Past Masters Forty Eight
Author: Various
Date: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00
Description: Ten stories, some of them quite long, in the Life + 70 public domain, collected from magazines and newspapers. Als a cumulative index of the Past Masters issues from 31 to 48. 1: Wizard or Crook / Casper Carson 2: The Pipe / Richard Marsh 3: The Seventh Step / L. T. Meade and Dr. Clifford Halifax 4: Stormalong / H. Bedford-Jones 5: The Temple of the Ten / H. Bedford-Jones 6: Lindenborg Pool / William Morris 7: The Bed By The Window / E F Benson 8: The Black Monk / G. G. Pendarves 9: The lnternational Electro-Galvanic Undertaking Corporation / Jacque Morgan 10: Touch-And-Go With a Great Estate

PAST MASTERS

FORTY-EIGHT

November 2021

Produced by Terry Walker

("Pulpmeister")

Contents

1: Wizard or Crook / Casper Carson

2: The Pipe / Richard Marsh

3: The Seventh Step / L. T. Meade and Dr. Clifford Halifax

4: Stormalong / H. Bedford-Jones

5: The Temple of the Ten / H. Bedford-Jones

6: Lindenborg Pool / William Morris

7: The Bed By The Window / E F Benson

8: The Black Monk / G. G. Pendarves

9: The lnternational Electro-Galvanic

Undertaking Corporation / Jacque Morgan

10: Touch-And-Go With a Great Estate / R. E. Francillon

Cumulative Index to No 48

_____________________

1: Wizard or Crook

Casper Carson

Identity unknown; flourished 1900s-1910s

The Argosy, Dec 1912

1: The Gall of Him

THE commissioner of police frowned at the intrusion of a messenger with a card into the privacy of his inner office.

He was grappling at the moment with one of the most difficult problems of his career, and the last thing he wanted was to be disturbed.

Called to the head of the police department in response to the universal demand for a practical policeman, Commissioner McConnell unquestionably filled the bill.

He had served in his day as the ordinary "pavement bull," had been promoted to roundsman and sergeant, and then transferred to the detective bureau, making good, as the phrase goes, in each successive capacity.

With the offer and acceptance of a post in the government secret service, he added such new laurels to his record that eventually he was able to establish a very successful private detective agency.

And now, at last, he was back on the force again— back on the force, with all his knowledge gained from the inside of its strength and weakness, yet with the wider perspective and freedom from cabals and entangling alliances of a virtual outsider.

Great things were expected of McConnell, and rightly so; for, after all is said and done, the chief business of a police force is catching criminals, and there was no gainsaying the fact that McConnell was a great detective.

True, he didn't at all suggest the rather fantastic creations of the fiction writers for such a role. With his rather rotund body, bullet head, and heavy, curled mustache, he came nearer perhaps to the figure of the blundering professional "cop" whom these chroniclers so delight to picture.

His chase of a crook was usually free from weird or eccentric features, and he would about as soon think of flying as to get down on his stomach and wriggle around with a magnifyingglass in search of clues; but he got there, just the same.

The Le Clair diamond robbery, the Conover counterfeiting case, the Daingerfield public lands conspiracy are matters which attest his skill and ability at following up an involved and baffling trail.

But here, at the very outset of his new undertaking, and with the myriad eyes of the public upon him, he found himself confronted with a job which seemed to defy solution.

Look as it which way he would, he had to confess himself fairly stumped. There was apparently no clue or staring-point from which to begin an investigation. Yet, knowing that to every puzzle there must be a satisfactory answer of some kind, he had shut himself away from all interruption, and with head between his hands, and all his faculties concentrated on the rather meager details supplied him, was vainly striving to discern some light.

It may be imagined, therefore, how welcome was the entrance of the messenger with the card at such a juncture.

"Some politician, I suppose," he growled, "come to beg off for one of that bunch of captains I transferred yesterday? Why the dickens can't those fellows—"

Then, as he reached out for the bit of pasteboard, and his eye fell on the engraved name with its penciled line of explanation underneath, the storm broke. " 'Mr. E. Bolingbroke Ramsdell!'" he exploded with thunderous disgust. " 'In reference to obtaining a position on the force!'"

The hapless messenger cringed before the blast of outraged wrath he saw coming; but, of a sudden, McConnell's humor changed. In spite of himself, his lips began to twitch, a twinkle crept into his blue eye, and then he burst into a roar of laughter. It was really too absurd that his weighty deliberations should be called upon to yield to the demands of a mere job-seeker— a job-seeker named Bolingbroke Ramsdell, at that.

All at once his face grew serious, and he turned a keen, searching glance upon the waiting subordinate. "Charlie," he said dryly, "you've been with the department here about five years, more or less, haven't you?"

"Yes, sir."

"And in that time how many greenhorns with an ambition to join the force have asked to see the commissioner?"

"Probably a thousand, sir; maybe more."

"Exactly. And what answer do you usually make to them?"

"Why," with the glib readiness of a well-learned lesson, "I always tell 'em to make a written application in due form, and then go to the civil service commission for examination."

"Ever bring in any of their cards to the commissioner before?"

"No, sir," confessed the man hesitatingly, "I don't believe I ever did, except maybe once or twice, when a district leader, or somebody like that, came along with 'em."

The commissioner sat silent for a moment or two.

"Er— Charlie," he inquired at length, "just how much did this guy slip you?"

The messenger straightened up, and met the probing gaze bent on him almost with an expression of relief.

"Not a cent, commissioner," he disavowed earnestly. "I knew you'd be thinking that; but it isn't so, sir. On my honor, it isn't." McConnell was frankly puzzled. Shrewd judge of men that he was, he knew instinctively that the messenger was telling the truth.

"Is the fellow a friend of yours, then?" he hazarded.

"Never saw him before in my life, sir."

McConnell's patience, never his strongest virtue, gave completely away at this.

"Look here, my man," he snapped; "if you think this is a place for horseplay or kidding matches, you've got another guess coming. I want you to understand that—"

"Oh, no, commissioner!" broke in the subordinate tremblingly. "Oh, no, sir! I'd be the last person in the world to try anything like that."

"What the deuce do you mean, then, by bringing me a thing like this"— contemptuously flipping the card with his forefinger— "when I expressly told you that I was not to be disturbed except for imperative business?"

The culprit stood silent, looking down at the floor, and uneasily shuffling his feet.

"Answer me."

"I— I couldn't help it, sir."

"Couldn't help it?" "No, sir. I knew I had no business to bring that card in to you; but— but—" He flushed guiltily, and seemed to become more confused than ever. "Well, sir, that young fellow somehow has a way of getting what he wants."

"H-m. He has, has he?" Again McConnell's eyes narrowed to a glance of suspicious scrutiny.

"I guess," he decided, "that I'll take a look at him for myself. Tell him to come in." Then, as the messenger turned away, a sudden realization came to the commissioner which twisted his lips into a wry sort of a smile.

"Has a way of getting what he wants, eh?" he muttered. "Well, by Jove, it begins to look like it when I give up my valuable time to a chap with an errand like his!"

2: Some Revelations

MCCONNELL had pictured to himself, from Charlie's description, a forceful, swaggering sort of type— something of a cross between the bouncer of a Bowery saloon and the persuasive-tongued advance man of a "ten, twent' and thirt'" repertoire company; but, to his surprise, the visitor who edged deprecatingly into his presence was meek, mild, and unimposing as buttermilk.

"He looks like a cartoonist's idea of a kid from Boston," thought the commissioner, turning away to hide a grin; and, indeed, the swift characterization was far from inexact, in view of its subject's round, moon face adorned by a pair of enormous, heavy-lensed spectacles, and the attenuated frame manifestly too small for his bulging head.

McConnell promptly repented the rash impulse which had led him into granting an interview. His manner showed plainly that he intended to make the incident brief as decency would permit.

"Your name's Ramsdell, eh?" he grunted, refreshing his memory by a glance at the card he still held between his fingers.

"Yes, sir." The caller spoke in a thin, high-pitched voice. "E. Bolingbroke Ramsdell."

It was beyond human nature to resist such a chance for a rise.

"Some class to that, isn't there?" McConnell commented in mock admiration. "What's the ' E ' for?"

"Elizur," confessed Ramsdell.

"Eliza?" "No, no. Elizur, with an ' ur.' I merely use the initial, however, because so many people fall into the same error as you; and Eliza is a feminine name, you know."

He made the explanation quite placidly, and evidently without the slightest suspicion that he was being rigged; so the commissioner, feeling a trifle flat, returned a bit hastily to the task of getting rid of him.

"You want a position on the force, eh?" he said bruskly. "Well, I'm sorry; but I don't believe I can help you. You will have to make application through the regular channels, and—"

"Yes, yes, I know all that," interrupted the applicant. "But, you see, Mr. Commissioner, I am not after a position on the uniformed force."

"No?" rejoined McConnell, with a slightly ironic inflection. He was about to inquire if it was a job as inspector or deputy commissioner that the other had in mind; but Ramsdell was already proceeding.

"No," he repeated. "I am inclined to consider the detective bureau the proper field for my talents."

"Oh," groaned McConnell to himself, "one of those ginks with the Sherlock Holmes bug in his nut! What he ought to do is send a quarter off to some fake detective agency and get a nice little tin star to amuse himself with."

Aloud, however, he remarked, rising as though to terminate the interview, that he saw very little chance of accomplishing any such desires.

"You see," he explained curtly, "under the law, all appointments to the detective bureau come in the nature of promotions from the regular rank and file."

"Still," persisted the other, declining to take any notice of his evident dismissal, "you do sometimes make use of outside assistance, don't you?"

"Very infrequently. And I certainly know of no matters on hand at present which call for such a step."

The young man thrust his spectacled face slightly forward. "Not even the Poe case?" he queried.

McConnell sat down rather abruptly. "What the— what do you know about the Poe case?" he ejaculated sharply.

"Simply that Darius Poe, the old book-collector, has had stolen from him the famous Wickliffe Bible, for which he paid a record price of seventy-five thousand dollars at the J. V. Emory auction sale last week, as detailed so extensively in the papers at the time.

"The book was kept for safety," he went on, "together with a number of Mr. Poe's most highly cherished treasures, in a massive safe in the library he has had built back of his residence on Madison Avenue. There are no indications of a burglarious entry to the building, nor does the safe show any signs of having been tampered with. Moreover, the keys to the library never left Mr. Poe's person from the time he locked the door at ten o'clock last night until he opened up again at nine o'clock this morning; yet, when he went to the safe, he found the Bible —the chief prize of his collection— gone. Instead, there lay in the safe an impudent letter informing him that unless he deposited twenty-five thousand dollars in the safe for the return of the book the valuable volume would be destroyed.

"Those," the caller concluded equably, "are, I believe, the main facts in the rather interesting affair."

"No." The police commissioner smashed his fist down on his desk, his eyes narrowing to pin-points. "There is one fact yet which has got to be explained to me. How did you get wise to all this?"

"Ah!" The moon face with the big spectacles beamed bafflingly at him. "You will have to excuse me from answering that question, Mr. Commissioner."

"But," expostulated McConnell angrily, "there were only two people who knew of that letter you mention— myself and old man Poe. And he promised me faithfully that he would not speak of it to a living soul. If he's going to double-cross me by blabbing stuff right and left, how does he ever expect me to run down his moldy old book for him?"

"I assure you on my honor," piped Ramsdell, "that I did not get my intelligence from Mr. Poe. No more than I got my information in regard to the abduction of Miss Ethel Vorhees from the Vorhees family."

If this sedately uttered remark had been a dynamite bomb it couldn't have created much greater consternation. McConnell sprang to his feet, his eyes almost goggling out on his cheeks.

"Your information in regard to— what?" he thundered.

"In regard to the abduction of Miss Ethel Vorhees," rejoined Ramsdell demurely; "since I suppose that is what her disappearance must be considered."

No wonder that the commissioner was thunderstruck. The disappearance in question—that of a Riverside Drive heiress from her home some three weeks before—was one of the most carefully guarded secrets at headquarters; for the young lady's family, although spending money like water in the endeavor to trace up her whereabouts, were using every effort to avoid publicity. Even among the police only McConnell himself and one or two of his most trusted lieutenants were in possession of the actual details; yet this amazing stranger referred to the affair as casually as though it were a matter of common newspaper knowledge.

"So, you know about that, too?" stammered the now thoroughly discomfited official.

E. Bolingbroke Ramsdell merely nodded in a bored sort of way, as though there were nothing especially remarkable in the fact.

"Maybe, then"—  a shrewd gleam flashed into McConnell's heavy-lidded eyes— "you can tell where the girl is?"

"Maybe I could find out," rejoined the other significantly, "if— I was attached to the detective bureau."

"How?" Ramsdell wagged his head. "That is my secret, commissioner. But," he added, "I think I can deliver the goods. In fact, I am very well satisfied that I can clear up the mystery not only in regard to Miss Vorhees, but also with respect to the Poe Bible.

"You know," removing his glasses and showing a pair of pale, expressionless eyes, "Charlie, the messenger, told you I had a way of getting what I wanted."

"Humph!" sniffed McConnell. "I suppose there's no use asking how you persuaded that rascal to bring in your card, eh?"

"Well, I don't know." The other considered. "It must be in confidence, though. Promise me that you won't give Charlie the worst of it on my account."

"All right, then," as the commissioner gave somewhat eager assent. "It was simple enough. I happened to learn that Charlie was guilty of some technical violations of the rules, and gave him the choice between bringing in my card and having them reported."

"But how did you learn of these infractions of Charlie's? The men generally manage to keep those things pretty dark."

"Ah," said Ramsdell, with an apologetic smile, "believe me, I know quite a little about the inside workings of the police department. Just how I know, though, is another of my little secrets."

3: The Bargain

MCCONNELL, taken by surprise with the series of unexpected jolts given him by his visitor, had rather lost control of himself for the moment, but now he rapidly caught his faculties together. With a decided increase of respect in his manner toward the other, he passed over a box of long, black cigars to Ramsdell and selected one for himself.

"I think, Mr. Ramsdell," he said thoughtfully between puffs, "that maybe you and I can do some business. Just what is the nature of the proposition you want to make to me?"

"A sort of mutual benefit association, Mr. Commissioner," responded Ramsdell with a diffident smile. "You —as I understand it—are out to make a record for yourself in your new position, while I frankly confess that I am after nothing but money. There are big rewards offered constantly for the clearing up of crimes and mysteries, and, without being officially attached to the department, I want all such cases turned over to me, and the rewards paid into my hands on their satisfactory solution. In other words, you can take the glory and I will take the coin. Doesn't that strike you as a fair deal, in view of the fact that I guarantee you success in every instance?"

"You guarantee success?" Connell's tone was skeptical as a result of his long years of detective experience.

"I guarantee it positively; and that, moreover, within two weeks from the time each case is taken up."

McConnell was fain to question the grounds for such absolute self-confidence, but, realizing that he would simply be told this was another "little secret," held his peace. In the face of the disclosures made to him concerning the Poe and Vorhees matters, he was hardly in a position to scoff at any of Ramsdell's statements, no matter how staggering they might appear.

"Still," he submitted cautiously, "you must yourself agree, young man, that it's a rather dangerous proceeding to make an outsider free of all the inside information held by the police department. Before we close any bargain I guess I'll have to know a little more about you."

"Sure," assented Ramsdell cheerfully; "although I'm afraid there isn't much to tell. I am twenty-six years old, and was born at Tenallytown, Maryland. After leaving school I taught for a year in the Deaf-Mute Institute at Washington, and then, coming on to New York, took a degree in the natural sciences at Columbia, and since completing that have been doing post-graduate work along the same line with the idea of becoming an instructor. In the mean time I support myself by tutoring backward students."

"So, that's your biography, eh?" McConnell smiled in spite of himself. "Hardly what one would call preparation for being a detective, is it? But excuse me a minute; there is an order I have forgotten to send out," punching a button on his desk for the messenger, as he hurriedly scribbled a line or two on a sheet, of paper and slipped it into an envelope.

Then, with this despatched, the commissioner turned again to the business of questioning Ramsdell and drawing the latter out in regard to every point of his career.

A half or three-quarters of an hour later an answer was delivered to the "order" McConnell had sent out; for that, as may have been surmised, was merely a request to have Ramsdell looked up.

The commissioner glanced through it; then, with a slight frown, crumpled the slip up in his hands and tossed it into the waste-basket. It corroborated in every particular the statements the young man had made in regard to himself.

"Found what I told you just about straight, didn't you?" commented Ramsdell dryly. McConnell flushed a little. Really, it was almost uncanny the way this fellow called the turn on him.

"Whatever I've found," he responded a bit tartly, "it's nothing that proves you in any way fitted to be a detective."

"Would you judge a horse by performance or pedigree?" returned tfie other quietly. "Come, come, commissioner, I think I've shown you enough to warrant you in giving me a chance. Let me have a try at this Poe Bible business, anyhow, and see if I don't make good."

The commissioner hesitated, then not altogether graciously yielded assent.

"Two of the most experienced men from the bureau, Brady and Schmitz, are up there now, looking over the ground," he said. "I'll phone up and tell them to let you into the library and give you every facility in getting at the facts."

And, true to his word, he did so as soon as his new assistant was started on his way.

But he also sent a supplementary message of which he had not spoken to Ramsdell. "Keep your eye on that duck," he warned the detectives, "and try to find out if possible what he is up to. Don't let his looks deceive you. He is, unless I'm greatly mistaken, the most dangerous crook I've ever run up against."

4: Going Over the Ground

THE LIBRARY of Darius Poe, the millionaire book-lover and collector, was a massive structure erected in the rear of his square, old-fashioned house on one of the fashionable avenues. Built of huge blocks of granite, it presented almost the appearance of a fortress, for it was entirely without windows— the lighting and ventilation being managed by a system of skylights and vent-holes in the roof—  while the only visible entrance was guarded by heavily barred and bolted doors of solid bronze.

True, there was another smaller door for Poe's private use, and connecting through a passageway with the residence, but that did not need to be taken into account, for the old gentleman always kept the keys to it in his own possession, even sleeping with them strung on a cord around his neck. Obsessed, too, with the fear that some one might break in and steal some of his gathered treasures, the owner had fitted the place with every sort of burglar alarm.

"By Jove!" murmured E. Bolingbroke Ramsdell, as Detectives Brady and Schmitz showed him these various features according to their instructions from the commissioner, "it doesn't look as though there were any way to break in here, short of a blast of dynamite!"

"Pshaw! This is nothing," returned Brady and Schmitz with one voice. "Wait till you get inside."

They did not speak without reason. Inside, where the long rows of rare and valuable books stood in shelves, and where, spread out in glass cases, were manuscripts and parchment palimpsests, many of them worth a king's ransom, stood a ponderous steel safe, walled up with granite, bedded in concrete, and protected by a powerful electric current.

"If anybody who didn't know the combination had laid a hand on that contraption, he'd have been dead before he knew what hit him," explained Brady. "Yet the Bible was taken from inside it."

"Exactly. And that, too, without any drilling or blowing, and what's more, without the slightest sign to show how the thief got into the building. The doors were locked and bolted, the skylights fastened down, the alarms all in good working order, not a crack or grating open through which so much as a mouse could have wriggled."

"Perhaps old Mr. Poe may have turned the trick himself?" suggested Ramsdell.

"One of them sleep-walking stunts you mean, eh?" queried Brady. "No; we investigated that lead and made nothing of it. His valet, who sleeps in the same room on account of the old chap's having heart disease, and who is accustomed to waking at his slightest move, says he didn't make a stir from the time he turned in.

"Besides, there is the letter," Brady added. "Sure, a man would never have written anything like that and left it for himself."

"True, there is the letter," assented Ramsdell, as though he had just recalled its existence. "A rather unusual feature that, don't you think, Mr. Brady?"

"Unusual! I call it the most colossal piece of nerve I ever ran across. Why, just think of it! This guy tells the old man that in order to get his book back, he's got to put the $25,000, of all places in the world, right in this very safe that's just been robbed. Looks like he didn't take much stock in all the bolts, and bars, and burglar alarms that's around here, doesn't it? According to that, the fellow feels free to walk in and out of here whenever he pleases, and he isn't bothering about any steps that may be taken to stop him.

"That's what got old Poe so up in the air, you understand," he went on. "He'd give up the $25,000 in a minute to get the book back, if that would end the matter; but he can't help seeing that he's at this chap's mercy, and can be bled again and again, so long as there's anything in here worth stealing. In short, his only hope is to get Mr. Thief behind the bars.

"And," Brady concluded with a significant shrug of the shoulders, "there isn't exactly what you might call a healthy chance of that."

"Why not?" questioned Ramsdell with his blandest, most vacuous expression. "Surely, two such experienced men as you, have hit upon some sort of working theory?"

They shook their heads. "Nothing to it," growled Schmitz: "Every way you turn, you run up against a blank wall."

"Well," said the Columbia student modestly, "I, of course, am only an amateur, but one or two things seem reasonably plain to me. The person who stole the Wickliffe Bible knew the ins and outs of the place as well as Poe himself, and furthermore did not jimmy or force his way in after any cracksman fashion. He came through the door either with the old man's keys or some duplicate of them. Therefore, the scope of inquiry must be limited to a very few persons."

He paused for comment or objection, but as neither of the detectives made any reply, decided that he must have hit upon their own line of reasoning.

"We have already eliminated old man Poe from consideration," he went on.

"How, then, about the valet?"

But Brady promptly negatived this suggestion. "Clean bill of health," he returned. "Been with Poe for twenty years and shown himself absolutely trustworthy in every respect. Besides, it was a case of dog eat dog. If the old man couldn't stir without the valet hearing him, neither could the valet stir without the old man being hep. Both of them slept like cats, with one eye open."

"What about other members of the household?" probed Ramsdell.

"There is only a cook and extra maid— Poe has no family or relatives, you see— and there is absolutely no ground for suspicion against either of them. "Neither"— he anticipated the next inquiry— "were there any friends or associates who might have betrayed the old fellow's confidence. He comes about as near being a recluse as any one you ever heard of."

"In short, then," observed Ramsdell quietly, "the possibilities sift down practically to the librarian, eh?"

Both Brady and Schmitz gave a start of surprise. "Who said anything about a librarian?" they demanded.

"Nobody, which is a little strange in view of the commissioner's instructions that I should be given all the facts. It leads me to believe that the librarian is the one you have picked for ' it.'"

The two detectives flushed guiltily under the accusing stare of the other's spectacles, but said nothing.

"Who is the girl, anyhow?"

Brady shot a quick, suspicious glance at him. "How do you know the librarian is a girl at all?"

The amateur stepped over to a small desk beside the card-catalogue case and picked up a little vase holding a carnation, a popular novel, and a wisp of cambric handkerchief.

"Does that look like a man?" he asked derisively. "Now," he continued, "what's the evidence against her?"

"Nothing," muttered Brady sulkily. "She's got a perfect alibi."

Ramsdell smiled a shade cynically.

"Come across with what you've got," he said. "Remember. McConnell promised I should have the entire dope sheet."

"Really, there is nothing against her," insisted Brady. "As I tell you, she can account for every minute of her time last night."

"Why do you suspect her, then?"

"Well," disclosed Brady reluctantly, "on the general principle that her alibi is just a shade too good. Then, too, her references are a bit open to question."

"Her references?"

"Yes. You see, old man Poe took her on without looking them up, and now it is impossible to do so."

"Why?"

"Because she gave as her last employer, Miss Ethel Vorhees of Riverside Drive, and Miss Vorhees has—" He halted in confusion, realizing that he was on the edge of revealing a department secret.

"Miss Vorhees has disappeared," Ramsdell finished the sentence for him. "Ah, I begin to understand. But surely Miss Vorhees's family can settle the point?"

"That's just the rub. They say they never before heard of this librarian— she gives the name of Sylvia Felix— and deny that Miss Vorhees ever had a private secretary; yet they have to admit that the recommendation was either signed by Miss Vorhees, or else is a wonderfully clever forgery."

"What does the girl say about it?"

"Oh, she claims that the work she did for Miss Vorhees was of a private character— just what she refuses to tell — and was done at her boarding-house. It is only fair to say, too, that her landlady speaks of her having almost daily visits from a young lady closely answering Miss Vorhees's description."

"So?" Ramsdell reflectively stroked his chin. "And how about the previous record of this— Miss Felix?"

"Good, so far as we can trace it. She came from some little town down in Maryland about six months ago, with a letter to Miss Vorhees from a mutual friend in Baltimore, and she claims her only employment since her arrival in New York has been with Miss Vorhees and here."

"Not exactly the training for so bold a job as this," smiled Ramsdell. "Still one can never tell. And now, if you don't mind, I think I should like to go over the place once more alone. There may be a point or two I failed to pick up on my first inspection."

"Go as far as you like," assented Brady carelessly, and, apparently leaving him free to his own devices, drew Schmitz aside for an earnest colloquy.

Both detectives, however, mindful of their chief's warning, took careful note of the stranger's every movement.

"Bet you what you dare," muttered Brady under his breath, "that 'four-eyes ' yonder is the crook all right. This play of his is only a stall to give him the chance to pick up some clue he has overlooked or forgotten."

"Watch him!" Schmitz grabbed his companion by the arm. "What's he up to there? He acts like a pointer dog flushing a bunch of quail."

The simile was not a bad one. Ramsdell, pausing abruptly in his tour of the library, stood like a statue, his head thrust forward, staring as if fascinated toward the opposite wall. Then suddenly he turned, and dashed at full speed down the length of the room, and out at the entrance toward the street.

"After him!" yelled Brady. "Don't let him get away. He's got what he came after!"

At the corner of the avenue they overhauled the fellow and brought him down in a struggling heap.

"Let me up, you fools!" he panted. "Don't you see I've got to send in an alarm for that fire?"

"What fire?" demanded Brady.

"Why, in that house down the street, No. 86, opposite the library,"

5: The Freak Of A Madman

INVOLUNTARILY Brady and Schmitz turned to look in the direction indicated, and with a jerk Ramsdell broke loose from them and, springing to the fire-alarm box, sent in the signal.

Hardly had he done so, though, before the two brawny detectives had him once more firmly gripped on either side.

"You can't hand us any such steer as that, young fellow," mocked Brady. "I give you credit for trying to work a pretty smooth scheme, all right; but it don't go this time."

"What do you mean?" protested Ramsdell, struggling vigorously. "I'm trying to work no scheme. Come on down to 86, you boneheads, and let us see what we can do to put out the blaze."

Brady and Schmitz only laughed and took a tighter hold on his collar.

"Blaze?" they jeered. "You'll have to show us. Why, there isn't even a sniff of smoke in the air. No, no, son; you thought maybe that you could stir up a rumpus here and slip away in the excitement, but we're too old to fall for a game of that sort. What you'll do is march down to headquarters and offer a few explanations."

"You'd arrest me, eh? On what sort of a charge, I'd like to know?"

"What it'll be later I'm not prepared to say," grinned Brady. "But just now all we need is your sending in a false alarm."

"A false alarm!" cried Ramsdell hotly. "Oh, you idiot! You'll see how much of a false alarm it is unless you do something mighty quick. I tell you I saw the blaze starting with my own eyes. That's what made me sprint out of the library so fast."

Brady could only stare at him.

"Are you crazy?" he demanded. "Or what kind of a play are you trying to pull off? Saw something from the library, eh? With not a window in the place, and a granite wall three feet thick between you and the street? Why, you gook, if this spiel is on the level, the place for you is in the funnyhouse !"

While they were arguing, the clang of approaching fire-engines had been sounding in all directions, for an alarm from such an important neighborhood drew all the apparatus in that section of the city; and now the first of the companies to arrive dashed up to the scene and halted. "Where is it?" sharply questioned a helmeted captain, while his men, springing from their places on the truck, began hurriedly unpacking ladders and coupling up the hose. "Down at No. 86!" shrilled back Ramsdell before the detectives could interpose. "It's a fire on the third floor!"

"Shut up, you!" Brady clapped a silencing hand over his mouth. Then he turned to the fireman.

"Don't bother to unreel your hose there, cap," he directed, throwing back the lapel of his coat to show his badge. "It's only a fluke this guy sent in before we could stop him. Whether he's a bug or not I can't quite say yet; but we're going to find out pretty shortly."

To the battalion chief who came whirling up a minute later he repeated the same statement; and the latter promptly got busy in despatching the different engines back to their quarters. Just at this instant, though, the prisoner, managing to break loose from his captors, threw out an arm to point excitedly down the street.

"Look!" he cried. "Was I right about the fire or not?" Following involuntarily with their gaze the direction of his outflung hand, the little group about him started back with varying expressions of surprise and consternation. From the eaves of No. 86, an oldfashioned brown-stone boarding-house down the cross street opposite the granite library, shone a dull red glow, and even as they looked thin clouds of smoke began curling up all along the cornice.

"By Jove! it's a fire, all right," exclaimed the battalion chief; "and, what's more, it bids fair to be a nasty one!

"You big boob!" He turned fiercely on Brady. "What did you mean by telling me there was nothing doing?"

It was not a moment, however, as he fully realized, to waste breath or time in recrimination. There was work to be done, and done in a hurry, too; for already the red glow had increased to a menacing glare; and before the battalion chief could recall the apparatus he had started away, flames were shooting from the upper windows.

The scene, shortly before so quiet, was quickly transformed into one of feverish activity. Above the staccato roar of the engines could be heard the hoarse bawling of orders as the fire captains, trumpets to lips, led on their men to the assault. Across the street stretched lengths of hose like great, writhing serpents, and the hiss of the water as it met the blaze was intermingled with the din of the axes chopping a way to better points of vantage.

The police reserves came up on a run to stretch their lines and hold back the curious crowds. Driven out by the advancing flames, the boarders at No. 86, and at the adjoining houses along the block, came hurrying down the steps, clutching to their breasts or dragging behind them clumsy bundles of such of their belongings as in their haste and panic they had elected to save.

Ramsdell, meantime, forgotten by everybody in the confusion, stood close to the battalion chief, watching the progress of the conflagration. So engrossed was he with the spectacle, indeed, that, removing his peculiar, heavy-lensed glasses in order to polish them, he quite neglected to restore them to his nose, but continued to rub them absently, while he squinted at the fire with his colorless, nearsighted eyes.

He was brought abruptly out of his preoccupation, however, by a none too gentle push on the shoulder as an alert figure in business clothes and a slouchhat, who had come racing up in a big red car, forced his way through the crowd to the side of the battalion chief. It was the famous head of the department — probably the greatest firefighter in history. One experienced glance he cast at the burning building, then issued terse directions to his subordinate.

"Let No. 86 go," he said. "There's no chance of saving it, and everybody's out by this time, I suppose; so center all your work on Nos. 84 and 88."

The battalion chief was just about to turn to give the requisite orders when E. Bolingbroke Ramsdell, who had readjusted his glasses, sprang forward.

"No! No!" he interposed frenziedly. "You mustn't stop on 86 yet! There's a woman still inside who has got to be saved!"

"A woman?" Both the fire officials turned on him peremptorily. "Where is she?"

"In an inside room on the top floor. She is hemmed in both back and front by the flames, and there is no way for her to get to the roof!"

"I don't believe it!" blurted out the battalion chief. "The landlady herself told me that all her boarders were out of the house and accounted for."

"But she is wrong, I tell you!" insisted Ramsdell passionately. "Great Jehoshaphat! Can't I see the poor girl for myself, and the awful plight she is in?"

"See her?" The battalion chief's gaze searched the impenetrable wall of flame and smoke which swept the front of the top story.

"Nutty," he muttered to his superior in a rapid aside. Then, raising his trumpet, he began bellowing out directions calling back his men from the doomed No. 86.

Under his arm, quick as a flash, darted Ramsdell, and, evading a dozen hands stretched out to stop him, dashed up the stoop and into the open doorway of No. 84. The next the watchers below saw of him he was on the roof of the building, an ax in his hand snatched on his way up from an unsuspecting fireman, his unimpressive form outlined against the red light. He did not hesitate a second, but, hurling himself across the roof, vaulted the coping, and was lost to view in the murk of smoke and fire above No. 86.

Though he was invisible, the watchers could plainly hear the blows of his ax as he chopped away at the burning roof.

"A lunatic, eh?" snapped the department head, clapping his hand down on the shoulder of the battalion chief. "Well, even so, we can't let him commit suicide. What are you about there, man? Get those two lines on 88 and the three on 84, playing across so as to make a water-curtain. Then send a couple of fellows in to grab him and drag him back.

"For Heaven's sake, don't be all day about it, though," he carped. "First thing we know that roof will go down on us, and then it will be good-by to any hope of saving the fellow."

Then, nervously chewing the stump of cigar between his teeth, he watched impatiently while the maneuver he had counseled was effected. It seemed to him as though he had never seen men slower at obeying an order; but at last the streams were playing, and a water-curtain formed before which the greedy flames hung back.

"Quick now!" he urged. "Get your men in there while they have a chance!" The two picked as rescuers plunged into the narrow oasis of safety formed by the thin walls of water in the midst of that raging Hades. Some one megaphoned down from the adjoining roof that they had descended into the hole chopped by the crazy man.

Then for a space followed a period of tense waiting.

Cra-ack! An ominous sound broke upon the ears of the officers in the street, the significance of which was only too well known to both of them. The roof was about to give way. The battalion chief's face went white, and he cursed softly under his breath.

"Two of the best men in my command !" he railed bitterly. "And sacrificed for the sake of a dope like that!"

"No, no! They are not sacrificed!" cried his superior, for he had caught the meaning of an excited movement among the men on the surrounding roofs. "They are not sacrificed! They—"

He paused, his heart leaping into his throat as a louder, more menacing crack sounded, followed by a thunderous roar. Into the seething furnace below went the entire roof of No. 86, carrying with it a great section of the front wall, and up from the havoc soared a pillar of sparks and flame visible for miles.

For a moment the intense glare blinded the eyes of those looking on; then, as the first fierce light died down under the onslaught of a flood of water, the crowd on the opposite sidewalk raised a tumultuous cheer.

Through the drifting clouds of smoke the firemen on the roof of No. 84 could be seen carrying back from the heat and supporting to the scuttle the figures of the exhausted comrades. The battalion chief and his companion hurried anxiously forward to the stoop to meet the little party. Could it be possible that all had been saved— the crazy man and his two rescuers as well? They had not long to wait for the assurance.

Out of the doorway emerged first, drenched and singed—  but with his eye-glasses gleaming triumphantly— E. Bolingbroke Ramsdell; second, the two "smoke-eaters" who had gone so heroically to his assistance; and then— the incredulous officials were hardly able to believe their own eyes — the figure of a young woman.

The battalion chief staggered under the force of a tremendous thump on the back.

"Who's loony now?" The head of the department shouted in the exuberance of his relief arid amazement. "Who's loony now?"

6: Wizard or Crook?

THE FOLLOWING morning Ramsdell, a trifle shy in the matter of eyebrows, and with various points of his anatomy more or less bandaged, rode down from his modest lodgings on Morningside Heights in a big red automobile. It was the police commissioner's own private car which had been sent up to convey him to headquarters, and when he arrived at the great gray building he found no difficulty this time in securing an audience with its presiding genius. Indeed, McConnell was eagerly awaiting him, and lost no time in pressing on him the box of big, black cigars.

The student, however, despite the flattering cordiality of his reception, was just as diffident and deprecatory as ever. He seemed in no-wise changed by the rather startling series of events through which he had passed the evening before.

McConnell studied him with a puzzled expression as he sat there awkwardly on one corner of his chair, his round, moonlike face as bland as a baby's, his eyes concealed behind the heavy convex glasses. Finally the commissioner broke into a laugh.

"I pass," he said. "It's up to you, Ramsdell, to explain whether you are a wizard or a crook. The facts in the case will bear out either theory."

"I don't know what you mean," said Ramsdell a trifle uneasily.

"All right, then; let's run over the points. The fire at No. 86 last night broke out, as we have now learned, in an inside room on the third floor, catching from the too close proximity of a gas-jet to a piece of flimsy drapery. It spread thence to the story above, and out toward the front of the house,-'but at the time it began, and for some time afterward, it could not possibly have been discerned from the street.

"Yet you, over in the library where there was no possible outlook, discovered the blaze before even the people in the house were aware of it, and rushed madly out to give the alarm.

"Not only that," continued McConnell, "but later you made the surprising discovery that a woman was still in the burning house, and succeeded in effecting her rescue, although everybody else was willing to swear that no living soul remained in the building. Certainly none of the other spectators of the fire dreamed it for an instant."

"Yes," assented Ramsdell quietly, "those are undoubtedly the facts. Now, what are your deductions?"

"Well"— the commissioner paused to light a fresh cigar—"most people would call it magic, and give you credit for all sorts of occult powers. I think that's about the way the fire department—  from top to bottom—  has got you sized up. But over here on Centre Street we're pretty much from Missouri. We've seen so many wonderworkers come and go, and most of them, we remember, ended up with a little trip to Sing Sing."

"You think, then, that what I did last night was a set-up job?"

"I don't say so. I merely suggest that it might have been. Your discovery of the fire, for instance, could easily have been managed, if it had been prearranged that at a certain definite time some one was to slip into that inside room at the boarding-house, and shove the gas-jet into the drapery."

"True," assented Ramsdell with a touch of sarcasm; "and I suppose you think it could have been equally prearranged that the young lady was to remain quietly in that Gehenna, so that I could spring another coup by rescuing her?"

"That might have been an oversight," retorted McConnell. "Perhaps you delayed a trifle longer than you intended?"

"And the motive for all this?"

"Ah, the motive!" McConnell frowned. "There, you've got me. Still any one who has had extensive dealings with criminals knows that an adequate motive is often the hardest thing to find."

The student considered the proposition thoughtfully, as though it were an abstract question, in no way affecting him; then he slowly shook his head.

"Too far-fetched a theory, commissioner," he announced. "It would argue that the young woman and I must have been confederates."

"And why not?" questioned McConnell. "You were at least old acquaintances."

"Old acquaintances?" The quick surprise of Ramsdell's protest was an admirable piece of acting if feigned. "Why, I never saw the girl before in all my life."

"You did not recognize her then last night?"

"Certainly not."

"Nor learn her name?"

"Up in the fire was hardly a place to wait for introductions," observed Ramsdell dryly; "and afterward they hustled me off to the hospital so quick that I had no opportunity of seeing her."

"Yet one would have expected you to know each other, since she is an old fellow townswoman of yours."

"An old fellow towswoman?"

"Yes; from Tenallytown, Maryland. She is Sylvia Felix, Mr. Poe's librarian."

"So?" The information did not appear especially to interest him. "We have both probably changed a good deal since I saw her last. I have not been to Tenallytown in several years."

The commissioner fell silent for a space, meditatively puffing at his cigar.

"Don't you think it a little strange," he queried at length, "that you should not have taken the trouble even to inquire the name of the girl whose life you had saved, or ask any questions in regard to her?"

"Oh, I don't know," rejoined Ramsdell carelessly. "I could see that she hadn't sustained any damage to speak of, so what was the use of asking about her? Some fellows would have followed up the affair, I suppose; but then I'm not what would be called a lady's man.

"I think, Mr. Commissioner," he concluded, "you'll have a hard time trying to trace up any connection between me and that young woman, or any other young woman."

"You absolutely repudiate the suggestion then," queried McConnell with his teasing smile, "that your remarkable performance of last night was the clever trickery of a crook?"

Ramsdell merely looked his contempt.

"The theory hasn't a leg to stand on," he said.

"You set up as a wizard, eh?"

"No, I am simply an unofficial attache of the police department."

"And what explanation has the unofficial attache of the police department to offer for the mystery?"

"None."

"That is another of his little secrets, I suppose?"

Ramsdell nodded. "And now, Mr. Commissioner," he said, rising, "if you've nothing further to ask me, I guess I'd better be getting down to business. Do you still want me to work on the Poe case?"

"Why not? You haven't cleared it up yet, have you?"

"No; but if Brady's theory is correct, and Miss Felix stole the Wickliffe Bible, it would be a waste of time to search further for the book. It must have been destroyed with the rest of her belongings in last night's fire."

"What do you think?"

"Well, with all due respect to Brady, I believe I had better continue my investigations."

McConnell did not seem dissatisfied with the decision. "It's your problem," he said. "Handle it any way you choose."

After the other had gone, though, he sat for a long while pondering with his chin in his hand.

Wizard or crook?" he mused. "I'll take my oath he's a crook; but what the game is, or what he's up to, I'm blessed if I can make out."

7: On A New Tack

RAMSDELL had scoffed at Brady's theory that Miss Felix was the thief of the Wickliffe Bible. He had betrayed not the slightest interest in her during his talk with the commissioner. Yet, strangely enough, the one idea in his head when he left the police department was to see and obtain speech with her. Realizing that he would almost inevitably be shadowed on leaving the commissioner's office, he circled around half a dozen blocks or so, hopped on and off surface cars, Subway, and Elevated trains, and dived in and out of officebuildings, until after about half an hour of this sort of thing he was satisfied that he had shaken off any possible pursuit.

Then he directed his steps toward the block where the fire had occurred the night before.

No. 86 was, of course, a mere heap of smoldering ruins, and he had no idea to what new address the young woman had betaken herself, having feared to ask the commissioner, lest he should betray his intentions. But, since the street along here was a row of boardinghouses, he had a pretty shrewd suspicion that she had not moved far from her former location.

Even that, however, most people would not have considered much of a clue. He could not very well go along from door to door, ringing bells, and inquiring for the object of his search without soon having police headquarters acquainted with his actions. Besides, such a task bade fair to be endless.

Ramsdell appeared not a whit perturbed, though, at the difficulties in his path. Slowly he strolled down the side of the block opposite the burned No. 86, past the long, granite stretch of the library, and back again, peering at the numbers across the way.

Finally, with every air of confidence, he crossed the street to No. 92, mounted the stoop, and rang the bell. Then, when the maid appeared in response, he boldly presented his card, and asked to see Miss Felix.

The result showed that he had made no mistake. The maid, although she gazed at him in haughty rebuff, did not deny the presence of the young lady in the house.

"Are you another of them reporters?" she inquired loftily. "Well, Miss Felix is lying down, and said she wasn't to be disturbed for nobody."

Deftly Ramsdell interposed his foot so as to prevent the door being shut in his face.

"I think Miss Felix will possibly make an exception of me," he said pleasantly. "Tell her it is not a newspaperman, but the gentleman who was able to be of service to her at last night's fire."

Instantly the girl's manner changed. The papers that morning had made a good deal of Ramsdell's feat, and her opportunities had been few for beholding a real hero, and speaking to him face to face.

"Oh, sir!" She flung wide the door with trembling eagerness. "Excuse me, sir. I'm sure Miss Felix will see you. Walk right into the parlor, sir, and I'll run up and tell her you are here."

The prediction proved to be correct, for almost immediately the heroine of the previous night's adventure came fluttering down the stairs.

"Mr. Ramsdell?" she questioned, a trifle uncertainly, for like most boarding-house parlors the room was dark.

Then, as he bowed, she came quickly forward, and clasped him by the hand.

"I don't know how I can ever thank you, Mr. Ramsdell, for—"

"Don't try," he interrupted. "In fact, I'd much rather you wouldn't; for to tell the truth, I have gained this interview with you under somewhat false pretenses."

She stiffened perceptibly. "You mean that you are not—"

"No, no!" He waved his hand as if to dispel her doubts. "I am the man who was fortunately able to be of some assistance in your predicament."

"Of course you are," she hastened to interpose. "Forgive me if I wavered for a moment in my recognition; but there was so much confusion last night, and so many people crowding about, that surely I am not to be blamed. Besides, you must admit that you spoke rather peculiarly just now. What did you mean by saying that you were here under false pretenses, Mr. Ramsdell?"

"Well, you would naturally regard this as a social visit, wouldn't you—a friendly call to inquire after your health and exchange the usual amenities over our recent experience? It doesn't happen, however, to be anything of the kind. I am here as an emissary of the police."

"An emissary of the police!"

Unless he was greatly mistaken a quick light of apprehension flashed into the girl's eye, and she had to bite her lips to restrain a sudden gasp of dismay.

"Yes," he said ; "I am working on the Poe Bible case."

Her relief was apparent. "Oh!" she murmured. "That? Why, I have already told the detectives all I know, Mr. Ramsdell; but if it will help you in any way I shall be glad to go over the points again."

"Thank you," he rejoined. "That is just exactly what I do want. It is always more satisfactory to get one's evidence at first hand."

Accordingly, she obligingly rehearsed for his benefit the details he had already gathered from Brady relative to her employment by old Poe, together with such knowledge as she possessed concerning the purchase of the Wickliffe Bible, and its subsequent disappearance.

"Now, let's get this absolutely straight," he said, when she had finished. "You say, that on the night of the theft, you remained at the library with Mr. Poe until he closed up the place and took his departure?"

"Yes; he asked me to stay and finish up the cataloguing of a new lot of books which had just come in."

"You are sure that he put the Bible in the safe before he left?"

"Absolutely so; and also that he securely locked the safe. In fact, I am ready at any time to make oath regarding those two things."

"Then you went out of the library together, eh, and he locked the door behind you?"

Again she nodded acquiescence.

"And that is all you know, except that when you arrived the next morning you found the old man beside the open safe, bemoaning his loss of the Bible?"

"That is positively all, Mr. Ramsdell. I am sorry, for your sake, that it is not more—that is, if you hope to gain anything by the clearing up of this mystery."

"Oh, spare yourself any regrets on my account," he smiled; "I have got all that I expected."

"Then you are satisfied with the little I was able to tell you about the affair?"

"Oh, no." He shook his head. "Far from it."

She looked at him in puzzled fashion, as though not quite certain how to take his strange remark.

"How could you expect me to be satisfied"—he paused—"when I am received as a perfect stranger by my own cousin, Sylvia Felix, of Tenallytown?"

She reeled back and caught at the arm of a chair for support, her cheek grown white, her eyes wide with consternation.

"Your cousin?" she gasped.

8: With Masks Off!

FOR A MOMENT there was silence in the room. Then the girl lifted a face become suddenly drawn and haggard.

"You know," she faltered, "who l am?"

"I can guess," he answered. "True, you are wearing a wig, and you have done something— I don't know just what— to your eyebrows; but any man who had once seen your photograph ought to have been able to place you. Even Brady and Schmitz, slow as they are, ought to have—"

But she evidently was not listening.

"Oh, you are cruel, you are dastardly," she broke out, "to have tracked me down thus, and tricked me by playing on my sense of gratitude. No wonder that you said you came here under false pretenses.

"But you have not got me yet!" she exclaimed fiercely. "I will never go back, I tell you! There is surely an asylum somewhere for such an unhappy girl as I!"

As she spoke she sprang toward the door, and in another moment would have been out of the house and flying down the street.

But quick as she was, Ramsdell was quicker. When she reached the door, he was there ahead of her, with his back to it, in full control of the situation.

"Hold on, now," he counseled in his thin, schoolmaster voice. "Don't do anything rash. Before we go any farther, suppose you run up-stairs and ask Cousin Sylvia just what sort of a fellow I am. She will tell you whether or not I am the cad and cur you so evidently believe me."

The girl flashed him a quick look of startled surprise.

"Your Cousin Sylvia? She is not here," she attempted to deny.

"Come, come," he scoffed; "no fibbing. You and I both know that at this minute she is sitting up in your second-floor hall-bedroom."

She hesitated a second or two longer; then overcome by feminine curiosity, admitted that he was right. "But how did you ever guess it?" she demanded. "Are you Mephistopheles himself, that you know everything? Why, Sylvia only came to town a half-hour ago in response to an urgent telephone call from me, and she was so disguised that I, myself, wouldn't have recognized her if I had not been expecting her."

Ramsdell, however, parried her eager questions.

"It doesn't matter so much how I know that she is here," he said, "as that I do know it. And since the most important thing now is to look out for your interests, I suggest that instead of wasting time in talk, you run up and bring her down, so that we can all three discuss the situation intelligently.

"You may not know it, my dear young lady," he added, speaking more gravely, "but you are in rather serious danger."

"In serious danger?" The color which had partially returned to her cheek fled once more. "You mean that some one besides yourself knows of my whereabouts?"

"No, that is not it. I did not intend to tell you when I came here, but I have decided now it is better that you should be warned. The truth is that you are apt to be arrested at almost any time."

"Apt to be arrested?" She stared at him. "For what, pray?"

"On a charge of stealing old man Poe's $75,000 Bible."

"But that is absurd." she protested. "Why, there's not a grain of evidence against me."

"That don't make any difference. The theory of the detectives is that you are the one person open to suspicion, and they may take a chance on arresting you in the hope of forcing a confession. In fact, I have an idea they would have done so before this, if I hadn't happened along and confused them by crossing the trail. Now, they are uncertain whether the real culprit is you or I; but the danger still remains from the fact that McConnell has got an idea in his head we may be confederates, and he might order the arrest of both of us."

"But I can't be arrested," cried the girl desperately... "It would spoil everything."

"Of course it would," he assented; "and it is just to avoid such a catastrophe that I want to discuss things now with you and Cousin Sylvia. So run up and get her, and let us waste no more time in getting down to business." Accepting him now with implicit confidence, she hurried off, and a few moments later returned accompanied by a funny figure of a little old lady shrouded in a cavernous bonnet and a shawl; but who, on putting back her long crape veil, revealed the rather youthful features of Cousin Sylvia.

"Why, 'Broke Ramsdell!" she exclaimed as she caught sight of her relative. "The idea of you setting up as a detective!"

Then she fluttered across the room to bestow on him an affectionate kiss.

"You see," said Ramsdell, with a glance over her shoulder toward the other girl. "That is what I meant when I said you didn't accord me the sort of a welcome I was accustomed to expect from Cousin Sylvia."

And he didn't even have the grace to blush, although the red dyed the girl's face from brow to chin.

Verily, Ramsdell was progressing fast for one who had so shortly before disavowed to McConnell that he was a lady's man.

9: "Why Girls Leave Home"

AT NO TIME in all his twenty-six years of life could E. Bolingbroke Ramsdell have been described as a very susceptible person; yet it is certain that now as he saw that embarrassed blush dye the face of the fair charmer across the room, he was seized with a sudden peculiar palpitation of the heart, while an unfamiliar tremor coursed through his veins like an electric flash.

Comparing her looks, too, with those of his not uncomely Cousin Sylvia, he was struck with contempt for the subterfuge which had endeavored to pass off one for the other. As well expect a goddess to fill the role of mere mortality. Any one with half an eye ought to have recognized that this divine creature was not a product of Tenallytown, Maryland. However, being by nature of a rather practical turn, he did not permit these mental rhapsodies to interfere with the actual business in hand.

Hurriedly placing three chairs in convenient juxtaposition, and motioning the ladies to be seated, he began.

"Now," Miss Vorhees—" he started, only to be silenced by an imperative "S-h! S-h!" from his companions.

"For Heaven's sake, don't use that name!" cried the owner of it nervously. "In a place like this, where the servants, not to speak of the other boarders, are eavesdropping constantly, one cannot be too careful."

"Oh, there isn't the slightest danger," he assured them, glancing around meditatively. "The maid who let me in is cleaning up a room on the top floor. Another maid is tidying up the dining-room. The cook and laundress are gossiping with the furnace man at the area door. The landlady is busy at her linen closet, and all the boarders who are not out of the house, are safe in their rooms."

The calm conviction of his statement impressed the two women in spite of themselves.

"How can you possibly know all that?" they demanded skeptically.

"Second sight," he informed them coolly. "It is an art in which I have made quite a little progress; and if we had time, I should ask you to see if my assertions were not absolutely correct. As it is, however, you will have to take my word for the situation; for time presses.

"So now, Miss Vorhees," reverting to his original inquiry— "let me have the facts, please, relative to your departure from home. The police merely know that you disappeared some three or four weeks ago without apparent cause, and have consequently been working on the theory of an abduction."

This was surely a straight enough question, but the girl was so diffident and reserved in her replies that it required several more interrogatories and a good deal of prompting from Miss Felix before the facts finally came to light.

Boiled down, however, and freed from all extraneous matter, the story appeared to be in its essential elements the old one of two parents trying to force their child into an uncongenial marriage.

There, was a young architect and builder named Glenn McKeon it seemed whom the father and mother had set their hearts upon as a son-in-law.

The daughter had resolutely protested against the match, and had sought in every way to flout and discourage the young man; but McKeon was a persistent suitor, and despite her struggles, she saw herself being steadily forced under the stress of parental influence toward the altar.

Then in her desperation the idea had struck her that she might achieve independence by writing a novel. That was the secret of her association with Sylvia Felix, for, casting about to obtain a good typist and secretary, some one had recommended the Tenallytown girl, and their purely business relations at the start soon ripened into those of confidence and friendship.

For months the millionaire's daughter labored over her literary task, going secretly every day to Cousin Sylvia's humble lodgings to revise, and amend, and polish, what she had already written, until at last the novel was finished.

But, alas, the success on which its author had so glowingly bargained, failed to come. No publisher could be found even to consider it; their readers without a dissenting voice proclaimed it hopeless. There seemed nothing left for Ethel but to yield to her parents' desires and accept McKeon.

At this juncture, though, it happened that Miss Felix had the choice of two positions open to her, one as secretary to a gouty old widower up at New Rochelle, and the other as librarian to Darius Poe. Considerations of salary prompting her to take up with the out-of-town offer, the bright suggestion came that her friend might find surcease from her pressing difficulties, and possibly work out a solution to them by accepting in her place the job with the old book-lover.

No other cause existed for Ethel's leaving home, both girls averred, save McKeon alone. Except on this one point, her father and mother were indulgent to her every whim, and she was devotedly attached to them. Indeed, she confessed, that it had almost broken her heart not to be able to send them some message to relieve their anxiety. Yet she had feared to do so, lest it might lead in some way to her being taken back and forced to marry McKeon; and that was something, she tearfully protested, that she would not, could not, and should not do.

"McKeon? McKeon?" muttered Ramsdell thoughtfully, when the diffuse recital was finally ended. "Where have I heard that fellow's name, or seen some of his work?"

"You wouldn't have to look very far for the latter," broke in Miss Vorhees. "All you have to do is turn to the window behind you, for he built that ugly old library across the street."

"What?" Ramsdell sprang to his feet in excitement. "Are you sure? I was planning to go down to the building department this very afternoon to find out who had been responsible for it.

