut you? "asked Jim, who was shaking.

But Bill shook his head.

"Get your things off and lie down," said Jim.

He helped his mate to strip, almost lifted him into his bunk and covered him with all the blankets they had. Then he fetched more wood and built up a big fire, and set the billy to boil again. He took his mate's things, wrung them out, and hung them up to dry. And Sadler sometimes sighed. It seemed as if he was very weak and tired. Jim went over to him and took him by the hand, but did not say anything. Bill Sadler raised his eyes and smiled a little wanly and nodded, and jerked his head sideways in a curious manner, as if he was thinking and could not speak. And soon he actually slept.

But Jim could not sleep. He sat by the fire and smoked all night till the early morning, which was clear and fine. With the dawn Bill woke up, and Jim saw that his eyes were steady again, and filled once more with a purpose, a purpose that was sweeter to his mind. The two men looked at each other and nodded a little shyly, as it seemed. And Jim went out and filled the billy from far up the rising stream, and came back and made tea for both of them. And after they had drunk it

Bill said:—

"Jim Grey, I'm going back to the Old Country, to London, my son. You spoke of going back. Will you come?"

"I'll come," said Jim.

And presently the two men rolled up their swags and set out for Forbes. Jim didn't ride, but led his horse. It was now a, splendid day, for the clouds and rain had passed. The sun was burning. They walked five miles without either saying a word. Bill Sadler seemed in a dream. But presently he spoke.

"It's mighty hot, mate!"

"Aye, as hot as hell," said Jim.

"Lend us your knife," said Bill, taking a fig of tobacco from his pocket. And Jim felt for it instinctively, and then remembered when he had seen it last.

"My knife, mate?" he said, as he looked straight ahead of him. "Why, that bloke had it. I— I thought you got it from him."

"Aye, and so I did," said Bill with a start, as he came out of his dream.

"Did you leave it at the hut?" asked Jim. "I'll ride back for it."

Bill Sadler didn't answer for a moment as he walked on. But at last he spoke.

"Don't go back, sonny, you'd never find it. Dickson got it again— deep!"

___________________

14: Blue Blood, or, The Pride of Lady Ambrosia.

J. J. Bell

1871-1934

World's News (Sydney) 10 Feb 1917

The Canadian Magazine May 1917

"REALLY, Mamma," said the Lady Ambrosia pettishly, "I wish you would talk of something else."

"But, my dearest Brosie, how can I talk of anything else when I can think of nothing else?" The Duchess of Dishwater dropped her lorgnette, took up the muffin she had chosen with its aid from the gold epergne, and looked wistfully over it at her only daughter.

They were seated in the buff drawing-room: the time was tea; the season spring. For some seconds there was silence, broken only by the disintegrating muffin.

"To think," sighed the Duchess, selecting another, "to think that only half an hour ago, in this very apartment, on this very carpet, you spurned Sir Augustus Sopeleigh!"

"You have already made that remark seventeen times." said Lady Ambrosia pettishly, extracting from the bonboniere of her chatelaine a banana.

"Well, I simply can't get over it," the Duchess huskily replied. "I'm sure I don't know what your poor dear father would say if he was alive. Such a splendid match!" She paused once more to refresh herself from the epergne. "What on earth made you spurn him? It is true that the color of his blood leaves something to be desired, and I grant you that he has more ear and less nose than the least high-toned of our ancestors; but think of his wealth, think how his garden adjoins ours!... Oh, how could you spurn him?"

Her daughter rose. "Once and for all, Mamma," she said pettishly, as she gracefully plunked the skin into a china ornament on the mantelpiece, "once and for all I must tell you that I can never marry a man with baggy knees."

ii

SEVERAL hours had rolled away. In the dining-room of Highjinks Hall the cloth had been removed. Sir Augustus Sopeleigh and his guest, the Honorable St. John St. James, a young man whose noble lineage went back several decades, were sitting over their wine.

"This is capital claret," remarked St. James, setting down the empty bottle, after noting the price on the label. "Devilish moderate at a shilling per bot. Does your merchant allow any reduction on a dozen?"

"So," replied the baronet wearily; "but he allows a few pence on the empties when returned in good condition."

"I must make a note of the brand," said the other, bringing out a combination fountain pen and toothpick richly jewelled, and slipping off his left cuff. "What do you call it? Can't read to-night."

"Chapeau Belleview, extra sec, vintage 1927."

"Good!" said the other. Having made the necessary jotting, he returned the cuff to its place. "I see you're still drinking port," he remarked.

"Alas, yes," was the weary reply. "But I fear it is of no avail. I had another sample of my blood examined the other day, and it is still as red as ever. My nose had led to hope, but I found it had led me on a false scent after all."

"Cheer up! Don't despair! Keep on imbibing." St. James said kindly. "And now tell me, how speeds the wooing of the fair Ambrosia?"

At these words a groan burst from the compressed lips of the unhappy host. "Ask me not, my dear friend!" he cried. "Ask me not! Ask me not! Ask me—"

"All right; I won't." said the Honorable St. John, helping himself to a clove.

"Then I will tell you. This very afternoon," said Sopeleigh, stirring uneasily in his chair, chair, "she spurned me."

"Not really?"

"Fact! And I know why!"

"You do?" The guest deliberately lit a Flor de Cabbajo. "Why?"

"Because— because my blood is not blue!" With a sob that rent the buttons from his waistcoat the baronet threw up his hands, and sank beneath the table.

iii

SCARCE a moment passed ere his guest joined him.

"Did she tell you that with her own voice?" asked St. John St. James cautiously.

"Of course not," was the weary reply. "Ambrosia would never be so familiar."

"Then you are laboring under a miserable delusion. Would you like to know her real reason for spurning you?"

"No! Never! Yes!"

"It is because you have baggy knees."

The baronet put his hand to his bead. "Worse and worse!" he exclaimed. "My case is indeed hopeless. For nothing I can do will keep my trousers from bagging at the knees. For years my tailors and valets have wrestled with the problem, but still they bag. Leave me, my friend, I am about to break down."

"Not at all." came the prompt reply. "All is not lost. I can show you the way to victory!"

"Show me!"

"I can tell you in two words."

"Tell me!"

St. John St. James took up a piece of bread that had been dropped during dinner and absorbed it thoughtfully. "By the way," he said at last, "can you lend me a couple of thousand, old cock? I'm a trifle tight at present."

"Certainly, certainly," cried Sir Augustus in an agony of suspense. "Lend me your pen."

Snatching forth his cheque-book, he rapidly wrote a cheque for £2000.

"Thanks," said the other, pocketing it.

"Wear kilts."

"My preserver!"

"Wear them at the Duchess's ball on the thirteenth prox."

"I will!" cried the baronet, his countenance illuminated with joy, and fell back in a swoon. But for the presence of a boiled potato he might have got concussion of the brain.

An evil, sneering smile divided the countenance of the guest. "Won't Ambrosia laugh!" he muttered.

Presently he arose, and, having emptied a couple of syphons on his unconscious host, rang for his goloshes.

iv

IT IS the eve of the ball. That's all.

v

WE ARE in the boudoir of the baronet.

"Finch," says our hero, who is slowly revolving in front of a mirror, "would it not be better if the tails of my coat came a little lower than the edge of my k-kilt?"

"Oh,no, sir. The tails and kilt must end simultaneously. That is quite de rigger, I can assure you, sir."

"Ah, well," comes the weary sigh, "so let it be." Suddenly he halts. "Finch, are my knees identical as to color?"

"They are, sir. But at the moment one of them is blushing a little."

"I see... Then you think I shall do?"

"I think, sir," says the honest fellow, with ill-concealed emotion, "that you will be the feature of the ball. But stay! One moment, sir. It occurs to me that the left calf could do with a little more inflation. What do you say, sir?"

"Pump away," is the weary reply. To himself the baronet says: "Oh, Brosie, Brosie, if only you knew what I have suffered to win your smile!"

vi

WE ARE in the boudoir of the Lady Ambrosia.

"What hair will my lady be pleased to wear this evening?" the maid respectfully inquires in French.

"Oh, don't ask me. Something to go with my gloves." Ambrosia answers pettishly, burying her head in a bouquet of calceolarias that has just arrived. These is no card with it, and the invoice tells her nothing save the price, but in her heart of hearts she knows the consignor.

"Oh," she sighs to the fragrant blooms, "if only he had not baggy knees! Alas, alas! Why am I so proud? Why must I respect before I can love? Why—"

The Duchess has entered the room. She wears a plum-colored dressing-gown, and is white to the tip.

"Brosie, a terrible thing has happened!"

Pale as the vegetation in her hand, her daughter stares at her. "Mother! is he dead?"

"They've forgotten to send the muffins!"

vii

THE BAND was playing a dreamy two-step when Sir Augustus Sopeleigh, who hall been delayed owing to a misunderstanding with the cabby, entered the ball-room.

"Ha! ha! ha!" laughed St. John St. James in the Lady Ambrosia's blushing ear. "What price baggy knees now?"

"Ninny!" she said pettishly, administering a biff with her fan to his patrician proboscis, whereupon he turned away with a malignant sniff.

The sight of the calceolarias was as wine to the fainting soul of Sopeleigh. His legs, which had hitherto well-nigh failed him, now carried him swiftly to her side. And there her soft "te-hee" of greeting rejoiced his heart and set it beating furiously.

"May I have a polka-mazurka?" he asked boldly, yet respectfully.

With a divine blush she consulted her card. "I'm afraid it's not on the menu," she said sweetly, "but I— I'm not engaged for the Centipede Crawl or the Hippo Hop, Sir Augustus."

"I claim them both," he said, with a new dignity that sat well upon him, and made way for other and importunate cavaliers.

He was admiring the decorations, especially the banner emblazoned with the ancient family's motto of "HIC, HAEC, HOC," and wondering how many of the old dukes had passed away with, at least, the first of these words on their lips, when he felt a slight pressure on the back of his right leg. Ere he could turn a sharp report rang out. St. John St. James, closing his toothpick, mingled with the crowd.

"Punctured!" muttered the unhappy baronet, clutching his beaded brow.

viii

BUT FATE was on his side. Ere much attention could fall upon him, the Duchess's voice was heard proclaiming:—

"The muffins have arrived, after all!"

Amid the huzzas of the excited company Sir Augustus escaped to the gent's cloak-room.

"May heaven reward my faithful, thoughtful valet," he soliloquised, as he prepared to make good the damage, "for I never can, unless I raise his wages."

From his sporran (a sort of vanity bag worn by Highlanders), he brought a cyclist's repairing outfit. Then, having located and sealed up the puncture, he drew his dirk (dagger) which was really a miniature pump.

Within an hour he returned to the ball-room, humming, "I fear no foe," to the air of "The camels are coming."

"What is that grating noise?" asked several fair ones of the cavaliers.

"Something for supper," was the general reply.

As a matter of fact, it was St. John St. James's teeth.

ix

THE VILLAIN had enticed our heroine to the darkest part of the conservatory.

"You love another!" he hissed.

"You forget yourself, sir," she said, pettishly.

"But you shall never wed him!"

"Be good enough to take me back to Mamma!"

"I don't think! Hear me! I swear you shall never celebrate your nuptials with another— not a blooming nuptial!" He bent closer. "Listen, Brosie!—"

"How dare you breathe on me!"

"Listen, Brosie! His calves are false!"

The Lady Ambrosia rose to her full height, and, pointing to the left, said: "I care not! For know that his heart is true— true as yonder star!"

"That's not a star. That's somebody's cigar. But enough! Your hour has come!" Grasping her slender neck, he began to drag her across the floor.

"Where are you conveying me?" she demanded pettishly.

"To the tank!"

She screamed aloud. (There were 17 couples in the conservatory then, but, though several panes cracked, they heard nothing.)

"In you go! You can't float— saw you once at the seaside."

Plump!

The villain turned to depart, only to find his nose grasped as in a vice. Our hero, searching for his partner for the Centipede Crawl, had arrived in the nick. He forced the traitor first to his knees and then to his back. Then, using the wretch's diaphragm as a spring-board, he plunged feet-long into the tank. The depth of water there was usually about four feet, but Ambrosia's presence reduced it by some 12 inches. She was more bruised than drowned. Aided by his pneumatic accessories, our hero, supporting her finger tips, was able to keep treading water until help arrived in the person of the butler, the family corkscrew.

x

THANKS to the Hippo Hop, they soon got dry, and were none the worse for their thrilling experience, save for slight colds in their heads. Their engagement was announced at supper, and the congratulations were numerous, while many promises of valuable presents were obtained.

Left to himself in the conservatory, St. John St. James sought to end a misspent life by climbing to the top of the family tree and plunging downwards, head foremost. On finding that he had injured nothing but a couple of cacti, he decided to live on. And he has been living on (his friends) ever since. Ambrosia forgave him, and accepted his wedding gift of a silver-plated egg-boiler on the instalment system, now so justly popular, even among the better classes of the community. Ambrosia has already received the first instalment— an egg. She is seldom pettish now, and permits Augustus to wear trousers on Sundays.

____________________

15: The House Among the Pines

E Charles Vivian

(Charles Cannell, 1882-1947)

The Sovereign Magazine Oct 1924

World's News (Sydney) 23 Jan 1926

FROM Leith Hill it is visible, and also, from Ranmore, as a squat roof rising out of a dome of pines— as it there were in that place one of the barrows of the old dead, clothed with trees long after its making. Barry Houston stopped the car up  on Ranmore one June evening, and looked across at the roof of the house among the pines.

"What is it, Barry?" asked Nesta James.

"Folcombe's place." He pointed as he spoke. "You remember Leonard Folcombe?"

"No— who is, he?"

"I thought you' met him once— with me." Barry explained. "He's— of course, though, you wouldn't have forgotten, if you had met him."

"What is he, then?" she asked, with quickened interest. She was engaged to Barry Houston— or she would never have been out with him in his car—but the suggestion of a man who was unforgettable made enough interest to render the question insistent.

"I used to know him very well," Barry answered. "He was in the same department with me— rather a wonder with his inventions. Then he fell in love with a typist, and she left him for another man, and he swore off women. Buried himself— over there."

"No man ever really swears off women," she remarked, snuggling closer to him. "I believe I heard of this— Leonard Folcombe. The man with the wonderful eyes— isn't that the one?"

Houston nodded. "That's Folcombe," he agreed. "We might run round by his place— there's plenty of time. Unless you'd rather—"

She waited, but he left the suggestion incomplete. Then— "Yes, if you like," she agreed, and on that Houston pressed the self starter.

They came, within the hour, into a narrow, rutted lane, where the car rocked like a boat at sea, and Houston slowed to a lesser pace than a walk. Over them the hedges nearly met; there was a slit of light over them ahead, and under it the green tunnel faded into gloom, for it was already a half hour sunset. Houston accelerated for a rise in the ground, and suddenly stopped with the engine running.

"There," he said, with a gesture at a gate on their left.

"You mean— this is his place?" Nesta asked.

"It is," he answered. "Like to see the hermit?"

"How do you know he's a hermit?" she countered.

"Must be— he's never been seen in his old haunts since that girl threw him over," Houston answered. "But he'd see me— care to come along and try?"

She smiled an answer, and opened the door of the car. Houston followed her out after he had stopped the engine, and together they went up toward the gate; in the gloom under the trees he drew her close to him momentarily, and kissed her.

"Don't— somebody might see," she urged.

"I don't care," he retorted.

He turned the latch of the gate with difficulty; it was rusted and old, and the gate itself, red with rust where the white paint had blistered and fallen away, shrieked painfully as he opened it. They had not passed, half-a-dozen yards beyond it when a man came out from ragged, untended laurels, and faced them.

The light had begun to fail, but enough was left to show him as dressed in shabby and none too clean tweeds; his thin, keen features were lighted by wonderful eyes— it is seldom that the word "lighted" is applicable as it was in this case, for this man's eyes, softly luminous, seemed to dominate rather than complete his features. It was the face of an ascetic, untouched by the sun or wind— the face of one who had given up life to a purpose, and had pursued it with unswerving strength. He stared at Nesta, and gave Houston merely a cursory glance.

"What do you want?" he asked, abruptly.

"I suggested calling to see you," Houston answered.

At that, the man transferred his attention from Nesta to her companion.

"So it's you, Houston," he said, as if the discovery occasioned surprise. "I thought you knew— I see nobody?"

"Well, I'm somebody," Houston said, with a faint smile. "This is Miss James, my fiancée. We saw your place— the roof of it— from Ranmore, and I suggested coming over."

Folcombe bowed slightly toward the girl.

"You are the first woman, Miss James, to enter by that gate since I came to live here," he told her. "I— I bar women."

There was a grimness in the statement that made it unanswerable. Nesta could feel this strange man's eyes, as he stared at her— as if he had already forgotten Houston's existence. Somewhere near them the, intermittent thud ding of a gas engine troubled the air, as much, concussion as sound. Folcombe moved first.

"From the conventional viewpoint, it's growing late," he said- "but, perhaps you'll come in for a minute, now you're here. My man can make some "tea, I think."

Houston consulted his wrist watch. "I had no idea it was so late," he said.  "Perhaps, if you'll let us come up some other day—"

But Folcombe half leaned, towards the girl. "You'll come in— just for a few minutes?" he asked.

"Well—" Houston answered for her— "it's very good of yon, Folcombe. We mustn't stay long."

Folcombe led them along a winding path among the laurels that had grown and out-thrust till there was barely width for one; he took them on to a dingy door of a big, shabby Georgian house, and stood, back for them to enter.

"First door on the right," he said. "I'll go and see if Wragg can turn out some tea."

ii

THE ROOM they entered was of incredible untidiness. It furnishings were of the horse. hair and mahogany of a dead age, shabby, comfortless and ugly. There were holes in the carpet, and the paper curled away from the walls. On a big dining table was a confusion of instruments that Houston could not place or recognise, gleaming brass tubes fixed to each other at varying angles, prisms of different shapes and sizes, something that looked like, but was not, a theodolite, and a thing of wheels and cams and delicate driving chains. Nearer now, and more oppressively, the thudding of the suction gas engine sounded; each beat seemed to shake the walls of the room.

"Does he live here?" Nesta whispered.

Houston nodded. "Exists," he amended. "He's coming back."

But it was not Folcombe who entered. A little, middle-aged man with scarred face came in shirt-sleeves showing grimy as his untidy vest. He carried a tray on which was a teapot and cups and saucers, which he set down gingerly at the edge of the big table. Folcombe, with milk and sugar, followed him.

"That's all, Wragg— unless you're hungry?" Folcombe said.

"No," said Houston, "we've had dinner."

"Then have some tea," Folcombe suggested, as the man Wragg went out. "Miss James, perhaps you'll pour me out some, too. Good stuff to work on, tea."

He stood watching while she poured out and handed him a cup

"You, too," he insisted. "It's good tea."

Houston nodded assent as she looked at him, and she poured two more cups. Folcombe helped himself largely to sugar, and stirred.

"You're the first " he said, and paused. Then— "Except for Wragg, I don't see anyone—"

"But what do you do, then?" Houston asked, with a trace of impatience.

With surprising strength for one so slightly built, Folcombe pulled forward a big arm chair. "Sit down, Miss James," he invited. "Do? Well, I'm about to change the world— rule it, perhaps. I've put in— what is it, Houston? Six years since I vanished, isn't it?"

Houston made a mental calculation. "About that," he agreed.

"And I've done— what haven't I done?" He moved abruptly to the door, and clicked a switch which flooded the shabby room with a blaze of light. "I've sweated and studied, day and night— they're talking of rays now— death rays, and all sorts of rays, but I was first."

There followed a silence, until Houston asked, "With what?"

"It would be difficult to explain," Folcombe answered.

"What's that engine?" Houston asked suddenly.

"Eighty-horse suction gas— down in the basement," Folcombe answered readily. "I run it for light and power."

"But, man, you don't need a tenth of that horse-power," Houston protested. ''You could light ten houses like this, and heat them, too."

"Power as well," Folcombe explained. "That engine runs an air compressor— I get six hundred pounds pressure to the square inch— and need it at times, I've not spent six years here—"

He broke off at that, and paced to stand over Nesta James, looking down at her. There was a quality of expression in his wonderful eyes that half-frightened, half-fascinated her, as she looked- up at him.

"What have you done," she asked.

"I have made myself a king," he answered slowly. "Gone to the point where I can command ultimate power, take all I want— all."

She shook her head. "Not all," she contradicted.

"All!" he insisted. He seemed, in regarding her, to ignore Houston, to change in some indefinable way instantly— it was as if an automaton became human for the minute.

"Perhaps you don't care to explain," Houston suggested. There was a trace of irritation in his voice, as if he resented the way in which Folcombe looked at Nesta James.

"It's odd," Folcombe answered slowly, "but you two have came in the crest of the wave— just as I completed this— this conquest. It is conquest, a thing so big—"

There again he paused. Houston looked at his wrist watch, and noted the lateness of the hour.

"That doesn't explain," he said.

"It's infinitely simple," Folcombe said with a smile. "You know the ether— the ether that fills all space, the basic principle of all matter. If one could change it—"

"The imponderable ether," Houston quoted.

Folcombe shook his head. "No," he said. "Marconi disproved that, when he made it a vehicle for wireless waves. But suppose I— or anyone— started from the fact that this invisible and undetectable ether could be resolved into matter? It's the basis of creation, you know— the world and its atmosphere were resolved out of ether in the first place, and if one had power to transform the ether that fills space, that one could make a solid bridge from the earth to the Sun. It is a matter of aligning particles, using light to force alignment—"

"I don't understand," Nesta said.

"It has taken me six hard years," Folcombe answered her. "Six years without a single human interest, unending study and patience. And I've won. I can create a world, or annihilate this, at will."

He saw Houston's incredulous, half-pitying smile, and went to turn another switch by the fireplace of the room.

"You shall see," he said, almost savagely. They sat watching, while he picked up a rubber tube that they had not observed before; it came out from the wall at the level of the floor, and Folcombe took up its unattached end, which he brought to the table, and slipped over a brass nozzle on the thing that looked like, but was not, a theodolite. Then, still without explaining, he went to the window, and opened it wide

"It's not quite dark, yet," he said, coming back to the table, and swinging his instrument round so that its telescope-like tube pointed, out through the window, "but we'll see things outside better without this light in here. Switch it off, will you, Houston?"

Houston complied; they seemed in complete darkness, at first, and then their eyes attuned themselves to the gloom. Folcombe, they saw, stood at the back of his instrument, sighting it through the window, and there came a series of little clicks as he adjusted it.

"A matter of proof," he said. "I know exactly what you think— I can imagine you pitying me for having become eccentric here, but you see the pines outside, now the light is out."

"I can see them," Nesta answered him.

"Then just watch them carefully, now—"

Through an interval in which nothing happened, they watched: then into the silence of the room there came a thin droning note. That intensified and grew shriller— it was like the note of an electric fan revolving at incredibly high speed. It went up to a shriek, and suddenly Nesta cried out, for the dark crests of the pines that cut the sky line were melting away, leaving clear sky beyond.

They heard first the rustle of a wind, and this grew to a roar; the pine branches seemed to suck up and vanish, inexplicably, and the roaring grew, while all the grove that showed through the window tossed and swayed as if driven by a mighty gale. In the force of that suddenly risen, tremendous wind, the whole house shook, and before their eyes the trees melted away to nothingness.

Beginning with their topmost branches, they disappeared, while Houston and Nesta watched, and presently there was a clear Jane through the pines, a break in "the woodland screen that left only the clear sky visible. Then abruptly the shriek of Folcombe's strange instrument changed to a mere whirr and ceased; a tile dropped to the ground outside the window with a shattering crash, and then the roar of the gale died to stillness.

Folcombe turned from his instrument. "You see, now," he said. "We might as well have the light on again."

Houston went to the switch, and turned it. Nesta, he saw, was regarding Folcombe with eyes in which fear was mingled with... something else, and in Folcombe's wonderful eyes was a new light as he looked at her. Houston moved back beside her.

''That," Folcombe said, "is only a little thing. It was the first part of my discovery— to annihilate. "With the little power that I get from my engine I was able— you saw it— to reduce the trees, and the air, and everything in the path of the ray to absolute nothingness— to create a vacuum. The wind, you heard was air rushing into the vacuum I created. And then, after that, I reversed the process, and learned how to create matter from the ether—"

"I don't understand," Nesta said.

"It's very simple," Folcombe answered, apparently ignoring Houston. "All space is filled with what is known as the ether— something more tenuous than gas, something that occupies no space apparently and pervades every substance as water may soak in mud. It is the root principle of matter, the unassembled atoms, and when I showed you this experiment just now, all I did was to resolve every particle of matter in the path of the ray back into ether— to annihilate it, you would have said fifty years ago. By reversing the process, I create matter out of the ether— out of nothing."

She thought over it for a minute. "And then?" she asked.

"Since the ether is the base of all and every form of matter, I can create what I like," Folcombe answered.

"Gold?" she asked— in little more than a whisper.

Folcombe smiled— it, was for the first time, and the change made his face wonderfully beautiful, while his strange eyes lighted up.

"It was the first thing I thought of, too," he said. "Yes, gold— or I could clothe you in jewels, or wrap you in iron, or set you on a throne of crystal. Anything— the whole world is mine."

She leaned forward as she sat, with avid eyes and parted lips.

"And you are here!" she said, wonderingly.

Folcombe shook his head. "Not much longer," he said. "I go out from this place with power to buy the world. I need float no company, for I can make what I will, destroy what I will, have what I will—"

"Not quite,' she said, still in that awed, hushed tone. "There are still some things that gold cannot buy, and some people, if you clothed them in jewels, as you say— you would not alter their souls."

Folcombe laughed harshly. "You think go?" he asked. "But— once, something over six years ago, I found it so. If I had had, then, all that I can have now, I could have bought what I wished. Somebody else came with more power to buy— one may buy anything— anything."

There was fierce emphasis in the repeated word. Houston, standing back from them, looked at his wrist watch again, and started forward.

"Nesta! It wants just ten minutes of midnight!"

She started up then with a scared look. They had forty miles to go, and there were those who would question her absence.

"We must go— at once.'' she said. "But— I've been so fascinated, Mr. Folcombe. Perhaps you will tell us more, some other time,"

"Any time," he answered. "You two—" suddenly he seemed to remember and include Houston— "constitute any first human interest in six years. You'll be welcome any time."

He went out with them to the gate; Houston went out into the road to switch on the lights of the car, and for that minute Nesta and Folcombe stood together, beyond his hearing and in the darkness.

"There are some moments that are worth days," Folcombe said. "I may be influenced by long solitude— I don't know. But you—"

He grasped her arm, and held her, waiting, as she stood beside him.

"Yes?" she asked.

The lights of the car flashed along, the black darkness of the lane, and Folcombe let her go.

"All the kingdoms of the earth— yours, if you will," he said. "You have seen— all I may choose to give is in my gift."

"But there is Barry— I have promised," she urged

Folcombe opened the gate, which had closed of itself. Houston was coming back toward them from the far side of the ear.

"It is in your hands," Folcombe. said. "Remember— all the kingdoms of the earth— and you as queen."'

iii

SHE WAS very silent on the journey back. All her life she had known and lived with poverty; Houston was a young struggler, who waited until he should be able to support her before turning engagement into marriage. Already they had waited a year, and now it seemed that they might go on waiting interminably— and every year was a year lost, life was slipping by....

"All the kingdoms of the earth ."

She saw again the pines melting inexplicably, heard in the purring engine, the wind that roared about the house, among the pines

"He'll do it."' Houston, beside her, spoke suddenly. "He's no charlatan, Nesta, but the cleverest man I know. "He'll make and have what he wants, and you and I—"

He broke off there, leaving the bitter thought unexpressed. She laid her hand on his as it rested on the rim of the driving wheel.

"My dear," she said, "he will perhaps make material things, and buy material things? But there are things— such as belongs to us two— immaterial things— that he can never buy."

"You don't know— I was thinking of what it means," he objected. "Supposing— gold as much as he can ask. Look at what it means, and especially in the hands of a man like that! If he offered you—"

"All the kingdoms of the earth," she completed.

"Could you resist him?" Houston put the question with fierce energy— "If he's right in his claims— and he is right— could you resist the temptation? Could anyone?"

"Barry—" her voice was wonderfully tender— "his wealth and his power cannot buy everything. "We can hold ourselves above material things, if we will. Don't lose faith, dear."

"There was a time," Houston said, "when Leonard Folcombe came to me— a long while ago, before he had done anything. It was some trouble he was in— I never asked. I gave him what help he wanted, and from that day to this he has never even mentioned, it."

"Yet he is not the sort that would forget," she urged.

"But he has forgotten," Houston said savagely. "He talks of unlimited power, but I am no more to him than a man seen for the first time. I'm unreasonable to-night, Nesta. The way he looked at you— forgetting not only me, but—"

He jammed down his brake suddenly , as a car came out from a side road; they had only inches to spare on the swerve, but he came through safely, and drove on.

"It's envy, Nesta, probably," he confessed. "I seem to have waited for you so long a time, and Folcombe—"

"Has spent six years utterly alone," she completed. "Grant that whatever he has, he has earned."

Houston laughed, satirically. "He's earned a champion, anyhow," he gibed. "But then a man with his power—"

She left it unanswered, and after a time Houston felt that he had been ungenerous. He waited for her to give him an opening to apologise, but she kept silence, and so they came to the dark doorway of her home. She opened the door and got down from the car without waiting for his aid.

"Good-night, Barry," she said; and vanished in the darkness of the doorway. As he gained the pavement he heard the click of the lock and sound of the door closing: he stood for a minute, amazed at such a parting, and then he got back into the car and drove away.

iv

TWO DAYS later Folcombe came to Nesta James. He sent in a card and was shown in to the shabby drawing room of her home by the dingy little servant, and Nesta saw that he had made some attempt to smarten up his ancient tweeds. She had not seen Houston since the night when she had left him so abruptly, and was still waiting for him to make the first move. Now came Folcombe, utterly unexpected, in his place.

"Say you're glad to see me," he asked, as he entered the room.

"I'm wondering how you found me," she answered.

His gesture implied, that the point was of no importance. "It's the fact of finding you," he said. "I'm all alone with a car I've just bought, and want you to come out with me. I want to settle some problems in my own mind."

She shook her head. "I've only met you once, Mr. Folcombe," she objected, "and I happen to be wearing an engagement ring. These things are not done, you must understand."

He came near her, stood over her. "I am above convention and above law," he said, looking down at her. "You don't seem to have grasped what I told you the other night. 'All the kingdoms of the earth—mine.' And so, yours too, if you will."

There was an hypnotic quality in his gaze which held her own in spite of her will— the man had uncanny power, and she realised it, yet could not resist it.

"I don't want them— I belong to Barry," she managed to say.

"Yes, I know— it was as if he would soothe a fractious child. "And Barry came to me— he is down at my place now. If you'll come out with me, we'll go to him."

"Barry— with you?" she echoed incredulousy.

Folcombe smiled. "A long while ago, he did me a service," he answered. "I don't forget things like that."

It fitted in so with what Houston had told her, and at the same time justified her defence of Folcombe.  Such accidents of speech as was this of his decide fates, and by it he decided her.

"Yes," she said, "I will come."

v

HE TOOK her up the rutted, narrow lane that led to the house among the pines, and the car he drove made silken waves of the  lane's inequalities. It was a thing of power and beauty, one that made Houston's car seem like a cheap toy. Folcombe made no comment on it, and he drove like a master, slowing up at the ancient gateway with effortless ease.

He left the car in the lane and took her tip to the house, and into the room in which she had sat with Houston to see annihilation—not mere destruction, but something , of infinitely greater moment, as she knew.

There, on the great mahogany table, was the welter of instruments, and beside that was the tea tray, as if it had not been moved since she left the room. Folcombe lifted forward an armchair and bade her sit down.

"Wragg saw us coming in, I think," he said. "Here's tea waiting. Wouldn't you like a cup?"

She looked up at him. "Where is Barry?" she asked.

Folcombe returned her gaze steadily.

"I don't know," he answered. Somewhere near, them the great gas engine was thudding, monotonously; it seemed to intensify the silence of this lonely house, and she felt afraid. Yet in the eyes of the man before her was no more than a great longing— nothing to cause her fear.

