Past Masters Fifty Six
Author: Various
Date: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00
Description: Seventeen short stories, including one fairly long novelette, all of the stories being in the Life+70 Public Domain. They have been collected mostly from newspapers and magazines, where they have been largely forgotten. There is an index of stories in this series from Past Masters 31 to Past Masters 56. 1: The Worm With the Sting in His Tail / Arthur Gask 2: The Dagger of Macbeth / Stephen Chalmers 3: Disinherited / H de Vere Stacpoole 4: Li Wang's Legacy / L. C. Douthwaite 5: King Of Clubs / L. C. Douthwaite 6: Night Errant / Leslie Beresford 7: Midnight Murder / L. C. Douthwaite 8: The Retur

PAST MASTERS

FIFTY-SIX

January 2022

Part 3

Produced by Terry Walker

("Pulpmeister")

Contents

1: The Worm With the Sting in His Tail / Arthur Gask

2: The Dagger of Macbeth / Stephen Chalmers

3: Disinherited / H de Vere Stacpoole

4: Li Wang's Legacy / L. C. Douthwaite

5: King Of Clubs / L. C. Douthwaite

6: Night Errant / Leslie Beresford

7: Midnight Murder / L. C. Douthwaite

8: The Return / Stacy Aumonier

9: His Cheap Bravo / W. Pett Ridge

10: The Wrong 'Un / Mark Allerton

11: The Ambassador / Owen Oliver

12: The Torpedo / M. McDonnell Bodkin

13: The Storm Centre / J. J. Bell

14: The Turning Point / K. R. G. Browne

15: The Amateur Prophet / K. R. G. Browne

16: The Man from Shanghai / Raoul Whitfield

17: The Lagoon of the Secret Pearls / Capt. Frederick Moore (novelette)

Cumulative Index

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1: The Worm With the Sting in His Tail

Arthur Gask

1869-1951

Chronicle (Adelaide) 19 Sept 1940

THE BULL-NECKED man at the desk frowned at the meek-looking, little, elderly one who was standing so obsequiously before him.

"I have sent for you, Binns," he said sharply, "to tell you that as from Saturday next we shall no longer be requiring your services."

The little man's eyes opened very wide and his fingers twitched nervously.

"You are going to get rid of me, Mr. Higgins!" he exclaimed, as if he could not believe what he had heard. He swallowed hard. "Then you are displeased with the way I have been carrying out my duties?"

The head of the Bacchus Wine and Spirit Company shook his head.

"No, not exactly," he replied. He pursed up his lips. "But you are getting old, Binns, and I prefer to have younger people about me."

Binns spoke tremulously. "I have been a good servant to the firm, sir. I have worked very long hours. I have always been the first to come in the morning and the last to go away at night."

"And that was what you were paid for, wasn't it?" commented Mr. Higgins brusquely. "You got your money every week." He shrugged his shoulders. "No, you needn't grumble. You have had a good innings here."

"But—but Mr. Higgins," protested the little man, "you arranged with Mr. Henry when you took over the cellars to keep me on. You promised him you—"

"That was three years ago," retorted Mr. Higgins testily, "and—"

"No, not quite three years yet, sir," corrected Binns quickly, "not three years until the third of next month." He spoke modestly. "I have a good memory for dates, sir, and it was upon the third of July, the year before last, when the business was sold."

Mr. Higgins waved a big and fat hand. "Well, three years or two years, what does it matter?" He nodded, "At any rate, now Mr. Henry has died I feel absolved from my promise."

"Of course, I know no mention of my being kept on was put down in the deed of sale, sir," went on Binns sadly, "and everything was left to your—" He stopped suddenly and then added chokingly, "I would just tell you, sir, that I have no money saved and an invalid wife to support."

Mr. Higgins was arranging the papers upon his desk. "Your private affairs, Binns," he commented coldly, "your private affairs, and I am not concerned with them."

"I have been here a long time, sir, a very long time," pleaded Binns.

"Exactly," nodded Mr. Higgins, "and for that reason, when you leave us on Saturday you will receive an extra fortnight's salary."

Binns's lips moved rapidly, as if he were making a lightning calculation. "And the fortnight's salary being £5, sir," he said, with his voice now a little more steady, "it will mean that for each of the forty-years I have been here I shall be receiving about two shillings and eightpence half-penny." His smile was a sad one. "I am good at figures as well as dates, sir."

Quite so," agreed Mr. Higgins, "and they are useful gifts to possess." He nodded again. "Well on Saturday you will hand over your keys, and we shall not be seeing you any more."

A short silence followed, and then Binns said meekly, "I shall be missed, sir. I have been useful to you, and always most solicitous for the good reputation of all members of the firm."

"No doubt, no doubt!" commented Mr. Higgins, without taking his eyes from his desk. "But you can go, now, Binns. I have told you all I wanted to."

Binns, however, seemed disinclined to terminate the interview. Instead, he remained twiddling his thumbs and eyeing his employer intently.

"And you will give me a good reference, sir?" he asked at length. "Thank you, sir. I think I shall try if Messrs. Taggart & Taggart will take me on."

Mr. Higgins looked up with a jerk. "Why Taggart & Taggart?" he asked with a hard frown. "Why them in particular?"

"We-ell, sir, replied Binns hesitatingly, "With your being so friendly with their Mr. John"— he coughed slightly— "and the members of his family, perhaps they may be more interested in me than if I had been working for a firm they knew nothing about."

A moment's intent scrutiny of Binns's face, and Mr. Higgins remarked carelessly, "Oh, that's it, is it? Well, do as you please," and he resumed his interest in the papers upon his desk. Binns drew in a deep and resolute breath.

"Last Wednesday week, sir," he went on, "it was the 19th— I told you I was good at remembering dates— when I came in here the first thing that morning, I picked up a lady's compact on the carpet."

Mr. Higgins jerked up his head again, this time even more sharply, and for a few seconds glared bewilderingly at Binns. Then his face took on a dusky hue.

"It belongs to my wife," he said with a great affectation of carelessness. "She lost one, bit didn't remember where. Have you got it here now?"

Binns ignored the question. "But it couldn't have been dropped by Mrs. Higgins, sir. She was away in Scotland at the time. I heard you telling Mr. Bruce so that same morning. Besides, the compact had the initials R.F.T. upon it." He coughed discreetly. "I believe, sir, Mrs. John Taggart's Christian names are Rita Fanny."

A dead silence followed, and then Mr. Higgins said angrily. "You are making it all up. You found no such compact here. It is a damned lie."

"But it is not, sir," said Binns earnestly. "I did find the compact here, and I showed it all round to the young ladies in the office; but, of course, I did not mention how I had come by it. I made out I had picked it up in the park as I was coming to work. I did not let them see the initials, either. I kept my thumb over the corner."

"Give it to me!" ordered Mr. Higgins angrily. "You are a thief ."

"Oh, no, sir," said Binns firmly. "If I did not find it here, as you are so certain, then it can have nothing to do with you. If I give it up to anyone it must be to the police. It is a valuable compact, sir, solid silver, and I don't want to get into trouble."

If looks could have killed, Binns would have been a dead man.

"What's your game?" snarled Mr. Higgins. "Are you attempting to blackmail me?''

Binns looked horrified. "No, no, sir, I wouldn't think of such a thing." He produced his discreet cough again, "You see, sir, whatever information one may gather, it is not blackmail until one tries to make use of it to extort money from someone. I have a cousin, sir, an inspector at Scotland Yard, and he has told me that."

"Well, what do you want?" asked Mr. Higgins, with his face as black as night. "What are you making out you found that compact here for, if it's not for the purpose of blackmail? What do you want, I say?"

"Nothing, nothing at all, sir," replied Binns, looking as if most hurt. "I only mention the matter to you to let you see, as I say, how zealous I have been for the reputation of the firm."

"Then that compact you are talking about," asked Mr. Higgins, "where is it?"