"What's more, Miss Vorhees"—a flush of elation spread over his usually expressionless face— "you needn't bother your head another moment over those troubles of yours. You are going to be safe back home inside of a couple of days, and it won't be to marry McKeon, either— not by a jugful. Take it from me, he will never annoy you again."

"What do you mean? How do you know?" demanded the two girls in chorus; and Sylvia added:

"Why Broke, are you crazy? What possible connection can there be between McKeon's having built the Poe library and his courtship of Ethel?"

He was about to answer, but halted abruptly, and with a quizzical smile, laid a warning finger to his lips.

"Hush!" he whispered. "The landlady is creeping up to listen at the keyhole; so it's no use to try talking any longer. To-morrow I will call, though, and report developments. In the meantime, watch me give Mrs. Polly Pry the surprise of her life."

As he finished speaking, he caught up his hat and made a sudden dash for the parlor door, flinging it open and bolting through it toward the front entrance so fast that the fat landlady, who had just taken up a convenient position outside, had no time to retreat, but was caught in flagrante delicto.

Never stopping to listen to her stammering excuses, Ramsdell passed on out at the door; but the incident had evidently distracted him from his usual keen vigilance, for he quite failed to notice a figure lurking on the next stoop who glanced up quickly at his exit. If he overlooked this one feature of the situation, however, there were not many things which escaped the observation of his spectacled vision.

As he was descending the boardinghouse stoop, a big blue touring car went whizzing past driven by a young man with a handsome, rather reckless face.

Ramsdell cast a careless glance toward it; then halted abruptly and stood staring after the automobile, almost statuelike in his absorption. Only a second did this inactivity last, though. The next instant he was down the steps, and racing at top speed toward a taxicab standing on the corner.

"Follow that automobile!" he panted to the chauffeur as he flung himself inside. "Don't let it get away at any hazard. See, it is turning the next corner now. You will have to make speed, or you will lose it sure!"

But the chase was destined never to be taken. A long arm was thrust into the cab just then, and, seizing Ramsdell by the collar, jerked him out to the sidewalk.

"Oh, no, you don't!" It was the voice of Detective Brady pitched to a key of triumph. "No getaway like that for yours, young fellow. You'll come down with me, and have a talk with the commissioner. He told me to shadow you; but, Lord, I never thought I'd have the luck to run you into a hole first dash out of the box."

"And what sort of a hole do you think you have run me into, Brady?" inquired Ramsdell politely. It was a peculiarity of his that anger always, induced in him a courtesy almost Chesterfieldian in its character.

"What sort of a hole?" sneered Brady. "Why, haven't I got the goods now to prove what the old man's been hinting at right along—that you and this Felix girl were in on the game together?"

Ramsdell laid his hand to his heart and bowed like a dancing master.

"Brady," he said, "I pay you my respects. You will pardon the inelegancy of my language, but you are the nearest approach to a hunk of cheese of any human being I know." Then, in spite of himself, he began to laugh at the very absurdity of the situation.

"Why, you big slob," he cried, "do you know what was in that automobile you prevented me from overtaking? No, of course you don't, and you never could guess; so I shall have to tell you. It was Darius Poe's seventy-five-thousand-dollar Bible!"

10:  The Crowning Tragedy

OF course the mere satisfaction of expressing his sentiments was all that Ramsdell got out of vituperating the detective. He had to go down to headquarters with Brady just the same, and on his arrival there he was put through one of McConnell's most grilling examinations.

The upshot of the whole matter was that he was accorded two more days of grace in which to make good. If he didn't turn in some information by that time which pointed to a solution of the Bible case, both he and the supposititious Miss Felix were to be arrested.

"But you haven't got anything against either of us," protested Ramsdell.

"Oh, yes, I have," grimly replied McConnell, that shrewd reader of men. "I can see that you're very anxious not to have this girl pinched, and it isn't altogether chivalry that's prompting you in the matter. There's something in the background there that you don't want to come out; so I have a very strong suspicion that if I get her down here and put her over the hurdles I shall have all I need against both of you.

"Nevertheless," he went on, "just to be a good sport, and because you've shown yourself such a nervy cuss, I am going to give you a chance to prove yourself on the level. Mind you, I don't think you are for a single minute, and I'm not going to loosen up the clamps too far; but it'll be a chance just the same. "You shall have two days to clear up this case you were so eager to take on; but naturally I intend to have you watched all the time, and if you try to make a sneak you will be nabbed at once. Then, when the two days are up, if you can't bring forward the guilty party, or give me a straight line on him, it's behind the bars for both you and the dame. Now, go to it."

Ramsdell nodded blithely and went out.

"Two days!" he thought to himself. Why, all he needed was two hours. He already had all the threads for a solution of the mystery in his hands. The only thing required was to draw them in.

And first, with Ethel Vorhees's difficulties more in mind than his own, he decided to look up Mr. Glenn McKeon.

The architect, he learned without much trouble, had an office on Twenty-Third Street, and bachelor-apartments in a Broadway hotel; but to his chagrin he discovered, on inquiry, that McKeon was not to be found at either place; and at the hotel the pleasing information was added that the young man had left town and expected to be gone for a week or'ten days. This seemed to put a pretty effectual check on the promise Ramsdell had made to Ethel, that she should return home within forty-eight hours; and he began to wonder if all his plans were to meet the same adverse fate. Certainly it shortly appeared as though such would be the case.

With infinite pains he tracked up the touring-car which had escaped him through Brady's interference; for he had been quick-witted enough to memorize its number as it whirled away from him. Finally he located it in a garage on Columbus Avenue, and wheedling the proprietor of the place into giving him a job, worked like a nailer for two solid hours cleaning the mud-spattered and dust-begrimed cars which came in.

At last, though, he got the chance to investigate the big touring-car, and, under pretense of cleaning it, ransacked it thoroughly from carbureter to cushions.

But it was only to make a water-haul. The Bible, if it had ever been there, was certainly not so any longer. So it was with every move he attempted. His most promising prospects came to naught; his best clues led him nowhere.

Hard luck persistently dogged his footsteps and failure grinned threateningly ahead. Still he gave no hint to Ethel of how ticklish their situation had become. He made excuse to see her several times in those two fateful days; but to her he spoke only in glittering generalities, and painted their situation in roseate colors.

And so at last the brief forty-eight hours allowed him rolled around, with nothing accomplished. On the same principle that a good meal is always given to a condemned man just before his execution, he had spent the closing evening of his scant shrift with Ethel; and now, with the time fully up, set forth about eleven o'clock to report himself to McConnell, determined to ask no mercy for himself, but to use every persuasive plea in his power on behalf of the girl.

As he came dowrn the steps of the boarding-house, however, and turned gloomily toward the corner to take a car for headquarters, he halted suddenly with that peculiar stiffening of the body which Brady had likened to the pointing of a dog. Another moment and he was hurrying to the nearest telephone-booth, where he demanded "1300 Spring" with such feverish intensity that the girls at Central were sure nothing less than a wholesale riot or murder was in progress.

In communication with police headquarters at last, he gave no one any peace until he gained the ear of the commissioner. To such good purpose did he talk, however, that a few moments later McConnell's automobile came dashing up, loaded down with a bunch of burly detectives.

"Now, what is it you say," demanded the commissioner, leaping out over the wheel before the machine came fully to a stop— "that you have the thief cornered in the library right now?"

Ramsdell nodded exultantly. "He's come back to make another haul in the effort to force the old man to a settlement," he said. "Right now he's at the safe, picking out the books he thinks will best serve his purpose."

McConnell gave an impatient toss of the head.

"Look here," he growled, "this is going a bit too far. You may know that the fellow is in there all right, and what his object is; but when you try to tell me what he is doing at any particular moment you are nothing more nor less than a liar."

"All right," laughed Ramsdell indifferently ; "have it your own way. Have it any old way, so long as you catch this scamp for me; only don't waste any more time in argument.

"I guess the best way to do," he counseled, "is for you to send about four of your men around to the front, and tell them to wake up Poe and make him take them into the library. Then you and the others will stand here."

"Oh, we stand here, do we?" questioned McConnell suspiciously. "What for, please?"

"Why, to catch him when he comes out." McConnell cast his eye along the grim, impregnable front of the building.

"To catch him when he comes out!" he repeated with disdain. "And where do you stand, young man?"

"Right here with you."

"All right, then, I'll do as you say. But I tell you to your face that I have no confidence in you, and that I think this is a stall; and I warn you that if I see the least indication of funny business on your part I'll jerk you down to headquarters so fast that it'll make your head swim."

Ramsdell made no answer. In fact, there was nothing to say. Results, not words, were what he must pin his faith to now; and for the results he could only wait and hope. So the little group stood there on the sidewalk, McConnell grumbling under his breath, the detectives yawning and supercilious, Ramsdell tense and taut as a coil of wire spring. The slow minutes passed so monotonously that the commissioner at last started to broach the sneering query if this was an all-night job; but just then the student gave a low hiss for silence, and, motioning energetically with his hand, waved fhe drawn-up forces to right and left. Dramatically he pointed with his finger as McConnell and his men beheld what seemed to them a veritable miracle; for slowly and noiselessly one of the great granite foundation blocks of the building began to revolve as on a pivot. Farther and farther it moved, wider and wider opened the aperture, until at last the crouching figure of a man sprang through, -and, straightening up, revealed the handsome, reckless face of the fellow Ramsdell had seen in the touring-car. McConnell recognized him also, and recoiled with a start.

"By all the powers," he exclaimed incredulously, "if it isn't Glenn McKeon!"

The trapped criminal noted this momentary stupefaction on the part of the commissioner, and took advantage of it. With a snarl of defiance he turned and sprang like a startled deer into full run, desperation lending him wings. But Ramsdell was not going to let him escape so easily as that, after all the suffering and annoyance he had caused Ethel.

Like a contest between a rabbit and a greyhound was the chase, but the shorter pair of legs won; and before the corner was reached Ramsdell had the satisfaction of clutching his lengthy opponent about the waist and bringing him to a halt.

McKeon turned and struck out viciously, but before more than one blow landed McConnell and his cohorts had come up, and the battle was over. That one blow had been enough, though.

"Did he hurt you?" asked McConnell, observing how rueful looked the hero of the occasion.

"No; his lick only grazed my temple. But"— Ramsdell pointed sadly to the shattered fragments of glass on the sidewalk— "he broke my spectacles."

"Broke your spectacles? Why, you speak as though it was a tragedy. You can get another pair, can't you?"

Ramsdell shook his head more lugubriously than ever.

"Not like this pair," he said.

11: His Little Secret

SELDOM had there been a more important arrest in the city, or one arousing more comment and sensation, than that of Glenn McKeon; for the most dangerous criminal is always the one of education and intelligence who prostitutes his talents and ability to base and sordid ends.

It was discovered on investigation that McKeon in the practise of his profession had arranged in many of the buildings constructed by him secret entrances similar to the one in the Poe library, the existence of which was known only to himself. The object was undoubtedly to permit him to enter and loot at will the establishments occupying these structures; and through his arrest many hitherto seemingly inexplicable burglaries were brought to light, and one or two innocent men released from prison.

"IT'S CERTAINLY been a big card for me," confessed McConnell one day about a month later when Ramsdell happened to be calling on him, "although I never have felt exactly right, about taking the credit which rightly belonged to you."

"I got the cash," laughed Ramsdell, "which was all I wanted. You're perfectly welcome, commissioner, to all the credit that's going."

"And you absolutely refuse to do any more work for the department?" urged McConnell. "I'll make it well worth your while."

But Ramsdell only shook his head.

"Couldn't think of it, commissioner. I only went into the thing to get money for scientific research, you know; and I am having all the research I want now since I have taken my new position with the Vorhees Optical Company."

He hesitated a second, and then indulged in a rare burst of confidence.

"Besides, commissioner," he went on, "I might as well tell you that I would no longer be worth my salt to you. My spectacles are broken."

"Your spectacles? What had your spectacles to do with your success as a detective?"

"Everything. You accused me jokingly of working magic once or twice, commissioner; but you were nearer the truth than you imagined. It was magic that I was working, scientific magic; for to those spectacles even the most solid substances were as transparent as glass. I could see into the interiors of buildings, down into the earth, right through a stone wall.

"You see," he elucidated, "by a peculiar property of the glass they refracted light far beyond the ordinary range of human vision, and so—"

But McConnell was not interested just then in the scientific explanation. "Great Heavens, man," he ejaculated, "you've got a wonderful thing in your hands there! Go right ahead and make some more of those spectacles."

"I can't."

"Can't?"

"No. The result was purely an accident which occurred in the course of another experiment. I don't know how it was obtained myself, and, as only enough of the glass was secured sufficient to make two small lenses, that single pair of spectacles was all that was ever made— perhaps all that ever will be made."

"And just to think," mused McConnell regretfully. "They were never used on but one case."

"No; on two," corrected Ramsdell. "They were also of big service in the Vorhees matter."

"Ah! So you were back of that girl's returning home, eh? I always suspected there was more to be told than the family gave out. Did you get a reward out of it?"

"No, I'm waiting for that. You see, commissioner. I'm hoping that some day I shall marry Miss Ethel."

After his visitor had gone the commissioner sat thinking.

"Well," he said, "that guy is certainly taking no prizes in a beauty show, and he isn't much bigger than a minute, and he's got a voice like a girl; but at that I'm betting he wins out. He sure has a way of getting what he wants."

_____________________

2: The Pipe

Richard Marsh

(Richard Bernard Heldmann, 1857-1915)

The Cornhill Magazine, March 1891

RANDOLPH CRESCENT, N.W.

My dear Pugh,— I hope you will like the pipe which I send with this. It is rather a curious example of a certain school of Indian carving. And is a present from

Yours truly, Joseph Tress.

It was really very handsome of Tress— very handsome! The more especially as I was aware that to give presents was not exactly in Tress's line. The truth is that when I saw what manner of pipe it was I was amazed. It was contained in a sandalwood box, which was itself illustrated with some remarkable specimens of carving. I use the word ' remarkable ' advisedly, because although the workmanship was undoubtedly, in its way, artistic, the result could not be described as beautiful. The carver had thought proper to ornament the box with some of the ugliest figures I remember to have seen. They appeared to me to be devils. Or perhaps, they were intended to represent deities appertaining to some mythological system with which, thank goodness, I am unacquainted. The pipe itself was worthy of the case in which it was contained. It was of meerschaum, with an amber mouthpiece. It was rather too large for ordinary smoking. But then, of course, one doesn't smoke a pipe like that. There are pipes in my collection which I should as soon think of smoking as I should of eating. Ask a china maniac to let you have afternoon tea out of his Old Chelsea, and you will learn some home truths as to the durability of human friendships. The glory of the pipe, as Tress had suggested, lay in its carving. Not that I claim that it was beautiful, any more than I make such a claim for the carving on the box, but, as Tress said in his note, it was curious.

The stem and the bowl were quite plain, but on the edge of the bowl was perched some kind of lizard. I told myself it was an octopus when I first saw it, but I have since had reason to believe that it was some almost unique member of the lizard tribe. The creature was represented as climbing over the edge of the bowl down towards the stem, and its legs, or feelers, or tentacula, or whatever the things are called, were, if I may use a vulgarism, sprawling about 'all over the place.' For instance, two or three of them were twined about the bowl, two or three of them were twisted round the stem, and one, a particularly horrible one, was uplifted in the air, so that if you put the pipe in your mouth the thing was pointing straight at your nose.

Not the least agreeable feature about the creature was that it was hideously lifelike. It appeared to have been carved in amber, but some colouring matter must have been introduced, for inside the amber the creature was of a peculiarly ghastly green. The more I examined the pipe the more amazed I was at Tress's generosity. He and I are rival collectors. I am not going to say, in so any words, that his collection of pipes contains nothing but rubbish, because, as a matter of fact, he has two or three rather decent specimens. But to compare his collection to mine would be absurd. Tress is conscious of this, and he resents it. He resents it to such an extent that he has been known at least on one occasion to declare that one single pipe of his— I believe he alluded to the Brummagem relic preposterously attributed to Sir Walter Raleigh— was worth the whole of my collection put together. Although I have forgiven this, as I hope I always shall forgive remarks made when envious passions get the better of our nobler nature, even of a Joseph Tress, it is not to be supposed that I have forgotten it. He was, therefore, not at all the sort of person from whom I expected to receive a present. And such a present! I do not believe that he himself had a finer pipe in his collection. And to have given it me! I had misjudged the man. I wondered where he had got it from. I had seen his pipes; I knew them off by heart— and some nice trumpery he has among them, too!— but I had never seen that pipe before. The more I looked at it, the more my amazement grew. The beast perched upon the edge of the bowl was so like life. Its two bead-like eyes seemed to gleam at me with positively human intelligence. The pipe fascinated me to such an extent that I actually resolved to— smoke it!

I filled it with Perique. Ordinarily I use Birdseye, but on those very rare occasions on which I use a specimen I smoke Perique. I lit up with quite a small sensation of excitement. As I did so I kept my eyes perforce fixed upon the beast. The beast pointed its upraised tentacle directly at me. As I inhaled the pungent tobacco that tentacle impressed me with a feeling of actual uncanniness. It was broad daylight, and I was smoking in front of the window, yet to such an extent was I affected that it seemed to me that the tentacle was not only vibrating, which, owing to the peculiarity of its position, was quite within the range of probability, but actually moving, elongating— stretching forward, that is, further towards me, and towards the tip of my nose. So impressed was I by this idea that I took the pipe out of my mouth, and minutely examined the beast. Really, the delusion was excusable. So cunningly had the artist wrought that he had succeeded in producing a creature which, such was its uncanniness, I could only hope had no original in nature.

Replacing the pipe between my lips I took several whiffs. Never had smoking had such an effect on me before. Either the pipe, or the creature on it, exercised some singular fascination. I seemed, without an instant's warning, to be passing into some land of dreams. I saw the beast, which was perched upon the bowl, writhe and twist. I saw it lift itself bodily from the meerschaum....

ii

'FEELING better now?'

I looked up. Joseph Tress was speaking.

'What's the matter? Have I been ill?'

'You appear to have been in some kind of swoon.'

Tress' tone was peculiar, even a little dry.

'Swoon! I never was guilty of such a thing in my life.'

'Nor was I, until I smoked that pipe.'

I sat up. The act of sitting up made me conscious of the fact that I had been lying down. Conscious, too, that I was feeling more than a little dazed. It seemed as though I was waking out of some strange, lethargic sleep— a kind of feeling which I have read of and heard about, but never before experienced.

'Where am I?'

'You're on the couch in your own room. You were on the floor; but I thought it would be better to pick you up and place you on the couch— though no one performed the same kind office to me when I was on the floor.'

Again Tress's tone was distinctly dry.

'How came you here?'

'Ah, that's the question.' He rubbed his chin— a habit of his which has annoyed me more than once before. 'Do you think you're sufficiently recovered to enable you to understand a little simple explanation?' I stared at him, amazed. He went on stroking his chin. 'The truth is that when I sent you the pipe I made a slight omission.'

'An omission?'

'I omitted to advise you not to smoke it.'

'And why ? '

'Because— well, I've reason to believe the thing is drugged.'

'Drugged!'

'Or poisoned.'

'Poisoned!' I was wide awake enough then. I jumped off the couch with a celerity which proved it.

'It is this way. I became its owner in rather a singular manner.' He paused, as if for me to make a remark; but I was silent. 'It is not often that I smoke a specimen, but, for some reason, I did smoke this. I commenced to smoke it, that is. How long I continued to smoke it is more than I can say. It had on me the same peculiar effect which it appears to have had on you. When I recovered consciousness I was lying on the floor.'

'On the floor?'

'On the floor. In about as uncomfortable position as you can easily conceive. I was lying face downwards, with my legs bent under me. I was never so surprised in my life as I was when I found myself where I was. At first I supposed that I had had a stroke. But by degrees it dawned upon me that I didn't feel as though I had had a stroke.' Tress, by the way, has been an army surgeon. 'I was conscious of distinct nausea. Looking about, I saw the pipe. With me it had fallen on to the floor. I took it for granted, considering the delicacy of the carving, that the fall had broken it. But when I picked it up I found it quite uninjured. While I was examining it a thought flashed to my brain. Might it not be answerable for what had happened to me? Suppose, for instance, it was drugged? I had heard of such things. Besides, in my case were present all the symptoms of drug-poisoning, though what drug had been used I couldn't in the least conceive. I resolved that I would give the pipe another trial.'

'On yourself? Or on another party, meaning me?'

'On myself, my dear Pugh— on myself! At that point of my investigations I had not begun to think of you. I lit up and had another smoke.'

'With what result?'

'Well, that depends on the standpoint from which you regard the thing. From one point of view the result was wholly satisfactory— I proved that the thing was drugged, and more.'

'Did you have another fall?'

'I did. And something else besides.'

'On that account, I presume, you resolved to pass the treasure on to me?'

'Partly on that account, and partly on another.'

'On my word, I appreciate your generosity. You might have labelled the thing as poison.'

'Exactly. But then you must remember how often you have told me that you never smoke your specimens.'

'That was no reason why you shouldn't have given me a hint that the thing was more dangerous than dynamite.'

'That did occur to me afterwards. Therefore I called to supply the slight omission.'

'Slight omission, you call it! I wonder what you would have called it if you had found me dead.'

'If I had known that you intended smoking it I should not have been at all surprised if I had.'

'Really, Tress, I appreciate your kindness more and more! And where is this example of your splendid benevolence? Have you pocketed it, regretting your lapse into the unaccustomed paths of generosity? Or is it smashed to atoms?'

'Neither the one nor the other. You will find the pipe upon the table. I neither desire its restoration nor is it in any way injured. It is merely an expression of personal opinion when I say that I don't believe that it could be injured. Of course, having discovered its deleterious properties, you will not want to smoke it again. You will therefore be able to enjoy the consciousness of being the possessor of what I honestly believe to be the most remarkable pipe in existence. Good-day, Pugh.'

He was gone before I could say a word. I immediately concluded, from the precipitancy of his flight, that the pipe was inj ured. But when I subjected it to close examination I could discover no signs of damage. While I was still eyeing it with jealous scrutiny the door reopened, and Tress came in again.

'By the way, Pugh, there is one thing I might mention, especially as I know it won't make any difference to you.'

'That depends on what it is. If you have changed your mind, and want the pipe back again, I tell you frankly that it won't. In my opinion, a thing once given is given for good.'

'Quite so; I don't want it back again. You may make your mind easy upon that point. I merely wanted to tell you why I gave it you.'

'You have told me that already.'

"Only partly, my dear Pugh— only partly. You don't suppose I should have given you such a pipe as that merely because it happened to be drugged? Scarcely! I gave it you because I discovered from indisputable evidence, and to my cost, that it was haunted.'

'Haunted?'

'Yes, haunted. Good-day.'

He was gone again. I ran out of the room, and shouted after him down the stairs. He was already at the bottom of the flight.

'Tress! Come back! What do you mean by talking such nonsense?'

'Of course it's only nonsense. We know that that sort of thing always is nonsense. But if you should have reason to suppose that there is something in it besides nonsense, you may think it worth your while to make inquiries of me. But I won't have that pipe back again in my possession on any terms— mind that!'

The bang of the front door told me that he had gone out into the street. I let him go. I laughed to myself as I re-entered the room. Haunted! That was not a bad idea of his. I saw the whole position at a glance. The truth of the matter was that he did regret his generosity, and he was ready to go any lengths if he could only succeed in cajoling me into restoring his gift. He was aware that I have views upon certain matters which are not wholly in accordance with those which are popularly supposed to be the views of the day, and particularly that on the question of what are commonly called supernatural visitations I have a standpoint of my own. Therefore it was not a bad move on his part to try to make me believe that about the pipe on which he knew I had set my heart there was something which could not be accounted for by ordinary laws. Yet, as his own sense would have told him it would do, if he had only allowed himself to reflect for a moment, the move failed. Because I am not yet so far gone as to suppose that a pipe, a thing of meerschaum and of amber, in the sense in which I understand the word, could be haunted— a pipe, a mere pipe.

'Hollo! I thought the creature's legs were twined right round the bowl! '

I was holding the pipe in my hand, regarding it with the affectionate eyes with which a connoisseur does regard a curio, when I was induced to make this exclamation. I was certainly under the impression that, when I first took the pipe out of the box, two, if not three, of the feelers had been twined about the bowl— twined tightly , so that you could not see daylight between them and it. Now they were almost entirely detached, only the tips touching the meerschaum, and those particular feelers were gathered up as though the creature were in the act of taking a spring. Of course I was under a misapprehension: the feelers couldn't have been twined, though, a moment before, I should have been ready to bet a thousand to one that they were. Still, one does make mistakes, and very egregious mistakes, at times. At the same time, I confess that when I saw that dreadful-looking animal poised on the extreme edge of the bowl, for all the world as though it were just going to spring at me, I was a little startled. I remembered that when I was smoking the pipe I did think I saw the uplifted tentacle moving, as though it were reaching out at me. And I had a clear recollection that just as I had been sinking into that strange state of unconsciousness, I had been under the impression that the creature was writhing and twisting as though it had suddenly become instinct with life. Under the circumstances, these reflections were not pleasant. I wished Tress had not talked that nonsense about the thing being haunted. It was surely sufficient to know that it was drugged and poisonous, without anything else.

I replaced it in the sandalwood box. I locked the box in a cabinet. Quite apart from the question as to whether that pipe was or was not haunted, I know it haunted me. It was with me, in a figurative— which was worse than an actual— sense, all the day. Still worse, it was with me all the night. It was with me in my dreams. Such dreams! Possibly I had not yet wholly recovered from the effects of that insidious drug, but, whether or no, it was very wrong of Tress to set my thoughts into such a channel. He knows that I am of a highly imaginative temperament, and that it is easier to get morbid thoughts into my mind than to get them out again. Before that night was through I wished very heartily that I had never seen the pipe! I woke from one nightmare to fall into another. One dreadful dream was with me all the time— of a hideous, green reptile which advanced towards me out of some awful darkness, slowly, inch by inch, until it clutched me round the neck, and, gluing its lips to mine, sucked the life's blood out of my veins as it embraced me with a slimy hiss. Such dreams are not restful. I woke anything but refreshed when the morning came. And when I got up and dressed I felt that, on the whole, it would perhaps have been better if I never had gone to bed. My nerves were unstrung, and I had that generally tremulous feeling which is, I believe, an inseparable companion of the more advanced stages of dipsomania. I ate no breakfast. I am no breakfast-eater as a rule, but that morning I ate absolutely nothing.

'If this sort of thing is to continue, I will let Tress have his pipe again. He may have the laugh of me, but anything is better than this.'

It was with almost funereal forebodings that I went to the cabinet in which I had placed the sandalwood box. But when I opened it my feelings of gloom partially vanished. Of what phantasies had I been guilty! It must have been an entire delusion on my part to have supposed that those tentacula had ever been twined about the bowl. The creature was in exactly the same position in which I had left it the day before— as, of course, I knew it would be!— poised, as if about to spring. I was telling myself how foolish I had been to allow myself to dwell for a moment on Tress' words, when Martin Brasher was shown in.

Brasher is an old friend of mine. We have a common ground— ghosts. Only we approach them from different points of view. He takes the scientific— psychological— inquiry side. He is always anxious to hear of a ghost, so that he may have an opportunity of 'showing it up.'

'I've something in your line here,' I observed, as he came in.

'In my line? How so? I'm not pipe mad.'

'No, but you're ghost mad. And this is a haunted pipe.'

'A haunted pipe! I think you're rather more mad about ghosts, my dear Pugh, than I am.'

Then I told him all about it. He was deeply interested, especially when I told him that the pipe was drugged. But when I repeated Tress's words about its being haunted, and mentioned my own delusion about the creature moving, he took a more serious view of the case than I had expected he would do.

'I propose that we act on Tress's suggestion, and go and make inquiries of him.'

'But you don't really think that there is anything in it?'

'On these subjects I never allow myself to think at all. There are Tress's words, and there is your story. It is agreed on all hands that the pipe has peculiar properties. It seems to me that there is a sufficient case here to merit inquiry.'

He persuaded me. I went with him. The pipe, in the sandalwood box, went too. Tress received us with a grin— a grin which was accentuated when I placed the sandalwood box upon the table.

'You understand,' he said, 'that a gift is a gift. On no terms will I consent to receive that pipe back in my possession.'

I was rather nettled by his tone.

'You need be under no alarm. I have no intention of suggesting anything of the kind.'

'Our business here,' began Brasher— I must own that his manner is a little ponderous— 'is of a scientific, I may say also, and at the same time, of a judicial nature. Our object is the Pursuit of Truth and the Advancement of Inquiry.'

'Have you been trying another smoke?' inquired Tress, nodding his head towards me.

Before I had time to answer, Brasher went droning on:—

'Our friend here tells me that you say this pipe is haunted.'

'I say it is haunted because it is haunted.'

I looked at Tress. I half suspected that he was poking fun at us. But he appeared to be serious enough.

'In these matters,' remarked Brasher, as though he were giving utterance to a new and important truth, 'there is a scientific and a non-scientific method of inquiry. The scientific method is to begin at the beginning. May I ask how this pipe came into your possession?'

Tress paused before he answered.

'You may ask.' He paused again. 'Oh, you certainly may ask. But it doesn't follow that I shall tell you.'

'Surely your object, like ours, can be but the Spreading About of the Truth?'

'I don't see it at all. It is possible to imagine a case in which the spreading about of the truth might make me look a little awkward.'

'Indeed!' Brasher pursed up his lips. ' Your words would almost lead one to suppose that there was something about your method of acquiring the pipe which you have good and weighty reasons for concealing.'

'I don't know why I should conceal the thing from you. I don't suppose either of you is any better than I am. I don't mind telling you how I got the pipe. I stole it.'

'Stole it!'

Brasher seemed both amazed and shocked. But I, who had had previous experience of Tress's methods of adding to his collection, was not at all surprised. Some of the pipes which he calls his, if only the whole truth about them were publicly known, would send him to gaol.

'That's nothing!' he continued. 'All collectors steal! The eighth commandment was not intended to apply to them. Why, Pugh there has "conveyed" three-fourths of the pipes which he flatters himself are his.'

I was so dumbfounded by the charge that it took my breath away. I sat in astounded silence. Tress went raving on:—

'I was so shy of this particular pipe when I had obtained it, that I put it away for quite three months. When I took it out to have a look at it something about the thing so tickled me that I resolved to smoke it. Owing to peculiar circumstances attending the manner in which the thing came into my possession, and on which I need not dwell— you don't like to dwell on those sort of things, do you, Pugh?— I knew really nothing about the pipe. As was the case with Pugh, one peculiarity I learned from actual experience. It was also from actual experience that I learned that the thing was— well, I said haunted, but you may use any other word you like.'

'Tell us, as briefly as possible, what it was you really did discover.'

'Take the pipe out of the box!' Brasher took the pipe out of the box, and held it in his hand. ' You see that creature on it. Well, when I first had it it was underneath the pipe.'

'How do you mean that it was underneath the pipe?'

'It was bunched together underneath the stem, just at the end of the mouthpiece, in the same way in which a fly might be suspended from the ceiling. When I began to smoke the pipe I saw the creature move.'

'But I thought that unconsciousness immediately followed.'

'It did follow, but not before I saw that the thing was moving. It was because I thought that I had been, in a way, a victim of delirium that I tried the second smoke. Suspecting that the thing was drugged I swallowed what I believed would prove a powerful antidote. It enabled me to resist the influence of the narcotic much longer than before, and while I still retained my senses I saw the creature crawl along under the stem, and over the bowl. It was that sight, I believe, as much as anything else, which sent me silly. When I came to again I then and there decided to present the pipe to Pugh. There is one more thing I would remark. When the pipe left me the creature's legs were twined about the bowl. Now they are withdrawn. Possibly you, Pugh, are able to cap my story with a little one which is all your own.'

'I certainly did imagine that I saw the creature move. But I supposed that while I was under the influence of the drug imagination had played me a trick.'

'Not a bit of it! Depend upon it, the beast is bewitched. Even to my eye it looks as though it were, and to a trained eye like yours, Pugh! You've been looking for the devil a long time, and you've got him at last.'

'I— I wish you wouldn't make those remarks, Tress. They jar on me.'

'I confess,' interpolated Brasher— I noticed that he had put the pipe down on the table as though he were tired of holding it— 'that, to my thinking, such remarks are not appropriate. At the same time, what you have told us is, I am bound to allow, a little curious. But of course what I require is ocular demonstration. I haven't seen the movement myself.'

'No, but you very soon will do if you care to have a pull at the pipe on your own account. Do, Brasher, to oblige me! There's a dear!'

'It appears, then, that the movement is only observable when the pipe is smoked. We have at least arrived at step No. 1.'

'Here's a match, Brasher! Light up, and we shall have arrived at step No. 2.'

Tress lit a match, and held it out to Brasher. Brasher retreated from his neighbourhood.

'Thank you, Mr. Tress, I am no smoker, as you are aware. And I have no desire to acquire the art of smoking by means of a poisoned pipe.'

Tress laughed. He blew out the match and threw it into the grate.

'Then I tell you what I'll do— I'll have up Bob.'

'Bob? Why Bob?'

'Bob'— whose real name was Robert Haines, though I should think he must have forgotten the fact, so seldom was he addressed by it— was Tress's servant. He had been an old soldier, and had accompanied his master when he left the service. He was as depraved a character as Tress himself. I am not sure even that he was not worse than his master. I shall never forget how he once behaved towards myself. He actually had the assurance to accuse me of attempting to steal the Wardour Street relic which Tress fondly deludes himself was once the property of Sir Walter Raleigh. The truth is that I had slipped it with my pocket-handkerchief into my pocket in a fit of absence of mind. A man who could accuse me of such a thing would be guilty of anything. I was therefore quite at one with Brasher when he asked what Bob could possibly be wanted for. Tress explained.

'I'll get him to smoke the pipe,' he said.

Brasher and I exchanged glances, but we refrained from speech.

'It won't do him any harm,' said Tress.

'What— not a poisoned pipe?' asked Brasher.

'It's not poisoned— it's only drugged.'

'Only drugged! '

'Nothing hurts Bob. He is like an ostrich. He has digestive organs which are peculiarly his own. It will only serve him as it served me— and Pugh— it will knock him over. It is all done in the Pursuit of Truth and for the Advancement of Inquiry.'

I could see that Brasher did not altogether like the tone in which Tress repeated his words. As for me, it was not to be supposed that I should put myself out in a matter which in no way concerned me. If Tress chose to poison the man, it was his affair, not mine. He went to the door, and shouted:—

'Bob! Come here, you scoundrel!'

That is the way in which he speaks to him. No really decent servant would stand it. I shouldn't dare to address Nalder, my servant, in such a way. He would give me notice on the spot.

Bob came in. He is a great hulking fellow who is always on the grin. Tress had a decanter of brandy in his hand. He filled a tumbler with the neat spirit.

'Bob, what would you say to a glassful of brandy— the real thing— my boy?'

'Thank you, sir.'

'And what would you say to a pull at a pipe when the brandy is drunk! '

'A pipe?' The fellow is sharp enough when he likes. I saw him look at the pipe upon the table, and then at us, and then a gleam of intelligence came into his eyes. 'I'd do it for a dollar, sir.'

'A dollar, you thief? '

'I meant ten shillings, sir.'

'Ten shillings, you brazen vagabond?'

'I should have said a pound.'

'A pound! Was ever the like of that! Do I understand you to ask a pound for taking a pull at your master's pipe?'

'I'm thinking that I'll have to make it two.'

'The deuce you are! Here, Pugh, lend me a pound.'

'I'm afraid I've left my purse behind.'

'Then lend me ten shillings— Ananias!'

'I doubt if I have more than five.'

''Then give me the five. And, Brasher, lend me the other fifteen.'

Brasher lent him the fifteen. I doubt if we shall either of us ever see our money again. He handed the pound to Bob.

'Here's the brandy— drink it up!' Bob drank it without a word, draining the glass of every drop. 'And here's the pipe.'

'Is it poisoned, sir?'

'Poisoned, you villain ! What do you mean?'

'It isn't the first time I've seen your tricks, sir— is it now ? And you're not the one to give a pound for nothing at all. If it kills me you'll send my body to my mother— she'd like to know that I was dead.'

'Send your body to your grandmother! You idiot, sit down and smoke!'

Bob sat down. Tress had filled the pipe, and handed it, with a lighted match, to Bob. The fellow declined the match. He handled the pipe very gingerly, turning it over and over, eyeing it with all his eyes.

'Thank you, sir— I'll light up myself if it's the same to you. I carry matches of my own. It's a beautiful pipe, entirely. I never see the like of it for ugliness. And what's the slimy-looking varmint that looks as though it would like to have my life? Is it living, or is it dead?'

'Come, we don't want to sit here all day, my man!'

'Well, sir, the look of this here pipe has quite upset my stomach. I'd like another drop of liquor, if it's the same to you.'

'Another drop! Why, you've had a tumblerful already! Here's another tumblerful to put on top of that. You won't want the pipe to kill you— you'll be killed before you get to it.'

'And isn't it better to die a natural death?'

Bob emptied the second tumbler of brandy as though it were water. I believe he would empty a hogshead without turning a hair! Then he gave another look at the pipe. Then, taking a match from his waistcoat-pocket, he drew a long breath, as though he were resigning himself to fate. Striking the match on the seat of his trousers, while, shaded by his hand, the flame was gathering strength, he looked at each one of us in turn. When he looked at Tress I distinctly saw him wink his eye. What my feelings would have been if a servant of mine had winked his eye at me I am unable to imagine! The match was applied to the tobacco, a puff of smoke came through his lips— the pipe was alight!

During this process of lighting the pipe we had sat— I do not wish to use exaggerated language, but we had sat and watched that alcoholic scamp's proceedings as though we were witnessing an action which would leave its mark upon the age. When we saw that the pipe was lighted we gave a simultaneous start. Brasher put his hands under his coat-tails and gave a kind of hop.

I raised myself a good six inches from my chair, and Tress rubbed his palms together with a chuckle. Bob alone was calm.

'Now,' cried Tress, ' you'll see the devil moving.'

Bob took the pipe from between his lips.

'See what? ' he said.

'Bob, you rascal, put that pipe back into your mouth, and smoke it for your life! '

Bob was eyeing the pipe askance.

'I dare say, but what I want to know is whether this here varmint's dead or whether he isn't. I don't want to have him flying at my nose— and he looks vicious enough for anything.'

'Give me back that pound, you thief, and get out of my house, and bundle.'

'I ain't going to give you back no pound.'

'Then smoke that pipe! '

'I am smoking it, ain't I? '

With the utmost deliberation Bob returned the pipe to his mouth. He emitted another whiff or two of smoke.

'Now— now!' cried Tress, all excitement, and wagging his hand in the air.

We gathered round. As we did so Bob again withdrew the pipe.

'What is the meaning of all this here? I ain't going to have you playing none of your larks on me. I know there's something up, but I ain't going to throw my life away for twenty shillings— not quite I ain't.'

Tress, whose temper is not at any time one of the best, was seized with quite a spasm of rage.

'As I live, my lad, if you try to cheat me by taking that pipe from between your lips until I tell you, you leave this room that instant, never again to be a servant of mine.'

I presume the fellow knew from long experience when his master meant what he said, and when he didn't. Without an attempt at remonstrance he replaced the pipe. He continued stolidly to puff away. Tress caught me by the arm.

'What did I tell you ? There— there! That tentacle is moving.'

The uplifted tentacle was moving. It was doing what I had seen it do, as I supposed, in my distorted imagination— it was reaching forward. Undoubtedly Bob saw what it was doing; but, whether in obedience to his master's commands, or whether because the drug was already beginning to take effect, he made no movement to withdraw the pipe. He watched the slowly advancing tentacle, coming closer and closer towards his nose, with an expression of such intense horror on his countenance that it became quite shocking. Further and further the creature reached forward, until on a sudden, with a sort of jerk, the ovement assumed a downward direction, and the tentacle was slowly lowered until the tip rested on the stem of the pipe. For a moment the creature remained motionless. I was quieting my nerves with the reflection that this thing was but some trick of the carver's art, and that what we had seen we had seen in a sort of nightmare, when the whole hideous reptile was seized with what seemed to be a fit of convulsive shuddering. It seemed to be in agony. It trembled so violently that I expected to see it loosen its hold of the stem and fall to the ground. I was sufficiently master of myself to steal a glance at Bob. We had had an inkling of what might happen. He was wholly unprepared. As he saw that dreadful, inhuman-looking creature, coming to life, as it seemed, within an inch or two of his nose, his eyes dilated to twice their usual size. I hoped, for his sake, that unconsciousness would supervene, through the action of the drug, before, through sheer fright, his senses left him. Perhaps mechanically, he puffed steadily on.

The creature's shuddering became more violent. It appeared to swell before our eyes. Then, just as suddenly as it began, the shuddering ceased. There was another instant of quiescence. Then— the creature began to crawl along the stem of the pipe! It moved with marvellous caution, the merest fraction of an inch at a time. But still it moved! Our eyes were riveted on it with a fascination which was absolutely nauseous. I am unpleasantly affected even as I think of it now. My dreams of the night before had been nothing to this.

Slowly, slowly, it went, nearer and nearer to the smoker's nose. Its mode of progression was in the highest degree unsightly. It glided, never, so far as I could see, removing its tentacles from the stem of the pipe. It slipped its hindmost feelers onward, until they came up to those which were in advance. Then, in their turn, it advanced those which were in front. It seemed, too, to move with the utmost labour, shuddering as though it were in pain.

We were all, for our parts, speechless. I was momentarily hoping that the drug would take effect on Bob. Either his constitution enabled him to offer a strong resistance to narcotics, or else the large quantity of neat spirit which he had drunk acted— as Tress had malevolently intended that it should do— as an antidote. It seemed to me that he would never succumb. On went the creature— on, and on, in its infinitesimal progression. I was spellbound. I would have given the world to scream, to have been able to utter a sound. I could do nothing else but watch.

The creature had reached the end of the stem. It had gained the amber mouthpiece. It was within an inch of the smoker's nose. Still on it went. It seemed to move with greater freedom on the amber. It increased its rate of progress. It was actually touching the foremost feature on the smoker's countenance. I expected to see it grip the wretched Bob, when it began to oscillate from side to side. Its oscillations increased in violence. It fell to the floor. That same instant the narcotic prevailed. Bob slipped sideways from the chair, the pipe still held tightly between his rigid jaws.

We were silent. There lay Bob. Close beside him lay the creature. A few more inches to the left, and he would have fallen on and squashed it flat. It had fallen on its back. Its feelers were extended upwards. They were writhing and twisting and turning in the air.

Tress was the first to speak.

'I think a little brandy wouldn't be amiss.' Emptying the remainder of the brandy into a glass, he swallowed it at a draught.

'Now for a closer examination of our friend.' Taking a pair of tongs from the grate he nipped the creature between them. He deposited it upon the table.

'I rather fancy that this is a case for dissection.'

He took a penknife from his waistcoat-pocket. Opening the large blade, he thrust its point into the object on the table. Little or no resistance seemed to be offered to the passage of the blade, but as it was inserted, the tentacula simultaneously began to writhe and twist. Tress withdrew the knife.

'I thought so!' He held the blade out for our inspection. The point was covered with some viscid-looking matter. 'That's blood ! The thing's alive!'

'Alive!'

'Alive! That's the secret of the whole performance! '

'But—'

'But me no buts, my Pugh! The mystery's exploded! One more ghost is lost to the world! The person from whom I obtained that pipe was an Indian juggler— up to many tricks of the trade. He, or someone for him, got hold of this sweet thing in reptiles— and a sweeter thing would, I imagine, be hard to find— and covered it with some preparation of, possibly, gum arabic. He allowed this to harden. Then he stuck the thing— still living, for those sort of gentry are hard to kill— to the pipe. The consequence was that when anyone lit up the warmth was communicated to the adhesive agent— again some preparation of gum, no doubt— it moistened it, and the creature, with infinite difficulty, was able to move. But I am open to lay odds with any gentleman of sporting tastes that this time the creature's travelling days are done. It has given me rather a larger taste of the horrors than is good for my digestion.'

With the aid of the tongs he removed the creature from the table. He placed it on the hearth. Before Brasher or I had a notion of what it was he intended to do he covered it with a heavy marble paper-weight. Then he stood upon the weight, and between the marble and the hearth he ground the creature flat.

While the execution was still proceeding, Bob sat up upon the floor.

'Hollo!' he asked— 'what's happened?'

'We've emptied the bottle, Bob,' said Tress. 'But there's another where that came from. Perhaps you could drink another tumblerful, my boy?'

Bob drank it!

__________________

Story No 2 in "The Diary of a Doctor, Second Series"

3: The Seventh Step

L. T. Meade and Dr. Clifford Halifax

1844-1914; 1860-1921

The Strand Magazine, Feb 1895

A PLEASURE yacht, of the name of Ariadne, was about to start upon a six-weeks' cruise. The time of the year was September— a golden, typical September— in the year of grace 1893. The Ariadne was to touch at several of the great northern ports: Christiania, St. Petersburg, and others. I had just gone through a period of hard and anxious work. I found it necessary to take a brief holiday, and resolved to secure a berth on board the Ariadne, and so give myself a time of absolute rest. We commenced our voyage on the second of the month; the day was a lovely one, and every berth on board had secured an occupant.

We were all in high spirits, and the weather was so fine that scarcely anyone suffered from sea-sickness. In consequence, the young ship's doctor, Maurice Curwen, had scarcely anything to do.

The passengers on board the Ariadne were, with one exception, of the most ordinary and conventional type, but a girl who was carried on board just before the yacht commenced her voyage aroused my professional sympathies from the first. She was a tall, dark-eyed girl of about eighteen or nineteen years of age; her lower limbs were evidently paralyzed, and she was accompanied by a nurse who wore the picturesque uniform of the Charing Cross Hospital.

The young girl was taken almost immediately to a deck cabin which had been specially arranged for her, and during the first two or three days of our voyage r had not an opportunity of seeing her again. When we reached the smooth waters of the Norwegian fiords, however, she was carried almost every day on deck. Here she lay under an awning, speaking to no one, and apparently taking little interest either in her fellow-passengers or in the marvellous beauties of Nature which surrounded her.

Her nurse usually sat by her side— she was a reserved-looking, middle-aged woman, with a freckly face and thin, sandy hair. Her lips were perfectly straight in outline and very thin, her eyebrows were high and faintly marked— altogether, she had a disagreeable and thoroughly unsympathetic appearance.

I was not long on board the Ariadne before I was informed that the sick girl's name was Dagmar Sorensen— that she was the daughter of a rich city merchant, and was going to St. Petersburg to see her father's brother, who was a celebrated physician there.

One morning, on passing Miss Sorensen's cabin, my footsteps were arrested by hearing the noise of something falling within the room. There came to my ears the crash of broken glass. This was immediately followed by the sound of rapid footsteps which as suddenly stopped, as though the inmate of the room was listening intently. Miss Sorensen's nurse, who went by the name of Sister Hagar, was probably doing something for her patient, and was annoyed at anyone pausing near the door. I passed on quickly, but the next moment, to my astonishment, came face to face with Sister Hagar on the stairs. I could not help looking at her in surprise. I was even about to speak, but she hurried past me, wearing her most disagreeable and repellent expression.

What could the noise have been? Who could have moved in the cabin? Miss Sorensen's lower limbs were, Curwen, our ship's doctor, had assured me, hopelessly paralyzed. She was intimate with no one on board the Ariadne. What footsteps had I listened to?

I thought the matter over for a short time, then made up my mind that the stewardess must have been in Miss Sorensen's cabin, and having come to this conclusion, I forgot all about the circumstance.

That afternoon I happened to be standing in the neighbourhood of the young lady's deck chair; to my surprise, for she had not hitherto taken the least notice of me, she suddenly raised her full, brilliant dark eyes, and fixed them on my face.

"May I speak to you?" she said.

I came up to her side immediately. "Certainly," I answered. "Can I do anything for you?"

"You can do a great deal if you will," she answered. " I have heard your name: you are a well-known London physician."

"I have a large practice in London," I replied to her.

"Yes," she continued, "I have often heard of you— you have doubtless come on board the Ariadne to take a holiday?"

"That is true," I answered.

"Then it is unfair—" She turned her head aside, breaking off her speech abruptly.

"What is unfair?" I asked.

"I have a wish to consult you professionally, but if you are taking a holiday, it is unfair to expect you to give up your time to me."

"Not at all," I replied. "If I can be of the slightest use to you, pray command me; but are you not under Curwen's care? "

"Yes, oh, yes; but that doesn't matter."

She stopped speaking abruptly; her manner, which had been anxious and excited, became suddenly guarded. I looked up and saw the nurse approaching us. She carried a book and shawl in her hands.

"Thank you, Sister Hagar," said Miss Sorensen. "I shall not require your services any more for the present."

The nurse bid the shawl over the young lady's feet, placed the book within reach, and, bestowing an inquisitive glance on me, walked slowly away.

When she was quite out of sight, Miss Sorensen resumed her conversation.

"You see that I am paralyzed," she said.

I bowed an acknowledgment of this all too patent fact.

"I suffer a good deal," she continued. "I am on my way to St. Petersburg to see my uncle, who is a very great physician. My father is most anxious that I should consult him. Perhaps you know my uncle's name— Professor Sorensen. He is one of the doctors of the Court."

"I cannot recall the name just now," I said; "but that is of no consequence. have no doubt he is all that you say."

"Yes, he is wonderfully clever, and holds a high position. It will be some days before we get to Russia, however, and— I am ill. I did not know when I came on board the Ariadne that a doctor of your professional eminence would be one of the passengers. Perhaps Mr. Curwen will not object—" she said.

"I am sure he will not object to having a consultation with me over your case," I answered. "If you wish, I can arrange the matter with him."

"Thank you— but l don't want a consultation. My wish is to see you alone."

l looked at her in surprise.

"Don't refuse me," she said, in a  voice of entreaty.

"I will see you with pleasure, with Curwen," I said.

"But l want to consult you independently."

"I am sorry," I answered; "under the circumstances, that is impossible."

She coloured vividly.

"Why so?" she asked.

"Because professional etiquette makes it necessary for the doctor whom you have already consulted to be present," I replied.

Her eyes flashed angrily.

"How unkind and queer you doctors are," she said. "I cordially hate that sentence forever on your lips, 'Professional etiquette.' Why should a girl suffer and be ill, because of anything so unreasonable?"

"You must forgive me," I said. "I would gladly do anything for you; I will see you with pleasure with Curwen."

"Must he be present?"

"Yes."

"I cannot stand this. If he consents to your seeing me alone, have you any objection to make?"

At that moment Curwen suddenly appeared. He was talking to one of the ship's crew, and they were both slowly advancing in Miss Sorensen's direction.

"Mr. Curwen, call I speak to you?" called out Miss Sorensen.

He came to her at once.

I withdrew in some annoyance, feeling pretty well convinced that the young lady was highly hysterical and required to be carefully looked after.

By-and-by, as I was standing by the deck rail, Curwen came up to me.

"I have talked to Miss Sorensen," he said. "She is most anxious to consult you, Dr. Halifax, but says that you will not see her except in consultation with me. I beg of you not to consider me for a moment. I take an interest in her, poor girl, and will be only too glad to get your opinion of her case. Pray humour her in this matter."

"Of course, if you have no objection, I have none," I answered. "I can talk to you about her afterwards. She is evidently highly nervous."

"I fear that is the case," replied Curwen. "But," he added, "there is little doubt as to her ailment. The lower limbs are paralyzed; she is quite incapable of using them."

"Did you examine her carefully when she came on board?" I asked.

"I went into the case, certainly," replied Curwen; "but if you mean that I took every step to complete the diagnosis of the patient's condition, I did not consider it necessary. The usual symptoms were present. In short, Miss Sorensen's case was, to my mind, very clearly defined to be that of spastic paralysis, and I did not want to worry her by useless experiments.,"

"Well, I will see her, as she wishes for my opinion," I replied, slowly.

"I am very pleased that you should do so," said Curwen.

"Do you happen to have an electric battery on board?" I asked.

"Yes, a small one, but doubtless sufficient for your purpose. Will you arrange to see Miss Sorensen tomorrow morning?"

"Yes," I answered. "If I am to do her any good, there is no use in delay."

Curwen and I talked the matter over a little further, then he was obliged to leave me to attend to some of his multifarious duties.

The nightly dance had begun— awnings had been pulled down all round the deck, and the electric light made the place as bright as day. The ship's band was playing a merry air, and several couples were already revolving round in the mazes of the waltz. I looked to see if Miss Sorensen had come on deck. Yes, she was there she was, lying as usual on her own special couch.

The captain's wife, Mrs. Ross, was seated near her, and Captain Ross stood at the foot of her couch. She was dressed in dark, rose-coloured silk, worn high to the throat, and with long sleeves. The whiteness of her complexion and the gloomy depths of her big, dark eyes were thus thrown into strong relief. She looked strikingly handsome. On seeing me, Captain Ross called me up, and introduced me to Miss Sorensen. She smiled at me in quite a bright way.

"Dr. Halifax and I have already made each other's acquaintance," she said. She motioned me to seat myself by her side.

The conversation, which had been animated before I joined the little party, was now continued with verve. Miss Sorensen, quite contrary to her wont, was the most lively of the group. I observed that she had considerable powers of repartee, and that her conversational talent was much above the average. Her words were extremely well chosen, and her grammar was invariably correct. She had, in short, the bearing of a very accomplished woman. I further judged that she was a remarkably clever one, for I was not five minutes in her society before I observed that she was watching me with as close attention as I was giving to her.

After a time Captain and Mrs. Ross withdrew, and I found myself alone with the young lady.

"Don't go," she said, eagerly, as I was preparing to rise from my chair. "I spoke to Mr. Curwen," she continued, dropping her voice; "he has not the slightest objection to  your seeing me alone. Have you arranged the matter with him?"

"I have seen him," I replied, gravely. "He kindly consents to waive all ceremony. I can make an appointment to see you at any hour you wish."

"Pray let it be to-morrow morning— I am anxious to have relief as soon as possible."

"I am sorry that you suffer," I replied, giving her a sudden, keen glance— "you don't look ill, at least not now."

"I am excited now," she answered. "I am pleased at the thought—" She broke off abruptly. "Is Sister Hagar on deck?" she asked.

"I do not see her," I replied.

"But look, pray, look. Dr. Halifax— l fear Sister Hagar."