"He is a little thing— nothing to us, any more," he said. "You and I— he spoke your name, but I loved you before I heard it. Love is not knowledge. Nesta— it is a thing of a moment, and when I saw you there by the gate I knew— fate had sent the one women to me. All I have done is yours— all I am is yours, Nesta?"

The last word was a question, or perhaps a plea. His eyes said more than words could ever say, and there was about him, now, that quality of fascination that had first impressed her, a quality that could drive out her fear. He looked a very gentle, perfect knight, a man worth all trust, as he stood beside her. She rose to her feet.

"If— if all that is true, Mr. Folcombe," she said, "take me to him— help me to find him."

Momentarily he looked puzzled, and then he moved towards the door. "Come this way," he bade. "I must show you something, first."

She followed obediently, and he led her to a door on the same side of the corridor as that of the room they had left. He opened the door inward, and bade her look within the room.

"You see?" he asked. "Those bars by the wall there. Gold."

"Gold?" she echoed, in an awed way. For the mass of bars by the wall was her own height; there were tons of the gleaming metal, she knew, an incredible fortune hidden in this lonely house.

"Gold," he said. "I created it, by just such a process as I showed you two the other night. Don't you understand, Nesta? I can create, anything. I took two bars from this room, to convince myself, and sold them. The car that stands outside is the result— I have got to certainly, now— beyond experiment. And this is a small beginning— I can own and rule the world, when I wish. But you— you first."

She swung round and faced him. "But why?" she asked. "This is the second time we have met— only the second time ?."

Folcombe laid his hand on her arm, "There is no 'why' in love," he said. "It is— and there is an end. And I— I shall be master of the world, able to create and command all things. I need you, Nesta."

It was fantastically incredible; suddenly she knew that even if it were true, it would, be nothing to her. She had a sense that it was true, but dominating, her, nullifying all that this man could say, was the thought of Barry Houston, who waited and worked and hoped. With all his faults, Barry meant the world to her, a greater world than ever Folcombe could offer.

"I'm sorry," she said. "It's quite useless. You see— there's Barry. I belong to him."

"It is nothing," Folcombe said confidently.

"You are wrong:— it is everything,", she retorted with a trace of impatience. "I told you there were some things you could never buy."

The thudding of the engine, somewhere under them, went on, a dull monotony of sound. Folcombe, facing her, leaned against the wall of the corridor.

"You mean that you hold to him?" he asked, as if it were incredible.

"Always," she answered. "Nothing you could say or do— nothing you could give— nothing on earth could change me."

As if she were non-existent he turned, and went back to the room where the instruments were jumbled on the table. The open window showed the lane through the pines that he had made, the proof of his power to annihilate; he fingered that strange implement of shining brass and glittering prisms with which he had worked, and suddenly she saw him throw over two switches in its side.

"It's not worth while," he said abruptly. "Without you—annihilation is better."

He swung the telescope-looking tube to point through the window, clicked another stud in the side of the instrument. Again she heard the whine that shrilled to shrieking, and outside the window, in the path of the ray flung by the thing, grew an eddy and rush of air that was almost visible; while the rising wind roared about the house as air rushed into the vacuum. Folcombe, standing beside her, suddenly grasped her hand and lifted it to his lips.

"Just that," he said. "I planned for all I could ask, and find there is one thing I can never have. The rest is not worth having!"

She did not comprehend his intent as he left her and moved toward the window. She saw him step up to the sill, and as he stood on it he looked back at her; the memory of his wonderful eyes never left her consciousness altogether. Then, as she still stood uncomprehending, he leaped outward and upward, towards the ray thrown by his instrument.

He was sucked into the ray by the converging streams of air as a straw is sucked into a whirlpool: for moment he was a sprawling figure in the air against the skyline, and then he vanished as, in his first experiment, the pine trees had vanished. He simply leaped outward and was not, but there was blank, sky and roaring wind where he had been; no vestige of a man remained, nothing to indicate that there had been any man, and at the uncanny sight Nesta James screamed aloud.

"Barry! Barry!" she shrieked.

But now no voice could have reached over the roaring gale that grew in intensity every second. Away into the clarity of the west scurried forming clouds, for second by second: the power of the annihilating ray flung farther and farther into space, causing a funnel of emptiness towards which air rushed from every quarter. She saw a rook, sailing easily at first, struggle vainly against the mad gale, saw it sucked into the vacuum and dissipated to less than air.

It vanished as Folcombe had vanished, not merely destroyed, but taken out of existence as if it had never been. And ever the gale grew and clouds formed along the track of the ray, till the sky before her was a madness of swirling wrack, and the, house trembled with the violence of the hurricane that beset it.

She made her way to the door and leaned against the sucking wind that threatened to drew her into the annihilating vortex. It was drawing her  compelling her, and round the corner of the house there shrieked such a wind as she had never heard before. She dropped to her hands and knees, and crawled, fearing to walk lest the mighty wind should overcome her strength, and as she crawled she could feel the steady thudding of the great engine in the house that built up power for the mindless machine which went on annihilating air, unchecked.

Down by the gate the force of the wind was less; she got to her feet and regarded her hands, dirty and bleeding from contact with the path. Tragedy and storm had come on her with such a rush that she had as yet no power of thought, no sense of the magnitude of what she had witnessed. And even if she had been able to think coherently, she had not enough knowledge to realise that Folcombe's instrument was stripping the air off the earth, reducing it to intangible and useless ether, as it had reduced Folcombe himself.

It had but to continue, and the whole of the earth's atmosphere would be sucked into the funnel-like vortex, leaving people gasping like fish out of water, until the whole of the world's breathing creatures were dead.

But that was not to be; the untended engine in the basement of the house, thudding at its work, piled up compressed air in reservoirs at a pressure of six hundred pounds to the square inch. Untended and neglected, the pressure went beyond safety point while she stood by the gate.

She saw the house among the pines appear to leap into the air as the compressed air tanks exploded; she heard none of the noise of the explosion, perhaps because of the raging gale about her, perhaps because the out flung volume of pressure caught her before the sound could reach her brain. She was flung against the gate, stunned, and there lay until Houston, who had heard at her home that someone had called for her, and had seen the card Folcombe had sent in, drove up to find her and take her back.

vi

THEY TALK yet of the strange storm that raged in the pine country; they tell how a wind suddenly grew up from nothing to such a mighty whirlwind as had never been known, and they say that a strange man used to live up on the little hillock where there is now no trace of the house that was his. An eccentric man, he used to be— a little mad, perhaps. He was never seen out but once, when he drove a new, shining car that was found afterwards, a mass of scrap iron and ruined upholstery, not far from the great hole that showed where his house once stood.

Houston and his wife know the truth, but they do not tell it. There is a little middle-aged man named Wragg— he was out when the catastrophe happened— who knows some of it, and who also prefers to say nothing.

And Houston's wife has been heard to say of her baby that it is more to her than all the kingdoms of the earth.

_________________

16: The Langdon Mystery

Leroy Scott

1875-1929

The New McClure's Oct 1928

World's News (Sydney) 11 Sept 1929

IT was at 9 o'clock exactly that Gen. Thorne, Commissioner of Police, accompanied by young Arnold Booth, mounted the steps of what still was called the Moreland house, a monument to the departed glories of a Fifth Avenue now in the hands of wrecking crews and apartment house builders. He rang the bell of the massive imported doors.

"Keep a stiff backbone, Arnold, and a stiff tongue in what we're about to go through with," prompted the General while they waited.

"I will— but this is an awful role you've cast me for!" exclaimed the younger man.

"I've forced you into this part for you own good— and for Muriel's," was the kind, but dominant response.

"You know, Arnold," he went on, "that I picked your firm of lawyers to represent Muriel solely because you were a member of the firm— and that I insisted upon your handling her case personally, because it largely is your own personal case. The only way, Arnold, to clean up a case is to face the issues squarely in the open, have a showdown, fight to a finish if necessary. Tonight you clean up this case— you fight your fight for your own!"

One of the heavy doors swung open, and before them in the shadowy light, stood a young woman. Gen. Thorne kissed her as a father might have done. Silently she gave Arnold Booth a hand, which, in silence he accepted.

"Are you your own butler to-night Muriel?" inquired Gen. Thorne.

"I gave everybody the night oft," the young woman explained, "since you said over the telephone our conference was to be very confidential."

"And Hugh, is he here?" the General asked anxiously.

"Hugh is waiting with Mother."

"In the library? You arranged the meeting for the library, as I asked?"

"Yes, uncle."

GEN. THORNE was not her uncle. He had been her father's best friend, and, since her father's death, when she was ten, he had been both guardian and father. He took her shoulders in firm hands, and gazed with intent affection down into the strained and lovely face of the only daughter his bachelorhood had known.

She was no more than twenty-two, but features and figure radiated nothing of that spirited happiness which should have glowed within a bride of less than three years.

"Try to have courage, Muriel," the General urged in a kindly voice.

She led them back, through a silent hallway into the great library rich with old tapestries, its walls and ceilings of panelled Flemish oak.

Gen. Thorne nodded shortly at a handsome young man leaning at his ease against the library desk, and made straight for a wheelchair in which, as on a throne, sat an erect elderly woman who had been a dominant figure in New York society back it those years before society had ceased to exist. Before her Gen. Thorne made a courtly bow that bespoke diplomatic as well as military service."

"Good evening, Caroline."

Muriel's mother made him no response in words, but her eyes of preternatural vividness glowed a welcome. She had been the one love of Gen. Thorne's life, and he loved her now almost as he had loved her in those far days when she had refused him, and had accepted Muriel's father; for him, despite years and changes, she somehow still had the quality of regal beauty.

Mrs. Moreland was now a helpless paralytic; worse than helpless, for she could not speak, she could not write, and all other methods of communication with those about her had been closed to her. But sight, hearing, and brain were unimpaired.

Sometimes it had seemed to Gen. Thorne that the most tragic phase of his friend's misfortune was that all her higher faculties were as keen as when she had been at her best, and that the wisdom, the urgency, the power for right of those faculties were now left without instrument for expression. She wore a loose grey robe, open at the neck, and in her lap lay her hands, limp, helpless, immobile.

"What did Dr. Howard say, Muriel?" Gen. Thorne eagerly asked the daughter. Dr. Howard was yet another great specialist who had been called in, and his examination of Mrs. Moreland had taken place that afternoon.

"HE held out practically no hope. He said that since mother had been this way for two years and had responded to no treatment, he believed she would always be the same."

"Dr. Howard said nothing further?"

"He did say something about the possibility of some tremendous psychic stimulant, some swift, overwhelming emotion, galvanising her nerve centres into spasmodic life. But such life would last only while the stimulant lasted, and she would quickly slip back into her present condition. He said there had been such cases."

Gen. Thorne gazed again at Mrs. Moreland, and slowly shook his head in sympathy.

"Too bad, Caroline— too bad."

There had been no hesitancy in thus speaking frankly before Mrs. Moreland of her illness, because even in her prime here had been a nature that desired to know the worst of any situation, and that was ever ready to face the worst. Those nearest her knew that affliction had not changed this attitude. Therefore, all things vitally touching her and hers were invariably talked over in her presence. This was the simplest and surest method of acquainting her with facts which concerned her.

Gen. Thorne turned to the young man leaning in such pleasant unconcern against the desk. The two young men were second cousins, but Hugh Langdon, with his handsome face, his smart clothes, his ease and charm of manner, was a brilliant cosmopolitan beside whom Arnold Booth, for all his courtroom experience, looked little better than a foil.

"Hugh, draw a chair up to that side of your mother-in-law," directed Gen. Thorne. "Arnold, place your chair at the other side of your aunt. Muriel and I will sit between you. We are going to have this affair out all five of us together."

Hugh moved leisurely to his place. When they were seated in an arc about the silent woman— all but she were in evening dress; it was almost as if court were in session, that helpless silent woman its high judge.

"Now, Arnold, begin," commanded Gen. Thorne.

It was indeed a distasteful, difficult task considering the relations among the five of them, that the kindly martinet of a Gen. Thorne had placed upon Arnold Booth.

"Aunt Caroline," began Arnold huskily, placing a hand upon her grey shoulder— she was of more distant kinship, but he had always called her aunt— "I'd rather be doing almost anything in the world than what I'm doing now. But— but I've got to carry on. Aunt Caroline, as far as facts and conclusions are concerned, I speak for both Gen. Thorne and myself; he has been behind me and my firm in everything.

"To start with: Muriel must divorce Hugh."

"DIVORCE me," Hugh drawled with a challenging smile, "so that she can marry you, dear cousin Arnold? Is that your meaning?"

"Exactly!" cut in Gen. Thorne. "Muriel should have married Arnold in the first place!"

"You're forgetting, General, that dear cousin Arnold had the same chance that I had," Hugh responded, with an ease that amounted to a deliberate taunting of the older man. "Muriel chose me."

Gen. Thorne turned to the pale young wife. "Here's where I put a few questions! Muriel," he demanded, "did you really love Hugh, or were you captivated by Hugh's personality— just as dozens of other women—"

"At the time I believed I loved him," she faltered. "But— I now believe it was because he made himself so wonderfully fascinating."

"Muriel, did Hugh Langdon ever really love you?" the General pressed her.

Muriel hesitated for a moment. "I am certain now Hugh never did love me. Perhaps it was just my money he cared for. But there was something more than that. Hugh always felt superior to Arnold, always hated him. He never made real love to me until after he knew that Arnold had proposed. I am certain now that, next to my money, Hugh's chief idea in proposing to me and marrying me was to head off Arnold."

"That's the truth, Hugh Langdon!" General Thorne fiercely drove at the young husband, "and every action of yours since the marriage corroborates it!"

"Pardon me, General," Hugh drawled in his ironically pleasant voice,. "I'm living with my wife. I propose to continue living here in this house, and under existing conditions I fail to see how you are going to get a divorce And, pardon me again, General— just why do you and dear Arnold presume to interfere in my domestic and private affairs?"

General Thorne fairly exploded into Hugh's smiling face.

"I interfere because what you call your domestic affairs are my ward's domestic affairs! You fooled all of us for a long time. You behaved while your father was alive, or a least you maintained the appearance of good behaviour; you were afraid of your father, and what he might do to you in his will, it's been only since his death that you've dared come out in the open and show as your true character.

"And inasmuch as I, Muriel's godfather and guardian, let myself be fooled by that false surface of you, Hugh Langdon, I'm responsible for Muriel's mistake, and I'm going to wipe out that mistake and see that Muriel has her fair chance for happiness. That's why I'm interfering!"

"Bravo, General— a speech worthy of the best stage guardian!" cried Hugh, softly clapping his hands.

"Young man," thundered Gen. Thorne, "you are going to have mighty little say-so In this settlement beyond saying 'yes.' Arnold, go on with your statement to your aunt; and don't be afraid of speaking facts because they're ugly— she's got to know them."

"Aunt Caroline, here in brief it the case against Hugh. And the case in behalf of Muriel and her happiness." The young lawyer paused a moment to arrange his facts and to flash a glance at Muriel, imploring her forgiveness for the blunt, distasteful duty that had been assigned him.

"Aunt Caroline, Hugh has always been a ladies' man, though only in the last two years has the extent of his gallantry become known. Women could not resist him, it is said. As far as Hugh himself is concerned, he loves to have women make fools of themselves in order to gain his favor.

"From the time of his marriage Hugh has been unfaithful to Muriel with various women. My firm, instigated, and aided by Gen. Thorne, has long had detectives on his trail, and has a dozen times the evidence necessary for a New York decree. He is very fastidious in his amorous adventures; his amours have been almost solely with famous beauties of the stage and women of his own social class. He soon tires of a favorite, but there is quickly another to her place.

"Aunt Caroline, we asked that this present conference be held here in the library because we wished a certain practice of his to be made concretely clear to you as by a chart. This library and the connecting study and lounge room can be shut off from the rest of the house by the main door through which we entered. That door there at your left opens into the little-used side street. So you see that in effect these rooms are a very private apartment with their own private entrance.

"This private apartment Hugh has practically made his own. From time to time various women have had latch-keys to that side door; and these rooms, your home and Muriel's home, have been the stage setting for many scenes of Hugh's love affairs with his successive favorites— as I can prove to you."

"But supposing," put in Hugh Langdon, apparently unperturbed by these charges. "I choose to deny all this?"

"You are going to have no such choice," declared Arnold. "You are going to face divorce proceedings. The divorce will be granted— so much you may consider as definitely settled this very minute. The only choice in this matter that is allowed to you is this: we are willing to grant you the privilege of choosing the woman who is to be named as co-respondent. Our strongest evidence to date involves three particular women. But these three are women of good families. We prefer not to shame these women or their families.

"By the one choice allowed you, arrange with some other woman to agree to be the co-respondent, and help us cinch the evidence. If this is collusion, it is collusion only to the extent of allowing you to pick as the partner of your guilt the woman who will be least injured by our court action. You do that, Hugh, or we will name all three of these women of most respectable families, and we will be ready to prove you guilty on each charge!"

With his smile of cool, defiant superiority, Hugh tried to beat down his old rival and drive him into confused retreat. But the hard thrust of his mockery merely glanced off the grim determination of the young lawyer,

"There is to be a divorce!" Arnold drove back at him. "Which is it to be? Do we name the three women, or will you find another co-respondent? Let's have your answer!"

Hugh was silent for a long moment.

"I do not seem able to help myself," he said finally. "So I yield to your demands—that is, provided Muriel, after a talk with me, still wishes a divorce."

"I have already told you what Muriel wishes!" hotly declared General Thorne.

"Even so, there is nothing far you to lose in my talking things over with my wife. I'm really asking very, very little— just fifteen minutes alone with Muriel. This promise to aid you in the case and to help save Muriel from newspaper sensationalism by not fighting the suit should be worth your very serious consideration."

Both Arnold and General Thorne Regarded Hugh Langdon suspiciously. Then Arnold turned to Mabel.

"The answer seems to rest with you."

"I'll talk with Hugh," she agreed after a brief pause.

The telephone on the library desk began to ring. Muriel crossed and answered it. The call was from Gen. Thorne's butler. The General spoke for a few moments, then hung up.

"Captain Devine has just dropped in at my house to see me on an important matter and I must leave," he announced. "It should stimulate your decision, Hugh, to be reminded that Captain Devine has police information upon many details of your romantic affairs. Muriel, I shall be back here shortly after your talk with Hugh is over. If you need me before then, just remember that my house is only three minutes away and give me I ring."

"When I come back, Caroline," he said with quiet assurance, "well settle this matter thoroughly. Quite thoroughly!"

Arnold gave Muriel a strained gaze of love that bad waited long and that still had no rights. Instinctively he did not like the idea of leaving her alone with Hugh— he felt a vague fear— but he had accepted the bargain. So he silently followed Gen. Thorne out of the library.

HUGH, who had followed them, locked the heavy door that shut off the rest of the house. His back against it, he looked coolly across at his wife, and again his mocking smile slowly overspread his face. She met his gaze steadily, determined to keep herself In hand during this scene with the husband who had so often humiliated her.

"So you want a divorce, my dear?" he inquired softly.

"All has just been said that there is to be said," she returned quietly.

"My dear, I have no desire to marry another woman. My present married state suits me exactly; as a wife you are my ideal of all that is charming and beautiful, and I wish to retain such a jewel. Further, my dear, you are a lady of very great fortune— a fortune much greater than mine; and it would pain me greatly to have that fortune amputated by the keen blade of a divorce decree. Furthermore, and lastly, my dear, I never did relish the idea of you and Arnold marrying."

"Your reasons are absurd!" she cried out, for the first time losing the control she had determined upon.

"Possibly, my dear. But I have just stated, very briefly, my reasons for definitely deciding not to give you a divorce."

"Not give me a divorce? You can't help yourself!"

"Do you think I'm a fool?" he demanded. "Do you think I didn't see this thing coming? Do you think I'm not prepared? My dear. I have a stronger case than you have and my lawyer already has the divorce papers drawn up and prepared for filing! I'm going to show you my hand. I've just been told by your representatives that they've been suspicion s of me from the start, and have had detectives watching me. Well, from the first I've been suspicious of you and my detectives have been watching you. They secured the necessary evidence. The co-respondent I shall name in my papers is one of your very old admirers, at one time a sweetheart— Gerald Macy."

"Gerald Macy!" she cried out. "You know Gerald and I were just good friends, that's all! And Gerald's been dead for over three months!"

"I'm not depending on Gerald Macy's testimony given in court in person. I'm depending on the letters he wrote you. And the letters you wrote to him."

"Letters?" she repeated blankly.

"Love letters. My detectives managed to go through Gerald Macy's effects immediately after his death, and found several of your letters that he had not destroyed. And I, being suspicious, intercepted several of Macy's letters to you."

"Hugh Langdon, there are no such letters in existence!"

"Here is a sample, my dear, of what you wrote to Gerald Macy. It's one of the mildest, so you won't hurt my case if you tear it up. I have six others. The one will prove to you the authenticity of the other six. Read it."

It began "Dearest Gerald," it referred to a secret meeting of the day before, it breathed a longing impatience until the next such secret meeting could be arranged with discretion.

The letter fluttered from her hands. He caught it before it fell.

"Hugh Langdon— Hugh Langdon—"

"Don't talk till you understand all that you're up against," he interrupted her. "Here's a sample of Gerald Macy's letters to you."

She took the letter he tendered. It looked to be in Gerald Macy's well-remembered handwriting. The note began: "My darling Muriel," and tone and contents were suggestive of passions kin to those of the one she had just mid.

Hugh took the letter from her nerveless hands and then moved so that the desk was a barrier between them.

"They're forgeries. My God!" came at last from her in an appalled whisper. "My God— I didn't think that even you would try to do a thing like this!"

"Rather a neat idea, isn't it?"

"But they're forgeries!" she cried again. "You wouldn't dare make use of them!"

"You think I wouldn't?" The fury in him blazed up anew.

"And I'll not wait for the trial to smash you! Two days after you file your suit, if you file one, I file my counter-suit. It is all prepared. In my counter-suit, as the specific basis for that counter-suit, I give the full text of those letters."

"The newspapers of the country will handle your story as the most sensational thing they've had in years! And it will not help you a bit to call those letters forgeries; if you do, everyone will say that your denial is the first lie which would come to the mind of any guilty woman. Let all that sink in, and sink in deep! Oh, I've got you smashed before you even start!"

Muriel turned slowly, brokenly to the silent figure in the wheel-chair.

"Oh, mother— mother," she gasped. "Did you ever hear of anything so horrible? Did you think that even Hugh could do a thing so diabolical? What am I to do, mother— what am I to do?"

The only answer was the stare of the grey old eyes, so strangely bright.

"Your mother might have helped you once, my dear, but here you must decide for yourself. Which is it to be; no suit for divorce, or a suit with all the pleasant consequences I have outlined?"

"I can't talk to you— you beast! Oh, you beast! There's nothing worse you can do to me! Nothing!"

"You think not?" In his mounting rage, his words rushed tumbling from him. "You think I'd now be satisfied with the puny half of a plan I've just shown you? I've carried that idea much further, and this larger plan does not have to wait for you to file your suit for my explosion to be touched off."

His fierce intensity was proof to Muriel that he had, indeed, prepared further ingenious horrors.

They stood staring at each other, and for a moment neither spoke. Then through the silence there sounded the cautious grating of a key.

"Don't come in!" he cried sharply.

Hugh crossed swiftly to the door that led to the side street entrance and stepped into the little entry hall. In his haste he left the door slightly ajar, so that the low voices were heard clearly in the library.

"Bess!" Hugh's voice was gentle and lover-like. "I'm so sorry! I tried to get you by 'phone to tell you the coast here wasn't clear to-night."

"You really mean I'm not to come in?"

"No, dear. But I can join you in half an hour— no, I'll make it in just a few minutes."

"Then I'll wait for you out in my car. I'm driving it myself."

"Isn't there danger you may be recognised? Or your car identified?"

She laughed a soft laugh of triumphant cleverness. "It's a second-hand car I bought to-day on trial, and which to-morrow I'm going to turn back as unsatisfactory. Besides, I've switched the license plates. Don't worry— I'm safe enough!"

There were whispered words which did not penetrate the library, then Hugh re-entered and crossed to the desk.

Gripped as she was by horror, the outraged spirit of Muriel could not resist the impulse to strike out at him. "I presume that Bess is one of what Gen. Thorne referred to as your ladies with the latchkeys!'

"Yes, she is a lady with a latchkey! And I love her, too! And now what are you going to do about it?"

"I'm not going to stand for "

"Oh, yes, you will! And you'll stand for much more!" He glowered balefully at her; his anger and hatred seemed to swell, grow more virulent. "Only a minute ago I was telling you that so far I'd shown you only half my plan! m now show you the second half! Keep still a minute!"

He sat down at the desk and began to write. Prom the speed with which he wrote, it was plain that matter and form had had much prior thought.

"Listen with all your ears, Muriel, while I read you this.

To Whom It May Concern:—

For some time I have known, from these letters which have come into my possession, that my wife has long been unfaithful to me. When I charged her with her misconduct, she threatened to kill me if I ever made my discoveries public. I am living in constant terror of my life. Because of this mortal fear I am placing the compromising letters and this statement in the hands of my lawyer, and I direct that, if I am ever found dead from violence or suspected poisoning, or if I ever seemingly disappear for a few days, my wife shall be proceeded against upon the charge of having brought about my murder. My discovery of these letters will be her motive.

—HUGH LANGDON.

He tossed the paper upon the desk beside the forged love letters. From a drawer of the desk he took a revolver, and pushed it toward Muriel.

"Take it and shoot me," he urged her tauntingly, "and prove that my statement is the truth!"

Instinct warned her that there was some further ingenious detail of his plan which made him want her to make the attempt.

"So, you see, I'm going to beat you to everything! I'm going to start to put across that idea this very night. In two minutes I walk out of here and join Bess in her car, and I disappear for several weeks. Those letters, and that statement I take with me, and I let Bess mail them at the first postbox we come to! And that will not only block divorce proceedings on your part—it will keep you my wife for ever; it will be the eternal end of you!"

He said no further word— he left the rest to her imagination.

Already half-broken by his torture, she now broke completely at what she saw. "Hugh— Hugh," she cried out wildly, "I give up— I'm beaten! I don't want a divorce! I won't start a suit— I promise!"

"You're too late. My way is best for me! It's got you stopped in every way for ever!"

Muriel turned again with the instinct of a frightened child to her mother.

"Mother— Mother "

"No use appealing there!" Hugh cut in on her impatiently. "This finishes our conference. Go in to your waiting Arnold. I'm going to be busy— get out!"

HYPNOTISED by terror, mastered by the dominating evil in him, Muriel backed slowly toward the heavy door— unlocked it— passed out— closed it. Her final glimpse of Hugh showed him bending over the desk, back to her, gathering together the scattered letters.

Muriel, with hand braced against the wall for support, staggered down the hallway. In the wide doorway of the drawing-room she paused, clutching at a heavy tapestry, and gazing wildly across at Arnold.

"I've agreed— I've agreed," she choked out, that there's to be no— no divorce."

"No divorce, Muriel!" he cried. "But why?"

"I can't tell you, Arnold. It's all too— too terrible!"

"Then I'll get the truth out of Hugh himself if I have to choke it out!"

She caught his arm, and held him back from the library.

"It's no use going. You see, there was one of his— his women friends— a woman with a key— waiting outside the side entrance in her car— and he was going away immediately with her."

"How do you know that?"

"He told me so. And I heard them talk through the door— he called her Bess." Briefly, Muriel gave him the substance of this talk.

Suddenly there sounded a dull roar.

"What's that?" cried Muriel, clutching Arnold.

"Sounded like a pistol shot!"

THEY listened for a tense moment, waiting for a repetition of the roar which might help them locate its origin. There was no second roar, but quick upon it there came another sound, this time unmistakable as to its nature and location; it came on the dark street, and was the choking sound of a car trying to spring into full speed from a standing start.

"The library!" cried Muriel.

In a moment they were through the heavy door of the library, swiftly surveying the scene. At first they saw no one but Mrs. Foreland, sitting in her wheel-chair as always, her limp, helpless hands in her lap.

"They've gone!" cried Arnold. "Together— Hugh and the woman called Bess!"

"Yes," agreed Muriel. And then suddenly: "But Arnold, if they went together, then why that pistol shot?"

"Yes, that doesn't explain the shot."

Again Arnold's eyes rapidly surveyed the room, this time with a closer scrutiny.

"Look!" he cried, seizing Muriel's arm, and pointing.

Her gaze followed his finger On the floor protruding from behind the desk, was a pair of smartly-shod feet The two moved silently toward the desk.

"Hugh!" breathed Muriel. "Hugh!"

Hugh lay upon his back, his handsome face fixed in startled fright, blood slowly spreading on the left bosom of his evening shirt. Arnold dropped to his knees, felt the wrist, examined the wound.

"Dead," he said, in a hushed voice, standing up. "His shirt is powder-burnt. He was shot through the heart at a distance of three or four feet. He was already dead when we heard the shot—"

"Then— he must have been shot by that woman," Muriel added in a like hushed voice. "Remember, she had a key to the side door."

"Yes, shot by the woman he called, Bess whoever she is," agreed Arnold

He noted the pistol on the desk.

"Strange she should leave her revolver behind."

"But it's not her revolver; it's Hugh's."

Briefly, Muriel recounted how Hugh had taken the pistol from a drawer of his desk, had pushed it toward her, and had tauntingly challenged her to shoot him. While she spoke Arnold carefully picked up the gun in a handkerchief, examined it, and restored it to its place.

"One chamber fired," he said. "Shot by his own gun. Then the act of the woman was not premeditated; it was an act of swift passion. But even if the gun if not here, her fingerprints must be plainly on it. We musn't touch a thing, Muriel."

He picked up the telephone from the desk, and in a moment was speaking to Police Commissioner Thorne

"General, something bad has just broken here. Come at once, and if Captain Devine is still there, bring him with you."

As he hung up he was aware that Muriel was now staring at the desk, a new fright in her face.

"The letters. Arnold! They're— they're gone!"

"What letters?"

"Terrible letters! No time now to tell you just what was in them. They were forgeries, of course— but perfect forgeries And that woman has taken those letters with her!"

"Muriel! But she can't have known what was in them, so you are in no danger from them."

"I'm in every danger! Don't you see that she'll read them, and that for self-protection she'll find a way to make them public, in order to point accusation at me!"

"But there are her finger-prints on that pistol."

"But even so, those letters accuse me of intending murder— according to them, I had an overpowering motive We've all got to admit there was a quarrel—and I was here in the house, and had the opportunity!"

"But I can swear that when the shot was fired you were in the drawing-room talking with me."

"Yes, but there will be a charge that we both are lying— that you are committing perjury to save me, and that you have a motive for that perjury! There are those fingerprints, of course— but everything else points at me. It's inevitable!"

In agonised suspense she watched the face of the young lawyer. He snapped out of his concentration with electric sharpness,

"We must be quick— for Gen. Thorne and that clever Capt. Devine will be here in a few moments! Our one best move is to build up the crime— give the police more evidence against that other woman!"

"But that is not going to save me from a murder charge, once she lets loose those letters!"

"I know!" he went on rapidly. "But it will divert immediate suspicion from you— will give us more time than this single moment to make better plans.

"You have a latch key to the side door?"

"Yes."

"That will have to be our one added element. Bring it to me."

She sped away. When she returned he was wearing gloves which in the meantime he had secured from his overcoat in the front hall. He took the latch key from her, swiftly rubbed it in his gloved fingers, and crossed and inserted it into the outer side of the street door. Then he closed the wall safe which had held the now missing letters and quickly removed his gloves.

He had been none too soon. Just then the bell of the front door rang out.

"That'll be Gen. Thorne and Capt. Devine!" he breathed. "I'll answer the door. You go over and stand beside your mother."

He hurried out. In a moment he returned, ushering in Gen. Thorne and Capt Devine. On the way from the door Arnold had given the two men the bare facts of Hugh Langdon's mysterious death.

"Caroline— Muriel!" groaned Gen. Thorne. And then, "Capt. Devine, this is your case."