Binns looked very stupid. He pretended to think. "For the moment, sir," he said hesitatingly, "for the moment I have forgotten where I put it. Indeed, I may have lost it altogether. Sometimes my memory, except for dates and figures, is very bad. I forget things so quickly." His face brightened. "Why I might even forget, sir, you had said you would have to be getting rid of me shortly."

Mr. Higgins made no comment. He stared hard at Binns, but the fury in his face was now replaced by a sullen frown.

Binns went on firmly. "No, sir, I cannot find that compact." He spoke most respectfully. "But for my own sake I shall forget I ever saw it."

He nodded solemnly. "I never talk." Mr. Higgins saw it was no good to press the matter.

"You can go," he said quietly, "and about your leaving us on Saturday—" he appeared to hesitate— "well, as you have been with us so long and have no money saved, I suppose we shall have to keep you on."

"Thank you, sir," said Binns meekly. "I am sure it is very kind of you," and he glided from the room.

MR. HIGGINS gritted his teeth in fury. Of a most masterful disposition and successful in all his business affairs, it was gall and wormwood to him to have now to knuckle under to a creature like Binns, whom he had always despised as little better than a worm in intelligence. He was shrewd enough, however, to realise he could not afford to make an enemy of him, at any rate for the time being. He thought for a long while and then picked up the receiver upon his desk and put through a call.

"Hullo, that you, Fan?" he asked softly, but very distinctly. "You lost that silver compact John gave you, a couple of weeks ago? Well, damn it, that night we came in here after the pictures and split a bottle of Champagne, you dropped it in my room and it was picked up by one of the clerks the next morning. No, no, there's going to be no fuss, but from the initials on it, this clerk guesses whose it is and won't give it up. He pretends he's lost it, which I know is a lie. No, no, it's not going to be awkward for us. He's not going to talk and it only means I can't give him the sack which I was intending to. That's all. Now you listen. We must look ahead and make things quite safe if he starts blackmailing me. You are coming up to the Lord Mayor's Show tomorrow, aren't you? Well, call in here on your way home and bring John with you. Then, later on, if the compact business should crop up, you can make out you lost it here then. See? No, it's quite all right and you needn't worry in the slightest. Then I'll be seeing you and John tomorrow. Good-bye."

He hung up the receiver and smiled a grim, cunning smile. "That'll settle him," he nodded. "That'll spike his guns. In a couple of weeks or so I'll say Fan thinks she dropped her compact when she came here with her husband, and it'll be deuced awkward then for little blackmail Binns. If, as he says, he did show it to the others, they'll be remembering his tale about picking it up in the park, but it'll be a thousand to one they, none of them, will recollect the particular date."

The next afternoon Mr. and Mrs. John Taggart dropped in to have a glass of wine with Mr. Higgins, and the lady was greatly admired by the firm's employes as she passed through their room. It was agreed she was a very pretty woman, and Binns, in particular, eyed her with great interest.

That night, too, after he had returned home she was very much in his thoughts. Binns was by no means the creature of poor intelligence his employer imagined and, when he chose to exert himself, was quite shrewd and far-seeing. So, thinking over Mrs. Taggart's visit to the office that afternoon, he envisioned possibilities of trouble for himself at some future date. His employer might give him the sack with perfect safety if it could be made out the lady had lost her compact when upon her visit with her husband upon Lord Mayor's Day.

Accordingly, with the purpose of forestalling any action. Mr. Higgins might make, the following morning Binns announced to the clerks, generally, and to the five girl ones in particular, that he was intending shortly to present the silver compact he had picked up to one of the latter.

"I have not seen it mentioned in any advertisement for lost articles," he said, "and so I think it will be quite all right my giving it away."

"'Oh, you are a dear, Binney," exclaimed the sprightly Mary Weston, "but who's going to be the lucky one?"

"Well, of course, you'll have to draw for it," replied Binns.

"Then when's the drawing going to take place, today?"

Binns shook his head. "No, not to-day. I think I ought to keep it at least a month or six weeks, in case any advertisement appears." He pretended to think. "Let me see, when did I find it?"

"I know," said Mary Western promptly. "It was a fortnight yesterday, on a Wednesday. Don't you remember I said you ought to give it to me for my birthday, and that was two days afterwards, on the Friday, the 21st."

"Yes, it was on the Wednesday," supplemented another girl. "Silver Box was running in the Bibury Cup that afternoon and we backed it because you had picked up the silver compact."

She looked reproachful. "You cost several of us a hard-earned shilling that day."

"Stop talking, you girls," reproved Mr. Eden, the head clerk, sharply. "You'll only be making mistakes if you mag on like a lot of monkeys," and the room subsided into quietness again.

The days sped by and Binns was left in peace. He made no mistake, however, in thinking that his encounter with Mr. Higgins had passed out of the latter's mind. On the contrary, for his employer never came in contact with him without giving him a nasty look. He made his displeasure felt in another way, too.

It was Binns's special duty to keep an account of the stock in the cellars, and now, if Mr. Higgins wanted to know anything, instead of sending for Binns himself, he had taken to making his enquiries through Mr. Eden who had in turn, had to come to Binns for the information and pass it on. No, Binns was quite sure Mr. Higgins was not going to take his defeat lying down, but was only waiting his chance to get his revenge. And things happened exactly as Binns expected.

One morning, about three weeks later Mr. Higgins strode into the clerks' room.

"Mrs. Taggart," he announced frowningly, "thinks she lost a silver compact here when she came the other day with Mr. Taggart. It has her initials, R.F.T., in one corner. Have any of you seen anything of it?"

Faces dropped instantly, a dead silence fell over the room and uneasy glances were made in the direction of Binns. Binns, however, spoke up unhesitatingly. "She lost it that afternoon, sir," he asked, "when she came in after the Lord Mayor's Show? On the fifth, wasn't it?" and Mr. Higgins had to nod a grudging assent.

"Well, sir," went on Binns smilingly, "I've not seen it anywhere, but, strangely enough, I found a silver compact a fortnight before. I picked mine up in the park as I was coming to work on Wednesday, the 19th of last month," his smile was most ingratiating, "but, of course, it couldn't have been the one Mrs. Taggart lost a fortnight later."

Mr. Higgins spoke in a voice of thunder.

"And who else besides yourself knows the exact date when you found this compact you say you picked up outside?" he demanded accusingly.

Binns appeared in no way disconcerted. "Oh, everyone here, sir," he replied smilingly. "Directly I showed it to them, Miss Weston wanted me to give it to her for her birthday, which was not until two days later, the 21st."

"Yes, Mr. Higgins," added Mary Weston timidly, "I did ask for it for my birthday, which was coming on the following Friday."

The face of Mr. Higgins was a study. He bit his lip hard and glared so angrily at Mary Weston that it might almost have seemed that she had herself admitted stealing the compact. The head clerk now added his corroboration.

"It is as Miss Weston says, sir," he said. "It was while we were stocktaking that Binns was showing the compact round and I ordered him to put it away, as he was hindering everyone in their work and we shouldn't be finished in time. If you remember, sir, the stocktaking was over in the week ending the 22nd."

Mr. Higgins turned without a word and left the room. He did not dare trust himself to speak. He was too furious.

Binns's feelings were mixed. He was elated that he had been far-seeing enough to guess what his employer would do, but at the same time depressed because the latter was so evidently vengefully disposed towards him. He knew his master's character and that once the latter had decided upon any line of action he would not easily be turned from it.

Still, Binns was an obstinate man himself, and now determined he would not leave the firm until he felt inclined to. He liked his work in the cellars, and their smell, even, had become a part of his life. No, he would stick it out until his own good time and then, accepting the inevitable, give notice himself. While he remained, however, he would be very careful what he did and give his employer no chance of putting anything up against him.