There was unquestionable and most genuine terror in the words. Miss Sorensen laid her hand on mine— it trembled. I was about to reply, when a thin voice, almost in our cars, startled us both.

"Miss Sorensen, I must take you to bed now," said Nurse Hagar.

"Allow me to help you, nurse," I said, starting up.

"No, thank you, sir," she answered, in her most disagreeable way; "I can  manage my young lady quite well alone."

She went behind the deck-chair, and propelled it forward. When she got close to the little deck cabin, she lifted Miss Sorensen up bodily in her strong arms, and conveyed her within the cabin.

During the night I could not help giving several thoughts to my new patient—  she repelled me quite as much as she attracted me. She was without doubt a very handsome girl. There was something pathetic, too, in her dark eyes and in the lines round her beautifully curved mouth; but now and then I detected a ring of insincerity in her voice, and there were moments when her eyes, in spite of themselves, took a shifty glance. Was she feigning paralysis? What was her motive in so anxiously desiring an interview with me alone?

Immediately after breakfast, on the following morning, Sister Hagar approached my side.

"Miss Sorensen would be glad to know when it would be convenient for you to see her, Dr. Halifax," she said.

"Pray tell her that I can be with her in about tell minutes," I replied.

The nurse withdrew and I went to find Curwen.

"Is your electric battery in order?" I asked.

"Come with me to my cabin," he replied.

I went with him at once. We examined the battery together, put it into order, and then tested it. I took it with me to Miss Sorensen's cabin. Sister Hagar stood near the door. She came up to me at once, took the battery from my hands, and laid it on a small table near the patient. She then, to my astonishment, withdrew, dosing the door noiselessly behind her.

I turned to look at Miss Sorensen, and saw at a glance that she was intensely nervous. There was not a trace of colour on her face; even her lips were white as death.

"Pray get your examination over as quickly as you can," she said, speaking in an almost fretful voice.

"I am waiting for the nurse to return," I replied. "I have several questions to ask her."

"Oh, she is not coming back. I have asked her to leave us together."

"That is nonsense," I said; "she must be present. I cannot apply the electric battery without her assistance. If you will permit me, I will call her."

"No, no, don 't go— don't go!"

I looked fixedly at my patient. Suddenly an idea occurred to me. I pushed the table aside on which the battery had been placed, and stood at  the foot of Miss Sorensen's bed.

"The usual examination need not take place," I said, "because—"

"Why?" she asked. She half started up on her couch; her colour changed from while to red.

"Because you are not paralyzed!" I said, giving her a sudden, quick glance, and speaking with firmness.

"My God, how do you know?" she exclaimed. Her face grew so colourless that I thought she would faint. She covered her eyes with one trembling hand. "Oh, Sister Hagar was right," she continued, after a moment. "I did not believe her— l assured her that it was nothing more than her fancy."

"I have guessed the truth?" I said, in a stern voice.

"Alas, yes, you have guessed the truth."

As she spoke, she sprang with a light movement from her couch and stood before me.

"I am no more paralyzed than you are," she said; "but how, how do you know?"

"Sit down and I will tell you," I replied.

She did not sit— she was far too much excited. She stood near the door of her little cabin. "Did you really hear the bottle fall and break, yesterday morning?"

"I heard a noise which might be accounted for in that way," r answered.

"And did you hear my footsteps?"

"I heard footsteps."

"Sister Hagar said that you knew— I hoped, I hoped— I earnestly trusted that she was wrong."

"How could she possibly tell?" I replied. "I met her on the stairs coming towards the cabin. I certainly said nothing— how was it possible for her to read my secret thoughts?"

"It was quite possible. She saw the knowledge in your eyes; she gave you one glance— that was sufficient. Oh! I hoped she was mistaken."

"Mine is not a tell-tale face," I said.

"Not to most people, but it is to her. You don't know her. She is the most
wonderful, extraordinary woman that ever breathed. She can read people through and through. She can stand behind you and know when your eyes flash and your lips smile. Her knowledge is terrible. She can almost see through stone walls.. I told you last night that I dreaded her— l do more than that— l fear her horribly— she makes my life a daily purgatory!"

"Sit down," I said, in a voice which I made on purpose both cold and stern: "It is very bad for you to excite yourself in this way. If you dislike Sister Hagar, why is she your nurse? In short, what can be your possible motive for going through this extra-ordinary act of deception? Are you not aware that you are acting in a most reprehensible manner? Why do you wish the passengers of the Ariadne to suppose you to be paralyzed, when you are in reality in perfect health?"

"In perfect health?"she repeated, with a shudder. "Yes, I am doubtless in perfect bodily health, but I am ill— oh, in such bitter anguish of soul."

"What do you mean?"

"I can no more tell you that, than I can tell you why I am in Sister Hagar's power. Pray forget my wild words. I know you think badly of me, but your feelings would be changed to profound pity if you could guess the truth. Now listen to me— I have only a moment or two left, for Sister Hagar will be back almost directly. She found out yesterday that you had guessed my secret. I hoped that this was not the case, but, as usual, she was right and I was wrong. The moment my eyes met yours, when I first came on deck, I thought it likely that you might see through my deception . Sister Hagar also feared that such would be the case. I was on that account that I avoided speaking to you, and also that I remained so silent and apparently uninterested in everyone when I went on deck. I asked for this interview yesterday for the express purpose of finding out whether you really knew about the deception which I was practising on everyone on board. If I discovered that you had pierced through my disguise, there was nothing for it but for me to throw myself on your mercy. Now you know why I was so desirous of seeing you without Dr. Curwen."

"I understand," I answered. "The whole matter is most strange, wrong, and incomprehensible. Before I leave you, may I ask what motive influences you? There must be some secret reason for such deception as you practise."

Miss Sorensen coloured, and for the first time since she began to make her confession, her voice grew weak and faltering— her eyes took a shifty glance, and refused to meet mine.

"The motive may seem slight enough to you," she said; "but to me it is, and was, sufficiently powerful to make me go through with this sham. My home is not a happy one; I have a step-mother, who treats me cruelly. I longed to get away from home and to see something of life. My father's brother, Professor Sorensen, of St. Petersburg, is a very celebrated Court physician— my father is proud of him, and has often mentioned his name and the luxurious palace in which he lives. I have never met him, but I took a curious longing to pay him a visit, and thought of this way of obtaining my desires. Professor Sorensen has made a special study of nervous diseases such as paralysis. Sister Hagar and I talked the matter over, and I resolved to feign this disease in order to get away from home and to pay my uncle a visit. All went well without hitch of any sort until yesterday morning."

"But it is impossible for you to suppose," I said, "that you can take in a specialist like Professor Sorensen."

"I don't mean to try— he'll forgive me when I tell him the truth, and throw myself on his mercy."

"And is Sister Hagar a real nurse?" I asked, after a pause.

"No, but she has studied the part a little, and is far too clever to commit herself."

Miss Sorensen's face was no longer pale— a rich colour flamed in her cheeks, her eyes blazed- she looked wonderfully handsome.

"And now that you have confided in me," I said, "what do you expect me to do with my knowledge?"

"To respect my secret, and to keep it absolutely and strictly to yourself."

"That is impossible— I cannot deceive Curwen."

"You must— you shall. Why should two— two be sacrificed? And he is so young, and he knows nothing now— nothing. Oh, do have mercy on him! Oh, my God, what wild words am I saying? What must you think of me?"

She paused abruptly, her blazing eyes were fixed on my face.

"What must you think of me?" she repeated.

"That you are in a very excitable and over-strained condition, and perhaps not quite answerable for your actions," I replied.

"Yes, yes," she continued; "I am overstrained— over-anxious— not quite accountable—  yes—  that is it— that is it— but you will not tell Dr. Curwen— Oh, be merciful to me, I beg of you. We shall soon reach St. Petersburg. Wait, at least, until we get there before you tell him— promise me that. Tell him then if you like— tell all the world, then, if you choose to do so, but respect my secret until we reach Russia."

As Miss Sorensen spoke, she laid her hand on my arm— she looked at me with a passion which seemed absolutely inadequate to her very poor reason for going through this extraordinary deception.

"Promise me," she said—  "there's Sister Hagar's knock at the door— let her in— but promise me first."

"I will think the whole case over carefully before I speak to anyone about it," I replied. I threw the door open as I spoke, and went out of the little cabin as Sister Hagar came in.

That afternoon Curwen asked me about Miss Sorensen— l replied to him briefly.

"I will tell you all about the case," I said, "in a short time— there is a mystery which the young lady has divulged, and which she has earnestly implored of me to respect until we reach St. Petersburg."

"Then you believe she can be cured?" said Curwen.

"Unquestionably— but it is a strange story, and it is impossible for me to discuss it until I call give you my full confidence. In the meantime, there is nothing to be done in the medical way for Miss Sorenson— l should recommend her to keep on deck as much as possible— she is in a highly hysterical state, and the more fresh air she gels, the better."

Curwen was obliged to be satisfied with this very bare summary of the case, and the next time I saw Miss Sorensen, I bent over her and told her that I intended to respect her secret until after we arrived at St. Petersburg.

"I don't know how to thank you enough," she said— her eyes flashed with joy, and she became instantly the most animated and fascinating woman on board.

At last we reached the great northern port, and first amongst those to come on board the Ariadne was the tall and aristocratic form of Professor Sorensen. I happened to witness the meeting between him and his beautiful niece. He stooped down and kissed her on her white brow. A flush of scarlet spread all over her face as he did so.

Then spoke a few words together— then Sister Hagar came up and touched Miss Sorensen on her arm. The next moment I was requested to come and speak to the young lady.

"May I introduce you to my uncle, Dr. Halifax?" she said. "Professor Sorensen— Dr. Halifax. I can scarcely tell you, Uncle Oscar," continued the young lady, looking full in his face, "how good Dr. Halifax has been to me during my voyage."

Professor Sorenson made a polite rejoinder to this, and immediately invited me to come to see him at his palace in the Nevski Prospekt.

I was about to refuse with all the politeness I could muster, when Miss Sorensen gave me a glance of such terrible entreaty that it staggered me, and almost threw me off my balance.

"You will come; you must come," she said.

"I can take no refusal," exclaimed the Professor. "I am delighted to welcome you as a brother in the great world of medical science. I have no doubt that we shall have much of interest to talk over together. My laboratory has the good fortune to be somewhat celebrated, and I have made experiments in the cultivation of microbes which I should like to talk over with you. You will do me the felicity of dining with me this evening, Dr. Halifax?"

I considered the situation briefly— I glanced again at  Miss Sorensen.

"I will come," I said; she gave a sigh of relief, and lowered her eyes.

Professor Sorensen moved Away, and Sister Hagar went into the young lady's cabin to fetch something. For a moment Miss Sorensen and I were alone. She gave me an imperious gesture to come close to her.

"Sit on that chair— stoop down, I don't want others to know," she said.

I obeyed her in some surprise.

"You have been good, more than good," she said, "and I respect you. I thank you from my heart. Do one last thing for me."

"What is that?"

"Don't tell our secret to Maurice Curwen until you have returned from dining with my uncle. Promise me this; I have a very grave reason for asking it of you."

"I shall probably not have time to tell him between now and this evening," I said, "as I mean immediately to land and occupy myself looking over the place."

At this moment Sister Hagar appeared, carrying all kinds of rugs and parcels. Amongst them was a small, brass-bound box, which seemed to be of considerable weight. As she approached us, the nurse knocked her foot against a partition in the deck, stumbled, and would have fallen had I not rushed to her assistance. At the same time the heavy, brass-bound box fell with some force to the ground. The shock must have touched some secret spring, for the cover immediately bounced open and several packets of papers were strewn on the deck. I stooped to pick them up, but Nurse Hagar wrenched them from my hands with such force that I could not help glancing at her in astonishment. One packet had been thrown to a greater distance than the others. I reached back my hand to pick it up, and, as I did so, my eyes lighted on a name in small black characters on the cover. The name was Olga Krestofski. Below it was something which looked like hieroglyphics, but I knew enough of the Russian tongue to ascertain that it was the same name in Russian with the figure 7 below it.

I returned the packet to the nurse— she gave me a glance which I was destined to remember afterwards— and Miss Sorensen uttered a faint cry and turned suddenly white to her lips. Professor Sorensen came hastily up— he administered a restorative to his niece, and said that the excitement of seeing him had evidently been too much for her in her weak state. A moment later the entire party had left the yacht.

It was night when I got to the magnificent palace in the Nevski Prospect where Professor Sorensen resided.

I was received with ceremony by several servants in handsome livery, and conducted immediately to a bedroom on the first floor of the building. The room was of colossal size and height, and, warm as the weather still was, was artificially heated by pipes which ran along the walls. The hangings and all the other appointments of this apartment were of the costliest, and as I looked around me, I could not help coming to the conclusion that a Court physician at St. Petersburg must hold a very lucrative position.

Having already made my toilet, I was about to leave the room to find my way as best I could to the reception rooms on the ground floor, when, to my unbounded amazement, the massive oak door of the chamber quickly and silently opened, and Miss Sorensen, magnificently dressed, with diamonds in her black hair and flashing round her slim white throat, came in. She had not made the slightest sound in opening the door, and now she put her finger to her lips to enjoin silence on my part. She closed the door gently behind her, and, coming up to my side, pressed a note into my hand. She then turned to go.

"What is the meaning of this?" I began.

"The note will tell you," she replied. "Oh, yes, I am well, quite well— I have told my uncle all about my deception on board the Ariadne. For God's sake don't keep me now. If I am discovered, all is lost."

She reached the door as she spoke, opened it with a deft, swift, absolutely silent movement, and disappeared.

I could not tell why, but when I was left once more alone, I fell a chill running through me. I went deliberately up to the oak door and turned the key in the heavy lock. The splendid bedroom was bright as day with electric light. Standing by the door, I opened Miss Sorensen's note. My horrified eyes fell on the following words:—

We receive no mercy, and we give none. Your doom was nearly fixed when you found out the secret of my false paralysis on board the Ariadne. It was absolutely and irrevocably sealed when you saw my real name on the packet of letters which fell out of the brassbound  box to-day. The secret of my return to Russia is death to those who discover it unbidden.

It is decreed by those who never alter or change that you do not leave this palace alive. It is utterly hopeless for you to try to escape, for on all hands the doors are guarded; and even if you did succeed in reaching the streets, we have plenty of emissaries there to do our work for us. You know enough of our secrets to make your death desirable— it is therefore arranged that you are to die.  I like you and pity you. I have a heart, and you have touched it. If I can, I will save you. I do this at the risk of my life, but that does not matter- we hold our lives cheap—  we always carry them in our hands, and are ready to lay them down at any instant. I may not succeed in saving you but I will try. I am not quite certain how your death is to be accomplished, but I have a very shrewd suspicion of the manner in which the final attack on your life will be made. Your only chance— remember, your only chance of escape— is to appear to know absolutely nothing— to show not the ghost of a suspicion of any underhand practices; to put forth all your powers to fascinate and please Professor Sorensen and the guests who will dine with us to-night. Show no surprise at anything you see— ask no impertinent questions. I have watched you, and I believe you are clever enough and have sufficient nerve to act as I suggest. Pay me all the attention in your power— make love to me even a little, if you like— that will not matter, for we shall never meet again after tonight. After dinner you will be invited to accompany Professor Sorensen to his laboratory— he will ask no other guest to do this. On no account refuse— go with him and I will go with you. Where he goes and where I go, follow without flinching. If you feel astonishment, do not show it. And now, all that I have said leads up to this final remark. Avoid the seventh step. Bear this in your mind— it is your last chance.

Dagmar.

I read this note over twice. The terrible feeling of horror left me after the second reading. I felt braced and resolute. I suspected, what was indeed the case, that I had fallen unwittingly into a hornet's nest of Nihilists. How mad I had been to come to Professor Sorensen's palace! I had fully made up my mind that Miss Sorensen had told me lies, when she gave me her feeble reasons for acting as she had done on board the Ariadne. No matter that now, however. She spoke the truth at last. The letter I crushed in my hand was not a lie. I resolved to be wary, guarded— and when the final moment came, to sell my life dearly. I had a box of matches in my pocket. burnt the note to white ash, and then crushed the ashes to powder under my foot. I then went downstairs.

Servants were standing about, who quickly directed me to the reception-rooms. A powdered footman flung the door of the great drawing-room open and called my name in a ringing voice. Professor Sorensen came forward to meet me. A lady came up at the same moment and held out her hand. She was dressed in black velvet, with rich lace and many magnificent diamonds. They shone in her sandy hair and glistened round her thin throat. I started back in amazement. Here was Sister Hagar metamorphosed.

"Allow me to introduce my wife, Madame Sorensen," said the Professor.

Madame Sorensen raised a playful finger and smiled into my face.

"You look astonished, and no wonder, Dr. Halifax," she said. "But, ah, how naughty you have been to read our secrets." She turned away to speak to another guest. The next moment dinner was announced.

As we sat round the dinner table, we made a large party. Men and women of many nationalities were present, but I quickly perceived, to my own surprise, that I was the guest of the evening. To me was given the terribly doubtful honour of escorting Madame Sorensen to the head of her table, and in honour of me also, English— by common consent—  was the language spoken at dinner.

Miss Sorensen sat a little to my left— she spoke gaily to her neighbour, and her ringing, silvery laugh floated often to my cars.

There had been some little excitement caused by the bursting of a large bomb in one of the principal streets that evening. Inadvertently I alluded to it to my hostess.

She bent towards me and said, in a low voice:—

"Excuse me, Dr. Halifax, but we never talk politics in Petersburg."

She had scarcely said this before she began to rattle off some brilliant opinions with regard to a novel which was just then attracting public attention in England. Her remarks were terse, cynical, and intensely to the point. From one subject of interest to another she leaped, showing discernment, discrimination, and a wide and exhaustive knowledge of everything she touched upon.

As I listened to her and replied as pertinently as possible, a sudden idea came to me which brought considerable comfort with it. I began to feel more and more assured that Miss Sorensen's letter was but the ugly result of a mind thrown slightly off its balance. The brilliant company in which I found myself, the splendid room, the gracefully appointed table, the viands and the wines of the best and the choicest, my cultivated and gracious hostess—  Professor Sorensen's worn, noble, strictly intellectual face— surely all these things had nothing whatever to do with treachery and assassination!  Miss Sorensen's mind was off its balance. This fact accounted for everything:—for the malingering which had taken place on board the Ariadne— for the queer letter which she had given to me before dinner. "When you saw my real name today,  your doom was irrevocably sealed," she said. "Avoid the seventh step," she had continued. Could anything be more utterly absurd? Miss Sorensen was the acknowledged niece of my courtly host— what did she mean by attributing another name to herself?— what did she mean by asking me to avoid the seventh step? In short, her words were exactly like the ravings of a lunatic.

My heart, which had been beating uncomfortably high and strong, calmed down under these reflections, but presently a queer, cold, uncomfortable recollection touched it into fresh action as if with the edge of bare steel. It was all very well to dispose of Miss Sorensen by treating her wild words as the emanations of a diseased brain; but what about Madame Sorensen? How was I possibly to account for her queer change of identity? I recalled her attitude on board the Ariadne. The malevolent glances she had often cast at me. The look on her face that very morning when I had saved her from falling, and picked up the papers which had fallen out of the brass-bound box. She had seen my eyes rest upon the name "Olga Krestofski." I could not soon forget the expression in her cold eyes when I returned her that packet. A thrill ran through me even now, as I recalled the vengeance of that glance.

The ladies withdrew, and the men of the party did not stay long over wine. We went to the drawing-rooms, where music and light conversation were indulged in.

As soon as we came in, Miss Sorensen, who was standing alone in a distant pan of the inner drawing-room, gave me a look which brought me to her side. There was an imperious sort of command in her full, dark eyes. She held herself very erect. Her carriage was queenly— the lovely carnation of excitement bloomed on her cheeks and gave the finishing touch to her remarkable beauty. She made way for me to sit on the sofa beside her, and bending her head slightly in my direction, seemed to invite me to make love to her. There was something in her eyes which revived me like a tonic. I felt suddenly capable of rising to my terrible position, and resolved to play the game out to the bitter end.

I began to talk to Miss Sorensen in a gay tone of light badinage, to which she responded with spirit. Suddenly, as the conversation arose full and animated around us, she dropped her voice, gave me a look which thrilled me, and said, with slow distinctness:

"You Englishmen have pluck— I admire you!"

I answered, with a laugh, "We like to think of ourselves as a plucky race."

"You are! you are! I felt sure you would be capable of doing what you are now doing. Let us continue our conversation— nothing could be better for my purpose— don't you observe that Hagar is watching us?"

"Is not Madame Sorensen your aunt?" I asked.

"In reality she is no relation; but, hush, you are treading on dangerous ground."

"It is time for me to say farewell," I said, rising suddenly to my feet - I held out my hand to her as I spoke.

"No, you must not go yet," she said— she rose also— a certain nervous hesitation was observable for a moment in her manner, but she quickly steadied herself.

"Uncle Oscar, come here," she called out.

Professor Sorensen happened to be approaching us across the drawing-room-he came up hastily at her summons. She stood in such a position that he could not see her face, and then gave me a look of intense warning. When she did this, I knew that the gleam of hope which had given me false courage for a moment during dinner was at an end. There was no insanity in those lovely eyes.

Her look braced me, however. I determined to take example by her marvellous coolness. In short, I resolved to do what she asked me, and to place my life in her hands.

"Uncle Oscar," said the young lady, " Dr. Halifax insists upon leaving us early; that is scarcely fair, is it?"

"It must not be permitted, Dr. Halifax," said the Professor, in his most courteous tone. "I am looking forward with great interest to getting your opinion on several points of scientific moment." Here he drew me a little aside. I glanced at Miss Sorensen: she came a step or two closer.

"You will permit me to say that your name is already known to me," continued my host, "and I esteem it an honour to have the privilege of your acquaintance. I should like to get your opinion with regard to the bacterial theory of research. As I told you on board the Ariadne to-day, I have made many experiments in the isolation of microbes."

"In short, the isolation of those little horrors is my uncle's favourite occupation," interrupted Miss Sorensen, with a light laugh.

"Suppose, Uncle Oscar," she continued, laying her lovely white hand on the Professor's arm—" suppose we take Dr. Halifax to the laboratory? He can then see some of your experiments."

"The cultivation of the cancer microbe, for instance," said Sorensen. "Ah, that we could discover something to destroy it in the human body, without also destroying life! Well, doubtless, the time will come." He sighed as he spoke. H is thoughtful face assumed an expression of keen intellectuality. It would be difficult to see anyone whose expression showed more noble interest in science.

"I see all my guests happily engaged," he continued. "Shall we follow Dagmar's suggestion, then, and come to the laboratory, Dr. Halifax?"

"I shall he interested to see when you have done," I said.

We left the drawing-rooms. As we passed Madame Sorensen, she called out to me to know if I were leaving .

"No," I replied, "I am going with your husband to his laboratory. He has kindly promised to show  me some of his experiments."

"Ah, then, I will say good-night, and farewell. When Oscar goes to the laboratory he forgets the existence of time. Farewell, Dr. Halifax." She touched my hand with her thin fingers: her light eyes gave a queer, vindictive flash. "Farewell, or, au revoir, if you prefer it," she said, with a laugh.

She turned abruptly to speak to another guest.

To reach the laboratory we had to walk down more than one long corridor— it was in a wing at some little distance from the rest of the house. Professor Sorensen explained the reason briefly.

"r make experiments," he said; "it is more convenient, therefore, to have the laboratory as distant from the dwelling-house as possible."

We finally passed through another covered passage.

"Beneath here flows the Neva," said the Professor; "but here," he continued, "did you ever see a more spacious and serviceable room for real hard work than this?"

He flung open the door of the laboratory as he spoke, and touching a button in the wall, flooded the place on the instant with a blaze of electric light. The laboratory was warmed with hot pipes, and contained, in addition to the usual appliances, a couple of easy chairs and one or two small tables; also a long and particularly inviting-looking couch.

"I spend the night here occasionally," said Dr. Sorensen. "When I am engaged in an important experiment, I often do not care to leave the place until the early hours of the morning."

We wandered about the laboratory, which was truly a splendid room and full of many objects which would, on another occasion, have aroused all my scientific enthusiasm, but I was too intensely on my guard just now to pay much attention to the Professor's carefully worded and elaborate descriptions.

My quick eyes had taken in the whole situation as far as it was at present revealed to me: the iron bands of the strong door by which we had entered; the isolation of the laboratory. I was young and strong, however, and Professor Sorensen was old. If it came to a hand-to-hand fight, he would have no chance against me. Miss Sorensen, too, was my friend.

We spent some time examining various objects of interest, then finding the torture of suspense unendurable, I said, abruptly: "I should greatly like to see your process of cultivation of the cancer microbes before I take my leave."

"I will show it to you," said Dr. Sorensen. "Dagmar, my love, light the lantern."

"Is it not here?" I asked.

"No; I keep it in an oven in a small laboratory, which we will now visit."

Miss Sorensen took up a silver mounted lantern, applied a match to the candle within, and taking it in her hand, preceded us up the whole length of the laboratory to a door which I had not before noticed, and which was situated just behind Dr. Sorensen's couch. She opened it and waited for us to come up to her.

"Take the lantern and go first, Uncle Oscar," said the young lady. She spoke in an imperious voice, and I saw the Professor give her a glance of slight surprise.

"Won't you go first, Dagmar?" he said. "Dr. Halifax can follow you, and I will  come up in the rear."

She put the lantern into his hand.

"No, go first," she said, with a laugh which was a little unsteady. "No one knows your private haunts as well as you do yourself. Dr. Halifax will follow me."

The Professor took the lantern without another word. He began to descend some narrow and steep stairs. They were carpeted, and appeared, as far as I could see through the gloom, to lead into another passage farther down. Miss Sorensen followed her uncle immediately. As he did so, she threw her head back and gave me a warning glance.

"Take care, the stairs are steep," she said. "Count them; I will count them for you. I wish, Uncle Oscar, you would have this passage properly lighted."

"Come on, Dagmar, what are you lingering for?" called the Professor.

"Follow me, Dr. Halifax," she said. Her hand just touched mine-·it burnt like coal. "These horrid stairs," she said. "I really must count them, or I'll fall." She began to count immediately in a sing-song, monotonous voice, throwing her words back at me, so that I doubt if the Professor heard them.

"One," she began, "two— three—  four— five— six—"

When she had counted to six, she made an abrupt pause. We stood side by side on the sixth step. "Seven is the perfect number," she said in my ear— as she spoke, she pushed back her arm and thrust me forcibly back as I was about to advance. At the same instant, the dim light of the lantern went out, and I distinctly heard the door by which we had entered this narrow passage close behind us. We were in the dark. I was about to call out: "Miss Sorensen— Professor Sorensen," when a horrid noise fell upon my ears. It was the heavy sound as of a falling body. It went down, down, making fearful echoes as it banged against the sides of what must have been a deep well. Presently there was a splash, as if it had dropped into water.

That splash was a revelation. The body, whatever it was, had doubtless fallen into the Neva. At the same instant, Miss Sorensen's mysterious words returned to my memory; "Avoid the seventh step." I remembered that we had gone down six steps, and that as we descended, she had counted them one by one. On the edge of the sixth step she had paused, had pushed me back, and then had disappeared. The Professor had also vanished. What body was that which had fallen through space into a deep and watery grave? Miss Sorensen's mysterious remark was at last abundantly plain. There was no seventh step— by this trap, therefore, but for her interference, I was to be hurled into eternity.

I sank back, trembling in every limb. The horror of my situation can scarcely be described. At any moment the Professor might return, and by a push from above, send me into my watery grave. In my present position, I had no chance of fighting for my life. I retraced my steps to the door of the upper laboratory and felt vainly all along its smooth, hard surface. No chance of escape came from there. I sat down presently on the edge of the first step, and waited for the end with what patience I could. I still believed in Miss Sorensen, but would it be possible for her to come to my rescue? The silence and darkness of the grave surrounded me. Was I never to see daylight again? I recalled Madame Sorensen's face when she said "farewell"; I recalled the passion of despair in Miss Sorensen's young voice. I had touched secrets inadvertently with which I had no right to meddle. My death was desired by the invincible and the merciless— of course, I must die. As I grew accustomed to the darkness and stillness—  the stillness itself was broken by the gurgling, distant sound of running water— l could hear the flow of the Neva as it rushed past my dark grave.

At the same moment the sound of voices fell on my ear. They were just below me— I felt my heart beating almost to suffocation. I clenched my hands tightly together -surely the crucial moment had come— could I fight for my life?

The professor's thin, polished tones fell like ice on my heart.

"We had better come back and see that all is safe," he said. "Of course, he must have fallen over, but it is best to be certain."

"No, no, Uncle Oscar, it is not necessary," I heard Miss Sorensen say. "Did you not hear the sound—  the awful sound— of his falling body? I did. I heard a splash as it fell into the Neva."

"Yes, I fancy I did hear it," answered the Professor, in a reflective voice.

"Then don't come back—  why should we? It is all so horrible—let us return to the drawing-rooms as quickly as possible."

"You are excited, my dear— your voice trembles— what is the matter with you?"

"Only joy," she replied, "at having got rid of a dangerous enemy— now let us go."

Their voices died away— I could even hear the faint echo of their footsteps as they departed. I wondered how much longer I was to remain in my fearful grave. Had I the faintest chance of escaping the doom for which I was intended? Would Miss Sorensen be true to the end? She, doubtless, was a Nihilist, and as she said herself, they received no mercy and gave none. My head began to whirl— queer and desperate thoughts visited me. I felt my nerves tottering, and trembled, for a brief moment, for my reason. Suddenly a hand touched my arm, and a voice, clear, distinct, but intensely low, spoke to me.

"Thank God, you are here—  come with me at once— don't ask a question— come noiselessly, and at once."

I rose to my feet

Miss Sorensen's hot fingers clasped mine— she did not speak— she drew me forward. Once again I felt myself descending the steps. We came to the bottom of the sixth step.

"This way," she said, in a muffled tone. She felt with her hands against the wall— a panel immediately gave way, and we found ourselves in a narrow passage, with a very faint light at the farther end. Miss Sorensen hurried me along. We went round a sort of semi-circular building, until at last we reached a small postern door in the wall. When we came to it she opened it a few inches, and pushed me out.

"Farewell," she said then. "I have saved your life. Farewell, brave Englishman."

She was about to shut the door in my face, but I pushed it back forcibly.

"I will not go until you tell me the meaning of this," I said.

"You are mad to linger," she replied, "but I will tell you in a few words. Professor Sorensen and his wife are no relations of mine. I am Olga Krestofski, suspected by the police, the owner of important secrets: in short, the head of a branch of the Nihilists. I shammed illness, and assumed the name under which I travelled, in order to convey papers of vast importance to our cause, to Petersburg. Professor Sorensen, as Court physician, has not yet incurred the faintest breath of suspicion; nevertheless, he is one of the leaders of our party, and every individual with whom you dined to-night belongs to us. It was decreed that you were to die. I decided otherwise. There was, as you doubtless have discovered, no seventh step. I warned you, and you had presence of mind sufficient not to continue your perilous downward course beyond the edge of the sixth step."

"But I heard a body fall," I said.

"Precisely," she replied; "I placed a bag of sand on the edge of the sixth step shortly after my arrival this morning, and just as I was following Professor Sorensen through the secret panel in the wall into the passage beyond, I pushed the bag over. This was necessary in order to deceive the Professor. He heard it splash into the water, and I was able to assure him that it was your body. Otherwise he would inevitably have returned to complete his deadly work. Now, good-bye— forgive me, if you can."

"Why did you bring me here at all?" I asked.

"It was your only chance. Madame Sorensen had resolved that you were to die. You would have been followed to the ends of the earth; now you are safe, because Professor and Madame Sorensen think you are dead."

"And you?" I said, suddenly. "If by any chance this is discovered, what will become of you?"

There was a passing gleam of light from a watery moon— it fell on Miss Sorensen's white face.

"I hold my life cheap," she said. "Farewell. Don't stay long in Petersburg."

She closed the postern door as she spoke.

_________________

H Bedford-Jones wrote numerous short-story series involving a single theme or idea, and following it through history; such as The Sphinx Emerald , Arms and the Man, Clippers and Men, Ships and Men, etc. This is story 31 of the Ships and Men series. ("Captain L B Williams" was another H Bedford-Jones pseudonym!)

4: Stormalong

H. Bedford-Jones
and Captain L. B. Williams

1887-1949

Blue Book, July 1939.

JACK RANKIN was a hard man, tall, frosty-eyed and short-tempered. "Stormalong" Rankin, they called him, and for reason aplenty. He drove his ship by the shortest distance between two points, and be damned to wind, weather or human life; but that made owners' profits and his own. Under him the Naiad was the fastest ship afloat, on the long haul.

In those days men swore by all sorts of things, for the new things were unproven, and the old things wore well; Stormalong Rankin swore by sail and oaken bottom and clipper bow and a crew worked to the bone. He had no use for steam and paddles, for newfangled iron ships; and a large share of the world agreed with him. He could outsail any steamer going, and was not alone in that. Any good clipper ship could do the same.

Stormalong was no man to love, but he was a man who did things. When he walked into the Tontine House bar and found that Tommy Lund was made captain of the Porpoise and was posting a notice about letters for Canton,— all mail went from the Tontine House in those days,— he laughed long and loud.

"Why, Tommy was mate under me, and no damned good!" says he. "So it's Cap'n Lund now, is it? Master of the Porpoise hybrid— square rig and paddle-boxes! Lord save us, what does he want with mail for Canton and the China Seas? Those new ships of iron can make no speed either by canvas or by steam! Knock a hole in 'em, and it's like knocking a hole in a crockery teapot afloat in a tub! When's Tommy pulling out?"

Somebody told him; they were crowded about him thick as flies, every one with an ax to grind, for Stormalong was a great man among shipping-men. Here in New York, where shipping was growing more important than along the New England coast, he could grant many a favor or pull many a rope.

"What?" he rapped out. "Two days ahead o' me? Why, I'll beat him to China and meet him outbound before he drops his Foochow pilot!"

Just then, in came Cap'n Lund. The two shook hands, with a deal of apparently good-natured talk and hearty words and back-slapping; and indeed Lund was a man of great good humor. A big fellow, unruffled and easy in his ways, with a wide, generous mouth and a cautious eye. None of your dandies like Stormalong; no attempt to impress the world with his explosive energy, by dint of heady oaths and hot barking words.

He leaned over the bar, and the two had a drink together; and he shook his head slowly when Stormalong rallied him about his hybrid tub on a China voyage.

"True enough," said he in his calm way. "But you and I are different, Cap'n Rankin; and owners are different, and ships are different. You're running for tea and a record passage and crack on everything! Quick results and quick profits."

"Aye, and results show," said Stormalong.

"My owners are a new outfit," went on Lund. "No tea for us, no racing and killing crews; make haste slowly— that's the word. Cargo space and safety. And at that, we'll make a fast passage."

"With engines and coal to lug, and an iron bottom?" The derisive laughter of Stormalong lifted high and sharp. "Not a chance, Cap'n Lund, not a chance!"

"Would you come along to the Brooklyn yards and look over the Porpoise?" Lund rolled an inquiring, amiable eye. "There's a new idea or two going into her."

Stormalong looked at his fat gold watch, and nodded; and they went off together. The men at the bar looked after them, and one nudged another:

"There goes the devil, and polite as could be!"

"Ah, but Tommy Lund's no fool," said the other....

He was no fool, indeed; still, he scarcely reckoned what evil could fill a man's heart, himself being without envy and malice. Captain Rankin had discharged him as mate, railing at him for a slow stick and a softy unable to work the crew properly; and any man who wrongs another comes to hate that other. Lund was, in reality, anxious to win the esteem and admiration of Stormalong; but when they came to look over the rebuilt Porpoise as she took in cargo, even his well-argued convictions were shaken by the positive, aggressive derision of Rankin.

"Nothing new about iron ships," he said. "They've been tried out for years, and they're coming into use more and more—"

"Ha!" broke in Stormalong. "They have their points, but they're no good. Too heavy. Sails can't drive 'em; your dinky engines can't drive 'em. Takes too much coal to drive the blasted engines, and coal costs money. That eats up the profits. It's been demonstrated over and over."

"Sure," admitted Cap'n Lund, rubbing his broad, smooth chin uneasily. "Sure. But this is different. She's barque-rigged; we'll use the paddle-wheels only to increase her speed and in emergencies."

"Barque-rigged she is," Stormalong agreed contemptuously. "Think of the Naiad with her canvas rising to heaven! Think of how she foams along! You'll never equal her speed with this barque. Besides, what have you got under your feet? An iron pot, that's all. Strike a spike of coral, and she'll sink before you can get your pumps greased!"

"No, no, Stormalong!" protested Cap'n Lund, and pointed to the ship, whose holds were fast filling. "Something new there. A double bottom, against just such an emergency; more, the holds are divided off into compartments by bulkheads."

"What?" rasped Stormalong. "Bulkheads? Never heard of such a thing!"

"You will in future. Suppose the worst happens, a hole punched in her side or even an outbreak of fire. That compartment is closed off by iron doors. The water can't spread. The fire can't spread. Why, it'll change all shipbuilding!"

Stormalong uttered a roaring laugh.

"Hark, my lad! Theories are all very fine, and not worth a damn. Double bulkheads and a double hull— that'd be better yet, eh? Weight! There's your answer. To make this weight forge through the water at even six knots, you'd need double engines and ten times the canvas!"

LUND'S BLUE EYES took on an anxious, doubtful look. Cap'n Rankin pointed now to the forward deck with its pronounced camber, with its iron rails instead of the usual bulwarks.

"Look there! Your hands will be awash like a halftide rock all the time!" he exclaimed in scorn. "No bulwarks at all to fend off the seas!"

"Nor to hold 'em aboard." Lund brightened a trifle. "There's no earthly reason for bulwarks, except old custom. And there's every reason against them. Think of your own Naiad! Her deck's like a swimming-pool half the time; when she gets a bit of a list, the load of water tends to keep her from righting. But here— well, the Porpoise will deserve her name in heavy weather. The water will be gone as soon as it comes aboard."

"And your men washed away with it," Stormalong rasped. "No, no! You've got a crazy thing here. Not to mention the compass trouble in an iron ship."

"That'll be taken care of, never fear."

"Aye, I've been aboard iron ships before this, my lad; I know all about your deviation figuring and so forth," stormed on Cap'n Rankin contemptuously. (And months later, Lund was to recall this remark at a bad moment.) "What's this I hear about you being bound for Chefoo? Thought it was Canton?"

"No; the orders are to make Chefoo first," said Lund. "A lot of coal to unload there."

"Why, I'm making Chefoo first myself!" Rankin exclaimed, staring.

Lund broke into a hearty laugh.

"Not first, Cap'n! Not ahead of me, anyhow."

"You don't seriously expect to equal my time outward bound?"

"No; I should beat it easily," Lund said amiably. "Your fastest day's run isn't your average, by a good deal; but my average will be brought up to a steady mark, thanks to the engines. You know the old fable about the tortoise and the hare."

"Aye, and I know the sea, and I know folly from wisdom, and I'll put a thousand dollars on it!" Rankin cried. "A thousand or ten thousand on clipper bow against straight stem, on fact against untried theory!"

Tommy Lund was easy-going, slow to wrath, never a man to wager; but the rasping voice and the edged words got under his skin. It is a hard thing to chart a clear course against headwinds of derision.

Hot words went to worse, and caution plunged overboard. There on the wharf the bets were made— money in the bank, master's share of the forthcoming voyage, credit pledged and reputation at stake. Old Israel Long, one of Cap'n Lund's owners, came up in time to write down and witness the bets. He pleaded against the folly, but it was hot blue eyes against lurid black ones, with hatches ripped off old dislikes, a crowd ringing in the two captains and eager voices whooping up the bets. No backing out now, and devil take the loser!

BOTH SHIPS were to sail in two days. The two captains, impressive in their blue broadcloth, their stovepipe hats, calmed down and shook hands and smiled at parting. Old Israel Long, standing at Cap'n Lund's elbow and watching Stormalong stride off with a gang of admirers at his heels, groaned under his breath.

"Thomas, Thomas, you're a terrible fool for taking chances!" said he, shaking his head anxiously. "There's many a mishap in a long voyage."

"Poor seamanship, many mishaps," said Cap'n Lund tersely.

"Tut-tut! The point is, man, your ship's not proven. Stormalong may be right about the weight; if so, where are you?" Old Israel wagged his head again. "Proud of your iron ships and engines, aye! But pride's a mortal bad thing at times."

Damn all croaking! Lund tried desperately to forget the words, and could not.

THE TWO CRAFT got away the second morning at ebb-tide, with a brisk sou'-wester blowing. This meant head-winds for the sailing-vessel; but the Porpoise, spouting black smoke, paddled out into the East River and headed for the Narrows. As she passed Gibbet Island, where pirates had once hung in chains, the foremast lookout reported the Naiad under way, but not following the steamer.

Stormalong Rankin, instead, was heading through Hell Gate with everything set to the sou'-wester.

Lund, pacing the quarterdeck, felt a thrill of admiration for the man. Only supreme seamanship could work such a large vessel safely through Hell Gate; even the Sound was not exactly comfortable for a square-rigger in a gale. But he knew Rankin would win to sea around Block Island, and be on equal terms when they started the long leg down to Rio.

Holding within sight of each other almost every day, the two ships made good runs to the equator, crossed, and picked up the fresh southeast trades. Neither skipper was doing any pushing. Lund spent long days getting his deviation-card in shape, with scrupulous exactness.

With a hull and engines of iron, which readily take on magnetism and themselves become magnets, every projecting point about the vessel became a pole of these projected magnets. He knew the danger here. On the different directions of the ship's head, these various projections changed position relative to the compass needle, which was affected by the dominant force. Thus, for each heading, was a different deviation.

Determining these deviations by observations, tabulating them, testing them repeatedly, Lund finally finished the job. With a deep breath of relief, he at last tacked his deviation-card to the inside of the chart locker door, handy for applying the readings when he laid off his course. It was done, and well done!

So was the first leg of the voyage. Almost neck and neck, they raised the bold headland of Cape Frio, forty-four days from New York; then it was crack on all sail, stoke the fireboxes, and race for the entrance!

The sea breeze ended with ebbing day, however. When Lund made the entrance islands of Pai and Mai, the Naiad was far to the rear, her canvas flapping dismally; and there she was forced to anchor all night. The Porpoise, her paddles threshing mightily, churned past Sugar Loaf to port, answered the hails of Fort Santa Cruz to starboard, and dropped anchor below Cobras Isle, where the port doctor came aboard. The first leg was won.

With daybreak, the land breeze was striking off with strong gusts, with squalls of wind and rain and peals of thunder. Half an hour passed, then an hour; and out of the storm-wrack loomed a tall ship coming in under topsails and reefed foresail. Word of the race and the wagers had by this time spread through all the assembled ships and along the waterfront; when Stormalong brought his vessel to anchor, a burst of cheers from the Porpoise was echoed from the harbor.

Nothing lost, nothing won; after four days the anchors were weighed together, and both ships passed out to sea and headed on down the long reach south.

Off the Plate River they ran into a strong pampero. Severely battered, and pushed far out to sea, they were separated and lost to sight of each other. After passing the parallel of 40 S., however, Lund one morning picked up the Naiad's canvas. He laughed softly to himself, and served out extra grog with a glad hand. He had not pushed things a bit, but he had picked up that lordly craft handily; this told him all he needed to know.

They hung in company now, preparing for heavy weather off the Cape; the best canvas was bent; new running-gear was rove; thick clothing was broken out. And ahead was coming the first test. Lund made ready for it coolly, methodically.

They had a brush with a twister off Patagonia, but stayed together to the Falklands, and thence to Staten Island, lying east of Tierra del Fuego. And there came separation; the Porpoise, under easy canvas and spouting smoke, steamed boldly for the strait of Le Maire.

Stormalong Rankin luffed up and hesitated, as he watched his rival head for the inward passage. For once, however, prudence ruled his action. Baffling winds, treacherous currents, tremendous rises and falls of tide, denied those iron straits to him. With an oath he filled away and headed around the Cape.

Before evening he caught it, as mist raced down from the southwest. All hands were frantically summoned, light sails clewed up and handed, topsail halyards let to by the run, reef tackles hauled out, buntlines and spilling-lines bowsed tight. With a blast of sleet like grapeshot, the gale burst.

Gale followed gale as the days passed. It was three full weeks ere Rankin could work up into the meridian of 80 W. and into fair winds. Then, with all the canvas she could stagger under, the Naiad bore for Valparaiso.

And all this while the Porpoise had been aground off Punta Arenas.

WHEN LUND came into Valparaiso harbor, he was in despair, had completely given up hope. When he learned, from the bumboatmen who came aboard, that the Naiad had left port a fortnight earlier, he plucked up heart. A lead of two weeks was bad, yes, but he knew his Pacific; he had been all the while gambling on the Pacific, and the long stretch to the Sandwich Islands, and the longer one beyond. Many a time had he made the run to Chefoo and Canton, and only once had he gone bowling ahead with never a bad break to stay his ship. This time he was prepared for breaks.

He put in to anchorage and began to discharge mails and cargo. Going ashore with the port doctor, Lund was greeted on the pier by a smiling Chileño who announced himself as a runner from the Old House at Home, a sailors' boardinghouse at the foot of Maintop Hill, close to the waterfront.

"What's this?" growled Lund as the man handed him a dirty envelope.

"It's known you were coming, Cap'n Lund. Two men have been in jail for the past few days; they paid me to watch for you."

Lund tore open the envelope and took out a letter, crudely scrawled in pencil:

Captain Lund of the Porpose.

Sir and good friend to sailermen:

We be two hands in Jale here. The sojers treat us terble. Work all day and bean soup with no beans. Black bred and coffee which aint coffee. We be starving and dying from hard work and no food. We skipped from the Rainbow ship but we beg to God that Captain Lund will bale us out and will work our heads off if he helps us leeve this dam hole which aint fitten for american sailer men. Respkfuly,

Sam Peak

Hook Avery.

Lund smiled grimly as he stuffed the letter into a pocket. He had been a foremast hand; he knew how easy it was for a seaman to get into jail in South American ports. And several men were sick aboard, too weak to work; he could use two good hands.

He went about his shore business, taking no end of chaffing from the consul and others. Stormalong Rankin had done a lot of bragging upon unexpectedly finding himself ahead of the Porpoise after all; and news of the sail-steam race was everywhere. Upon learning from a consul that the Rainbow, a Canton-bound clipper, had actually been here and gone a few days since, Lund arranged for the release of the two seamen in question, conditional on his getting them out of Valparaiso at once.

He went to the carcel and was admitted by a surly police official. In the patio of the jail he halted to await his men. They were in plain sight. At the far end of the rectangular jail yard was a medieval treadmill. Working this full steam, pumping water for the day's use, were a score of seamen.

The officer rapped out an order and the mill stopped turning. Twenty ragged, emaciated, woebegone seamen of all colors and nationalities stared hopefully; two names were called; and two men, bearded and unkempt, stepped down from the torture-wheel. Another order, and the others resumed their weary journey to nowhere.

The two half-starved figures stumbled forward with wild words of rejoicing. Lund broke in upon them gruffly.

"Get your gear, if you have any, and report aboard the Porpoise. Never mind any thanks. Get going."

It was evening before he came aboard himself, and spoke with the mate.

"Did those two rascals come aboard?"

"Aye, sir. Reg'lar packet-rats and no mistake. Scum, but they work willing."

"Give 'em slops and put 'em at easy work. When they get some meat on their bones, turn 'em over to the engineer; he needs some more help in the stokehole."

The two were fed and clothed from the slop-chest and set to work. They worked with pathetic eagerness; and presently Captain Lund forgot the whole matter.

NOW, heading north, he drove the Porpoise for all she was worth. Next port of call was Acapulco, the galleon port of Manila ships. Ten days behind, there; he was gaining a bit, better than he had expected.

Off again in record time, every man aboard throwing himself into the work with vim and energy. On across the Pacific, with the northeast trades blowing them toward the Sandwich Islands. Not until Honolulu, which although not the capital of the islands was the harbor most frequented by ships, would they know how far behind they were.

THE MORNING they stood in past Diamond Head, Lund was nervously pacing the deck; and the crew was on high tension. And there, slap before them, was the Naiad at anchor. One almost incredulous look, a yell from the man aloft, and then wild cheers burst from the whole ship. Lund flushed happily, exultation in his heart. Caught her, by the Eternal! But the strain had told on him, and he was weary of it.

Ashore, the two skippers met, shook hands, laughed together.

"What happened to you?" inquired Lund. "You led me handsomely at Valparaiso."

Stormalong, who was immaculately tricked out in his best shore rig, grimaced but seemed not at all cast down. "Head-winds, where the trades should have been, for one thing," he rejoined philosophically. "A touch of bad luck, that's all. I haven't begun to fight yet, Cap'n. The pull will come from here on to Chefoo."

Lund nodded.

"If you want it so, yes. But it's my race. Say the word, and we'll call off the bets. I've proved my points; my ship's got the heels of you; and when we strike the China sea it'll be typhoon season. Say the word, and the race is off."

Rankin's face darkened ominously under a rush of blood.

"Whining, are you?" he rapped out. "Trying to crawl out of it, you dog! Not much; save your fine words for the owners. I'll beat you and your misbegotten iron pot to Chefoo, and you'll pay through the nail. Good-by, and bad luck to you!"

He swung off and away, leaving Lund astounded by this revelation of snarling hostility. Until this moment, he had never regarded Stormalong as an actual enemy; he had never thought Stormalong so regarded him. He had not viewed the race, indeed, in any light of personal vindictiveness. But now his eyes were open.

He went back to the ship with a blaze in his heart and a blaze in his face and summoned the mate, an angular Yankee with a reputation as tough as his hard-bitten features.

"Push everything," he said savagely. "No shore leave!"

"Aye?" said the mate in sour surprise. "By rights we'd be here a week at the least, with the gear to overhaul—"

"You heard me, Mister!" snapped Lund. "When does the Naiad pull out?"

"Day after tomorrow, I hear."

"Then we sail the morning after she does. See to it."

AS ORDERED, so done. The men grumbled, cursed; but the driving mate got his overhaul done, preparing for the long beat to the China coast. Lund himself inspected the hatches and holds where the coal and the cargo for Chefoo and Shanghai was stowed; the possibility of fire by spontaneous combustion was always a specter to dread. All was well; the hatches were battened, and the Porpoise put to sea one day behind Rankin in the Naiad.

And now it was drive with a vengeance, and a thousand leagues passing under the forefoot— with never a sign of the towering windjammer. Outwardly calm, Lund paced the quarterdeck with uneasy heart. The weather was too steady altogether. If Rankin were bowling along day after day with all canvas drawing, he would walk away with the race. Yet this was unlikely: some days were fast; some were slow; some would be sheer exasperation of light shifting winds, if the average held true. But to the slower Porpoise the long run should mean victory, with the paddles to churn where the wind failed, as now and then it did.

The long leagues slid away with the passing days. And then suddenly, unexpectedly, as Lund and the mate were coming up to take noon sights, with the dangerous Chusan archipelago ahead, a cry droned down from the man aloft:

"Sa-a-il ho! Sail ho! A point off the sta'board bow!"

Lund seized his glass and leaped for the mizzen shrouds. From aloft, came an excited yell, even before he was sure of the white dot breaking the horizon.

"It's her! It's her!"

The Naiad it was, with the wind failing to light, baffling airs; and Lund's heart hammered to the cheers of the men.

But the wind picked up, and the tall clipper clung like a leech now, sometimes hull down, sometimes with her courses rising, sometimes out of sight but ever forging into view again. It was going to be a finish fight; this was certain. And then, hauling up for the northeast promontory of Shantung,— the finish almost in view,— came the final gamble.

SINCE EARLY morning a half-gale had been blowing. Lund, impelled to caution in these waters, furled everything but jibs and upper topsails. About meridian the Naiad began to walk up; with every stitch of canvas bellying taut, she drew up and passed the Porpoise at a good fifteen-knot clip. Lund nodded to the pleading look of the Yankee mate, and the lower topsails were spread; but Stormalong was in the lead now.

Thus, with night and the gale blowing up fresher, they drove in upon the fabled Wohushih, a snarling stretch of rocks and reefs lying off the promontory and stretching far out. The Tiger's Tail, it was called in general. Tiger's Tail Rock itself lay eight hundred yards off the head of the promontory; since it was awash at low water and clearly visible in a heavy sea, he had no misgivings. Junks beating up the coast for Chefoo and beyond never used the treacherous inside passage, for evil spirits dwelt there, and no sane seaman would tread upon the Tiger's Tail, as the proverb had it. A proverb as old as China itself, and this name was probably as ancient too. Evil mists and sudden, unexplainable fogs imperiled all this place, and many a good ship's bones had been picked by the slavering fangs of the Tiger Rocks.

Stormalong Rankin bore straight on, and Lund grimly followed. There were no lights in those days, warding every headland and reef and danger-point on the coast; no warnings at all, but Rankin knew the passage, and so did Lund.

His last fix had shown him he should pass safely to the south of Heilu Tao and Kwa Shih, another nest of reefs and shoals stretching northwestward beyond the Tiger's Tail.

"Are ye going to chance it?" asked the mate, as Lund came from looking at the compass. "A tricky place, with false channels and overfalls and God knows what!"

Lund stopped before the wheel and stared straight ahead. The moon had risen, a pale disk affording just enough light to see surf breaking over a reef.

"Aye," he said. "If Stormalong gets through, we can. It'll save hours of sailing. It means winning or losing."

The mate muttered and went forward. Lund resumed pacing, now and again halting to take a bearing on the black bulk of the promontory looming off to port. At regular intervals the masthead lookout reported the position of the Naiad, and Lund altered course to keep in her track. Northeast Promontory appeared a little closer than it should be; but if Rankin could risk being set in close, so could he.

"What are ye getting for'ard?" sang out Lund to the leadsman, who had been taking a breather in the chains. The man took a cast, and cried out:

"Quarter less three, sir, and shoaling fast!"

Lund sprang to the bell-cord that signaled the engines, and jerked it. The paddles ceased slapping; straining forward, Lund stood listening intently. He knew the locality, knew the chart by heart, and was sure he could peg his position within a few hundred yards.