The detective promptly picked up the telephone, got Police Headquarters and his own Homicide Bureau, gave a few necessary orders, then moved a respectful pace toward the trio, for Arnold had now joined Muriel beside her mother's chair.

"You must excuse me if start by asking a few questions," he began. "Which of you was the last to see Mr. Langdon alive?

"I— I was," quavered Muriel.

"I know Mrs. Moreland's condition," said Capt. Devine. "There is nothing to be gained from such a witness. You, Mrs. Langdon— will you please tell me what happened just before you last saw your husband and whatever else you may know about the tragedy?"

"Pardon me, Capt. Devine," put in the young lawyer. "You can see that Mrs. Langdon is in no condition to speak. I know much of this affair at first hand, and all that Mrs. Langdon knows she has told me. I can present all the known facts much better than she can. You may question her later, when she will be in a condition to be of more service to you."

"Very well, Mr. Booth. Tell the story in your own way."

"To begin with, as Gen. Thorne can testify, there was a meeting in this room of all four of us, together with Gen. Thorne, beginning about an hour ago. I may mention as an important detail that as this was intended as a very confidential conference, all the servants had been given an evening off to avoid any possible overhearing of family affairs. Things were not right between Mr. and Mrs. Langdon, and a divorce for her was being demanded. Before consenting to this divorce Hugh Langdon demanded an interview alone with his wife.

"This was granted, and Gen. Thorne and I left the library, he to go to his home to join you, and I to wait the issue of the interview in the drawing room.

"As to what then happened in the library I can only give you what was told me by Mrs. Langdon. Alone with her, Mr. Langdon bluntly and cynically told her he wanted no divorce. He was satisfied with his life as it was and did not want to lose her fortune. He made terrible threats of retaliation if she pursued her intention of securing a divorce. Furthermore, he said if she wanted him out of the way why didn't she kill him; and he drew a revolver from a drawer, pushed it toward her across the table, and challenged her to shoot him on the spot."

"Is the revolver now on the desk the one he offered Mrs. Langdon?"

"It is, as you can easily verify."

"CONTINUE, Mr. Booth."

"During this scene there was an interruption. Some one in the side-entry slipped a key into the door. It was a woman. Langdon was quick to order her not to come in. He stepped out in the entry hall for a minute, leaving the door open, and Mrs. Langdon could hear most of what was said. Hugh Langdon told the woman he had some business to finish and couldn't be with her for a few minutes. She said she'd wait for him in her car, which evidently was standing at the kerb."

"Another woman! Have you any clue to this woman's identity?"

"Only that he called her Bess."

"What next, Mr. Booth?"

"Hugh Langdon came back into the library and continued with his threats. They became more violent. Mrs. Langdon became so frightened at them "

"One moment. What was the exact nature of those threats?"

"In general they were threats of what was going to happen to her if she did not change her purpose of suing for divorce. Their exact nature you can learn much better from Mrs. Langdon in the morning. Their effect was to frighten Mrs. Langdon so that she agreed to drop the idea of a divorce. Her husband then told her to notify me of her decision. She left the library and came to the drawing room, where I had been waiting, and told me of her change of purpose. I was stupefied. We talked of this for several moments. Then we were both startled by a single shot. Then out in the side street a car leaped into life and raced away."

"Do you know of any way that car can be traced or identified?"

"No. Mrs. Langdon heard the woman tell Mr. Langdon that the car was not her own, and that it carried false license plates."

Capt. Devine slowly nodded and turned his back upon the trio at the wheelchair. He knelt beside the body, and, without disturbing It, he now scrutinised its every detail. Then he rose and studied the desk next, his handkerchief in hand, he picked up by its barrel the pistol and examined the weapon through a powerful lens.

"What do you make of it, Captain?" quickly asked Gen. Thorne.

"I've been half expecting some such denouement here, General," the famous detective slowly pronounced. "It's really all very simple— and human. It's a case where our first examination will coincide with the completed evidence; it's a story of a woman with a key.

"There may have been a brief quarrel, or there may not have been. The one certain fact is that in a fit of passion she seized his revolver and at point-blank range shot him through the heart. Then she became frantic with fear and ran away in her car. For the police it's just another case of find the woman."

"You're quite sure it was a woman, Captain?"

"Quite sure. And it's going to be one of the easiest mysteries the police have ever had to solve. We have the guilty woman's fingerprints there on the gun. We know all the women who are and who have been Langdon's favorites. All we've got to do is to get the finger-prints of these favorites and compare them with the finger-prints on the gun.

"In forty-eight hours or less well have her— the woman with the latch key."

At the last Gen. Thorne was gazing across at Mrs. Moreland— "If she could only speak," he said in a slow, awed voice, "the mystery would be solved this very moment! Just think of it, Captain! She heard everything— saw everything— knows who the woman is— yet can tell us nothing!"

"l want to see if there is any further evidence in the side-entry or in the street where the woman waited," Capt. Devine said after a moment. "Coming with me, General?"

Together the two men passed out the side door, and Arnold and Muriel were left alone, the stricken woman between them.

"You did your best for me, Arnold," gasped Muriel in a rapid whisper of frenzied fear. "But you've saved me for only a few hours! You held back those incriminating letters— but they're coming into the case just the same!"

"Yes— those letters!" he groaned.

"I tell you that woman, to save herself, will turn those letters loose upon the public to-morrow," Muriel continued in her frantic whisper. "Those finger-prints may make the police believe two women were involved in the murder— but I'll be the only one they'll ever catch, and the public will believe all Hugh's terrible charges."

Like a tortured child turning instinctively to her first protector, she bent down.

"Mother!" she sobbed wildly. "Oh, mother mother! At least you know I am innocent! For you saw who did it Oh, if you could only tell what you saw!"

Suddenly she came stiffly upright, terrified with an amazement almost beyond her startled comprehension.

"Look, Arnold!" she whispered hoarsely.

"Look— look!"

His eyes followed her pointing finger. It was directed down through the wide loose neck of the grey robe of her mother to a packet of papers.

"Those papers— what are they?" he breathed.

"The letters... The letters Hugh was going to use against me!"

FOR a moment they stared at each other in blankest bewilderment at this seeming miracle. Then suddenly Muriel again gripped his arm.

"Don't you begin to understand it all?" she breathed excitedly. "Don't you begin to understand? Remember what Dr. Howard said— that some overwhelming emotional stimulant might galvanise mother into a moment of swift action?"

"Yes— yes, I begin to see! The greatest stimulant that could possibly stir a mother were those letters, his threats against you!"

"Yes. And the stimulant reached its climax after I had left the room and while Hugh was bending over the desk collecting those letters to put them to immediate use. He was probably so engrossed that he never even saw her!"

"Then the finger-prints on that gun—"

Capt. Devine and Gen. Thorne were stepping in from the side entrance. Capt. Devine held up a latch key.

"We found this key on the outside of this side door," he explained. "There are no finger-prints on it. The woman called Bess very evidently was wearing gloves when she sat outside in her car; while she waited she was nervously fumbling with this key, and that erased any finger-prints there may have been upon it, and she was also wearing gloves when she slipped the key into the lock. That there are no finger-prints on the key does not matter; the finger-prints on that revolver are enough to find her with."

Whatever strain or agitation may have been evidenced by Arnold and Muriel was not noticed; it was natural to the situation Muriel forced speech from her lips.

"Please, Capt. Devine, since you no longer need us, may I remove my mother to her room and put her to bed? And may Mr. Booth help me out?"

"By all means let them go, Captain," urged Gen. Thorne, eyes on the grey figure he had so long worshipped.

"Certainly you may go," the detective said to Muriel and Arnold. "We'll not be needing you further to-night."

Capt. Devine watched the pair push the wheeled chair out of the library, its grey-robed immobile occupant sitting with hands loosely in her lap.

'"Think of it, General— she saw and heard it all! How very simple for m if she could only speak!" he murmured.

ALL this happened five years ago. Capt. Devine, now Inspector Devine, is still trying to find the woman with the key— the beautiful, gay, reckless, and temperish young woman of family and fashion whose finger-prints will match the finger-prints on Hugh Langdon's pistol— which matching will automatically solve the sensational Langdon mystery.

And up in the old Moreland house, which still stands amid Fifth Avenue's debris, the two young sons of Arnold and Muriel Booth play about the wheeled chair of their silent, grey-robed grandmother and pat and try to engage in childish play those hands that rest upon her lap, limp and forever helpless.

__________________

17: Locked In

E. Charles Vivian

Herald (Melbourne) 7 Nov 1936

"TWENTY-THREE years ago," said Superintendent Wadden, "his father committed suicide. I remember, because it was the year after I married. And now— well, a family habit, by the look of it."

"Perhaps." Seated beside his chief in the big police saloon. Inspector Head made the rejoinder sound entirely noncommittal.

"Whaddye mean, man— perhaps?" Wadden snapped, accompanying the query with the glare of his fierce eyes. Having been turned out at eight in the morning to investigate the reported suicide, he was a trifle short of temper.  But Head, gazing at the road ahead, wisely ignored both the stare and the question.

"It's the next gateway on the right, Jeffries." he said to the driver of the car. "and stop a full 20yards short of the front door. Don't drive up to it."

Laurels, backed by old cedars, hid the house as Jeffries turned the saloon into the drive. Two hundred yards or less revealed a tiled Elizabethan roof with spiralling chimneys, and such of the frontage as a gorgeous-leaved Virginia creeper let appear showed century-mellowed in tint. To the left of the big main doorway two diamond-pancd casement windows showed; over and between them was a single first-floor' window of similar type, and against it a ladder was reared. And, Head noted as he got out from the car, no fewer than four of the diamond panes of this first-floor window were broken, and their leaden framing bent aside, as if to admit a hand from without.

"Wait, Jeffries— I don't think we shall need you." Wadden said as he got out from the saloon.

"What about Wells, Head?"

"You'd better come along, sergeant," Head said to the fourth occupant of the car. "Bring your outfit, in case we need it."

Thereupon Sergeant Wells followed his two superiors towards the entrance, bearing the black leather case in which reposed a finger-print detecting outfit and a camera. Before Head, leading the way, could pull the big, old-fasnioned bell handle beside the doorpost, the door itself swung open, and a stout, fair-haired man frowned out at him before glancing at Wadden and the sergeant. "

"If you're Press," he snapped, "you can get out. I'll give you two policemen particulars for the inquest. It's purely formal."

Wadden gave him a glare from his fierce eyes. "Oh is it?" he snapped back. "That's Inspector Head you're speaking to, and he'll take charge of the formalities. What's your name."

"Keller," the other man said, far more meekly. "Percival Keller. Mr Garnham is my half-brother— was, that is, till he shot himself."

"Then for a start we'll see the body," Wadden announced. "Was it you who telephoned us to come out here?"

"No," Keller answered, standing back for them to enter. "That was Kennett, Mr Garnham's man. But I told him to telephone."

He gave Head another unregarded, resentful look, as if he were incensed at a mere police inspector masquerading in a well-cut lounge suit, instead of appearing in uniform. But Head was surveying the magnificently carved staircase that went diagonally across the back of the big, square entrance hall, giving access to a gallery that ran along the sides and back of the apartment at first-floor level.

"A fine piece of woodwork," he observed, with apparent irrelevance to their task.

"Yes," Keller said, ingratiatingly. "One of the Garnhams brought it over from Italy in the eighteenth century, and put it up here. It came from a villa of Alexander Borgia's— his arms are repeated on the newels. Three of the doors on the gallery belong with it."

"And now, the body," Head suggested.

"I'll take you up," Keller answered. "Mere formality, of course. We had to break the outside window to get into the room— he'd locked himself in and left the key in the lock."

The three followed him up the staircase and along the left side gallery to a door that appeared as a museum piece— Cellini or Michelangelo himself might have proportioned it and designed its ornament. Keller reached out for the handle, but Head spoke before he touched it.

"Who else has turned that handle this morning?" he asked.

"Kennett and Mrs Garnham." Keller answered, readily, but with visible irritation. "Why? I tell you he'd locked himself in."

"And the keyhole?" Head queried blandly. "I see none."

Keller pressed a wooden shield, bearing similar designs to those on the staircase newels, and set quite a foot back from the edge of the door. It slid aside, revealing a keyhole a good two inches in length.

"I see," Head remarked. "Now we can go in."

Again Keller led, and they followed. Halfway between the door and the window which Head had seen as broken from outside the house, lay the body of  a delicately featured, scholarly looking man of early middle age, and by it an overturned chair that had stood at a flat-topped writing desk so angled from the window that the light would fall over the left shoulder of one seated at the kneehole. Behind the right ear of the prostrate figure was a neat round hole, from which a very little blood had oozed to trickle down to the back of the dead man's neck and there congeal. A small nickel-plated revolver gleamed ominously from the carpet, find, kneeling. Head took it up by inserting a pencil in the barrel, handing it to Wells, who took hold on the pencil and so avoided touching the weapon itself.

"Has anyone handled that thing, do you know?" Head inquired.

Keller shook his head. "Nobody," he answered. "Old Joe, the gardener, got in through the window and unlocked the door for us, and I warned him and Kennett and Mrs Garnham, too, not to touch anything. And the doctor didn't touch it, either, I know."

"What doctor?" Wadden put in abruptly.

"Why, his own doctor. Tyrrell, his name is."

"And where Is Dr. Tyrrell?" Wadden I persisted.

"I told him he needn't stay — he had an urgent confinement case," Keller explained. "He saw all he wanted to sec for the inquest."

"Oh, did he?" Wadden snapped. "Well, I'll get Bennett, our own surgeon. out to make a proper examination. You appear to have taken a good deal on yourself. Mr Keller, what's your jumping-off point, Head?"

"I'll begin on this man Joe," Head answered. "He was first into the room, it seems. Then I can decide whom to take next. Dust that revolver for any finger-prints, Wells."

"You won't find any," Keller broke in. "He's lying on his right hand, but it's all bandaged up — he scalded it badly two days ago."

"See what you can find, Wells," Head insisted quietly.

"But— to what purpose?" Keller demanded irritably. "I tell you he locked himself in before he shot himself. Examine the window and then the door— see for yourself that he must have been absolutely alone in here. You're only making the tragedy worse for Mrs Garnham with all this fuss— this useless fuss!"

"And now," Head remarked, even more quietly, "perhaps vou will be so good as to find this man Joe for me, Mr Keller. Would you mind?"

ii

DOWN in the big entrance hall, while Wells busied himself over the revolver with his finger-printing outfit, Keller escorted in from the back premises an oldish man, greyhaired and greybearded, and himself drew forward a chair as if to become a member of the party.

"We shall not need you, Mr Keller," Head told him. "Thanks for the trouble you have taken, though."

Without replying, Keller went out.

Then Joe, the gardener, owned to having been employed here for over forty years, rising from third gardener to headship, and also confessed to the fitting surname of Plant.

"And you discovered Mr Gamham's body?" Head asked him.

"Saw it through the window, sir," Joe answered. "It'd be about seven o'clock this mornin' or a little past seven."

"And how did you happen to be up a ladder outside that window at that time?" Head inquired.

"Well, sir, about leavin' off time last night, the master— Mr Garnham, that is— come to me as I was lockin' up my things in the barn, and said If I didn't cut back the creeper round that window he'd soon need a light in the room at midday. He told me to make it my first job today, but I'd hardly started when I saw him wi' the hole in his skull and the pistol alongside him "

"Wait a bit," Head interrupted. "When you put up that ladder, were there any footprints in the geranium bed under the windows?" Joe shook his head decidedly.

"There was not, sir, and there's none now, either. I put down boards to prevent either footprints or ladder marks. But if you mean did anyone climb in or out of that window, sir, I can tell you it was impossible. I had to break four panes to shoot back the bolts from the outside, and if anyone had got in and closed it from the inside, they'd be still in the room, because the door was locked with the key on the inside."

"Unless Mr Garnham let them out, Joe," Wadden interposed.

"Yes, sir, but since both the window and door were fastened inside the room like that, Mr Garnham must have been alone when he shot himself," Joe insisted, respectfully but firmly.

"You'd think so, wouldn't you?" Wadden half-soliloquised. "Carry on with what you did, though."

"I got down the ladder, and went in at the back of the house," Joe continued. "Cook and Gladys— that's the housemaid— were in the kitchen, and I got Gladys to fetch Kennett, and then told him. He said get in by the window, because you'd have to ruin the door to force it, and unlock the door from the inside. While I was doin that, he rung for Dr. Tyrrell and the police, which was you gentlemen. I take it."

"Did Mr Keller have anything to do with ringing for the doctor and for us?" Head asked after a thoughtful pause.

"No, sir. He hadn't come down. then. Kennett went to the telephone here." Joe pointed at the instrument, "while I went out at the front door to break the window and get into the room."

THERE was thus one — possibly unimportant— error in Keller's account of his own actions, Head reflected.

"And Mrs Garnham — where was she?" he asked.

"I dunno. sir. Not up, I think. Gladys told me before you got here that Mr Keller broke the news to her, I haven't seen her today."

"Married— how long?" Head asked next.

"It'll be— September, they were married— yes, three years next month. But I don't see—" He broke off, doubtfully.

"Happily married, of course, Head persisted.

Joe Plant shook his head. "All the years I've been here, sir, I've never gossiped about the family and their affairs," he said.

"Quite right of you." Head approved. "Thís Mr Keller, though. Dont you count him as one of the family?"

"No.,I don't." There was sudden heat in tho reply. "A double-dyed waster, everlastingly spongin' on the master, who was always far too good natured. His mother was a widow, and he was a kid of five when the master's father married her, and even then he was a little devil. They say he spent every penny she left him, and that was a considerable lot, an' for the last two years he's been no more'n the mistletoe, with the master as the oak. A parasite, an' no more."

"Umm-m! This man Kennett, now?"

"Quite a good chap. sir. He was batman to the master in the war, and been here ever since he was demobbed. Him and I get on well."

"His duties being what?"

"Oh, a bit of secretarying, an kept the two cars in order, an' looked after the master's clothes. An' he's the only one the master let have the run of that room—  the one where the body is —to clean it. The master kept alt his books an' papers in there, you sec, sir."

"This is an old house, Joe," Wadden put in abruptly, "and old houses are queer, sometimes. Apart from the window and the door, is there any way I into that room that you've heard about in your forty years here?"

"No, sir," Joe answered with unhesitating sincerity. "You mean—"

"Nothing." Head interrupted him. "What other servants are there?"

"There's cook, and Gladys I spoke of, an' Rose — she's the parlormaid. An' Mrs Higgs comes over from Todlington three days a week to do rough work— sort of charring."

"Well, I think that's all we want you to tell us, for the present, Joe. Now send Gladys along to us here, and— do you know the general run of the house, though?"

"Every inch of it, sir."

"Well, when she comes along, I want you to take Sergeant Wells round and I show him every room and explain what it's used for. That's all, thanks— we have to do these things, you know."

He signed to Wells as the gardener went out.

"The bedrooms, Wells— take each one as we handle the occupants, especially Keller's. I'm not happy about this at all— That pistol!"

"Old fashioned hammerless 'Smith and Wesson, Mr Head, .32 bore. Only one shot fired. No print of any kind on it anywhere."

Head took it from him and inspected it. "That muzzle looks very clean for a fired pistol," he observed.

"I get you, sir," Wells answered. Head slipped the pistol into his pocket as Gladys entered the room.

iii

STANDING side by side, Wadden and Head watched while Bennett, the police surgeon, conducted his examination of the body, and Tyrell, the practitioner who had attended Ganham in life and so perfunctorily assumed his death as that of a suicide, also watched, having beert summoned I back to the house by Wadden. Eventually Bennett stood up.

"Instantaneous." he said, "At some time between eleven last night and one this morning. Quite instantaneous — hardly any blood."

"The perfect story-book situation," Wadden observed pensively. "Dead man on his own carpet, revolver beside him. Would he have fallen like that and dragged the chair over, though?"

"Hard to say," Bennett answered. "Reflex muscular action after death is impossible to predicate."

"And he was certainly locked in the room," Wadden observed again. "We have done enough questioning and inspecting to be pretty certain there are no secret passages or anything of that sort. No chimney, because no fireplace. Therefore, Head, if anyone else shot him. he got up and locked the door after dying instantaneously and letting the other man out, and then came back and lay down again."

"see Euclid on the point," Inspector Head said thoughtfully. "But— doctor, take another careful look at that hole behind his ear and then come down and out with me. Out into the garden."

He left the room and went down-stairs, while Wadden merely went to the window of the room to watch.

By the time Bennett got out into the garden Head had arranged a stuffed and mounted antelope head, which he had taken from the entrance-hall, on a sundial.

"Now watch doctor," he bade. "This—" he took the revolver from his pocket— "is what killed Garnham. See this— the hair is about the same length as Garnham's behind his ear. Now—" he placed the pistol against the stuffed neck and pulled the trigger— "come and examine the hole," he invited after the faint curl of smoke following on the explosion had drifted away.

"For a good quarter of an inch round the hole, the hair is badly burned, as you see."

"Yes, I see," Bennett agreed, beginning to understand.

"Now, again. Watch this," Head bade. With the pistol muzzle a good foot distant from the head, he fired again. Again Bennett examined the hole. "Diffused scorching,"  Head pointed out, just some shrivelled hairs where grains of only partially burned powder struck. A patchy burn, in fact.  Now, just one more, at about eighteen inches."

With the surgeon watching very intently now, he fired again and even with the longer interval between the muzzle of the pistol and the skin, there were traces of burning round the bullet hole.

"Garnham was fair-haired," he remarked, "and there isn't a trace of burning round the bullet hole in his head. You showed us his right hand, and it's a pretty bad scald. Now— I'll hold this pistol only a foot from my own head, which would burn the hair if I pulled the trigger— and now tell me where the muzzle is pointing."

"Ah, you can't see it, of course." Bennett answered. "The bullet would graze the top of your skull— perhaps. It wouldnt go in behind your car. And the muzzle isn't nine inches away let alone a foot."

"Try it yourself, if you like," Head offered.

"Not I! There's another live cartridge in that pistol, isn't there? But I see your point. With that scalded and bandaged hand of his, Garnham couldn't have—"

"And, therefore, who did?" Head questioned, after waiting vainly for the end of the remark. "Also, what is the third way out of that room?"

"There isn't one," Bennett said. "I saw you and the super examine the room. Hullo! Barton! Now who told him Garnham was dead?"

For, passing the police saloon, a car drew up before the entrance to the house and from it descended Lucas Barton, the principal Westingborough solicitor, with two obvious clerks.

Head reached the open doorway in time to pompous, elderly man of law.

"Ah, Good morning, inspector," Barton said frostily. "May I ask what has happened to bring you here?" The accent on the pronoun was definitely satiric. "A broken window, I see; burglary, perhaps?"

"May I ask what brings you here?" Head retorted.

"I'm afraid not," Barton smiled. "My business is with Mr Garnham. Excuse me, please." He reached past Head for the bell-pull.

"Don't ring," Head said. "Garnham is lying dead inside there."

"He's what?" And Barton's hand dropped. "Nonsense, man."

"Why is it nonsense?" Head inquired curiously.

"Well— I mean— are you sure? He rang me at my home last night and asked me to be here at eleven this morning, with a— well, to be here at eleven. And it is eleven now."

The booming gong of a clock inside the entrance hall confirmed his assertion. "But—" he added, as he took out his watch and looked at it— "he's not dead, surely? Can't be."

Head held up the pistol.

"By this," he said. "But you. Mr Barton, would only fetch two clerks out here for one purpose that I can think of. Because of this"— again he indicated the pistol— "I think it may be of some help in my inquiries if you tell me just why Mr Garnham asked you to call here— with two men capable of witnessing his signature, at eleven this morning."

And, after only a momentary hesitation, Barton told.

iv

"THE WIFE, or the half-brother," Wadden surmised.

"Or the confidential manservant — or even old Joe Plant," Head added for him. "And until we can find out how the one who pulled that trigger got out of this room, applying for a warrant would be merely asking for trouble. Imploring, in fact. Now how?"

He looked round the spacious room. Garnham's body had been removed: the overturned chair lay as they had first seen it, except that it bore signs of having been subjected to examination for finger prints. Wadden's gaze, too, roved round the apartment.

"The window," he said, "is quite out of the question."

"And the walls," Head added.

"Likewise floor and ceiling, as viewed and measured by me from below and above," Wadden completed, "Maybe you'd like to verify—"

But Head moved over to the entrance. "Remains a door, a very beautifully carved door, that once hung in a villa belonging to Alexander Borgia, I understand. And Alexander was a man of ideas."

"Wasn't he the pope of that family?" Wadden asked.

"He was a rip," Head answered gravely. "A brainy rip, too."

He swung the heavy door wide open, and began a close scrutiny of its outer side, now exposed to the light from the window in the room.

Within the top part of the heavy framing were two panels carved in low relief, with all the intricacy of detail of Italian renaissance work, to represent hunting scenes. Beneath these were a pair of plain panels, mellowed almost to blackness by age and polishing, and each a little more than a foot square, and then the lower third of the door was occupied by one very large panel, carved as were the two at the ton, and representing Cupid leading a garlanded fawn toward— presumably— Psyche, a youthful and nude female figure with outstretched arms.

"It's a lovely piece of work," Head observed.

He passed his hand over the projecting points of the two top panels, touching one after another, and then, with extended fingers, trying them in pairs, but without result. Then he sat down on the floor and taking the door by its edge, moved it back and forth to get a reflection of midday light from the window on first one and then the other of the two smooth panels.

"Yes" he said at last, "it's worth a puff from Wells's blower. Please, chief—  while I go on looking for the key."

Wadden bellowed for the sergeant, who answered from where he waited in the entrance hall, and then appeared.

"Test both these smooth panels for prints," Head bade. "Don't mind me— I'm looking for something else."

He went on feeling, rather than looking, over the big carved panel beneath the smooth ones. Presently, with his fingers on Cupid's face, he emitted a little, inarticulate sound, but then shook his head and sat back, watching while Wells's blower revealed two sets of four prints each.

They were almost perfect impressions of the top phalanges of the fingers of a pair of hands, and had been made by placing the fingers on the panel with the tips pointing upward.

"Photograph 'em, Wells," Head bade unemotionally. "But what a blasted fool, to leave a set like that!"

Wadden exclaimed, and blew with disgust at such folly. "An open and shut case of suicide, chief, remember," Head reminded him. "And I'd say there was probably no chance to wipe these off— the sound of the shot might have disturbed someone, or the one who fired it might I have been scared of being seen— outside the door, remember. But I want I that key— I can't do a thing till I get the key."

"What key?" Wadden asked. But Head did not reply. He sat on the carpet, gazing pensively at the beautiful carving of the lower panel, while Wells, kneeling, focused the camera and took shots of the finger prints.

"Cupid is traditionally blind," he remarked eventually.

"Which is why the lady ain't worried about her wardrobe, probably," Wadden suggested. "It's a bit— well, frank, as a work of art."

"I wonder — let's try blinding her, too," Head said.

Swinging the door back to its limit to permit of pressure on its surface, he placed the thumb and middle finger of his right hand on the Cupid's eyes, and a finger and thumb of the left hand over those of Psyche. At this sudden pressure on all four points, the panel that Wells had photographed slid smoothly downward, leaving an oblong hole in the door under the lock.

Head reached through and turned the big, highly ornamented key, which was still in the lock from the inside of the door, once or twice.

"Well, I'm damned!" said Superintendent Wadden.

Head stood up; "We won't try to close the panel again now," he observed. "I rather think you have to lift it most of the way and then slide it by pressing your finger-tips against it."

"What made you think of it?" Wadden asked.

"Well, we'd eliminated everything but the door, and the dead man didn't lock it; since he didn't shoot himself. Take this door off its hinges, Wells— you and Jeffries. It will be exhibit number three, I think, if we make the revolver number one."

"Then what's number two, you secretive devil?" Wadden demanded.

"A lady's handkerchief, retrieved from a bag of soiled linen by Wells while I was questioning its owner," Head answered imperturbably. "She used it to wipe all the finger prints off the revolver before putting it down, and either didn't notice or didn't care about the ring of black fouling from the pistol muzzle that came off on to the handkerchief— stuff easily identifiable as a nitro powder residue."

"But— you've got to show a motive, man," Wadden protested.

"Of course, you didn't hear what I Barton had to tell me." Head recollected aloud. "Garnham rang him last night and told him to get here at eleven this morning to consult about an action for divorce, naming this man Keller as co-respondent in the case. Also, and much worse, Barton was to draw up a new will, in which the lady was not mentioned. Knowing the secret of the door, she made her gamble—  and if she'd held that pistol a foot closer to her husband's head she might have won."

"But— Keller—" Wadden began, half protestingly.

"It's her handkerchief, and they are her finger prints on that panel— eh, Wells?" He turned to the sergeant.

"As nearly as I could see, they correspond to the ones I found on Mrs Garnham's hair brush and hand mirror handles," Wells answered.

"Therefore—" Head pressed a bell push— "I think we might have the lady in and— Oh, Gladys, I think your name is— tell Mrs Garnnam I should be glad if she'd see me in here, please."

He waited with his back to the door, covering from sight the hole from which the secret panel had slid away.

________________

18: "Sycamore": A Ghost Story

Cy  Warman

1855-1914

World's News (Sydney) 7 May 1904

SOMETHING his host said at dinner— some passing reference to the meteoric rise of J. Spencer Atwood from law to literature— had set that prosperous young author thinking on the not very remote yesterday of his life.

He might have hailed a hansom; indeed, he could well afford a carriage and pair of his own, but this night he preferred to walk home.

In a narrow lane just off the Strand he found himself at the street door of a dingy brick building. Coming out of his reverie, he laughed a noiseless little laugh, and stood for a moment looking up at a window which for years, had been his one opening to the world. How many cigars had he smoked, how many air castles had he builded with one elbow on the ledge of that lonely look-out!

While, as a matter of fact, he had not foreseen this fame which was come to him, he had, in some vague way, felt it, and had experienced no great surprise at its coming.

It was pleasant, after years of absence from the little lane, to stand there in the midnight silence and look up at the window where he had dreamed some of the rosiest dreams of his life.

A year ago he lived there. Yesterday be lunched with the Lord Chief Justice. To-day he dined with Gladstone. To-morrow he would sail for America. He was stealing quietly away, for he hated noise and notoriety. He was going to visit and to rest.

"Good-bye, dear old stepstone, goodbye," he quoted, and turned away.

As he walked slowly to his luxurious apartments, Atwood began to ask himself why he had come back to the old place at midnight and alone. Was it Mr. Gladstone's reference to the old days? Or Mr. Gladstone's old port? Or was he losing himself in his work?

Anyway, he was glad that his stout limbs had carried him back that he might take leave of his bachelor home before his departure for America.

As he walked away with elevated chin his foot struck a stone. He paused and looked down. He had stumbled over the slab that covered Goldsmith's grave.

"What a narrow swath I shall be cutting a hundred years hence!" said Atwood, hurrying on.

SYCAMORE, always attractive, was never more so than now. Touhey, the old gardener, was arranging the rustic seats under the great trees where the robins were rioting, when a carriage swung in at the lower gate and rolled leisurely along the gravelled driveway arched over by drooping bows of ancient forest trees.

Atwood was charmed with the place. He had come to Canada expecting to find only new crude things, and was agreeably surprised.

He saw, too, that the welcome accorded him was genuine. The hostess, Mrs. Deering, was sister to his mother, sweet soul, who had gone from him when he was but a boy.

He admired her sons, sturdy young fellows just merging into manhood and taking their places in the work of the world. He was charmed by his beautiful cousin, Helen, and greatly amused and entertained by his maiden aunt, Phoebe, who seemed ever to be in the act of side-stepping some sudden calamity, or shying at an imaginary menace.

Atwood was not only clever, but handsome as well, and from the day of his arrival the staid old country seat took on holiday airs. Almost immediately telegrams began to pour in from leading publishers, followed by letters inviting the visiting author to contribute to the magazines, while special writers and artists from the big dailies began to break a trail from the big towns to the northern shrine. At the end of a week all roads seemed to lead to Sycamore.

To be sure, Atwood knew his coming would make some noise, but he had not expected it would be as loud as this. The space writer and the kodaker had established a peaceful blockade of Sycamore.