And, as events proved, it was well he kept his eyes open. A few days later complaints began among the clerks that money was being taken from their coats and handbags whenever they were left in the cloak-rooms. Joe Henderson swore that some coppers had gone from the pocket of his overcoat and another clerk missed two shillings in the same way.

Then Miss Brown had a pound note taken from her hand-bag, which she had forgotten to bring in with her and place in her desk. The head clerk thought it his duty to mention the matter to Mr. Higgins, whereupon the latter looked very grave.

"Then we have a thief among us," he nodded ominously, "and we shall have to find out who he is. Don't tell anyone you've told me and in a few days we'll set a trap."

So, one morning the following week, Mr. Higgins called Miss Brown into his room. "See here," he said, "we must find out who's taking this money. So here are two ten-shilling notes and two half-crowns; I have got the numbers of the notes and the half-crowns are marked. Put them in your hand-bag tomorrow and forget to bring the bag out of the cloakroom when you arrive in the morning. Then if we find any of the money has been taken we'll have detectives in to search everybody in the building."

Miss Brown was staid and elderly and could be trusted to hold her tongue. The next morning she did as she had been bidden and the bait was left for the thief to take. About eleven o'clock she found one of the notes had gone and immediately in-formed Mr. Higgins.

"Good," nodded her employer, "then I'll slip out and get in the detective at once."

Now it happened that a few minutes later Binns had occasion to go to his overcoat for a pocket handkerchief, and he noted with surprise that the flap of one of his pockets was tucked inside. He was puzzled, for he was very methodical and was certain he had not left the flap like that. Wondering if any joke had been played upon him, he thrust his hand down into the pocket and felt carefully round.

Immediately he came upon a hole in the lining and was more puzzled than ever because he knew it had not been there before. Quickly withdrawing his band, he felt outside round the edge of the overcoat, in case anything had been pushed through the hole. Then his eyes bulged and he caught his breath as he felt the unmistakable crinkling of a treasury note.

"Gosh," he exclaimed, "it's a plant! Someone's intending to fix me up!" and in a flash he had taken out his pocket-knife and was cutting the lining. With hands which shook he drew out a ten-shilling note.

"Whew!" he whispered breathlessly, "what an escape!"

Barely five minutes later, he was sitting at his desk in the big room among the other fifteen employers of the Bacchus Wine and Spirit Company, when the door opened sharply and Mr. Higgins, followed by two men and a woman, walked in. The head of the firm looked very stern and grim.

"It is a dreadful thing," he announced, "but there is a thief among you. Someone has taken a ten-shilling note from Miss Brown's handbag and it must be one of you in this room. These gentlemen and this lady here are detectives, and I must request all of you to submit to a search. Your overcoats and bags will be brought in, too, and gone through."

He glared round. "Now, does anyone decline to be searched."

Binns spoke up excitedly. "But it may not be necessary, sir. It may be all a mistake that anybody's stolen a ten-shilling note, for I picked up one, only two or three minutes ago, in the passage just outside your room. I thought it must be yours and so put it upon your desk. I've just told Mr. Eden about it." He smiled his pleasant smile. "I happened to glance at the number, sir, and I think it included three sevens."

One of the detectives, who seemed to be in charge of the others, looked down at a piece of paper he was holding in his hand. Then he looked up and nodded to Mr. Higgins.

"That's probably the one," he said, and he frowned as if in annoyance that they had been brought there upon a fool's errand. He made a move towards the door. "Now where's your room, sir? We'll settle the matter at once."

He left the room with the positively astounded Mr. Higgins and everyone sighed a sigh of great relief. A buzz of subdued conversation followed, but it did hot last long, for the detective returned almost immediately.

"It's all O.K., ladies and gentlemen," he announced with a grim smile. "The note was the one Mr. Higgins had thought had been stolen and so there's nothing doing this time."

The staff saw no more of their employer that day, but again Binns's elation was mingled with apprehension. He realised more than ever that he would have to be most wary or his employer would be getting him in the end.

To his great astonishment, however, Mr. Higgins seemed quite all right again the next morning and twice called him into his room to ask him about the stock on hand in the cellar, his manner being so pleasant that Binns began wondering if, after all, he had been the one to plant the note in the overcoat lining.

Another week went by and then, one afternoon, Binns was summoned again to his employer.

"About that '67 port, how do we stand?" the latter asked, and he spoke as if Binns were among his greatest friends. Binns told him and, after a few more questions, was dismissed with the customary curt nod Mr. Higgins always gave to him employes.

Then, just as he was leaving the room, Mr. Higgins called out, "Oh, now you're here, go down and fetch up a bottle of the Bollinger. I'm expecting visitors in a few minutes," and he made a motion with his hand in the direction of a small and narrow door in the corner of the room.

The small door opened on to Mr. Higgins's private staircase leading down to the big cellars of the building. The staircase went down about twenty feet and was narrow and very steep. A handrail was provided at one side, without holding on to which the descent was hardly safe.

Binns had often been down to the cellars by that way before and, opening the door, made to switch on the light at the head of the stairs. But the light did not come on and he thought the lamp must have fused. Familiar, however, with the stairs he prepared to go down.

"Be quick," called out Mr. Higgins. "I think I hear my visitors coming now."

Now it happened that that morning Binns had got a touch of rheumatism in one of his knees and was using that leg as tenderly as possible. In consequence, with the first downward step he took, he leaned heavily upon the rail to support himself. Then, to his consternation, the rail came out of its protecting socket with a jerk and it was as much as he could do to prevent himself falling head long down on to the stone flags of the cellar below.

Realisation of what had happened came to him in a light— and he caught his breath in consternation. Another trap had been set for him and he had escaped only by the merest chance! Turning round, he shakily descended the stairs backwards. Then, when at the bottom, he looked up and would have sworn he saw the shadow of his master's head upon the open door above. Mr. Higgins was waiting— listening to hear him fall.

He returned with the bottle of champagne as if nothing had happened, but, as he was expecting, there were no visitors waiting for it.

"I must tell you, sir," he said, "that the rail has worked loose, and is in an unsafe condition. I had better send James to put it right," and, without lifting his eyes from the figures he was pretending to add up, Mr. Higgins nodded a surly assent.

That night it was a longtime before Binns got off to sleep. His thoughts were most uneasy ones, for he was really frightened of to what lengths, even to deliberate murder, his employer was prepared to go to get rid of him. For the moment Binns was inclined to throw up the sponge, and, himself, give notice the next morning, but in the end his obstinacy prevailed over his fears, and he resolved to continue to stay on.

A few days later, however, a dreadful tragedy occurred, and all Binns's fears for his own safety were swept away. Mr. Higgins met with a fatal accident, being killed instantly. It happened in this way.

Binns was alone in the cellars when he inadvertently dropped a match and set alight to a little heap of straw. It was really only a small matter and not much damage could have followed in any case," but Binns lost his head in his fright and shouted, "Fire, fire!" as if the whole building were in imminent danger.

The staff came rushing down pell-mell. Mr. Higgins, up in his room, must have heard the cries, too, for the door opening on the narrow staircase was heard to open violently. Then, it was remembered later, some of them had thought they heard a muffled cry at the far end of the cellar where the staircase was. For the moment, however, everyone had been so occupied with extinguishing the blazing straw that no notice had been taken.

When, however, the fire had been put out, Mr. Eden, the head clerk, exclaimed, "The Gov'nor! Where's he? He must have heard the noise!"

Then someone called out, "Good God, what's that lying on the stones?" and all, rushing up, saw the body of their employer huddled up at the foot of the staircase, with its head turned at a dreadful angle. Mr. Higgins was quite dead. He had broken his neck by falling from high up on the staircase.

Later, it was discovered that one of the steps had unaccountably worked loose, and it was realised that must have caused him to fall.

He was buried a few days later, and all the men employes of the firm attended the funeral. By special request of the executors, Binns, as the oldest servant of the firm, was one of the pall-bearers, and it was noted by many with what sorrowful dignity he carried himself.