This, at sea, is plenty of room, but can mean tragedy in narrow waters. Lund turned and leaped suddenly for the chartroom. The devil! He had forgotten—

At the chart locker, he groped blindly. Struck a match, looked, groped again. No sign of it. The tack was gone; the deviation-card was gone! With one wild oath, Lund darted for the deck again. The mate had set the course here—

"Mister! Ah, here you are!" he broke out, as the gangling figure loomed. "When you set this course did you check by the deviation-card?"

"No! The card was plumb gone— I thought you had it."

Then came the lookout's stunning cry:

"Breakers ahead! Breakers!"

"All hands, Mister."

The moment bulked long; an eternity. Lund realized that he had been led into a trap. Off somewhere to starboard in the mist sounded the slatting of canvas, the clattering of yards and blocks, the unmistakable thunder of backed topsails, hoarse orders to let go both anchors, and the heavy splashes as they fell.

Lund cursed hotly, striving to keep panic from his voice, lifted a shout at the mate, who was getting the anchors cleared forward.

"Let go both anchors when you're ready! Bear a hand!"

Getting out those heavy hooks was no simple task. The men labored mightily, but there was scant time. Lund gritted his teeth. Stormalong had rigged his anchors out long ago— had schemed all this!

All in a moment, a long, long moment; the gale was high, but the mists were thinning in the wind. Suddenly off to starboard loomed a small, flat-topped island. Lund choked on the recognition. They were inside Heilu Tao, a mile north of Bluff Point—actually treading on the Tiger's Tail!

WORRIED, incredulous and puzzled, Lund glanced into the binnacle. Then the dreaded cry from both masthead and the mate on the fo'c'sle head:

"Breakers ahead and on the port bow!"

It all cleared, windy sea and brain together, at the tag end of that frightful moment. The mists vanished. There was the Naiad, long bowsprit pointed in the opposite direction, heading into the wind, breasting the tide and overfalls with both anchor-cables taut as bars. Trap or not, Stormalong had come within a hair's-breadth of putting his own ship on the rocks, for the tide raced at full flood.

Lund, aware of his ship being pushed relentlessly, went forward on the jump. He had clear vision now; one glance from the knighthead, and he swung around.

"Belay the anchors but stand by," he ordered the mate, and lifted his speaking trumpet at the second officer, aft.

"Hard up the helm! Port— hard over!"

HERE, PROVIDENTIALLY, was a channel opening— a close shave, but it could be done. He ordered full speed, the paddles began thrashing; to his horror, the Naiad was blotted out again as the mist came swirling down. He raced aft.

The Porpoise, her stack emitting black streamers of smoke that were whipped to ribbons in the wind, thrashed into the narrow gut. She made it, with only feet to spare; the mist whirled thick and thicker. Then a wild cry from the mate.

"Breakers ahead and on the sta'board bow!"

The ship was flying with wind and sea dead astern. There was no sea-room to go about. Astern, the surf thundered.

"Full speed astern! Let go both anchors!" roared Lund, and groaned to himself.

A booming swell rolled up and lifted the vessel like a chip. She struck, she staggered; even the roar of surf was drowned by the grinding of the reef against her iron bottom. Another swell— the screech of scraping iron sounded anew. Then she was floating, listless, all way stopped. The anchors plunged down.

The second mate, the hands who had been working sail and tending yards, left the rigging and gathered in a mute group on the halfdeck. The mate came aft. Lund was calm now, despite the cold sweat on his forehead.

"Furl all sail," he ordered. "Where's Chips? Sound the well. Unlimber the pumps."

He waited, watching the drift of mist all around, until the carpenter came with his soundings.

"Wells are dry, sir!"

Lund, with one deep breath, relaxed.

"Your watch, Mister," he said to the mate. "That double bottom may have weight, but it's proved its worth once more. Wake me up at any alarm."

He went below. Nothing to do now until daylight, when he could determine how completely he was trapped. He could not understand it. His bearings were all off— the mist had ruined his perception, and loss of the deviation-card when it was most needed had put the skids under him completely. To remember the deviations offhand was impossible. He searched the chart locker again, searched everywhere, and found no card. Weary and dismal of heart, he turned in to await daylight.

Morning showed the ship lying among rocks, anchored and riding safely; but one look at the gut through which he had come, and Lund swallowed hard. It was incredible that he should have made that narrow passage in safety. By daylight, he never would have attempted it; last night, he had thought he was on a clear course. There was no clear course at all, in sight. Northward, the surf broke over a curving reef that completely cut him off from the open sea beyond.

AROUND THE END of the Tiger's Tail the Naiad was ratching by means of kedges. Lund watched her, too thankful that his ship was saved, to think about losing the game. Then he turned his glass to the reef on the north side, and examined it with attention. The tide was coming in heavily. He knew where he was, now; he knew every depth of water, even the depth over that reef. If he went at it, the double bottom would be torn clean out of his ship—and he had almost gone at it last night.

"Nothing to do," he said to the mate, "except to work back through the gut and take the long way around. You haven't found that deviation-card?"

The mate worked his lean jaws on a twist of tobacco.

"Well," he said, "I've got my suspicions, and they aint nice. If you was to tell me to foller my own nose—"

"Run 'em down, Mister." Lund gave him a sharp glance. "If you think there was anything— Hello! What's Stormalong up to?"

His attention was suddenly diverted. Under light, uneven airs the Naiad had worked around the island and the reef, but instead of bearing up for Chefoo, had rounded up and was dropping her longboat. Cap'n Rankin, resplendent in blue broadcloth and glossy high-topped beaver, descended into the boat and headed her in among the reef channels.

Lund watched the boat pull in. Presently Stormalong waved his hand, hailed them in greeting, and came in under the side. He clambered up to the deck, and stood looking around, saturnine, darkly handsome, powerful. The Yankee mate, who should have met him at the rail, had vanished completely. He strode aft to Lund, and with a grin shook hands.

"Well, well, Cap'n! You'll have a few days to study the Tiger's Tail, looks like. Maybe you can win back through the gut when the spring rise starts— it comes to seven and a half feet hereabouts. I thought I'd relieve you of the mails and anything else you might have to jettison to lighten ship."

Lund merely laughed slightly.

"Last time we met, Stormalong, I offered to cry quits on the wager. Now I'll offer to double it. Yes or no?"

Rankin shook his head, smiling shrewdly. "Tall talk, tall talk!" he said. "I suppose you'll be sailing right out?"

"Within the hour," said Lund. "And in Chefoo ahead of you."

"Right out, against the wind, eh?" Stormalong chuckled. "Paddles won't do it, Cap'n. You're too low in the water."

"Might be, if you were master," said Lund slowly. "That's the difference between us, Cap'n. Hello!"

The two men swung around. The Yankee mate was coming on the run. He was breathing hard, his eye was alight, and his skinned knuckles were bleeding. He paused to clutch the man Avery from amid a group of watching seamen, and shove him aft.

Stormalong Rankin stiffened a little.

"I GOT IT!" panted the mate, bringing Avery to a halt.

Lund's brows lifted.

"What's the meaning of this, Mister? What have you got?"

"A confession out o' that blighter Sam Peak, what come aboard at Valparaiso! And here's the other blighter. —You, Avery! Hand over that deviation-card! Quick, you dog, or I'll put you in the sickbay!"

Avery shrank suddenly, white with panic. The angry mate reached for him, but with a subdued squawk, he produced the missing deviation-card.

"I found it, sir,"— and he shoved it at Lund. "I found it laying—"

"You lie!" roared the mate. "Cap'n Rankin give you money to lay for us and come aboard and rob us in a pinch! Sam Peak told the whole thing! Git! Down into Cap'n Rankin's boat or I'll take a rope to you!"

Lund fingered the card.

"Well, well! Mighty queer," he said affably, "how things do come out—"

"What d'ye mean?" rapped out Stormalong suddenly. "I warn you, pay no attention to this outrageous lie! Don't dare accuse me of trying to wreck your ship. Tell that to a Board of Inspectors back home, and they'll snatch your ticket!"

Cap'n Tommy Lund smiled.

"I'm not telling anyone anything, Cap'n Rankin," he answered cheerfully. "You're a fine, clever, upstanding man, and many's the time, aboard your ship, I've wished for this day to come."

"What d'ye mean?" demanded Rankin truculently.

"Why, just this!" said Lund, and smacked his fist into the dark face.

Tommy Lund knew better than to bother hitting for the face if he meant to kill, but he just could not help it. Next instant, he regretted his mistake.

His regret did not last longer than it takes to get a black eye and a split lip, for he rallied and tore into Stormalong with both fists, while the yelling men formed a delighted roaring circle. True, Lund drew another black eye to match the first, but that was nothing at all to what Stormalong Rankin drew— absolutely nothing at all.

TEN MINUTES later, beaver gone, blue coat in shreds, and a blob of gore where his handsome face had been, the sorry remains of Stormalong were handed down into his waiting boat, where his two jackals now crouched.

"A pleasant riddance to the lot of you," sang out Lund from the rail. "Douse some water over your skipper and tell him to watch our smoke. Engineer! Steam up?"

"Aye, sir," said the joyful engineer.

"Get below and give us a full head. Mister Mate! Get in them anchors—all hands to stations! Make sail!"

One and all thought for certain that Tommy Lund had gone stark raving mad, but they yelped and obeyed him, swarming aloft. Steam or not, Cap'n Lund had never neglected sail drill; and together, precisely, the topsails were shaken out, then the t'gallants and the courses. Navy style, and a sight to see!

Smoke poured from the stack of the Porpoise, for she had kept up full steam. The anchors were cat-headed, her canvas filled away, and with her twin paddles churning like mad, she presented her broad quarter to the breeze. Like mad, aye; Lund was at the helm, and a madman they all knew him.

For, with every stitch of canvas spread and the engines boiling, the Porpoise was heading slap for the reef across the bight.

"God help us!" said the mate, looking at Lund with stricken eyes. "There's not above twelve feet o' water yonder, and it's steep-to both sides!"

"That's what I figure," said Lund, eyes bright on the reef. His voice blared, and the mate sprang to obey.

MEN LEAPED to tacks and sheets and braces, and the yards were sharply braced. The port, or lee, braces were hauled flat aft and bowsed taut. Then, at the very risk of taking the sticks out of her, Lund put his helm hard up, with the reef almost under her forefoot and men braced against the shock.

With the wind almost dead on the starboard beam, the pressure of wind was suddenly so tremendous that the Porpoise either had to spill her sails, carry them away, or lay over on her beam ends with shattered masts. But the straining rig and canvas held under the thrust of wind; the ship canted over on her side, with the weather paddles stopped, the lee paddles wildly thrashing the water.

And thus, drawing on her beam ends not half the water she would when on an even keel, the despised hybrid eased across the reef with feet to spare.

Shrill yelps of incredulity, then cheers of wild amazed delight, burst from the crew. Lund, battered but grinning, left the wheel and was caught in the rush and hug of the Yankee mate.

"You did it, you did it, sir! By the horns o' Moses, you did it!"

"Just the old pilot-boat trick, Mister," said Lund, still grinning. "What one can do, another can try. By the way, you and I will have a bit of a celebration in Chefoo. I'm not forgetting that I owe you something."

He went to the companionway and there paused, to look back across the water at the Naiad, and the boat pulling for her through the reef-passages, and the soggy unkempt figure in the stern-sheets. Cap'n Lund waved his hand.

"Smart fellow, Stormalong!" he muttered— and with a twinkle in his blackened eye, he headed below.

________________

5: The Temple of the Ten

H. Bedford-Jones

Adventure, March 1921

Chapter 1

The Professor Joins

SEVERN FIRED AGAIN. This time a crinkle of grim amusement drew down the wrinkles about his stark blue eyes. He had dropped one of the Mongolian guides who had led him into the trap. His sun-blackened face was leathery, harsh, very keen. He seemed to ignore the stench of the rotting camel whose body served him as a breastwork. On the hairy fore-shoulder were laid three cartridges— his last three.

This is an age of specialization, as folk are apt at saying without comprehending their own words. Severn was a specialist in Chinese ethnic and lingual affairs. His work on Irano-Sinica was a classic of research. His monograph of six hundred pages on the admirable Chinese system of transcribing foreign words was a monument of philology. He had proved that the anthropomorphic conceptions in ancient Chinese religion were not really anthropomorphic at all.

His specialization led him to spend a year in Chinese Turkestan, working up gradually across the Shamo Desert toward Mongolia, and studying the dialects. This was now the tag-end of the year— a year of ethnic triumph, a year of personal disaster. His wife had died in his arms and lay buried in the Gobi. A collection of Indo-Scythian documents had been burned by lazy camel-men. Severn himself had been partially frozen during a storm on the Hu-shan gravel steppes. A drowned camel had carried down all his instruments and personal belongings excepting a rifle.

Through all this and much more Severn had come unembittered, gravely silent, with the same kindly, searching blue eyes and the same gentle deftness that made men love him. And now, at the year's end, he had come to life's end also.

Severn fired again, and his smile vanished. A miss; he did not like to miss. He had been ten hours without food or water, excepting such as he could get from the humps of the rotting Bactrian. Now he put his remaining cartridges into the magazine and waited. His last day on earth! A bullet snicked through the camel's fore-shoulder, spatted on a boulder and whanged off into space.

Behind Severn lay a frightful Odyssey, begun in the Chinese Turkestan deserts. Now he was somewhere at the edge of the Khangai plateau. At the back was the Gobi, or as the Chinese term it, the Shamo; ahead lay the Sajan range and Lake Baikal. Eastward lay Karakorum, the desolate ruins of the capital of Genghis Khan. Clad in Mongol skins, bearded and haggard, Severn was scarce recognizable as a white man.

He lay in a little hollow among ancient boulders, rising ground all around. It was not a good position, but he had not chosen it. About him rose the rim of the hollow, a circular horizon perhaps a quarter-mile in diameter. Half-way down from the rim, on all sides, were the Mongols into whose trap his treacherous guides had led him. They numbered a dozen.

A strange ending for a man learned in ancient lores and forgotten tongues, a scholar revered by Sinologues and ethnic students alike. Here he lay in a little gray rocky bowl, all his world shrunk down to this; the man of wisdom had become a primitive barbarian who sought only to slay before he himself was slain. Ignorant of the huge riches within his brain, they would murder him for the trifle of worldly pelf he had left, and would leave that brain to the birds. Sheer wasteful destruction— the young world's way.

From here and there about the indrawing circle of death muskets and rifles banged, bullets or slugs whirred above the central figure. Severn lay motionless, waiting until his final two cartridges might tell most effectually.

And as he waited he lifted bloodshot blue eyes to the rim of his little horizon.

Now he saw what he deemed a mirage, a hallucination. For, limned there against the blazing sky, sharp and distinct in every detail, he saw a group of six men who stood and watched him. Five of them were bearded men in khaki, topped by rakish turbans; those turbans gave back a sun-glitter of steel, and Severn knew the steel for the turban-rings of Sikh troopers. Sikh troopers— here! The sixth man was a white man, also in khaki, and all six were calmly gazing down as if awaiting the end of this butchery.

A croaking laugh broke from Severn. The laugh died out in a gasp of startled surprize.

The white man had raised his hand in a gesture of command. At this gesture the Sikhs lifted their rifles and fired. Real men, real rifles! More than this, from other quarters came an answering crackle of rifle-fire. Severn turned his head and saw other parties of men at the rim of the sunken basin, firing downward.

A reechoing swirl of frantic yells broke up from the bouldered waste. Here and there leaped out Mongols, filthy, skin-clad figures. They scurried from here and yon, all trying to reach the cluster of tethered ponies. Some dropped. The rifle-fire from the rim of the bowl was an irregular but continuous crackle.

Severn rose to his feet, trembling a little. He lifted his rifle, forced his hands into steadiness and fired twice; the last brace of his treacherous guides fell to the bullets. Then Severn took out his pipe, took out the pinch of tobacco wrapped in a squill of silk that he had preserved for two weeks, and filled his pipe.

He watched, sucking the unlighted pipe, for he had no light. Three of the Mongols reached the ponies; the others were dead. These three made a frantic effort to escape out of the bowl, but for them there was no escape. Bullets brought down their horses. Bullets killed them as they came to their feet again. That party was wiped out to the last man, mercilessly, efficiently, with a cold precision which startled Severn.

Who were these rescuers? Had he gone suddenly mad, or was this reality?

He sat down on the fore-shoulder of the camel. The three parties of men were coming down from the rim of this little world, but the closest was that which he had first seen. He stared at the white man who strode ahead of the Sikhs— a tall, ruggedly handsome type with the chopped-off angular jaw that bespoke south-of-England blood. Recognition dawned in the eyes of Severn; he had met this man somewhere in the past. Ah, yes! At the Naval Club in Weihaiwei a year or so ago; it seemed centuries. He remembered the chap now.

"Hullo, Kilgore!" he exclaimed as his rescuer came up. "You haven't a match, have you?"

"Upon my word— it's Severn!" Kilgore's hand shot out. "Man, I didn't recognize you! Where's the rest of your crowd?"

Kilgore produced a match-box. Severn lighted his pipe and answered curtly—

"Dead."

"No, not these chaps." Kilgore frowned slightly. "I mean the party you went up-country with; Mrs. Severn, the Jansen brothers and old Tom Fellows the botanist. No word has come through from any of you for months. I never dreamed you were up this way. At last reports your expedition was around Kashgar."

Severn met the warm smile of Kilgore with impassive features. Then he kicked at the rotting camel twice.

"This," he said reflectively, "is what's left. And me."

Kilgore started. The profound melancholy of those words affrighted him. He guessed that Severn was going to pieces inside, breaking up fast; it was a crucial moment. The wrong word, the wrong tone, and Severn would go mad, shoot himself, snap somewhere. Only such a man as Kilgore would have guessed this, for Severn appeared quite steady.

The Canadian— for such Kilgore really was— snapped out an order and his five Sikhs went on to join their advancing fellows. Then he produced a cigaret and lighted it. His words came fast, but not too fast, getting swift impact on Severn's brain.

"Our scouts heard the firing this morning, and we came ahead. Surrounded the place, of course; if any of these chaps had gotten away, would have been bad for us. Confounded lucky thing we've met you, Severn. You're the one man I know who might solve the enigma we're up against— the Temple of the Ten Dromedaries. We'll seize it, of course, but none of us are in your class, and we'd only waste the greatest opportunity an ethnologist could have. If you could come along with us, now— oh, hello! Here are my companions in crime."

Severn looked up. Curiosity was already rising in his brain; he was steady now, in control again, and the critical instant was past. To join the two men came two others; Severn saw that there were a score of Sikhs engaged in rounding up the horses of the Mongol raiders, and all had been led by Kilgore and his two companions.

Severn was introduced to Day, a huge, cheerful American, and to Sir Fandi Singh, a Rajput gentleman, bearded and swart. An odd company, he thought. And before much speech had passed among them, Severn spoke his curiosity. Kilgore was handing about a canteen of lukewarm water as if he were quite unaware that Severn was perishing of thirst.

"How on earth did you fellows come to be here— with these Sikhs?"

There was a general smile, and Kilgore made off-hand response.

"Oh, we expect to reach the Temple of the Ten in a day or so. Let's get out of this devilish hot bowl and back to the horses. We can talk then in some peace."

They walked back toward the rim by the way Kilgore had come, and in silence. Severn, safely over that tremendous shock of meeting white men in his present circumstances, was already afire at thought of Kilgore's words and their implications. Why not? He had heard of the Temple of the Ten Dromedaries; every one in Mongolia had heard of it, a place fabulous as the palace of Kubla Khan. The tales about it would have done credit to the Arabian romancers; singing fishes, purple grass, magic and wonders innumerable! Severn, like other men of fact, had ignored the tales, taking them for fiction pure and simple.

Day produced chocolate and Severn seized it eagerly.

"Do you mean to say," he demanded between bites, "that this place does exist?"

Kilgore gave him a sidelong glance and smiled in satisfaction.

"We've been there— at least Fandi Singh and I have. We're going back. These chaps who tried to pot you were members of the temple tribe. Their own name for the place, by the way, is Darkan."

A singular light blazed up in the eyes of Severn.

"Darkan!" he murmured. "That is extraordinary!"

Kilgore smiled again, as if he had calculated the effect of this word.

The four men went on in silence. At the crest of the depression they sighted the horses, waiting at a little distance. Day placed a whistle at his lips and blew a shrill blast. The horse-guards brought forward the animals, while the Sikhs began the ascent from the basin.

Severn glanced around, his eyes sparkling.

"Where is your baggage train?" he demanded. "Your camels and—"

"They come to meet us at Darkan," said Kilgore. "They are in charge of Sheng Wu, a Chinese political agent and a most efficient man; he has an escort of fifty Manchu horsemen. Now, we'll camp here until night; do you want to clean up first and sleep afterward?"

"By all means," rejoined Severn.

The Sikhs assembled, and Severn sahib was introduced; they were delighted at having rescued him, grinned and jested like boys, proud of their work. The last four to arrive bore two Mongol bodies, which they laid down. Kilgore beckoned to Severn.

"Here's a surprize for you! Did you ever see Mongols like these?"

Severn stood over the two bodies, astonished. They were totally unlike the usual men of the steppes, except in the common denominator of dirt. The complexions were clear, the death-fixed eyes were gray, almost without obliquity. The frontal measure was very wide.

"Broad, high brow— benevolent-looking ducks!" said Day. "But it's all in looks. They are large men, eh? No bow-legged little Tatars!"

"I think their language is a compound of Russian and Mongol," added Kilgore. "Can you make anything of their race, Severn?"

The latter nodded thoughtfully.

"It's quite clear," he observed. "The type has turned up before— descendants of the Russian sect of Starovertsi, or 'old believers,' who came here from Russia in the eighteenth century and were swallowed up by the Mongol Kirgiz hordes. Quite clear."

Day stared hard at him for a moment, then clapped him lustily on the shoulder.

"You win, professor! I take off my hat to you. Come along, now— Fandi has raided our haversacks for a shirt and pants, and we'll spare you enough water for a shave—"

In effect, camp had been made while they examined the two bodies. It was a simple camp; no fires, since "they hadn't de quoi," little water, no shelter. It was the camp of men who are staking everything on one swift, sure stroke.

Severn was aided to bathe and shave, none grudging him the precious water. Enough odd garments were found to clothe him. When the job was finished, he was staggering with mental and physical weariness and reaction— but he looked and felt like a new man.

"You'd better eat no more until after you've slept, old man," said Kilgore. "Here you are; curl up in this hollow and I'll fling a coat over you. I presume you'll throw in with us, what?"

Severn lifted his face to the clean sky, and uttered his first sane laugh in months.

"With all my heart!"

Chapter 2

Severn Understands

IN THIS sai, this driven waste of glacial gravel, there was no timber. The three friends sat about a burner of solidified alcohol, brewing tea; Severn slept near by; the Sikhs were making their evening meal from emergency rations.

"That chap," and Day nodded his head toward the sleeping Severn, "is a fine man, Kilgore. Wonderful! If I'd been in his place— well, I'd have gone off my head long ago."

"He's lost everything in life," said Kilgore thoughtfully. "If he pulls out sane, and has something given him to live for, he'll still be a great man in the world. We'll give him the something— additions to his science."

Fandi Singh frowned slightly and fingered his curly beard.

"What was that you told him about Darkan?" he questioned. "Why did it affect him, and what mystery is there in it?"

Kilgore smiled.

"He'll tell you himself—he's stirring now. It's a philological puzzle, that's all. Exactly the thing he needed to buck him up."

Severn came to his feet and joined them. Sleep had made a new man of him. He stood gazing at the three, a shadowy, gentle smile on his lips.

"I don't believe I've thanked you fellows," he observed. "I am grateful, you know—"

"Oh, sit down and forget everything," said Day in his roughly genial way. "Say, Fandi Singh wants to know about that Darkan stuff! What is there about it so blamed queer? I don't see anything curious in a Mongolian name."

Severn chuckled, sat down, took the cigaret Kilgore handed him, and inhaled the smoke with avid delight.

"It's an Old Turkish word, not Mongol," he said.

"Perhaps it was derived from Uigur. It's been carried all over Asia and Europe— Astrakan, or Hajji Tarkan, is a sample. You chaps staggered me with the news that this temple really exists, and that word may give a clue to its origin. For years there has been a philologic battle over it. It means, in effect, 'endowed with authority.' "

"Any connection with the Chinese word ta-kan?" queried Kilgore.

"The same word. The ancient Chinese pronunciation was dar-kan. It's often written with an x, like the name of the last Ming general, Koxinga; but the letter is always intended for the spirant surd. Some cheerful fool put out that ta-kan stood for Great Khan, yet the old pronunciation, as well as the transcription, shows its real meaning."

Kilgore winked slyly at Sir Fandi. It was evident that Severn was himself again.

"The water's hot," he announced. "Tea, Day! Can't give you much to eat, Severn; we're on emergency rations. Make the best of things as they are. By the way, what do you know about the Darkan temple?"

"Rumor only. Nothing definite."

"We'll sketch things for you, and then be on our way, eh?"

"Good. Call these emergency rations, do you? If you'd been eating what I have for the past few months, you'd say this was a Lucullan feast! Now I know how that old Roman ambassador from Antonius Pius must have felt, when he had wandered over Tibet and Tartary and finally came to the outposts of Chinese civilization. Let's have your tale."

While eating, Severn listened to the facts related by Kilgore.

First, Darkan existed; both Kilgore and Fandi Singh had been there. They were now returning— partly with governmental authority, partly for loot, and partly for humanitarian reasons. Twenty-odd Sikhs had been recruited from discharged Indian army men. Also, Kilgore had with him a machine gun of his own invention.

"Poor Mac was half-inventor, also," he said, "but we left Mac in Kalgan— bad case of septic poisoning from an infected razor. He's safe enough, but in no shape for hard work. And I can tell you we've had hard work getting here! Now for the Darkan material.

"The temple has ten priests, who in turn have ten novitiates. They absolutely rule the tribe who supports 'em, but they're located at some distance from the tribe. The Mongols have a tremendous respect for the temple and won't come near it except on order, and once a year for worship. The novitiates are what might be called outside priests. Ten times a year they send in ten girls to the temple; a nasty business all around, Severn."

Severn nodded.

"I can imagine so. A brutal crowd, heritors of some ancient glory."

"Quite so. But behind the temple and the priests is some unknown person who rules the lot. They call him Esrun. He is highly mysterious, lives apart from the temple at the sacred lake, issues all orders by telepathy, and so forth. Telepathy plays a large part in the whole affair. When the priests need money, they send a telepathic message to this Esrun, who returns orders when and where to go. They go, and find money and jewels waiting for them. Mysterious, what?"

"I don't believe half of that, in spite of you all," said Day cheerfully. "It's a fairy-tale! But I know the priests exist. Money and jewels— bosh! Jewels, particularly Central Asian jewels, aren't worth half what romancers claim. I know!"

Severn's blue eyes were sparkling.

"I suppose you know about this Esrun?" he asked.

Kilgore shook his head.

"No. What do you mean?"

"Esrun is the Mongol designation of Brahma, derived from Uigur Zarua, in turn taken from the Sogdian form 'zrwa, the equivalent of the Avestan 'zrvan. Remarkable!"

Fandi Singh chuckled in his beard.

"You are thinking fifteen centuries away; we are thinking in the present," he said calmly. "These priests of Darkan are degenerate brutes, and very dangerous. If we surprize the temple, we can hold it against all assaults until Sheng Wu comes up with our baggage, camels and assistance. Then we mean to locate this Esrun and clean him out. I think," he added reflectively, "that he is some old Mongol shaman who has found the tomb of Genghis Khan— perhaps the hereditary guardian of the tomb. Who knows? There are some who say that Genghis Khan was no other than Yoshitsune, prince of the Gengi, a Japanese general—"

Day came to his feet.

"With all due respect," he said dryly, "we can sit here and drivel all night about myths and legends. Me, I'm for action! It's getting dark, two of our scouts are already in and waiting to report, and we'd better can the talk. I don't care who these fellows with Bible names are descended from, so long as I get the drop on 'em. Let's go—"

There was a general laugh and immediate assent. Day shrilled on his whistle, and two stalwart Sikhs came up and saluted.

Severn took the reins of the little Mongol horse brought to him and watched in the semi-darkness as Kilgore received reports and issued orders. He had long ago decided that he liked these three marvelous men— the American, the Canadian, the Rajput. They were straight, clean men doing big things. And why? What gods did they serve? He could not be sure about this. He judged for himself that they had little reverence for money; this expedition must have cost more than could be recouped financially.

Not science had drawn them into this dreary section of earth, these weary leagues of stone and sand where indigenous man was lower than most animals. They were not scientists in any sense. The hint came to him with memory of Kilgore's tone in speaking of the periodical convoys of virgins sent to Darkan by the novitiate priests.

Severn, because he was essentially the same type of man himself, saw suddenly with the eyes of Kilgore— and comprehended. There was more to this Temple of the Ten Dromedaries than he knew, more than the rumored tales could furnish. It was a survival of some ancient culture, now an infected plague-sore that poisoned everything around. It was a thing from which the clean mind of a civilized man recoiled, as from some loathsome insect.

To this intuitive feeling Severn reacted instinctively. For a year he had been engaged in a constant struggle against disaster, a constantly failing effort to escape from the overwhelming tide of a remorseless fate. His friends and companions had gone down. His wife had gone down. His painfully gathered scientific materials had gone down. Reduced to the bone and sinew of his own body, everything else destroyed, he found himself suddenly plucked up and thrown into the company of men who had fought through a wilderness outpost of hell— for what? For nothing selfish.

Severn caught his breath. Now he perceived why those Mongols had been exterminated, pitilessly— as one crushes out the loathsome insect in fear and horror. Darkan must be worse even than rumor pictured the place.

Day saluted at an order from Kilgore, blew three sharp blasts on his whistle and turned to Severn.

"We're off, professor! You'd better ride with me. Bad going before morning—we'll strike the sands again."

Sir Fandi Singh, in the saddle of a beautiful white stallion, turned and shouted a cheery farewell and trotted away. After him went fifteen of the Sikh troopers, leaving a bare dozen to follow Kilgore. Severn, already in the saddle, reined in beside Day.

"Where are they off to? We don't seem to be following them—"

Day chuckled.

"Blamed good thing we're not! Anybody following Fandi Singh this night has some job ahead! We've timed our arrival, you see, to coincide with that of the caravan from Urga— the caravan which the novitiate priests bring in every thirty-six days. We're striking Darkan from the south; the caravan comes in from the northeast. So Fandi is going ahead to catch that caravan as it enters the temple valley. He has fifteen men to do the work of fifty, and to ride like-doing it. If any of the Mongols get away on the back trail, they'll raise the tribe. If any of 'em get through, they'll warn the temple priests. Yes, sir, if you want to know what real work is like, you stick with Fandi Singh!"

Severn was silent for a space. Kilgore drew in at his left; the dozen Sikhs came after them, all unhurried, progressing steadily and surely. Presently Severn spoke.

"You have done this with your imagination at work."

Kilgore understood, and assented.

"We've had to look ahead, yes. The priests have a general slaughter of the women every month— clearing the way for the newcomers. As I said, it's a nasty affair, Severn; won't do to dwell on. If we can strike that temple tomorrow night, we'll find only the priests there. Fandi Singh has to halt the Urga caravan and rescue the girls it is bringing."

"Suppose you've miscalculated dates?" asked Severn.

"We haven't miscalculated." The answer was swift, curt, decisive.

"By gad, I like you chaps!" exclaimed the scientist impulsively. "If you've been here before and learned the ropes, good enough; we may get away with it! A lot I care what the end is— you're good company to stick with! But is there any truth in the stories of telepathic control?"

"More than you'd believe," said Day dourly. "More than I believed—at first."

"Then," said Severn, "don't you imagine that the priests will be already forewarned? Give the mystics due credit; they know a lot we don't. Isn't it more than probable that they have received telepathic warnings of your projected expedition?"

Then Kilgore did a singular thing. He made no answer for a moment, but presently lifted his arm and pointed to the blazing stars in the night-sky above them. When he spoke, his voice held a hushed but profound emotion— an emotion strange in so poised a man.

"Can you realize what those twinkling dots are— and not believe in God?" he said softly.

Severn made no response. Perhaps those words went deeply into him.

Chapter 3

The City Of The Whirling Sands

SEVERN lay flat at the mouth of the defile and watched an extraordinary scene from beneath the curving rim of a great boulder.

Before dawn they had arrived at the valley of Darkan. This valley had two entrances, and this southern entrance was guarded by a single Mongol. As Kilgore had explained, the office of guardian was hereditary. Except for this one man, those of the tribe never ventured into the valley of the whirling sands. Severn stared as a lone Sikh advanced, unarmed and openly, in the new light of day. The Sikh held his turban-ring over one wrist. Ahead of him appeared nothing but rock.

"A play for primitive curiosity," said Kilgore, low-voiced, from his position beside Severn. "If it wins— we win. Few men have seen a Sikh turban-ring at work. Watch."

The Sikh came to a pause, stared around vacantly. Among the rocks ahead a single skin-clad figure stood up; the dull glint of a rifle-barrel was visible. The Sikh seemed not to observe it, but stooped and fumbled at the laces of a shoe.

The Mongol stepped forward, rifle held loosely. The Sikh picked up a stone and threw it at some invisible snake or scorpion near by. The Mongol jumped, saw that his fear was groundless, came forward again.

Then for the second time the Sikh stooped to throw. The motion appeared awkward and ungainly. The steel ring left his hand, whirled out in a wide arc, and the Mongol stared at in astonishment. The ring curved through the air, as a flat stone curves from the hand of a boy; it shot upward— and suddenly gave one terrible swoop downward. A cry burst from the Mongol. The razor-edge of that steel ring struck him between neck and body. He vanished from sight.

Day's whistle shrilled. The Sikhs leaped up, ran for the defile. Severn found himself running with them. They came to the lone Sikh rising from above the body of the Mongol, wiping his ring. He saluted Kilgore and smiled.

"Sahib, he was alone."

Day picked up a long tube of bronze which the Mongol had dropped. It was some sort of horn or trumpet. That its note could cover the ten miles of valley to the Darkan temple was an incredible conjecture; yet here was the man, here was the trumpet— naught beside.

"I guess," said Day, "we won't try the thing, eh? Come on."

The horses were brought up, and the fifteen men rode through the defile. This, presently, widened before them, broadened out into a great valley of sand— a yellow waste in the morning sunlight, with yellow mountains to the left, purple-shadowed hills to the right. They halted to make camp beside a pool of clear, cold water in a hollow of the defile.

"Three hours for sleep," said Kilgore calmly. "Then on."

No fires were made. The Sikhs squatted, ate, talked in low eager tones. Severn and Day, who was also seeing this place for the first time, sat and listened to Kilgore, who had an excellent idea of how the land lay.

"Imagine a great Y," said the Canadian, "at the bottom of which we now stand. This lower portion is ten miles in length. Once it was a fertile valley, like those buried cities of Khotan which you have seen, Severn. Under that sand ahead of us lies a city—"

"This is the valley of whirling sands, that the legends tell about?"

"Exactly. At the upper end stands the Darkan temple, the last remnant of that lost city. The right fork of the Y is short, only a few miles in length, and ends in a blank valley—what would be called a box canyon in the States. That is where the magic lake of singing fishes and purple grass lies, the home of Esrun himself.

"The left fork of the Y, to the left of those central hills ahead, is a defile like this one, but it opens into a series of valleys which support the Darkan tribe. Fandi Singh is now at that defile, I trust, waiting to cut off the caravan. He is to join us at the temple two hours after dark. There will be only the ten priests to fear. They have a number of Mongol women who attend to the housekeeping. We'll handle them easily."

Severn gave his companions a reflective glance.

"The whole procedure sounds like a very simple thing, after all. "

Kilgore smiled.

"It would be simple to capture— if one had a plan of the place! Let's get some sleep. Guards out, Day?"

The latter nodded.

"No forage for the horses, though. They're in bad shape."

"There's forage to be had in plenty— at the temple."

Day grinned and settled himself for sleep in the hollows he had dug for hips and shoulder-blades. Severn followed suit and was asleep almost instantly.

When he wakened, it was to hear a low murmur of wonder from the bearded Sikhs, who were one and all staring at the sand-valley before them. Severn sat up and looked at the valley; he remained thus, propped up on his hands, staring blankly.

There was something— a score of things— moving there, far down the valley. At first glance they looked like water-spouts, some of huge size, some very small. They were, of course, whirlwinds of sand; but the odd thing was that they retained their shape and moved in almost regular lines back and forth.

Smiling, Kilgore thrust a pair of field-glasses into the hand of Severn. The latter looked again. Miles away in that clear atmosphere, he saw strange things. Those whirling sands were, in the central portion of the valley, marching in incredible numbers. As they came and went, Severn saw a black mass disclosed for a moment— the ruin of some uncovered house or palace. It vanished again. He saw great toghrak-trees laid bare, and then disappear. He saw buildings come into shape; one looked like the tope of some low-built temple.

A stalwart Sikh came up and saluted Kilgore.

"Sahib, this is the place of whirling sands, of which you told us? Good. Do these sands swallow up men?"

"Like flies," said Kilgore grimly. "We march by the eastern rim of the valley, risaldar. If we have luck we shall get through."

"Wah, Guru!" exclaimed the Sikh. "Then we wet our turbans here."

He gave an order. The Sikhs sprang into activity, tearing from their long turbans strips of cloth for the noses of men and animals— the leather head-bags had been left with the camels. The wet cloths would substitute. Kilgore turned to Severn.

"You see why no Mongols venture into this valley, except at such times as the priests indicate?"

Severn nodded.

"Wind-currents, atmospheric conditions, heat and altitude," he said curtly. "When do we march?"

"Now," answered Day, and shrilled on his whistle.

The fifteen set out. There was but one lead-pony, which bore Kilgore's machine gun. Following the Canadian, they headed diagonally for the eastern edge of the valley, where comparatively few of the sand-spouts were dancing.

It was wearisome going, for the sands were loose and shifting, so that the animals sank fetlock-deep at each step; Severn perceived that they would be most of the day in traversing this ten-mile valley. He had had his fill of this monotonous sand-marching long since. The menace of the whirling pillars of sand did not worry him, nor the gusty winds that filled the air with flying particles. He was inured to all this and as he rode on his thoughts wandered to Kilgore's separation of forces.

That Kilgore had left his camels and baggage to follow under guard of Sheng Wu and the Manchu riders, less from choice than from necessity, was plain enough. Yet Severn did not like it. Such men as the Darkan priests, who kept in full touch with the outside world by means of their novitiates, might easily have heard of the projected expedition; all magic aside, they might have learned of it through natural sources of information. A conviction oppressed Severn's mind that Kilgore had committed a fatal error— but it was not his to speak of it now.

Time dragged. The party made slow progress along the eastern edge of the valley and presently even Severn was eying the sand-spouts uneasily. Large and small, those whirling vortices moved with an incredible speed. Noses of men and animals were muffled in the wet cloths. When one of the smallest pillars shot toward them, a tiny vortex no higher than a mounted man, the riders eyed it grimly and awaited its coming without fear.

It burst upon them. Severn, no less than the others, was profoundly startled by the frightful force of this tiny sand-spout. It was a perfect maelstrom of wind and sand that whirled on them, buffeted and wrenched them, nearly tore them from their saddles. The sand cut through clothes and hairy pelts to the skin. When they emerged from it, they were gasping, staggered, stricken. The captured Mongol ponies broke away and fled, screaming shrilly.

"My——!" croaked Day in dismay. "If one of those big fellows lands on us, good night! That was sample enough for me—"

Kilgore held up his hand and gave a sharp command.

"Forward! At the whistle from Day sahib, break ranks and seek shelter along the rock-ledges. Forward."

They rode on, men and beasts sorely shaken by realization of the danger. To their right stretched abrupt ledges of the red Khangai granite. Kilgore explained to Severn that, although there were no sand-spouts in the valley at night, precisely for that reason had he chosen to attack by day. The priests would be caught completely off guard at dark.

"You have planned boldly," said Severn. The eyes of Kilgore bored into him.

"But not well?"

Severn parried with his gentle smile.

"My dear chap, I certainly am no competent critic. No two generals adopt the same tactics. Let us await the event—"

Day's whistle shrilled; a great whirling pillar had swerved and was sweeping straight toward them as if guided by some infernal intelligence. The horses snorted, broke in panic. Severn, like the others, dismounted and gripped his bridle, clinging close in against the rocky wall that would break the blow.

But not all gained that wall. Two of the horses got the bits between their teeth and with their riders bolted straight ahead, frantic with terror. As if they were standing still, Severn saw the whirling pillar rush for them— then the maelstrom was shattered along the precipice; he found himself engulfed by a dun cloud of stifling sand and gripped hard at the nostrils of his trembling horse. The two fleeing men vanished. Sand covered everything.

It was over presently. Buried to the waist, the men emerged. The pack-horse with the gun was safe. All sign of those two men was gone; blotted out as if they had never been, even the place where they had gone down could not be discerned. The sand-waves, in level wind-riffled billows, had covered them over and were smooth again. To search for the lost men were folly; delay in this place were madness.

"Mount," ordered Day, and the staring men obeyed.

"By the right hand of the Lion," spoke out the stalwart risaldar, stroking sand from his beard, "I think there are devils in this place!"

"So there are, risaldar," said Kilgore coolly. "Are we to fear devils, then?"

The risaldar laughed fiercely, and after him the other nine. They spurred forward again; and as they passed through that vast city, buried under the sands of forgotten centuries, they beheld strange things laid bare by the floating sands. Yet they paused not.

Severn, as he rode, wondered what would happen to them if Sheng Wu and the supporting force did not show up.

Chapter 4

The Hunting Of The Rats

TWO MILES from the junction of the Y-arms at the upper end of the valley of whirling sands the party halted at mid-afternoon. Here, sheltered by a long rock-ledge jutting into the valley, was their last cover. Between them and the temple lay open sand, which Kilgore dared not cross until darkness came to shield them from sight.

With his two companions Severn stretched out on the rocky ledge and trained the glasses upon the Darkan temple. Off to the left diverged the left arm of the Y, a narrowing continuation of the sandy valley. The right arm was hidden from their sight. In between lay a craggy wall of red granite running into the high hills behind. A long green niche in this wall showed the position of the temple.

"It's a grassy spot watered by springs," explained Kilgore. "They keep racing dromedaries and a few horses and sheep there— you'll pick up the wall in a minute. Found it, have you? It's walled, of course. Look to the right end of the green spot for the temple— a low tope. The valley has been filled with sand since it was built, so that the dome is now almost below the level of the sands. Those rocky knuckles out in front have kept the sand from encroaching. In ancient times the temple had a view of the whole valley; now they can barely see this two-mile strip of sand—unless they have watchers posted on the hillside behind. They're too lazy for that, I fancy. They trust to the Mongolian watchman at the southern end, the chap we attended to at dawn."

Severn had picked up the temple, a mass of granite melting into the hill behind. It appeared deserted; but moving specks in the walled pasture indicated habitation.

In the scene was nothing startling. Everything was prosaic, drab, stark mountains and yellow sand, and this abode of man was repellent in its primitive ugliness. Only when one turned to view the marching pillars of whirling sand did the impression come of strangely sinister forces at work. Only when one looked to the far green peaks of the higher Khangais was this impression strengthened by the memory that somewhere hereabouts had been the throne of Prester John, whence the Mongol blast had gone forth to bum half the world. According to Marco Polo, Ghenghis Khan had been a minor chief and later son-in-law of Prester John.

The three returned, joined the Sikhs again, and at sunset the evening meal was made ready; it was a good meal, finishing up the last of the rations. The horses, on their last legs for lack of fodder, were given the last of the water.

"It's a case of root hog or die!" exclaimed Day cheerfully. "Everything we lack is over yonder behind a wall— and we have to get it. So we'll probably get it."

"Exactly." Kilgore produced a cherished English cigaret and lighted it. "Luxuries tomorrow— if we win! Those chaps bring in all sorts of stuff from the outside world. Two to one we find a phonograph in the main temple hall! If they were not a lazy outfit, and if they had put their brains to work, they could have made this place the center of a Mongol horde which might sweep Asia! Tell you what, this place has an influence that's felt as far south as Tibet; but these brutes lacked initiative. The mysterious Esrun—"

Kilgore checked himself and fell into silence. Now, as on one or two previous occasions, Severn was conscious of things left unsaid— hints at unguessed influence behind this expedition. The British ruled in Tibet. These Sikhs were ex-Indian army men. Kilgore's invention of the machine gun had been given to China. Was this one of the numberless outflung protecting arms of the British Empire— not in any sense official, yet none the less with far-reaching political effect— which had been carried into distant places by adventurous men since the days of the East India Company? Severn could find no answer, except in his own imagination. The speculation was interesting, but unsatisfying.

"You're going to wait for some word from Fandi Singh?" he asked.

"No." Kilgore shook his head. The man was perfectly poised as always, yet he was inwardly aflame with a nervous excitement. "We have enough men here to win or lose— and if we fail to surprize the ten priests, we lose. If we win, Fandi joins us and we can hold the temple indefinitely against the tribe— until Sheng Wu arrives."

Once again Severn felt that singular uneasiness over the way in which Kilgore's ultimate plans depended on the arrival of Sheng Wu. But he thrust the thought from his mind.

The sun slipped away and was gone. In the valley the whirling sands had died down and the wind ceased. Rifles were cleaned and loaded. The machine gun was not unpacked, as its chief value was for defense. When the long twilight was merging into night Kilgore gave the word to mount.

To Severn this final two miles presented a choking tedium, for eagerness was dragging at his soul. No word was spoken; the orders had been given and understood beforehand. Presently the horses sniffed the green oasis ahead and their pace quickened. Mounting a sharp rise in the sand, a light appeared ahead—rather, a glow of soft radiance marking the low rounded dome of the temple.

"Luminous paint in the tope," whispered Kilgore. "A lot of tricks like this inside. Come ahead!"

He and Severn quickened their advance, followed by the risaldar. Day halted the others and deployed some of them— for all egress from the place was to be shut off.

The mass of the temple was now clearly visible in the dim starlight; Severn perceived that it was a long, low building of stone, seeming of massive strength. There was no indication of any watch being kept. Indeed, the central gates stood open and unguarded.

"Got 'em!" murmured Kilgore, and dismounted. "This is the hour when they meet to communicate with Esrun. If we're lucky we'll see things."

Handing their reins to the risaldar, Kilgore and Severn advanced on foot. They were in the gateway, and through. Pistol in hand, Kilgore led the way as if he had a perfect familiarity with the temple. Starbeams lighted their advance.

Inside the gates, a courtyard, small and backed by the temple proper. Somewhere afar a Mongol woman's voice rose in shrill, reedy song, followed by a banging of copper pots. This prosaic note drew a smile from Severn; then he followed Kilgore into darkness. A stone passage walled them in.

Kilgore had provided himself with a tiny pocket flashlight, probably for this very need. He flashed the pencil-beam ahead and Severn discerned only stone walls. An occasional door showed itself; then came a flight of descending steps. The Canadian halted.

"We've passed the entrance to the main hall," he breathed. "Nobody there now. Steps wind down, come out directly on council chamber. Not a sound, now!"

In darkness again, Severn followed down the stone steps. His nostrils caught the indescribable reek of temple candles, loose cotton wicks burning but unconsumed. The stairs went on interminably— twenty-five, thirty of them. Then a soft glow of light, and a curtain of some frayed material through which came the light.

To Severn this unhindered access was incredible. Now came the explanation, as Kilgore halted him with a touch— a high, shrill voice, vibrant with excitement, that rose from behind the curtain and spoke a Mongol readily understood by Severn.

"We have obeyed the orders of our lord Esrun. It is three weeks and more since the men of Darkan went forth, led by five novices, to the destruction of the impious white men and their followers. Let us ask our lord if the novices have made report to him."

Severn's eyes widened. Kilgore was glancing at him interrogatively; evidently the Canadian knew little of this language. But Severn dared say nothing. He held up a hand for silence and leaned forward, tensed, awaiting what might come next.

No further sound— blank silence from behind the curtain. Kilgore moved forward and Severn cautiously joined him. They stood at the curtain and looked through the frayed holes therein. And now, for a moment, Severn could not believe the scene before him. He even forgot that frightful news which had just come to his ears.

He gazed upon a company of ten men seated about a table, and on the table were four huge temple candles of soft, painted wax, smoking unheeded. The table was of ancient stone, but neither table nor candles held the stupefied gaze of Severn; it was the men themselves, the ten priests of Darkan, who sat in ungainly temple chairs of cracked lacquer and hugely curving mastodons' tusks, fossil ivory from the northern glaciers.

Each of those barbaric chairs framed a picture of brutish splendor. Red lamas were these men; their robes and hats were of dusky red, highly embroidered and flittering with an abundance of rich jewels— not the usual Tibetan ornaments of coral and turquoise, but blazing stones, cut and polished, set in antique fashion and throwing back the yellow candle-light in a flashing stream of fire. The men themselves were obese, bestial figures of lust and license unchecked. They sat in silence, staring at the candles. Their hair and mustaches and straggly beards were heavily gilded; their finger-nails were long and encased in quills of gold after the old Chinese fashion.

Now Severn saw the brutal faces crossed by a wave of startled emotion, as if into each man's brain had come some perturbing thought— yet no word had been spoken. After an instant one of them spoke, uneasily, as if to affirm the message he had caught.

"Our lord tells me that the men of Darkan have destroyed that caravan, and that our novices report there was no trace of white men. Is this correct, brethren?"

The others assented. Their breathing was heavy, rapid, tense. Severn, who saw that Kilgore understood nothing of what was said, went sick at heart.

The scheme of this infernal Esrun was plain to him now. Esrun had sent out the tribe under five novices, directing them by telepathy to destroy Kilgore's caravan, yet not knowing that Kilgore had left that caravan. The other five novices, no doubt, were bringing the virgin tribute from Urga. And Sheng Wu had been destroyed!

In his agitation, Severn touched the curtain before him. It waved. From one of the Ten broke a cry— and the cry was lost in the crack of Kilgore's pistol.

What came afterward was a mad frenzy of destruction. The priests were armed— and were armed with automatic pistols. They dashed down the candles and scattered. The chamber had other doors. Kilgore's little flashlight was of small avail.

Severn yielded to the lust of the manhunt— running after fleeing figures, shooting, pursuing blindly with sobbing breath and emptied pistol. Dark passages, shots stabbing the obscurity, the stifling stink of smoldering candle-wicks, the tumultous shouts and screams of fighting men—everything was pandemonium, sheer madness! Of what he did or where he went Severn could afterward remember little.

He emerged into the open night, staggering, gasping for breath, and found himself standing in the temple courtyard. The stone building behind was reverberating to shots, shouts, poundings. There welled up the same wild Sikh battle-yell that sounded when the foundations of Mogul mosques were washed in the blood of swine by the hillmen.

"Wah, Guru!"

With swish of torn silk, a figure leaped out past Severn, darted across the open sand. Behind it, in the darkness of some doorway, clanged the echoing breath of a rifle; the figure spun about, tottered, went down.

"Wah, Guru!"

The risaldar came forth, joined Severn and laughed wildly. "Ha, sahib! There was the last of the rats— we have hunted them down well, eh? By the brood of the Lion, this was good work! The women are under guard, unhurt; they were all old cattle, those women. And only two of our men wounded!"

Severn felt suddenly sickened with himself.

"Do not rejoice too soon," he returned harshly. "Sheng Wu and the caravan have been destroyed. "

The risaldar uttered one astonished ejaculation, then fell silent.

Chapter 5

"Ung-Khan, That is to Say, Prester John."

—M. Polo

TWENTY MINUTES after the last shot was fired, Sir Fandi Singh and five men came riding in at top speed, to find the temple already taken.

The ten priests had fallen to the last man; stripped of their jeweled insignia, they were consigned to a burial party at once, and a swift search of the temple was made. The half-dozen Mongolian hags who did the work of the place were confined closely in one of the rear chambers, for they could not be trusted. Except for these the temple was empty.

Traces of other inhabitants were found— gorgeous clothes and jewels of women, for example; one of the hags confessed that these women had been taken to the lake of singing fish the previous night. What this meant was clear enough. Many rifles of Russian and German make were found, with ammunition; and the store-room was filled with luxurious supplies of all descriptions. The main hall of the temple, the place of worship of the tribe, was gaudy with Buddhistic images, many of them the fine jeweled brasswork of Tibet.

"Where's Severn?" asked Kilgore suddenly, missing the scientist.

"Down below," said Day. "Said he wanted to see the dromedaries. There's nothing else to see in that place."

"Very well— post sentries and join us there, immediately."

With Fandi Singh, Kilgore went to the lower chamber in which they had surprized the ten priests. Both men were calm enough. They had no doubt that what Severn had told them was correct— that the caravan had been destroyed by the Darkan tribe. They knew that the telepathic powers of the priests were remarkable, and it was true that only five novices had been with the caravan ambushed by Sir Fandi.

They found Severn standing over that singular stone table about which the ten priests had been assembled. He had lighted more candles, and the chamber was dimly illuminated. It seemed some ancient place of worship abandoned in favor of the upper hall, Chinese fashion; except for the table and chairs it contained only ten pillars spaced at intervals. But these pillars were remarkable.

The lower portions of these pillars were shaped in the form of dromedaries or camels, nearly full size; from the humps ascended stone columns to support the roof. Each pillar had obviously been carved from the living rock, as had the chamber itself.

Severn glanced up excitedly as the two men entered, and raised his hand.

"Look! I want you to notice something— this table! It's been hewn out of the bare stone, you see? And note its position, here at one end of the place. Does that suggest anything to you?"

Kilgore and Sir Fandi shook their heads.

"Not a thing," said the Canadian.

He produced half a dozen packets of English cigarets, procured from the store-room, and tossed them wearily on the table. Severn brushed them aside with a gesture of swift irritation.

"But look again— can't you see that this room is like a church? That this table stands in place of the altar— what was anciently a table indeed? And now look at the under side of it—"

Severn lighted one of the candles, whose soft, pigmented wax stained his fingers a vivid scarlet. Unheeding, he lowered it to the floor. Kilgore, catching a spark of his ardor, came to his knees and looked up at the under side of the table. Sir Fandi, a grim smile under his beard, dropped into a chair and lighted a cigaret.

"Inscription," grunted the Canadian, and rose. "Looks like Manchu and Chinese, what?"