If he showed his head someone took a shot at him. One persistent picture-maker, having stolen into the grounds by night, hid under a big birch and actually photographed the author in the swimming pool, taking a morning plunge.

It was probably this crowning audacity more than anything else that caused Atwood to accept an assignment to do a short story in the vein originated, developed, and made famous by him, for the foremost magazine in America. The price fixed by the publisher was fabulous, and in the event of the author finishing the story in a fortnight there was to be an honorarium which, if it had come to him in the form of a retainer when he was a struggling barrister, would have taken his breath.

His aunt, by this time quite ready for a few days' rest, he took into his confidence. He was to have his meals in his apartments, and be left alone.

It worked beautifully, for Mrs. Deering, being a woman, was an artist in the art of making you understand without saying so in so many words. It was as easy as being out when she was in, or in when she had just been out.

In a few days everyone in the little city knew that Mr. Atwood was indisposed. Nothing serious, however— probably out in a week or two at most.

Jeanette, the parlormaid, always wore a look of distress when a caller asked after the author, but brightened when assuring the visitor that he would be out soon. Sarah, the house-maid, tiptoed past his door. Mary, the cook, would have killed him with delicacies if he had eaten all she sent up. Touhey, the gardener, was grieved because of Atwood's illness, but glad of the opportunity to drive the kodakers away.

ONE NIGHT Mrs. Deering was awakened by the low mutterings of distant thunder. She fell asleep again, only to be awakened by the same ominous noise.

She was one of those women who can face any amount of real danger, but who tremble in the awful presence of the incomprehensible. She got up and stood at the window.

Away in the western sky the storm king was shaking his golden chains on a background of dead black. Without, the night was noiseless. Not a leaf was moving.

Mrs. Deering threw a shawl about her shoul-ders and sat down to watch the storm. The leaves began to nod and sway in the rising breeze.

Suddenly the great trees seemed to shudder. A chain of lightning leaped from the black sky and darted, smokelike, among the trees, leaving the darkness deeper than before. Immediately following this ferret-like flash, a snow-white figure emerged from the shadows of the great birch, passed up over the shoulder of the hill, and disappeared down the steep bluff in the direction of the river.

A new, strange terror sat upon the soul of the lone watcher at the window. Shuddering, she rose and stepped into the hall.

The transom was dark over Atwood's door. He had retired, though he had been in the habit of writing long after midnight.

Off in another wing of the big house the boys were sleeping. She stole softly into her sister's room, which faced the west, and to her surprise found Aunt Phoebe sitting at her window.

She, too, was nervous and unusually distressed. The two women camped together that night. In their conversation, the little that passed, each blamed the storm for her nervousness.

Aunt Phoebe was up early the following day, and began to investigate what she called the scandalous conduct of some of the female helps. She went after Jeanette first, but the fiery little French-Canadian parlormaid soon convinced the self-appointed superintending housekeeper that she had not been out in her robe de nuit.

Then Aunt Phoebe stood Sarah up, and Sarah indignantly denied having left her room during the night, and promptly handed in her notice.

It took time, even for Aunt Phoebe, to nerve herself to move on Mary, the cook. In two minutes it was all over, and Mary was packing up.

"I've given notice," said Sarah, as Mary, red and perspiring, stamped up the back stair.

"I've given them a chance to fill me place," said Mary.

Aunt Phoebe, baffled and alarmed, called Mrs. Deering, who, after much diplomacy, succeeded in establishing a truce between her sister and the servants.

"It's all very well for them to deny it," said Aunt Phoebe, when her sister chided her; "but I saw a hussy come up the river path and pass around to the rear of the house just as you entered my room last night."

Mrs. Deering stared at her sister.

It was Sarah's night out that night, and with the consent of Mrs. Deer-ing Jeanette went with her.

It was midnight when the two girls entered the lower gate and hurried along the driveway.

"There's where the dreadful man hid," said Jeanette, "to photograph Mr. Atwood in the swimming pool. Isn't Mr. At— "

Jeanette stopped short, grasped Sarah's arm, and stared in the direction of the pool. Out of the shadow of the big birch a white figure fared, crossed an open, star-lit space, and disappeared over the shoulder of the hill in the direction of the river.

The girls caught hands and raced for the house.

A few nights after, Louis, the elder of the Deering boys, returned late from a banquet. While he was hunting the keyhole he heard footsteps as of a man running along the driveway.

Turning, he saw a woman running straight for the front door. As she came near she fell forward, and he caught her in his arms.

As he lifted the falling woman he saw a white figure pass under a tulip tree on the brow of the hill and then drop suddenly behind the bluff.

Young Deering, not wishing to alarm the household, drew his find to the front of the verandah and held her face to the starlight and began to look her over.

It was Mary, the cook. He laid her gently down on the door-mat, plucked a bunch of dew-wet leaves from a tulip tree, and fanned her face.

"Please, sur," said Mary, "would you be so kind as to see me to the rear of the house?"

"Yes, yes, Mary," said Deering; "you'll be all right now."

As they passed around to the west side of the house Mary kept glancing back toward the big birch from whose dark shadows she could have sworn she had seen a ghost appear.

This thing went on until one by one almost every member of the household had seen the white-robed figure emerge from the shadows down by the swimming-pool, pass over the hill, and fade in the forest that fringed the river's rim.

They set a watch in Mrs. Deering's room, which overlooked the grounds to the south, and the river to the west, but the apparition failed to appear. They watched again on the following night. Midnight, and nothing came.

Just as they were breaking up the watch Aunt Phoebe, who had been sitting by a west window, called excitedly: "Look! Look!"

One of the young men sprang to the window. He could see nothing, but Aunt Phoebe declared that she had seen the white thing leap into the shadow just beyond the tulip tree.

The whole household was by this time becoming so demoralised by the constant dread of some dire calamity that Mrs. Deering deter-mined to take Atwood into her confidence.

The author laughed at first, but, seeing how his aunt was distressed, he promised to make the ghost's acquaintance at the earliest possible moment. That night he joined the watchers, but the ghost refused to walk. Another night was equally disappointing.

On the following night Mrs. Deering saw it, and told Atwood so.

"I have a plan," said the author. "You take my room, I'll take yours, and when half-past eleven strikes I'll put my work aside and watch for your ghost."

For three nights he worked and watched and waited, but had nothing of interest to tell his hostess when the next day dawned.

Mrs. Deering returned to her apartment and Atwood to his.

That very night she saw the sprite. Aunt Phoebe saw it, too, and took to her bed.

The servants had ceased to take their nights out. "Sycamore" was a good imitation of a madhouse. Young Deering wired Chicago for the best detective that could be had.

"Who has seen this thing?" was the detective's first question.

"Everybody about the place but Touhey and the author."

The detective examined the ground, and discovered that the dirt had been spaded up under the big birch. There was fresh dirt on a spade near the lodge, though Touhey said he had not used it for a week.

That night the detective sat with his back to a big tree immediately in front of the gardener's lodge, but Touhey slept like a log until the sun came in at his window.

That day the detective slept. The next night he sat in a dark closet at the end of a dimly-lighted hallway, at the other end of which was the entrance to Atwood's room. Near midnight the light went out, but the door never opened during the night.

Young Deering kept watch in his mother's room. He owned that he had nodded, but was positive he had seen a white object for a brief moment on the brow of the hill.

Atwood announced that his story would be completed and in the mail on the morrow— in time to win the honorarium.

Mrs. Deering, who was almost the only person permitted to see him, heard this with a great sigh of relief, for Atwood's condition was be-ginning to alarm her. He was not eating, his eyes had a stony stare, the color had left his cheeks. At times he moved and spoke like one half asleep. His voice sounded as if it came from a distance.

"Poor boy," said Mrs. Deering; "It's the ghost that's wearing on him."

FOR HIS third night's work the detective planned a blockade of the big birch. Two of the Deering boys and a couple of their friends were to assist him, while the third Deering was to remain with Mrs. Deering and Helen, Aunt Phoebe was out of it altogether, keeping her room day and night.

Promptly at 11 o'clock the watchers took their places under the great trees, completely surrounding the mysterious birch. The detective, having placed his men, took up a post between the pool and the point of the hill over which the ghost was said to have passed upon more than one occasion.

Nobody had ever seen the ghost coming in, but the detective took it for granted that it would enter by the same trail used when departing.

They had scarcely stationed themselves when the low-hanging boughs of the big birch parted and the white thing strode out in full view.

The two women at the window gave a low cry, clutching at young Deering, who hushed them. Every man among the trees stood still, awed by the awful apparition. Only the detective kept a grip on his courage.

He stepped out from the shadow of the tulip tree and stood in the ghost's path. The watchers at the window held their breath.

Inspired suddenly by the great courage of their leader, the sentinels, one after the other, left their posts and hurried to his aid. The detective put up his hand as if to hold them back. The little company paused.

The detective stepped to one side, and the white thing passed on, disappearing among the trees. The detective, silhouetted against the star-studded sky, beckoned, and the other men hurried up to the level of the lawn. He put up his hand, and they all stopped short.

At that moment the white object, emerging from the shrubs, crossed an open space and passed out of view at the rear of the building. The detective signalled again, and the others followed him to the front of the house. The watchers within joined them.

Up over the roof of the summer kitchen came the ghost. Helen hid her face and shuddered. Along the eave trough the white-robed object hurried toward the front of the house.

"Hus-s-h," said the detective; "it's Atwood, If you wake him, he'll fall."

At the end of the roof the ghost sat down, took hold of the cornice, lowered himself by one hand, and dropped lightly to the porch roof and stepped in through an open window to Mr. Atwood's room.

The detective signalled, and they followed him into the drawing-room.

IN AN HOUR they were all comparatively calm.

The detective, who had been upstairs, reported Mr, Atwood sleeping like a tired child. A heap of manuscript lay upon his table with the word "Finis" written on the bottom of the last page.

By this time the family doctor, who had been called by telephone, arrived.

"Let him sleep," said the doctor, when he had heard the story and looked the patient over.

Just as he was about to leave the room the doctor noticed the stack of manuscript, turned it over and read the title of the tale that Atwood had been living for a fortnight—  The Ghost of a Miser.

_____________________

19: The Steerage Passenger

George (Fitzalan) Bronson-Howard

1884-1922

The Grand Magazine Jan 1908

World's News (Sydney) 22 Feb 1908

THE liner Sultanic, clearing from San Francisco, final destination Hongkong by way of the intermediate ports of Honolulu, Yokohama, and Shanghai, carried fifty cabin passengers and three hundred in the Asiatic steerage— also the Governor-General of his Majesty's Colony of Kwei-Lung. It was due to the latter being on the passenger list that many tentative passengers for the Orient had hurried or delayed their passage in order to achieve the distinction of basking in his presence for the better part of a month. For, besides being a Governor-General, the gentleman was a bona-fide peer of the realm— Marquis variety— and somewhat of a celebrity on his own account.

In fact, everyone sailing "cabin" on the Sultanic had heard of the Marquis and wanted to see him— everyone except little Miss Elsie Morgan, of Kentucky, who had lived in the backwoods until a very recent date, and did not see the New York papers and their freak features.

Mrs. Heightley was not in Miss Morgan's class, however. She had heard of the Marquis, and she had dragged her three daughters— Essene, Lurania, and Savene— away from their dressmakers and travelling wardrobes, and taken passage on the Sultanic two weeks before she had originally intended to sail. This was due to the Marquis, of course, and now that four days of the voyage had passed and his Excellency had not made his appearance, she felt herself decidedly aggrieved, and in the position of the verdant gentleman from the in-terior who trades honest though sweaty coin of the realm for bricks of shining exterior but little substance. She said as much to Cyrus Letcher, of New York, whose social position was indeterminate, but whose knowledge of the world was wide.

A broad smile overspread Mr. Letcher's face. "Well, Mrs. Heightley," he drawled, "you are taking lessons in British reserve, that's all. Britishers hate to be made a fuss over, and this Marquis prefers to stick to his quarters. He's got the drawing-room cabin, you know."

Mrs. Heightley had already waylaid his Excellency's secretary, the Hon. Archer Challice, who had put the reason in a few terse words.

"The Governor's not feeling very fit," said he.

Mrs. Heightley was much aggrieved.

"I thought from what I read that his Lordship was very democratic," she said in her high, cultivated, false voice, the result of two years under a teacher of "culture." "Heard, too"— her voice sank to an awed whisper— "that he used to dress himself like a working-man— a common laborer— and mix with the prol-e-tariat."

With great distinctness Mrs. Heightley pronounced the last word, of which she was rather proud. She despised the lower classes, and had spent vain hours trying to instil into her husband, but lately of them, that a fish-knife was not intended for the purpose of buttering bread!

Mr. Letcher was somewhat amused by Mrs. Heightley, for she was not a difficult person to read.

"Mr. Letcher, I'm sorry to see that you have so little respect for a man of the Marquis' standing."

Mr. Letcher smiled.

"There's Mr. Challice!" Mrs. Heightley exclaimed, and got out of the steamer chair; but as she made a step towards him, that young scion of nobility stopped before the chair of a pretty little sprite whose straw-colored hair was topped by a red tam-o'-shanter. Mrs. Heightley pursed up her lips and resumed her seat.

"I was about to ask Mr. Challice as to the Governor's health," Mrs. Heightley remarked again to Mr. Letcher, who bad hastily muffled a smile. "But if he chooses to continue in company with that abominable little creature with the dyed hair, I"— how she rolled the monosyllable— "shall leave him to his own devices."

Mr. Letcher frowned.

"Mrs. Heightley," he said dispassionately, "I should prefer that you call Miss Morgan neither abominable nor a creature— also that you retract the statement about the dyed hair. Miss Morgan is a very sweet little girl, fresh from the country, who has accepted an appointment to teach school in the Philippines. We men like her because she is genuine, and would protect her because she is innocent. So I'll beg of you to speak of her in a different way."

Mrs. Heightley had gone from red to white and back to red again. She now assumed the pose decreed by her teacher of "culture" to be the one preparatory to rebuking insolence in an aristocratic manner.

"Naturally," she began freezingly, "you seek the kind that—" Mr. Letcher snipped off the end of a cigar.

"Cut it out," he observed carelessly. "Or I might talk about Miner Jake Heightley, the buffoon of Helena, Montana, and the gentleman who wears a dickey— your husband I believe, Mrs. Heightley?" He cast a gentle inquiring glance on the now terrified woman, arose, and with the comment, "I was in Helena in '96 as a guest of Gensler's," made his way toward the smokeroom to take his hourly highball.

A few minutes later, the Hon. Archer Challice with a weary look informed Miss Morgan that he had some beastly work to do and would see her at lunch, and went away, feeling aggrieved with the world at large. The Hon. Archer liked Miss Morgan and he did not like work; but consequent to the desertion of the Governor's stenographer, who had left the party to take a business offer in San Francisco, the Hon. Archer was put into the position of being forced to labor until a new stenographer could he procured in Hongkong or thereabouts. Miss Morgan, left to herself for the moment, got up and walked to the rail of the saloon-deck overlooking the Asiatic steerage. For some time she had been observing the folk 'tween decks, and particularly one of them. This was a white man, but he wore Chinese clothes. Elsie had asked the ship doctor why he was there among the Celestials. "Hasn't got enough money to go cabin, I guess," returned the medico. "Pretty cheap going that way."

The thought of this man of her own race among the yellow folk was a subject that worried Miss Elsie not a little. She was quite sure that the white man must be very lonely down there without a kindred soul for company; and she had several times been on the point of de- scending and cheering him up. But the very boldness of the thing chilled Elsie, and she had not summoned the courage to do so. Little girls from Kentucky are taught that it is not quite the thing to begin conversations with people they don't know.

Nevertheless, the thought of this man kept her from thoroughly enjoying her trip. Less than a month before she had left the little village in which she lived continuously all her brief life. She had not even been to Louisville. The daughter of a country physician, who died on her 16th birthday, she had been teaching the village school since that date. In a moment of impulse she had gone to Leeds, a little town near by, and taken the Civil Service examination for school teachers in the Philippines. When the appointment had come and she had mastered her overwhelming astonishment, she decided to accept the glorious compensation of 1,000 dollars, and set her pretty face fearlessly towards the Land of the Rising Sun.

She took a delight in small things which was an ever-present joy to Mr. Letcher and the Hon. Archer Challice. She laughed merrily when she found that asking for biscuits at table meant to be served with "crackers"; and when she was served with marmalade for the first time, she did not hesitate to announce that it was the first time, and that she found it good. Which confirmation of British epicureanism was very pleasing to the Hon. Mr. Challice. "The Little Canary" Challice called her, because of her dainty way of eating morsels. And, indeed, she was not unlike a canary, this blonde, blue-eyed little person with the rosebud mouth and the pretty ways.

But Mrs. Heightley, Essene, Lurania, and Savene, her daughters, all highly cultured, noted the absence of "culture" in little Miss Morgan, and took pains to "cut" her. And there were a good many people of Mrs. Heightley's sort on board the Sultanic. Strange as it may seem, however, the folks born to drawing-room and evening-dress found much in common with the little lady from Kentucky. As for Elsie herself, she was unaware that she was a subject for discussion.

Mr. Letcher came up and joined her at the rail. She turned to him with her bright little smile, and he lifted his cap and apologised for the cigar.

"Look at that poor man down there," she said. Her soft southern intonation was delightful. ''Isn't it perfectly awful that he has to live with those Chinese—"

"Very bad," affirmed the deceitful Mr. Letcher, who had hitherto given the subject no thought.

"And has to eat that nasty rice and stuff all the time?" continued Miss Elsie, pursing up her rosy lips. A sudden sadness crept into her blue eyes. "Do you know that to-morrow's Christmas?" she said.

"Ah— yes, so it is," agreed Mr. Letcher.

"We'll have to do something for that poor man," said Miss Elsie. "He must have a Christmas dinner. Oh. I tell you what, Mr. Letcher! We'll go and see the steward and see if we can't get him to serve that man just what we have."

"Great!" declared Mr. Letcher. But a quick disappointment shadowed her face.

"Where can he eat it?" she asked. "You don't think they'd let him come into the saloon?"

"Against the rules," declared Mr. Letcher promptly.

"That's too bad," she complained.

The astute Mr. Letcher here delivered himself.

"Why not my cabin?" said he. "We could have it served to him in there."

She clasped her hands ecstatically.

"Mr. Letcher, you are just too sweet for anything," she said. Mr. Letcher felt repaid and somewhat somewhat embarrassed.

"I'll tell you what," he said, "I'll go down and fix it up with the steward now."

"And I," announced Miss Elsie, "will go down and talk it over with that poor young man." She stretched out her hands. "You are so good and so kind, Mr. Letcher, that I could just hug you!"

You see, Mr. Letcher was grey-haired and old enough to be her father.

Miss Elsie descended the ladder as soon as she had made sure that she was mirrored in his eyes. She nodded with sweet graciousness and watched for him to come over. She eyed him reflectively meanwhile, and saw that he had very nice eyes, and that his face seemed clean. His attire was very much like that of his companions— which same is more familiar to the Anglo-Saxon in the form of pyjamas.

His glance was frankly and honestly admiring, and as he came over he mechanically reached for a hat which had no existence.

"Do you want to look round here?" he asked pleasantly.

Elsie came near to blushing. She choked on several beginnings.

"No," she stammered. "You see— I— thought perhaps you might be lonely—and I"— she gained her pretty dignity again— "remembered this is Christmas Eve, and I wanted you to feel like Christmas— that is— if I could—"

"You see," she went on simply, "round about where I live— in Kentucky, that is— at Christmas time, we used to make up donation parties and things, and anybody that didn't have things to have a merry Christmas with, we fixed it up so they had— so I'm going to see that you have a nice Christmas dinner just like we're going to have up there, because I'm so sorry you're not with us. You see, another thing, I don't know what I would have done if the Government hadn't paid my passage out. I didn't have enough money myself; maybe I'd have had to come this way, too. So you see we're very much the same, aren't we, now? I'm going out to the Philippines as a school teacher. Are you going there, too?"

"No," he said. "I'm going to Hongkong— to work—"

"To get a position?" she cried delightfully "Isn't that splendid! I'm sure you'll do so well. What do you do?"

For a moment he hesitated.

"I'm a stenographer," he said.

Miss Elsie beamed on him and clapped her hands.

"Well what do you think of that?" she cried. "I'll tell you a secret. I'm one, too. I learned it through the correspondence schools. They teach by mail, you know. It took me eight months to learn, and I practised typewriting copying off Judge Breckinridge's cases for him— he was our Circuit Judge, you know, and the most splendid lawyer you ever saw. Can you typewrite, too?"

He caught the infection of her smile.

"Why, yes," he said. "I can typewrite, too."

"That's splendid," decreed Miss Elsie. "I'm sure you'll do awfully well; indeed I am quite sure you will. Oh, yes! and Mr. Challice is going to Hongkong. I'll tell him to look out and see if he can't help you to get a position quickly."

"You're most awfully kind," stammered the man. "I wish I deserved your kindness—"

"Why, I'm not at all," she laughed. "That's just pure selfishness. I want to feel like Christmas, and the only way you can feel like Christmas is by helping someone who has less than you have— don't you think so?"

The man fumbled with the buttons of his blouse.

"Yes," he agreed abstractedly.

"So you see, I've fixed it up with Mr. Letcher and we're going to have the chief steward furnish you with a dinner just like the one we shall eat. And Mr. Letcher has been just too kind for anything, and you're to eat the dinner in his cabin. I call it lovely of him."

She eyed the man anxiously, for he was showing no elation, only gazing dazedly at her.

"Won't you like it?" she asked, entreaty to her voice.

"Like it?" His eyes flashed. "Why, you're just the jolliest sort of a good sort. I say, you are really— I—"

She interrupted him with a wave of her hand. "It will make me feel like Christmas, you see, making someone else happy. It will make you just a little bit happy, won't it?"

He gazed at her in silent admiration. A voice above called "Miss Morgan."

"That's Mr. Letcher," she informed the man— "the gentleman I spoke of. Now you won't forget. He and I will come down to-morrow evening and take you to his cabin— you'll come, won't you?"

He nodded, speechless.

"And now " She paused and grew suddenly red; then her little white fingers caught his lean brown hand, and something hard slipped to it. "Christmas present," she said lightly. "Just a remembrance of the day. You don't mind, do you?"

She left him and scrambled hastily up the ladder to the saloon deck and Mr. Letcher.

The man 'tween decks opened his hand and found that it contained a golden half-eagle.

CONSIDERABLE excitement was brought into existence at luncheon by a simple statement made by the Hon. Archer Challice. The captain had been exerting himself all day to provide the usual Christmas Eve revels of Albion; the first on the programme was, of course, the dinner, par excellence, which he had ordered to be prepared. On English liners good dinners are invariable. But this was to be an exceptional dinner, a dinner only to be excelled by the Christmas feast the next day.

"It's hard lines," commented the captain, after dwelling on the subject for some little time, "that the Governor-General can't preside—"

"Eh— what's that?" asked Mr. Challice. The captain repeated his statement.

"But he can preside," said the Hon. Archer Challice. "He'll be down to-night— or rather up— told me about it a little while ago, but I forgot to mention it "

Having delivered his bombshell, Mr. Challice continued to dissect his fish. Not so the matrons and their daughters, most especially Mrs. Heightley. For them food was now impossible. They withdrew within themselves and plotted, gushing meanwhile of totally different things.

"Good," said the captain, commenting on Mr. Challice's statement with the outward imperturbability of a true Briton. "Then we'll have his Excellency in my place, at the head of the table, and I'll take the foot. You, Mr. Challice, will, of course, be on his right, and on his left— eh?"

The captain pondered.

By all the rules of the game, one of the opposite sex should have the place of honor on the left. Captain Robinson, however, objected to playing Paris and awarding apples, for the commander of a passenger liner must be popular with his charges— that is one of the reasons he is selected. But he had made the fatal blunder of mentioning the place without the name. When he left the saloon to go on deck he was pounced upon by the alert Mrs. Heightley, who in a diplomatic, cultured way urged the pre-eminence of Lurania for the seat of honor.

"Ah, yes, madam, quite so," said Captain Robinson with a courtly smile. "But I have no voice in the matter. Mr. Challice has informed me that the Marquis desires to meet the ladies aboard with a view to making his own choice; so you see— ah, yes! pardon me—"

At the very moment little Miss Morgan was snugly ensconced in her steamer-chair again, and the Hon. Mr. Challice was near by, smoking a cigarette and telling her about fox-hunting in Sussex in return for her information about the same sort of thing in Kentucky. He was rejoiced to find that there were many points of similarity, and was in the midst of a tirade against the aniseed bag as opposed to the real reynard, when Mrs. Heightley coughed near by. Challice looked up and met her eyes.

"May I speak with you a moment, Mr. Challice?" she asked.

"Right-o," said Mr. Challice, getting up. "Sit down, Mrs. Heightley—"

Mrs. Heightley cast a freezing look on Miss Morgan, and then smiled on Mr. Challice.

"Alone, dear Mr. Challice," she explained; and when Challice with a resigned air had excused himself to Miss Elsie, she followed up her statement with, "Of course, men can talk to anyone, but women have to be so particular."

"Eh— what's that?" queried Mr. Challice.

"I don't want you to think me hateful, but, of course, you understand that for women that little Morgan girl is impossible."

"Ah— indeed," said Mr. Challice, and gave her the British stare, cold and fishy.

"Now, as regards his Excellency, the Marquis " she began.

"You've got it wrong," he explained with brutal candour. "His Excellency the Governor-General, or his Lordship the Marquis is correct, but people of his own class generally refer to him in a social way as Lord Tainholme—"

She accepted the snub without recognising it. "I should like to present my daughters to him before all the rest come in," she informed Mr. Challice.

"Very well," said Mr. Challice. "I'll ask his permission. He won't be up until just before dinner. I'm off now."

Before he went down to dress for dinner he had made many and various promises. Each matron had hinted regarding the seat on the left; but be had not allowed their hints to remain in that shape. He had dragged them forth from their lairs, and promised each separate one that her daughter, or herself, as the case might be, should have the desired post of priority. He grinned with satisfaction when each one thanked him and went away preening herself. He was safe enough until the time came, for he had extracted from each one a promise to keep the secret.

When he was alone in his cabin he indulged in a long, loud laugh.

"Jolly good, that," he told himself. "Haw! Haw! jolly good— I say, it is, you know."

He dressed himself with some care, and rubbed his pumps with a bit of rag. Sallying forth into the drawing-room cabin of his Excellency's suite, he saw the Marquis Tainholme, in evening clothes, seated at his typewriter and pecking away busily, but unskilfully.

"I say, Arch," the Marquis paused and shifted the sheet up two spaces, "what's a decent compensation for an assistant secretary who is a stenographer and typewriter and all that sort of thing?"

"Well," said Mr. Challice, "you gave Lynch three hundred quid."

The Marquis frowned.

"Too little, too little," he said. "Beastly bad pay— that's the reason he left. How's four hundred?"

"Too much."

"Four hundred is— how much is American dollars? Two thousand— yes, quite so. Thank you, Arch."

He pecked away at the typewriter for a few minutes longer, then pulled out the sheet, took it over to the escritoire, and signed his name in a large flowing hand. The paper he folded and thrust into the inner pocket of his dinner-coat.

Challice examined his wrist watch.

"I say, Dick, it's near to seven— only a few minutes lacking. And I've got an awful raft of folk to introduce to you—"

The Marquis frowned.

"What sort?" he asked.

"Well, there are some good fellows and nice folk, but the majority are a lot of bounders— most especially the women— the title, you know!" he explained.

The Marquis frowned bitterly.

"Title!" he said. "Hang the title— it destroys sincerity. Why can't I be judged as a thinker— as a—"

After this remark, it is hardly necessary to state that the Marquis is still young. He was. He was hardly older than Mr. Challice, who, besides being his secretary, happened to be his best friend.

They went up to the music-saloon arm-in-arm, and found waiting for them many women in dinner-gowns, and a few men in eveningdress lounging about, smiling incuriously. The appearance of the slim, hawk-nosed, well-groomed man on Challice's arm created some sensation. Then men smiled some more, and the women began to edge toward the two new arrivals. Mrs. Heightley, with Lurania, Essene, and Savene, three plump girls with placid smiles, pushed to the front, and Challice, with a diabolical grin, presented her.

"Who is that pretty little thing in blue— yellow hair— just outside the port window?" he asked. "Well, it's no matter, go bring her in, and give her this before you bring her." He leaned over and whispered in Challice's ear.

"Explain," he added.

"Oh, Lord!" said Challice, and moved away, still with the diabolical grin.

He glanced back and saw the wave of chattering femininity surge once again upon his friend. "Oh, Lord!"

He grinned again, and, shaking with suppressed mirth, he reached Miss Morgan's side. She was sitting just outside the saloon window, and Mr. Letcher had a moment before left her to procure some cigars for himself.

"I say, Miss Morgan," half-choked Challice, handing her the folded paper which he had previously inspected. "Dick— Tainholme, you know— the Governor— told me to give you this—"

Even while struggling with his laughter, he noted that she was looking exceptionally sweet in a blue gown. She took the proffered paper and glanced at it in the half-light from the saloon windows. The next moment she was cluthching it close to her face.

"But—but—" she gasped. "This is— my appointment as— assistant secretary— two thousand dollars— oh, Mr. Challice! How perfectly dear of you— how—"

Challice was shaking his head.

"Didn't knew a thing," he declared. "All new to me— you see he's a most 'straordinary chap— in London put on working-man's clothes, went with workingmen to find out— now, going out to govern Chinese— wanted to find out about Chinese— same thing, you understand— oh, Lord! it's all right— please come on and meet him—"

He caught Miss Morgan's arm and half dragged her into the music-room, pushing his way among the other women.

The girl looked up and wondered if her eyes saw right. The vicious remark of Mrs. Heightley, "I should think that Mr. Challice would have more decency " "Forward little minx," from Mrs. Cassilis. "These men— all alike," from someone else, came to her ears without understanding.

She saw only the kindly honest eyes of the man 'tween decks— the man 'tween decks attired in a smartly-cut dinner coat and smiling an honest English welcome to her over his broad expanse of spotless linen.

"Dick," said Challice, "this is Miss Elsie Morgan; Miss Elsie, Lord Tainholme— the Governor, you know," he added explanatorily.

Her blue eyes met his.

"The appointment," she stammered; "I— what—"

She was dazed.

The right hand of the Marquis took one of her little pink and white ones and pressed it warmly. The left hand of the Marquis fished out a golden half-eagle from his waistcoat pocket.

"A fair exchange is no robbery," he said gaily. "And besides, I needed a stenographer for my assistant secretary; and also besides, Christmas, as someone has aptly said, is enjoyable only when we try to help others."

He still held her hand, and looked around the music-saloon with a slightly amused air. Mr. Challice was rubbing his knuckles in glee.

"This is jolly good," murmured the Honorable Archer Challice, looking at Mrs. Heightley from the tail of his eye.

Meanwhile, the Marquis had said in a slightly louder tone:—

"Miss Morgan, will you give me the honor of taking you in to dinner?"

Still somewhat dazed, she moved along with him leaning on his arm.

If Mrs. Heightley had been a man she would have undoubtedly set a new record in profanity!

_______________________

20: Dickerson's Bag of Gold

Seward W. Hopkins

1864-1919

The Argosy Nov 1907

World's News (Sydney) 28 Dec 1907

IT was only a lumber schooner, with a crew of lascars, captained by a drunken Englishman, bound from Capretano to San Francisco, with mahogany and other fancy woods; but Dickerson had declared his determination to take the first vessel home, and Dickerson was notoriously unamenable to advice and reasoning.

He had worked hard, saved his money, sold out his holdings at Capretano for a good round sum, and now, with all his capital in good gold, he dreamed of happiness in God's country once more, with Annie DeLaney as his bride.

Dickerson had loved Annie long. His luck in the States had been proverbially bad, and having heard of opportunities in the forsaken island of Capretano, he had ventured and won.

Communication had been difficult, but the occasional letters that found their way from California to Capretano by way of lumber schooners, tramp steamers, and the semi-annual Government inspection boat all breathed of loyalty. Dickerson knew that Annie was waiting for him with all the accumulated love of three long years.