The business was taken over by one of Mr. Higgins's nephews, and when, six months later, Binns handed in his resignation, in recognition of his long services to the firm, he was granted, a pension of thirty shillings a week.

Binns did not, however, really need the pension, as he was the owner of the house he lived in, as well as those on either side. From the two latter he drew quite a comfortable little income. Strangely enough, he had not— as he told Mr. Higgins— an invalid wife. On the contrary, she was in the best of health, and, incidentally, twenty years younger than he was. She was very fond of him.

Also, another strange thing, Binns had no cousin an inspector in Scotland Yard. His only blood relation was an uncle, who was a street bookmaker, and the latter often twitted his nephew that he had not courage enough to have a bet with him. He said he was a born coward and would never dare to take any risks.

As we have seen, however, he was greatly mistaken.

_________________

2: The Dagger of Macbeth

Stephen Chalmers

1880-1935

All-Story Weekly, 22 May 1920

1: The Dark Island

THAT island is as dark as ever it was, despite that American influence has changed semi-barbarity in its Caribbean neighbors to almost ultra-civilization. The Dark Island, I shall call it, which term includes two republics, for where one portion of the island is black and speaks French and revolutes as regularly as an alarm-clock, the other portion, its black slightly modified by Andalusian blood, speaks Spanish and revolutes at lengthier intermission— like, say, an eight-day clock.

Both sections have one thing in common. In Caribbee French or aboriginal Coromantee or Negroid Spanish, that thing is called by different names; but they all mean the same thing, which will presently appear— forbidding, ugly, brutal, weird, damnable, but interesting.

What Ronald McBeth did there was a mystery to me. I had known him at college— Edinburgh— before either of us heard of Horace Greeley's advice to enterprising youth. Years later he noticed my name attached to an article in the Geographic Survey on the headhunters of the Eastern Archipelago. He wrote a tentative note from somewhere south of Panama and I came back at him with a hail old-fellow-well-met which assured him I was indeed myself and no other.

We corresponded at intervals thereafter, sometimes years elapsing between letter and reply; for McBeth was as unsettled as myself. One time I would hear that he had just emerged from an Antarctic expedition and, a few years later, that he had survived— by luck—a journey into the region of the Amazon headwaters. I remember how he quoted at the end of that letter, which was all stained with sweat:

"With one man of the crew, alive.

What put to sea with seventy-five."

On my side, I was usually absent on some ethnographic survey— white Eskimo or a lost tribe of Aztecs— that sort of thing; so that often a letter from McBeth would lie on my desk for a year before I found it, and then Heaven only knew where McBeth might be reached, save through the Adventurers', to which club he occasionally had recourse, via cable and a much-harassed consul.

But at last he seemed to settle down like a sane person. I did not hear of it until after my return from studying the Singing Apes. He was managing a gold-mining concession in the dark island of which I have spoken, somewhere in that Spanish-Afric section of it. He hoped I would visit him. He had nothing to offer, he said, save every possible inducement to stay away! There was nothing interesting about the mine, he stated, because they hadn't started to mine and didn't know when they would— or could! The country, he gently hinted, was "rotten" with fever and such towns as it boasted, alive with cholera, due to the pleasant native habit of using any sort of water for every sort of purpose and not having any appreciation of its qualities as a cleansing medium.

All of which fascinated. If there is one thing that appeals to me it is a hopelessly unregenerate people. I draw the line at degenerate, although a lady relative of mine cannot see any distinction. But just think of the opportunities to the ethnographist or the anthropophagist, or whatever you please to call the man in my business! What, for instance, are the ideas of such a people on morality? Is there anything they hold sacred, even if it is a white snake or a blue crocodile? If they have a religion of any sort they are not, at least, unregenerate. Professor Provan disputes this. Provan holds that religion as a form of actual degeneracy does occur, and—

However, even if one rides a hobby, that hobby should be stabled on occasion.

As I say, McBeth invited me to— stay away. Wherefore I went, making the visit to my college friend an excuse— or vice versa— for an expedition into the darkest depths of that dark island.

Of my observations I shall say nothing here; my expanded notes will presently appear in the Journal of Ethnographic Survey. Suffice it that darkest Africa had never anything on Dark Island. The former was to be expected; a small section of it, four and a half days from Sandy Hook was not.

The country was rich in minerals, hardwoods, everything worth while to the powers that colonize; but nothing was being done, nothing could be done, short of first submerging the island— and its population— for half an hour beneath the blue, cleansing waters of the surrounding Caribbean.

But the people did have something they worshiped, and it may be that Professor Provan is right.

In due time I met McBeth in this migrated chunk of darkest Africa. He greeted me and my native company at the door of a low-roofed bungalow, which was surrounded— at a respectable and only fairly smellable distance— by numerous thatch-and-wattle native huts. He was tall, large-boned, rather hook-nosed, sandy-mustached, gray-eyed— very gray-eyed— and I never saw such powerful thighs on a man. One noticed these long, narrow, curving thighs by the listless way a loose revolver-belt caressed them when he moved. His clothes— such as they were— were not of recent date.

"Dr. Livingstone, I presume!" I hailed.

"Son of a gun!" said McBeth in his familiar, curiously clipped way of speech. But when he smiled I knew he was changed only on the outside.

Well, that is all about how McBeth and I came together again in the heart of Dark Island.

I stayed with him for a fortnight, meaning to stay longer; but— well, we had to come away at the end of that period. In the interval I rested up and spent hours assuring myself that I understood my own notes. There was nothing—absolutely nothing of interest— to see around this other-side-of-beyond where McBeth was living and having his business.

There were several forbidding peaks around the little hill about which McBeth's "settlement" clustered. Down the main valley roared a torrent at all seasons, fed by innumerable freshets from the descending ravines, or gashes, where there was always a shower visibly in progress. The place was not without a certain natural beauty, but the lords of mankind had no idea how to utilize those gifts.

These hills were full of gold; McBeth showed me proof inside of an hour; but not only were the natives too shiftless to work it for themselves, but too lazy to work it even for white man's wages. To bring in an army of brawny white men was something that simply could not be done, short of turning over the entire gold output to whatever swarthy gentleman with a stovepipe hat, an admiral's epaulets and spurs strapped to big, bare, black feet, happened to be presidente for the— er— moment.

So McBeth's days were spent waiting for something to develop either in the way of a concession reasonably clamped or American capital— or confidence— while he ate his heart out watching that wonderful torrent wasting its power in riotous tumbling.

You will judge that McBeth was a most unromantic person. I mean by that that he refused to see anything romantic or picturesque in anything. Perhaps one would be more accurate in saying that, so keen was his sense of these things that he was ashamed of, and tried to hide, the "weakness." He knew more poetry than I ever read, and in the evenings he would sometimes illuminate a silence with some sub-lime quotation which he would break off at its most sublime point with: "And all that sort of stuff." I realized that the man was a mine of information regarding the things I wanted to know about those unregenerate, or degenerate— what you please— people; but either I was a poor miner or he was as impossible of mining as that gold which held him there.

His head man was called Tamayo, which is really a Spanish name. A more evil-looking person I never clapped eyes on. It is no play upon words to say that he looked like the devil. By that I mean he was handsome in a sinister way; half negro, half Spanish; with a hooked beak, keen, snaky, black eyes set close together, and long black hair with just a suggestion of a crimp in it. His whole body in movement suggested stealth, steely strength and serpentine suppleness. I had a secret desire to see him leap at something— just as one is fascinated by the serpent ready to strike, the tiger ready to spring— just to see the lightning speed of it.

That man was a demon. I was not mistaken. The first time I saw him— or, rather, he saw me— he looked me over with a slithering eye from head to foot and then his nostrils twitched in a way that was somehow insulting. Later, I mentioned my antipathy to McBeth.

"Rotten bad— all through," said he.