"Mongol, also Chinese," corrected Severn, a flush of excitement in his face. "The Mongol is well preserved— I've been copying it. I can read nearly all of it. Listen!"

Kilgore opened a box of cigarets and flung himself into a chair. Sir Fandi watched the American, still smiling, yet mildly curious despite himself. Severn clutched at the tabletop, reading there what he had copied and written on the stone with red wax:

"The period name is gone, but we don't need it— this thing was built by Ung-khan in the sixth year, a year of the Yellow Rat, and was dedicated on the first day of the eleventh month, a day of the White Cock. Understand what that means? Do you understand? It's the most ancient Mongol inscription we have, of course, but the name Ung-khan and the titles! Here is the significant title, from the Chinese text— the word ngu-se-ta! It's a representation of the Persian ustad, which in turn rendered the Hebrew rab or rabbi.

"Now wait! Here Ung-khan calls himself ngu-se-ta, or teacher, of God, and also beloved of Buddha. He was a lama, but also a Christian— a not uncommon circumstance among the Tatars."

"What of it?" demanded Kilgore, smiling at the earnestness of Severn.

"What of it? Good ——, man! It confirms the old supposition—this Ung-khan was not only a hereditary lama of the form of Buddhism then extant here, but he was also the teacher of God! The Nestorian monks, finding him a lama or priest, reported that John Prebuteros— "

"Prester John!" exclaimed Kilgore, snapping to his feet. "D'you mean—"

"We're in the church of Prester John this minute—and—"

Day appeared in the doorway with a cool interruption.

"And we're likely to stay there a —— of a long time," he cut in. "Gentlemen, we've found mighty little loot in this place. I don't like to cut in upon a scientific discussion, but two things interest me a— sight more than relics; first is loot, and second is the getaway. Do you chaps know what we're up against?"

Obviously Day had been doing some thinking. He went on stubbornly:

"Esrun, whoever he is, seems to have all the loot— let it pass. But this same Esrun, blast him, is going to signal the five novices who jumped poor Sheng Wu to get here and go up against us with the tribe. We can't hold out here indefinitely. Our one best bet is to find this chap Esrun and find him quick! Get me?"

Sir Fandi assented mildly.

"Quite right, gentlemen. I propose we abandon archeology in favor of defense—"

"Very well," snapped Kilgore, sitting down. "Sir Fandi, your report?"

"All went off excellently," returned the Rajput. "We bagged the caravan complete— it will arrive here before daylight. I rode on with five men, leaving six to bring the camels—"

"Lost four men, eh? Dashed good work you lost no more, Fandi," said Kilgore. "That gives us a total force of twenty-one Sikhs. But go ahead—pardon me."

"We found ten girls with the caravan— fifteen camels in all. We shot every man in the crowd; the girls were all Mongol or Chinese. No one escaped. But we saw no sign of any flocks or herds or villages in the farther valleys. Beyond doubt, the tribe has gone bodily upon some such errand—"

"As the destruction of Sheng Wu and the caravan," added Day bluntly.

Severn dropped into a chair and took a cigaret. He was badly shaken by the supreme excitement of his recent discovery— and yet he realized they must forget the past and face the future. Kilgore glanced around, his face grave.

"Day has hit the mark, lads! We broke off a seance here; therefore Esrun will guess at what's happened— whether he can pick our brains or not, I can't say. Odds are he will instruct the novices with the tribe to come here and finish us off. If he directs the campaign, we're in for it, should we stay here!

"I'll take first shot; then you fellows speak your minds. We have two courses open. We can take the supplies here, load up the camels in the caravan and those behind the temple, and we may get clear away. Or else we may remain. In that case we'll have first to fight the Darkan tribe, then all the Mongols within a hundred miles— and we'll have no hope of succor or aid. Question— fight or run, Sir Fandi?"

"By the sin of the sack of Chitor!" swore the lordly Rajput angrily. "Am I a thief to come and strike in the night, and then run? I stay!"

"Same here," said Day. "Besides, we haven't any loot to speak of, yet."

Severn nodded. Kilgore lighted a fresh cigaret and also nodded.

"Unanimous. We stay! Having decided to remain, shall we strike out in the morning, leaving this citadel of defense unguarded, to polish off Esrun?"

Severn spoke up.

"You know where this Esrun is?"

"No. Somewhere about the lake in the box canyon. We'll have to find him. Both Sir Fandi and I have seen the lake, but we've not explored it."

"You think he is one man, alone?"

"We think so. We really know very little; but that is the supposition."

"Very well." Severn, now quite cool, smiled in his gentle fashion. "I am not a fighter. I am an investigator, an explorer. I will go to the lake and find Esrun—"

"Accepted, but you shan't go alone," snapped Kilgore. "It's a damnable place; the night mist off the lake is anesthetic in effect, and there are rifts among the rocks that go down to smoke and fire in the earth's heart. I suggest—"

"I go," said Sir Fandi, stroking at his beard complacently. "If Mr. Severn will accept me, I can guide him to the lake."

"Gladly!" assented Severn.

"So proposed and carried," hurried on Kilgore. "Now, what about these ten girls who'll get here at dawn? What can we do with 'em?"

"Give them rooms to themselves," spoke up Day, "explain matters, and supply 'em with guns. Believe me, these women can fight! I know."

So the matter was arranged, and in five minutes the comrades-in-arms were seeking rest for the remainder of the night.

Severn slept fitfully; indeed, his brain was too excited by what he had discovered to readily admit of slumber. He was anxious to make an exact copy of that bilingual inscription in the table or altar. He admitted that his theory had been hasty and presented certain difficulties; yet it carried out the statements of Polo, Rubruk and the invariably authentic Abu'lfaraj.

In his mind's eye he could see the wandering Nestorians converting the Mongol chief, baptizing him Yuhanna, consenting to his retaining the dual role of Christian and lamaistic priest, and reporting to their Bagdad metropolitan that this John the presbyter— for so they would translate the word lama— was a convert. A sound theory, for the Nestorians had metropolitans through China and Turkestan, and so strong a church that the plan had even been put forward of the Christian Mongols coming from the east to join the Crusaders in the recovery of Palestine.

And this, then, was the church of Prester John! Severn fairly ached to go over every inch of the place, get measurements and rubbings, confirm his hasty theory by sound investigation—but now time pressed. There was other and more immediate work to his hand, and he must do it first. Personal safety came ahead of theories.

So gradually his riotous brain quieted, and he slept. Yet in his slumber came dreams— begotten, as Freud might declare, of the eager impulses so firmly checked and denied. He saw a strange withered figure, its face as the face of some ancient mummy, white locks ragged about the sunken eyes, and across the breast, in letters of fire, the Mongol name of Esrun. The figure reached one skinny hand and gripped him by the shoulder—

"All out!" came the voice of Day. "Up, Severn! Breakfast and daybreak!"

Chapter 6

The Abode of Esrun

AS HE RODE away from the temple beside Sir Fandi Singh, in the early light of dawn, Severn fully understood that their errand was to be a scouting expedition as much as a blow at Esrun. The unknown Esrun must be destroyed, yes; but there remained the question of his fabulous wealth—which, according to Kilgore, supported the priests.

The members of the expedition had suffered a sea change; more correctly, a desert change. Severn recognized this, admitted it in himself, but dared not speak the thought. Twenty-four hours previously he, like the others, had been buoyed up by the idea of destroying a tremendously evil thing. They had looked forward to it as a labor of Hercules which would employ every atom of energy and strength.

Instead, the Ten had been wiped out almost in a moment. Their jeweled trappings remained as symbols of loot— these, and Severn's discovery of the inscription.

What a power lay in the name of Prester John! Imaginations were inflamed. Thoughts arose of some huge store of gems and gold, ancient treasures over which squatted the loathsome spider Esrun. If Severn and Fandi Singh discovered Esrun and the treasure—

"It was the gold of Fafnir that doomed Sigurd," said Severn moodily.

"Eh?" The Rajput glanced at him curiously, not catching his train of thought.

"Well, one can always use gold! If we are lucky, we shall find some fine dromedaries today. When we were here before, the priests kept fine stock in the valley by the lake— none of your shaggy Bactrians, but blooded racers, clipped and limbed like race-horses."

They drew up on a sand-crest and glanced back, waving to those who stood in the temple gateway. The camels of the captured caravan had just arrived and were crowded into the courtyard; the five-barred flag of China had been mounted above the gate; the scene was one of activity and bustle.

Then the horses went on. The two men rode in silence under the craggy cliffs, toward the right-hand fork of the great Y which formed the valleys. Armed and provisioned, they had only Esrun to fear— for in the place to which they went no man but the priests had ever ventured.

Before them the sands lessened. Ere an hour had passed they were riding in a narrow defile enclosed by high rock walls; a winding, forbidding gorge which appeared to lead on interminably. Two hours later they were still following its windings, and according to Fandi Singh they would not sight their objective until nearly noon.

"There are no buildings at the lake, no ruins?" asked Severn.

"None," returned the Rajput. "It is no place where men would willingly live. Near by are the hell-pits into which the accursed priests throw the women ten times a year. We will come upon a sulfur spring before long."

Severn eyed the gorge without great liking.

"A strange combination of natural wonders!" he observed. "And a stranger combination of human wonders. Think of those Russians, absorbed into some Mongol tribe, settling here! And according to the inscription it might have been the same tribe of Krits, or Christians, which Ung-khan ruled. Perhaps this Esrun is the last of some forgotten race of lamas— well, no use wasting words in speculation."

Sir Fandi Singh shrugged his wide shoulders in assent to this last.

"There are strange things in these hills," he said thoughtfully. "Stranger than we have seen, stranger than we shall see. That is, Severn, if one can trust legend."

Severn laughed shortly.

"It seems that legend has led us aright so far."

"Aye, true enough. And yet I have heard tales." The Rajput plucked at his beard. "It is said that the Darkan tribe and others, employ such vapors as this lake gives off; draw them into huge bellows and seal them for future use in warfare."

"What? A primitive gas?"

"Exactly. But who knows? There is the sulfur spring— the water is good."

The gorge was widening. They rode up to a huge jet of water which leaped from the rock, discoloring everything around, and was gone again within twenty feet. The water was strongly impregnated, highly charged, but was excellent in taste.

The two rode on again, the oppressing walls of rock growing imperceptibly wider. Here was no great erosion, as Severn could perceive; in this bowl among the hills the elements had been futile. The place was primitive, volcanic. The way became strewn with blocks of shiny black obsidian fallen from the high cliffs. The walls were stratified with garish streaks of color from molten metals, intermingled ores. Presently another wayside spring appeared, this time of streaming water that jetted and hissed over the rocks.

Forward again. About them reigned a terrible and unearthly silence. There was no other token of human presence. The click of the horses' hoofs fled out upon the windless air and returned again from the high walls; a volley of echoes accompanied them, rose all about them, until it seemed that upon their heels marched a cavalry of thousands, a ghostly company of shadows. When they spoke, the walls threw back the words in a storm of sibilant whisperings which smote them into silence.

How long a time passed, Severn did not remember; but it was long enough. Presently a burst of sunlight, and they were riding in the undiluted glory of midday— and now Fandi Singh drew rein and pointed ahead.

"The purple grass, the lake. The abode of Esrun."

Severn looked, and ahead of him, on a gentle declivity, made out stunted brush and the green of grass. Yet it was not the livid green of true chlorophyl, but a strange purplish-sheened green. Several dromedaries were in sight, grazing quietly; they inspected the two horsemen without fear. Toward the lake appeared low trees. The entire opening was truly a bowl among the mountains, walled in by inhospitable peaks and shut out of the world.

Beyond the trees came the shimmering glint of water. As he rode nearer Severn made out to the left a long flat overgrown with parasitic reeds which bore flowers of that very intense scarlet which nature often associates with danger.

"I think those reeds have something to do with the poisonous mists," said Sir Fandi. "The flowers are oddly marked with a cross in black."

"So? It is a botanical fact," answered Severn thoughtfully, "that no plant bearing a cross is injurious to man. Obviously the lake is receding from that flat. The mist may come from the mud, or from minute animalculae. What's the program?"

"Camp among the trees, turn the horses loose and await what happens."

Now, to the right and on the opposite side, Severn perceived that the lake was enclosed by walls of rock. It hardly deserved the name of lake, being a scant quarter-mile in diameter. The crags which arose straight out of the water were tortuous, twisted in mad shapes, and seemed to have been poured from molten stone. So, indeed, they had.

"This was once the maw of a volcano," said Severn when they dismounted. "A minor outlet, perhaps, of some ancient cone farther up in the peaks. Where are the steamy fissures you mentioned as being used for— er— burials?"

Fandi Singh, busy with his saddle-girths, waved his hand toward the right.

"Over there among the rocks."

The air was windless, hot, unstirred. When the horses were turned free to crop at the grass Severn strode down to the lakeside. Here were no shallows nor reeds, but a sandy shore and quick depth; the water was clear, cold, entirely innocuous.

Severn rejoined his companion. They lunched beneath the low trees, and Sir Fandi, who was still feeling the effects of his long and hard ride to catch the caravan, proposed that one watch and one sleep. Severn was in no mood for sleep and gladly chose the first watch. The Rajput was lustily snoring within five minutes.

Pipe alight, Severn strolled along the shore to the right. There had been no attempt to conceal their presence. Hiding-places there were none; they must chance the possibility that Esrun was on guard and would see them. Yet in all this place was no hint of habitation, no token or evidence of any human presence besides their own. If Esrun were indeed here, he must himself be well concealed.

Severn realized suddenly that he was walking past an ordered series of plants. He halted, staring down. A little plot had been fenced about with boulders, and in this plot were growing leafless shoots to a height of six inches. Each shoot held half a dozen buds, none of which were open. Severn stooped and broke off one of the shoots. Studying it, he saw suddenly what it was.

"Crocus sativus— the saffron flower!" he exclaimed when he had opened one of the buds and found the three yellow stigmas. "Why is this being grown here, and nothing else?"

He passed on, wondering not a little.

After a little he found himself in a path, lightly beaten amid the purplish grass, and he followed it. This scarcely discernible trail led him to rocky ground, away from the lake and to the right. Suddenly, unexpectedly, he started back; a step farther and he would have gone into an orifice in the earth— a hole six feet wide, extending across the path in a long crack. Then he saw that the path ended here.

He peered down over the edge and saw nothing. A choking sulfur-fume filled his nostrils and he stepped hastily backward. Then he stooped and from a rock where it clung picked up a wisp of torn silk. He understood now— he understood why that recently made path had led him here, and the manner in which the Ten disposed of their wives. He had not credited all Kilgore's tale, but now he credited everything.

The hours passed. Through the afternoon Severn sat beside the sleeping Rajput or strolled about. He found no indication of any human presence in the valley. Everything was deserted, empty, utterly ignoring the intrusion of man. The dromedaries were tame, and they were fine beasts, as Fandi Singh had said— blooded creatures such as were rarely seen in this part of Central Asia, racers of a fine breed.

The afternoon was waning when the Rajput wakened.

"Nothing has happened." Severn extended the saffron buds he had plucked. "You know what this is?"

The dark features of Sir Fandi lightened.

"Ah— the saffron fields of Pampur! I have not seen this outside Kashmir; you say it is growing here?"

Severn told of finding the bed of saffron roots. The Rajput frowned.

"That is singular! Well—"

"I have a plan," said Severn quietly. "We cannot stay here indefinitely, waiting for something to happen. We know that Esrun communicates with his followers by telepathy; well, then let us communicate with him by the same means. We must bring him out to a meeting, as I understand the priests always did. In other words, will him here to us!"

"But he will know it is fraudulent—"

"I think not. He is some primitive creature like the rest, who has fallen heir to a power greater than his control or knowledge. He will not be able to read our minds. If we get the message to him, he will come."

"But I cannot think in Mongol!" and the Rajput smiled. "I do not know the tongue."

"I do. Besides," added Severn, "this is a matter of thought-impulse, not of words. If we reach him with the impulse, I believe we can effect something. Remember, he's waiting for word from his priests. He'll think we are—"

"I think it is all folly," said Sir Fandi with an air of resignation. "But let us try, by all means. En avant! Forward, my thoughts— charge!"

Severn smiled, and they sat silent.

Chapter 7

"Neither a Foreigner, Nor a Cantonese."

THE WATERS of the little lake were unruffled. In the intense peace, the absolute silence of that bowl amid the hills, pierced a thin reedy sound. Sir Fandi stirred and spoke under his breath.

"A fish. This is the lake of singing fishes—"

"Quiet!" snapped Severn.

The Rajput scowled and obeyed. Severn was putting all his concentration of will into the effort he was making. Backed by the thought-impulse of Sir Fandi Singh, he was formulating in Mongol the message bidding Esrun come forth.

"The white men have seized the temple. Bring us gold for them, and they will go."

Suddenly he became conscious of the impact of smother thought beating at his brain. He was utterly relaxed in every nerve and muscle, and it was a moment before he realized the import of this attacking thought. It was an assent, a bidding to be at peace. Under its compellant force Severn reached out and touched the arm of Sir Fandi.

"Be ready," he said quietly. "He is coming."

The Rajput gazed at him in startled wonder, not unmixed with awe. This transference of thought was something outside the cosmos of Sir Fandi; indeed, Severn himself was by no means sure of it. He had spoken on impulse, by intuition.

The two men came to their feet, pistol in hand. They did not know what to look for. Indeed, they were prepared for some eery and unearthly demonstration as they watched that unruffled lake where no wind ever touched. Upon them was a strange sense of awed expectation, of something about to happen beyond the ordinary.

Yet, when it came, it was simple.

Sir Fandi was first to perceive it and touched the American's arm. Severn looked, and from among the rocks to the right saw a rude canoe shoving out into the lake. He marked the spot, and fancied that the craft came from around some projecting corner of the cliff which must mask an opening.

A single figure stood erect in the canoe. It was a figure ftiuffled from head to foot in a faded winding of yellow cloths. The canoe and paddle seemed rude and rough.

Sir Fandi threw up his automatic, but Severn checked him, laid finger to lips in a gesture of silent caution. That singular figure in the canoe was turning the craft toward shore; it seemed perfectly sentient, yet quite unaware that enemies were waiting. Severn could perceive no eye-holes in the mask of yellow cloth, and an odd fear came upon him. There was something uncanny in this slow but unfaltering approach, in this blind automaton! Yet he knew the explanation must be simple enough.

The two men stared. If Esrun had eyes in his head, he could see that they were not his priests but the dreaded white men. Still he swept the canoe in straight for the shore, silent and unswerving. Suddenly Esrun bent down, caught the gunnel, waited. The high bow of the rude craft floated forward and grated upon the shore. The saffron figure straightened, stepped into the water, pulled up the craft.

Now, bending above his canoe, Esrun brought into sight a heavy bundle, wrapped in a skin. Staggering with its weight, he dropped this on the shore, then stood erect and made a gesture as if inviting approach. Sir Fandi looked at Severn, but the latter shook his head in negation.

For a moment Esrun waited, then turned. Slowly that yellow figure made its way along the shore to the little bed of crocus. There it paused, and put forth a hand to touch the fence of boulders. At this gesture a light broke upon Severn; he could barely repress an ejaculation.

Esrun was blind!

The Rajput had seen it also. He gave Severn a startled glance of inquiry, and Severn nodded. Esrun knelt and touched the unopened buds of the saffron flowers with brown fingers. Then, together, the two men ran forward.

At their approach Esrun came erect, facing toward them inquiringly. They gave him no chance to escape; at the first movement Severn caught an upflung arm, while Sir Fandi tore away that muffling yellow cloth. Under his hand, Severn felt no attempt at escape, no bulge of muscle; the arm in his hands was withered, wooden, horrible to the touch.

The yellow cloths were half torn away. Esrun stood there before them half-naked— and the two men took a backward step with horror in their eyes. For the thing which they had captured was a leper, grimacing and leering frightfully toward them— and further, this leprous Esrun was, or had been, a woman!

Severn dropped an oath. An old woman she was, a hag in all truth, ravaged by the fearful disease, and she stood there without attempting to evade them. None the less, the two men knew that in this frightful body dwelt a perilous brain which threatened to engulf them and their comrades unless it were killed.

But— a woman!

"Do it, Rajput," said Severn curtly, half-turning away.

Sir Fandi flung him a look of wild scorn and fury. "Do it, American!" he snapped back. "The honor of a Rajput is as a sword-blade, and I do not choose to sully mine with the blood of a leprous Kashmiri woman! Do it!"

But Severn knew that he could not do it. The unreality of the scene was maddening— this ancient scarred remnant of humanity grimacing at them, the two of them standing there armed yet helpless, and the lives of better men hanging upon the extinguishment of that rotten brain! Yet, because this was a woman, Severn could not lift his hand to pistol.

In that instant of silence and thwarted endeavor Severn perceived what the words of Sir Fandi implied. This woman had come from the far south, from Kashmir in India— no doubt a leper who had fled from British jurisdiction. She had brought into the waste places the sacred saffron bulbs, the memory of her lost ways and blood and tradition. By what means she had found this place, there was no telling; but she had found it, and had taken the name of Brahma, or Esrun, and—

From the creature broke a wild laugh, a laugh that sickened Severn, and then she spoke in broken English.

"Aye, do it! Do it, sahibs— burra sahibs, do it!"

"Peace, unclean thing," growled Sir Fandi.

At this, without warning, the hideous being whipped a pistol from her half-removed cloths and fired pointblank. The Rajput staggered, threw out his hands, fell without a cry. Esrun fired again, this time at Severn, and the bullet almost touched his head.

Something broke in him and before he knew what happened he found himself standing with a smoking pistol in his hand, the nameless creature sprawled dead upon the saffron flowers, horror and fury boiling in his brain. He flung aside his weapon and knelt above Sir Fandi Singh, who had been shot through the body. The Rajput was unconscious.

A swift examination showed Severn that the bullet had gone clean through, missing any vital part, and that with care Sir Fandi would make recovery. With care! How was he to find care in this place— where, with night, would come the mists that produced sleep and death— where there was no shelter, no help, nothing?

Severn darted up and went to their camping-place, where he procured some material for bandages. Returning, he halted beside the boat, scanning the cliffs. No, that was out of the question; whether the abode of Esrun were the tomb of Genghis Khan or not, it had been the home of a leper— and Severn dared not take the chance of infecting the Rajput's wound.

He glanced down at the bundle Esrun had brought ashore. The skin had burst open, for it was some ancient and rotted hide; a stream of gold-pieces poured forth upon the sand. Severn stooped, thrust a few of the broad gold disks into his pocket, then leaped up and ran to his companion, cursing his own folly.

As he bandaged the wounded man, his thoughts raced ahead. To stay in this place were madness; to attempt to reach the temple and get help were equal madness, until Sir Fandi recovered his senses, at least. Another man might have left the Rajput, and spurred out to bring help— but something held back Severn. Some premonition, some acute sense of danger, held him here. Perhaps it was his own strong instinct of self-dependence.

He decided upon a middle course. Within a few moments he had caught and saddled the horses and led the white stallion back to the Rajput. As he bent to raise the senseless body, a blade of the purplish grass drew across his left thumb, cutting into the skin. The sharp sting of the pain made him start; then he smiled at the occurrence. To pass through what he had met, and then to flinch at the cut of a grass-blade!

Presently Severn got his companion limply into the saddle, intent upon getting out of this hell-pit before night brought the deathly mist from the water. He bound the drooping figure in place, knowing that he dared not take Sir Fandi far in this wise, since the motion of the horse would hold open the wound and drain the body of blood; but it would serve.

Getting into his own saddle, he took the bridle of the stallion and set forth. Already the sun had gone from sight in the sky above, although in the outer world it would not yet be sunset. Severn directed the horses at a fast walk for the entrance defile.

Hours later, it seemed, Severn found himself in a makeshift camp beside the hot spring in the defile. He had set out canteens of the water to cool. They had food enough to last for days. Farther than this he had not dared to come, for the jolting was too severe on the wounded Rajput, who had lost much blood. Severn himself felt a singular light-headedness, and he was bitterly conscious of that slight slit in his left thumb, which caused much annoyance as such small things will.

When morning came Severn found that a swirling fever was getting a grip upon him, and the thumb was swollen and painful. Alarmed, he tried to open it up and alleviate the inflammation, but without much result. Sir Fandi had gone into a deep coma of exhaustion, and Severn did not disturb him. He could see that the Rajput's wound was looking in bad shape.

With noon Severn prepared some food and forced the Rajput to eat. Sir Fandi wakened but seemed like a drunken man, and fell asleep again immediately after eating. Severn, who now perceived clearly that he himself was growing hourly worse and that he must have been given some septic infection from that purplish grass, was intensely alarmed.

When the afternoon drew on toward evening, Sir Fandi Singh wakened in great weakness, but with a clear head. Severn, flushed and almost incoherent, related to him all that had taken place. The Rajput raised himself to his elbow and smiled.

"To the temple, Severn! I'm in a bad way, but you're in worse. We must get there at all costs. Place me in the saddle, and I'll stick there— born to it. You're the one to be tied on. If we start at once, we'll get to the temple some time tonight— possibly not until morning. But we must get there. Kilgore had drugs and medicines."

Severn assented. They made another meal, and then got into the saddle. The effort of saddling and of helping Sir Fandi up almost finished Severn, but he clambered aboard and they were off by dark. There was no losing the way in this defile.

To Severn, that night was a purgatory of swirling torment and mad visions. Before his fevered brain danced the horrible figure of Esrun, the Kashmiri woman; Sir Fandi stated that she was beyond doubt a Rajput of some high blood, but Severn was past reasoning the thing out. The hours dragged in terror and frightful agony.

With the dawn the horses were picking their own way toward the temple. Sir Fandi was riding in grim silence, saying nothing of the broken clots that let his wound bleed afresh. Severn saw the flag waving over the gateway of the temple and in a mad fantasy put spurs to his horse and went ahead at a gallop. The Rajput followed slowly, silently.

Severn reined up in the courtyard. His fevered brain was astonished by the silence which greeted him— no shout of welcome, no sound at all! On the walls he could see the figures of the Sikhs. In the courtyard he could see the machine gun trained on the gateway, with three Sikhs seated beside it. Yet they did not rise at his approach.

He dismounted.

When Sir Fandi rode into that courtyard he saw Severn lying senseless on the sand. And down upon them looked the Sikhs from the walls, with dead eyes that saw not. The Rajput painfully got out of the saddle, staggered, fell, came to his feet again. He drew his pistol and fired twice in the air.

There was no response.

Chapter 8

"Steel Body Needs Iron Food."

—Proverb.

SHENG WU was a little Chinaman with Oxford and Glasgow degrees, a Croix de Guerre and a bland smile that concealed a bull-dog jaw. Behind him, to the Temple of the Ten Dromedaries, rode thirty stalwart Manchu camelmen.

Out in the desert Sheng Wu had been attacked. He ordered his men to scatter in the dusk of evening and gave up the caravan to the raiders. In the dusk of dawn he had fallen upon those raiders, occupied with their loot, and had smitten them hip and thigh. Then, with thirty men remaining, he had consulted his maps and ridden forward. And now he was riding up to that open and unguarded temple, where a torn five-barred flag floated over the gateway.

Dead men lined the walls. Sheng Wu rode forward alone, with one Manchu officer, and dismounted inside the open gateway. When he turned from his kneeling camel, he saw that this temple was an abode of the dead, and that these dead had been Sikh troopers.

He called forward his men and ordered them to search. He went with the foremost and they discovered no living creature. At last they came to a rear chamber of the temple and when they opened the door a great gaunt figure rose before them. Sheng Wu looked twice at it and then saluted.

"I am here, Sir Fandi," he said.

The Rajput uttered a frightful laugh. Torn bandages, blood-rusted, encased his body; his proud features were haggard, his eyes were flaming things. He pointed to a brick bed in the corner, upon which lay the tossing body of Severn.

"Glad you showed up," he returned. The words came from him almost mechanically. He spoke as a man in a dream. "You'll have to attend to Severn. Septic poisoning—take off his left arm at the elbow, I fancy."

"What has happened here? How did the Sikhs die? They appear unwounded—"

"I don't know." The Rajput made a gesture of futility, of fearful ignorance. "We came back— found things like this— no sleep— wounded— lost blood— took care of Severn—"

He staggered, reeled slightly, recovered.

"Kilgore and Day?" queried Sheng Wu.

"Not here. Gone. No message. Vanished, that's all. Glad you showed up— in time—"

The words died. Sir Fandi Singh jerked twice through his whole body, then collapsed in a limp heap.

Sheng Wu examined him, then went to the brick bed and examined Severn. He had the two men carried into a clean room, then produced a case of surgical instruments from his baggage.

These things happened in the morning. At noon Sheng Wu left the operating-room, bathed himself and spent an hour examining such of the bodies on the walls as were in condition to tell him anything. When he had finished he summoned his thirty Manchus into the courtyard and calmly addressed them.

"This place is an abode of devils."

They assented in silence— it was something they already knew.

"These soldiers died and no shot was fired. They were suffocated or killed with gas. Two of their leaders have vanished utterly. If we remain here, the same fate will befall us, for we know not whence it comes. Therefore, we shall not remain here."

To this the Manchus assented very eagerly. Sheng Wu lighted his tobacco-pipe and resumed, when the tiny pinch of tobacco had gone, his explanations.

"Sir Fandi Singh is wounded and the wound is much inflamed. He has lost much blood and he will not walk or speak for many days. His friend, the strange white man, has lost an arm through poisoned blood and is in fever. Each of these men must ride in a sling between two camels. Make ready the slings at once. We leave here at sunset, in order to pass through the valley by night, when there will be no whirling sands."

"The baggage that we have saved?" questioned the Manchu officer.

"Abandon what is not needed. We shall not go the way we came, but strike direct for Urga."

Thus it was done. As a matter of fact, Sheng Wu was horribly frightened. These men, for whom he had intense respect and admiration, had succumbed to some unknown enemy. He dared not linger lest he and his men succumb also; in fact, even had he lingered, he knew that the Manchus would not have remained. Panic had them in its grip.

Sheng Wu tarried only to pack up the unused machine gun and a few objects collected for removal by Kilgore. He found no indication of the fate met by Day and the Canadian. They had vanished, that was all— and Sheng Wu was of the opinion that they really had vanished, perhaps carried away by devils. Under the veneer of education the old blood of Han still burned hot and cold in him, and the man feared exceedingly.

THREE WEEKS later Severn sat beside a stinking fire of camel's dung and talked with the gaunt shadow that had been Fandi Singh the Rajput. Severn himself was little more than shadow, and his left arm was gone at the elbow; yet he lived.

"Tomorrow we shall reach Urga," he was saying hopelessly. "And what then?"

"Faith," said the voice of Sir Fandi.

The Rajput was still a very sick man. Severn laughed bitterly.

"Faith— how? Shall we go back to look for them?"

"If we live."

"Then, how? We cannot do it without money. I have none."

The other did not answer for a while. When he spoke, it was of the place they had left.

"Our fate was upon us, Severn. If you and I had gone to the temple, we would have perished with the others— I think they died from that accursed gas. Perhaps some of the hill people came to the temple by stealth and loosed the gas."

"Yet there was no sign of Kilgore and Day." Severn turned as, out of the shadows, the little figure of Sheng Wu came and joined them at the fire. "Are you quite sure, Sheng Wu, that you found no indication of Kilgore and Day? You haven't lied for the sake of lending us hope?"

"They were not there," answered the son of Han. "Nor was there any sign of them."

"Then they are alive, and we shall go back to find them," said Sir Fandi Singh, his voice ringing more firm.

"But how?" questioned Severn. "One must have supplies, camels, men, money and—"

The white teeth of the Rajput flashed in the shadows. Sheng Wu smiled blandly.

"I think," said the latter, "that we shall find Shansi bankers in Urga. And any Shansi banker in China will honor the check of Sir Fandi Singh in any amount."

"They had better," said the Rajput grimly.

Severn struggled for readjustment. He had not known that the Rajput was wealthy— had never thought about it, in fact. Presently he nodded, for his heart was with the two men who had vanished so completely.

"Good," he said. "Then we shall go. I'm sorry you were so frank to own your fear of that place, Sheng Wu. You're a fine leader, and these Manchus certainly respect you— and both Fandi and I owe you a lot. I wish you would go back with us; but there's no use asking you, I suppose."

Sheng Wu had been very frank, indeed, in expressing his fear of that place. Now he produced his long tobacco-pipe, stuffed black tobacco into the tiny steel bowl, lighted it at the fire and smoked until the few puffs were gone. Then he smiled.

"Well," he observed, "I do rather wish you fellows would ask me, you know!"

There was an instant of silence; then the voice of Sir Fandi Singh rang out like a trumpet.

"By the sin of the sack of Chitor— we three are men! Then it's settled."

And Severn nodded, almost happily.

Chapter 9

The Captives

SOME WEEKS after the conquering yet conquered caravan of Sheng Wu had turned its face toward Urga, a party of five Mongol horsemen came riding through the defile to the lake of singing fishes— the lake presided over by the mysterious Esrun.

These five had a companion, a captive, whose wrists were firmly bound behind his back. This captive had suffered a horrible fate. Over his body to the waist had been loosely bound a fresh hide, in which had been cut three holes; two, to permit the passage of his arms, the third, opposite his mouth, to permit his eating and drinking.

The sun had dried and shriveled this skin until it had become, as it were, an outer epidermis. Beneath it the unfortunate man was blind, deaf, insensible to any outward change. Sometimes a wretched victim has been known to be sewn into a fresh skin and left in the desert sun until the shrinking skin killed him. This captive, however, had not been granted so merciful a fate.

These six riders came in silence. They were filthy with all the dirt of unwashed Mongols, yet certain of them possessed gray or blue eyes, and on one the hair was decidedly tawny. They were members of the Darkan tribe which Sheng Wu had scattered afar. Obviously they were frightened of this place; they rode in fear, their eyes searching grass and lake and crags with swift glances. Yet they rode on toward the lake, not pausing until they drew rein at the shore.

There, as one man, they watched their horses. These sturdy Mongol ponies had no fear, but sniffed the water, strained eagerly toward it. The five riders glanced at one another, exchanged a quick nod of satisfaction and dismounted. The captive, who perceived nothing of what passed around him, remained in his saddle as his mount leaned down to the water. Nor did his captors pay him any regard.

Heedless of their beasts, likewise, the five Mongols seated themselves on the bank, produced dirty pipes of various kinds, and smoked. At length one of them spoke. He did not address his comrades. Instead, he looked out at the lake and spoke to the invisible Esrun.

"We have obeyed your orders, sublime ancestor!"

He checked himself abruptly, upon his brutish face an expression of intense astonishment, while he stared at the lake. After a moment he turned to his companions.

"Esrun commands us to make our report without speaking. Can any of you do this?"

One after another shook their heads. With some terror now mingled into the astonishment of his visage, the leader looked again at the lake.

"We do not know how to do this, Esrun," he said.

There was something terrible in the simplicity of his utterance— in the confession of this man who could receive thoughts without sending them. Here was a child playing with vast forces of the intellect; a primitive barbarian who infringed upon secret things before which civilized science stood hesitant!

"Very well." Suddenly his face cleared. He glanced at his companions, who nodded assent. They, too, had caught the message. "Esrun commands us to speak. I obey!"

"We have cleared the temple of the bodies of the barbarians who were destroyed by the sacred vapors. We have taken their weapons, such as remained. We have preserved the life of this white man who led them. According to your orders, we have brought him here unharmed. We await your orders."

He remained silent, gazing at the lake. One would have said that the mysterious Esrun was now reduced to dire straits; the temple priests and novices having perished, telepathic communication was established with bestial creatures such as these, incapable of sending forth a thought!

At this instant, however, was afforded an instance of the remarkable powers of that terrible being who dwelt in a cavern of the lake. One of the five men rose to his feet, while the others darted at him glances of surprize.

"Very well," he said. "I obey."

He advanced to the group of horses, now cropping at the purplish-green grass, and unlashed the figure of the captive. Seizing the latter's arm, he drew the helpless man from the saddle and left him sitting in the grass. He then rejoined his companions.

After an instant the leader again turned to his four comrades.

"Esrun commands us to return home. You have heard?"

"We have heard," was the mutter.

The five rose. They gave a last curious look at the grass, at the saffron beds, at the water and the gloomy crags which rose from it. Then they went to the horses. With grunts and savage exclamations they hurled themselves into their saddles, lashed the unwilling brutes fiercely and rode rapidly away, delighted to be gone. With them went the horse which the captive had ridden.

The captive himself remained sitting in the grass.

Before the five riders had gained the mouth of the long and tortuous defile which gave access to the outer world, they drew rein swiftly and bunched together. Leaving the defile and advancing to the lake had appeared a second group of horsemen— again five in number, a captive in the center of the group.

This captive, unlike the first, was not shrouded; nor, at first sight, did he appear to be bound. Upon closer view, however, it proved that from each hand, from each foot, and from about his neck, ran a cord which connected him to one of the five Mongols around him. Thus he was more securely bound than with chains, for, with one simultaneous movement of their ponies, these five Mongols could disjoint his entire body.

The man was Day, the American. Naked to the waist, sun-blackened, bearded, his torso showed plain evidences of privation, suffering, torture. Yet from his haggard features, his eyes gleamed out boldly as ever; and his enormous frame, instead of being depleted and weakened by his experiences, appeared to be hardened into the consistency of iron.

These five Mongols saluted the five who had brought the first captive. They belonged to a different branch of the Darkan tribe, but they too were among the number of those who had exterminated Kilgore's band at one stroke. Gases from the subterranean rifts at the eastern side of the lake, confined in hide bags and loosened down-wind, had wiped out the Sikhs to a man. Yet these barbarians of the white steppes were not the first to make use of such weapons.

The Mongols among whom Day rode did not pause to speak with their fellows, but pursued their course toward the lake. At sight of the other party their fears had vanished altogether. They stared about them curiously, discussed the half-dozen hobbled racing dromedaries who were grazing in the valley, became more at their ease. Once, when Day made an abrupt movement, the five made their horses suddenly jump away, his arms and legs extended horribly, his head jerked forward, Day uttered a groan. The five grinned and loosened the cords. He settled again in the saddle, motionless.

When the party approached the lake shore, Day eyed that silent hooded figure without other thought than that it might be Esrun, perhaps. He had long since given up Kilgore and his companions for dead— ever since that frightful night when he and Kilgore had discovered all their Sikhs dead, and when skin-clad figures had leaped on them out of the darkness. Ah, that had been a night to remember!

He had not seen Kilgore since that night.

Near the bound and hooded figure, which did not move as they approached, the five dismounted and spread out. They signed to Day and he painfully climbed out of the saddle, glaring about him. The five, grinning, drew the cords taut and sat down. Day, for want of anything better to do, followed suit.

Although the Mongols examined the hooded figure curiously, they perhaps knew what it was, for they paid it little heed after the first arrival. Their leader evidently was uncertain as to Esrun's abode, for he looked up into the sky and spoke.

"We have obeyed your orders, sublime ancestor! Can you hear my voice?"

To any one who had heard the rather skilful communication established by the first party, this present speech would have appeared laughable. The Mongol, obviously, was none too certain of himself or Esrun, for he bellowed his words at the sky as if trusting they would pierce to heaven by sheer weight.

Yet they must have reached Esrun. After a moment the Mongol turned astonished eyes to his comrades. They nodded vigorously and one of them spoke.

"Esrun says to proceed! Then do so!"

"Good!" exclaimed the leader. "It is evident that I am not a khan for nothing, since I can make my words pierce to heaven. Esrun, do you hear? We have arrived. We have brought this unspeakable dog of a white barbarian, and we have not hurt him much. We are glad to be rid of him. If you had not ordered us to spare him, we would have killed him long ago, for he has killed three of our men since we captured him."

At this the features of Day were overspread with a gloomy satisfaction.

"Shall we sacrifice him here to you, Esrun?" shouted the Mongol, and waited hopefully.

After a short interval his countenance expressed a brutish resignation and he gave Day a glance and a shrug. He looked at his companions.

"Is this right? Does Esrun say to leave him here and depart?"

The others nodded.

"To leave him unharmed," added one with emphasis.

The leader sprang to his feet.

"Then cut the cords and go!" he cried, setting the example by severing the cord which bound Day's neck to his wrist.

For an instant Day sat staring at them in dazed stupefaction, unable to credit their actions. Four of the Mongols caught their horses, leaped into the saddle and went dashing away hastily. The fifth delayed a moment to catch the horse which had carried the American.

This moment of delay destroyed him.

Day came to his feet as if set on steel springs. The long severed cords trailed after him. He made one leap, and from the remaining Mongols burst a cry of terror; a second leap, and Day was at the man's saddle.

Two minutes later Day stood at the edge of the lake, holding between his huge hands the shaken and broken Mongol. He seized the man's knife, then cast it down— and with one hand hurled the wretched man headlong into the water.

"You're the one who held a hot iron to my back, eh?" he exclaimed. "Well, there's a present for you— water for iron, cold for heat! How do you like it, you devil?"

The Mongol did not reappear to make answer. After an instant Day turned away, his eye following the two horses who were running after the four Mongols. Then he observed the hooded and bound figure sitting in the grass.

For a little space Day studied that figure suspiciously, intently. Then he picked up the knife torn from the Mongol and approached the silent figure.

"By the Lord!" he cried suddenly. "White feet!"

Chapter 10

"So to front death,

As men might judge us past it."

—Jonson

When Day had cut the bound wrists and ankles and was carefully slitting the skin hood of that silent figure, his hand trembling as he worked, a voice issued from beneath the skin. The voice was calm, cool, imperturbable.

"Thanks very much," it said.

"Oh, the devil!" exclaimed Day.

"Not at all," returned the voice. "Kilgore."

With a violent movement Kilgore flung off the stiffly clinging skin. Then, swiftly, he clapped both hands to his face. The brilliant sunlight was blinding.

"Quite all right in a moment or so," he murmured.

Day stared at him with fallen jaw. The change in Kilgore was terrible beyond words; the trim Canadian was scarcely recognizable. Not by reason of the bearded face alone, but by the frightful pallor of the entire torso. Hooded from all touch of light and air, the man's skin had become a livid, a dead and colorless white.

"That you, Day?" asked Kilgore, attempting to peep between his fingers. "I say, what's happened? Where are we?"

"Dashed if I know," answered the American. "Somewhere near Esrun, I guess. Here, get up and take my arm! You get out of this sunlight, or you'll be parboiled in ten minutes."

Kilgore nodded and rose. Day led him beneath the trees and halted in the shade. By degrees Kilgore was able to perceive their situation and to observe Day.

"You are a rum-looking beggar!" he said dryly. "I imagine I'm equally handsome, what? Hello, are we free?"

"Free among the dead," grunted the other.

"Don't quote from Scripture— just yet," and Kilgore chuckled. "You hit it right, old man— this is the lake of singing fishes, where Esrun lives. See here, what's become of Severn and Fandi Singh?"

"Ask Esrun, not me," returned Day. "My late entertainers rode up and left me here beside you. I got one of 'em, at least! They had orders not to injure us."

Kilgore rose to his feet, a trifle unsteadily.

"Come along," he said, removing the few rags that clothed him and blinking at the water. "May as well die clean, eh?"

"Die?" exclaimed Day. "Why, they've turned us loose, man!"

The visage of Kilgore broke into a pallid caricature of his old smile.

"Come, come, my dear fellow!" he said gaily. "We're perfectly helpless and have been left here as a sacrifice to Esrun. We shall probably be tortured scientifically, and then dropped into a rift among the rocks— fire and brimstone and so forth."

Day swore angrily and his eyes bit around the valley. Already the strong soul of him was revived by this touch of freedom, this contact with Kilgore; his unquenchable spirit was surging pugnaciously.

"We're not lost!" he exclaimed. "There are dromedaries—we can—"

Kilgore clapped him on the shoulder with a ringing laugh.

"Guards at the entrance, and probably a rifle or two trained on us this moment! No, we must preserve our dignity, old chap-"

"—dignity! I'd sooner preserve our lives!"

Kilgore burst out laughing.

"Come along, Yank! Let's bathe."

Day followed him to the water's edge, comprehending, yet stubbornly contesting, the fact that there was no hope for them.

When they had bathed and returned to the shade of the trees, Kilgore was something more like himself again. He had noted the beds of saffron, which now were in full bloom, and he sent Day for a blossom. He examined the petal with keen interest.

"Saffron," he said, a retrospective look in his sunken eyes. "Comes from Kashmir— I was there as a child. My father was stationed there."

"That's where you first knew Fandi Singh?" queried Day shrewdly.

Kilgore nodded.

"Quite so. He's a rajah, you know. We grew up together in the palace. My uncle, Sir Cecil Kilgore, had quite a bit to do with the Government in the old days. Ho, hum! It's a far cry to the water of Kashmir!"

"There's a boat," observed Day abruptly.

They fell silent, watching the lake. A few words from his companion had apprized Kilgore of the manner in which the Mongols had communed with Esrun. Knowing that he had destroyed the ten priests, that Fandi Singh had destroyed five of the novices, he could only conjecture why none of the remaining five were on hand. They had, in effect, been destroyed by Sheng Wu; but of this Kilgore knew nothing. Since the Mongols had communicated with Esrun, however, it was evident that Esrun still existed. Ergo, Severn had failed to kill the master of mystery.

The rude craft, with its single erect figure shrouded in faded yellow cloths, was an eery thing. It stole toward them in silence, and that silence was oppressive, awesome. To neither of the two white men did it occur that this figure was Esrun.

They both were keyed up to thoughts of torture, death, violence. Therefore, the appearance of this shrouded figure peacefully creeping to them was a decided shock; it shattered their initiative, left them hesitant and perplexed.

The boat touched the shore, halted. The erect figure stretched forth a shrouded, beckoning arm, and uttered a single word in English.

"Come!"

The two men looked at each other.

"Say the word," growled Day, "and—"

Kilgore shook his head, shrugged slightly and walked to the boat. Day followed him, eying the saffron figure with suspicion. They entered the boat, sitting on a wide forward thwart. Without a word the shrouded figure shoved off, moving with a mechanical precision which impressed Kilgore as singular. He could not fathom the reason for this oddity, since he did not know that their guide was blind. Now Day touched his arm, and both men stared at the place to which they were going.

The opening among the crags on the right, into which the boat was slowly heading, gave access to a long and narrow cleft. At the head of this cleft appeared a sandy beach twenty feet wide and as many deep, ending in an ancient portal of stone, built against the solid cliff. This portal framed the black opening of a cavern.

When the prow of the boat touched the sand an inarticulate word came from the guide. Kilgore turned, to perceive something held out to him in a fold of the yellow cloth. It was a box of vestas. He took them mechanically— and was then handed his own cigaret-case.

"Upon my word!" he murmured, then collected himself.

He opened the case.

"I say, Day, look here! After you."

"Come!" growled the American, his face lighting up. "This doesn't look much like torture!"

Kilgore held a match with trembling fingers. They lighted cigarets and stepped from the boat. The shrouded figure followed them, advanced to the black portal and beckoned.

"Come!"

The crafty gift of cigarets had been well calculated. Neither man knew what to fear, what to expect; their fears were lessened, their expectations were increased. They advanced and stood in the dark doorway. Their guide turned and spoke again.

"Catch my robe, sahibs, and follow closely."

At those words, which for the first time clearly defined the voice of this figure, Kilgore gave a slight start. One would have said that it was a start of recognition; and in truth that low, musical voice held a peculiar note, a singular throbbing vibrancy, which when once heard could never be forgotten.

"A woman!" muttered Day, catching a fold of the yellow cloth in one hand.

The unearthly pallor of Kilgore passed into a violent flush.

"Impossible!" he murmured, and set his hand against the shoulder of Day.

Their guide laughed— a low, vibrantly throbbing note of woman's music which faded into the darkness of the cavern. The three went forward and vanished; only the glowing tips of the lighted cigarets stood out from the darkness, paling and reddening again.

For some distance they advanced with impenetrable darkness shutting in on all sides. The cavern turned and twisted, the floor remaining level and sandy. Presently their guide turned a corner and halted. A light appeared.

They stood in a narrow throat of rock that rose to a roof twelve feet above. This narrow throat widened out rapidly into a great chamber which, at the rear, was a good thirty feet in width. The walls were of rock. Set against the long rear wall were two huge vessels with narrow lips, lighted wicks in the lips; lamps, these, which illumined this chamber.

It was less at the rock chamber, however, than at the things it held, that the two men stared in wonder. A number of great porcelanous jars, containing water, stood about. Near them, packets of food, which Kilgore recognized as taken from his own mess supplies. To the right hand, against the rear wall, were packs— the personal belongings of Day. To the left, at the other end of the chamber, were those of Kilgore.

"This is most amazing— extraordinary!" said Kilgore astoundedly.

"Our own stuff!" cried Day, starting forward.

The voice of their guide filled the cavern with its richly throbbing note.

"Wash," it said. "Eat. Shave. Dress. Then— talk."

The yellow figure vanished from sight.

Struck beyond speech, Kilgore walked forward to examine his own belongings, while Day strode toward the other side of that long chamber with the same intent. The feelings of the two men were unutterable. Kilgore knelt and tore open the nearest pack and stared down at the toilet kit which fell out at his knee. Tears sprang to his haggard, bearded cheeks at sight of the well-remembered thing.

"It's true, all right!" came the voice of Day, no longer sullen and growling. "By Heaven, it's true! This is our own stuff, Kilgore!"

At this instant came a most singular sound, which drew the attention of both men.

It appeared to come from overhead, in a queer squeaking and protesting of iron rubbed against iron. The stone roof of the chamber was rugged and uneven and badly lighted; they could make out little. But from this roof glided an object suddenly, shooting downward with incredible speed, until it plunged into the sanded floor with a loud clang.

This object was a grill of heavy iron, which began at the rear wall, separated the chamber into two parts, and protruded at a distance of ten feet from the wall.

While the two men were still staring open-mouthed at this apparition, a second grill came down with a shriek and a clash. This grill met the outer end of the first one at right angles, and then ran to the wall on one side. Before the noise of its fall had died, a third appeared, opposite the second, and came clanging to the floor. Each of these grills extended fully to the ceiling, and were formed of closely twisted iron.

Day and Kilgore were now separated and enclosed in iron cages.

"You are welcome, sahibs!" floated that peculiar voice, in queerly clipped English. "Be comfortable. Be happy, honorable nephew of Sir Cecil Kilgore!"

There was silence. Kilgore stood petrified, his face fixed into lines of spasmodic horror. A cold sweat had sprung out on his whole body.

He recognized the voice— too late.

Chapter 11

"No matter where you hide the egg,

The chicken will hatch."

—Chinese proverb.

Day calmly dropped the glowing butt of his cigaret. He did not perceive the peculiar emotion which had gripped his companion.

"This is more like it!" he exclaimed heartily. "The devil has trapped us— a neat business, too! I've seen affairs like this in some of the western hill temples; they got the idea from India, probably, and kept wild animals in the cages. Well, let's get shaved and dressed, Kilgore. This part of it seems too good to be true."

Kilgore made no response; he appeared sunk in a stupor of despair. When Day set about unpacking his stuff, however, the Canadian roused himself to follow suit.

"Here's my spare pipe!" cried Day suddenly. "Bully for Esrun! Never mind the iron bars now— we're a lot better off then we were five hours ago, Kilgore. Perhaps Severn and Sir Fandi are alive after all."

At the name of the Rajput, Kilgore shivered. He lifted his eyes for a moment, and in them was a fearful look.

"If we had only guessed!" he murmured.

"Guessed what?" queried Day.

Kilgore caught himself up with an effort, straightened his shoulders.

"Tell you later," he said. "Any weapons in your kit?"

"Not a sign of one. You?"

"The same. Unless you call safety razors weapons! I don't."

Silence ensued. The two men, each in his own barred partition of the chamber, were occupied in removing their rags, in shaving, in searching for articles of clothing. To Day, this singular reception appeared quite encouraging; to Kilgore, it was terrible.

Half an hour effected a huge transformation in the looks of each man. Kilgore remained pallid, his eyes sunken, the square chin projecting more than usual; but he was nearly his old self. Day was more gaunt— he had become a man of iron, refined and hardened in the fire of torture and suffering. His haggard features were harsh, almost brutal, in their betrayal of his aggressive character.

Shirted, trousered, booted, the two came to the grating that separated them and surveyed each other, cigaret and pipe alight.

"My word, you look fit!" said Kilgore.

"Same to you, old man. How about some grub? That solidified alcohol stove of yours is over here. Got anything to cook?"

"No end; here, I'll pass some stuff through the grating."

They set about the preparation of a meal. Another half-hour effected a further transformation in appearance and looks. The only difference was that as Day became more cheerful and confident, Kilgore became more silent. The two sat side by side at the grating for their meal. When the last drop of tea was gone, Kilgore spoke up.

"I say, have you any open scratches or cuts?"

"A few," rejoined the American. "Why?"

Kilgore passed him a bottle of iodine. "Fill up. Here's plaster—cover them."

"Not much! You have to leave a cut open to drain—"

"Cover them!" snapped Kilgore, a snap of steel to his voice.

Day obeyed the mandate, then refilled and lighted his pipe, and stretched out.

"Spill it," he ordered briefly. "What's on your mind?"

Kilgore tossed away his cigaret, clasped both hands about his knees and stared at his companion fixedly.

"Listen, old chap. We're up against a worse proposition than I ever dreamed," he said, a note of dreadful calm in his voice that gained Day's instant attention. "If I had known outside there what I now know, we would never have entered."

"I'm a better looking corpse than I was," said Day whimsically. "But have it your own way. Go on."

"You remember that I told you Fandi and I were boys together? Long before my pater came out to Canada, of course. Well, I mentioned having an uncle high up in Government-"

"The chap that woman's voice referred to, of course!" exclaimed Day. "How did she know so much? Thought transference?"

Kilgore smiled.

"Not at all. Cecil Kilgore and the father of Sir Fandi were good friends. Don't mind sayin' that my uncle was a bit of a wild 'un at times. So was the Rajah— Fandi's father. They went shootin' together and that sort of thing. Before my time, it was. Thirty years ago a chap could stir up considerable excitment in India, you know!"

"Thirty years ago? I'm surprized at you," intervened Day judicially. "I've had a taste or two myself of Indian nights, and if you think India has changed—"

He fell silent at a gesture from Kilgore, who pursued his subject quickly.