And he hugged his bag of gold and grinned at himself in a state of idiotic bliss. He knew that at last a flinty-hearted parents would relent, even welcome him, for he would come laden with gold.

But there was one thing Dickerson did not know. This was that Barry, who had been in Capretano a year, and had wasted his time gambling with the natives or drinking hemp-liquor, had also resolved to marry Annie, and was willing to let Dickerson do the hard work and pile up the gold that he would take back with him, accompanied by the sad story of Dickerson's untimely death.

But though Barry planned, it had been difficult to execute. Capretano had never hung out any banners as being the hub of the newly-arrived millennium, but it was in the main a law-abiding place, with a few marines at hand with rifles to maintain order and discourage such pursuits as killing off and robbing rivals in love.

Dickerson did not even know that the man he detested was acquainted with Annie. He had not liked Barry from the day of that person's arrival at Capretano. He had never sought the fellow's confidence. He had never offered any.

Hence, having made his dicker with the captain of the Mary Ella and secured what the captain was pleased to call a stateroom, and having taken his few belongings on board, it was more or less a surprise to Dickerson to be ordered to hurry up by the same Barry, who was clad in a seaman's outfit that could not be called an exact fit.

Dickerson stared.

"I'm mate of this here ship," said Barry. "The old man wanted a mate, and I wanted to go back home. So I took the berth. Didn't know you was going, though."

This was a lie, but Dickerson did not know that. He went to his cabin, which had once been the cook's storeroom, and jammed his luggage into as small a compass as he could, in order to have room to get in himself.

The hemp-liquor of Capretano is more or less forceful, and the Mary Ella sailed with the new mate in command and the captain slooping off his jag.

Dickerson was so filled to the brim with the dream of his approaching happiness that he thought little of Barry's presence on board. He knew Barry had been a sailor, almost any man who had been a sailor was competent is become mate of the Mary Ella.

Nevertheless, Dickerson knew that there was probably not an honest man in the crew, and took the precaution to fasten his bag of gold around his waist under his clothing. It was not comfortable, but it was decidedly preferable to being robbed.

As the days passed, and the heavily-laden schooner wallowed around in the Pacific, with nary an inch of land in sight, Dickerson forgot Barry and his suspicions of the crew, and smoked in calm enjoyment when awake, or slept the sound sleep of the righteous at night.

The sound sleep of the righteous was under way at a 20-knot speed when one dark night there was a sound in the little stateroom, and a thing that would have cast a shadow had there been sufficient light crawled toward the board bunk on which the happy Dickerson was sleeping. The shadowless figure carried a long knife in its hand.

But it was so dark that there was danger of making a false lunge and only wounding the sleeper, which would result in an outcry.

It was not that Barry feared the captain or the crew as far as punishment for his crime was concerned; but he knew there would have to be an explanation, and the captain would demand his share of the gold, the crew would have to be bought off, and altogether there would be too many cooks spoiling the broth.

On the other hand, one swift, straight stroke would end it all, and it would not be a difficult matter to convince the captain that there had been bad blood between Dickerson and the Lascar crew since leaving Capretano, and it was impossible to tell which one of the half-naked devils had killed the American.

Barry felt with his left hand, holding his right, which gripped the knife, ready to strike.

This method of making a bad deed sore was unfortunate for Barry. For Dickerson had a habit of sleeping with his mouth open, and Barry's thumb went into the open month, and two rows of strong teeth closed on it like a vyce, and Dickerson opened his eyes in the darkness.

Barry's surprise was so great that he swore in round American curses, and, this was another unfortunate mistake. Dickerson knew him, and, without relaxing the loving embrace his teeth had taken on Barry's thumb, he reached out with his right hand and caught Barry's as it was descending with the knife.

Then began a battle which will always be remembered by the captain of this Mary Ella as the precursor of the bitterest night in his entire career on the bounding sea.

Dickerson twisted Barry's wrist till he dropped the knife, and, regardless of the laws providing punishment for the crime of mayhem, he almost bit Barry's thumb off at the first joint.

They would have swayed about the room had there been any room to sway in, but they were crowded into a space that did not give either one an opportunity to escape.

Dickerson was a smaller man than Barry, and although Barry's muscles were flabby from want of exercise and excess of booze, he was more than a match for the thrifty Dickerson.

But Dickerson was the more active, and he rained terrific blows in the dark at Barry's head, sometimes hitting it, and sometimes knocking the skin off his knuckles on the bulkheads.

Barry punched, kicked, and tried to throttle Dickerson, but when he hit Dickerson with his right fist he always hit his own left hand first, for somehow Dickerson's teeth had wedded themselves with Barry's thumb with no divorce court in sight.

The uproar and Barry's cursing woke the captain, who came running to the cabin with a lantern.

"Wot the deuce is the row here?" he bawled, striking out regardless of cost and hitting Barry alongside the head.

"This lubber tried to murder me," said Barry.

"It's a lie," cried Dickerson. "He tried to kill and rob me."

"Rob you! Wot could 'e rob you of? Wot? See 'ere, I won't 'ave no such row as this. Stop, I say."

By this time half the crew were grinning in the lantern-light, and as neither Barry nor Dickerson cared to kill the other before so ap- preciative an audience, they permitted the cap- tain to lead them on deck.

Barry was dressed, as he had been in charge of the watch; but Dickerson had on only a pair of thin flannel trousers and an undershirt.

"Now," said the captain, "I don't care w'ich gets killed, but this ain't no time to murder a man. See that solid hunk of blackness a follerin' of us? We're goin' to 'are a storm, an' all 'ands'll be wanted. Wait till we get through the blow, an' then go ahead an' kill. I don't want to be offishus. I don't want to spoil no American gentleman's pleasure. But I do objeck to this sort of thing with a storm in sight."

A howl from some of the crew followed a sudden gust of wind, proving that although the captain did love his Cannabis Indica pretty well, he knew what was coming.

"Git up an' take in that foretops'l," he bawled. "We'll have the hull Pacific Hocean on top of us in a minute."

And it certainly seemed as if he had spoken the truth. A great wave of lukewarm water swept over them, and the cry of a lascar came out of the darkness as he was carried off to his death.

The captain, now fully alive to the serious-ness of this sudden storm, bawled out orders so fast that his language was one steady cata-ract of profanity and deck lingo.

But a bad hour had come for the Mary Ella.

It now became apparent that the captain's greed was to be his own undoing. He had loaded his schooner beyond her tonnage, and she wallowed in the unholy trough like a sick buffalo calf.

Some of the choice woods he carried would float, and they did float. And the port-boat also floated— with a hole stove in her bottom— and the crew gibbered queer prayers in queer languages for salvation other than that of heaven.

But no matter how much the captain swore and commanded, the Mary Ella was surely in hard luck. Before the terrified crew could shorten sail all her canvas was in ribbons, and the wind howled through them like a devil's Aeolian harp.

The Mary Ella was pounded as though the gods had combined to punish her for centuries of sins. The lascars were of no earthly use, and before an hour was past it was clear to everybody that the schooner was done far.

The waves washed over the top of the lumber on deck, carrying some of it with them, and as one great mountain went booming over the vessel it caught Barry in its relentless grip and carried him off.

But it carried with him a log, and Barry, who usually kept his wits in time of danger, felt it, and instead of allowing it to crush him or batter out his brains, hugged it as if it was a sweetheart, and when the mountain of water had passed, Barry and the log floated three hundred feet from the sodden wreck.

Barry fancied that he could hear the shouts of those who remained on board, and marvelled that anyone had been left behind when he was swept off his feet.

"And him with that gold," muttered Barry to himself. "If I'd only been quicker I'd have that gold. This thing'll keep me afloat a while. I'll last till daylight. Then maybe a ship."

But the hours were long to Barry. Although the huge wave that swept him from the Mary Ella had been the last desperate effort of the storm, the sea was still turbulent, and Barry had difficulty in keeping his am around his log.

But he was not to be drowned without a fight for life, and at last the sea grew less violent, and the wind gave way to a downpour of rain, which did not matter to Barry, since he had been soaked for hours with the Pacific.

At last the sea was calm enough for Barry to dare rest his aching arms, and he crawled astride the log. This was not the most comfortable riding in the world, for every few minutes the log would evince a desire to turn over. But Barry had ridden on logs before, and knew how to keep his balance.

And at last daylight came.

The first thing that Barry saw, when he could see across the water around him, was, about four hundred feet away, Dickerson straddling the mainmast of the Mary Ella.

What seemed to be the Mary Ella herself, a dark spot lying low in the water, could be seen at a much greater distance, but there was nothing about her that allowed life or hold out hope of rescue.

"Well, I'll be dig-danged," quoth Barry, as he gazed at the half-clad Dickerson. "And I'll bet he's got that gold yet. He won't never let go that gold while he's alive. Wonder if he'd talk to me. We're fellow sufferers now."

Dickerson had evidently discovered Barry about the same time Barry had discovered him. But there was no smile on Dickerson's face.

He had never been a sailor. Although an ex-cellent swimmer, Dickerson felt no great amount of hope clinging to a floating stick with nothing else in sight except Barry on his log.

"Ahoy!" shouted Barry. "Glad you got off alive. Anybody saved?"

"Don't know," came back the answer, and Barry saw Dickerson make a megaphone of his hands and immediately roll off the mast into the sea.

"The deuce!" muttered Barry. "I don't want him to drown till I get that gold. I know he carries it in a bag. How'll I get it? The same currents and tide that takes him along takes me. I can't shore this log in any direction I want. But I've got to get that gold. I ain't goin' to let Dan Dickerson go back rich and marry Annie DeLaney. Not much. And out here, with no human eye on me, the game is all my own. I'll swim over to him. But I mustn't let him know."

Dickerson, who had reseated himself on the mast, which under his weight was partly sub-merged, and was making a constant fight to get back to the surface, saw that Barry was having trouble with his uncertain craft. He would slide to one side, then the other, fall in the water, and crawl back again, evidently making a gallant fight for life.

"I can't stand it long," shouted Barry. "If I go first, forgive me what I did. And if you get home alive tell Annie I loved her, too, but you're the best man."

"All right," came the voice of Dickerson back over the waves.

Then Dickerson saw Barry, after another struggle, throw up his hands.

"Good-bye," came Barry's wail.

"Good—" Dickerson started to reply, but stopped.

What was the use wasting strength he needed when Barry was already out of sight beneath the devouring waves?

And now, even though Barry had tried to murder him, Dickerson felt lonely after Barry had gone. With Barry in sight he could keep his mind off his own miserable plight. Even the voice of a man who had wished to murder him had been a welcome sound.

With all his strength Dickerson clung to the mast, and with bowed head prepared himself to meet Barry's fate, for it seemed hopeless to think of a ship coming in time to rescue him.

Then as he roused himself and swept his narrow horizon in search of a vessel, he saw something bobbing up and down in the water between him and Barry's vacant log. It was Barry's head.

Dickerson did some quick calculating, but did not shout his deductions to Barry. He knew that Barry wanted his gold, and if Barry would dare to tackle him with a knife on board the schooner he would not hesitate to kill him out there on the water, where no other eye could see.

Barry, still with murder and the lust for gold in his heart, swam on, taking a look when a wave lifted him, to see if Dickerson was still astride his spar.

Dickerson did not look his way. This was gratifying to Barry, who had been planning his method of attack all the time he was swimming. He would dive when near Dickerson, grab his foot, and drag him from his perch. The surprise would prevent Dickerson from preparing for the immersion, and he could easily be choked.

And how easy Dickerson looked, with his back bent and his head bowed. His thin undershirt, soaked and glued to his skin, seemed nothing. He appeared like a naked man, sitting with his head and shoulders above the surface, balancing the mast.

The forward end of the mast was out of water. Dickerson was kicking with his feet to put some kind of motion into his clumsy craft. Just where he was trying to get was difficult to say, for all directions looked the same.

And then Barry, taking a few good breaths, and finally a deep one, went under. With mighty strokes he sped towards Dickerson and his log. He saw the shadow of the log in the water, and, reaching one end, crept along in search of Dickerson's feet.

But Dickerson wasn't there. The mast lay straight on the surface, and Barry poked his head up and looked round.

Fifty feet away Dickerson was swimming with long, easy strokes towards Barry's log.

Barry was exhausted. He rested himself on Dickerson's log, and watched the lithe swimmer, unhampered by unnecessary clothing.

"That's the luck of a fool," said Barry. "If anybody was coming after my bag of gold, like as not I couldn't swim a stroke. Look at that fellow swim. He's like a fish. He'll swim all the way home."

Disgust was now so dominant in Barry's mind that he seemed to have forgotten his danger. He watched Dickerson reach for his log, and climb astride of it.

"Hey," shouted Barry. "what did you leave for? I came to see you."

"I saw you coming," shouted Dickerson in reply.

And Barry fancied he could see a grin on Dickerson's face.

But now there seemed to be a fate that was working for Barry. The log and the mast were drawing nearer to each other. True, the change in distance was not great, but it was apparent that the mast was lighter and more easily moved by the waves, and was going of its own will, or at the will of the waves, toward Dickerson.

"If I'd only waited," said Barry, "he'd 'a' come to me. As it is, I'll wait and go to him."

Dickerson saw the gradual lessening of the distance between him and his enemy, and he grew uneasy.

"Keep away," he shouted.

"I can't," bawled Barry. "It's the waves is bringing me."

Dickerson began a paddle-like motion with his feet under the log, but monarch of a Pacific forest gave no evidence that it felt the effects.

Dickerson conjured some arithmetic, and reached a reasonably correct conclusion that Barry and the mast would come close to the log in about six hours.

He knew Barry was unarmed. He had dropped the knife in the fight on board the schooner. It would be a trial of strength and endurance in the water.

Dickerson did not know whether they were in the usual path of steamers or not. He hoped they were.

Anxiously, hour after hour, Dickerson watched the mast with Barry clinging to it. He was weak with hunger and exposure, but he knew Barry must be the same. With each of them growing weaker, it left the chances in a fight as uncertain as ever.

If Barry would only drown. He did not want to kill Barry, but be would do so to save his own life. The trouble was that ho couldn't. Barry was too powerful. And Dickerson knew that the balance was in favor of Barry holding out the longer.

Dickerson had lived a regular, methodical life. This is always the kind of fellow a moralist holds up in a story as the one whose strength, which has been saved, and not wasted in riotous living, wins out.

Dickerson knew that a fellow who had reached Barry's age knocking about with his meals de- lightfully uncertain, and his bed frequently the ground and his covering the sky, would last longer than he would.

He would miss the regularity of his meals and his regular hours of rest, while Barry would not miss them until after Dickerson died.

All this brought little encouragement to Dickerson.

But what did bring hope was that when the mast had come within two hundred feet of the log, and be could see Barry's hungry eyes glaring at him across that little space of water, he also saw the smoke of a steamer making that way.

Barry did not see it. Barry was looking at him. He, on the other hand, was looking past Barry at the smoke.

The smoke soon developed into a steamer's hull, and it was coming along at a great rate of speed. Now Dickerson began to pray that Barry might be suddenly smitten with tempo- rary blindness, so that he might not see the steamer coming. For two hundred feet was no swim for Barry, and Dickerson knew that Barry would not hesitate to swim to the log again before the steamer got near.

But Barry's eyesight was not taken from him, and as his mast rolled and he turned to get a new grip on it he saw the steamer.

"Did you see that coming, and not tell me?" he roared at Dickerson, his face black with rage. "I'll show you."

He plunged into the sea. Dickerson watched his course, and when he was five feet from the log Dickerson dived under him and set out for the mast.

Barry, filled with disgust and murderous hate, panted on the log and watched Dickerson climb on the mast.

"Plenty of time," shouted Barry. "I'll be back." And he plunged in again.

Dickerson had the best of this kind of duel, because all he had to do was watch Barry till he got near, and then start off fresh while Barry rested. But then, after all, it was about even, for Barry could rest while Dickerson was finishing his swim. But it kept Barry from turning and pursuing at once.

And every time Dickerson left the mast or log he gave it a kick to send it gliding farther away. So the swim did not grow any shorter, and the steamer came straight toward them.

"I'd like to know, Mr. Peterson," said the captain of the steamer, as he stood with glass in hand, "what sort of thing that is in the water. I can't make it out. It is possible we have at last struck the real sea-serpent?"

"Looks that way," replied the first officer.

He swept the sea again, and lo! the hull of the Mary Ella met his view.

"There's a wreck, and a man on it," said the captain. "He's safe for a while. See what this other thing is."

And so while the captain of the Mary Ella swore at the steamer because it did not come his way, Dickerson and Barry saw it bearing down on them. Then it swung to and a boat was lowered.

Barry made a last vicious effort to reach Dickerson and drown him, but failed.

Then Barry laughed.

It was Barry who was picked up first. "Don't let that fellow drown," he said. "I'm mate of the Mary Ella, wrecked in a storm last night. He's got the ship's money in a bag round his waist. Get him— he's desperate."

Dickerson, scarcely more than half conscious, was dragged into the boat, which put back to the steamer. Here Barry's story was repeated to the captain while the steamer put off for the Mary Ella.

"Is that true?" asked the steamer's captain of Dickerson.

"It's a lie," said Dickerson. "I was a passenger on the Mary Ella for San Francisco. I had all my money turned to gold in Capretano, and I have it around my waist in a bag. This fellow was never mate of a ship before, but took the berth to get my money before I reached home, and then tried to murder me."

"Keep these fellows apart till we get whoever is on the wreck," said the captain aside to the first officer.

It was not long before the captain of the Mary Ella was taken on board. When he saw his mate and his passenger he grinned.

"Been fightin' any since?" he asked.

"Answer me." said the captain of the steamer, sternly. "Who was the aggressor in this case? Tell me the truth."

"Him," replied the captain, nodding at Barry. "He sneaked on Dickerson in 'is cabin before the storm."

"Your statement is corroborated, sir," said the captain of the steamer to Dickerson. "You are my guest. I will see that you are provided with quarters and suitable clothing."

A short time after, Barry and the captain of the Mary Ella, having been well fed, were smoking their pipes in a secluded part of the steamer.

"You ought to have stood by me," growled Barry. "I said he stole the schooner's money."

"Money! Him?" gasped the captain.

"Yes. He's got a lot of gold in a bag around his waist."

"The— the devil he has!"

The fist of the captain of the Marry Ella smote Barry swift and hard, and Barry tumbled against a bulkhead.

"You hog!" said the captain of the Mary Ella. "And you wanted it all yourself. Next time tell me. That's wot."

___________________

21: Eliph' Hewlitt on the Millinery Problem

Ellis Parker Butler

1869-1937

World's News (Sydney) 29 June 1907

"WHY, how do you do?" said Mrs. Billup as she opened her door and saw the clerical-looking little man with the sandy whiskers on her front porch. "Come right in. I suppose you are Brother Smith, that is goin' to preach to-morrow, ain't you?"

"Well, no'm," said Eliph' Hewlitt apologetically, but walking into the parlor at the same time. "No'm, not exactly, though I am spreading the good word, as I may say. My name is Hewlitt, Eliph' Hewlitt, and I'm selling in this neighborhood a work in one volume—"

"I don't want no books," said Mrs. Billup shortly, while her smile of gratified welcome changed to a frown. "And I can't afford to buy none if I did feel like it." She glanced toward the centre table as she spoke, and Eliph' Hewlitt saw there a new hat, as gorgeous as an autumn sunset. If there were any kinds of flowers, or any colors that were not worked into the composition of the hat, it was because a knowledge of them had not reached Sandburr, Johnson County, Iowa. Miss Florilla Casey had made use of all that she had any knowledge of, and it seemed as if she had a rather wide knowledge.

"Easter comes early this year, earlier than usual," said Eliph' Hewlitt, gently caressing his whiskers. "Some years it does, and some years it doesn't, but I don't know that I ever saw a richer-looking hat than what that is. It must have cost considerable. Looks like it would be becoming to your complexion. Did you get it from Paris?"

"No, I didn't," snapped Mrs. Bill-up, "and you needn't think to soft-soap me by praisin' up my hat. It won't do you no good, because when I say I won't buy a book I mean it, and that is the end of it!"

"Now, if anybody had asked me I would have said that was a Paris hat," said Eliph' Hewlitt, taking it in his hand for closer examination, "but I suppose your milliner studied in Paris, didn't she?"

"No, she didn't," snapped Mrs. Billup again. "Florilla Casey ain't ever studied nowhere but right here in town, and all the Paris she will ever see you could put in one eye. If you aim to sell books I guess, you might move right along to the next house. You won't sell me none."

"It was the style of it made me think it was a Paris hat," said Eliph' Hewlitt, kindly. "I should judge that that hat has fifty different colors on it, and I never knew any but Paris milliners put so many on one hat at one time and not make you feel that it was overcrowded. I can see that this hat has a sort of lavishness about it, and it ain't skimped for trimming. That is the way I like a hat. Get a big hat to begin with, and then put plenty on it. That is why I don't like New York hats. Now, you never see a hat like this in New York."

"I told you I didn't want any books," said Mrs. Billup. "and I don't, and if that don't satisfy you I'll say right here that I can't afford none. I paid—"

"Stop!" said Eliph' Hewlitt; "let me guess! I guess you paid $5 for it; maybe $6, but I'd say that was too much. Five dollars would be about right for a hat like that."

Mrs. Billup looked at the hat and folded her arms, but she said nothing. She had paid Florilla Casey one dollar for the hat, and had been feeling that she had paid too much, but as she looked at the hat now it suddenly dawned upon her that she had a bargain. She smiled slightly. "This book, Jarby's Encyclopaedia of Knowledge and Compendium of Literature, Science and Art," said Eliph' Hewlitt, quickly "which I am selling for the small sum of—"

"I don't want no books," interposed Mrs. Billup instantly. "I told you I didn't want—"

'No, ma'am," said Eliph' Hewlitt. "I was only going to tell you about the hats I made for my twenty-five wives when I was—"

"Twenty-five wives!" exclaimed Mrs Billup. "Don't you try to fool me with any nonsense about you ever having twenty-five wives!"

"Yes, ma'am," said Eliph' Hewlitt. "Twenty-five; no more, no less; that being the custom of the country in which I was, as you can see by looking on page 745 of this work, which I am selling, giving, among other things, all the odd customs of the strange countries of the world, together with the flora and fauna of all continents, as well as the mysteries of the depths of the sea. And a terrible time I had with them twenty-five wives, too, the women of Timbuctoo being by nature easy to anger."

"Was you ever in Timbuctoo?" said Mrs. Billup. " I don't believe there is such a place."

"It's in Africa," explained Eliph' Hewlitt, "and this book on my knee tells all about it, as well as useful information on one thousand and one other subjects, comprising all the wisdom known to man, a most invaluable volume, as you may know when I tell you that the Bible and Jarby's Encyclopaedia of Knowledge and Compendium of Literature, Science, and Art were the only two books I took with me when I went to be professor of universal knowledge at the university at Timbuctoo. This one book was all I needed, for it contains all; what isn't in it isn't worth knowing. But I made my error when I began to teach them poor benighted savages religion. I began at the wrong season."

"I don't see what difference the season would make," said Mrs. Billup.

"I began during Lent," said Eliph' Hewlitt, "and I had taken board and lodging with a man that had twenty-five wives and I told the ladies they had ought to give up something, but they wasn't the kind that would give up anything they cared for. I argued hard, but the only thing they would give up was their husband. They thought less of him than of anything they had, so they gave him up, and when twenty-five women unite to give up one man about all that man can do is to desert that family and go and look for another that hasn't got the giving-up habit; so he went.

"My mistake was in telling them about Easter. You see, I had told them about the way ladies all got new hats at Easter and how the children had fancy-colored eggs on that day, and they sought of took to the idea, although they didn't rightly understand it. They was as simple as children, them wives was, and they would ask me if all women where I came from had new hats at Easter and did their husbands have to give them new hats; and I said I guessed the ladies got hats if they wanted them, and they always wanted them, so they always got them. And at that that whole lot of dark brown wives gave up their husbands and clung to us. They took to the Easter hat idea and liked it and said they would have Easter right there in Timbuctoo, with hats and colored eggs. That was all they was able to understand of the religion that I was trying to teach them— new hats and colored eggs at Easter. They wouldn't go any further into it. They said they liked that part so well they would stick right to that part, and that I needn't mind the rest. They had a way of saying it that was part talk and part war club exercises that made me think they meant it. So I began to make hats."

"You didn't make the hats, did you? asked Mrs. Billup.

"Yes'm," said Eliph' Hewlitt. "I had to. Nobody in Timbuctoo had ever seen a lady's hat, and them wives wasn't in the habit of working, so I had to do it. I had a busy time. I trimmed hats every morning and hunted cassowary eggs every after-noon, the cassowary being the only bird in them parts that eggs could be got from fit to eat, and them wives insisted that all the children I had inherited from their recent husband should have a dozen eggs apiece. That made two hundred and forty-one dozen. I had to go out into this desert to get them eggs and when I had them all gathered and piled up it made a pile as big as this house. I was glad when I got them twenty-five hats all trimmed and them eggs all colored, I can tell you."

"I should think you would have been!" exclaimed Mrs. Billup.

"Yes'm," said Eliph' Hewlitt, "and I didn't get it all done until the night before Easter. I went to bed early that night and it made me proud to see them twenty-five hats all in a row, ready for my wives to wear the next morning. There was no two of them alike, and all decorated with birds of paradise and tropical flowers, and calico, and buckles I had made out of old tin cans. I was proud, but tired."

"You might well be," Mrs. Billup assured him.

"And that night," said Eliph' Hewlitt. "the house burned down and every hat was burned. Not a hat was there left for any one of those wives of mine to wear the next day; but they took it real kindly. They said it didn't matter— that I could make some more and that they would postpone Easter one week for my especial benefit. Some women would have cried and fretted to lose their Easter hats that way, but they didn't. They just said: 'Put Easter off a week and make some more hats, and see that you are quick about it.' So I started in and made another lot."

"How did they look?" asked Mrs. Billup.

"Lovely," said Eliph' Hewlitt. "They were all big hats, like that one you have, although not so— artistic, and they were the only hats in Timbuctoo; so the other women were awfully jealous. My wives were awfully pleased. I was glad to see how pleased they were, but I was sorry enough for it afterwards."

"Did it make trouble with the other women?" asked Mrs. Billup.

"No'm," said Eliph' Hewlitt, "not that, but my wives liked Easter so well that they told me they were going to have it every Sunday, and that until further notice I would have twenty-five new Easter hats ready every Sunday morning. It wasn't a proper life for a university professor, but I had to do it. It was a strain on my health to create twenty-fire new hats and gather 241 dozen cassowary eggs every week. I should have broken down if I hadn't had this priceless volume with me, giving on page 564 the Guide to Health, so that I was able to cure myself when I felt sick, and on page 964, the 'Five Hundred Ennobling Thoughts from the World's Greatest Authors,' to cheer me when depress- ed. I got so I could trim hats with my hands, while my eyes were reading the 'Lives of All the World's Greatest Men,' from Adam to Roosevelt, page 437, with the dying words of them that is dead. New dying words added as fast as they die. In fact, there is nothing known to man that is not in its pages, and the price, neatly bound in cloth, only £1, 5s down and 5s a month until paid."

"How long did you have Easter every week?" asked Mrs. Billup.

"It's 35 cents if you prefer the leather binding," said Eliph' Hewlitt. "And I kept that Easter business up for eight years, before I was able to get away. That is fifty-two Easters a year, and eight years and twenty-five hats an Easter, a sum easily reckoned by the use of the Ready Reckoner, or Short Cuts in Arithmetic, on page 34, which gives quick methods of working all sums, saving the price of the book in that way alone in less than a year, the answer being five thousand two hundred hats, no two alike. It was many years before I was able to look upon an Easter hat without tears for my lost time, and to this day I cannot see a cassowary egg with any pleasure. A picture of the cassowary bird is shown on page 752 of this volume, the other illustrations in-cluding the steel engraving of Presi-dent Roosevelt and the allegorical frontispiece in three colors. This," he said, handing the book to Mrs. Billup, "is the picture of the cassowary bird."

"And how did you ever get away from them twenty-five wives?" asked Mrs. Billup.

"On page 265 we find the map of Africa, showing the location of Timbuctoo, as well as all mountains, rivers, lakes, et cetery," said Eliph' Hewlitt. "And the way I got away was that they gave me up one Lent just after a missionary came who happened to have a magazine with some pictures of the kind of hats that was the style that year. It seems that the hats I had just made for them was a year old in style, so they gave me up and told me to go, and I went. That shows the difference between them savage wives and the civilised."

"Yes," said Mrs. Billup. "Civilised folks don't give up husbands that easy."

"I wasn't thinking of that," said Eliph' Hewlitt. "I was thinking that if a man had been furnishing a civilised wife with last year's style hats for Easter he wouldn't be able to go away if he wanted to, after she got through with him."

"Well," said Mrs. Billup, "you can't expect much of your poor ignorant savages. You say you sell this book for 50 cents down? That ain't much."

___________________

22: Ragtime

Sumner Locke

1881-1917

Weekly Times (Melbourne) 9 May 1914

Helena Sumner Locke,  known as Sumner Locke, was an Australian novelist, dramatist/playwright, poet and short story writer.  She was the mother of noted Australian/American playwright Sumner Locke Elliot (1917-1991), who moved to the USA in 1948.

THE GIRL STOOD every inch her five foot seven, and looked her father, Joe Herdy, in the face.

"Whatever did you bring me back for, father? What sort of cruel thing had you in your mind? After so many years in the town with all the advantages of being a lady, even if you did not hold with the things that go to make a gentleman! What— what—?"

She seemed to lose her breath. Joe Herdy hipped both his hands.

"I think I've paid long enough for you, my lady, all this time, without keeping it up much longer. When your mother died, I promised her I'd do my best for you, as there wasn't a school nearer than Melbourne— that is, a school where you'd have been made what you are now— that's all there is about it. I'm not so well off now; things don't happen like they did in the good old droving days, and I can't afford to keep you down there any longer. It's about time. I think, that you ought to be doing something with all that education and music in return for me."

"I don't see what I could do in such a place as this, father. I came back when you asked me to, but had I known that you intended me to live in the hotel and— and mix with the dreadful people whom you call your friends— I'd have taught in the town before I budged an inch. It isn't as if you had the old place, dad."

A certain regret made her fall into her childish name for him.

"This— hotel, now— it is known all along the line as— as a harborage for drunken shearers and a place where a man never goes away with any of his pay once he enters the door after his cheque is paid to him."

"It's all fair!" shouted Joe Herdy. "You never would have objected to a thing I did once upon a time. Now you're filled with education and all that sort of thing, you want me to house and keep a man and charge him nothing, I suppose! How do you think I've been j paying all these years for your education and dress if it wasn't for the bit I make at shearing-time? Get to bed, my girl."

"Not till this thing is settled, father. I tell you I won't stay here in this life. Besides, it isn't as if I could be any use to you. If you intend me to take up the bar work and other dreadful things here, you should never have sent me away to learn— what I have. I know that my mother was a lady, and that your father was a gentleman in the good old days, and that has been brought out in me, father, and I can't live anyhow else."

Joe took her arm and twisted her round.

"Who wants you to live anyhow else? It's because of your 'get-up' and manners that I've brought you home. I've spent a hundred and forty guineas, too, on that grand piano in there behind the bar, just to give you the chance of doing something you'd like which will benefit me at the same time. Now, Michael Brand up the road has taken most of my trade since he put up that special parlor with the— the glass verandah and the pianola. I didn't want to go to all that expense to keep trade going, and I couldn't let Michael have It all his own way. There's fresh buildings going up in the place, and we will have to be doing something fresh to keep up with the times. Michael has his new parlor and his pianola, and has taken most of the trade of the town, curse him! I'll get it back through you— there's the piano, and you can play !t like— they, do the pianola,. I expect. So get going, and let's have a tune every afternoon and evening."

"You mean me— to— to play— father— to play to the awful cattle men and travellers who come through for the day? Why, they wouldn't understand my music any more than they would understand me."

Joe stormed at her. He was getting an old man now, aud couldn't argue without losing his temper.