"Then why do you keep him on?"

"Useful," said McBeth. "Got brain. Man I had before— Porto Rican— unpopular. Tamayo got him."

"How?"

"Knife— ear to ear. Caught asleep."

"Lovely!" I said, chilled as much by McBeth's crisp, casual manner as by the episode. He was cutting out his pipe as he spoke, employing the point of a curiouslooking knife. I had previously noticed the handle of it protruding from his belt-sheath and been attracted first by the ancient appearance of some carving on what appeared to be a sawed-off buckhorn and then by the fact that from a tarnished silver claw setting at the top of the haft some ornament was missing.

"That's an odd knife you have, McBeth," I ventured, to change the conversation to a less discomforting channel— I decided to conceal my dislike of Tamayo.

"Old thing," said my friend. "From Scotland." He had laid the knife on the table and I reached for it.

"Why— it's a Highland dirk!" I exclaimed.

"'Course. Lots like it."

2: "The Dagger of Macbeth"

BUT It was a very old dirk. I recognized that at once. Two-edged was its blade and the tempered metal was of no modern make. Evidently it had been forged and beaten into shape with a hammer. The hilt was curiously chased and the horn, a section of stag-antler, was carven into figures of a wild boar on one side and an ancient crest on the other. I recognized the crest of Macbeth, but did not utter the question which half-jocularly suggested itself. I knew Ronald McBeth was of that blood which spilled and was spilled with lamentable frequency in the ancient days of Scotland. But if there was one thing that roused McBeth it was any reference to the fact. I have heard him growl in his throat when some correspondent— intending a compliment no doubt— spelled his name "Macbeth" instead of "McBeth."

"How did you come to lose the stone? Usual cairngorm, I suppose?"

"Cairngorm—yes," said he, filling his cut-out pipe. "Some black magpie. Pried it out in the night."

"But what for? A cairngorm stone is worth only a shilling or two."

He stopped in the act of lighting his pipe and looked over the match-flame at me in a curious way. But he said nothing and went on puffing his pipe into a glow. I supposed he thought I had asked a foolish question; as indeed I had. The beautiful yellow stone called the cairngorm, so lavishly studded in the brooches, claymores and dirks of Scottish highland costume, is nevertheless worth next to nothing as a gem. But it was new to these people of the dark island jungles. McBeth had probably said enough in two words. A "black magpie" had been decoyed into petty larceny by its glitter.

That was all about the dirk— then. I stayed on, working at my notes, without which I must have been bored. I saw little of McBeth in the daytime. But for those occasional loquacious— for him— spells in the evenings and my knowledge of the true gold of the man, I might have been ready to write him down a sullen boor. He spent the greater part of his days prospecting for more gold against that hoped-for day when he might be able to convert it into bullion.

My own people—I mean the twenty or more coast natives whom I had coaxed into service less by money than curiosity and the privilege of carrying real guns and ammunition—my own people did not quarter with McBeth's natives, but set up camp— with my host's approval— on the other side of the torrent. Neither did they mix with McBeth's people, openly despising them, in fact.

And why should they not? Those blacks of mine had lived in civilized towns where there was a sewerage system, even if it did run down the middle surface of main street. Nearly all of them had had a hand in setting up and knocking down presidentes: two of them had been generales in revolutionary "armies," and my head man had a four-in-hand necktie! They were a superior class altogether and now that they carried such guns as I had furnished for my own protection, McBeth's people became as mere worms under their august strut, mere transparencies before their distant gaze.

My wants— meals and so forth— were supplied in McBeth's absence by a very handsome half-caste girl who went by the curious name of Rama. From the first I had observed her as I had the head man, Tamayo. She was very light in color; but perhaps that was due to illness, for it was only a day or two before I discovered that she was a young mother. I saw her one day between meals nursing a baby that could not have been more than three weeks old.

The child was much fairer even than she. I wondered about the father. Next to McBeth, Tamayo was the only light-colored person in the settlement. I fancied Tamayo might be Rama's husband, for in his presence she evinced the fear and deference one would expect in the wife of such a silent, sneering devil-person. But McBeth undeceived me.

"Child's near white," said he. "Father was Salmo Pilar— Spanish— my assistant. Usual native arrangement. Widow now."

"What happened to the paternal Pilar?" I asked with foreboding.

"Died suddenly— ground glass." Again I felt a chill. I had some notes on ground glass and bamboo fur as native measures in cases of personal antipathy.

"Tamayo?" I ventured.

"Possibly," said McBeth, flashing me a quick glance.

"But why Tamayo?"

"The woman. I thought, perhaps, he was the husband, but— she's scared to death of your amiable head man."

"Got 'em all scared," said McBeth. "Bad lot. Trouble-maker. Got more power than I. Why I keep him. Useful in my business. Must have labor when time comes."

I set down these incidents just as they occurred. They seemed to have no connection then, but they linked up swiftly enough, presently.

A morning or two later, after breakfast, I heard McBeth muttering savagely while he moved restlessly about our low-roofed living-room, clapping a hand to his hip one moment, then rummaging among the papers on his desk. In his left hand he held a twisted rope of native tobacco.

"Knife," he grunted. "Must ha' laid it on this table. Odd."

I had noticed that it was not in the sheath at his belt; which was odd, for McBeth was a creature of methodical habit. Probably he had left it on the table after cutting a pouchful of tobacco on the previous night. He did not remember doing so; which he thought very curious, although I did not. That's the trouble about mislaying things; you don't remember doing it.

"Anybody in here this morning?" he asked suddenly.

"Only Rama," I said, burying myself in my notes.

He went on grumbling and rummaging about the room. Plainly he was greatly perturbed by the loss of that old highland dirk. All at once he uttered a surprised "Huh!"

I looked up. He was standing in the middle of the room, soundlessly whistling through pursed lips.

"Magpie again," said he. "Remember now. In my belt when I turned in. Gone now. Answer?— in the night."

I somehow had a vision of Tamayo, the gentleman who had slit the Porto Rican's throat from ear to ear and the same, probably, who had put ground glass in Salmo Pilar's coffee-sugar— Tamayo, the saturnine, softly entering while McBeth and I slept and deftly removing that dirk from its sheath. There was cause for thankfulness that the thief, having a knife so handy, had not tried its qualities on the exposed throats of a couple of white men wrapped in slumber sweet. That day McBeth did not go into the bush, but stayed around the settlement, coming and going restlessly. I never saw a man so silently ruffled over just a petty theft.

"Did the value it so much?" I asked.

"Sentiment— that sort of thing," he growled. "Very old dirk. Tradition. Don't know how much Shakespeare had to do with it."

Then I understood. It did not seem possible that that could be the same dagger, and McBeth himself seemed inclined to make light of the tradition. But if it was— I did not blame him for regretting its loss.

Around that dagger memory and imagination recreated a famous scene. I saw Macbeth himself, at dead of night, cold sweat oozing from his every pore, ambition fighting against— what was it?— cowardly fear or manly conscience? In the guest-chamber Duncan, the king, sleeping in fancied security beneath the roof-tree of his host. And then the woman, more ambitious than the man, her face hard in the candle-light that glistened on the cairngorm of the dirk in her lord's hand, and her voice harder still as she whispered: "Infirm of purpose. Give me the dagger!"

And here was the descendant of the Macbeth, in the jungles of a far, dark island, growling less— as it seemed to me— that he had lost that infamous weapon than that he had to borrow my cuchillo to cut his tobacco twist!

Well, the knife did not turn up that day, or the next, or the next. McBeth seemed to forget the matter except for a few minutes after breakfast each day, when he growled as he cut his twist with my knife. No doubt the dirk had gone the way of its cairngorm ornament, the latter awaking a cupidity to possess the setting. Some half-savage black had it, doubtless, and gloated over his treasure, dazzled by the great yellow eye of the cairngorm, his savage instincts roused by the sense of man-superiority this two-edged blade brought to him.