"No use blinkin' the fact, Day; my avuncular relative did run a bit wild. Well, it seems that on one occasion they went to Kashmir together to look up some ruins, and they met a girl. She was a pure-blooded Rajput of the royal blood. Her name I don't know; I always heard her referred to as the Rani. She was very beautiful."

"They all are," said Day.

Kilgore made a gesture of irritation.

"When I say that my uncle wanted to marry her," he said sharply, "you will understand that she was more than beautiful. Englishmen don't marry native girls, you know; not even queens. It isn't done. The hitch was that the rajah wanted to marry her also."

"Ah!" said Day with interest. "A duel? The poor girl committed suicide? Broken hearts and the thrill of tragedy!"

"Not yet," returned Kilgore. "As a matter of fact, she was in love with some native and turned up her nose at white men and rajahs. Well, one day her lover showed up with a knife in his side, dead. Whether the rajah was behind it, I can't say; at all events, the Rani swore that he and my uncle had murdered her man. Now, it seems that she had a most extraordinary voice— remarkably musical, with a vibrant thrill to it that a man could not forget."

"And in that voice she swore vengeance?" asked the irreverent Day.

"Yes. Some months later, the rajah's coffee was poisoned; so was the rajah. He died. My uncle, meantime, had returned to England. He got my father and me and went back to India with a knighthood and a seat on the woolsack.

"One day I was in court, a bit of a lad, hearing my great uncle try cases. They brought in a veiled woman who was accused of being a leper and evading restraint—I fancy she had stabbed some one, or somethin' of the sort. At the first word she said, my uncle rose out of his seat like a man daft and commanded her to unveil. She did so. I can remember her face to this day— the most beautiful native woman I ever saw in my life!"

Kilgore paused for a moment, then continued.

"She was sentenced and taken away, but not before I had heard her speak a good deal; she threatened my uncle in a mild way. Ever since, her voice haunted me. It came to me in my dreams, in the midst of a musical concert, in the harmonies of an orchestra—that singular, thrilling timbre such as no other human throat has ever known!"

Day entertained a conviction that his friend was maundering. He should have known better; perhaps it was because he was actually drunken with this sudden return to physical comfort—this abrupt reversion to his former self. At all events, he had been listening in a perfunctory manner, his gaze fixed upon the iron grating which cut off his escape from the chamber.

Now he rose with a sudden movement and advanced to this grating.

" 'A touch o' sun, a touch o' sun,' the color-sergeant said!" he hummed. "Excuse me, most venerable Canuck, but I have an idea. They are rare with me; I can't afford to lose one." He stopped and examined the grating, tested the iron and rose. Without a word, but with a sudden brilliancy in his eye, he returned to his place. "Now, proceed! You were speaking of the haunting voice. Did the lady die of leprosy?"

"I have always thought so until today," said Kilgore. "You heard me spoken of as the nephew of Sir Cecil Kilgore? That was her voice."

He sat staring at his clasped hands.

Day regarded him for a space in stupefied disbelief and only gradually comprehended that Kilgore was speaking in dead earnest. Then he swore softly.

"Old man, what's come over you? My——, you can't be ass enough to believe that this Esrun is the same woman!"

Kilgore lifted his head, looked his friend in the eye for a moment.

"You saw that bed of saffron flowers? You saw the yellow robes of our guide? Only a Kashmiri would affect such things in this place. I don't say that Esrun is the woman, of course, but I do say the woman is here. I would know that voice again in—"

Day looked at Kilgore, shook his head sadly and rose.

"You believe it, all right— poor chap! You can't make me believe it. So let's respect each other's convictions and be happy. Me, I'm going to bust out of this cage in two minutes. Quit repining, and watch Mr. Day exert his manly muscle, old sport!"

So saying, the American returned to the iron grating which formed the front of his prison chamber. Kilgore watched him frowningly.

Day went to the center of the long grill and attempted to shake it. It gave slightly. The lattice-work of iron had openings of not more than six inches across. After examining these, Day uttered a low grunt of satisfaction. He seated himself upon the floor, planted his feet apart and against the iron grill, then seized one of the rusty segments of the lattice in both hands.

In effect, he transformed himself into a crossbow, a human fulcrum. He was pitting the strength of his legs and thighs against the strength of his arms and shoulders— and both of these against the slender bars of wrought iron.

His arms drew taut. His legs, still bent at the knee, shoved in a steady pressure against the grill. The curve of his back, the bowed curve of his shoulders and bent-over head, settled into rigidity as absolute as that of the iron segments before him. Inch by inch his legs straightened.

His face became suffused with blood, purple; the eyes bulged terribly. From his lips came a sound that was half a gasp of effort, half an oath of rage. Kilgore stared—it was impossible for flesh and blood to endure such a frightful effort without being torn asunder! Yet, inch by inch, the bent legs continued to straighten. The man had lifted himself from the floor by this time.

Crack! Day fell backward.

"Told you so!" he panted as he scrambled to his feet. His hands, dripping blood, held out a segment of the iron. "Rusted—"

"Quit it!" said Kilgore. "It's insane— useless "

For answer, Day uttered a joyous laugh and sat down again before the grill. Once more he planted his feet in position. Once more he gripped the iron, a segment adjoining that which had given way. Once more his body settled into lines of frightful tension. He expended his strength with reckless abandon.

Kilgore, drawn out of his apathy by his prodigious exhibition, came to his feet. He saw Day once again lift himself from the ground, his body bent nearly double, the leg muscles expanding inch by inch. It was too much; he uttered a sharp cry of protest. His cry was lost in the sound of Day falling, the dull crack of iron. It was not the man which had given way, but the metal.

This time Day did not scramble up at once, but slowly staggered to his feet. Triumph had blazoned its mark in his bloodshot, staring eyes. This time a section of the iron had come away, leaving a hole in the grating a foot square.

"Next—time—wins!" gasped Day exultantly.

He wrapped about his bleeding palms some of his discarded rags. For a moment he stood eying the grating with a vast satisfaction, puffing mightily. Then with a final deep breath of resolution he again sat down. Kilgore watched in silence; he no longer cherished any doubt that the grating would give way—he only hoped that the man's body would not give way likewise.

For the third time Day strained. But on this occasion, instead of taking a single bit of iron between both hands, he grasped two separate strands of the lattice! Again he was bent double, again a violent rush of blood suffused his face and neck, while his rigid hands clamped upon the iron— crack! Weakened by the previous breakage, the grill sundered. A yawning hole answered the efforts of the man.

Day did not rise, but sat where he had fallen. For an instant he was incapable of speech. Then he dragged himself to one knee and shook the broken fragment of iron at the grill before him.

"Beat you!" he cried savagely. "Beat you—muscle over iron! Now—"

He paused abruptly as another voice floated upon the cavern chamber, a voice whose thrilling timbre was by this time haunting Day himself.

"Good!" it cried. "Good! Try again, burra sahib!"

From the roof came a sudden creaking and grind of iron. Sudden and swift, an object rushed downward, came to the floor with a clangor and strident ring of iron. This object was a second grating, six inches inside the first one!

"Try again, burra sahib!" echoed that haunting voice.

Day uttered a despairing gasp and dropped again to the floor. He was beaten.

Chapter 12

"Mencius Said 'That was one time; This is another.' "

— Kung-sun Ch'ou.

FOR A TIME Day sat in gloomy silence. At length he picked up his pipe and lighted it.

"I am beginning to be converted to your belief," he said in a changed voice. "If this Rani woman of yours were here, Kilgore— you think she would squeeze us?"

Kilgore nodded.

"The cards are stacked," he answered briefly.

Both men lifted their heads and looked toward the entrance of the chamber. The grate of footsteps on the sanded floor reached them. They saw, flitting into the circle of light from their lamps, the yellow-shrouded figure of their guide.

This figure came toward the grill that prisoned them, halted a yard from it and felt with extended hand. Touching the iron, the figure recoiled a pace and then sat down. At this gesture, at this entire action, the two captives for the first time perceived that the figure was blind.

"Now we shall talk, sahibs," said that same vibrant voice.

"Who are you?" demanded Kilgore, staring.

"I am Esrun," came the answer, with a laugh that rang eerily from the rock walls. "But once you knew me by another name, sahib. Would you recognize me again?"

It was here that Esrun abandoned her broken English and spoke in Hindustani. Kilgore made answer in the same tongue, which Day understood fairly well.

"If you are the Rami—" and Kilgore's voice shook a trifle— "then I would remember you indeed!"

For response, Esrun drew the yellow cloths from her figure.

Kilgore stiffened with horror; Day uttered a low, choked gasp. The thing before them had once been a woman— this much was certain. More, it was hard to say. Leprosy had wrought its frightful vengeance on the human flesh. The creature appeared to be an old hag, yet Kilgore knew that if this were indeed the Rani, she could be not yet fifty years. Thirty years since, his uncle had loved the Rani, and women ripen young in Kashmir.

"There is nothing left of the Rani," said Esrun, a mournful note in her tone, "except the voice. But you, who heard that voice only once, still remember it. Sir Fandi Singh had forgotten it— but perhaps he was not to blame. I was frightened that day. Nor did I give him any chance to recognize my voice."

Kilgore strained forward.

"Fandi— and Severn! They were here?"

"They were here," repeated Esrun.

"And now—"

"Let us talk of them later." The answer came with a tinge of mockery. The hag again shrouded herself in the yellow cloths. "It will be more interesting now if we talk of you, sahib! Or shall we speak first of the days that are dead— of Kashmiri days?"

In the mocking voice of this blinded, ravaged atom of humanity there lay a dreadful significance. Kilgore comprehended this and straightened up. He was master of himself now, and he lighted a cigaret with steady fingers.

"As you please," he said coolly. "Then the Rani and Esrun are one?"

"They are one, sahib. Do you remember the day when you sat in the courtroom by the side of your uncle? Do you remember that I threatened him and his on that day?"

"Quite well," said Kilgore.

"The threat was well meant. Listen, sahib! My lover was murdered by your uncle and the rajah. That deed changed the entire course of my life. In striving to avenge it, I became a leper. Later, your uncle sent me to a leper's prison. I escaped. I took jewels and fled, with two faithful men who served me. We fled far, into the north, into this land. And here we came to rest."

Day intervened.

"Tell her she's away off the mark!" he said roughly. "Tell her that your uncle never had anything to do—"

"Oh, I say!" said Kilgore languidly. "Why bother, old chap. We can't demean ourselves to argue with this creature, you know."

Esrun laughed, and her laughter rang acidly in their ears. The words had stung.

"This creature was a princess of the Rajputs!" she returned. "And she has made herself strong, powerful, feared! And rich, also. What is better, after the lapse of many years she is about to avenge her ruined life upon the rajah's son, and the nephew of Sir Cecil Kilgore, the proud sahib! "

To this Kilgore returned no answer.

"Your two friends were here— they trapped me," went on Esrun after a moment. "I shot Fandi Singh. His companion shot me and left me for dead. But I was not dead. I was badly hurt— so badly that I was unable to prevent the escape of the two men. They joined the party of the Chinaman who came to aid you."

"Sheng Wu!" exclaimed Kilgore sharply. "Then Sheng Wu was at the temple?"

"Yes. He found Fandi Singh, who did not die, and Severn, who lost one arm from blood-poisoning. They could find no trace of you, and they returned."

"Ah! And they got away?"

"They got away. They reached Urga safely. My followers at Urga so informed me."

Day drew a deep breath and relaxed. He had been sitting under tension.

"Then it's all right!" he exclaimed loudly. "They'll come back to look for us!"

"They will come back," repeated this deathly Echo. In those words was a note so sinister, so pregnant with meaning, that Kilgore shivered despite himself. "In fact, they are nearly here!"

There was a moment of silence.

"If you mean to kill us," said Kilgore suddenly, "why not do it and put an end to this waste of words?"

Esrun laughed— a delicious peal of girlish mirth that was frightful to hear, so bitter was its contrast with realities.

"I have thirty years of suffering to make up," she answered. "Do you think that this can be repaid in a moment— in a day— in a year? Do you think it can be repaid by the destruction of the body alone? No, sahib! The gods have been kind, by sending me you and Fandi Singh. Why should I hurry? I am not yet near death."

Day watched the creature in a species of horrified fascination. Kilgore remained cool; the more definitely their position became pronounced, in fact, the cooler he grew.

"You have suffered slightly," she continued. "Now I have returned to you your razors and the things that make you happy. Why? Because presently you shall lose them again, and suffer the more. I could have ordered my followers at Urga to kill Sir Fandi Singh, but I chose to let him return here. Let your strong comrade break all the iron he wishes—when he has finished, another grill will descend!"

The two captives began dimly to perceive what frightful refinements of cruelty this loathsome hag was capable of applying to them. The iron grating over which Day had triumphed, only to have a second descend in his face at the moment of victory, was only a slight instance; a symbol. Their return from slavery and torture to all the comforts afforded by their own food and personal effects, was another symbol. Realities would come later.

"Now, sahib, let us have an understanding. I have little quarrel with your friends; it is with you and Fandi Singh the Rajput that I wish to deal. Of course, if you make it necessary to kill your friends, as the Sikhs were killed at the temple, so much the worse for them!"

"Ah!" exclaimed Kilgore. "Then instead of being an execution, this is a parley!"

"Neither; it is a choice. And the choice remains with you. Your friends in Urga, Severn, Sheng Wu and the Rajput, have proceeded cleverly. They interviewed the Hutuktu and obtained his authority to act, also a hundred horsemen. With these men, and a strong party of Manchu soldiers, they have crossed the desert and are now close at hand. They have taken every precaution. They mean to search out these caverns and discover your fate. They think me dead. They do not know that in their company are two of my men who communicate daily with me and inform me of their doings."

Esrun laughed— this time a chuckle of malicious amusement. Day, thinking of the unsuspecting band of men, began to perspire freely.

"All very well," said Kilgore in a calm voice. "What of it? Your spies will be discovered. Your telepathic communications will be discovered. This place will be found out. What then?"

"If the thought makes you happy, cherish it!" was the sardonic response. "But I would advise you to be cautious. I shall let this strong friend of yours, this American, go free. He shall be found by your friends. Let Fandi Singh hear his tale, then give himself up to me, join you here. The others may return home to Urga unhurt."

Kilgore laughed a little.

"You do not know my friends! If Day joined them, he would bring them here to my rescue."

"The word of a sahib is as the word of a Rajput," came the response. "And if the promise is broken, what matter? Your friends are powerless before me. The race of priests who once inhabited this place had many secrets, which I have discovered. They had much treasure, which I have used. Shall I set this friend of yours at liberty?"

"Let him return his own answer," said Kilgore curtly. "Speak up, Day!"

The American wet his lips with his tongue. In this moment, he was swiftly weighing the chances pro and con—not of his own safety, but of rescuing Kilgore. He perceived the one great danger. Knowing Fandi Singh as he did, and the highly chivalrous nature of the Rajput, he did not doubt that if he gave a promise, it would be kept by Fandi. He did not doubt that Fandi would return here in his place and trust the others to rescue them. And he dared not risk this.

"May the lowermost —— swallow you!" said Day. "I'll stay here."

Without a word, the figure in yellow rose and flitted away into the darkness.

For a space, the two white men regarded each other in silence, each of them oppressed by what had just taken place.

"Would you have kept your word to her?" asked Kilgore suddenly.

"Not by a —— sight!" Day said frankly. "But Fandi would have kept it for me."

Kilgore nodded, relaxed his cramped limbs and rose. He yawned and stretched himself.

"Well, I'm for a bit of sleep, old chap. What say?"

"Suits me," was the response.

Neither man cared to discuss the recent conversation; it was too fresh in their minds.

Kilgore found his blankets, spread them out and rolled up. He was at the point of bodily and mental exhaustion, and in two minutes he was fast asleep. The conversational duel with Esrun had been so terrific a drain upon his inner self that the reaction was swift and sure. He slept like a man drugged.

When awakened he knew that he must have slept the clock around. The two lamps still burned, softly illumining the cavern chamber. Kilgore yawned and sat up. Somewhere on the other side of that dividing partition of iron Day must be asleep still. Kilgore put out his hand to seize the grating and rise—

An exclamation broke from him. He leaped to his feet, staring. The central grating had disappeared— lifted again to whence it came! The others were still in place.

"Day!" cried Kilgore sharply. "Look here— wake up!" The American did not answer. With the entire chamber to himself Kilgore strode forward. Half a minute later he realized that he was alone in this place. Day had absolutely vanished.

Chapter 13

"This Paper Currency is Circulated in Every Part of the Grand Khan's Dominions."

—M. Polo

ESRUN the leper had told the exact truth. A hundred horsemen of the Living Buddha, with fifty Manchus, were encamped under the orders of Severn, Sheng Wu and Fandi Singh. In addition they had Kilgore's machine gun, which Sheng Wu had removed from the Temple of the Ten.

It was the singular fate of this weapon to remain untried amid a thousand chances.

The camp was made nearly at the entrance to the long and tortuous defile which gave access to the lake of singing fishes and the abode of Esrun. To proceed to the temple was out of the question. Sheng Wu considered it the abode of devils. Severn and Sir Fandi were convinced that it contained secret passages through which had come the gas-bearers who destroyed the Sikhs.

In making camp near the entrance to the lake and valley, which they intended to explore thoroughly, the three companions effected a compromise. From here they could search all the hills and valleys round-about for the scattered skin-houses of the Darkan tribe. As a first step, Sir Fandi and Sheng Wu had ridden on with the Manchus to search the temple anew and to bring back fresh water.

Severn remained in charge of the camp.

The savant had become a changed man. His own sorrows lay behind him; he had embarked upon those of his friends. The kindliness of his eyes had deepened. A new strength to endure had uprisen in his soul, and he was reconciled to living out his life to its fullness; the peril of cynicism had been lifted from him.

He was unpacking his things when there arose a sudden tumult of alarm. Sentries cried out. A rifle was discharged. Horses were mounted in haste. Severn rushed from his shelter-tent to ascertain the cause, and beheld a man mounted upon a dromedary issuing from the mouth of the defile.

Under his sharp orders the horsemen of the Hutuktu lost their confusion and became orderly. Three of them detached themselves and galloped away to summon Sir Fandi's party. It grew evident that the single man on the dromedary was approaching the camp, and that he was alone.

Examining this single rider through his field-glasses, Severn uttered a cry of amazed recognition.

"Day!" he exclaimed.

In this moment, however, he kept his head. This might be some ruse; he dared take no chances of a surprize attack. He remained beside the machine gun and dispatched a dozen of the horsemen to bring in the lone rider without harm. They dashed forth on the errand.

Watching narrowly, Severn perceived that Day was not a free agent by any means. The dromedary was unsaddled, without bridle. Day was merely tied in between the two humps which distinguished the Bactrian breed, and he appeared to be unconscious. At the approach of the horsemen the dromedary flung up his head, swerved in his course and tried to flee. A rifle barked and the animal fell. The horsemen closed in about him.

The Mongols cut Day loose, mounted him behind a saddle and returned. It was close to sunset, but there remained an hour or more of daylight.

Severn received the body of Day in his arms, and made a hasty examination. So far as he could tell, Day was unhurt save for a bump on the back of the head— a slight matter. His unconsciousness had not come from this hurt; his stertorous breathing, his deep stupor of slumber, had been caused by some drug.

"Carry him to my tent," ordered Severn. "What is this?"

One of the Mongols put a sheaf of black papers into his hand. The papers were tied about with a strip of tom cotton.

"It was hanging about his neck. There was nothing else."

Severn examined the papers. They were of varying sizes, from six inches in length and four in width to three times as much. They were nearly black in color. Upon each was imprinted a series of ideographs in vermilion; the papers were clear as if fresh from the press.

When he saw the ideographs, Severn barely repressed a cry of incredulous wonder.

"Mulberry paper— bank-notes!" he said, staring at them. He glanced again at the red imprints. "Issued by Kublai Khan— impossible! These must be imitations—"

They were not imitations; he was convinced of this, even while he uttered the words. His false arm told him nothing; but the fingers of his remaining hand were too sensitive to feel for deception to answer here. He had the instinct of the archeologist for delicate perceptions of patina and fiber. He knew that he was holding genuine bank-notes of the Yuan dynasty, issued in the thirteenth century, yet preserved perfectly!

With an effort, he thrust the papers into his pocket and hurried to the side of his rescued comrade. As he gained the tent he halted abruptly, lifting his head. From the direction of the Temple of the Ten had come a sustained burst of firing. It ended as suddenly as it had begun.

Severn ordered out scouts and sentinels, then examined Day.

He was not long in determining what drug held his friend unconscious. It was cannabis Indica, that Indian hemp about which so much misinformation is spread abroad. This drug when given internally throws a man into a slumber which lasts for hours or days, an intense and deep slumber. Upon awakening, the victim is in something akin to a subconscious mental state; all power of concentration is gone for a time, and his brain is horribly relaxed. He can repeat, but he cannot think. His initiative is destroyed. Then, literally, he cannot tell a lie.

Severn guessed that Day's slumber had nearly run its course, but it was no time for delay. Kilgore might be somewhere near at hand, and in danger. Sheng Wu and Fandi had obviously fallen upon enemies. The need for action was imperative.

Without hesitation Severn procured a hypodermic, melted a stiff restorative solution and injected it into Day's arm. Then he awaited results in an agony of impatience.

He was still waiting when, with the sunlight gone, Sheng Wu and a dozen Manchus came riding into the camp. The Chinaman's report was brief. They had found a score of Darkan tribesmen encamped at the temple and had fallen upon them instantly.

"Where is Sir Fandi?" demanded Severn. "Did you get my message about Day?"

Sheng Wu assented.

"That was why I returned," and he blinked a little. "Sir Fandi Singh remained with the rest of our men. Some of the barbarians were being pursued and others had been captured. My Manchus undertook to make them talk. I did not care to witness the proceedings."

At this Severn's lips clenched for an instant. He comprehended that Sir Fandi would stop at nothing to get news of Kilgore.

He took Sheng Wu to the side of Day. The latter's eyelids were fluttering. He gazed up at them vacantly, then his lips formed the name of Severn.

He was conscious again.

For half an hour the two men remained sitting beside Day. The latter told a rambling but perfectly coherent story. He had been hit on the head while he slept and knew nothing more. Of the Yuan bank-notes he could tell nothing.

Of himself and Kilgore and Esrun he could tell everything, and he did so. Before his story was half-finished, Sheng Wu arose and summoned the officer of his Manchu troops.

"You will order the Mongol barbarians to remove their camp to a distance of a hundred yards. Place three of our own men as sentries about this spot, and shoot any one who comes near."

The officer departed. Severn glanced up in surprize.

"You heard what he said," explained Sheng Wu blandly. "Esrun has spies among our men; those spies will be among the barbarians, not among my Manchus. That is all."

"Esrun— still alive!" murmured Severn.

"Trapped!" came the hollow voice of Day, who was dimly conscious of why he had been allowed to join his friends. "All she wants— Sir Fandi. No hatred to others."

He rambled along, giving vaguely jointed fragments of

Esrun's conversation with himself and Kilgore. Severn might have discounted it as a mad dream, but Sheng Wu, who was an oriental, knew better. He gave a brief and correct exegesis of Day's remarks as the latter went on. Little by little they uncovered the whole affair.

When half an hour had passed the two listeners comprehended everything. Day lay with closed eyes, conscious but drowsy and without animation.

"Here is what has happened," said Sheng Wu softly, blinking at the darkness which closed them in. "Esrun wanted no trouble with us, but desired greatly to have Sir Fandi in her power. She sent Day to us. When Sir Fandi hears this story, what will he do? He will refuse to jeopardize us and will go to join Kilgore— not meekly as a victim, but trusting in himself to effect a rescue."

Severn nodded thoughtfully.

"That seems correct. Well?"

"Esrun's spies have doubtless already reported by telepathy that Day is here," went on the bland yellow man. "We cannot discover who they are; no matter! If our force attempts to reach the lake, Esrun will summon her barbarians to overwhelm us in the defile. Therefore, we must leave most of them camped here. Remember, whatever we do will be at once reported to her!"

"I see." Severn frowned deeply. "If we are to rescue Kilgore, we must take Esrun by surprize. But to surprize her is impossible. She expects Sir Fandi to come alone to the lake, and there she will be prepared to ensnare him. Why, it's absurd— yet true! To think of a blind old leper woman doing this—"

"Nothing is absurd," said Sheng Wu, and then added, "And nothing is impossible."

"What do you mean?"

"She will expect Sir Fandi. She knows him for a Rajput—a man of honor, a man of high chivalry, a man who would readily sacrifice his life for his friends. She is blind, however, and cannot see him. She will speak with him in Hindustani to convince herself that he is the right man and to confirm the report of her spies here. Unfortunately, I do not speak Hindustani—"

Severn started.

"I do!" he said, and remained for a space in thought.

Sheng Wu waited, patient and quite comprehending Severn's thoughts.

At length the American lifted his head.

"We must prevent Sir Fandi's hearing Day's story," he said, speaking slowly.

"I will answer for that," replied the other. "I will put him to sleep again."

"We must make our Mongols believe that Sir Fandi has gone to the lake, alone. In fact he must go, so that they will believe it."

"I will answer for that, Mr. Severn. He can go— and then return to the temple. In the darkness, that will be very easy."

"Yet Sir Fandi must not realize the truth."

"I will answer for that."

"And," concluded Severn, "the Mongols must not know that I have gone to the lake."

"Right. I will send you off now with my Manchus, ostensibly to the temple. You will ride part way, then send them on to join Sir Fandi, and strike off by yourself."

Severn nodded.

"Good enough. And how will you answer to Sir Fandi for my absence?"

Sheng Wu was silent for a space. Then he smiled.

"I am afraid," he said, "that I must tell our friend a few lies. Well! That is quite all right. It is one of the duties of universal obligation belonging to the intercourse of friends, as set forth in the twentieth chapter Tsze-sze's 'Doctrine of the Mean.' There is only one thing that troubles me."

"And what is that?" queried Severn.

"Your fate."

Severn laughed softly.

"Don't worry about that, Sheng. Give me three days. If Kilgore and I don't return in that time—"

"Then we shall come and avenge your death. You are a person of great virtue, my friend. You are risking much."

"No; I have not much to risk," said Severn. "What remains to me is little enough to place at the service of my friends. Now, I want two horses, a supply of food, one of our electric torches and my revolver. I think that will be all."

Half an hour afterward Severn and six Manchu riders set off in the direction of the temple. One of the Manchus bore a note to Sir Fandi Singh.

Under the fine starlight Severn had no difficulty in ascertaining his position perfectly. When the camp was a mile away he drew rein and sent the Manchus onward. He watched them ride from sight toward the temple.

"I hope Sheng Wu can accomplish his part of the work," he thought. "It's more difficult than mine. I have only to fool a poor blind leper— while he has to deceive both Sir Fandi and the Mongols!"

And he rode toward the defile, trying to assure himself that he would this time be able to shoot down Esrun on sight. In his heart of hearts he knew that he could not do it, at least, without provocation. He had never forgotten the horror that had seized him when, as he thought, he had shot the woman to death— even in the moment when he thought she had murdered Sir Fandi.

After all sometimes these little things count big with the right sort of man. Day could have shot the woman without a scruple. Severn, although he knew that the life of Kilgore might hang in the balance, tried to persuade himself to do it, and could not.

"We'll see when the time comes," he reflected, and spurred his horses onward. "After all, it may not be necessary— she is only a blind woman, a helpless creature."

This was a mistake.

Chapter 14

"There Is Heaven So High, And The Stars So Distant!"

—Li Low.

SEVERN stood at the shore of the mysterious little lake, whose surface no wind ever ruffled, and wondered why Day had been given those bank-notes to carry.

"It was an ironic jest, more than likely," he concluded. "Probably Esrun guessed that he was looking for treasure— and gave it to him."

Noon had come and gone. He had waited here an hour, and nothing had happened. The two horses, hobbled, grazed among the lush grasses to the left. Everything was peaceful, hot, still as death itself. By dawn, at the latest, Esrun must have known that Sir Fandi had started for the lake; she would be so informed by her spies among the horsemen of the Hutuktu. How would she receive the expected Rajput?

Severn had not slept for twenty-four hours. He reclined under the trees and vowed that he would doze only for an hour. He needed sleep, and he could afford to risk that. He glanced at his watch, set the waking-time in his head and slept.

When he wakened, he looked again at his watch; he was correct, almost to the minute. With a breath of relief that he had not over-slept, he came to his feet. His eyes fell upon the boat of Esrun, drawn up on shore.

With a start of astonishment Severn whirled about, searching the shore. There was no sign of Esrun— yet the boat had come here while he slept! Had his presence passed unnoted? Very likely. Where, then, was Esrun?

Severn slowly approached the boat, suspecting some trick until he perceived that the rude craft was indeed empty, its paddle lying across the thwarts. He saw something else also— a paper on the forward thwart, weighted down with a stone. Concluding there was nothing to fear, Severn pocketed his automatic, leaned forward and picked up the paper.

Upon this paper was written in flowing Hindustani:

Come in the boat to the cliff-opening. I will wait you.

Severn crumpled the paper into a ball, tossed it away and stepped into the boat. He pushed off from shore.

"That message was intended for the Rajput—she won't dream that others could read it!" he reflected. "Therefore, my appearance in the boat will be sufficient guarantee that I am Sir Fandi. Excellent!"

Standing erect in the stern, he paddled the boat toward the crags on the right. He had a good idea of where to seek the opening in the cliffs, since he had seen Esrun come out on the occasion of his former visit to the spot.

He asked himself no useless questions about the matter. He understood perfectly that while he slept Esrun had brought out the boat and had left the message for Sir Fandi. How she had regained the cavern did not matter. Could she pick his brain with her accursed telepathic power? He thought not. Had she been able to do so, she would never have been expecting the Rajput to arrive. This was comforting.

The cleft in the high rocks opened out before him. He beheld the sandy strip, the rock portal of the cavern, as Day had described; and standing on the sand, the yellow figure of Esrun, shrouded, blind.

Severn made rather difficult work of the paddling, inasmuch as his mechanical arm could offer little assistance. As he slowly drew in toward the sand, he perceived that Esrun had heard his approach. The hooded head came up and her voice sounded in Hindustani.

"Is it you, Fandi Singh?"

Severn imitated the accents of the Rajput as best he could; he dared take no chances.

"It is I, woman."

The prow of the boat touched the sand. Severn stepped out, pulled up the boat. Esrun lifted a hand as if in warning. Mockery rang in her voice.

"Welcome, son of the sun, lord of Rajputana, ruler of the blood of Mewar! Do not think to slay me, or you will never see your friend alive. Throw down your revolver at my feet."

Severn hesitated only an instant. He knew that he could not pistol this creature in cold blood. Only cowards can seek in sudden death, whether for others or for themselves, a resolvent for the problems of existence; and Severn, facing the fact, shrank. Besides, if need were, he could throttle this leprous creature in his one hand.

He threw down the pistol and Esrun picked it up.

"Come!" she said, and moved toward the cavern portal.

Severn followed.

Knowing that to this being both night and day were the same, Severn produced his electric torch as he stepped into the darkness after his guide. He feared some trap designed to lay him by the heels, since Esrun worked not with force, but with cunning. The light showed him little. The passage was wide and high and was intersected by other but smaller passages at intervals.

"Where is Kilgore sahib?" demanded Severn.

"You shall see him presently, lord of the Rajputs! First I will show you some of the wonders of this place-"

"I did not come here to see wonders."

"You shall see what I desire you to see, none the less."

Severn made no response. He reflected that, lacking a guide, he could hardly hope to discover Kilgore— the mountain appeared to be honeycombed with passages. He would of course chance it, in extremity, but the time was not yet.

"Turn here," said the voice. "Follow me closely, to the right!"

Severn swept his light around, suspicious of pitfalls or gins. He discovered nothing and followed into a passage leading off to the right. This proved to be short, and opened out in a large chamber. Here was burning a dim light in one of the ancient massive reservoirs of oil.

"I lighted the lamp in honor of you," said Esrun. "You came to this country desiring treasure. Well, look around! Take what you will, although I have used most of the gold. When you have seen enough, come and join me, and we will go to your friend, Fandi sahib! Here is the treasure-chamber of the ancient priests, O lion of the Rajputs!"

Severn examined the roof— there appeared to be no grills such as Day had told of, and he advanced toward the burning lamp. Then he paused.

Before him, scattered about the floor, were a few heaps of glinting gold-pieces. He knew what they were, since he had obtained a few from his first meeting with Esrun—they were broad, flat pieces of early Ming minting. This chamber and cavern, then, were not so very ancient!

There appeared to be little of the gold, nor could he perceive other treasure, until he advanced to the burning lamp. Then he beheld a great heap of packets bound in hide. One of these had been tom open. Severn stooped, and picked up a handful of the black paper bank-notes of Kublai Khan, known to the Chinese as Shih-tsu.

Severn choked down a laugh of bitter irony as he glanced around. Here was the vast treasure of which Day had dreamed— the treasure of Genghis Khan, perhaps! Instead, it was some hoard laid by under the Mings; a hoard of bank-notes stored away six hundred years since. A mighty treasure then, it was today not worth the effort of carrying away!

Impatience surged up in Severn. He cared nothing about all this—he wanted only to find Kilgore and get clear. He turned to Esrun with an angry word.

"Enough of this! Where is my friend?"

"Come," Esrun laughed softly as she turned. "There is another chamber that you must visit, first. There I have prepared a gift for you, Rajput lion!"

Severn followed her closely. These words evoked a swift alarm in him. In the next chamber the trap would be sprung!

His light showed him that they returned to the main passage, then crossed this and entered another transverse branch. As before, this was short and opened into a chamber of some size.

"Is the lamp burning?" asked Esrun.

"There is only darkness," growled Severn. No lamp was lighted in the chamber.

"Then it has gone out! But wait—there may be some oil left in it."

Esrun stepped forward, quite ignorant of the electric torch that played upon her. Severn glanced about the place, and saw that in some far day it had served as an armory. Here were fantastic weapons of all sorts, and armor; dust-covered, rust-frayed, useless.

"Have you any matches?" demanded Esrun, turning.

"No."

"Then come! Give me your arm—I will guide you."

Severn threw the beam of light about the yellow figure. He saw that she stood by the wall, and made fast to a great ring in the wall there was a set of huge manacles. At this, a laugh rose in him—laughter, not unmixed with pity for the blind creature who was playing out her little treachery.

He stepped forward and touched the figure with his left arm. Her fingers seized his arm— swift as light, the rusted manacles clamped about the wrist. They had been oiled and made ready for this task.

"The lion is snared!" Esrun stepped quickly away and from her burst one wild laugh of triumph that reechoed dizzily in the cavern. "The Rajput lion is netted! And here is a gift for you, Rajput, a gift dyed with my own hands! Wait!"

She caught up a pile of yellow cloths and thrust them at Severn. Then a match flamed in her hand and she held it up so that her captive might see the gift.

"Turban cloth and robe for the royal Rajput!" she shrilled. "Saffron-dyed, the yellow robes of death! Take them and wear them, great rajah, lion of Rajputana!"

The match flickered down from her hand.

Severn was examining the manacles. He saw that he had no hope of getting free from them; so quietly he began to unfasten the mechanical arm which was bound fast. He could no longer hesitate. The moment for action was at hand. He must stake everything—

"And here is another gift for you, rajah's son!" cried the woman's voice. "A gift of leprosy, a gift of death and disease—"

Under the flashlight, Severn saw her leap forward. Horror seized upon him as her hands fell upon his false arm and her shroud was brushed aside. Her teeth closed upon the false hand— she was deliberately endeavoring to bite Fandi Singh, to infect him with the dread living rot that had blinded her.

Severn stepped back. He laid down the torch with the beam still playing. From the woman burst a frightful shriek as she perceived the trick— the false arm dangling loose in the manacle.

In desperation, Severn caught up the yellow cloths and flung himself upon the creature. He looped the cloth about her throat, about her upper arms; the shrouding robe fell away, revealing all her ghastly death-in-life. One hand flashed up a revolver— Severn tore it away and wound the cloths more tightly.

Try as he might, he could not avoid contact with the awful thing that flung itself about in his arms. Shriek after shriek echoed through the cavern. Esrun struggled and twisted like a mad thing. Hampered by having but one hand, Severn managed none the less to get fresh windings of the yellow cloth about the creature.

He was sickened by the very touch. A mad panic upgrew within him—as when a man touches some repulsive creeping thing in the dark and goes mad with a frantic horror, a desperate frenzy to kill the loathsome thing! Severn cried out incoherently, as a man cries when fighting. He struggled with the creature, wound the cloths tighter, fought back the insane impulse to strike and slay with the first weapon to hand.

Before he finished, he saw that it was in sober truth a madwoman with whom he was dealing. The shock of finding herself so tricked, perhaps, had finished that diseased brain. When the creature sank down at last amid her mufflings, her voice never ceased to pour forth a storm of raving.

It was horrible. Severn found himself shaken to the very soul, as if passing through some brain-searing nightmare of teror. He was not made for such work as this. A violent nausea seized upon him.

The shrieks of the maddened creature had now become low, shuddering groans. Each one of them went through Severn like a knife. He fell to his knees, sick with horror in both soul and body.

At this instant the sound of an explosion roared through the cavern.

Chapter 15

"A Hunted Tiger Will Leap The Wall."

—Proverb.

KILGORE, finding himself alone in his prison chamber, investigated his belongings.

Since all weapons had been removed, with everything that might serve as a weapon, he had small hope of finding the thing he sought. It was something he had prepared before the expedition started, in the vague anticipation of emergencies.

Presently, as he searched, an exclamation broke from him. With trembling fingers he brought forth from his pack a bundle of bamboo segments, tied together and wrapped in red paper marked with large ideographs. These characters proclaimed that the bundle held temple candles.

Such candles, made of very soft wax or animal fat, and painted, cannot be touched without smearing the hands with color. Accordingly, they are carried in bamboo segments, split asunder and joined about the candle, the bamboo joint at each end holding the prongs of the candles. Feverishly Kilgore tore open the bundle to let the individual candles come loose.

These candles were remarkable for one thing. The ordinary temple candle melts with heat. These had crossed the Gobi, yet they had not melted.

Kilgore laid them down and rose.

"By gad, I don't dare chance it!" he exclaimed, taking a cigaret and lighting it. "If there's no other way I'll try it— but it's madness. Let's have a look at that grill."

He went to the iron grating that enclosed his end of the chamber. It was out of the question for him to break away, as Day had done, although he found one point where the iron was badly eaten by rust. The idea came to him, however, that he could slide the grill upward again.

He fell to work.

Lifting the iron grating was beyond his power. He attempted to pry it with whatever he found to hand. After working an hour, he had it up two inches from the floor, resting now upon two fragments of a great water-jar that he smashed. This jar was neither of pottery nor of porcelain; it was of the intermediate period partaking of the qualities of each material and was extremely hard.

Another hour passed— an hour of minute and incessant labor. At the end of this period, the grating had been raised to a height of four inches. Kilgore was setting pieces of the jar in place to hold it up, when the props gave way suddenly. The grating clanged again on the floor.

Kilgore sank down, exhausted.

"No go," he said calmly. "I'll have to take the chance after all!"

When he was rested, he went to the bundle of bamboo segments and sat down. He worked loose the fastenings of the first segment. When the bamboo fell apart, he took out the temple candle, gaudily painted in red and gold and black. Under his hands a miracle took place; what had seemed a candle, became a stick of dynamite.

Kilgore was cool now, cold as death, absolutely deliberate. He opened the other bamboo segments. He stuffed the front of his shirt with sticks of dynamite, fuse, caps. Everything was here with which to work. He fitted a broken stick with cap and fuse.

"The stuff works downward— I must make it work otherwise," he murmured. "If it doesn't kill me, it'll bring down the roof. If it doesn't bring down the roof, it will close up the entrance. If it fails to close the entrance, it will blow aside the grill. And if it does that— I have a chance. At least, I'll enjoy a last cigaret."

He lighted the cigaret. His fingers were steady now. He was perfectly calm.

Going to the center of the caging grill, where the two sections came together, he worked with such materials as he could find to build up a platform that might direct the force of the explosive against the iron grating. When he had finished he inspected the work with a shrug of doubt.

"It may— and it mayn't," he said, and smiled.

He placed the broken stick of explosive, its fuse ready. With water and sand from the floor he tamped it in place as well as possible. Then he drew out his box of vestas and lighted one of the wax splinters.

"Well," he said, "here's how!"

He lighted the fuse, dropped the match, and ran to the far corner of the chamber. There he flung himself down, careful of the explosives in his shirt.

The half-minute that he waited dragged into an eternity of suspense.

Suddenly it came— a flash, a stunning roar, a blast that extinguished the lamps. Objects came hurtling, smashing, against the walls. Momentarily deafened, half-stunned, Kilgore dragged himself erect, coughing the choking fumes from his lungs as he groped a way forward.

He dared not strike a vesta, lest he behold failure.

At length he came to the grating, and his hands groped at it. A sobbing cry burst fromhimas he found the iron wrenched and twisted outward in a gaping hole large enough to admit his body. Without hesitation, he dropped and crawled through.

When he rose, he was shaking with excitement. Had the entrance to the chamber been closed? He struck a vesta and held it up.

"Thank Heaven!"

He started forward. Before the light burned his fingers and died, he had reached the main passage outside. For a moment he stood there in darkness—then, at some little distance, he saw a dancing ray of light.

"Kilgore!" cried a voice. "Kilgore!"

"Here!" Kilgore leaped forward toward the light.

It struck upon his figure and came to a halt. Then it dropped to the floor, and by good luck continued to burn.

Kilgore stared at Severn, a frightful shape. The American staggered and clutched at him.

"Out of this!" cried Severn in a wild voice. "Out of this hell-hole—"

"You're alone?" snapped Kilgore, wondering.

"Yes."

"Day?"

"Safe— get out, get out!" Hysteria shrilled in Severn's tone. "You've no idea what I've done— out of here, I tell you! Pick up the light—"

Kilgore obeyed. He had no idea what Severn had done; that was true. Nothing, in fact, but to tie up a leprous woman— and yet this absurdly simple thing had unstrung and shaken Severn to the very soul. He was still nauseated.

The two men ran. When they gained the cavern entrance, Severn flung himself forward with an inarticulate cry of thanksgiving on his lips. He threw himself into the warm sand and lay there, clutching at it.

Kilgore dropped the electric torch and looked about. He saw the boat there at the shore below, the blue sky above. He looked at Severn and perceived that the man was sick.

Then, with a queer smile twisting at his lips, Kilgore stepped back into the darkness.

Five minutes afterward he rejoined Severn, who by this time was sitting up and looking about. The American glanced up at his friend.

"I'm a fool," he said, his voice still uncertain. "It was a horrible thing— you can't imagine how horrible! To any one else it might not have mattered a bit."

Kilgore touched him on the shoulder and pointed to the boat.

"Never mind talking about it. Let's go."

Severn drew a deep breath and came to his feet.

They got into the boat. Severn sat on the forward thwart. Kilgore took the paddle and urged the rude craft outward along the narrow water-way into the lake. Once or twice he glanced back at the black portal of the cavern. At length they emerged from the cleft in the rocks, and were heading for the shore beyond. Kilgore saw the two horses there.

At length Severn raised his head.

"I want only to get out of here forever!" he said. "I've had enough. I'm done—"

"Buck up, old chap, we're on our way," said Kilgore kindly. "Where's Day?"

"Out there." Severn waved his hand vaguely. "With the others. I—"

A tremor passed through the boat— a shivering convulsion imparted from the water. It was followed by a full sound, a thudding smash. Severn leaped to his feet in alarm, nearly overturning the craft.

"Good! What was that?"

Kilgore smiled and glanced over his shoulder. Above the crags to the right was rising a little cloud of dust.

"Dynamite," he said curtly. "I blew in the entrance to that damnable place."

Severn stared at him for a moment, wide-eyed.

"But— but Esrun was there—"

"I should jolly well hope she was!" exploded Kilgore. For the first time, Severn heard an oath fall from his lips. In a sudden passion Kilgore shook his fist at the crags. "And let her stay there to eternity!"

Severn sat down, dropped his head into his hands, sat motionless.

Five minutes later the two men stepped ashore.

Kilgore ran to catch the horses. He unhobbled them, led them back to Severn.

"Up with you!" he cried exultantly. "Free, man—free! Let's go—"

"Yes— let's go!" echoed Severn in a firm voice.

The two mounted and rode.

_________________

6: Lindenborg Pool

William Morris

1834-1896

Oxford and Cambridge Magazine Sep 1856

Weird Tales Nov 1929

I READ once in lazy humor Thorpe's Northern Mythology, on a cold May night when the north wind was blowing; in lazy humor, but when I came to the tale that is here amplified there was something in it that fixed my attention and made me think of it; and whether I would or no, my thoughts ran in this way, as here follows.

So I felt obliged to write, and wrote accordingly, and by the time I had done the gray light filled all my room; so I put out my candles, and went to bed, not without fear and trembling, for the morning twilight is so strange and lonely. This is what I wrote.

YES, on that dark night, with that wild unsteady north wind howling, though it was Maytime, it was doubtless dismal enough in the forest, where the boughs clashed eerily, and where, as the wanderer in that place hurried along, strange forms half showed themselves to him, the more fearful because half seen in that way: dismal enough doubtless on wide moors where the great wind had it all its own way: dismal on the rivers creeping on and on between the marshlands, creeping through the willows, the water trickling through the locks, sounding faintly in the gusts of the wind.

Yet surely nowhere so dismal as by the side of that still pool.

I threw myself down on the ground there, utterly exhausted with my struggle against the wind, and with bearing the fathoms and fathoms of the heavily leaded plumb-line that lay beside me.

Fierce as the wind was, it could not raise the leaden waters of that fearful pool, defended as they were by the steep banks of dripping yellow clay, striped horribly here and there with ghastly uncertain green and blue.

They said no man could fathom it; and yet all round the edges of it grew a rank crop of dreary reeds and segs, some round, some flat, but none ever flowering as other things flowered, never dying and being renewed, but always the same stiff array of unbroken reeds and segs, some round, some flat. Hard by me were two trees leafless and ugly, made, it seemed, only for the wind to go through with a wild sough on such nights as these; and for a mile from that place were no other trees.

True, I could not see all this at that time, then, in the dark night, but I knew well that it was all there; for much had I studied this pool in the daytime, trying to learn the secret of it; many hours I had spent there, happy with a kind of happiness, because forgetful of the past. And even now, could I not hear the wind going through those trees, as it never went through any trees before or since? could I not see gleams of the dismal moor? could I not hear those reeds just taken by the wind, knocking against each other, the flat ones scraping all along the round ones? Could I not hear the slow trickling of the land-springs through the clay banks?

The cold, chill horror of the place was too much for me; I had never been there by night before, nobody had for quite a long time, and now to come on such a night! If there had been any moon, the place would have looked more as it did by day; besides, the moon shining on water is always so beautiful, on any water even: if it had been starlight, one could have looked at the stars and thought of the time when those fields were fertile and beautiful (for such a time was, I am sure), when the cowslips grew among the grass, and when there was promise of yellow-waving corn stained with poppies; that time which the stars had seen, but which we had never seen, which even they would never see again— past time!

Ah! what was that which touched my shoulder?— Yes, I see, only a dead leaf.— Yes, to be here on this eighth of May too of all nights in the year, the night of that awful day when ten years ago I slew him, not undeservedly, God knows, yet how dreadful it was!— Another leaf! and another!— Strange, those trees have been dead this hundred years, I should think. How sharp the wind is, too, just as if I were moving along and meeting it;— why, I am moving! what then, I am not there after all; where am I then? there are the trees; no, they are freshly planted oak saplings, the very ones that those withered last-year's leaves were blown on me from.

I have been dreaming then, and am on my road to the lake; but what a young wood! I must have lost my way; I never saw all this before. Well— I will walk on stoutly.

May the Lord help my senses! I am riding !— on a mule; a bell tinkles somewhere on him; the wind blows something about with a flapping sound: something? in Heaven's name, what? My long black robes.— Why— when I left my house I was clad in serviceable broadcloth of the Nineteenth Century.

I shall go mad— I am mad— I am gone to the Devil— I have lost my identity; who knows in what place, in what age of the world I am living now? Yet I will be calm; I have seen all these things before, in pictures surely, or something like them. I am resigned, since it is no worse than that. I am a priest then, in the dim, far-off Thirteenth Century, riding, about midnight, to carry the blessed sacrament to some dying man.

Soon I found that I was not alone; a man was riding close to me on a horse; he was fantastically dressed, more so than usual for that time, being striped all over in vertical stripes of yellow and green, with quaint birds like exaggerated storks in different attitudes counterchanged on the stripes; all this I saw by the lantern he carried, in the light of which his debauched black eyes quite flashed. On he went, unsteadily rolling, very drunk, though it was the Thirteenth Century, but he sat his horse fairly well.

I watched him in my proper Nineteenth Century character, with insatiable curiosity and intense amusement ; but as a quiet priest of a long-past age, with contempt and disgust enough, not unmixed with fear and anxiety.

He roared out snatches of doggerel verse as he went along, drinking-songs, hunting-songs, robbing-songs, lust-songs, in a voice that sounded far and far above the roaring of the wind, though that was high, and rolled along the dark road that his lantern cast spikes of light along ever so far, making the devils grin: and meanwhile I, the priest, glanced from him wrathfully every now and then to That which I carried very reverently in my hand, and my blood curdled with shame and indignation; but being a shrewd priest, I knew well enough that a sermon would be utterly thrown away on a man who was drunk every day in the year, and, more especially, very drunk then. So I held my peace, saying only under my breath:

"Dixit insipiens in corde suo, non est Deus. Corrupti sunt et abominabiles facti sunt in studiis suis; non est qui faciat bonum non est usque ad unum: sepulchrum patens est guttur eorum, linguis suis dolose agebant, venenum aspidum sub labiis eorum. Dominum non invocaverunt; illic trepidaverunt timore, ubi non erat timor. Quis dabit ex Sion salutare Israel?"

and so I went on, thinking too at times about the man who was dying and whom I was soon to see; he had been a bold bad plundering baron, but was said lately to have altered his way of life, having seen a miracle or some such thing; he had departed to keep a tournament near his castle lately, but had been brought back sore wounded, so this drunken servant, with some difficulty and much unseasonable merriment, had made me understand, and now lay at the point of death, brought about by unskilful tending and such like. Then I thought of his face— a bad face, very bad, retreating forehead, small twinkling eyes, projecting lower jaw; and such a voice, too, he had! like the grunt of a boar mostly.

Now don't you think it strange that this face should be the same, actually the same as the face of my enemy, slain that very day ten years ago? I did not hate him, either that man or the baron, but I wanted to see as little of him as possible, and I hoped that the ceremony would soon be over, and that I should be at liberty again.

And so with these thoughts and many others, but all thought strangely double, we went along, the varlet being too drunk to take much notice of me, only once, as he was singing some doggerel, like this, I think, making allowances for change of language and so forth:

"The Duke went to Treves

On the first of November;

His wife stay'd at Bonn—

Let me see, I remember;

"When the Duke came back

To look for his wife.

We came from Cologne,

And took the Duke's life;

"We hung him mid-high

Between spire and pavement,

From their mouths dropp'd the cabbage

Of the carles in amazement."

"Boo—hoo! Church-rat! Church-
mouse ! Hilloa, Priest! have you
brought the pyx, eh?"

From some cause or other he seemed to think this an excellent joke, for he almost shrieked with laughter as he went along; but by this time we had reached the castle. Challenge, and counter-challenge, and we passed the outermost gate and began to go through some of the courts, in which stood lime-trees here and', there, growing green tenderly with that Maytime, though the wind bit keenly.

How strange again! as I went farther, there seemed no doubt of it; here in the aftertime came that pool, how I knew not; but in the few moments that we were riding from the outer gate to the castle-porch I thought so intensely over the probable cause for the existence of that pool, that (how strange!) I could almost have thought I was back again listening to the oozing of the land-springs through the high clay banks there. I was wakened from that, before it grew too strong, by the glare of many torches, and, dismounting, found myself in the midst of some twenty attendants, with flushed faces and wildly sparkling eyes, which they were vainly trying to soften to due solemnity; mock solemnity I had almost said, for they did not seem to think it necessary to appear really solemn, and had difficulty enough apparently in not prolonging indefinitely the shout of laughter with which they had at first greeted me. "Take the holy Father to my Lord," said one at last, "and we will go with him."

So they led me up the stairs into the gorgeously furnished chamber; the light from the heavy waxen candles was pleasant to my eyes after the glare and twisted red smoke of the pine-torches; but all the essences scattered about the chamber were not enough to conquer the fiery breath of those about me.

I put on the alb and stole they brought me, and, before I went up to the sick man, looked round on those that were in the rooms; for the rooms opened one into the other by many doors, across some of which hung gorgeous tapestr^; all the rooms seemed to have many people, for some stood at these doors, and some passed to and fro, swinging aside the heavy hangings; once several people at once, seemingly quite by accident, drew aside almost all the veils from the doors, and showed an endless perspective of gorgeousness.

And at these things my heart fainted for horror. "Had not the Jews of late," thought I, the priest, "been very much in the habit of crucifying children in mockery of the Holiest, holding gorgeous leasts while they beheld the poor innocents die? these men are Atheists, you are in a trap, yet quit yourself like a man."

"Ah, sharp one," thought I, the author, "where are you at last? try to pray as a test.— Well, well, these things are strangely like devils.— O man , you have talked about bravery often, now is your time to practise it: once for all trust in God, or I fear you are lost."

Moreover it increased my horror that there was no appearance of a woman in all these rooms; and yet was there not? there, those things— I looked more intently; yes, no doubt they were women, but all dressed like men;— what a ghastly place!

"O man! do your duty," my angel said; then in spite of the bloodshot eyes of man and woman there, in spite of their bold looks, they quailed before me.

I stepped up to the bedside, where under the velvet coverlid lay the dying man, his small sparkling eyes only (but dulled now by coming death) showing above the swathings. I was about to kneel down by the bedside to confess him, when one of those— things— called out (now they had just been whispering and sniggering together, but the priest in his righteous, brave scorn would not look at them; the humbled author, half fearful, half trustful, dared not): so one called out:

"Sir Priest, for three days our master has spoken no articulate word; you must pass over all particulars; ask for a sign only."