"Make them understand you, then! Make them like the music! Why, I had I a gramophone once that took the wind out of every piano-player in the town. It wasn't when I had a pub to run, or I'd have made trade that way. Michael has put a stop on the gramophone by getting that pianola."

The girl was covered with confusion. Here she was just up from a finished education where music meant one of the highest aims in her life. She had studied Wagner and Lizst, and Chopin, and other masters, and had never really played anything else. She had fed her mind on these things, and she felt she would starve her brain to death before she even put a finger on the piano behind the bar. But the thought that her father had extracted so much money for years from the shearers when they had been in an intoxicated condition made her pause. She must do something to repay some of it back to the town. Even to her father whose goodness in the past she felt now that she would rather repay.

"What do you want me to play?" she said bitterly, holding up her head.

"Play? What everybody else is playing, of course— ragtime! Michael's got the 'Hitchy-Koo' going since last week and every boy is going along after tea at nights to listen. You've got to 'Hitchy-Koo' as well" as he does— that's all there is in it."

"And you expect to get back your trade by that ?"

"By you, it really means. A fellow won't sit round a blessed wooden mangle arrangement, no matter what it plays, if he can look at a pretty girl instead. But it's the tune that catches them; and unless you stick to that 'Hitchy-Koo' business we won't get as much trade as we think."

"And supposing we don't get trade when I do?"

Joe looked annoyed again.

"If we don't, you can take yourself out of this and earn your own living. I'm too poor these days to keep you unless you bring in something."

The girl walked from the room.

Big veils of blue mist were rising over the hills right away, and she yearned to be out in them— lost— lost to everything.

ALL HER LIFE Miss Herdy had loved her home in the blue-gum hills, but her return to a life in the township instead made her bitter indeed. Once her father and mother had possessed themselves of a fine little bit of farm land, lying just at the edge of the greyish scrub, and that was when she had enjoyed childish dreams and the weird pictures that come with a bush life; but when she had gone to town, and her mother's life had passed quietly away, she had only known about her father's move into the public-house trade.

She was dreaming now, as she had done as a weeny child, of the wonderment of every bird and bush creature.

She used to make up little songs about them once, before she had had the opportunity of a school and a music teacher. Since then she had developed a peculiar mood in her music. It lent her reverie, traditional inspiration, and a whole panorama of beautiful things; but not so with the ragtime. The incessant laughter of cattlemen in the bar and the high piping of youths who tried to sing in tune to her playing, made her feel creepy and cold. Not an ounce of sympathy was there for the overgrown, childish soul.

Still she played on, as she had done for the last week, since her father had told her his conditions. Played with her fingers going to and fro like mad little mice that scattered any nice thoughts from her mind. The beat of feet around her went into her brain and stamped out any feelings she had at all towards her father. She felt as if she had played only such music in another world and would go on playing it till she died.

"Hitchy-Koo! Hitchy-Koo! Hitchy K-o-o !"

Sousa might be dying of aching loneliness; children might be waiting to be soothed in sleepless pain, and yet to her the "Hitchy-Koo" was as much as men of the universe wanted to keep up the stream of their pleasure.

She thought so long about it that an intense longing for the music of her own mind crept back to place. Still retaining the ragtime measure, she somehow, not knowing, slipped a fragment of something better into the melody. An improvision, that came as readily as the notes to her finger tips, stole among the bars of "Hitchy-Koo," and she felt for the first time since she had returned something happier in her mind. It was the feeling one might have when a dose of medicine secrets a jewel at the bottom of the cup. She went through with it, and found her all within the dreadful potion.

The listeners, drinking in between, knew nothing different to their beloved rag-time, and Joe Herdy in the bar was having all the trade he liked.

Then someone rode from a little square allotment in the blue hills and came through the township. As usual, he was going right to Michael Brand's hotel for the reason that he had never been friendly with Joe Herdy for many years. Before pushing his way through the crowd at Brand's he stood in the middle of the road listening. The Hitchy-Koo music, mixed with the mind-picture music of the girl, came faintly to him, and he walked a bit along the road to listen.

"Blowed if that tune don't catch a man by the heels," he said, and did not turn away. "It might make a chap almost bury the hatchet with a man like Joe to take a spell in there."

He went nearer and peered in the door. The girl played on in the one room, and men drank and quarrelled in the second. Someone called out to the traveller.

"Hullo, there, Peter Dawe, come to bury the fight on account of the piano playin'? Fifteen years we haven't spoken, have we?"

It was Joe Herdy who called through the door.

Peter Dawe went right inside.

"On account of the music, maybe, but never on account of you, Joe Herdy," he said, and walked through to the second room. Miss Herdy had her eyes shut to the sounds of the fresh footsteps, and everybody hearing the words of the men in the bar went to crack the joke with Joe instead of remaining in with the piano. Dawe stood behind the girl for a time, then, at the finish of a series of mind-pictures and ragtime he blew a great breath of happiness.

"That's music if you like," he said. "Gets me down like a kid, when you scramble over the top notes."

Miss Herdy opened her eyes and stopped playing.

Face to face she met him for the first time in all the years.

"Your voice," she said, "brings me back to something that was better than all this."

"Brings you back to the time when I cleaned out the fowl houses on your father's farm, Miss Herdy," he said. "You remember Peter Dawe, the boy I was when— when your mother gave me dough cakes for bringing you home out of the scrub?"

"Peter!" Miss Herdy was all staring eyes now.

"Yes, I stood your father's kicks and bad temper quite long enough in those days. After he came nearer the railway I dropped his acquaintance. Wouldn't want to know him now or come into his house if it wasn't— for that little tune you played, just now."

Miss Herdy did not feel complimented. She remembered treating him as an equal always when he was her father's farm boy; an uneducated kind of youth who had no people or anything to recommend him, but a clever hand with cows and other animals.

"I've got my own place now," said Peter, "just out behind that line of hills. Oh, it's not much bigger than this bit of a street, but it's my own— no one can kick me out of that."

"You've— improved," was all the girl could say.

"The same to you."

Peter smiled and sat down near her. "I didn't have a town schooling, Miss Herdy, but I managed to find you in the scrub often enough to be of some service to your father and mother. I'd do anything, I think, if you'd play music to me sometimes like that— you've just run off the top notes."

"It's 'Hitchy-koo,' the London craze," said Miss Herdy.

" 'Hitchy-Koo, the London Craze,' it might be, but it's going to be my craze as well. I've heard it often enough up at Michael Brand's pianola, but somehow it don't sound the same."

"It isn't." Miss Herdy ran her fingers over the piano and allowed something more of her own improvising to slip in between the notes. Peter jumped to his feet.

"That's got it!!" he shouted. "That little bit, way up in the clouds all rippling like quivering sunshine!! Miss Herdy I'm sorry, indeed, I've got cause to quarrel with your people, but I don't like your father, and I never did." He was going out of the door. "Some nights I might slip along under the window there and listen just because it's that little bit of quivering sunshine; so if you're minded to be thankful at all for anything I did in the old days just you play it often— will you? I'll be listening!"

Before she could, answer him he had gone, and Joe Herdy saw him no more pass through the bar door.

Some time after this the girl remembered the incident, and the remarks about the quivering sunshine. She never knew when he might be listening out the side window, but often she guessed he might be there. Ever after that the girl— growing a sick heart in the loneliness and bitterness of coarse company and ragtime, refrained from the actual tunes set by her father, and allowed a somewhat straggling melody of her own to wander in between. If she thought that the men were getting tired, of it, or that Joe was looking through the door anxiously at her, she immediately drifted back to the original theme. "Down the Missippi," and "The Robert E. Lee," songs that gave the utmost satisfaction rose higher than ever; but all the time when there was a pause, the girl got her own music in between, like the precious faded leaf of the days gone, that had been pressed among the pages of a new book.

Once, however, when "The Robert E. Lee" was finishing, and the men straggled back to the bar for drinks, the girl forgot it all, and rippled off in a melody of her own. It was a "Nocturne," that came to her fingers as she dreamed of the misunderstanding of outcast souls, the life apart from men... the miserable herding together of souls that suffocated for freedom and love.

Behind the window Dawe lurked, and when the room had emptied he put both hands on the sill and pulled himself level. "You've caught me, Miss Herdy," he said softly. "I've only dreamed the things that kind of music brings to me. Play it all over again ..."

This sort of thing occurred many times— whenever the girl thought that Peter might be under the window. Gradually the Ragtime gave place to better music and the girl was not annoyed so much by the men who frequented her father's bar-room.

Then Joe began to notice it. He caught Peter one night sitting on the windowsiII dreaming with his head high to the stars overhead. He noticed the wrapt expression on the girl's face, and something in him of fear abd jealousy took the place of merriment, usually nowadays, on his face. He walked roughly through the room to where Peter still sat dreaming on the window sill, and with one hand pushed the young man quickly through. The girl, turning her face in time, screamed, though the drop to the ground was but a few feet or so.

"He don't sneak into my house by the window," said Joe.

"Why can't he come in like other men do....?"

Peter was again on the sill. He faced Joe firmly.

"I don't want to come into your house, Joe Herdy! and I'm never going to come in; but if Miss Herdy doesn't mind me looking through here— it's going to be enough for me— for a bit, anyhow."

"You'll be making love to her next," said Joe, furious. "My girl isn't the sort to marry a common scab of the ground, even if he has got a place as big as a dog kennel..."

The girl flushing scarlet took the words from him.

"How do you know? Rather a dog kennel, father, than this kind of thing!"

She covered her face, and Peter put one foot further on the sill.

"It would be a palace if— if Miss Herdy ever happened to even step into it," he said, and the girl dropped her hands.

"Peter," she cried, not caring whether her father heard or not, "Peter, I'd not mind the one room a bit— it would be Heaven out there in the blue hills. Would you— you ask me to come?" She was hurrying over to the window.

Peter could not speak for a minute, and in that time Joe Herdy brought his fist down on the piano with a crash.

"I'll kill her first," he said, and all the men from the bar came heavily through the door.

"I'd work my fingers to the bone picking the rocks for quartz if I thought— you'd marry me— Miss Herdy!"

Peter was absolutely carrying the thing through even with the interruption of. many laughing gibes and much coarse banter from the men.

"I'd do it this instant! Peter."

Both of them now were side by side at the window. The youth still half within the room, only.

"You hear." Joe Herdy was nearly breathless with anger. He was an old man now, and could not hold his temper much at any time.

"You hear that boys... under my very eyes my girl chooses a common scab of the ground."

Restraining himself no longer Peter shot out a hand from where he was, and it caught Joe Herdy on the mouth. Instantly half a dozen men rushed the window, but the girl had given a violent push of both her arms, and Peter went back to the ground rather suddenly.

"Run," she shouted through, "I'll join you somehow."

"You go an inch," Joe shouted at the girl. "You go an inch out of this house to meet Peter Dawe, and I'll shoot both of you. Remember I've always done what I say."

The men tried to quieten Joe down in the bar by filling him up with his own bad liquor, but it had a wrong effect on him. The old man was drinking more in these times, and this business had just put the head on it.

Open defiance on the part of the girl seemed useless. She knew that if she attempted to run away that her father would shoot Peter with no fear of any law in the kingdom. Behind the bullying exterior there was a brave constitution that had helped Joe Herdy through many a tight place when he was young. He would gladly have gone to the hangman's rope if he could have his mind easy first on this score.

The antagonism of many years was bubbling afresh, somehow, and somebody was going to suffer. Therefore the girl suffered afresh. To make things passive again she started the "Robert E. Lee," "Hitchy Koo," and "Down the Mississippi," with renewed vigor, omitting her own part usually sandwiched in between. Sometimes she fancied that Joe would be under the window, but never did she give him any cause to raise a head.

One day thinking things had settled down into ordinary course, she waylaid a drover taking young bullocks through the stock route that ran past Peter's place.

Hastily scribbling a few words on the back of the envelope she had in her hand at the time, she gave the drover a shilling to deliver it. Later on the man stopped at Michael Brandy's pub, and drank a bit; from there he wandered down to Joe's place and drank a little more, leaving the note sticking in his hat while he did so. Out of sheer fun someone plucked it up, and threw it on the bar; Joe immediately unfolded it and read it— then before anyone could object he had folded it again and stuck it back in the drover's hat.

A general laugh roused the drover.

"Gerr-out!" was all he said, and took care to see the note was safe.

What Joe had read there was this: "Unless I play the Robert E. Lee do not attempt to put your head up above the window sill. There is still danger for you."

That night Joe Herdy cleverly managed to keep his temper, and took care to show no ill feeling to anyone. He himself entertained a number of through travellers in the second room, and the songs were wilder than ever.

"Let's have the 'Robert E. Lee,' " he said purposely, and the girl met his eyes. In them was a depth of meaning. "I can't find the— music." she said, turning idly among the sheets by her side. She knew there was no music there.

"Give us the chorus," came from one of the travellers, who knew it well. But the girl insisted that she could not play it. Again her eyes met those of her father. He smiled; but in the smile there was a point of light to the girl.

She knew somehow that he had purposely come into the music to suggest that song. Then, of course, the rest was clear. Herdy was only waiting quietly for Peter Dawe.

"I'm sorry," she said, slightly flushed. "But unless I find the music…"

"Anyone here play the chorus," said Joe, turning to the men around.

"I can." A traveller staying in the township knew enough about the popular song to thump out the tune. He sat down at the piano.

Miss Herdy watched her father all the time she had her face turned towards the window sill. Out of the corner of one eye she watched him, idly pretending to feel her hot cheek, with a covering hand.

Joe immediately faced the window, too, with one hand behind him, near his hip pocket.

Everybody started singing. The Robert E. Lee drove high and loudly through the mazes of secret trouble, and slowly above the window sill came the fingers of Peter Dawe. Almost with reeling senses the girl started to stagger forward, but an arm of iron caught at her shoulders and wound round her bosom so that she felt she would strangle if she put out a foot. The song reached its highest, and none but the two were playing any real part at all. Slowly the head and shoulders of Peter Dawe rose quietly above the window sill, the clutch round her body grew tighter still, and in Joe's eyes were lights that were fixed like those in the eyes of a snake, when it means to dart— and dart right to the mark.

Peter Dawe looked right in front of him over the sill, and he saw the two with their backs to the piano— waiting— both with some intention towards himself.

Joe with one arm embracing the girl, and the other behind him in his hip pocket, suggested only one thing. He was face to face with….

Miss Herdy gave a little moan hardly heard, and ere her father could whip up his right hand from the hip pocket, she had made a final effort to catch at it, to strike the trouble to the roof; but Joe was before her.

With a stride towrards the window he let her go and shot his hand out at the boy there. There was just an open palm, seered with the years of work that was being held out to the young man, and a smile of transformation that had spread all over Joe Herdy's face.

"Jump in, Peter," was what the old man said. "Here's my hand. When two young people of two families join up in holy matrimony, it's time we gave them a help this way."

Catching Peter by the shoulders he hauled him through the window. The chorus was going through for the third time, and even the girl felt that she must join in.

_________________

23: As You Choose

Robert W Chambers

1865-1933

Top-Notch 15 Mar 1914

1: On a Fool's Errand

BECAUSE it all seems so improbable— so horribly impossible to me now, sitting here safe and sane in my own library— I hesitate to record an episode which already appears to me less horrible than grotesque. Yet, unless this story is written now, I know I shall never have the courage to tell the truth about the matter, not from fear of ridicule, but because I myself shall soon cease to credit what I now know to be true. Yet scarcely a month has elapsed since I heard the stealthy purring of what I believed to be the shoaling undertow— scarcely a month ago, with my own eyes, I saw that which, even now, I am beginning to believe never existed. As for the harbor master— and the blow I am now striking at the old order of things— But of that I shall not speak, now, or later; I shall try to tell the story simply and truthfully, and let my employers testify as to my probity, and the editors of this magazine corroborate them.

On the twenty-ninth of February of the present year I resigned my position under the government and left Washington to accept an offer from Professor Farrago— whose name he kindly permits me to use in this article— and, on the first day of April, I entered upon my new and congenial duties as general superintendent of the water-fowl department connected with the Zoological Gardens, New York.

It was, and is, the policy of the trustees and officers of the Zoological Gardens not to employ collectors or to send out expeditions in search of specimens. The society decided to depend upon voluntary contributions, and I was always busy, part of the day, in dictating answers to correspondents who wrote offering their services as hunters of big game, collectors of all sorts of fauna, trappers, snarers, and also to those who offered specimens for sale, usually at exorbitant rates.

To the proprietors of five-legged kittens, mangy lynxes, moth-eaten coyotes, and dancing bears, I returned courteous but uncompromising refusals— of course, first submitting all such letters, together with my replies, to Professor Farrago.

One day toward the end of May, however, just as I was leaving Bronx Park to return to town, Professor Lesard, of the reptilian department, called out to 'me that Professor Farrago wanted to see me a moment; so I put my pipe into my pocket again and retraced my steps to the temporary wooden building occupied by Professor Farrago, general superintendent of the Zoological Gardens. The professor, who was sitting at his desk before a pile of letters and replies submitted for approval by me, pushed his glasses down and looked over them at me with a whimsical smile that suggested amusement, impatience, annoyance, and perhaps a faint trace of apology.

"Now, here's a letter," he said, with a deliberate gesture toward a sheet of paper impaled on a file; "a letter that I suppose you remember." He disengaged the sheet of paper and handed it to me.

"Oh, yes," I replied, with a shrug; "of course the man is mistaken— or—"

"Or what?" demanded Professor Farrago, tranquilly wiping his glasses.

"Or a liar," I replied.

After a silence he leaned back in his chair and bade me read the letter to him again, and I did so with a contemptuous tolerance for the writer, who must have been either a very innocent victim or a very stupid swindler. I said as much to Professor Farrago; but, to my surprise, he appeared to waver.

"I suppose," he said, with his nearsighted, embarrassed smile, "that nine hundred and ninety-nine men in a thousand would throw that letter aside and condemn the writer as a liar or a fool."

"In my opinion," said I, "he's one or the other."

"He isn't— in mine."

"What!" I exclaimed; "here is a man living all alone on a strip of rock and sand between the wilderness and the sea who wants you to send somebody to take charge of a bird that doesn't exist!"

"How do you know," asked Professor Farrago, "that the bird in question does not exist?"

"It is generally accepted," I replied sarcastically, "that the great auk has been extinct for years. Therefore I may be pardoned for doubting that our correspondent possesses a pair of them alive."

"Oh, you young fellows!" said the professor, smiling wearily; "you embark on a theory for destinations that don't exist."

He leaned back in his chair, his amused eyes searching space for the imagery that made him smile.

"Like swimming squirrels, you navigate with the help of Heaven and a stiff breeze, but you never land where you hope to— do you?"

Rather red in the face, I said: "Don't you believe the great auk to be extinct?"

"Audubon saw the great auk."

"Who has seen a single specimen since ?"

"Nobody— except our correspondent here," he replied, laughing.

I laughed, too, considering the interview at an end, but the professor went on coolly:

"Whatever it is that our correspondent has— and I am daring to believe that it is tha great auk itself— I want you to secure it for the society."

When my astonishment subsided, my first conscious sentiment was one of pity. Clearly, Professor Farrago was on the verge of dotage— ah, what a loss to the world!

I believe now that Professor Farrago perfectly interpreted my thoughts, but he betrayed neither resentment nor impatience. I drew a chair up beside his desk— there was nothing to do but to obey, and this fool's errand was none of my conceiving.

Together we made out a list of articles necessary for me, and itemized the expenses I might incur; and I set a date for my return, allowing no margin for a successful termination to the expedition.

"Never mind that," said the professor; "what I want you to do is to get those birds here safely. Now, how many men will you take?"

"None," I replied bluntly; "it's a useless expense unless there is something to bring back. If there is I'll wire you, you may be sure."

"Very well," said Professor Farrago good-humoredly, "you shall have all the assistance you may require. Can you leave to-night?"

The old gentleman was certainly prompt, I nodded half sulkily, aware of his amusement.

"So," I said, picking up my hat, "I am to start north to find a place called Black Harbor, where there is a man named Halyard who possesses, among other household utensils, two extinct great auks—"

We were both laughing by this time. I asked him why on earth he credited the assertion of a man he had never before heard of.

"I suppose," he replied, with the same half-apologetic, half-humorous smile, "it is instinct. I feel, somehow, that this man Halyard has got an auk— perhaps two. I can't get away from the idea that we are on the eve of acquiring the rarest of living creatures. It's odd for a scientist to talk as I do; doubtless you're shocked— admit it, now!"

But I was not shocked; on the contrary, I was conscious that the same strange hope that Professor Farrago cherished was beginning, in spite of me, to stir my pulses, too.

"If he has—" I began, then stopped.

The professor and I looked hard at each other in silence.

"Go on,'' he said encouragingly.

But I had nothing more to say, for the prospect of beholding with my own eyes a living specimen of the great auk produced a series of conflicting emotions within me which rendered speech profanely superfluous.

As I took my leave, Professor Farrago came to the door of the temporary wooden office and handed me the letter written by the man Halyard. I folded it and put it into my pocket, as Halyard might require it for my own identification.

"How much does he want for the pair?" I asked.

"Ten thousand dollars. Don't demur— if the birds are really—"

"I know," I said hastily, not daring to hope too much.

"One thing more," said Professor Farrago gravely; "you know, in that last paragraph of his letter, Halyard speaks of something else in the way of specimens— an undiscovered species of amphibious biped— just read that paragraph again, will you ?"

I drew the letter from my pocket, and read as he directed:

When you have seen the two living specimens of the great auk, and have satisfied yourself that I tell the truth, you may be wise enough to listen without prejudice to a statement I shall make concerning the existence of the strangest creature ever fashioned. I will merely say, at this time, that the creature referred to is an amphibious biped and inhabits the ocean near this coast. More I cannot say, for I personally have not seen the animal, but I have a witness Who has, and there are many who affirm that they have seen the creature. You will naturally say that my statement amounts to nothing; but when your representative arrives, if he be free from prejudice, I expect his reports to you concerning this sea biped will confirm the solemn statements of a witness I know to be unimpeachable. Yours truly,

Burton Halyard.

Black Harbor.

"Well," I said, after a moment's thought, "here goes for the wild-goose chase."

"Wild auk, you mean," said Professor Farrago, shaking hands with me. "You will start to-night, won't you ?"

"Yes, but Heaven knows how I'm ever going to land in this man Halyard's dooryard. Good-by!"

"About that sea biped—" began

Professor Farrago shyly.

"Oh, don't!" I said; "I can swallow the auks, feathers and claws, but if this fellow Halyard is hinting he's seen an amphibious creature resembling a man—"

"Or a woman," said the professor cautiously.

I retired, disgusted, my faith shaken in the mental vigor of Professor Farrago.

2: In the Forest Gloom

THE three days' voyage by boat and rail was irksome. I bought my kit at Sainte Croix on the C. P. R., and on June first I began the last stage of my journey via the Sainte Isole broad-gauge, arriving in the wilderness by daylight. A tedious forced march by blazed trail, freshly spotted on the wrong side, of course, brought me to the northern terminus of the rusty narrow- gauge lumber railway which runs from the heart of the hushed pine wilderness to the sea.

Already a long train of battered flat cars, piled with sluice props and roughly hewn sleepers, was moving slowly off into the brooding forest gloom, when I came in sight of the track; but I developed a gratifying and unexpected burst of speed, shouting all the while. The train stopped; I swung myself aboard the last car, where a pleasant young fellow was sitting on the rear brake, chewing spruce and reading a letter.

"Come aboard, sir," he said, looking up with a smile; "I guess you're the man in a hurry."

"I'm looking for a man named Halyard," I said, dropping rifle and knapsack on the fresh-cut, fragrant pile of pine. "Are you Halyard?"

"No, I'm Francis Lee, bossing the mica pit at Port-of-Waves," he replied, "but this letter is from Halyard, asking me to look out for a man in a hurry from Bronx Park, New York,"

"I'm that man," said I, filling my pipe and offering him a share of the weed of peace; and we sat side by side smoking very amiably, until a signal from the locomotive sent him forward and I was left alone, lounging at ease, head pillowed on both arms, watching the blue sky flying through the branches overhead.

Long before we came in sight of the ocean I smelled it; the fresh salt aroma stole into my senses, drowsy with the heated odor of pine and hemlock, and I sat up, peering ahead into the dusky sea of pines.

Fresher and fresher came the wind from the sea, in puffs, in mild, sweet breezes, in steady, freshening currents, blowing the feathery crowns of the pines, setting the balsam's blue tufts rocking.

Lee wandered back over the long line of flats, balancing himself nonchalantly as the cars swung around a sharp curve where water dripped from a newly propped sluice that suddenly emerged from the depths of the forest to run parallel to the railroad track.

"Built it this spring," he said, surveying his handiwork, which seemed to undulate as the cars swept past. "It runs to the cove— or ought to—" He stopped abruptly with a thoughtful glance at me.

"So you're going over to Halyard's ?" he continued, as though answering a question asked by himself.

I nodded.

"You've never been there— of course."

"No," I said, "and I'm not likely to go again."

I would have told him why I was going if I had not already begun to feel ashamed of my idiotic errand.

"I guess you're going to look at those birds of his," continued Lee placidly.

"I guess I am," I said sulkily, glancing askance to see whether he was smiling, but he only asked me quite seriously whether a great auk was really a very rare bird, and I told him that the last one ever seen had been found dead off Labrador in January, 1870. Then I asked him whether these birds of Halyard's were really great auks, and he replied somewhat indifferently that he supposed they were— at least, nobody had ever before seen such birds near Port-of-Waves.

"There's something else," he said, running a pine sliver through his pipe- stem— "something that interests us all here more than auks, big or little. I suppose I might as well speak about it, as you are bound to hear about it sooner or later."

He hesitated, and I could see that he was embarrassed, searching for the exact words to convey his meaning.

"If," said I, "you have anything in this region more important to science than the great auk, I should be very glad to know about it."

Perhaps there was the faintest tinge of sarcasm in my voice, for he shot a sharp glance at me and then turned slightly. After a moment, however, he put his pipe into his pocket, laid hold of the brake with both hands, vaulted to his perch aloft, and glanced down at me.

"Did you ever hear of the harbor master?" he asked maliciously.

"Which harbor master?" I inquired.

"You'll know before long," he observed, with a satisfied glance into perspective.

This rather extraordinary observation puzzled me. I waited for him to resume, and, as he did not, I asked him what he meant.

"If I knew," he said, "I'd tell you. But, come to think of it, I'd be a fool to go into details with a scientific man. You'll hear about the harbor master— perhaps you will see the harbor master. In that event I should be glad to converse with you on the subject."

I could not help laughing at his prim and precise manner, and, after a moment, he also laughed, saying:

"It hurts a man's vanity to know he knows a thing that somebody else knows he doesn't know. I'm hanged if I say another word about the harbor master until you've been to Halyard's!"

"A harbor master," I persisted, "is an official who superintends the mooring of ships— isn't he ?"

But he refused to be tempted into conversation, and we lounged silently on the lumber until a long, thin whistle ffom the locomotive and a rush of stinging salt wind brought us to our feet. Through the trees I could see the bluish-black ocean, stretching out beyond black headlands to meet the clouds; a great wind was roaring among the trees as the train slowly came to a standstill on the edge of the primeval forest.

Lee jumped to the ground and aided me with my rifle and pack, and then the train began to back away along a curved sidetrack, which, Lee said, led to the mica pit and company stores.

"Now what will you do?" he asked pleasantly; "I can give you a good dinner and a decent bed to-night if you like— and I'm sure Mrs. Lee would be very glad to have you stop with us as long as you choose."

I thanked him, but said that I was anxious to reach Halyard's before dark, and he very kindly led me along the cliffs and pointed out the path.

"This man Halyard," he said, "is an invalid. He lives at a cove called Black Harbor, and all his truck goes through to him over the company's road. We receive it here, and send a pack mule through once a month. I've met him; he's a bad-tempered hypochondriac, a cynic at heart, and a man whose word is never doubted. If he says he has a great auk you may be satisfied he has."

My heart was beating with excitement at the prospect; I looked out across the wooded headlands and tangled stretches of dune and hollow, trying to realize what it might mean to me, to Professor Farrago, to the world, if I should lead back to New York a live auk.

"He's a crank," said Lee; "frankly I don't like him. If you find it unpleasant there, come back to us."

"Does Halyard live alone?" I asked.

"Yes— except for a professional trained nurse— poor thing!"

"A man?"

"No," said Lee disgustedly.

Presently he gave me a peculiar glance; hesitated, and finally said: "Ask Halyard to tell you about his nurse and — the harbor master. Good-by— I'm due at the quarry. Come and stay with us whenever you care to; you will find a welcome at Port-of-Waves."

We shook hands and parted on the cliff, he turning back into the forest along the railway, I starting northward, pack slung, rifle over my shoulder. Once I met a group of quarrymen, faces burned brick-red, scarred hands swinging as they walked. And, as I passed them with a nod, turning, I saw that they also had turned to look after me, and I caught a word or two of their conversation, whirled back to me on the sea wind.

They were speaking of the harbor master.

3: A Visit to the Pen

TOWARD sunset I came out on a sheer granite cliff where the sea birds were whirling and clamoring, and the great breakers dashed, rolling in double-thundered reverberations on the sun-dyed crimson sands below the bedded rock.

Across the half moon of beach towered another cliff, and, behind this, I saw a column of smoke rising in the still air. It certainly came from Halyard's chimney, although the opposite cliff prevented me from seeing the house itself.

I rested a moment to refill my pipe, then resumed rifle and pack, and cautiously started to skirt the cliffs. I had descended halfway toward the beach, and was examining the cliff opposite, when something on the very top of the rock arrested my attention— a man darkly outlined against the sky. The next moment, however, I knew it could not be a man, for the object suddenly glided over the face of the cliff and slid down the sheer, smooth face like a lizard. Before I could get a square look at it, the thing crawled into the surf— or, at ieast, it seemed to— but the whole episode occurred so suddenly, so unexpectedly, that I was not sure I had seen anything at all.

However, I was curious enough to climb the cliff on the land side and make my way toward the spot where I imagined I saw the man. Of course, there was nothing there— not a trace of a human being, I mean. Something had been there— a sea otter, possibly— for the remains of a freshly killed fish lay on the rock, eaten to the backbone and tail.

The next moment, below me, I saw the house, a freshly painted, trim, flimsy structure, modern, and very much out of harmony with the splendid savagery surrounding it. It struck a cheap note in the noble gray monotony of headland and sea.

The descent was easy enough. I crossed the crescent beach, hard as pink marble, and found a little trodden path among the rocks, that led to the front porch of the house.

There were two people on the porch — I heard their voices before I saw them— and when I set my foot upon the wooden steps, I saw one of them, a woman, rise from her chair and step hastily toward me.

"Come back!" cried the other, a man with a smooth-shaven, deeply lined face, and a pair of angry blue eyes; and the woman stepped back quietly, acknowledging my lifted hat with a silent inclination.

The man, who was reclining in an invalid's rolling chair, clapped both large, pale hands to the wheels, and pushed himself out along the porch. He had shawls pinned about him, an untidy, drab-colored hat on his head, and, when he looked down at me, he scowled.

"I know who you are," he said in his acid voice; "you're one of the Zoological men from Bronx Park. You look like it, anyway."

"It is easy to recognize you from your reputation," I replied, irritated at his discourtesy.

"Really," he replied, with something between a sneer and a laugh, "I'm obliged for your frankness. You're after my great auks, are you not?"

"Nothing else would have tempted me in to this place," I replied sincerely.

"Thank Heaven for that," he said. "Sit down a moment; you've interrupted us." Then, turning to the young woman, who wore the neat gown and tiny cap of a professional nurse, he bade her resume what she had been saying. She did so. with a deprecating glance at me, which made the old man sneer again.

"It happened so suddenly," she said in her low voice, "that I had no chance to get back. The boat was drifting in the cove; I sat in the stern, reading, both oars shipped, and the tiller swinging. Then I heard a scratching under the boat, but thought it might be seaweed— and the next moment came those soft thumpings, like the sound of a big fish rubbing its nose against a float."

Halyard clutched the wheels of his chair and stared at the girl in grim displeasure.