In the mean time, the woman, Rama, was acting queerly. Her fairness was now a sickly pallor. Her eyes were haunted, her whole atmosphere hunted. The way she served our meals would have brought discredit to an incompetent, underpaid waitress in a third-rate quick-lunch. It was when she dropped a pot of cabbage-palm soup from her nerveless hands that McBeth challenged her— not at all unkindly, be it said.

"Look here, girl!" he said in negroid Spanish. "What ails you? Baby sick— or what:" He used the word pequena for baby. I thought the woman would fall. In more or less choked articulation she said something like: "Niña— pobre niña— muerto!"

"Lo siento!" said McBeth with genuine sympathy. "When did the baby die, Rama? What was wrong?"

She stared in a helpless sort of way at McBeth. Then her eyes flashed with the fire of mother-love, mother-hate. It seemed to me she was about to say something that would throw light upon the baby's death, a light that would not cast the shadow of blame upon herself; but she suddenly checked herself. Her jaw literally dropped and that same hunted look came into her eyes, which were all at once fixed upon the doorway.

Involuntarily I turned.

There stood Tamayo in the oblong of sunlight. He looked more devilish than ever. While he addressed McBeth in suave tones his eyes rested upon Rama. She, poor girl, was indeed a spectacle to arrest any one's gaze in that moment.

3: The Call of the Munbo-Jumbo

"BUENA dia, señor," said Tamayo in his corrupt Spanish. "What is the senor's pleasure for the afternoon?"

McBeth gave his instructions and later himself joined Tamayo in some excursion into the bush. I was left alone with my notes and was still busily engaged with them an hour later, when I heard a scraping at the door. There appeared around the edge of the sunlit oblong a round black head slit across by a grinning mouth. It was a Jamaican negro— a stray from his own island. He was more of a fool than a knave, servilely anxious to please, and from the first he had seemed determined to attach himself to my service.

"Buccra," he whispered, grinning and squirming, "yoh wan' see sumtin' funny dis night? Yessah? Yessah! Me tek yoh de-deh—  there— after night time come. No, sah, me no 'fraid! Me see plenty-plenty foolishness same like in Jamaica. Yoh jis' put silvah-piece under yo' tongue an' nuttin' can hu't yoh."

"What the devil are you talking about?" I asked, alert nevertheless. Was it possible—

"Yessah! Dem is gwine hab obi dance dis night in de bush. Yoh jis' gib me silvah piece foh put under me tongue an' me show yoh sumtin'."

Obi! The word suggested "snake" to me. A snake-dance in the jungle of the dark island? Splendid! But I did not let my grinning friend know how well pleased I was. I wondered what size silver-piece that capacious mouth would take as a charm against the malevolent influence of the snakegod.

I told him I would think about it and might send for him later. I wished to consult McBeth. Besides, I was still much in the dark as to the nature of the promised event.

McBeth returned about sundown. He was scowling ferociously. When I told him of my grinning visitor and his offer to reveal jungle mystery his face momentarily cleared.

"That's it!" said he. "Knew something was in the wind. Orgy to-night. That's it. Where's Rama?"

Rama, it turned out, had not prepared supper. Rama had disappeared.

"Humph!" grunted McBeth thoughtfully. "Canned meat. Blythwood. Best I can offer. When 'd she say that baby died?"

"She didn't say. Tamayo turned up and—"

"Probably nine nights ago. Ninth night to-night— sort of wake. No sleep for us. Row all night. Batter drums. Howl. Keep ghosts away." "My would-be cicerone mentioned something about obi," I ventured. "Oh— mumbo-jumbo?" said McBeth, momentarily interested. "Thought it was baby 'nine-night.' Similar stuff. Different names— ñañigo— obi — hoodoo— brujeria— that sort of thing. Jamaican, was he? He'd say obi— obeah, perhaps. Originally African— snake-worship or similar rot. Always evil. Bush gods always evil. Negative sort of worship, you know. Don't pray for good; pray to avert evil. Interesting in its way."

"I'd like to see it." I suggested. "It's rather in my line, you know."

"Nothing to see," McBeth grunted. "Story-book stuff all that— story-book stuff. Bunch of dirty blacks— and Tamayo's the worst of 'em— howling around a fire, dancing corruptions of coast ragtime. Dressed up like savages. Try to think they are and usually succeed when they've had enough rum. Wind up by killing a kid goat or a white cock. Drink the blood hot— eat meat raw. Rotten!"

"Still—"

"Of course, if you want to," said my host quickly. "We'll trace the affair by the drums."

As he had finally fallen in with my wish I was somewhat surprised when, after nightfall and canned meat, my grinning man Friday turning up and making mysteriously signals to me from the doorway, McBeth roared at him: "Get out, you black swine!"

He who was more of a fool than a knave, but not such a fool at that, vanished, merging suddenly with darkness. The mighty anger of McBeth was his greatest safeguard in that isolated place.

My host said nothing when just before we started I strapped on my automatic pistol. His own revolver belt dangled loosely about his powerful thighs— but then it was always there. He smiled a little, but no doubt he felt that if it did me good to imagine a spice of peril in the adventure. I was entitled to all the thrill I could get out of it.

For some little time we could hear the throb of drums faintly in the distance. I was sure it come from the east, across the river and probably from some valley beyond the peaks. I was a little surprised, therefore, when, emerging from the bungalow, McBeth started in the very opposite direction. I said nothing then, following in silence.

We went out by the opposite side of McBeth's settlement which, I observed, was all in darkness. We did not encounter a human being. Temporary desertion of the place was attested by the lugubrious howling of a number of mongrel dogs.

"The call of mumbo-jumbo!" said McBeth, jerking his head toward the dark, silent huts. The moment we reached the edge of the jungle to the west, McBeth swung in his course until I saw by the dipper that we were heading due north. This course brought us to the torrent of which I have spoken, but some distance above the settlement. McBeth knew the ground like a child's primer and led me unerringly to where a suspension bridge of woven lianas and bamboo poles spanned the gorge. At the bottom of this I could see the white turmoil of the mountain stream.

On the other side we continued north, then northeast, and finally almost made a circle of our course, traveling eastward through the jungle and guided over an invisible trail only by a narrow belt of starred sky above us. Once McBeth laid a hand on my arm and pointed downward to the right. There, upon the small hillock around which the mine settlement lay in the amphitheater of hills, a single light burned in McBeth's bungalow. Dark blots to the right of it suggested the deserted village. Between us and the village the torrent showed in an irregular streakywhite line, and on this side of the stream were numerous little lights in the camp of my own people. The latter seemed to have neglected, or not received, what McBeth called "the call of mumbo-jumbo."

We could hear their broad laughter over some game they were playing—  gambling, of course— gambling their very shirts, such as had them— my own distributed ammunition perhaps. Mingling with their shouts and laughter the throb of drums came distinctly from the east. We had thus worked around so that no longer did the peaks stand directly between us and the sound.

I marveled at McBeth's caution, considering the contempt in which, patently, he held the whole excursion and its objective.

"Self-respect," he said. "Wouldn't have these people imagine me curious about their doings. Why I sent Jamaican away. Also went in other direction."

But as we came nearer that throbbing of drums, I fancied his own curiosity began to get the upper hand. We crossed the shoulder of a ridge and descended into a densely jungled ravine, out of which arose a rhythmic medley of sound. There were human voices chanting, hoarsely but subdued. I wish I could set down the tune of that chant, if tune it could be called. It was like no tune I ever heard; yet in dreams— boy dreams— I seem to have heard something like it in the back of my brain when reading of some barbaric orgy where brutal death brooded over the scene. It was not so much unmusical singing as a musical muttering to the soft clapping of hands, the shuffle of bare feet on beaten earth and, through it all, the insistent drum-throbbing that came to the ears with the sensation of blood beating in one's temples.