Such a strange ghastly suspicion flashed across me just then; but I choked it, and asked the dying man if he repented of his sins, and if he believed all that was necessary to salvation, and, if so, to make a sign, if he were able: the man moved a little and groaned; so I took it for a sign, as he was clearly incapable either of speaking or moving, and accordingly began the service for the administration of the sacraments; and as I began, those behind me and through all the rooms (I know it was through all of them) began to move about, in a bewildering dance-like motion, mazy and intricate; yes, and presently music struck up through all those rooms, music and singing, lively and gay; many of the tunes I had heard before (in the Nineteenth Century); I could have sworn to half a dozen of the polkas.

The rooms grew fuller and fuller of people; they passed thick and fast between the rooms, and the hangings were continually rustling; one fat old man with a big belly crept under the bed where I was, and wheezed and chuckled there, laughing and talking to one who stooped down and lifted up the hangings to look at him.

Still more and more people talking and singing and laughing and twirling about, till my brain went round and round, and I scarce knew what I did; yet. somehow. I could not leave off: I dared not even look over my shoulder, lest I should see something so horrible as to make me die.

So I got on with the service, and at last took the pyx, and took thereout the sacred wafer, whereupon was a deep silence through all those rooms, which troubled me, I think, more than all which had gone before, for I knew well it did not mean reverence.

I held it up, that which I counted so holy, when lo! great laughter, echoing like thunder-claps through all the rooms, not dulled by the veiling hangings, for they were all raised up together, and, with a slow upheaval of the rich clothes among which he lay, with a sound that was half snarl, half grunt, with helpless body swathed in bedclothes, a huge swine that I had been shriving tore from me the Holy Thing, deeply scoring my hand as he did so with tusk and tooth, so that the red blood ran on to the floor.

Therewithal he rolled down on to the floor, and lay there helplessly, only able to roll to and fro, because of the swathings.

Then right madly skirled the intolerable laughter, rising to shrieks that were fearfuller than any scream of agony I ever heard; the hundreds of people through all those grand rooms danced and wheeled about me, shrieking, hemming me in with interlaced arms, the women loosing their long hair and thrusting forward their horribly grinning unsexed faces toward me till I felt their hot breath.

Oh! how I hated them all! almost hated all mankind for their sakes; how I longed to get right quit of all men; among whom, as it seemed, all sacredest things even were made a mock of. I looked about me fiercely; I sprang forward, and clutched a sword from the gilded belt of one of those who stood near me; with savage blows that threw the blood about the gilded walls and their hangings right over the heads of those—things—I cleared myself from them, and tore down the great stairs madly, yet could not, as in a dream, go fast enough, because of my passion.

I was out in the courtyard, among the lime-trees soon, the north wind blowing freshly on my heated forehead in that dawn. The outer gate was locked and bolted; I stooped and raised a great stone and sent it at the lock with all my strength, and I was stronger than ten men then; iron and oak gave way before it, and through the ragged splinters I tore in reckless fury, like a wild horse through a hazel hedge.

And no one had pursued me. I knelt down on the dear green turf outside, and thanked God with streaming eyes for my deliverance, praying Him forgiveness for my unwilling share in that night's mockery.

Then I arose and turned to go, but even as I did so I heard a roar as if the world were coming in two, and looking toward the castle, saw, not a castle, but a great cloud of white lime-dust swaying this way and that in the gusts of the wind.

Then while the east grew bright there arose a hissing, gurgling noise, that swelled into the roar and wash of many waters, and by then the sun had risen a deep black lake lay before my feet.

And this is how I tried to fathom the Lindenborg Pool.

_________________

7: The Bed By The Window

E F Benson

1867-1940

Weird Tales Nov 1929

MY FRIEND Lionel Bailey understands the works of Mr. Einstein, and he reads them with the rapt thrilled attention that more ordinary people give to detective stories. He says they are so exciting that he can not put them down: they make him late for dingier. It may be owing to this unusual mental conformation of his that he talks about time and space in a manner that is occasionally puzzling, for he thinks of them as something quite different from our accepted notions of them, and tonight as we sat over my fire hearing a spring-gale of March bugling outside, and dashing solid sheets of rain against my window, I had found him very difficult to follow. But though he thinks in terms which the average man. finds unintelligible, he is always ready (though with an effort) to quit the austere heights on which he naturally roams, and explain. And his explanations are often so lucid that the average man (I allude to myself) can generally get some idea of what he means. Just now he had made some extremely cryptic remark about the real dimensions of time, and of the palpable incorrectness of our conception of it: but rightly interpreting the moaning sound with which I received this, he very kindly came to my aid.

"You see, time, as we think of it," he said, "is a most meaningless convention. We talk of the future and the past jus if they were opposite poles, whereas they are really the same. What we thought of as the future a minute ago or a century ago, we now see to be the past: the. future is always in process of becoming the past, The two are the same, as I said just now, looked at from different points."

"But they aren't the same," said I, rather incautiously. "The future may become the past, but the past never becomes the future."

Lionel sighed.

"A most unfortunate remark," he said. "Why, the whole of the future is made up of the past: it entirely depends on it; the future consists of nothing else but the past."

I did see what he meant. There was no denying it, so I tried something else.

"A slippery slidy affair altogether," I said. "The future becomes the past, and the past the future. But luckily there's one firm spot in this welter, and that's the present. That's solid: there's nothing wrong with the present, is there?"

Lionel moved slightly in his chair: an indulgent, patient movement.

"Oh, dear; oh dear," he said. "You've chosen as your firm solid point the most shifting and unstable of all. What is the present? By the time you've said 'This is the present,' it has slid away into the past. The past has got some sort of real existence, and we know that the future will blossom out of it. But the present hardly can be said to exist at all, for the moment you say that it is here it has changed. It is far the most elusive part of the phantom which we call Time. It is the door, that is the most that can be said for it, through which the future passes into the past. Yet somehow, though it scarcely exists, we can see from it into the past and into the future."

I felt I could venture to contradict that.

"Thank heaven we can't," I said. "It would be the ultimate terror to be able to see into the future. It's bad enough sometimes to be able to remember the past."

He shook his head.

"But we can see into the future," he said. "The future is entirely evolved out of the past, and if we Imew everything about the past, we should equally know everything about the future. Everything that happens is merely a fresh link in the chain of unalterable consequences. The little we know about the solar system, for instance, makes it a certainty that the sun will rise tomorrow."

"Oh, that kind of thing," said I. "Just material, mathematical deductions. ' '

"No, all kinds of things. For instance, I'm sure you know the certainty that we all have now and then, that somebody present is about to say some particular definite sentence. A few seconds pass, and then out it comes precisely as we had known it would. That's not so material and mathematical. It's a little instance of a very big thing called clairvoyance."

"I know what you mean," I said. "But it may be some trick of the brain. It isn't a normal experience. "

"Everything is normal," said Lionel. "Everything depends on some rule. We only call things abnormal when we don't know what the rule is. Then there are mediums: mediums constantly see into the future, and to some extent everyone is a medium; we've all had glimpses."

He paused a moment.

"And there is such a simple explanation," he said. "You see, we're all existing in eternity, though, just for the span of our life-time, we're also existing in Time. But there's eternity outside Time, though the mist of material things usually obscures it from our vision. Now and then the mist clears, and then— how shall I express anything so simple?— then we look down on Time, like a little speck of an island below us, quite clear, future and past and present, and awfully small. We get just a glimpse, no more, and then the mist closes round us again. But on these occasions we can see into the future just as clearly as we can look into the past, and we can see not only those who have passed outside the mist of material phenomena, whom we call ghosts. but the future or the past of those who are still inside it. They all appear to us then as they are in eternity, where there is neither past nor future."

I suddenly found that my grip on what he was saying was beginning to give way.

"That's enough for one night," said I flippantly. "The future is the past, and the past is the future, and there isn't any present, and ghosts may come from what has happened or what will happen. I should like to see a ghost out of the future.... And as you've had a whisky and soda in the immediate past, I feel sure you will have one in the immediate future, as it's the same thing. Say when."

I WAS off into the country next day in order to make amends for a couple of months of wilful idleness in London by hermitizing myself in a small village on the coast of Norfolk, where I knew nobody, and where, I was credibly informed, there was nothing to do: I should thus have to work in order to get through the hours of the day. There was a house there, kept by a man and his wife who took in lodgers, and there I proposed to plant myself till I had got through these criminal arrears. Mr. Hopkins had been a butler, and his wife a cook, and, so I was told by a friend who had made trial of their ministrations, they made their inmates extremely comfortable. There were a couple of other folk, Mr. Hopkins had written to me, now staying in the house, and he regretted he could not give me a sitting-room to myself. But he could provide me with a big double bedroom, where there was ample room for a writing-table and my books. That was good enough.

Hopkins had ordered a car to convey me from the nearest railway station, six miles distant, to Faringham, and a little before sunset, on a bright windy day of March, I came to the village. Though I had certainly never been here before I had some odd sense of remote familiarity with it, and I suppose I must have seen and forgotten some hamlet which was like it. There was just one street lined with fishermen's houses, built of rounded flints, with nets hung up to dry on the walls of small plots in front, and a few miscellaneous shops. We passed through the length of this, and came at the end to a much bigger, three-storied house, at the gate of which we stopped. A spacious square of garden separated it from the road, with espaliered pear-trees bordering the path that led to the front door: beyond flat open country stretched away to the horizon, intersected with big dikes and ditches, across which I could see, a mile distant, a line of white shingle where lay the sea. My arrival was hooted on the motor-horn, and Hopkins, a prim dark spare man, came out to see to my luggage. His wife was waiting inside, and she took me up to my room.

Certainly it would do very well: there were two windows commanding a view of the marsh eastward, in one of which was set a big writing-table. A fire sparkled on the hearth; two beds stood in opposite angles of the room, one near the second window, the other by the fireplace in front of which was a large armchair. This armchair had a footstool, under the table was a waste-paper basket, and on it one of those old-fashioned but convenient contrivances which show the day of the month and the day of the week, with pegs to adjust them. Everything had been thought out for comfort, everything looked spotlessly clean and cared-for, and at once I felt myself at home here.

"But what a charming room, Mrs. Hopkins," I said. "It's just what I want."

She moved away from the door as I spoke, to let her husband enter with my bags. She gave him one swift ugly look and I found myself thinking "How she dislikes him!" But the impression was momentary, and having elected to sleep in the bed by the fireplace, I went downstairs with her for a cup of tea, while her husband unpacked for me.

When I came up again, the unpacking was over, and all my effects dispersed, clothes laid in drawers and cupboards, and my books and papers neatly stacked on the table. There was no settling down to be done: I had stepped into possession of this pleasant room, as if I had long lived and worked in it. Then my eye fell on the little adjustable contrivance on the table for displaying the current date, and I saw that this one detail had escaped the vigilance of my hosts, for it marked Tuesday, May 8th, instead of the true date, Thursday, March 22nd. I was rather pleased to observe that the Hopkinses were not too perfect, and after twisting the record back to the correct date, I instantly settled down to work, for there was nothing to get used to before I felt at home.

A plain and excellent dinner was served some three hours later, and I found that one of my fellow-guests was an elderly sepulchral lady with a genteel voice who spoke but rarely and then about the weather. She had by her on the table a case of Patience cards and a bottle of medicine. She took a dose of the latter before and after her meal, and at once retired to the common sitting-room where that night and every other she played long sad games of Patience. The other was a ruddy young man who confided to me that he was making a study of the minute fresh-water fleas that infest fresh-water snails, for which daily he dragged the dikes. He had been so fortunate as to find a new species which would undoubtedly be called Pulex Dodsoniana in his honor.

Hopkins waited on us with soft velvet-footed attention, and his wife brought in the admirable fruits of her kitchen. Once there was some slight collision of crockery in her tray, and happening to look up I saw the glance he gave her. It was not mere dislike that inspired it, but some quiet deadly hatred.

Dinner over, I went in for a few minutes to the sitting-room where the sepulchral lady was sitting down to her Patience and Mr. Dodson to his microscope, and very soon betook myself upstairs to resume my work.

The room was pleasantly warm, my things laid out for the night, and for a couple of hours I busied and buried myself. Then the door of the room, without any inquiry of knocking, silently opened, and Mrs. Hopkins stood there. She gave a little gasp of dismay as she saw me.

"I'm sure I beg your pardon, sir," she said. "I quite forgot: so stupid of me. But this is the room my husband and I usually occupy, if it is not being used. So forgetful of me."

I awoke next morning after long traffic with troubled nonsensical dreams to find the sun pouring in at the windows as Hopkins drew up the blinds. I thought that Mr. Dodson had come in to show me a collection of huge fleas that battened on Patience cards, or rather that would be abundant there on Tuesday, May 8th, for, as he pointed out, there were none there now since the present had no existence. And then Hopkins, who had been bending over the bed by the window, apologized for being in my room, and explained that he could hate his wife more intensely here: he hoped that I had not been disturbed by him. Then there was the crack of some explosion, which resolved itself into the rattle of the up-going blind, and there indeed he was....

I was soon out of bed and dressing, but somehow that farrago of dream-stuff concocted out of actual experience, hung about me. I could not help feeling that there was significance in it, if I could only find the clue, and it did not, as is usual with dreams, fade and evaporate with my waking: it seemed to retreat into hidden eaves and recesses of my brain and wait in ambush there till it was called out.

Then my eye fell on the date-recorder on my table, and I saw with surprize that it still registered Tuesday, May 8th, though I would have been willing to swear that last night I had adjusted it to the correct date. And with that surprize was mingled a faint and rather uncomfortable misgiving, and involuntarily I asked myself what Tuesday, what May 8th was indicated there. Was it some day in past years, or in years yet to come? I knew that sueh a question was an outrage on common sense; probably I imagined that I had screwed the cylinder back to the present, but had not actually done so. But now I felt that this date referred to some event that had happened or was to happen. It was a record or some mysterious presage out of the future— like a railway-signal suddenly hoisted at night at some wayside station. The line lay empty, but presently out of the darkness would come a yell and a roar from the approaching train....

This time, anyhow, there should be no mistake, and I knew that I moved the date back again.

THE days passed slowly at first, as is their wont in new surroundings, and then began to move with ever-accelerating speed as I settled into an industrious routine. I worked all morning, turned myself unwillingly out of doors for a couple of hours in the afternoon, and worked again after tea and once more till round about midnight. My task prospered, I was well, and the house most comfortable, but all the time there was some instinct bidding me leave the place, or, since I successfully resisted that, to get through with my work as soon as might be and be gone. That strong tonic air of the coast often made me drowsy when I came in, and I would slip from my desk into the big armchair and sleep for a little.

But always after these short recuperative naps, I would wake with a start, feeling that Hopkins had come silently into the room as I slept, and in some inexplicable panic of mind I would wheel round, dreading to see him. Yet it was not, if I may so express it, his bodily presence which I feared, but some psychical phantom of him, which had sinister business on hand in this room. His thoughts were here— was that it ?— something in him that hated and schemed. That business was not concerned with me; I seemed to be but a spectator waiting for the curtain to rise on some grim drama. Then, as this confused and fearful moment of waking passed, the horror slipped away, not dispersing exactly, but concealing itself and ready to emerge again.

Yet all the time the routine of the well-ordered house went smoothly on. Hopkins was busy with his jobs, doing much of the house-work, and valetting and waiting at table: his wife continued to ply her admirable skill in the kitchen. Sometimes its door would be open, as I went upstairs after dinner, and I had a glimpse of them as I passed, sitting friendly at their supper. Indeed I began to wonder whether that gleam of dislike on the one side and of sheer hate on the other, which I fancied I had seen, was not some fiction of my own mind, for if it was real there would surely be some betrayal of the truth, a voice raised in anger, and a sudden shrill answer. But there was none: quietly and efficiently the two went about their work, and sometimes late at night I could hear them pass to the attic-floor above, where they slept. A few footsteps would sound muffled overhead, and then there was silence, till in the morning I, waking early, heard the discreet movements begin again, and soft footfalls pass my door on their way downstairs.

This room of mine, where for three weeks now I had been so prosperously at work, was growing a haunted and terrible place to me. Never once had I seen in it anything outside the ordinary, nor heard any sound that betokened another presence except my own and that of the flapping flames on the hearth, and I told myself that it was I, or, more exactly, some fanciful sense of the unseen and the unheard that was troubling me and causing this ghostly invasion. Yet the room itself had a share in it too, for downstairs, or out in the windy April day, or even just outside the door of the room, I was wholly free of this increasing obsession. Something had happened here which had left its mark not on material things, and which was imperceptible to the organ of sight and hearing, the effect of which was trickling not merely into my brain, but filtering through it into the very source of life. Yet the explanation that a phantom was arising out of the past would not wholly fit, for whatever this haunting was, it was getting nearer, and though its lineaments were not yet visible, they were forming with greater distinctness below the veil that hid them. It was establishing touch with me, as if it was some denizen of a remote world that reached across time and space, and was already laying its fingers on me, and it took advantage of small physical happenings in that room to encompass me with its influence. For instance, when one evening I was brushing my hair before dinner, a white featureless face peered over my shoulder, and then with an arrested shudder I saw that this was only the reflection of the oval looking-glass on the ceiling. Or, as I lay in bed, before putting out my light, a puff of wind came in through the open sash, making the striped curtain to belly, and before I could realize the physical cause of it, there was a man in striped pajamas bending over the bed by the window. Or a wheeze of escaping gas came from the coals on the hearth, and to my ears it sounded like a strangled gasp of someone in the room. Something was at work, using the trivial sounds and sights for its own ends, kneading away in my brain to make it ready and receptive for the revelation it was preparing for it. It worked very cleverly, for the morning after the curtain had shaped itself into the pajamaed figure bending over the other bed, Hopkins, when he called me, apologized for his attire. He had overslept himself, and in order not to delay further, had come down in a coat over his striped pajamas. Another night the wind lifted the cretonne covering that lay over the bed by the window, inflating it into the shape of a body there. It stirred and turned before it was deflated again, and it was just then that the coal on the hearth gasped and choked.

But by now my work was completed: I had determined not to yield to the fear of any strange and troubling fancies until that was done, and tonight, very late, I scrawled a dash across the page below the final words, and added the date. I sat back in my chair, yawning and tired and pleased that I was now free to go back to London next day. For nearly a week now I had been alone in the house, and I reflected how natural it was that, diving into myself all day over my work, and seeing nobody, I had been creating phantoms to keep me company. Idly enough, my glance lighted on the record of the day of the week and the month, and I saw that once more it showed Tuesday, May 8th.... Next moment I perceived that my eyes had played me false; they had visualized something that was inside my brain, for a second glance told me that the day indicated there was indeed Tuesday, but April 24th.

"Certainly it's time I went away," I said to myself.

The fire was out, and the room rather cold. Feeling very sleepy, and also very content that I had finished my task, I undressed quickly, leaving shut the window by the other bed. But the curtains were undrawn and the blind was up, and the last thing I saw before I went to sleep was a narrow slip of moonlight on the floor.

I awoke. The moonlight had broadened to a thick oblong patch, very bright. The bed beyond it was in shadow, but clearly visible, and I saw that there was someone sleeping there. And there was someone standing at the foot of the bed, a man in striped pajamas. He took a couple of steps across the patch of moonlight, and then swiftly thrusting his arms forward, he bent over the bed. The figure that lay there moved: the knees shot up, and an arm came out from beneath the coverlet. The bed creaked and shuddered with the struggle that was going on, but the man held tight to what he was grasping. He jumped on to the bed, crushing the knees flat again, and over his shoulder I saw and recognized the face of the woman who lay there. Once she got her neck free from the strangle-hold, and I heard a long straining gasp for breath. Then the man's fingers found their place again: once more the bed shook as with the quivering of leaves in a wind, and after that all was still. The man got up: he stood for a moment in the patch of moonlight, wiping the sweat from his face, and I could see him clearly. And then I knew that I was sitting up in bed, looking out into the familiar room. It was bright with the big patch of moonlight that lay on the floor, and empty and quiet. There was the other bed with its cretonne covering, flat and tidy.

THE SEQUEL is probably familiar to most people as the Faringham murder. In the morning of May 8th, according to the account given by Hopkins to the police, he came downstairs as usual from the attic where he had slept about half-past seven, and found that the lock of the front door of his house had been forced, and the door was open. His wife was not yet down, and he went upstairs to the room on the first floor where they often slept together, when it was not being used by their guests, and found her lying strangled in her bed. He instantly rang up the police and also the doctor, though he felt sure she was dead, and while waiting for them observed that a drawer of the table, in which she was accustomed to keep the money she had in the house, had been broken open. She had been to the bank the day before and cashed a check for fifty pounds, in order to pay the bills of last month, and the notes were missing. He had seen her place them in the drawer when she brought them back. Questioned as to his having slept in the attic, while his wife had slept alone below, he said that this room had been lately occupied, and would be occupied again in a few days: he had not therefore thought it worth while to move down, though his wife had done so.

But there were two weak points in this story. The first was that the woman had been strangled as she lay in bed, full length, with the blankets and sheet over her. But if the supposed burglar had throttled her, because she had been awakened by his entrance, and threatened to raise the alarm, it seemed incredible that she should have remained lying there with the bedclothes up to her chin. It looked as if the murder was a wanton one, and had nothing to do with the burglary. Again, though the drawer into which she had put her money had been forced, it had not been locked. The burglar had only to pull the handle of it, and it would have opened. It looked as if the murderer had wanted to convey the impression that he was a burglar.

Hopkins was detained, and the house searched, and the missing roll of notes was found in the lining of an old greatcoat of his in the attic.

Before he suffered the extreme penalty, he confessed his crime and told the manner of its execution. He had come down from his bedroom, entered his wife's room and strangled her. He had then forced the front door, and, unnecessarily, the drawer where she had put her money....

Reading it, I thought of Lionel Bailey's theory, and my own experience in the room where the murder was committed.

________________

8: The Black Monk

G. G. Pendarves

1885-1938)

Weird Tales Oct 1938

YES. It's true that I'm dictating this, but don't picture to yourself a famous author, a luxurious study, and a highly paid secretary. No! I'm dictating this for publication because I promised the Abbot of Chaard that I would. I can't go against his wishes. Not again.

"ALL LIES and rubbish! Don't you believe a word of it, sir. It suits them," the gamekeeper jerked a thumb in the direction of the monastery behind him, "to keep such fairy-tales alive. Gives them a hold on the people. Everyone on this island believes in the Black Monk, swears they've caught sight of him on the prowl. I never have— and why? Because I'm not afraid. It's all rubbish, so I tell you straight, damned rubbish."

I looked at Morton. His brown deep-set eyes, his wrinkled face, his long lean body in its ancient brown tweeds, even his old leggings and the way he carried his gun and wore his cap expressed contempt. He'd no use for the monks or for anyone else on the island. Stayed because he'd no chance of work elsewhere. Owed everything to the Abbot and hated him in proportion to his debt.

"They give chapter and verse for it at the monastery," I ventured. "Got old documents. Supposed to be treasure buried here in the Fifth Century when Britain was conquered by the English. Brought by a faithful monk who came up the Thames from Kent. Got across here, buried his treasure, and died on the island, keeping guard to the end. And he's still on duty, it appears."

"Treasure and guardian! Tale for children and the bloody fools that spend their days gabbling prayers when they'd be a sight better digging and planting and weeding on this blamed island of theirs. I'm the only man does a decent day's work here. And what do I get for it? A damp cottage, wages that don't even run to a twist of baccy, and a lecture from his reverence when the monastery kitchen isn't stocked with game to suit him."

"And so you've never caught a glimpse of the Black Monk?" I persisted. "Never seen him by the old fish pond, or pacing the cliffs, or going dowrt the Long Lane after sundown?"

"No, nor never will! The only Black Monk on the island is up at the monastery— that colored fellow from the West Indies. They don't want anyone blacker than Brother Ignatius. Looks a proper crow with his black habit and black face and all. Not but what I think he's a deal better in black than in white like these here Benedictines on Chaard."

"Of course," I suggested, "you've got to remember that some people aren't able to see things like— well, like the Blade Monk. Just as some people don't take certain diseases."

"No one's ever seen the Black Monk and no one's ever going to see him. Why? Because he don't happen to be on Chaard Island! The monks keep the old tale going to frighten the people into go ing regular to mass and confession. And visitors like it. They go round with eyes popping out of their silly heads. They talk and write things to the papers— see! That's all advertisement and helps to bring money in. It's a put-up game and a pack of damned nonsense, I says."

I left him glooming at his gate and turned down the Long Lane. Morton versus the monks amused me. An idea struck me, result of the recent talk and a most perfect night. A big golden harvest moon was rising. No wind. Mild, almost warm for late October. I'd stay out, all night if necessary, and follow the legendary track of the Black Monk from Pirates' Bay, where he was said to have landed, to a certain wood where he was popularly supposed to have buried his treasure. No one seemed to have tried to stalk him with any method. No one wanted to follow him. His cowled figure had been glimpsed at various points of his route—  dark on the pale sands of the landing beach— melting into shadows cast by Long Lane's steep hedges— a hurrying figure on the skyline of high plowed fields— a tall sentinel by the old neglected green-scummed fish pond— or vanishing into the fir wood.

My brief holiday was almost over. I'd got what I came for— an account of the annual Passion Play the monks gave. It would pay my expenses here. A night's ramble over the romantic island might inspire another article. I lighted a cigarette and made for the beach.

Chaard was settling down for sleep already. The revolving brilliance of its lighthouse grew brighter as lamps went out in cottage windows. Down the Long Lane where nut-trees rustled withered leaves, down past the post-office cum store that served the island's needs, down under the walls of the big white monastery with its towers and turrets, its balconies and chime of bells, its red roofs and steep gables, down to the sand-dunes where tall rushes dipped and whispered in the moonlight, down to the crescent of Pirates' Bay— its fine pale sand ground by thundering surf that now was a mere murmurous line of white edging distant sea.

There I go... there I go! I apologize. I'll restrain myself. You'll understand later why the enchanted background of the island on a supremely lovely night is so difficult for me to keep out of this account. You may forgive a poor devil then for looking back on a lost paradise.

I SAT on an upturned boat, smoked and dreamed, let the long strange history of Chaard Island float across my mind like weed on a shallow pool. An hour— two hours— I don't know' how long I sat there. My lighter ran dry at last, I had no matches, and the search for them shook me out of dreams. I felt stiff and rather cold.

"Well, you're late if you mean to land tonight, old man!"

I spoke aloud, and glanced back across broken rocks that formed one curving horn of my crescent shore. For a moment, actual funk paralyzed me. For a moment I really believed the absurd legend was true. A dark cowled figure was skirting the rocks— moving toward me.

I confess that I didn't move because literally I couldn't. When I saw at last who it was, relief was so overwhelming that I fairly went off like a rocket.

"Brother Ignatius! Upon my word, d'you know I took you for the Black Monk himself! You loomed up there in the moonlight as big and black as a nursery bogy."

The West Indian's gentle liquid speech was the friendliest sound I'd ever heard.

"You ought not to be here," he reproved. "The Father-Abbot would not like it. You are, in a sense, a guest of the monastery since it governs the whole island and its affairs."

"I'm only a heretic." I laughed over-loudly. The sound jarred on that quiet lonely shore. "My soul's more or less lost anyhow in the Abbot's eyes, I expect."

"Yes," agreed Brother Ignatius.

I was irrationally annoyed. "Oh, well, live and let live!" I babbled. My nerves still quivered. My tongue clacked like a toy bell.

"It is difficult, sometimes, to know what that means. It is difficult, some- times, to say what is life and what is— death."

I'd never realized what a bore the fellow was. I'd rather liked the gentle simple creature before. Now I was irritated. His prosings had broken tire magic spell of the night for me.

"On your way to the monastery, I suppose? I'm going to dawdle about another hour, or so. Good-night."

"Not alone! No, really, it is not safe for you alone here. The Black Monk—"

"That's why I'm here," I interrupted the serious quiet voice. "I'm waiting for him. When and if he shows up I'm going to follow him, discover the long-lost secret of his treasure."

"You don't understand." Brother Ignatius was now genuinely perturbed. "It is very dangerous for you."

I made an impatient movement, and half turned to leave him.

"If you wish it so much," his words came slow and hesitant, "if you have made up your mind— perhaps it would be better that I should—"

"Well?"

I looked up and caught the faint glim- mer of white teeth as his lips parted in a smile under his cowl's dark shadow.

"I think the Father- Abbot would for- give me, since you are, in a sense, his guest. Yes, I will show you. I will lead you to the place where the treasure lies buried."

"What?"

"Yes. I will take you," murmured the monk.

"But— there isn't any treasure! It's only a wild old tale. What d'you mean?"

"There is treasure— golden glorious treasure," softly affirmed the other. "And rather than leave you here, alone, I will show you."

I began to doubt my companion's sanity. I'd no idea what he was talking about. My journalist's imagination began to weave a new story. Well, why not go with him? My mood for solitude and a night's wandering under the moon was gone. I'd humor Brother Ignatius. He was stooping toward me, apparently very keen on his idea.

"Have it your own way," I agreed. "It may save me from a chill, if not from your friend the Black Monk. By the way, suppose you find him on his job— guard- ing the treasure!"

"No. You won't see him there. Not if you are with me."

The grave reply and the air with which he turned to cross the sandhills rather took my fancy. Long cloak swaying and billowing in the rising wind, Brother Ignatius strode a few paces ahead. Given the right clothes, I thought, the colored man does redeem movement from the commonplace.

I could see myself, in plus-fours and cap, a discord, an alien figure on that lonely, lovely silvered shore. I could see the monk as a tree whose dark boughs swept the ground or as a wave rising— falling. Part of the earth, possessed by it and possessing it.

"Must be getting a temperature," I told myself. "If I work any little stunt of that sort into my article they'll give me the comic-strip to do."

A new idea struck me.

"I've never met any of you before at this hour. Aren't there rules? I thought the monastery bolted and barred you in your cells long before this."

WE'D reached the high heathery cliffs above Pirates' Bay. Brother Ignatius kept the lead. His answer came back on the wind, his cowled head turned to me, and again I caught a flashing glimpse of his gentle smile.

"You forget the weeks for retreat."

He gestured toward a solitary wooden building not a hundred yards distant.

"Of course. I had forgotten. But— if you're in retreat— surely you're breaking your rule now in being here with me." "The Father-Abbot would put your safety before a rule of this sort. It means, of course, that the month's solitude must begin again. It was necessary. Nothing else would have taken you from that dangerous shore— nothing except my promise to take you to the treasure."

I felt uncomfortable. The Abbot had been extremely courteous to me, given me a good many little privileges, allowed me to go where most visitors are forbidden. To interfere with the religious observance of his order was a poor way of acknowledging his consideration.

Then I shrugged off my qualms. I didn't believe the legend. I didn't think the Abbot believed it. Brother Ignatius had broken his retreat to save me from a non-existent danger, had insisted on this fantastic expedition, and was, in fact, a little mad. I absolved myself from blame and followed on.

At last we came to a small dense wood in a fissure between Hawk's Point and Shark's Fin— two cruel masses of rock jutting out to sea where many ships had piled up in old days. The monk waited.

"Take hold of my cloak," he advised. "The path is narrow, but I know every inch of the way. You won't fall if you follow my lead exactly."

His cloak, between my fingers, was rough and dry as bark. We plunged into the wood. Dark as a shaft here. Fairly smooth underfoot but an endless, endless way. I protested at last.

"We must be going in circles. The wood's small enough to cross in five minutes."

Brother Ignatius stopped as I spoke. "We are here now. Sit down. Sit down on the soft mossy earth and rest."

I sank down, feeling as if I'd walked to the other end of the earth. Something, immensely heavy, cold, and round was put into my hands.

"What's this? Feels like a crown. What a weight! But I can't see a thing. How: do I know if this is gold or lead?"

"Gold, pure gold." Brother Ignatius spoke with awe. "And here are plates and goblets and scepters. Here are candlesticks. This is a great jeweled cross that took a lifetime to fashion. This, too, is set with jewels, a little altar lamp, a most precious relic though so small."

One after another, these things were put into my hands while the monk's quiet voice expatiated on their beauty. I fingered the small heavy lamp. Exasperation seized me.

"But what's the use!" I burst out. "It's absurd to be fumbling away in the dark like this. I want to see them!"

I stood up suddenly, felt the ground slippery underfoot, reached out for sup- port. I called sharply. The monk's cloak brushed my outstretched hands. I tried to grasp it, slipped again, plunged forward, hit my forehead a smashing blow against a tree-trunk and fell heavily.

MY senses returned slowly. Darkness, like walls of black velvet, shut me in— darkness and warmth. The wood had seemed damp and cold before. I felt horribly confused. On all sides my hands encountered brush and thorn. Impossible to take any direction in such complete darkness.

"Where are you?'' I shouted. "Where are you? Hello! Hello! Helloooo! Brother Ignatius, where are you?''

I went on shouting. Anger and increasing warmth in the dark wood served at least to heat my stiff chilled body. I grew more and more furious. The monk must be mad as a hatter. Why hadn't anyone warned me about him? Perhaps they hadn't wanted to discredit their precious monastery.

Exhausted, hungry and thirsty, pricked and scratched with thorns, I sat still and yelled until I was hoarse. When a voice hailed me at last I was in pretty bad shape. I felt like bursting into tears instead of answering. It was the game-keeper, Morton.

"Have you hurt yourself, sir?"

His strong wiry arm was about my shoulders, raising me to my feet.

"Get me out of this confounded wood, Morton!" I demanded. "I've been hours here. That crazy monk, Brother Ignatius, brought me. I was a fool to follow him, of course, but I'd no idea he was mad."

Morton made no response save by a sudden stiffening of his arm about me.

"Get me out of this wood, d'you hear!" The darkness was becoming a torture now. "Get me out and I'll explain afterward. I don't want to spend the rest of the night here."

"You're not in any wood." Morton's voice seemed choked and indistinct. "You're in a gorse-patch on a headland right over at the back of the island. I came after rabbits and heard you yelling."

"But it's dark! You're drunk, man, you're drunk! It's dark. It's the middle of the night."

"It's eight o'clock in the morning, sir. And the sun's shining full and early."

"You're drunk. You're lying. It's perfectly dark. Pitch-black night."

Then I heard the larks, chimes from the monastery tower for eight o'clock service, chirrup of insects in the grass, lowing of cattle. I knew the truth at last.

I was blind.

"Sir!" Morton's voice came to me from some remote distance. "It couldn't ha' been Brother Ignatius you saw last night. He left the island day before yesterday along with Brother Stephen and the Prior. I rowed 'em all three to the mainland. No one comes or goes from here without I takes 'em. They won't none of them be back for a month."

"You are drunk, after all, disgracefully drunk!" I talked now to fight back my thoughts. "No other monk here wears a black habit except Brother Ignatius. How could I possibly mistake a Benedictine's white habit for a black one? I tell you I was with Brother Ignatius for hours. I recognized him— his voice, his smile! It was Brother Ignatius."

Morton didn't argue. He took me to the monastery. The Abbot heard me out.

"Treasure is buried on this island, I believe." His slow solemn tone chilled me. "But it was not Brother Ignatius whom you met on Pirates' Beach."

"But— but—" I stuttered, "I tell you I saw him, talked, walked with him for an hour at least."

"The monk you met was one who has guarded the treasure through centuries. An ancient and cunning guardian."

"No! No! No!" I heard myself; whispering. "There is no such one! I met a man— an ordinary man."

"You met the Black Monk of Chaard Island, for whose tormented weary soul I pray. And for you in darkness and despair, for you, too, I ask deliverance, my son."

___________________

One of several stories in the comic series "The Scientific Adventures of Mr. Fosdick", was originally published in Modern Electrics Magazine in 1912-1913; this story was later reprinted in Amazing Stories in 1926.

9: The lnternational Electro-Galvanic

Undertaking Corporation

Jacque Morgan

(died 1925)

Modern Electrics November 1912

Mr. Fosdick Interests an old Victim in one of His New Inventions

THE first two envelopes contained only circulars. But from the third dropped a bright yellow slip of paper, and as Eben Stetzle, loafing in the tinshop during the noon hour, picked it up from the floor and handed it to Mr. Fosdick, he saw that it was a check signed by the Ajax Manufacturing Company and that it called for four hundred and twenty dollars in real money.

"Last month's royalties on my curling iron," carelessly explained the inventor.

He always spoke of the device as a curling-iron, although it was advertised and sold by the manufacturing company as a nut-cracker.

Mr. Stetzle sighed.

"Gee, I wish I could get in on something like that. Running a chop mill is a mighty slow method of getting rich."

The sight of the check removed the last trace of bitterness that had lingered in Eben's heart since his unhappy experience with The Feline Light and Power Company.

"I should like to get in on the next good thing you get up," he continued, eyeing the check that protruded from Mr. Fosdick's waistcoat pocket. "But, of course, I'm not going in on any more electrified cats. The very sight of a cat makes me shudder even now."

Mr. Fosdick gazed at his friend pensively. "I have been thinking," he said, "of the organization of a company that will make 'Standard Oil' look like a penny savings bank."

Eben Stetzle drew in his breath with audible inquisitiveness. "What is it? What is it?" he demanded.

Mr. Fosdick smiled blandly. "Yes, what is it?" he mimicked, genially. "You don't think I'm going to divulge a secret that's worth millions, do you?"

Eben's face fell. "I thought you'd let an old friend in — a brother lodge member," he said wistfully. And at the same time Eben formed his hands into the distress signal of the order.

Mr. Fosdick pondered. His lodge was to him a thing sacred. Every Wednesday night in the hall over Lem Whitley's grocery store, Mr. Fosdick sat in state; he was the presiding officer, and the thunder of his voice as he read the ritual to the trembling neophytes was a thing that was very dear to him. And Eben had given him the grand hailing sign!

"Brother Stetzle," he said at last, "I'm going to tell you— and what's more I'm going to let you in."

Mr. Stetzle leaned forward and with great enthusiasm gave Mr. Fosdick the grip. "Brother!" he exclaimed.

Picking up his textbook, "Electricity at a Glance," Mr. Fosdick turned the pages until he came to the following paragraph:

"Flowers and even insects can be preserved indefinitely by powdering them with graphite and then depositing a thin film of copper over them by means of a plating battery."

"Does that mean anything to you?" His voice was tense with feeling.

Mr. Stetzle read the paragraph and slowly shook his head.

"Who would want to preserve insects indefinitely? I just hate the sight of 'em," and Eben scratched his back as though the very suggestion brought back unpleasant memories.

Mr. Fosdick smiled tolerantly. "You are deficient in imagination, Eben." He leaned forward and whispered: "What would you say to a scheme of using the principle for undertaking purposes?"

Mr. Stetzle failed to grasp the significance of the question.

"I don't know of any insect undertakers— of course there's fellows in the big cities that make a business of killing—"

"But I mean for men— for human beings!"

Preserving the Dead. A Beautiful Silver Statue

EBEN shook his head hopelessly. "I just can't quite get you."

Mr. Fosdick sank back in his chair with almost a feeling of disgust. He surveyed his unimiginative lodge brother for a long minute and then straightening up, outlined his scheme in words of few syllables.

"It's like this, Eben," he began. "If insects can be copper-plated, human beings can be copper-plated. And if a human being can be plated he, or she, can be preserved indefinitely — and with absolute fidelity as to face and form. You take the old Egyptian mummies— what are they to-day? Why, just crumbling shells that don't look like anything. But suppose those bodies had been electroplated? Why, they would simply be statues of their original selves."

Mr. Stetzle nodded. "I begin to understand now," he said.

"Listen. We'd simply make every corpse its own monument. Mount the monument on a cheap concrete base and stand it up in the cemetery. No excavating, no coffin, no box— nothing but the monument itself. Think of the saving! The cadavers can be plated not planted, at an expense of three dollars apiece— we can get fifty, or even a hundred. And there are annually over one and a half million deaths a year in this country alone. Suppose we only made a profit of ten dollars apiece. The total is fifteen million for the United States, annually. Add to that the profits on the undertaking of seven million funerals throughout the balance of the civilized world. Can you grasp it? Why, Eben, a hundred thousand a day would be nothing!"

Mr. Stetzle sat as one in a trance. "It's overpowering," he gasped.

Mr. Fosdick smiled. "Why, I haven't begun yet. As a matter of fact the profit per job of The International Electro-Galvanic Undertaking Corporation — that will be the name of the concern— will be more like fifty dollars than ten. And even more. Listen. Only the cheaper grades of corpses will be finished in copper. The majority will be nickel-plated; silver will be used for those of moderate means; and gold for the aristocrats."

The proprietor of the chop-mill was speechless.

"And just think what a handsome place the new cemeteries will be of a sunny morning. Copper, nickel, silver and gold statues all sprinkled about. Cheerful is no word for it! Why, man, they'd become amusement parks !"

Mr. Fosdick softly drummed his fingers upon the arm of his chair while he allowed the idea to sink in.

"I've thought of a splendid new feature to the scheme," suddenly said Mr. Stetzle. "How would it do to have mounted in the statue somewhere a phonograph with a cylinder of 'last words,' or a song or a recitation — you remember how Clem Titus that's dead and gone now, used to recite every time he got drunk, 'Goodbye, Jim. Take keer of yourself.' Well, that's the idea. By pulling a string the phonograph reels out anything that was characteristic of the deceased. Old man Fisher used to cuss the administration "

"I think that would be undignified," interrupted Mr. Fosdick, "a thousand of your confounded phonographs working at full blast — songs, recitations, speeches, and so on ! Why, it would be noisier than Coney Island!"

The enthusiasm of the new idea slowly faded from Mr. Stetzle's face and he subsided.

"Well," said he, after a silence of some minutes, "when do we try it?"

"As soon as we can get a corpse."

"Must we wait? There hasn't been a death in Whiffleville in five years."

Mr. Fosdick had not thought of that. For a moment his dream was shattered, and then with the resourcefulness of the true inventor he thought of a way to overcome the difficulty.

"No," said he, "we will not wait. We will try the scheme upon a living person— you."

Mr. Stetzle paled. "I'd rather not," he protested weakly. "I'm too fat and wouldn't look good."

"The first statue will be you," declared Mr. Fosdick. "Why, man, it will be an honor!"

"But I don't want my ears and eyes and nose stopped up with no dodgasted copper-plating," protested Eben.

Once more Mr. Fosdick's resourceful brain came to the rescue: "You will only be plated from the neck down."

There was no escape. Mr. Fosdick was adamant, and it was with great reluctance that Mr. Stetzle finally agreed to submit to the experiment.

"To-morrow," said Mr. Fosdick, "the embalming vat— the plating bath, I should say— will be ready for you."

Mr. Fosdick's Associate to be Experimented On

THE wooden trough, borrowed for the occasion from Jasper Wilcox's hog-lot, contained a solution of copper sulphate. The telegraph company, through the agency of Hi Scruggs, the local operator, had loaned the batteries; and Moses Galblat had contributed the slab of copper junk to be used for the anode— in consideration of the sum of four dollars and eighteen cents.

Everything was ready and at the quiet word of command from the chief engineer of The International Electro-Galvanic Undertaking Corporation, Mr. Stetzle quickly divested himself of his clothing and assisted Mr. Fosdick, who briskly began to powder the rotund form with graphite.

"Makes me look like a nigger— I  I suppose it will come off all right," remarked Mr. Stetzle dubiously.

"Certainly. It's just a matter of a little soap and water," said the inventor, smiling as he caught a distorted reflection of himself upon the highly polished surface of Mr. Stetzle's stomach. "Sure. No doubt about it."

It was the work of only a few minutes for Mr. Fosdick to pose Mr. Stetzle in the plating bath.

"You will represent the Winged Mercury, one of the finest examples of ancient Greek art," said Mr. Fosdick, arranging the legs and arms as he had seen them in the illustration in the back of a dictionary. "I can make some little wings and solder them to your ankles afterwards."

Mr. Stetzle, thoroughly resigned to submit to anything, made no comment.

"And now," said Mr. Fosdick, "I'll just lock you up in the shop for an hour while I go out and fix the Widow Johnson's doorbell, and put in a window at Sam Horton's, and get Lem Hunter's umbrella what's busted, and needs mending, and do a few other little odds and ends."

The Object Experimented on— the Unhappy Mr. Stetzle— Has Fallen Asleep During the Process

IT was late in the afternoon when Mr. Fosdick returned to the shop. His errands had taken him much longer than he had supposed.

In the trough lay Mr. Stetzle, snoring. The afternoon had been hot and the cooling influence of the plating bath had been more than he could resist. Flies had bothered him at first, and in his endeavors to brush them off he had saturated his face and hair with the copper solution and Mr. Fosdick was somewhat startled to see that it had turned them a dark green.

"Wake up, Eben!" Mr. Fosdick punched the recumbent form with a broom handle. It was like punching a stone; Mr. Stetzle's ribs were incased in a quarter-inch armor of solid copper.

A tweak of the green nose brought better results, and Mr. Stetzle opened his eyes and endeavored to stir. There was not the slightest movement.

It was the work of an hour, perhaps, and Mr. Stetzle had begun to become petulant. But in the end, with the aid of a block and tackle, Mr. Fosdick had succeeded in lifting him out of the trough and had balanced him on one foot— a Winged Mercury of bright, shining copper.

"Splendid!" he ejaculated, and he gazed at his handiwork admiringly. "I'll get some of the boys down here to-morrow with old Judge Henley and we'll get up the incorporation papers in no time."

"To-morrow!" yelled Mr. Stetzle with a sudden and fierce indignation. "Do you think I'm going to stand here on one foot all night like a dodgasted cigar store Indian? Not on your life! I've got complimentary tickets for 'Uncle Tom's Cabin' for this evening and I've got to take Mrs. Stetzle and the children. Now you get me out of this dodgasted boiler plate union suit right now!"

Mr. Fosdick scratched his chin reflectively. "All right, Eben," he soothed. "I'll split you up the back and you can scrawl out like a locust. The shell will demonstrate the success of the idea." He picked up a pair of calipers and applied it to various portions of Mr. Stetzle's anatomy. "I should say that the metallic envelope is from a quarter to a half inch thick," he remarked pensively.

"You quit that figurin' and get me out," raged Mr. Stetzle. "I ought to have had more sense after fooling with your dodgasted electrified cats and spending ten days on a foot square insulated galvanometer pier endurin' the grins of all them dodgasted students."

With great labor Mr. Fosdick managed to lower Mr. Stetzle to the floor, and then with a cold chisel and hammer he began the work of divesting him of the metal that incrusted him. With every blow of the hammer Mr. Stetzle let forth a groan.

"That chisel is going right into my backbone!"

The Subject in Trouble— Trying to Get Him Out of His Metallic Casing

MR. FOSDICK considerately laid aside the chisel and took up a hacksaw. It was slow work. Supper time came, it grew dark, and notwithstanding the lamentations and curses of Mr. Stetzle, the now somewhat alarmed Mr. Fosdick had only cut a groove of about six inches along Mr. Stetzle's spinel "Dodgast you!" he bellowed. "I've missed my supper, I've missed the opry, and I'm missing my sleep!"

"Why, Eben, I'll get you a pillow and you can sleep while I work."

"Sleep!" ejaculated Mr. Stetzle hotly. "How in thunder can I sleep with you a hammerin' my vitals and a punchin' into my backbone with a dodgasted cold chisel?"

At dawn the thoroughly exhausted Mr. Fosdick began to despair. "I'm afraid, Eben," he said gravely, "that I'll have to crate you up and ship you down to the city where they have steam hammers and hydraulic jacks and things— unless— unless"— why hadn't he thought of it before— "unless I can take the metal off the same way I put it on."

"Do anything," snarled Mr. Stetzle. "Put me under a steam hammer, rip me open with a hydraulic jack, grind me apart on an emery wheel, blow me open with dynamite, melt me apart with an acetylene blowpipe— do any of the dodgasted things you have been talking about!"

Mr. Fosdick made no reply. With the aid of the block and tackle he lifted the protesting Mr. Stetzle back into the trough.

"Sufferin' snakes, but this water is cold!" gasped Mr. Stetzle, his teeth chattering.

The battery was now reversed. The copper shell was made the anode and the small remaining slab served as the cathode. And then Mr. Fosdick calmly locked up the shop and departed for home for a much-needed rest.

Sad State of all the Subjects of Mr. Fosdick's Experiment

IT was noon before Mr. Fosdick awoke. Quickly making up a bundle of soap and towels he hastened back to the tinshop where he arrived just in time to see the martyr to science slowly crawl out of the plating bath, the now fragile copper shell falling from his body in flaky showers.

"Splendid!" exclaimed Mr. Fosdick. "See what science will do?"

Mr. Stetzle turned on him with a glare of unutterable hatred.

Seeing a film of copper hanging down between the shoulder blades, Mr. Fosdick grasped it and gave a sharp pull.

"Yow!" Mr. Stetzle leaped a couple of feet into the air and wheeled about in a rage of fury. "The dodgasted stuff sticks like a porous plaster!" he shouted. "I've been all night a' pullin' of it off."

At last, after the expenditure of much patience on the part of Mr. Fosdick and of a great deal of profanity on the part of Mr. Stetzle, the coating was removed— all except that around the toes which gave much trouble.

The most vigorous application of soap and water, however, failed utterly to make the slightest impression upon the glistening black skin.

At this unexpected phenomenon Mr. Fosdick was both astonished and interested.

"Castaphoresis !" he exclaimed after a moment's study. "The current, Eben, has driven the black pigment, graphite, into the skin. You may never be white again," he added cheerfully. "And that gives me another idea."

"Another idea!" bellowed Mr. Stetzle, "Well, if you ever hook me again into another one of your dodgasted ideas— if you ever interest me again in any electrified cats or idiotic copper-plated undertaken' schemes— why, then they can lock me up in the foolish-house. Good b-y-e!" and grabbing his coat and hat Mr. Stetzle rushed out of the tinshop, leaving a trailing wisp of profanity in his wake.

Mr. Fosdick watched the retreating form meditatively. "I wonder what made Eben so angry?" he muttered.

____________________

10: Touch-And-Go With a Great Estate

R. E. Francillon

1841-1919

Romances of the Law, 1889

WHEN A LAWYER consents to tell the story of the most remarkable case in which he was ever engaged, he does so on the express understanding that the confidences of his clients shall be observed, however long ago they were made. After full consideration I can see no possible objection to telling the story of the most singular piece of business that I ever knew in the course of a very long experience indeed. But my chief reason for finding no objection is that I can do so without naming real names. That being fully understood, I shall be able to keep to the literal truth without having recourse to fictitious incidents in order to lead my readers away from the real quarter. For nothing but the real names, both of places and people, could possibly tell more than I am amply justified in telling. Perhaps, after all, I am a little over-scrupulous ; but I don't think that will be regarded as a fault on the wrong side. No doubt some cf my readers will gather that the period of my professional adventure was previous to the passing of the Municipal Reform Act of 1835, a date far back enough, at any rate, to give me the right to amuse myself, if not my readers, with a— let me say elderly— solicitor's first contribution to literature. Apart from real names, the facts of the case are true, word for word.

My father and I were in partnership as solicitors in the good old town of Burgham, which you may place in any county you please. I was born there, and so was my father before me, and my grandfather before him; and the name of Key (to take my first alias) was as well known as the spire of St. Michael's. Our office, in the very shadow of the spire, consisted of an outer office for the clerks, of one private room for my father, of another for myself, and of a third, in which an articled clerk sat among the office-lumber, and amused himself as well as want of opportunity allowed. His name, I remember, was what I will call— more for the sake of appropriateness than of anything else— Richard Musty; and a queer young fellow he was— the queerest, I used to think, within six thousand miles of Burgham. He was a country parson's son, and of about my own age; so that I was ready and even eager when he first came to us to make a friend and companion of him out of office-hours, so far as my greater professional dignity allowed ; but it was impossible. What good or return he expected to get out of the premium he had paid us was a mystery; he had found the money hard to raise, and he might just as well have thrown it into the river. He was steady, too steady by half ; he was older then, young as he was, than I am now. But he was as fit to be a lawyer as I am to be a poet ; and I can't say more. Sometimes I used to think him a born hopeless fool, and I don't believe he ever came to know the difference between a cestui que trust and a surrebutter. He had never left his father and mother till he went to Cambridge with a view of taking orders; but family misfortunes had obliged him to leave college without a degree, and so— I believe to his intense misery— he had made up his mind to be a failure in another direction. He was always shabby, never too clean, never did anything wrong— morally, never anything right— intellectually, and seemed to have no friends. What he did with his time, in or out of the office, neither myself nor my father was able for weeks to discover.

"What, in the name of goodness, are you doing there, Musty?" I remember saying to him at last, when, impelled by a fit of curiosity, I went one day suddenly into his room, and caught him with a camel's hair paint-brush instead of a pen in his hand, with which he seemed to be busily engaged in washing a skin of parchment with pure water. "Have you forgotten that that lease is to be ready in an hour?" Not that I expected to get the lease from him in a month, but I wanted an excuse for my sudden intrusion.

He turned as red as fire.

"Nothing, nothing at all, Mr. Key," said he.

" 'Nothing' is the worst thing you can do here," said I sternly. I was idle enough myself in those days, but it was in a very different sort of way. " I mus t know what you are doing with that old deed."

"It— it isn't a deed, indeed," stammered he, as if his occupation were criminal instead of merely imbecile. "Look here, Mr. Key. I found it up there on that shelf, and I don't imagine it can be of any use to you," he went on with a curious emphasis on the "you": if the fellow hadn't been so simply scared, and so incapable of such a thing at any time, I should have suspected a sneer. I looked at it, and I was yet more puzzled, for it was not a deed : it was not a legal document at all.

"It is a mediaeval Latin manuscript," said he. "But it is of no value. So far as I have read, it appears to be a treatise by some monkish writer concerning the Praises of St. Willibrord, who was, I believe, a saint and bishop of the Benedictines. What horrible hideous jargon those miserable monks used to call Latin, to be sure! Just listen here. Nictelaminibus ita depauperatus—"

It might have been Hebrew to me; for, though I had been pretty good in Latin at the Grammar School, the yellow document in question was written in such a close, cramped, ancient, and illegible hand, and was so full of abbreviations and contractions to boot, that Musty's skill in deciphering a single word a little surprised me.

"Have you got any more of these?" asked he.

"If there's one," said I, "there may be fifty. I suppose they came here with old Parson Evans's papers, when he died— the old rector of St. Michael's, you know— and, being parchment, I suppose they looked legal. Yes, Musty, I think you had better devote your time to reading them and cleaning them all. It seems to me that's about all you're likely to be fit for here. Never mind the lease," I said, with what I took for fine sarcasm. "Get on with St. Willibrord, as you seem so fond of that style."