"Didn't you know enough to be frightened?" he demanded.

"No— not then," she said, coloring faintly, "but when, after a few moments, I looked up and saw the harbor master running up and down the beach, I was horribly frightened."

"Really?" said Halyard sarcastically, "it was about time." Then, turning to me, he rasped out: "And that young lady was obliged to row all the way to Port-of-Waves and call to Lee's quarrymen to take her boat in."

Completely mystified, I looked from Halyard to the girl, not in the least comprehending what all this meant.

"That will do," said Halyard ungraciously, which curt phrase was apparently the usual dismissal for the nurse.

She rose, and I rose, and die passed me with an inclination, stepping noise- lesly into the house.

"I want beef tea!" bawled Halyard after her; then he gave me an unamia- ble glance. "I was a well-bred man," he sneered; "I'm a Harvard graduate, too, but I live as I like, and I do what I like, and I say what I like."

"You certainly are not reticent," I said, disgusted.

"Why should I be?" he rasped; "I pay that young woman for my irritability; it's a bargain between us."

"In your domestic affairs," I said, "there is nothing that interests me. I came to see those auks."

"You probably believe them to be razor-billed auks," he said contemptuously; "but they're not; they're great auks."

I suggested that he permit me to examine them, and he replied indifferently that they were in a pen in his back yard, and that I was free to step around the house when I cared to.

I laid my rifle and pack on the veranda, and hastened off with mixed emotions, among which hope no longer predominated. No man in his senses would keep two such precious prizes in a pen in his back yard, I argued, and I was perfectly prepared to find anything from a puffin to a penguin in that pen. I shall never forget as long as I live my stupor of amazement when I came to the wire-covered inclosure. Not only were there two great auks in the pen, alive, breathing, squatting in bulky majesty on their seaweed bed, but one of them was gravely contemplating two newly hatched chicks, all bill and feet, which nestled sedately at the edge of a puddle of salt water where some small fish were swimming.

For a while excitement blinded, nay, deafened me. I tried to realize that I was gazing upon the last two individuals of an all but extinct race— the sole survivors of the gigantic auk, which, for nearly forty-five years, has been accounted an extinct creature.

I believe that I did not move muscle or limb until the sun had gone down and the crowding darkness blurred my straining eyes and blotted the great, silent, bright-eyed birds from sight.

Even then I could not tear myself away from the inclosure; I listened to the strange, drowsy note of the male bird, the fainter responses of the female, the thin plaints of the chicks, huddling under her breast; I heard their flipperlike embryotic wings beating drowsily as the birds stretched and yawned their beaks and clacked them, preparing for sleep.

"If you please," came a soft voice from the door, "Mr. Halyard awaits your company to dinner."

4: Was it a Man?

I DINED well— or, rather, I might have enjoyed my dinner if Mr. Halyard had been eliminated, and the feast consisted exclusively of a joint of beef, the pretty nurse, and myself. She was exceedingly attractive— with a disturbing fashion of lowering her head and raising her dark eyes when spoken to.

As for Halyard, he was unspeakable, bundled up in his snuffy shawls, and making uncouth noises over his gruel. But it is only just to say that his table was worth sitting down to, and his wine was sound as a bell.

"Yah!" he snapped, "I'm sick of this cursed soup— and I'll trouble you to fill my glass—"

"It is dangerous for you to touch claret," said the pretty nurse.

"I might as well die at dinner as anywhere," he observed.

"Certainly," said I, cheerfully passing the decanter, but he did not appear overpleased with the attention.

"I can't smoke, either," he snarled, hitching the shawls around until he looked like Richard the Third.

However, he was good enough to shove a box of cigars at me, and I took one and stood up, as the pretty nurse slipped past, and vanished into the little parlor beyond.

We sat there for a while without speaking. He picked irritably at the bread crumbs on the cloth, never glancing in my direction; and I, tired from my long foot tour, lay back in my chair, silently appreciating one of the best cigars I ever smoked.

"Well," he rasped out at length, "what do you think of my auks— and my veracity?"

I told him that both were unimpeachable.

"Didn't they call me a swindler down there at your museum?" he demanded.

I admitted that I had heard the term applied. Then I made a clean breast of the matter, telling him that it was I who had doubted; that my chief, Professor Farrago, had sent me against my will, and that I was ready and glad to admit that he, Mr. Halyard, was a benefactor of the human race.

"Bosh!" he said. "What good does a confounded wabbly, bandy-toed bird do to the human race ?"

But he was pleased, nevertheless; and presently he asked me, not unamiably, to punish his claret again.

"I'm done for," he said; "good things to eat and drink are no good to me. Some day I'll get mad enough to have a fit, and then that—"

He paused to yawn.

"Then," he continued, "that little nurse of mine will drink up my claret and go back to civilization, where people are polite."

Somehow or other, in spite of the fact that Halyard was an old pig, what he said touched me. There was certainly not much left in life for him— as he regarded life.

"I'm going to leave her this house'" he said, arranging his shawls. "She doesn't know it. I'm going to leave her my money, too. She doesn't know that. Good Lord! What kind of a woman can she be to stand my bad temper for a few dollars a month!"

"I think," said I, "that it's partly because she's poor, partly because she's sorry for you."

He looked up with a ghastly smile.

"You think she really is sorry?"

Before I could answer, he went on: "I'm no mawkish sentimentalist, and I won't allow anybody to be sorry for me— do you hear?"

"Oh, I'm not sorry for you!" I said hastily, and, for the first time since I had seen him, he laughed heartily without a sneer.

We both seemed to feel better after that; I drank his wine and smoked his cigars, and he appeared to take a certain grim pleasure in watching me.

"There's no fool like a young fool," he observed presently.

As I had no doubt he referred to me, I paid him no attention.

After fidgeting with his shawls, he gave me an oblique scowl, and asked me my age.

"Twenty-four," I replied.

"Sort of a tadpole, aren't you?" he said.

As I took no offense, he repeated the remark.

"Oh, come," said I, "there's no use in trying to irritate me. I see through you; a row acts like a cocktail on you— but you'll have to stick to gruel in my company."

"I call that impudence!" he rasped out wrathfully.

"I don't care what you call it," I replied, undisturbed, "I am not going to be worried by you. Anyway," I ended, "it is my opinion that you could be very good company if you chose."

The proposition appeared to take his breath away— at least, he said nothing' more; and I finished my cigar in peace and tossed the stump into a saucer.

"Now," said I, "what price do you set upon your birds, Mr. Halyard?"

"Ten thousand dollars," he snapped, with an evil smile.

"You will receive a certified check when the-birds are delivered," I said quietly.

"You don't mean to say you agree to that outrageous bargain— and I won't take a cent less, either— good Lord!— haven't you any spirit left?" he cried, half rising from his pile of shawls.

His piteous eagerness for a dispute sent me into laughter impossible to control, and he eyed me, mouth open, animosity rising visibly.

Then he seized the wheels of his invalid chair and trundled away, too mad to speak; and I strolled out into the parlor, still laughing.

The pretty nurse was there, sewing under a hanging lamp.

"If I am not indiscreet—" I began.

"Indiscretion is the better part of valor," said she, dropping her head, but raising her eyes.

So I sat down with a frivolous smile peculiar to the appreciated.

"Doubtless," said I, "you are hemming a kerchief."

"Doubtless I am not," she said; "this is a nightcap for Mr. Halyard."

A mental vision of Halyard in a nightcap, very mad, nearly set me laughing again.

"Like the King of Yvetot, he wears his crown in bed," I said flippantly.

"The King of Yvetot might have made that remark," she observed, rethreading her needle.

It is unpleasant to be reproved. How large, and red, and hot a man's ears feel!

To cool them, I strolled out to the porch; and, after a while, the pretty nurse came out, too, and sat down in a chair not far away. She probably regretted her lost opportunity to be flirted with.

"I have so little company— it is a great relief to see somebody from the world," she said. "If you can be agreeable I wish you would."

The idea that she had come out to see me was so agreeable that I remained speechless until she said: "Do tell me what people are doing in New York."

So I seated myself on the steps and talked about the portion of the world inhabited by me, while she sat sewing in the dull light that straggled out from the parlor windows.

She had a certain coquetry of her own, using the usual methods with an individuality that was certainly fetching. For instance, when she lost her needle— and, another time, when we both, on hands and knees, hunted for her thimble.

However, directions for these pastimes may be found in contemporary classics.

I was as entertaining as I could be— perhaps not quite as entertaining as a young man usually thinks he is. However, we got on very well together until I asked her tenderly who the harbor master might be whom they all spoke of so mysteriously.

"I do not care to speak about it," she said, with a primness of which I had not suspected her capable.

Of course I could scarcely pursue the subject after that— and, indeed, I did not intend to— so I began to tell her how I fancied I had seen a man on the cliff that afternoon, and how the creature slid over the sheer rock like a snake.

To my amazement, she asked me kindly to discontinue the account of my adventures, in an icy tone which left no room for protest.

"It was only a sea otter," I tried to explain, thinking perhaps she did not care for snake stories.

But the explanation did not appear to interest her, and I was mortified to observe that my impression upon her was anything but pleasant.

"She doesn't seem to like me and my stories," thought I, "but she is too young, perhaps, to appreciate them."

So I forgave her— for she was even prettier than I had thought her at first — and I took my leave, saying that Mr. Halyard would doubtless direct me to my room.

Halyard was in his library, cleaning a revolver, when I entered.

"Your room is next to mine," he said; "pleasant dreams, and kindly refrain from snoring."

"May I venture an absurd hope that you will do the same!" I replied politely.

That maddened him, so I hastily withdrew.

I had been asleep for at least two hours, when a movement by my bedside and a light in my eyes awakened me. I sat bolt upright in bed, blinking at Halyard, who, clad in a dressing gown and wearing a nightcap, had wheeled himself into my room with one hand, while with the other he solemnly waved a candle over my head.

"I'm so cursed lonely," he said; "come, there's a good fellow— talk to me in your own original impudent way!"

I objected strenuously, but he looked so worn and thin, so lonely and bad- tempered, so lovelessly grotesque, that I got out of bed and passed a spongeful of cold water over my head.

Then I returned to bed and propped the pillows up for a back rest, ready to quarrel with him if it might bring some pleasure into his morbid existence.

"No," he said amiably, "I'm too worried to quarrel, but I'm much obliged for your kindly offer. I want to tell you something."

"What?" I asked suspiciously.

"I want to ask you if you ever saw a man with gills like a fish?"

"Gills?" I repeated.

"Yes, gills! Did you?"

"No," I replied angrily, "and neither did you."

"No, I never did," he said, in a curiously placid voice, "but there's a man with gills like a fish who lives in the ocean out there. Oh, you needn't look that way— nobody ever thinks of doubting my word, and I tell you that there's a man— or a thing that looks like a man— as big as you are, too— all slate-colored— with nasty red gills like a fish!— and I've a witness to prove what I say!"

"Who?" I asked sarcastically.

"The witness? My nurse."

"Oh! She saw a slate-colored man with gills?"

"Yes, she did. So did Francis Lee, superintendent of the Mica Quarry Company at Port-of-Waves. So have a dozen men who work in the quarry. Oh, you needn't laugh, young man. It's an old story here, and anybody can tell you about the harbor master."

"The harbor master!" I exclaimed.

"Yes, that slate-colored thing with gills, that looks like a man— and— by Heaven! is a man— that's the harbor master. Ask any quarryman at Port-of-Waves what it is that comes purring around their boats at the wharf and unties painters and changes the mooring of every catboat in the cove at night! Ask Francis Lee what it was he saw running and leaping up and down the shoal at sunset last Friday! Ask anybody along the coast what sort of a thing moves about the cliffs like a man and slides over them into the sea like an otter—"

"I saw it do that!" I burst out.

"Oh, did you? Well, what was it?"

Something kept me silent, although a dozen explanations flew to my lips.

After a pause, Halyard said: "You saw the harbor master, that's what you saw!"

I looked at him without a word.

"Don't mistake me," he said pettishly; "I don't think that the harbor master is a spirit or a sprite or a hobgoblin, or any sort of damned rot. Neither do I believe it to be an optical illusion."

"What do you think it is?" I asked.

"I think it's a man— I think it's a branch of the human race— that's what I think. Let me tell you something; the deepest spot in the Atlantic Ocean is a trifle over five miles deep— and I suppose you know that this place lies only about a quarter of a mile off this headland. The British exploring vessel, Gull, Captain Marotte, discovered and sounded it, I believe. Anyway, it's there, and it's my belief that the profound depths are inhabited by the remnants of the last race of amphibious human beings!"

This was childish; I did not bother to reply.

"Believe it or not, as you will," he said angrily; "one thing I know, and that is this: The harbor master has taken to hanging around my cove, and he is attracted by my nurse! I won't have it! I'll blow his fishy gills out of his head if I ever get a shot at him! I don't care whether it's homicide or not— anyway, it's a new kind of murder and it attracts me!"

I gazed at him incredulously, but he was working himself into a passion, and I did not choose to say what I thought.

"Yes, this slate-colored thing with gills goes purring and grinning and spitting about after my nurse— when she walks, when she rows, when she sits on the beach! Gad! It drives me nearly frantic. I won't tolerate it, I tell you!"

"No," said I, "I wouldn't, either." And I rolled over in bed convulsed with laughter.

The next moment I heard my door slam. I smothered my mirth and rose to close the window, for the land wind blew cold from the forest, and a drizzle was sweeping the carpet as far as my bed.

That luminous glare, which sometimes lingers after the stars go out, threw a trembling, nebulous radiance over sand and cove. I heard the seething currents under the breakers' softened thunder— louder than I ever heard it. Then, as I closed my window, lingering for a last look at the crawling tide, I saw a man standing ankle-deep in the surf, all alone there in the night. But— was it a man ? For the figure suddenly began running over the beach on all fours like a beetle, waving its limbs like feelers. Before I could throw open the window again it darted into the surf, and, when I leaned out into the chiHing drizzle, I saw nothing save the flat ebb crawling on the coast— I heard nothing save the purring of bubbles on seething sands.

5: Ten Thousand Reward

IT took me a week to perfect my arrangements for transporting the great auks, by water, to Port-of-Waves, where a lumber schooner was to be sent from Petite-Sainte-Isole; chartered by me for a voyage to New York.

I had constructed a cage made of oziers, in which my auks were to squat until they arrived at Bronx Park. My telegrams to Professor Farrago were brief; one merely said: "Victory!" Another explained that I wanted no assistance, and a third read: "Schooner Borogrove chartered. Arrive New York July first. Send furniture van to foot of Bluff Street.

My week as a guest of Mr. Halyard proved interesting. I wrangled with that invalid to his heart's content, I worked all day on my ozier cage, I hunted the thimble in the moonlight with the pretty nurse. We sometimes found it.

As for the thing they called the harbor master, I saw it a dozen times, but always either at night or so far away, and so close to the sea, that of course no trace of it remained when I reached the spot, rifle in hand.

I had quite made up my mind that the so-called harbor master was a demented darky— wandered from Heaven knows where— perhaps shipwrecked and gone mad from his sufferings. Still, it was far from pleasant to know that the creature was strongly attracted by the pretty nurse.

She, however, persisted in regarding the harbor master as a sea creature; she earnestly affirmed that it had gills, like a fish's gills, that it had a soft, fleshy hole for a mouth, and its eyes were luminous, and lidless, and fixed.

"Besides," she said, with a shudder, "it's all slate color, like a porpoise, and it looks as wet as a sheet of India rubber in a dissecting room."

The day before I was to set sail with my auks in a catboat bound for Port- of-Waves, Halyard trundled up to me in his chair, and announced his intention of going with me.

"Going where?" I asked.

"To Port-of-Waves and then to New York," he replied tranquilly.

I was doubtful, and my lack of cordiality hurt his feelings.

"Oh, of course, if you need the sea voyage—" l began.

"I don't; I need you," he said savagely; "I need the stimulus of our daily quarrel. I never disagreed so pleasantly with anybody in my life; it agrees with me; I am a hundred per cent better than I was last week."

I was inclined to resent this, but something in the deep-lined face of the invalid softened me. Besides, I had taken a hearty liking to the old pig.

"I don't want any mawkish sentiment about it," he said, observing me closely; "I won't permit anybody to feel sorry for me— do you understand ?"

"I'll trouble you to use a different tone in addressing me," I replied hotly; "I'll feel sorry for you if I choose to!" And our usual quarrel proceeded, to his deep satisfaction.

By six o'clock next evening I had Halyard's luggage stowed away in the catboat, and the pretty nurse's effects corded down. She and I placed the ozier cage aboard, securing it firmly, and then, throwing tablecloths over the auks' heads, we led those simple and dignified birds down the path and across the plank at the little wooden pier. Together, we locked up the house, while Halyard stormed at us both and wheeled himself furiously up and down the beach below. At the last moment she forgot her thimble. But we found it, I forget where.

"Come on!" shouted Halyard, waving his shawls furiously; "what the devil are you about up there?"

He received our explanation with a sniff, and we trundled him aboard without further ceremony.

"Don't run me across the plank like a steamer trunk!" he shouted, as I shot him dexterously in to the cockpit.

But the wind was dying away, and I had no time to dispute with him then.

The sun was setting above the pine-clad ridge as our sail flapped and partly filled, and I cast off, and began a long tack, east by south, to avoid the spouting rocks on our starboard bow.

The sea birds rose in clouds as we swung across the shoal, the black surf ducks scuttered out to sea, die gulls tossed their sun-tipped wings in the ocean, riding the rollers like bits of froth.

Already we were sailing slowly out across that great hole in the ocean, five miles deep, the most profound sounding ever taken in the Atlantic. The presence of great heights or great depths, seen or unseen, always impresses the human mind— perhaps oppresses it. We were very silent; the sunlight stain on cliff and beach deepened to crimson, then faded into somber purple bloom that lingered long after the rose tint died Out in the zenith.

Our progress was slow; at times, although the sail filled with the rising land breeze, we scarcely seemed to move at all.

"Of course," said the pretty nurse, "we couldn't be aground in the deepest hole in the Atlantic."

"Scarcely," said Halyard sarcastically, "unless we're grounded on a whale."

"What's that soft thumping?" I asked. "Have we run afoul of a barrel or log?"

It was almost too dark to see, but I leaned over the rail and swept the water with my hand.

Instantly something smooth glided under it, like the back of a great fish; and I jerked my hand back to the tiller. At the same moment the whole surface of the water seemed to begin to pur, with a sound like the breaking of froth in a champagne glass.

"What's the matter with you ?" asked Halyard sharply.

"A fish came up under my hand," I said; "a porpoise or something—"

With a low cry, the pretty nurse clasped my arm in both her hands.

"Listen!" she whispered, "it's purring around the boat!"

"What the devil's purring?" shouted Halyard. "I won't have anything purring around me!"

At that moment, to my amazement, I saw that the boat had stopped entirely, although the sail was full and the small pennant fluttered from the masthead. Something, too, was tugging at the rudder, twisting and jerking it until the tiller strained and creaked in my hand. All at once it snapped; the tiller swung useless, and the boat whirled around, heeling in the stiffening wind, and drove shoreward.

It was then that I, ducking to escape the boom, caught a glimpse of something ahead— something that a sudden wave seemed to toss on deck and leave there, wet and flapping— a man with round, fixed, fishy eyes, and soft, slaty skin.

But the horror of the thing was the two gills that swelled and relaxed spasmodically, emitting a rasping, purring sound— two gasping, blood-red gills, all fluted and scalloped and distended.

Frozen with amazement and repugnance, I stared at the creature; I felt the hair stirring on my head and the icy sweat on my forehead.

"It's the harbor master!" screamed Halyard.

The harbor master had gathered himself into a wet lump, squatting motionless in the bows under the mast; his lidless eyes were phosphorescent, like the eyes of living codfish. After a while I felt that either fright or disgust was going to strangle me where I sat, but it was only the arms of the pretty nurse clasped around me in a frenzy of terror.

There was not a firearm aboard that we could get at. Halyard's hand crept backward where a steel-shod boat hook lay, and I also made a clutch at it. The next moment I had it in my hand, and staggered forward, but the boat was already tumbling shoreward among the breakers, and the next I knew the harbor master ran at me like a colossal rat, just as the boat rolled over and over through the surf, spilling freight and passengers among the seaweed-covered rocks.

When I came to myself I was thrashing about knee-deep in a rocky pool, blinded by the water and half suffocated, while .under my feet, like a stranded porpoise, the harbor master made the water boil in his efforts to upset me. But his limbs seemed soft and boneless; he had no nails, no teeth, and he bounced and thumped and flapped and splashed like a fish, while I rained blows on him with the boat hook that sounded like blows on a football. And all the while his gills were blowing out, and frothing, and purring, and his lidless eyes looked into mine, until, nauseated and trembling, I dragged myself back to the beach, where already the pretty nurse alternately wrung her hands and her petticoats in ornamental despair.

Beyond the cove, Halyard was bobbing up and down, afloat in his invalid's chair, trying to steer shoreward. He was the maddest man I ever saw.

"Have you killed that rubber-headed thing yet?" he roared.

"I can't kill it," I shouted breathlessly. "I might as well try to kill a football!"

"Can't you punch a hole in it?" he bawled. "If I can only get at him—"

His words were drowned in a thunderous splashing, a roar of great, broad flippers beating the sea, and I saw the gigantic forms of my two great auks blundering past in a shower of spray, driving headlong out into the ocean.

"Oh, Lord!" I said, "I can't stand that!" and, for the first time in my life, I fainted peacefully— and appropriately— at the feet of the pretty nurse.

IT IS WITHIN the range of possibility that this story may be doubted. It doesn't matter; nothing can add to the despair of a man who has lost two great auks. For Halyard, nothing affects him— except his involuntary sea bath, and that did him so much good that he writes me from the south that he's going on a walking tour through Switzerland— if I'll join him. I might have joined him if he had not married the pretty nurse. I wonder whether— But, of course, this is no place for speculation.

In regard to the harbor master, you may believe it or not, as you choose. But if you hear of any great auks being found, kindly throw a tablecloth over their heads and notify the authorities at the new Zoological Gardens in Bronx Park, New York. The reward is ten thousand dollars.

___________________

24: A Jury of Her Peers

Susan Glaspell

1882-1948

Everyweek, March 5, 1917

WHEN MARTHA HALE opened the storm-door and got a cut of the north wind, she ran back for her big woollen scarf. As she hurriedly wound that round her head her eye made a scandalised sweep of her kitchen. It was no ordinary thing that called her away— it was probably farther from ordinary than anything that had ever happened in Dickson County. But what her eye took in was that her kitchen was in no shape for leaving: her bread all ready for mixing, half the flour sifted and half unsifted.

She hated to see things half done; but she had been at that when the team from town stopped to get Mr. Hale, and then the sheriff came running in to say his wife wished Mrs. Hale would come too— adding, with a grin, that he guessed she was getting scary and wanted another woman along. So she had dropped everything right where it was.

"Martha!" now came her husband's impatient voice. "Don't keep folks waiting out here in the cold."

She again opened the storm-door, and this time joined the three men and the one woman waiting for her in the big two-seated buggy.

After she had the robes tucked around her she took another look at the woman who sat beside her on the back seat. She had met Mrs. Peters the year before at the county fair, and the thing she remembered about her was that she didn't seem like a sheriff's wife. She was small and thin and didn't have a strong voice. Mrs. Gorman, sheriff's wife before Gorman went out and Peters came in, had a voice that somehow seemed to be backing up the law with every word. But if Mrs. Peters didn't look like a sheriff's wife, Peters made it up in looking like a sheriff. He was to a dot the kind of man who could get himself elected sheriff— a heavy man with a big voice, who was particularly genial with the law-abiding, as if to make it plain that he knew the difference between criminals and non-criminals. And right there it came into Mrs. Hale's mind, with a stab, that this man who was so pleasant and lively with all of them was going to the Wrights' now as a sheriff.

"The country's not very pleasant this time of year," Mrs. Peters at last ventured, as if she felt they ought to be talking as well as the men.

Mrs. Hale scarcely finished her reply, for they had gone up a little hill and could see the Wright place now, and seeing it did not make her feel like talking. It looked very lonesome this cold March morning. It had always been a lonesome-looking place. It was down in a hollow, and the poplar trees around it were lonesome-looking trees. The men were looking at it and talking about what had happened. The county attorney was bending to one side of the buggy, and kept looking steadily at the place as they drew up to it.

"I'm glad you came with me," Mrs, Peters said nervously, as the two women were about to follow the men in through the kitchen door.

Even after she had her foot on the door-step, her hand on the knob, Martha Hale had a moment of feeling she could not cross the threshold. And the reason it seemed she couldn't cross it now was simply because she hadn't crossed it before. Time and time again it had been in her mind, "I ought to go over and see Minnie Foster"— she still thought of her as Minnie Foster, though for twenty years she had been Mrs. Wright. And then there was always something to do and Minnie Foster would go from her mind. But now she could come.

The men went over to the stove. The women stood close together by the door. Young Henderson, the county attorney, turned around and said, "Come up to the fire, ladies."

Mrs. Peters took a step forward, then stopped. "I'm not— cold," she said.

And so the two women stood by the door, at first not even so much as looking around the kitchen.

The men talked for a minute about what a good thing it was the sheriff had sent his deputy out that morning to make a fire for them, and then Sheriff Peters stepped back from the stove, unbuttoned his outer coat, and leaned his hands on the kitchen table in a way that seemed to mark the beginning of official business. "Now, Mr. Hale," he said in a sort of semi-official voice, "before we move things about, you tell Mr. Henderson just what it was you saw when you came here yesterday morning."

The county attorney was looking around the kitchen.

"By the way," he said, "has anything been moved?" He turned to the sheriff. "Are things just as you left them yesterday?"

Peters looked from cupboard to sink; from that to a small worn rocker a little to one side of the kitchen table.

"It's just the same."

"Somebody should have been left here yesterday," said the county attorney.

"Oh— yesterday," returned the sheriff, with a little gesture as of yesterday having been more than he could bear to think of. "When I had to send Frank to Morris Centre for that man who went crazy— let me tell you, I had my hands full yesterday. I knew you could get back from Omaha by today, George, and as long as I went over everything here myself— "

"Well, Mr. Hale," said the county attorney, in a way of letting what was past and gone go, "tell just what happened when you came here yesterday morning."

Mrs. Hale, still leaning against the door, had that sinking feeling of the mother whose child is about to speak a piece. Lewis often wandered along and got things mixed up in a story. She hoped he would tell this straight and plain, and not say unnecessary things that would just make things harder for Minnie Foster. He didn't begin at once, and she noticed that he looked queer— as if standing in that kitchen and having to tell what he had seen there yesterday morning made him almost sick. "Yes, Mr. Hale?" the county attorney reminded. "Harry and I had started to town with a load of potatoes," Mrs. Hale's husband began.

Harry was Mrs. Hale's oldest boy. He wasn't with them now, for the very good reason that those potatoes never got to town yesterday and he was taking them this morning, so he hadn't been home when the sheriff stopped to say he wanted Mr. Hale to come over to the Wright place and tell the county attorney his story there, where he could point it all out. With all Mrs. Hale's other emotions came the fear that maybe Harry wasn't dressed warm enough— they hadn't any of them realised how that north wind did bite.

"We come along this road," Hale was going on, with a motion of his hand to the road over which they had just come, "and as we got in sight of the house I says to Harry, 'I'm goin' to see if I can't get John Wright to take a telephone.' You see," he explained to Henderson, "unless I can get somebody to go in with me they won't come out this branch road except for a price I can't pay. I'd spoke to Wright about it once before; but he put me off, saying folks talked too much anyway, and all he asked was peace and quiet-guess you know about how much he talked himself. But I thought maybe if I went to the house and talked about it before his wife, and said all the women-folks liked the telephones, and that in this lonesome stretch of road it would be a good thing— well, I said to Harry that that was what I was going to say— though I said at the same time that I didn't know as what his wife wanted made much difference to John— "

Now, there he was!— saying things he didn't need to say. Mrs. Hale tried to catch her husband's eye, but fortunately the county attorney interrupted with: "Let's talk about that a little later, Mr. Hale. I do want to talk about that, but I'm anxious now to get along to just what happened when you got here."

When he began this time, it was very deliberately and carefully: "I didn't see or hear anything. I knocked at the door. And still it was all quiet inside. I knew they must be up— it was past eight o'clock. So I knocked again, louder, and I thought I heard somebody say 'Come in.' I wasn't sure— I'm not sure yet. But I opened the door— this door," jerking a hand toward the door by which the two women stood, "and there, in that rocker"— pointing to it— "sat Mrs. Wright."

Every one in the kitchen looked at the rocker. It came into Mrs. Hale's mind that that rocker didn't look in the least like Minnie Foster— the Minnie Foster of twenty years before. It was a dingy red, with wooden rungs up the back, and the middle rung was gone, and the chair sagged to one side.

"How did she— look?" the county attorney was inquiring.

"Well," said Hale, "she looked— queer."

"How do you mean— queer?"

As he asked it he took out a note-book and pencil. Mrs. Hale did not like the sight of that pencil. She kept her eye fixed on her husband, as if to keep him from saying unnecessary things that would go into that note-book and make trouble.

Hale did speak guardedly, as if the pencil had affected him too.

"Well, as if she didn't know what she was going to do next. And kind of— done up."

"How did she seem to feel about your coming?"

"Why, I don't think she minded— one way or other. She didn't pay much attention. I said, 'Ho' do, Mrs. Wright? It's cold, ain't it?' And she said, 'Is it? '— and went on pleatin' at her apron.

"Well, I was surprised. She didn't ask me to come up to the stove, or to sit down, but just set there, not even lookin' at me. And so I said: 'I want to see John.'

"And then she— laughed. I guess you would call it a laugh.

"I thought of Harry and the team outside, so I said, a little sharp, 'Can I see John?'

'No,' says she— kind of dull like. 'Ain't he home?' says I. Then she looked at me. 'Yes,' says she, 'he's home.' Then why can't I see him?' I asked her, out of patience with her now.'

'Cause he's dead.' says she, just as quiet and dull— and fell to pleatin' her apron. 'Dead?' says I, like you do when you can't take in what you've heard.

"She just nodded her head, not getting a bit excited, but rockin' back and forth.

"'Why— where is he?' says I, not knowing what to say.

"She just pointed upstairs— like this"— pointing to the room above.

"I got up, with the idea of going up there myself. By this time I— didn't know what to do. I walked from there to here; then I says: 'Why, what did he die of?'

'"He died of a rope around his neck,' says she; and just went on pleatin' at her apron."

Hale stopped speaking, and stood staring at the rocker, as if he were still seeing the woman who had sat there the morning before. Nobody spoke; it was as if every one were seeing the woman who had sat there the morning before.

"And what did you do then?" the county attorney at last broke the silence.

"I went out and called Harry. I thought I might— need help. I got Harry in, and we went upstairs." His voice fell almost to a whisper. "There he was— lying over the— "

"I think I'd rather have you go into that upstairs," the county attorney interrupted, "where you can point it all out. Just go on now with the rest of the story."

"Well, my first thought was to get that rope off. It looked— "

He stopped, his face twitching.

"But Harry, he went up to him, and he said, 'No, he's dead all right, and we'd better not touch anything.' So we went downstairs.

"She was still sitting that same way. 'Has anybody been notified?' I asked. 'No' says she, unconcerned.

"'Who did this, Mrs. Wright?' said Harry. He said it – businesslike, and she stopped pleatin' at her apron. 'I don't know,' she says. 'You don't know?' says Harry. 'Weren't you sleepin' in the bed with him?'

'Yes,' says she, 'but I was on the inside.'

'Somebody slipped a rope round his neck and strangled him, and you didn't wake up?' says Harry. 'I didn't wake up,' she said after him.

"We may have looked as if we didn't see how that could be, for after a minute she said, 'I sleep sound.'

"Harry was going to ask her more questions, but I said maybe that weren't our business; maybe we ought to let her tell her story first to the coroner or the sheriff. So Harry went fast as he could over to High Road— the Rivers' place, where there's a telephone."

"And what did she do when she knew you had gone for the coroner?" The attorney got his pencil in his hand all ready for writing.