Presently through the tangle of the jungle appeared a red mist, growing into a dancing flare. McBeth halted me with a touch. In the flickering light, by which we could see, but were ourselves unseen, he looked up and around him. He presently pointed to a giant ceiba-tree, the trunk of which stood near to us, but one of whose grotesque arms reached out almost over the clearing where the fire was.

By signs McBeth made me to understand that we must climb the tree and creep out on that limb as far as we dared without being seen from below. Not without some difficulty we gained the first fork of the giant tree. Thereafter it was easy enough to work ourselves out upon the limb, which alone was as thick as the trunk of a good-sized tree. We had to move very cautiously, half straddling, half crawling, keeping our legs up and our shoulder;, close to the upper surface of the limb.

We finally halted our progress when we were directly above the inner edge of the circle below. Even there we could feel the heat of the fire which blazed in the center, but it was not unbearable and its light served to reveal the surrounding scene in detail. There was enough of interesting detail to occupy us for a few minutes to the exclusion of the scene as a whole and its meaning.

The two main objects that caught the eye at once were the fire— naturally— and the hideous thing that McBeth whispered was "old mumbo-jumbo himself"— that is to say, the supposed god obi, or ñañigo, or voodoo, or brujo— whatever he happened to be called by these particular worshipers.

4: The Third Eye

IT was not, after all, a snake or anything like one. The idol was about eight feet high and set up against the face of a cliff which backed the cleared, beaten-earth arena where the fire blazed. It was apparently constructed of some kind of dark clay, modeled in the rough and painted after it had been hardened by fire. It was no fine example of the plastic art, even among a savage people. The thing had no limbs, only a shapeless body hunched at the shoulders and a short, thick neck, upon which sat an abnormal head thatched with long grass for hair and a crown of upright spears of palmfronds. The nose was a flat, broad blob of clay, the nostrils redly painted to appear wide apart and distended. The mouth was like most savage attempts at such delineation— a quartered-orange effect, fillen in with sawtooth lines. The lips, thick and pendulous, were painted a bright vermilion, and the chin seemed to drip the same sanguinary hue from the bestial mouth. The god had three eyes; two in the usual place for eyes, but set grotesquely wide apart; the third, larger and gleaming brightly in the very middle of the forehead.

"My cairngorm!" muttered McBeth.

And then I saw that the third "eye" was indeed that great, yellow stone. There was nothing to be done about it just then. McBeth had the satisfaction of knowing where the cairngorm was and now had a fairly good idea of the identity of the thief, for unless my eyes deceived me the high priest of this strange religious orgy was the head man, Tamayo.

He sat— but wait a moment! Around the fire moved about a hundred Negroes— Negroes more or less— Negroid people. Mostly men; but there were women, too. All were dressed in the most fantastic manner, a favorite costume being female in the men and male in the women.

Without exception their dark faces were plastered with some chalky smear overlaid with streaks of brilliant paints. Each and all seemed imbued with the spirit of extreme masquerade such as characterizes Guy Fawkes parades in England, Hallowe'en in Scotland and, in the neighboring island of Jamaica, the "John Canoe" masques of Emancipation Day. The so-called John Canoe masque of Jamaica is, I think, a survival or a mild outgrowth of Obi worship.

These almost ludicrous figures moved around the fire in a curious shuffling dance, each individual seeming oblivious to the rest, each appearing half dazed, as if in a trance. And ever they muttered rather than sang that horrible chant which I would give a great deal to be able to set down.

It still haunts me, and if it once resounds in my memory I know I am in for it all day or all night. You know that maddening persistence of a silly phrase in doggerel music? Diagonally across from Mumbo Jumbo were the "musicians"— four performers on goat-skin drums and a strange, bedaubed contortionist who scraped nothing more or less than an old file against a cassava grater. He kept perfect time with these rasping instruments which he scraped together, now above his head, now behind his back, now under one high-lifted leg, now under the other. Occasionally his enthusiasm took him amid the dancers and while he pranced with them he would add his voice in some wild stanza to the accompaniment of the drums and the fileand-grater.

As the dancers circled the fire they had to pass the hideous clay god and the figure of the high priest, who sat at the base of the idol, his head almost hidden in a brightly colored blanket, only his eyes— which were unmistakably the eyes of Tamayo— peering at the fire. In the center of the latter an immense pot swung from a tripod of green hardwood sticks. Tamayo seemed oblivious to the dancers, but each and all, passing in their weird gyrations, spread out their hands, with the palms upward, in deference either to Obi, or his high priest, or both.

"Big session!" grunted McBeth. "Glad I came."

Thereafter my own interest heightened and I settled down on that broad limb to enjoy the whole performance.

Presently Tamayo stirred and rose to his feet. The "music" did not cease; the dancers did not pause; rather the former grew louder and the latter increased their efforts. Tamayo touched a passing dancer, a woman in dungaree pantaloons and with her face hideously painted. At a word from the high priest she ran to the side of the clearing where, next to the orchestra, several baskets were lying, covered with clothes. From one of these she extracted a white live cock with its feet tied together. This she brought to Tamayo, who took the snowy rooster and held it up to the god, obi. The firelight gleamed sinisterly on McBeth's cairngorm.

The doomed rooster flapped and squawked frantically in Tamayo's grip. That worthy drew from under his enveloping blanket a machete and with one sweep decapitated the cock. The first stream of red blood from the severed trunk he swished in the face of the bestial-appearing idol. Then he swiftly lifted the still flapping, though headless, fowl over his own upturned face and allowed some of the hot blood to drip into his mouth.

With a sudden shriek at the drummers and the dancers, who increased their efforts, he began to pluck the rooster, throwing the white feathers among the disciples, who picked them up without ever halting in their gyrations. They seemed to attach some superstitious value to those feathers. Tamayo, in the mean time, put the plucked fowl— without disemboweling it— into the great witch-pot over the fire.

"Chicken-broth!" chuckled McBeth.

But nothing could have induced me to sample it, especially when to the soup-pot was added an iguana, which was plunged, living and emitting its raucous squawk, into the scalding brew. And at the death-squawk of that hideous but— they say— edible reptile, the drummers and dancers let their joy be unconfined, while the contortionist file-andgrater artist certainly outdid himself. It was all very interesting to me.

I glanced at McBeth, who lay stretched out ahead of me on the limb. I looked from him to the scene below and at the cairngorm from the dagger of Macbeth set in that hoodoo idol's head. And I thought queer thoughts. The brujeria— witchcraft workers dancing around the pot; the guttural sounds of the surrounding jungle; Tamayo, chief brujo, placing the giant lizard in the pot— and the descendant of Macbeth staring down at the strange scene with Heaven knows what thoughts moving in his own mind. Double, double toil and trouble. Fire burn and cauldron bubble. Fillet of a fenny snake...

And then my heart momentarily stopped beating. I was nearer to the fork of the tree than McBeth and all at once I became aware that a third person was crouched on the limb between me and the crotch of the ceiba. It was a half-nude figure, black as Tophet, the only relieving points two shining eyes. My hand crept to the automatic. The eyes turned upon me and I heard a faint voice, chattering with fear.

"Buccra," it whispered almost incoherently. "See me yah, sah? Me beg yoh, wan piece a silvah fo' put under me tongue!" It vas the Jamaica boy— my man Friday. Vastly amused in the reaction from fright, I groped in my pocket, found an American half-dollar and passed it to him, hoping it would at least keep him quiet. With the utmost solemnity he took it, opened his capacious mouth and stuck that half-dollar under his tongue. After that he seemed more at ease and settled down on the limb behind me to his own peculiar enjoyment of the affair.

But the interest suddenly took a tragic turn. As if cut off by a pair of shears the "music" ceased, the dancers came to a halt and all eyes turned toward Tamayo. That devilperson had dramatically thrown off his enveloping blanket and stood up straight and menacing before the idol, his right arm aloft, his saturnine countenance.