"Style!" cried he, forgetting all his shyness, and bringing his fist down upon the table with an angry bang. "Call that style ! And to think that those inestimable lost books of Livy may be hidden from the light by trash and rubbish about some wretched St. Willibrord— that they may even be here, under my very hand ! Ah, if such a triumph as that were for me— if, like Cardinal Mai, who gave Cicero's 'Republic' to the world— But I believe such things are not much in your line, Mr. Key."

So that was Dick Musty's craze. Well, if he liked to waste his time in grubbing under old Latin sermons in the hope of discovering the lost books of Livy, the craze did nobody any harm but himself, but decidedly he was, not fit for a lawyer. I told my father the story, thinking it a good joke; but the old gentleman, though the most good-natured man alive, took the matter very differently from what I had expected. He started up and went straight into Dick's room.

"Mr. Thomas "— he always called me Mr. Thomas in the office— "Mr. Thomas tells me, young gentleman," he broke out, "that you are reading Latin sermons instead of studying your profession— you, a poor man, who will have to earn your own daily bread with brains of which you haven't an ounce to spare. You're not wasting my time ; but you gave me a premium to see that you didn't waste your own. And as duty's duty, young gentleman, I'll see that you don't. Old Latin sermons— they're no use here. Give that rubbish to me. I'll lock it up in my own desk, and if I find out that it's nothing but what you say, I'll get rid of it for waste parchment; I won't have such stuff and rubbish lumbering about here. Here, give it to me, without another word. It sha'n't be my fault if you choose to waste your time."

Dick Musty sighed— he even turned pale. But there was no arguing with my father. The old sermon— for such it was, and nothing more— was duly locked up in my father's desk, and there that matter ended. And I think it proves pretty clearly that Eichard Musty was a very odd sort of an articled clerk indeed. However, it seemed to show that his brain, if addled and muddled by useless studies, was not quite so hopelessly absent as I had hitherto believed.

I had not been back at my work half an hour, when my father came into my room looking pale and unwell.

"Tom," he said, "I had a bad headache when I got up this morning ; and instead of getting better, it's been getting worse and worse all day. I'm afraid it made me over-irritable just now when you told me about that young nincompoop of a Musty, and I don't feel like myself at all. I shall go home and he down, for my head's just splitting. There'll be nothing to-day you can't attend to ; I shall be all right to-morrow, I dare say."

Now my father was a man who had never known what it means to be ill. Still, though a mere headache in his case was a ground for a little anxiety, I was not in the least prepared, when, at the usual hour, I left the office and went home to dinner, to find that my mother had sent for the doctor, who had made my father go to bed at once ; and who next morning declared him to be in the first stage of typhoid fever, of which there were several cases about just then. Burgham was not drained so well then as it is now.

I felt the good of having one's head a few years older than one's shoulders when I went to business that morning, and, full of anxiety for my father, sat down at his table and in his chair, with the whole of the office upon my own hands, and with an unusual amount of heavy and responsible work to be done. My father had been so much in the habit of attending to everything himself, down to the minutest details, while I, on the contrary, had always taken everything so easily, not to say idly, that I was almost painfully nervous about that first day, which was nearly as new a feeling to me as a headache to my father. I hoped that nobody would call. And therefore— need I say it?— I had scarcely opened the last of the office letters before somebody did call— a Mr. Horace Jones. And the name meant nothing to me; for though Miss Jones of the Brambles was a good client of ours, still she had no relation named Horace, and the surname was, in reality, an exceedingly common one.

Enter Mr. Horace Jones, however ; and I did not like the looks of him. Not being a professional story-teller, whatever may be said of us lawyers to the contrary and notwithstanding, I will not try to describe him otherwise than by saying that I knew him to be a cad and a blackguard as soon as I set eyes on him. There are men— I have known many of them— who have the art of drinking, gambling, and worse, without turning a hair of their outward respectability ; but Mr. Horace Jones was not among them. Drunkard, gambler, and worse was written from the crown of his hat to the ends of his toes. And in such a case a man finds it hard to be taken for a gentleman.

"Who are you, sir?" he asked roughly. "I called to see old Mr. Key."

"If you mean my father," said I, in as dignified a manner as I could, "I am sorry to say he is very unwell, and may not be able to leave his house for some time. If it is anything to which I can attend, I am his partner, and—"

"Well, you'll do, I dare say. For that matter, you must do ; for mine's business that won't keep, I can tell you. Got a cocktail handy? No? Precious lot you English lawyers. So the old un's kicked the bucket at last, I hear. Wish to— Hades I'd known it before. Well, never too late for that sort of thing. So the sooner you get things fixed, young man, the better for you."

"It seems to me, Mr. Jones, that you have made some mistake," said I.

"Mistake! Do you mean to say you don't know me? Well, I suppose when a man has been away from his native home twenty-seven years about the world, he does get changed, more or less, and can't, when I come to think of it, expect to be recognized all at once by them that weren't born when he went away. But— mistake! Don't you be mistaken, young man. So old Jones of the Brambles has gone under the daisies— that's what I mean."

"Mr. Jones of the Brambles? Why, he died three years ago. You can't possibly have any claim on the estate now."

"Three, years ago? Three times three times three— twenty-seven years ago. More fool I not to have found it out ages ago! I broke the old cove's heart, I believe. Bum things some hearts must be, to bo sure. And as for having no claim— Oho! Old Jones of the Brambles, that died twenty-seven years back, was my father; and I'm young Jones, old Jones's son. Twig now?"

Was the fellow mad or drunk ? thought I. Certainly he was right in saying that a Mr. Jones of the Brambles had died twenty-seven years ago. But that was long ago, according to something more important than years. That was when the Brambles, near Burgham, was nothing better than an old farmhouse on the edge of a large rough piece of moorland which was collectively known by that appropriate name. But Mr. Jones the first's son was dead too, as I had said, three years ago; and Mr. Jones the second had died when the Brambles—

But, as this is a legal story, I shall make no apology for entering into the history of a title, not only because it is absolutely essential, but because it is exceptionally simple and easy to follow. Indeed, the whole point of the story depends upon its absolute freedom from complications and questions of every sort and kind.

The Brambles, then, otherwise called Easton Field, was a farm just beyond the last dwelling-house in the High Street of Burgham; that is to say, the continuity of the High Street ends abruptly at its eastern end, and the open country begins at once, without any shading off of villas and cottages as is usual even in smaller towns, and as is the case at the street's western extremity. I am now, of course, speaking of the Brambles— as Easton Field was always commonly called— as it was when I was quite a child, and when its clumps and patches of heather and thorny bottoms were the playground of the town. Indeed, it must have been a sort of town play-ground in quite ancient times, for there was a broad flat meadow still called the  Butts" from days long before those of the rifle volunteers. This rather nondescript tract had belonged to Welwood Priory, and, that being dissolved, had gone to one of the colleges— I forget which— in the University of Oxford. It was valueless as land; for building space was then practically worthless at a place like Burgham, though the case would be very different now; and to turn it to agricultural purposes would have required an exceedingly large capital, with very little prospect of a speedy return. I should say its net annual value to the Oxford college might have been as much as five or six pounds a year.

But there happened to be in Burgham, about fifty years before the time of my story, an uncommonly sharp fellow, a land surveyor, of the name of John Jones. I think he must have been the cleverest fellow that was ever born in Burgham. Anyhow, he bought the whole interest of the Oxford college in the land for a mere song, let a part of it to a neighbouring farmer for some trifle or other, and left his son, Wilfred Jones, a— coal-field.

Wilfred Jones was not sharp in the sense that his father had been. He was a splendid fellow; not grasping, not pushing, but a man of tremendous perseverance and energy. He was the king of Burgham when I was young, and he deserved to be. Instead of the Brambles being a fringe of Burgham, Burgham became a suburb of the Brambles. I must describe no farther, lest I should point too distinctly to real names. The Brambles became a great estate in next to no time; and it brought the railway to Burgham, and the railway helped it on at its own speed. The old farmhouse in the corner grew into a park and mansion. I can remember, better than yesterday, how the whole town was thrown into a kind of collapse when Wilfred Jones of the Brambles— he would stick to the old local name— died at the early age of seven-and-forty— no more. Every man, woman, and child in the place had lost a private as well as a public friend. My father drew his will, which left everything he had (except certain large legacies which the estate could well afford) to his only child, Miss Margaret Jones, now— at the time of which I write— a charmingly pretty and amiable girl of three-and-twenty. She was the greatest heiress in the county, bar none ; and the county people thought as much of her as if she had come in with King William the Conqueror, instead of, as my father used to say, with old King Coal.

Somehow, I never now seem to see girls as pretty or as nice as Miss Margaret. Every man in the town was— at a humble and respectful distance— in love with her; and, what is really the strangest thing in my whole story, so were all the women too. She was wonderfully like her father (her mother had died at her birth) in a feminine way. There was a sort of public anxiety as to if, when, and whom, she would marry— not that there was so much question about the "if" as the "whom." It would be a misfortune for all Burgham if, as Cleveland charming girls who are their own mistresses have a particular knack of doing, she married wrong. Well, for a wonder she had taken it into her head and her heart to choose as wisely as her own mother had chosen before her. Mr. Evelyn Viner was only a younger son of one of the best— but not the best-off— families in the county; and no doubt Miss Margaret's hand would be an excellent thing for him. But nobody, somehow, ever looked upon him in the light of a fortune-hunter; and you may be sure there were plenty of people who would be ready enough to do it if he were. In fact, he was the most popular man in the county, and the most deservedly so; and that he and she should make a match of it was as natural as that he should represent Burgham in Parliament on the first opportunity.

I should have mentioned— the matter is of some importance for critical readers, though the general reader may skip over this paragraph without any risk to the thread of the story— that until the time of Mr. Wilfred Jones, nobody had lived on the Brambles but two or three cottagers, who were tenants from year to year at a rent of about forty shillings per annum, and that it was rated and so forth to the parish of St. Botolph's in Turn— the very singular name of a parish which, like some others in England, had no parish church, the people mostly making use of that at the village of Welwood, where the priory had been in old times. Miss Margaret herself used to go to Welwood church, like her father before her. Don't let anybody, however, who his no special local knowledge try to make use of "St. Botolph's in Turn" for a key; for I have taken infinite pains to manufacture a name which will suit my purpose just as well as the real one, while it does not resemble it in a single leading letter. What it meant, nobody in Burgham knew— or, for that matter, cared to know.

So, striking out all my digressions, Miss Margaret's title to that great mine of wealth called the Brambles was this, and it was as clear as day. She took it both under her father's will and as his heir-at-law ; her father had taken it from his father as heir-at-law; he, John Jones, had bought it from an Oxford college that had held it for more than two hundred years.

What could my visitor mean— unless drunk, or mad, or both in one?

"No," said I, "I do not twig now."

"And that's Fame!" said he. "Well. I'm not going to be long-winded; for I'm dry. I've come to you because, in the first place, your firm's got a good name about here, and a good name's the thing I want more than anything; and because, as our family lawyers, you'll see things without bother. Here you are, then. I'm the son of old John Jones—"

"I see. You died three years ago, and now, you've come to life again with a new Christian name; and I can't say you're much the better for the company you've been keeping in the other world. Well? "

"You mean my travels have made me rough and ready, eh? So they have— ready for everything I can get, too. Pocket as dry as my throat ; and no wonder. But, hang it, young man, I'm not used to being told so; and I wouldn't risk losing a good job, if I were you. I'm Horace Jones, eldest son of old John Jones of the Brambles. Well, you see, the old boy and I didn't bit it off together very well. He was a slow old coach, and I wasn't a slow young un. He was a skinflint, too; and, you wouldn't believe it, but the unnatural old villain put me to such shifts that I actuaUy had to take the king's shilling; and I took means to let him think I'd died of yellow fever in Barbadoes, just to prevent him making a new will and cutting me off with another. I've knocked about since then, here and there ; but I've been a confounded unlucky sort of a devil, I must say. I'm a married man, too, and a family man; four of 'em, Mr. Key, with amother I wouldn't live another hour with if it wasn't that she keeps things going while I'm waiting for things to mend. Now the question is, what do I come in for, eh? I'm thinking of taking a public down Deptford way. Mrs. Jones was in that line when I first knew her; and I want capital, and the more the merrier. What's the figure? Three figures? Maybe four?"

What was I to say? If this fellow were telling the truth, it was not a capital of three figures or four figures, but an estate bringing in an annual income of five figures, to which he, a broken-down shameless drunkard, with a barmaid for a wife, was heir-at-law. For John Jones, having only his son Wilfred to follow him, and little but the then undeveloped Brambles to leave, had not made a will. Yes, and if there were a grain of truth at the bottom of the man's story, if he were not an imposter from first to last, the great estate would be no longer Miss Margaret's; it would no more be a blessing to the country; it would no longer give a fit career to a man like Evelyn Viner; it would no longer be a fountain of charity and honour; it would no longer be— But why say what it would not be? It would, it must, in this man's hands, become a curse and a ruin.

The worst of it was, that the story was only too likely to be true. If Wilfred Jones had ever had an elder brother— of whom it was likely enough that I myself should never have heard— it would be notorious in an elder generation, and nobody would dare to invent the existence of a non-existent man. Again, this Mr. Horace Jones had evidently no idea of the extent and value of the property to which he was laying claim. He would not, unless preternaturally cunning, talk so simply about it, as if at most it could only be a few thousand pounds. I did what I still think was the most prudent thing. I sent out for a bottle of whisky, and told him to wait until I returned from some business that had to be attended to immediately. Ill as my father was, this was a matter that I must consult him upon, and that instantly. I did not venture to mention the matter even to our old managing clerk, for fear lest even our office-walls should have ears, or a little bird should be sitting on the window-sill to carry the matter.

"Good God!" exclaimed my father, starting up in bed; "you don't tell me that Horace Jones is alive, after all? Yes, Tom, there was such a man. And he did break his father's heart when he enlisted — though going for a soldier was the most decent thing I ever heard of his doing.

And he did die— at least, so the poor old gentleman believed; and old John Jones did not make a will. And— and, Tom— if this is the man, the Brambles is his, as sure as it's law that when a man dies intestate his real property goes to his heir. Poor girl ! But it can't, Tom; I say it sha'n't be true! I'll get up this minute— I'll—"

"I must go back to him. What shall I say to him?"

"Yes, Tom; I am too ill. I don't know. He must prove his identity up to the hilt, that's clear. If he does, perhaps he'll accept a compromise. But then he saj's he's married. Tom, this case must be fought, tooth and nail. I hate tricks; but, hang it, Tom, there's nothing I wouldn't do to keep the Brambles for little Peggy, Mrs. Viner that is to be. Well, you go to him, say nothing about the value of the estate, and tell him to prove every word he has said to you. And get his address, and put the detectives on him up in town. Don't let him think you're nervous, Tom. Be cool, and don't admit that two and two are four."

When I went back to the office, I found half the whisky gone; but the man still there. I hope I acted coolly; at any rate, I committed myself to nothing, gave no information, and told Mr. Horace Jones that I should require clear proof of his identity before taking any further steps in the matter. I lent him a guinea, for the sake of keeping my eye on him till I saw him off by the next train.

The story worried my father dreadfully; though I don't know how I, in my own ignorance of all the circumstances, could possibly have kept it from him. As for myself, I instantly wrote up to a friend of my own in London — a young solicitor with nothing to do, but as sharp as a needle, and with a passion for investigation to go to work in a private capacity, and to let me know all he could find out about the man who called himself Horace Jones, and who said he lived at— let me say, 36, Belvidere Gardens, Clerkenwell. I had not heard again from the man himself. But I had best give my friend's report of him in his own words.

"Dear Key,—Belvidere Gardens is a back slum, a sort of mews. No. 36 is a small barber's. I have been shaved there; and Mr. Potts is not only very small but a clumsy barber. I should say a good deal of drink went on at 36 Belvidere Gardens. Mr. Horace Jones lodges there. I had some conversation with him. He says he is a gentleman kept out of an immense property by an ungrateful niece and some swindling pettifoggers ; but he is in right hands, and means to have the law of them all. I "lent" him half-a-crown, for new acquaintance's sake. I judge him to be a man who is always half drunk, and could never, under any circumstance, be otherwise. His wife— if he be more than half married as well as less than half sober— is a lady of colour, who, I believe, has followed a regiment in her time. I believe that sometimes she beats him, and sometimes he her. She has been the bread-winner hitherto in some capacity— in what I can't precisely learn— he doing little but lounge about at bars. But for the last week or so they have been flush of money, and done nothing but quarrel. They have paid Mr. Potts some arrears of board and lodging. The less I say of their four children — two boys and two girls— the better. It is bad to think of them. They are Horace John, aged twelve ; Margaret, eleven; Amelia, nine; and Adolphus, seven. Your friend goes by the name, in the Gardens, of 'Gentleman' Jones; I am absolutely unable to imagine why. I hope you are satisfied. I am so much so that I don't want to go to Belvidere Gardens again. The man is not mad, unless you spell 'Mad' with a B. But he is, I am convinced, as incapable of anything bad on a large scale as he is of anything good on any scale at all. He is the very type of a half-crown rogue."

The time went by, until at last I began to flatter myself that nothing more was going to happen, and that Mr. Horace Jones had been nothing but a scarecrow, whose only object had been to bewilder a lawyer out of a guinea. But after a calm comes— what we know.

It was Mr. Evelyn Viner himself who came one day into my office with a letter.

"What, in the name of impudence, is the meaning of this?" asked he.

The storm had broken at last. It was a letter from a highly respectable legal firm in London to Miss Jones herself, asking her to name an attorney who would receive for her notice of a declaration in ejectment, according to the old procedure. "What did it mean? Simply that Mr. Horace Jones had persuaded a respectable firm of his identity and of his right— no doubt backed by counsel's opinion— of his right to the Brambles as heir-at-law to John Jones ; that he had found out for himself the value of the estate; and that he meant to take no compromise and give no quarter. Indeed there was no earthly reason why he should, if his story were true.

And this is what I had to explain to Mr. Evelyn Viner, and to Miss Margaret through him.

ii

I COULD scarcely summon up courage to face my father, though I had no reason for feeling that I had committed any blunder. Everything was perfectly straightforward and fair. So busy was I with reviewing the whole situation— surely the most important, short of life and death, that ever fell into a lawyer's hands— that I took no heed of the usual hour for closing. It was a terrible responsiblity, this case of the Brambles; and, unless we could carry it into court, and cross-examine Horace Jones into his grave in Barbadoes, the Brambles must pass out of the worthiest hands into those of these vermin. I believe that law and justice almost invariably agree, or at least that they used to before law became the chaos of bungled statutes that it is now; but I could not feel so then. If only old John Jones had not, out of some imbecile faith in the return of a prodigal, I suppose, been such a confounded ass as to have made no will I

It was dark when I remembered that I had not dined. And that made me notice, as I went out into the passage, that there was a light shining from under the room where we kept our articled clerk and other lumber. I went in; and Dick Musty must have been as surprised to see me there at that hour as I was to see him, for he started and flushed up just as he had done once before.

"What on earth are you doing here?" I asked. "I'm going to lock up— of course you can sleep here if you please;" which, of course, I did not mean.

"I— I had been getting interested in Blackstone," said he. "I didn't notice the time."

I noticed that he was certainly reading, and was pleased to think that the young fellow was at any rate trying not to waste his time. Indeed, to be interested in Blackstone was more than I had ever been in the days of my articles. I felt sure that, if it had not been for this terrible affair of the Brambles, it would have pleased my father also, who wished the young man well. It may seem odd that I should bring so slight an incident as this into my story ; but it struck me at the time that the fact of Dick Musty's keeping away from his lodgings and his Greek and his Latin to read law in our lumber-room was stranger even than Horace Jones's return from the grave.

My father, though better, was still very weak; but he could never rest at night until I had told him everything about the day's work, so that I could not put the last piece of bad news off till to-morrow.

"We must have counsel to plead to the declaration and advise," said he, without one word of courage. "Go to the Brambles to-morrow and see poor Miss Peggy, and toll her not to be down-hearted, poor girl. Try and look cheerful, Tom. If we are to lose, we'll lose hard. Of course you'll see that she instructs you. Let me see— if it comes to the assizes, we'll have Markham— send him a retainer at once, before the other side can get him. And I'll tell you what— you shall go to London and see Winter himself about the pleadings. There's no living man better. Hang the costs ! If we can't get them from the other side, we'll do without 'em, Tom. Miss Peggy sha'n't be a penny the poorer for ma. Tom, this isn't a private case. It's a public cause."

My poor father, though as good a man of business as ever stepped, had, I always used to think, a good deal of the knight-errant about him for a sober attorney. I could see he knew it was a losing fight from the very beginning; but— well, I suppose, like every other man in Burgham, myself included, he was in love with Miss Peggy Jones. At any rate, I sympathised with his reckless scorn of costs in such a cause, and half wished I had the moral courage to forge a long-lost will to checkmate the long-lost heir.

I went over to the Brambles next day and found Miss Margaret very grave and quiet and calm. I had expected to find her in so very different a mood, that I knew not what to say.

"I hear you told Mr. Yiner yesterday that I ought to defend this case," said she. "On what ground? Do you really suppose it is an impostor, and not my Uncle Horace, who has put forward this claim? On your honour, Mr. Key, do you. believe that my uncle is dead, and that some person has falsely assumed his name?"

I could not play with the truth before such straight true eyes as hers.

"I cannot tell you what I think," said I. "But I know, as my father says too, that he must prove himself up to the hilt, that's all."

"No. If he makes me believe it, that must be enough for me. I must not leave it to judges and juries to tell me what I ought to do. And I do believe him to be my uncle, my own father's brother, Horace Jones."

"Good Heaven!" I exclaimed, "you cannot mean that you will, without the strictest proof, let your father's land go to such a man, to such a woman; that you will throw away all your own happiness, all the good and welfare of your native town—"

"My own happiness will not suffer, thank God!" said she, with a grave smile that told me how well she had learned that her future husband's love did not hang one jot upon house or land; and I wished that Evelyn Viner were by, that I might take his hand and tell him, in the name of the whole town, that he was worthy to be the husband of even Margaret Jones, rich or poor. I suppose they had talked it over yesterday, and had decided what was right for them to do, like a couple of fools. "Of course, I am sorry if my uncle is not likely to prove so good a neighbour as we— I— should have tried to be. But justice is justice, Mr. Key, and I cannot try to keep what is not my own."

"It is not justice," said I, and I am of the same opinion still. "Your grandfather believed his eldest son dead. He meant your father to have the Brambles. Why should he have made a will?"

"How do we know that he believed my uncle dead?" asked she.

"Because he made no will." But that was bad logic, and I knew it when I said so. "Madame, you must compel this man to prove himself your uncle to the satisfaction of all England. It is your duty as your father's daughter; your duty to all Burgham," said I.

She sighed.

"I want to do my duty," said she. "And you, and your father, want to help me to do it, I know. Please do not stand in my way."

"At least, Miss Jones, allow my father to be satisfied that he is the man he claims to be. We have no evidence at all—"

"Moral evidence," said she, "and to spare."

"Moral rubbish!" I am afraid I exclaimed. "Let us be convinced a little more than morally; we will not work against justice, you may be sure. That is due to us, because we are your friends."

"I know that," said she.

"We must plead to this declaration within a certain time. Authorize me to do that for you— that will commit you to nothing; and meanwhile we will satisfy ourselves whether it is necessary that the Brambles should be the property of an— Uncle. Only give us time, in order that we may be clear."

"I think there can be no harm in that," said she, though I could see the impulse was upon her to leave the Brambles that very hour. "Of course it is right for our friends to know that we are not doing wrong in what we do. And no doubt our uncle's title, for his children's sake, ought to be made clear."

She was using Queen's grammar; but I knew what she meant by her "We" and "Our" very well.

To fight a lost battle is bad enough ; but to fight it for a client who is determined to lose is harder still. However, I had to be content with the very limited power I was allowed, only taking care to strain it as far as possible. I at once sent a retainer to Serjeant Markham, who then led our circuit, though pretty certain that the fee was thrown away. Then I set hard to work upon instructions for Mr. Winter to plead and advise, more particularly upon the evidence that would be required. Mr. Winter was the great pleader of the day. As we had no intention of getting our costs, we might indulge in any expense we pleased, and lose with a flourish and with all the honours of war.

It was of course exceedingly inconvenient that I, in my father's state of health, should be up in town and away from the office for even a day or two. But there was no help for it. Such a case demanded our most extreme personal attention, and my father would not be satisfied without a conference with Mr. Winter. Happily, we had no other business on hand that was immediately pressing. So I left our managing clerk in charge; arranged that all letters and clients who could not be put off should be brought or sent to my father at his house; gave Musty, for form's sake, a lot of work that would keep for many months, with strict injunctions to let me find it finished by my return; and travelled up to London.

I must own that Messrs. Heath & Crane, who were the claimant's attorneys, met me in the most open and straightforward manner. They concealed nothing, and showed no symptom of wishing to take us by surprise. They were not even anxious fiat Miss Jones should give up the Brambles without fighting; on the contrary, they seemed to wish for a verdict, so as to establish their client's title beyond any possibility of future cavil.

"If you are holding out in order that we may make Miss Jones an offer to induce her to spare us the expense of a trial, I may as well tell you at once that you are mistaken," said Mr. Crane. "We are as sure of a verdict as I stand here. I may assume, between ourselves, that you are not going to put in a will; and I know that my client's identity is beyond question. We shall most assuredly make no sort of offer whatever; we shall not advise our client to make one ; and, even if we did advise it, it would not be made. Our client, rightly or wrongly, considers himself to have been grossly ill-used; and, rightly or wrongly, sees no reason why Miss Margaret Jones deserves one penny from him. If he chooses to do anything for her afterwards, that is his own affair. But he certainly will not buy her out. The proofs of identity are freely at your service, and you are welcome to make the most of them. If you think it worth while to put us to strict proof, you will find us fully prepared."

I smiled at the idea of Miss Margaret's taking a penny for giving up even what was her own, much less anything that was not her own. I knew too well that, with her, it must be all or nothing ; and that she would, as a matter of course, refuse any imaginable compromise. However, I committed myself to nothing, and completed my instructions for counsel to advise on evidence after examining the claimant's case of identity at my leisure. Alas, his case was only too clear ! For any good I could do in London, I might just as well take the next train to Burgham.

However, my father would never forgive me if I came back without having done my best— I believe the dear old gentleman would have dissolved partnership with any man who was clever enough to know when he was beaten. The worst of it was, that a conference with Mr. Winter was almost as difficult to obtain as an interview with Eoyalty. After a world of importunate patience, till I expect his clerk nearly hated the sight of me, I obtained an appointment for a quarter-past eleven o'clock at night at his private house in Kussell Square. I was punctual to the minute, you may be sure; and I found the great junior busily engaged in reading a— novel. It seemed as incongruous as finding Dick Musty over Blackstone. But I have become more used to incongruities since those days.

"Wait a moment— I must know whether that poor girl really did die of a broken heart," said he, turning rapidly over the pages. " Ah, yes. Well, never mind. Better luck next time, Mr.— ah, yes— Key. Well, Mr. Key, there is do doubt but that the intestate's eldest son is entitled to recover on the strength of his own title as heir-at-law. And there's no question, it seems, of his title's being barred by length of adverse possession; and if there were, it would not apply to a claimant who has been beyond the seas till so short a time ago. Unless you can set up a will—"

"No. There was no will."

"Or deny that the intestate was seized—"

"We should not think of doing that, even if we could, Mr. Winter."

"Or that he was not married to the claimant's mother when the claimant was born—"

"Out of the question. His marriage will be amply proved."

"Then, why, in the name of common sense, Mr. Key, do you come to me?"

"For this reason. To be advised whether they have evidence enough that the claimant is really Horace Jones, and not some other man."

"Ah, that's another pair of shoes! Put them to the proof of that, if you can. What do they say?"

"I'm afraid their case is— well, rather strong. They can show, and we can't deny, that Horace Jones enlisted in a certain regiment of the line. They have evidence, military and medical, that he was ill with yellow fever at Barbadoes, and did not die. They will call the former chaplain and the surgeons and some officers of the regiment, to carry the case so far. That he married a woman of colour— a sutler woman— will be shown in the same way ; as well as that the Horace Jones they knew belonged to Burgham; and to that they have witnesses from Burgham too. And every witness concerned will swear to the identity of Horace Jones the claimant with either Horace Jones of Burgham, or with Horace Jones in Barbadoes ; and to the identity of Mrs. Horace Jones here with the woman who married Horace Jones out there."

"Have you any evidence that all these witnesses— excellent witnesses, as I gather from what you say— are in unanimous error, and that the claimant is not Horace Jones? What do his alleged relations say? "

"I am sorry to say that we have no evidence at all. And his only relation is my client, who— well, Mr. Winter, she is a lady with a most remarkable sense of justice, and—"

"On what, then, do you rely?"

"On the chance that the claimant, when he comes to be cross-examined, might break down. We have retained Serjeant Markham—"

"Who knows how to puzzle the devil himself about his own identity. True. I daresay he could puzzle even me about mine. But jurors, let me tell you, are not quite the puzzle-headed fools that it is the fashion to call them. They will most assuredly believe the chaplain, and the surgeons, and the officers, and the good witnesses from Burgham. They will believe your client's silence, and your own inability to show who the man is, if he be not Horace Jones. And in this belief the judge will direct them to remain. And Serjeant Markham is the last man at the Bar to make a fool of himself, as you, Mr. Key, seem bent upon instructing him to do. If he does cross-examine the claimant, he will practically throw up his brief as soon as he sits down. Your client has no case, Mr. Key, absolutely none. Good-night, Mr. Key."

In my own mind, I had foreseen what Mr. Winter's advice would be ; and I even felt conscious that it was a case in which his want of courtesy had been exceedingly excusable. He, unlike us, was not a Burgham man, and had had no opportunity of falling in love with Miss Margaret Jones. He had taken the view of a man of sense ; and his view was final. We simply had not a leg, not even a toe, to stand on. Poor Miss Margaret must lose every penny she had, her husband must work for his bread, and the Brambles must go to Mr. and Mrs. Horace Jones and their gutter-children after them; to a drunken scamp and a Mulatto camp follower. I need not dwell upon what that would mean.

With a heavy heart next morning I called at Mr. Winter's chambers in the Temple, and paid his clerk his easily earned fee for answering what he must have thought a fool's question. Then I looked up my friend who had sent me the report on the manners and customs of Mr. Horace Jones, and then took the train to Burgham. It is not a short journey, though I need not specify the number of miles or hours; and, for that matter, railways were neither so fast nor so dangerous as they are now. So it was late in the afternoon when I reached Burgham, and I went to the office before I went home, in order to put off for a few minutes telling my father all the bad news.

"I want to speak to you, Mr. Thomas," said the managing clerk, as soon as I arrived.

"Well, Merrit ? I hope it's nothing wrong?"

"No, sir, it can't be anything wrong. But it's queer. Every day you've been gone, I've shut up the office at the usual hour. You know, sir, we always lock all our own doors ; so the housekeeper herself, if she wanted to, couldn't get in without asking for the key. And she never has asked me, and I've never parted with our keys for a single minute from the breeches-pocket where I keep them, and where I've got them now. Well, Mr. Thomas, I was out late one evening, having tea at my sister's, and my way home lay past the office-door. Naturally, I looked up, and there was a light shining through the window of your father's room as clear as I see you now."

"Well?"

"At first I thought it must be fire or thieves. So I rang up the housekeeper, and we looked into all the rooms, and there we found—"

"What?"

"Nothing, sir. Everything was dark and quiet, just as if there'd been no light at all."

"Your sister makes her tea strong, I suppose. That's all?"

"It's all very well to have your joke, Mr. Thomas, and of course the steadiest of men may see wrong once in a way; but that's not all. I was so sure I'd seen that light in that window, that I made a point of going to my sister's next night too, so that I might see if it happened again."

"Well? Did it happen again?"

"Yes, Mr. Thomas. It did happen again. And I woke up the housekeeper again. And we found nothing again. And when I went back into the street there wasn't the ghost of a light to be seen. So it couldn't have been the reflection of anything, you see."

"And you found, in the morning, not a sign of anybody's having been in the room?"

"Not the shadow of a sign. And, sir, that isn't all. Every night I've passed by— I've made a point of it before turning in— and every time I've seen that light, except the last one or two. I can't make it out at all. And the odd thing is, there's nothing wrong."

"Have you told my father?"

"No, sir. He's seemed so worried and nervous that I didn't like to trouble him. I thought best to wait till you came home."

"Quite right. My father must not be worried any more just now. Well, Merrit, I've been thinking some time you ought to have a holiday. Go to the sea for a week. We can manage that, now I'm back again." The man worked hard, and it was as likely as not that his brain might want resting. "Has anybody seen the light besides you?"

"I haven't asked, sir. I've been afraid, Mr. Thomas— in fact—"

"In fact, you suspect something you don't like to tell. What is it, please?"

"Your father is unquestionably in a nervous condition, Mr. Thomas. I've noticed that ever since you've been gone. And sometimes people in that state do very curious things. So I thought it best to wait till you were back again."

"You mean that my father— impossible ! My mother would know. Put that out of your head at once, Merrit, if you please. All the same, you've done quite right to wait for me. Yes ; you ought to take a holiday, I'm sure. Anyhow, there's nothing wrong, it seems. Nothing but a common ghost, I suppose ; I don't mind them. And how has Mr. Musty been getting on all this while, eh? Not much use to you, I suppose?"

"I'm altering my opinion of Mr. Musty, Mr. Thomas, I am indeed. He's been working like a pavior. He's here before I am in the morning, and stays as long as I'll let him. I believe there's stuff in that young man, though it's been long enough coming out, I must say."

"I must see my father now. We'll talk to-morrow about your holiday."

My mother's account of my father was by no means a good one. He had been going backward instead of forward, and was, the doctors suspected, kept down by some mental trouble. He was morbidly anxious about letters, and altogether as different from his old easy-going self as a man could be. She did not wish me to see him that night ; but he had heard my voice— he had gone to bed early— and sent for me. When I had told him all my news, he said sadly,

"For the first time in my life I see we're beat, my boy. Winter's right. We're only a couple of obstinate fools. Poor girl ! Well, God will temper the wind. But it's bad to feel beat, very bad indeed."

"Has father been at all strange?" I asked my mother.

"Only in the way you have seen," said she. "He is not like himself; but that is all."

So unlike himself that I began anxiously to wonder whether there might not be something in Merrit's suspicions, and that my father, in some mysterious way and without my mother's knowledge, might not be paying some nightly visit to the office, of which he had another set of keys. People with minds out of gear manage to do things sometimes that healthy persons would find impossible.

iii

AFTER SUPPER I strolled out with a cigar to settle in my own mind about what ought to be done, and how I should let Miss Margaret know that she was henceforth without a penny in the world of her own, unless she chose to beg for charity from Mr. and Mrs. Horace Jones. My only comfort was that she would bear to hear the news a great deal better than I could bear to tell it to her. In our last interview she had shown me the sort of stuff of which she and Evelyn Viner were composed; and that made it all the worse to exchange such neighbours for Mr. and Mrs. Horace Jones. I loved my father dearly, and was terribly anxious about him ; but the immediate trouble of the hour, on which the fortune of a whole town seemed to hang, was all-absorbing. And besides, it was the first serious matter in which I had ever been engaged ; and I could not help asking myself a hundred times a minute, if I had neglected any loophole of escape which greater knowledge and experience might have been able to find. But there was none, absolutely none. My Lord Chief Justice would have been as hopeless as I. Mr. Winter had as good as told me I was a fool for clutching at what was not even so much as a straw.

Poets are not the only people who, when they are in a professional difficulty, stare up at the stars. I did. I was in the lane which led from the High Street, past our office door, into St. Michael's Yard, when I looked up towards the Great Bear, and saw— a light in the window of my father's room.

My first impulse was to go home and see if my father was safe in his room. But on second thoughts I felt it better to wait a little, and then to effect an entrance with more effect than Mr. Merrit had done. Putting the idea of thieves out of the question, the occupant of the room must either be the housekeeper or my father. If the house-keeper, she certainly had no business there, and must be taken by surprise. If my father, he must be dealt with very carefully indeed. So I waited for five minutes, to see if the light was likely to vanish of its own accord, and then, instead of ringing the housekeeper's bell, I bethought me of an old trick which, I am sorry to say, I had not unfrequently put in practice when a younger man, in order to get in and out of the office when I wanted my temporary absence to be unknown. Without much, though with some, risk of feeling the hand of a passing constable on my shoulder, I climbed over the old coped wall that divided St. Michael's Yard from our back premises, then pulled myself on to another wall, and thence, very easily, to the cover of a closed cistern which was under my own window. I did not make much noise, and there was enough wind about to cover any that I could not help making. Then I took out my pocket-knife, and, by a trick not unknown to schoolboys and house-breakers, and in which former practice had made me expert in relation to this particular window, passed it between the upper and lower window-frames, pressed back the very inefficient fastening, and had the window open in less time than it has taken me to write the words. Then I took off my boots, dropped them quietly into the room, and followed them. I had no light ; but I knew every inch of the ground. My door was locked, but Merrit had given me up the keys. I went out into the passage, in the dark and in my stockings, and listened at my father's door. I did not hear a sound.

I made up my mind that the best thing I could do was to open it quietly, enter in a matter-of-course way, and if, as impossibility itself could not keep me from fearing, I found my father, make believe that there was nothing out of the way in the situation. I would simply ask him if he did not think it time to shut up the office and come home. So I pulled back the outer door of green baize, and opened the inner, and at first, coming so suddenly out of the pitch darkness, was too dazzled by the candle-light to understand clearly what I saw. The candle had not gone out when I came in.

It was not, thank God, my father, haunting his office at midnight in a state of over-strung nerves. It was not the housekeeper, who ought to be in bed and asleep, and was no doubt doing her duty. It was Richard Musty— Richard Musty, sitting at midnight at my father's table, in my father's chair, with a candle before him, and half his face buried in his hands.

Had he gone crazed? But I did not think of that then. The possibility of crime was more in my mind. I went up to him and brought my hand down heavily between his shoulders.

"What the devil," I cried out, "are you doing here?"

Most decidedly I meant to startle him. But I could not possibly startle him more than he had startled me, when I found out who it was that had been, night after night, engaged alone in an office which he could not possibly have been able to enter without false keys, or with any honest cause. He could not even have practised my mode of entry without false keys, because I had had to unlock my own room-door, and had not had to unlock my father's. And he of all men— too much of a block-head even to be a rogue, as I had imagined until now. But though it was natural for him to be less startled than I, he did not seem to be startled at all.

On the contrary, he merely turned round and faced me with the saddest, most hopeless look I had ever seen.

"I did not expect you," was all he said, "but it doesn't matter now."

"Not matter?" said I. "Not matter, that I find my father's office broken into, night after night, by one of his own clerks ; not matter, that I find you out in what amounts to burglary? If you have anything to say for yourself, say it; if not, I shall know what to believe, and make a proper search for an explanation, both here and elsewhere."

"I have nothing to say, Mr. Key," said he. "Of course I shall not appear in your office again."

"I could have told you that myself," said I. "Then you have nothing to say? Well, my father must decide what to do with you. I know what I should do." I was not keeping my temper, I own. "I suppose I oughtn't to cross-examine you, but I must either do that or send for the police, it seems to me. And for your mother's, sake I should like to avoid that, if I can."

"Then— then I will tell you," said he. "Perhaps, perhaps I have done what a lawyer, a mere lawyer like yourself, would call wrong, technically wrong. I am not a mere lawyer, Mr. Key."

"A mere lawyer? I never knew you were a lawyer at all," said I. "But unluckily it is mere lawyers who have to define burglary, and—"

"I am not a burglar!" said Musty, showing a little spirit for the first time. " I have been here every night, that is true. It was the only time at which I could have sufficient access to your father's room. But my means of access were not what you suppose. I never used to leave the premises,— that is all. Before the hour for closing I used to hide in that closet, which your father's absence from the office made it perfectly easy for me to do. Mr. Merrit and the clerks of course used to think I had gone away for the day. Your father's room-door was never really locked, for I suppose it was forgotten either when he was taken ill or else when you went away, and nobody ever thought of it afterwards, not even Mr. Merrit, though he used to find the door unlocked whenever he came at night. It's curious what stupid people some lawyers are. Just because it was supposed not to want locking at the right time, nobody seemed to think it odd that it was found unlocked at the wrong one. No mere metaphysician would have made such a blunder as that, Mr. Key. I used to think it lucky. It enabled me to be found at my own desk when the clerks came in the morning. I used to keep food in the coal-scuttle. You'll find some there still. You're welcome to it. It's no use to me any more. And now I've told you the whole story."

"You have told me nothing, sir!" said I. "What possessed you—" I really did not know what to ask. He had spoken in such a forlorn, dreary, strangely cynical way that I began to suspect, not a crime, but— at last— sheer lunacy. Idiotcy would be perfectly natural in the young man.

"Very well, Mr. Key. There was a document which it was necessary— at least I thought so— that I should examine. To your eyes it was only an old Latin sermon, or essay, about the virtues of some miserable saint or other of the Middle Ages. But I had reason to think— reason which I should vainly try to make you understand— that it might, nay, must, be a palimpsest: perhaps even the word is strange to you. And yet even you, Mr. Key, must have heard that some of our most precious classics have been lost by being erased and over-written with worthless monkish chronicles ; but that many have been recovered, in our own times, by chemically removing the monkish stuff, and, by a re-agent, restoring the old writing so as to be legible again. I had reason to think, from certain partial experiments I had already tried, that this absurd puff of St. Willibrord covered— well, nothing less than some portions of the lost books of Livy. I need not go through the course of reasoning that led me to that conclusion. Enough that the reasons were sound ; and, after all, in such matters instinct and insight are the best of all reasons. Certainty must always depend upon something higher than mere evidence, Mr. Key, which can never amount to proof, however strong it may be. It is only faith which can ever be sure. And so—"

"And so you believed, because you wished to believe, that you would find Livy in a lawyer's office in Burgham. Why didn't you say so before?"

"Because I didn't choose to be called mad by mere people of common sense, like you and your father, until I could come to you and say, 'See here!' And now I say, 'See here; see the result of my disappointed faith, and of labour in vain.' You are right. I am good for nothing. I am an ass and a fool."

I began to see at last with what sort of man I had to deal. "So you found nothing? " said I.

"Worse than nothing. Look here," he said, uncovering the parchment that lay before him, and which was, indeed, the old Latin manuscript which my father had thrown into a drawer to keep this queer sort of a clerk from wasting his time ; as if a fanatic of any sort, and not only a lover, will not find out the way. "Yes, that monk, whoever it was, was not so bad as some of them. He only used an old deed to scrawl over; if a man must write rubbish, he can't do better than use rubbish to write it on."

"An old deed of the times of the monks? But that must be a curiosity in its way, after all. What is it? That old writing beats me."

"I don't know. I didn't care to recover more than enough to show me that I had thrown all my labour away. If you care to know, it seems like the record of a conveyance, by the corporation of Burgham to the priory of Welwood, of the Campus de Easton, in the parish of St. Botolph intra muros et terminos de Burgham; which means 'within the walls and bounds.' I have read no more. And enough, too."

"Quite enough," said I. "Go home and go to bed: of course I must speak to my father about you, though the affair, I am glad to say, doesn't look as bad as I feared."

I locked up carefully enough this time, let myself and Dick Musty out by the same way I had entered, so as not to disturb the housekeeper, and carried the old parchment home with me to show my father. It was of no practical use ; but it certainly was, or might be, of interest to local antiquarians. It was remarkable, any way, that the document should have remained in the custody of the parsons of St. Michael's, as it must have done, ever since the days before the Eeformation; but certain old documents have a wonderful way of escaping the doom of waste paper, to which things of more value are so perilously liable. An old invitation to a long-eaten dinner will survive under circumstances in which an important receipt will prove mysteriously and hopelessly missing.

But nothing of all this could possibly affect the miserable case of which my mind was full. I forgot, or rather did not even trouble to remember, to mention the matter to my father, after all. He had too much on his mind to be troubled about Dick Musty, for whom I now felt rather pity than anger, inexcusable as his conduct had been.

I remember, as well as any in my life, the day when my father at last decided, finally, that fighting would be worse than folly, and that the Brambles must go to Mr. Horace Jones. Mr. Evelyn Viner had been talking everything over with us— not that there was much left to talk about— and had stayed to dine. He took things well, I must say. Instead of losing his appetite, he talked about what chances he would have if he went to the Bar, and would not even go back to the great question now that it had been settled for good and all. He made all sorts of talk for everybody; and presently, in an incidental way, we got upon local matters, and one of us mentioned the singularity of the name of that churchless parish, "St. Botolph in Turn." We all made guesses at its origin, and at last I said,

"I think it must mean St. Botolph in-Ternus, or in Terminibus, or within the walls or boundaries of the town."

"By Jove," said my father, "it might be ! But I didn't know you were such a scholar as that, Tom. How did you get hold of that idea? St. Botolph in Turn is within the town boundaries; so much is true."

"I'm afraid I can't claim the guess as quite original," said I. " Oddly enough, I got it from an old deed that was among old Parson Evans's papers, which I've got upstairs, and will show you if you like, as it seems curious in its way. I'll tell you the whole story; but not now."

I brought the half-deciphered document out of my bedroom, which my father recognized at once as the parchment he had taken from the hands of Dick Musty. We looked at it in the manner of the very unskilled archaeologists that we were.

"How odd!" said Mr. Evelyn Yiner. "Campus de Easton means Easton Field, the other name for the Brambles. A curious accident, indeed."

"And the Brambles is still rated to St. Botolph," said I.

I wished I had not brought down the document, after all. But Mr. Evelyn Viner spoke as if it mattered nothing to him. I believe in his heart he was fool enough to be half glad that Miss Margaret was to come to him poor, so that he might work for her.

"Tom," said my father, "this document is really a curiosity. I must show it to the mayor, and we'll have the rest of it made out when we've got nothing else to do. It's odd I never noticed there was anything of the sort about this deed. But I remember, it was the day I was taken ill. It shows how careful a town ought to be about preserving the evidence of its boundaries. The nature of the ownership of the Brambles has always happened, you see, to make it perfectly immaterial whether that part of St. Botolph lay within or without the town ; and Mr. Wilfred Jones voted as a freeman. This old document may prove important evidence of town rights in time to come. Why— but— great Heaven!" he suddenly cried out, starting from his chair.

I thought he had been seized with a sudden fit, and was about to fall. Mr. Viner also started towards him; and, in truth, there looked reason for alarm, considering his recent illness and his chronic worry about the Brambles, and his apoplectic flush, and his vain efforts to speak a word. But at last he waved us away from him, and fell back again into his chair.

Then he raised his fist and brought it down upon the old Latin sermon with a bang that made the glasses ring.

"Hurrah!" he shouted. "Three cheers for Miss Peggy, and a fig for Mr. Horace Jones!"

Had he gone mad after all?

"Tom! Has there been a single case of the Brambles passing to the heir-at-law of an intestate within the memory of the law?"

"No," said I. "How could there be— till now— when it belonged to a college till it was bought by Mr. John Jones? But— don't you feel well?"

"Well? Tom, don't you be a fool ! Then there's been continuous custom—continuous custom, because there hasn't been the possibility of a breach—"

"What breach? What custom?" I could only look at Mr. Viner in despair, and think what I could do, with my father going out of his senses before my eyes.

"Is the Brambles in Burgham or no?"

"Surely, sir, if that document is to be believed."

"It is to be believed. It is legal proof, and proof in good custody, sir; and uncontradicted and uncontradictable by all the Horace Joneses in the habitable globe! The Brambles is in Burgham. And what is the tenure of lands in Burgham? You— a Burgham lawyer— don't know?"

"Then I'll tell you, and I'm ashamed of you! It's Borough English, sir! And, by the custom of Borough English, all lands and tenements within the Bounds of Burgham go to the youngest son, instead of the eldest, when there's no will!"

I NEED NOT carry the history of the case farther than by saying that the strange old custom of Borough English, which still prevails in other places than Burgham, and the origin of which has defied theory to discover, effectually disinherited Mr. Horace Jones simply because he was his father's eldest son, and gave the Brambles to Miss Margaret because she was the heiress of the youngest son of old John Jones. I have told my story; but only because I think it is strange enough to be worth the telling. It has a moral for "mere lawyers" like myself, and it is this. Don't think Practice everything, and Learning nothing. England is a curious country, and the Middle Ages take a long time to kill.

As for poor Dick Musty, through whom— by no means through any merit of his own— it had come out that the Brambles had never ceased to be a part of the ancient Borough of Burgham, Mr. and Mrs. Viner could not see that he was undeserving of a most unreasonable and disproportionate reward. Learning from my father and myself his complete unfitness for the law, they sent him back to Cambridge, where he got his degree and a fellowship and settled down at last into a happily useless member of society, not without some reputation as an authority on palimpsests and doubtful readings. I suppose he is as dead as Livy by this time, seeing how long ago all this happened. Everything ended rightly; but even now I almost tremble when I think how that Great Estate hung upon such a mere "Touch-and-Go."

_____________________

Index to "Past Masters" stories, by author.

Issues 31-48

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

Hervey Allen

Report to Major Roberts  47

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

Stormalong  48

The Temple of the Ten 48

J. J. Bell

Blue Blood, or, The Pride of Lady Ambrosia 44

The Message on the Sun-Dial  42

E F Benson

7: The Bed By The Window

Ralph Wilhelm Bergengren

Mr Chubb's Burglar 44

J. D. Beresford

The Sceptical Poltergeist  45

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

Mr. Clackworthy Revives a Town 47

The Sealed Envelope 43

The Sparrow  40

Tardy, but on Time (as by John J. Chichester)  41

Jack Boyle

Ann of Satan-Town  46

George Bronson-Howard

The Steerage Passenger 44

Miles J. Breuer

Millions for Defense  47

The Stone Cat   47

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

Hayden Carruth

Active Colorado Real Estate  46

Casper Carson

Wizard or Crook   48

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

Richard Washburn Child

The Screen 45

C. Langton Clarke

The Detective for the Defense 33

Sylvanus Cobb Jr

A Footlight Flash 43

Desmond Coke

The Ghost That Failed  46

Richard Connell

The Grim House  41

Dorothea Conyers

Lord Hillayton's Settlement 35

Ted Copp

Blackmail Moll 36

Oswald Crawfurd

Our Mr. Smith  45

James Oliver Curwood

The Civilizing of Swift Lightning 46

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

By the Hands of the Dead 45

The Heads of Apex 33

The Picture 45

The Smell 45

J. S. Fletcher

The Manor House Mystery  41

Elliott Flower

The Elusive Ten Dollar Bill 36

A Bundle of Banknotes  43

R. E. Francillon

11: Touch-And-Go With a Great Estate

J. M. Fry

The Ring   38

Jacques Futrelle

Mr. John Smith in Paris  47

Emile Gaboriau

The Little Old Man of Batignolles 34

Charles Garvice

The Two Uncles 44

Lady Gilbert

Aurora's Treasure 35

Guy Gilpatric

An Affair of Honour  46

The Crafty Jerko-Slovaks 32

The Ladies of Catsmeat Yard  37

One Good Tern  35

The Pearl of Panama 42

The Rolling Stone  41

The Toad Men of Tumbaroo  46

Westward, How!  46

Susan Glaspell

A Jury of Her Peers 44

Winifred Graham

Pan   39

C. J. Hamilton

The Luck of Barney Costello 44

Arthur P Hankins

Eyes of Blue   43

Arthur Sherburne Hardy

Peter  47

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

Washington Irving

The Story of a Young Robber 47

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

Alexander Kuprin

Menagerie 45

Henry Leverage

The Petermen of Providence  46

Alun Lewis

Private Jones 39

Sumner Locke

Ragtime 44

William J Locke

Ladies In Lavender 36

Marie Belloc Lowndes

Popeau Intervenes  41

Maarten Maartens

A Comedy of Crime 47

Newton MacTavish

An Unposted Letter 47

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

Florence Marryat

The Box With the Iron Clamps  46

Richard Marsh

The Pipe  48

Mrs. L. T. Meade

Beauty Dear 32

The Yellow Dragon Vases 32

Mrs L. T. Meade and Dr Clifford Halifax, M.D.

The Seventh Step  48

The Strange Case of Captain Gascoigne 31

The Small House on Steven's Heath 33

"To Every one His Own Fear"  34

With the Eternal Fires 32

Gustav Meyrink

Bal Macabre  45

Alice Duer Miller

A Lot of Money  46

C S Montanye

Prey  40

The Strength of the Meek  47

Trapped 43

Jacque Morgan

The lnternational Electro-Galvanic

Undertaking Corporation  48

William Morris

Lindenborg Pool  48

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 Black Monk 48

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

K. & Hesketh Prichard

The Parole of Gevil-Hay  47

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

After the Fact 46

"Illimore!" 31

Lady Dick 46

The Premiere Danseuse 32

Riches Can Take Wings  46

Road House 46

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

The Owl 45

Towards Morning 33

Carolyn Wells

The Mystery of the Jade Buddha 40

A Point of Testimony 43

The Stolen Gems 43

H. G. Wells

The Hammerpond Park Burglary  47

Albert Richard Wetjen

The Madness of Captain Jonas 44

Ethel Lina White

The Scarecrow  42

Henry S. Whitehead

Black Terror 45

Cassius 46

The Fireplace 45

Jumbee 37

The Left Eye 45

Mrs. Lorriquer 45

The Napier Limousine 45

The Projection of Armand Dubois 45

The Trap 45

The Tree-Man 45

Raoul Whitfield

The Caleso Murders 32

China Man 46

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

H. C. Witwer

The Barber of Seville, Ill.   46

Not So Big  47

William Tells  47

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: Wizard or Crook / Casper Carson

- 2: The Pipe / Richard Marsh

- 3: The Seventh Step / L. T. Meade and Dr. Clifford Halifax

- 4: Stormalong / H. Bedford-Jones
- 5: The Temple of the Ten / H. Bedford-Jones
- 6: Lindenborg Pool / William Morris
- 7: The Bed By The Window / E F Benson
- 8: The Black Monk / G. G. Pendarves
- 9: The lnternational Electro-Galvanic

- 10: Touch-And-Go With a Great Estate / R. E. Francillon

- Cumulative Index to No 48