"She moved from that chair to this one over here"— Hale pointed to a small chair in the corner— "and just sat there with her hands held together and looking down. I got a feeling that I ought to make some conversation, so I said I had come in to see if John wanted to put in a telephone; and at that she started to laugh, and then she stopped and looked at me— scared."

At the sound of a moving pencil the man who was telling the story looked up.

"I dunno— maybe it wasn't scared," he hastened; "I wouldn't like to say it was. Soon Harry got back, and then Dr. Lloyd came, and you, Mr. Peters, and so I guess that's all I know that you don't."

He said that last with relief, and moved a little, as if relaxing. Every one moved a little. The county attorney walked toward the stair door.

"I guess we'll go upstairs first— then out to the barn and around there."

He paused and looked around the kitchen.

"You're convinced there was nothing important here?" he asked the sheriff. "Nothing that would point to any motive?"

The sheriff too looked all around, as if to re-convince himself.

"Nothing here but kitchen things," he said, with a little laugh for the insignificance of kitchen things.

The county attorney was looking at the cupboard— a peculiar, ungainly structure, half closet and half cupboard, the upper part of it being built in the wall, and the lower part just the old-fashioned kitchen cupboard. As if its queerness attracted him, he got a chair and opened the upper part and looked in. After a moment he drew his hand away sticky.

"Here's a nice mess," he said resentfully.

The two women had drawn nearer, and now the sheriff's wife spoke.

"Oh— her fruit," she said, looking to Mrs. Hale for sympathetic understanding. She turned back to the county attorney and explained: "She worried about that when it turned so cold last night. She said the fire would go out and her jars might burst."

Mrs. Peters's husband broke into a laugh.

"Well, can you beat the women! Held for murder, and worrying about her preserves!"

The young attorney set his lips.

"I guess before we're through with her she may have something more serious than preserves to worry about."

"Oh, well," said Mrs. Hale's husband, with good-natured superiority, "women are used to worrying over trifles."

The two women moved a little closer together. Neither of them spoke. The county attorney seemed suddenly to remember his manners— and think of his future.

"And yet," said he, with the gallantry of a young politician, "for all their worries, what would we do without the ladies?"

The women did not speak, did not unbend. He went to the sink and began washing his hands. He turned to wipe them on the roller towel— whirled it for a cleaner place.

"Dirty towels! Not much of a housekeeper, would you say, ladies?"

He kicked his foot against some dirty pans under the sink.

"There's a great deal of work to be done on a farm," said Mrs. Hale stiffly.

"To be sure. And yet"— with a little bow to her— "I know there are some Dickson County farm-houses that do not have such roller towels." He gave it a pull to expose its full length again.

"Those towels get dirty awful quick. Men's hands aren't always as clean as they might be."

"Ah, loyal to your sex, I see," he laughed. He stopped and gave her a keen look. "But you and Mrs. Wright were neighbours. I suppose you were friends, too."

Martha Hale shook her head.

"I've seen little enough of her of late years. I've not been in this house— it's more than a year."

"And why was that? You didn't like her?"

"I liked her well enough," she replied with spirit. "Farmers' wives ' have their hands full, Mr. Henderson. And then"— She looked around the kitchen.

"Yes?" he encouraged.

"It never seemed a very cheerful place," said she, more to herself, than to him.

"No," he agreed; "I don't think any one could call it cheerful. I shouldn't say she had the home-making instinct."

"Well, I don't know as Wright had, either," she muttered.

"You mean they didn't get on very well?" he was quick to ask.

"No; I don't mean anything," she answered, with decision. As she turned a little away from him, she added: "But I don't think a place would be any the cheerfuler for John Wright's bein' in it."

"I'd like to talk to you about that a little later, Mrs. Hale," he said. "I'm anxious to get the lay of things upstairs now."

He moved toward the stair door, followed by the two men.

"I suppose anything Mrs. Peters does'll be all right?" the sheriff inquired. "She was to take in some clothes for her, you know— and a few little things. We left in such a hurry yesterday."

The county attorney looked at the two women whom they were alone there among the kitchen things.

"Yes— Mrs. Peters," he said, his glance resting on the woman who was not Mrs. Peters, the big farmer woman who stood behind the sheriff's wife. "Of course Mrs. Peters is one of us," he said, in a manner of entrusting responsibility. "And keep your eye out, Mrs. Peters, for anything that might be of use. No telling; you women might come upon a clue to the motive— and that's the thing we need."

Mr. Hale rubbed his face after the fashion of a show man getting ready for a pleasantry.

"But would the women know a clue if they did come upon it?" he said; and, having delivered himself of this, he followed the others through the stair door.

The women stood motionless and silent, listening to the footsteps, first upon the stairs, then in the room above them.

Then, as if releasing herself from something strange, Mrs. Hale began to arrange the dirty pans under the sink, which the county attorney's disdainful push of the foot had deranged.

"I'd hate to have men comin' into my kitchen," she said testily— "snoopin' around and criticisin'."

"Of course it's no more than their duty," said the sheriff's wife, in her manner of timid acquiescence.

"Duty's all right," replied Mrs. Hale bluffly; "but I guess that deputy sheriff that come out to make the fire might have got a little of this on." She gave the roller towel a pull. "Wish I'd thought of that sooner! Seems mean to talk about her for not having things slicked up when she had to come away in such a hurry."

She looked around the kitchen. Certainly it was not 'slicked up.' Her eye was held by a bucket of sugar on a low shelf. The cover was off the wooden bucket, and beside it was a paper bag-half full.

Mrs. Hale moved toward it.

"She was putting this in here," she said to herself— slowly.

She thought of the flour in her kitchen at home— half sifted, half not sifted. She had been interrupted, and had left things half done. What had interrupted Minnie Foster? Why had that work been left half done? She made a move as if to finish it,— unfinished things always bothered her,— and then she glanced around and saw that Mrs. Peters was watching her— and she didn't want Mrs. Peters to get that feeling she had got of work begun and then— for some reason— not finished.

"It's a shame about her fruit," she said, and walked toward the cupboard that the county attorney had opened, and got on the chair, murmuring: "I wonder if it's all gone."

It was a sorry enough looking sight, but "Here's one that's all right," she said at last. She held it toward the light. "This is cherries, too." She looked again. "I declare I believe that's the only one."

With a sigh, she got down from the chair, went to the sink, and wiped off the bottle.

"She'll feel awful bad, after all her hard work in the hot weather. I remember the afternoon I put up my cherries last summer."

She set the bottle on the table, and, with another sigh, started to sit down in the rocker. But she did not sit down. Something kept her from sitting down in that chair. She straightened— stepped back, and, half turned away, stood looking at it, seeing the woman who sat there 'pleatin' at her apron.'

The thin voice of the sheriff's wife broke in upon her: "I must be getting those things from the front room closet." She opened the door into the other room, started in, stepped back. "You coming with me, Mrs. Hale?" she asked nervously. "You— you could help me get them."

They were soon back— the stark coldness of that shut-up room was not a thing to linger in.

"My!" said Mrs. Peters, dropping the things on the table and hurrying to the stove.

Mrs. Hale stood examining the clothes the woman who was being detained in town had said she wanted.

"Wright was close!" she exclaimed, holding up a shabby black skirt that bore the marks of much making over. "I think maybe that's why she kept so much to herself. I s'pose she felt she couldn't do her part; and then, you don't enjoy things when you feel shabby. She used to wear pretty clothes and be lively— when she was Minnie Foster, one of the town girls, singing in the choir. But that— oh, that was twenty years ago."

With a carefulness in which there was something tender, she folded the shabby clothes and piled them at one corner of the table. She looked at Mrs. Peters, and there was something in the other woman's look that irritated her.

"She don't care," she said to herself. "Much difference it makes to her whether Minnie Foster had pretty clothes when she was a girl."

Then she looked again, and she wasn't so sure; in fact, she hadn't at any time been perfectly sure about Mrs. Peters. She had that shrinking manner, and yet her eyes looked as if they could see a long way into things.

"This all you was to take in?" asked Mrs. Hale.

"No," said the sheriff's wife; "she said she wanted an apron. Funny thing to want," she ventured in her nervous little way, "for there's not much to get you dirty in jail, goodness knows. But I suppose just to make her feel more natural. If you're used to wearing an apron— . She said they were in the bottom drawer of this cupboard. Yes— here they are. And then her little shawl that always hung on the stair door."

She took the small gray shawl from behind the door leading upstairs, and stood a minute looking at it.

Suddenly Mrs. Hale took a quick step toward the other woman.

"Mrs. Peters!"

"Yes, Mrs. Hale?"

"Do you think she— did it?"

A frightened look blurred the other things in Mrs. Peters's eyes.

"Oh, I don't know," she said, in a voice that seemed to shrink away from the subject.

"Well, I don't think she did," affirmed Mrs. Hale stoutly. "Asking for an apron, and her little shawl. Worryin' about her fruit."

"Mr. Peters says— " Footsteps were heard in the room above; she stopped, looked up, then went on in a lowered voice: "Mr. Peters says— it looks bad for her. Mr. Henderson is awful sarcastic in a speech, and he's going to make fun of her saying she didn't— wake up."

For a moment Mrs. Hale had no answer. Then, "Well, I guess John Wright didn't wake up— when they was slippin' that rope under his neck," she muttered.

"No, it's strange," breathed Mrs. Peters. "They think it was such a funny way to kill a man."

She began to laugh; at the sound of the laugh, abruptly stopped.

"That's just what Mr. Hale said," said Mrs. Hale, in a resolutely natural voice. "There was a gun in the house. He says that's what he can't understand."

"Mr. Henderson said, coming out, that what was needed for the case was a motive. Something to show anger— or sudden feeling."

"Well, I don't see any signs of anger around here," said Mrs. Hale. "I don't— "

She stopped. It was as if her mind tripped on something. Her eye was caught by a dish-towel in the middle of the kitchen table. Slowly she moved toward the table. One half of it was wiped clean, the other half messy. Her eyes made a slow, almost unwilling turn to the bucket of sugar and the half empty bag beside it. Things begun— and not finished.

After a moment she stepped back, and said, in that manner of releasing herself: "Wonder how they're finding things upstairs? I hope she had it a little more red up there. You know,"— she paused, and feeling gathered,— "it seems kind of sneaking; locking her up in town and coming out here to get her own house to turn against her!"

"But, Mrs. Hale," said the sheriff's wife, "the law is the law."

"I s'pose 'tis," answered Mrs. Hale shortly.

She turned to the stove, saying something about that fire not being much to brag of. She worked with it a minute, and when she straightened up she said aggressively: "The law is the law— and a bad stove is a bad stove. How'd you like to cook on this?"— pointing with the poker to the broken lining. She opened the oven door and started to express her opinion of the oven; but she was swept into her own thoughts, thinking of what it would mean, year after year, to have that stove to wrestle with. The thought of Minnie Foster trying to bake in that oven— and the thought of her never going over to see Minnie Foster—  She was startled by hearing Mrs. Peters say: "A person gets discouraged— and loses heart."

The sheriff's wife had looked from the stove to the sink— to the pail of water which had been carried in from outside. The two women stood there silent, above them the footsteps of the men who were looking for evidence against the woman who had worked in that kitchen. That look of seeing into things, of seeing through a thing to something else, was in the eyes of the sheriff's wife now. When Mrs. Hale next spoke to her, it was gently: "Better loosen up your things, Mrs. Peters. We'll not feel them when we go out."

Mrs. Peters went to the back of the room to hang up the fur tippet she was wearing. A moment later she exclaimed, "Why, she was piecing a quilt," and held up a large sewing basket piled high with quilt pieces.

Mrs. Hale spread some of the blocks on the table.

"It's log-cabin pattern," she said, putting several of them together. "Pretty, isn't it?"

They were so engaged with the quilt that they did not hear the footsteps on the stairs. Just as the stair door opened Mrs. Hale was saying: "Do you suppose she was going to quilt it or just knot it?"

The sheriff threw up his hands.

"They wonder whether she was going to quilt it or just knot it!"

There was a laugh for the ways of women, a warming of hands over the stove, and then the county attorney said briskly: "Well, let's go right out to the barn and get that cleared up."

"I don't see as there's anything so strange," Mrs. Hale said resentfully, after the outside door had closed on the three men— "our taking up our time with little things while we're waiting for them to get the evidence. I don't see as it's anything to laugh about."

"Of course they've got awful important things on their minds," said the sheriff's wife apologetically.

They returned to an inspection of the blocks for the quilt. Mrs. Hale was looking at the fine, even sewing, and preoccupied with thoughts of the woman who had done that sewing, when she heard the sheriff's wife say, in a queer tone: "Why, look at this one."

She turned to take the block held out to her.

"The sewing," said Mrs. Peters, in a troubled way. "All the rest of them have been so nice and even— but— this one. Why, it looks as if she didn't know what she was about!"

Their eyes met— something flashed to life, passed between them; then, as if with an effort, they seemed to pull away from each other. A moment Mrs. Hale sat there, her hands folded over that sewing which was so unlike all the rest of the sewing. Then she had pulled a knot and drawn the threads.

"Oh, what are you doing, Mrs. Hale?" asked the sheriff's wife, startled.

"Just pulling out a stitch or two that's not sewed very good," said Mrs. Hale mildly.

"I don't think we ought to touch things," Mrs. Peters said, a little helplessly.

"I'll just finish up this end," answered Mrs. Hale, still in that mild, matter— of— fact fashion.

She threaded a needle and started to replace bad sewing with good. For a little while she sewed in silence. Then, in that thin, timid voice, she heard: "Mrs. Hale!"

"Yes, Mrs. Peters?"

"What do you suppose she was so— nervous about?"

"Oh, I don't know," said Mrs. Hale, as if dismissing a thing not important enough to spend much time on. "I don't know as she was— nervous. I sew awful queer sometimes when I'm just tired."

She cut a thread, and out of the corner of her eye looked up at Mrs. Peters. The small, lean face of the sheriff's wife seemed to have tightened up. Her eyes had that look of peering into something. But the next moment she moved, and said in her thin, indecisive way: "Well, I must get those clothes wrapped. They may be through sooner than we think. I wonder where I could find a piece of paper and string."

"In that cupboard, maybe," suggested Mrs. Hale, after a glance around.

One piece of the crazy sewing remained unripped. Mrs. Peters's back turned, Martha Hale now scrutinised that piece, compared it with the dainty, accurate sewing of the other blocks. The difference was startling. Holding this block made her feel queer, as if the distracted thoughts of the woman who had perhaps turned to it to try and quiet herself were communicating themselves to her.

Mrs. Peters's voice roused her.

"Here's a bird-cage," she said. "Did she have a bird, Mrs. Hale?"

"Why, I don't know whether she did or not." She turned to look at the cage Mrs. Peters was holding up. "I've not been here in so long." She sighed. "There was a man round last year selling canaries cheap— but I don't know as she took one. Maybe she did. She used to sing real pretty herself."

Mrs. Peters looked around the kitchen.

"Seems kind of funny to think of a bird here." She half laughed— an attempt to put up a barrier. "But she must have had one— or why would she have a cage? I wonder what happened to it."

"I suppose maybe the cat got it," suggested Mrs. Hale, resuming her sewing.

"No, she didn't have a cat. She's got that feeling some people have about cats— being afraid of them. When they brought her to our house yesterday, my cat got in the room, and she was real upset and asked me to take it out."

"My sister Bessie was like that," laughed Mrs. Hale.

The sheriff's wife did not reply. The silence made Mrs. Hale turn around. Mrs. Peters was examining the bird-cage.

"Look at this door," she said slowly. "It's broke. One hinge has been pulled apart."

Mrs. Hale came nearer.

"Looks as if some one must have been rough with it."

Again their eyes met— startled, questioning, apprehensive. For a moment neither spoke nor stirred. Then Mrs. Hale, turning away, said brusquely: "If they're going to find any evidence, I wish they'd be about it. I don't like this place."

"But I'm awful glad you came with me, Mrs. Hale." Mrs. Peters put the bird-cage on the table and sat down. "It would be lonesome for me— sitting here alone."

"Yes, it would, wouldn't it?" agreed Mrs. Hale, a certain determined naturalness in her voice. She picked up the sewing, but now it dropped in her lap, and she murmured in a different voice: "But I tell you what I do wish, Mrs. Peters. I wish I had come over sometimes when she was here. I wish— I had."

"But of course you were awful busy, Mrs. Hale. Your house— and your children."

"I could've come," retorted Mrs. Hale shortly. "I stayed away because it weren't cheerful— and that's why I ought to have come. I"— she looked around— "I've never liked this place. Maybe because it's down in a hollow and you don't see the road. I don't know what it is, but it's a lonesome place, and always was. I wish I had come over to see Minnie Foster sometimes. I can see now— " She did not put it into words.

"Well, you mustn't reproach yourself," counselled Mrs. Peters. "Somehow, we just don't see how it is with other folks till— something comes up."

"Not having children makes less work," mused Mrs. Hale, after a silence, "but it makes a quiet house— and Wright out to work all day— and no company when he did come in. Did you know John Wright, Mrs. Peters?"

"Not to know him. I've seen him in town. They say he was a good man."

"Yes— good," conceded John Wright's neighbour grimly. "He didn't drink, and kept his word as well as most, I guess, and paid his debts. But he was a hard man, Mrs. Peters. Just to pass the time of day with him— " She stopped, shivered a little. "Like a raw wind that gets to the bone." Her eye fell upon the cage on the table before her, and she added, almost bitterly: "I should think she would've wanted a bird!"

Suddenly she leaned forward, looking intently at the cage. "But what do you s'pose went wrong with it?"

"I don't know," returned Mrs. Peters; "unless it got sick and died."

But after she said it she reached over and swung the broken door. Both women watched it as if somehow held by it.

"You didn't know— her?" Mrs. Hale asked, a gentler note in her voice.

"Not till they brought her yesterday," said the sheriff's wife.

"She— come to think of it, she was kind of like a bird herself. Real sweet and pretty, but kind of timid and— fluttery. How— she— did— change."

That held her for a long time. Finally, as if struck with a happy thought and relieved to get back to everyday things, she exclaimed: "Tell you what, Mrs. Peters, why don't you take the quilt in with you? It might take up her mind."

"Why, I think that's a real nice idea, Mrs. Hale," agreed the sheriff's wife, as if she too were glad to come into the atmosphere of a simple kindness. "There couldn't possibly be any objection to that, could there? Now, just what will I take? I wonder if her patches are in here— and her things."

They turned to the sewing basket.

"Here's some red," said Mrs. Hale, bringing out a roll of cloth. Underneath that was a box. "Here, maybe her scissors are in here— and her things." She held it up. "What a pretty box! I'll warrant that was something she had a long time ago— when she was a girl."

She held it in her hand a moment; then, with a little sigh, opened it.

Instantly her hand went to her nose.

"Why— !"

Mrs. Peters drew nearer— then turned away.

"There's something wrapped up in this piece of silk," faltered Mrs. Hale.

"This isn't her scissors," said Mrs. Peters in a shrinking voice.

Her hand not steady, Mrs. Hale raised the piece of silk. "Oh, Mrs. Peters!" she cried. "It's— "

Mrs. Peters bent closer.

"It's the bird," she whispered.

"But, Mrs. Peters!" cried Mrs. Hale. "Look at it! Its neck— look at its neck! It's all— other side to."

She held the box away from her.

The sheriff's wife again bent closer.

"Somebody wrung its neck," said she, in a voice that was slow and deep.

And then again the eyes of the two women met— this time clung together in a look of dawning comprehension, of growing horror. Mrs. Peters looked from the dead bird to the broken door of the cage. Again their eyes met. And just then there was a sound at the outside door.

Mrs. Hale slipped the box under the quilt pieces in the basket, and sank into the chair before it. Mrs. Peters stood holding to the table. The county attorney and the sheriff came in from outside.

"Well, ladies," said the county attorney, as one turning from serious things to little pleasantries, "have you decided whether she was going to quilt it or knot it?"

"We think," began the sheriff's wife in a flurried voice, "that she was going to— knot it."

He was too preoccupied to notice the change that came in her voice on that last.

"Well, that's very interesting, I'm sure," he said tolerantly, he caught sight of the bird-cage. "Has the bird flown?"

"We think the cat got it," said Mrs. Hale in a voice curiously even.

He was walking up and down, as if thinking something out.

"Is there a cat?" he asked absently.

Mrs. Hale shot a look up at the sheriff's wife.

"Well, not now," said Mrs. Peters. "They're superstitious, you know; they leave."

She sank into her chair.

The county attorney did not heed her. "No sign at all of any one having come in from the outside," he said to Peters, in the manner of continuing an interrupted conversation. "Their own rope. Now let's go upstairs again and go over it, piece by piece. It would have to have been some one who knew just the— "

The stair door closed behind them and their voices were lost.

The two women sat motionless, not looking at each other, but as if peering into something and at the same time holding back. When they spoke now it was as if they were afraid of what they were saying, but as if they could not help saying it.

"She liked the bird," said Martha Hale, low and slowly. "She was going to bury it in that pretty box."

"When I was a girl," said Mrs. Peters, under her breath, "my kitten— there was a boy took a hatchet, and before my eyes— before I could get there— " She covered her face an instant. "If they hadn't held me back I would have"— she caught herself, looked upstairs where footsteps were heard, and finished weakly— "hurt him."

Then they sat without speaking or moving.

"I wonder how it would seem," Mrs. Hale at last began, as if feeling her way over strange ground— "never to have had any children around?" Her eyes made a slow sweep of the kitchen, as if seeing what that kitchen had meant through all the years. "No, Wright wouldn't like the bird," she said after that— "a thing that sang. She used to sing. He killed that too." Her voice tightened.

Mrs. Peters moved uneasily.

"Of course we don't know who killed the bird."

"I knew John Wright," was Mrs. Hale's answer.

"It was an awful thing was done in this house that night, Mrs. Hale," said the sheriff's wife. "Killing a man while He slept – slipping a thing round his neck that choked the life out of him."

Mrs. Hale's hand went out to the bird-cage.

"His neck. Choked the life out of him."

"We don't know who killed him," whispered Mrs. Peters wildly. "We don't know."

Mrs. Hale had not moved. "If there had been years and years of— nothing, then a bird to sing to you, it would be awful— still – after the bird was still."

It was as if something within her not herself had spoken, and it found in Mrs. Peters something she did not know as herself.

"I know what stillness is," she said, in a queer, monotonous voice. "When we homesteaded in Dakota, and my first baby died— after he was two years old— and me with no other then— "

Mrs. Hale stirred.

"How soon do you suppose they'll be through looking for evidence?"

"I know what stillness is," repeated Mrs. Peters, in just that same way. Then she too pulled back. "The law has got to punish crime, Mrs. Hale," she said in her tight little way.

"I wish you'd seen Minnie Foster," was the answer, "when she wore a white dress with blue ribbons, and stood up there in the choir and sang."

The picture of that girl, the fact that she had lived neighbour to that girl for twenty years, and had let her die for lack of life, was suddenly j more than she could bear.

"Oh, I wish I'd come over here once in a while!" she cried. "That was a crime! That was a crime! Who's going to punish that?"

"We mustn't take on," said Mrs. Peters, with a frightened look toward the stairs.

"I might 'a' known she needed help! I tell you, it's queer, Mrs. Peters. We live close together, and we live far apart. We all go through the same things— it's all just a different kind of the same thing! If it weren't— why do you and I understand? Why do we know— what we know this minute?"

She dashed her hand across her eyes. Then, seeing the jar of fruit on the table, she reached for it and choked out: "If I was you I wouldn't tell her her fruit was gone! Tell her it ain't. Tell her it's all right— all of it. Here— take this in to prove it to her! She— she may never know whether it was broke or not."

She turned away.

Mrs. Peters reached out for the bottle of fruit as if she were glad to take it – as if touching a familiar thing, having something to do, could keep her from something else. She got up, looked about for something to wrap the fruit in, took a petticoat from the pile of clothes she had brought from the front room, and nervously started winding that round the bottle.

"My!" she began, in a high, false voice, "it's a good thing the men couldn't hear us! Getting all stirred up over a little thing like a― dead canary." She hurried over that. "As if that could have anything to do with― with― My, wouldn't they laugh?"

Footsteps were heard on the stairs.

"Maybe they would," muttered Mrs. Hale— "maybe they wouldn't."

"No, Peters," said the county attorney incisively; "it's all perfectly clear, except the reason for doing it. But you know juries when it comes to women. If there was some definite thing— something to show. Something to make a story about. A thing that would connect up with this clumsy way of doing it."

In a covert way Mrs. Hale looked at Mrs. Peters. Mrs. Peters was looking at her. Quickly they looked away from each other. The outer door opened and Mr. Hale came in.

"I've got the team round now," he said. "Pretty cold out there."

"I'm going to stay here awhile by myself," the county attorney suddenly announced. "You can send Frank out for me, can't you?" he asked the sheriff. "I want to go over everything. I'm not satisfied we can't do better."

Again, for one brief moment, the two women's eyes found one another.

The sheriff came up to the table.

"Did you want to see what Mrs. Peters was going to take in?"

The county attorney picked up the apron. He laughed.

"Oh, I guess they're not very dangerous things the ladies have picked out."

Mrs. Hale's hand was on the sewing basket in which the box was concealed. She felt that she ought to take her hand off the basket. She did not seem able to. He picked up one of the quilt blocks which she had piled on to cover the box. Her eyes felt like fire. She had a feeling that if he took up the basket she would snatch it from him.

But he did not take it up. With another little laugh, he turned away, saying: "No; Mrs. Peters doesn't need supervising. For that matter, a sheriff's wife is married to the law. Ever think of it that way, Mrs. Peters?"

Mrs. Peters was standing beside the table. Mrs. Hale shot a look up at her; but she could not see her face. Mrs. Peters had turned away. When she spoke, her voice was muffled.

"Not— just that way," she said.

"Married to the law!" chuckled Mrs. Peters's husband. He moved toward the door into the front room, and said to the county attorney: "I just want you to come in here a minute, George. We ought to take a look at these windows."

"Oh― windows," said the county attorney scoffingly.

"We'll be right out, Mr. Hale," said the sheriff to the farmer, who was still waiting by the door.

Hale went to look after the horses. The sheriff followed the county attorney into the other room. Again― for one moment― the two women were alone in that kitchen.

Martha Hale sprang up, her hands tight together, looking at that other woman, with whom it rested. At first she could not see her eyes, for the sheriff's wife had not turned back since she turned away at that suggestion of being married to the law. But now Mrs. Hale made her turn back. Her eyes made her turn back. Slowly, unwillingly, Mrs. Peters turned her head until her eyes met the eyes of the other woman. There was a moment when they held each other in a steady, burning look in which there was no evasion nor flinching. Then Martha Hale's eyes pointed the way to the basket in which was hidden the thing that would make certain the conviction of the other woman― that woman who was not there and yet who had been there with them all through the hour.

For a moment Mrs. Peters did not move. And then she did it. With a rush forward, she threw back the quilt pieces, got the box, tried to put it in her handbag. It was too big. Desperately she opened it, started to take the bird out. But there she broke― she could not touch the bird. She stood helpless, foolish.

There was a sound of a knob turning in the inner door. Martha Hale snatched the box from the sheriff's wife, and got it in the pocket of her big coat just as the sheriff and the county attorney came back into the kitchen.

"Well, Henry," said the county attorney facetiously, "at least we found out that she was not going to quilt it. She was going to― what is it you call it, ladies?"

Mrs. Hale's hand was against the pocket of her coat.

"We call it― knot it, Mr. Henderson."

__________________

Index to "Past Masters" stories, by author.

Issues 31-44

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

Mark Allerton

The Wrong 'Un 44

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

Blue Blood, or, The Pride of Lady Ambrosia 44

The Message on the Sun-Dial  42

Ralph Wilhelm Bergengren

Mr Chubb's Burglar 44

Leslie Beresford

Eastern Guile 35

M. McDonnell Bodkin

The Murder on the Golf Links  41

Charles G. Booth

Not According to Text 44

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 Sealed Envelope 43

The Sparrow  40

Tardy, but on Time (as by John J. Chichester)  41

George Bronson-Howard

The Steerage Passenger 44

Ellis Parker Butler

An Experiment in Gyro-Hats  37

Beating The Law 43

Eliph' Hewlitt on the Millinery Problem  44

Hats and Lilies 37

The Heckby Hill Murder 38

Mr. Marston's Chauffeurette  40

Scott Campbell

Rings of Dust 43

Egerton Castle

The Baron's Quarry 42

The Closed Door  35

Robert W Chambers

As You Choose 44

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

Sylvanus Cobb Jr

A Footlight Flash 43

Richard Connell

The Grim House  41

Dorothea Conyers

Lord Hillayton's Settlement 35

Ted Copp

Blackmail Moll 36

C. J. Hamilton

The Luck of Barney Costello 44

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

A Bundle of Banknotes  43

J. M. Fry

The Ring   38

Emile Gaboriau

The Little Old Man of Batignolles 34

Charles Garvice

The Two Uncles 44

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

Susan Glaspell

A Jury of Her Peers 44

Winifred Graham

Pan   39

Arthur P Hankins

Eyes of Blue   43

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

Seward W. Hopkins

Dickerson's Bag of Gold 44

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

Burke Jenkins

The Anti-Climax of a Bad Man 44

His Christmas Orchid 44

Twenty-Four Hours Start 44

Wimple's Fog-Piercer 44

Jerome K Jerome

The Man of Science  43

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

Sumner Locke

Ragtime 44

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

Trapped 43

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

James Jeffreys O'Brien

Queen of the Beggars 44

Owen Oliver

The Cape Conspiracy  35

A Pretty Woman 31

A Rapid Conveyance  36

Success 40

E Phillips Oppenheim

Blackman's Wood 43

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

Adjudged Incompetent  43

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

Morley Roberts

The Hut by the Lachlan 44

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

Leroy Scott

The Langdon Mystery  44

Mary Sharon

The Cat of Chiltern Castle  43

George Bernard Shaw

The Miraculous Revenge  43

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

F St Mars

The Green Devil 43

Annie S. Swan

The Diplomat  38

William Alexander Taylor

Intermere 33

Guy Thorne

Sir Patrick Armagh's Knife  39

E Charles Vivian

The House Among the Pines 44

Locked In 44

Hugh Walpole

The Twisted Inn 42

Florence Warden

Grimgriffenhoof  39

Cy Warman

"Sycamore": A Ghost Story 44

F A M Webster

Towards Morning 33

Carolyn Wells

The Mystery of the Jade Buddha 40

A Point of Testimony 43

The Stolen Gems 43

Albert Richard Wetjen

The Madness of Captain Jonas 44

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

May Wynne

The Tiara  44

Arthur Leo Zagat

Girl of the Goat-God  43

______________________

Table of Contents

- 1: The Madness of Captain Jonas / Albert Richard Wetjen

- 2: The Tiara / May Wynne
- 3: Not According to Text / Charles G. Booth
- 4: His Christmas Orchid / Burke Jenkins
- 5: Twenty-Four Hours Start / Burke Jenkins
- 6: Wimple's Fog-Piercer / Burke Jenkins

- 7: The Anti-Climax of a Bad Man / Burke Jenkins

- 8: Queen of the Beggars / James Jeffreys O'Brien

- 9: The Luck of Barney Costello / C. J. Hamilton

- 10: The Two Uncles / Charles Garvice

- 11: Mr Chubb's Burglar / Ralph Wilhelm Bergengren

- 12: The Wrong 'Un / Mark Allerton

- 13: The Hut by the Lachlan / Morley Roberts

- 14: Blue Blood, or, The Pride of Lady Ambrosia / J. J. Bell

- 15: The House Among the Pines / E Charles Vivian

- 16: The Langdon Mystery / Leroy Scott
- 17: Locked In / E. Charles Vivian
- 18: "Sycamore": A Ghost Story / Cy Warman

- 19: The Steerage Passenger / George Bronson-Howard

- 20: Dickerson's Bag of Gold / Seward W. Hopkins

- 21: Eliph' Hewlitt on the Millinery Problem / Ellis Parker Butler

- 22: Ragtime / Sumner Locke
- 23: As You Choose / Robert W Chambers
- 24: A Jury of Her Peers /
- Cumulative Index 31-44