Stained with blood, turned to the worshipers and his demoniac eyes ablaze. He wore nothing but a snake-skin belt and a pair of grass sandals. Not a word did he say, but the arm came down with a gesture of absolute command and finality. Down upon their faces fell the worshipers, all except the woman who had served Tamayo the offerings to obi. This creature ran to the baskets and took from one that was slightly larger than the others something that looked like a bundle of rags. But a faint wail came from it and then I knew that they had a baby there— a human baby!

5: Friday and the Finish

"DON'T like that!" I heard McBeth mutter. But he did not move— just then. Neither did I. I was paralyzed with a certain fear, a fearful certainty. It was, then, not all story-book stuff? Had we happened to stumble on a first-class revival of the old heathen rites? I was ready to do anything, but somehow initiative had deserted me for the moment. Perhaps I still relied on McBeth's leadership. Perhaps, after all, I was merely anticipating, and imagination's preconception had got the better of my sense of probabilities. There was yet time enough.

One shot would prevent the thing, although into what dilemma that one shot might plunge us I hated to think. My eyes had never left the scene below. Again came a whimpering sound, but this time it was not a baby note, but the deep-breasted sound of a woman sobbing, yet fearing to let her sobbing be heard. I traced the sound to the outer circle, at the point farthest from the brujo-doctor, toward whom the painted woman was advancing with the infant, now unwrapped from its rags and squirming in her upheld hands. The other woman, she who sobbed, was flat on the ground, but her face was slightly raised and the eyes that stared at Tamayo were the eyes of Rama. It was then that I realized the whole brutal truth. They had taken her infant from her to be a human sacrifice to the evil god, obi. And she— poor, ignorant wretch— had been compelled to submit to the decree of Tamayo, high priest of obi, to keep silent— for she herself was of the cult.

My heart bled as I looked down on that woman where she lay, powerless, herself as much a victim as her child, her only fault that her baby was as nearly white as obi could desire. My hand was on my automatic and I had drawn it, when—

"My dirk!"

I heard McBeth exclaim under his breath. I did not look at my host, my attention being further riveted by the new link in the chain of circumstance. Tamayo had taken the whimpering child in his left hand, holding it up by the feet. In his right hand had appeared a curiously shaped two-edged knife— a highland dirk— McBeth's at a glance! So! It had all been part of the same mumbo-jumbo scheme— the cairngorm, the dirk, the baby.

But it was no time to attempt reasoning about the processes of the connection. Tamayo was getting ready for that one stroke which would spill the child's blood most rapidly. A cold sweat was upon me. I forgot McBeth. I did not even wonder what he might be doing or planning to do. Only I saw. Only I obeyed that impulse which makes a white man respected. I leveled the automatic, resting it on the ceiba limb, and took careful aim at Tamayo's heart. But between the command of the brain and that command's transmission to my forefinger, another hand than mine took charge.

McBeth dropped from the limb directly over Tamayo's head! I did not know he had left my side and crawled further out to that vantage point. He threw all his weight of bone and sinew astride the high priest's neck. I heard something crack. I saw Tamayo collapse like a tree struck by lightning, McBeth on top of him. I heard the wail of a child and the cry of a woman. I saw Rama dash forward and snatch up her pequeña from the beaten ground. I saw a great stirring among the obi worshipers.

All these things I heard and saw in a flash, and lastly, the fallen Tamayo roll over on his back, revealing the dagger of Macbeth sunk to the hilt in his ribs. Whether he was quite dead, whether his neck was broken under McBeth's terrific descent, whether McBeth turned the dirk upon Tamayo or Tamayo fell upon the weapon in his own hand— I do not know— McBeth has never expressed his own opinion. But all these things happened in a few seconds before a greater semblance of hell broke loose upon that scene.

"To me, Blythwood!" roared McBeth from where he stood with his legs planted wide apart over the body of Tamayo. In his right hand he held a revolver with which he fanned the air before that howling mass of black barbarians. What had become of man Friday I did not know. It was a moment for but one thought at a time.

McBeth's revolver spat fire and a gigantic Negro who had attempted to rush him crumpled up and fell. At the same instant I, having crawled farther out on the limb, dropped at McBeth's side and opened fire with my automatic. My appearance, coupled perhaps with the fear that my armed people were behind me, checked the threatened rush for a few moments.

"Hold them a second!" said McBeth in my ear. Out of the corner of the eye that was trained along the automatic-barrel I saw McBeth lean over the body of Tamayo, then disappear for a moment behind me. At that the mob came on with a sudden outburst of rage.

I know now that it was McBeth's action which goaded their fury beyond fear of our weapons. He had plucked the dirk from Tamayo's heart, turned around, reached up and coolly pried the rest of his ancestral property from the brow of the great god, obi. But a second later he was back at my side.

Between two quick shots into the shrieking, seething blacks he said: "Got it, Blythwood. But we're tight fixed." We were. I did not have an extra clip for my automatic. I doubt if McBeth had shells other than those in his two revolvers. When the first of the latter was emptied he thrust the weapon into my left hand as he drew his loaded second and grunted: "Club! You'll need it. Better than automatic."

And then, without the slightest warning, the brujo people scattered and took to the bush. In ten seconds we had that arena all to ourselves, except for the body of Tamayo and a sobbing woman who crouched against the cliff wall behind us with a baby in her arms. McBeth was not deceived, however; neither was I. Swiftly we looked around for shelter. I was for taking to the jungle to our left or right on the chance of escaping in the darkness; but McBeth did not even comment on the suggestion. His eyes were fixed on the wall of rock behind the idol. There the cliff slanted inward slightly— off plumb.

"In here!" he snapped. "Mumbo-jumbo will protect some. They've no guns. Rocks from above won't touch if we hug close."

So in we got, flattening ourselves and compelling the woman to do likewise against the in-slanting face of rock. Obi— or mumbo-jumbo, as McBeth contemptuously called the thing— formed some sort of protection in front.

Presently a rock crashed down from above, dropping in the narrow space between us and obi. "Hope they don't hurt jumbo," said McBeth coolly.

"So far, so good."

Yes— but how was it to end? I had no answer, nor had McBeth.

That answer, however, came unexpectedly, although not before we had spent nearly an hour, besieged by stones and rocks, watching the demolition of that partly protecting idol in front, dreading what would happen to us when the fire died down and went out, leaving us in darkness. The answer was announced in due time by an uproar which told its own story.

Man Friday was our salvation. Seeing our peril he had discreetly descended that tree by the regular route, made all speed through the jungle over the ridge to the camp of my people and removed the half-dollar from under his tongue just long enough to make himself understood.

The way those coast fellows sailed into their own people was a racial disgrace. But then they were highly civilized persons from the city and they had two generales among them, to say nothing of guns and ammunition and a chance to shoot off the latter.

But we did not have it all our own way even then. We fought a retreating fight right back to McBeth's place; and there we were besieged all night, while at the advice of my host, I packed up for a hurried trip to the coast. He had decided that a vacation was about due himself, meaning, however, to return to his gold concession when the time was ripe to work it.

Thrice during that night the brujo people fired the bungalow, and as many times we extinguished the blaze and fired the enemy!

At dawn we started for the coast— four days of hard going. Not a soul was in sight as we marched out of that settlement; but that the brujos were still on the warpath was evident in the several ambushes and more or less open attacks we suffered during the first two days and nights.

Then they gave us up. We had taken man Friday and Rama and her baby along with us. On the way Rama told her story to McBeth.

It was she who had pried out the cairngorm at the order of Tamayo. When that devil-person noted the awe with which his less intelligent associates regarded the strange yellow stone, doubtless the idea dawned of making it an obi fetich and the knife to which it belonged. Rama, again at Tamayo's secret command, filched the dirk from McBeth's sheath while we slept and Tamayo probably decided to "consecrate" it as the sacrificial knife of his voodoo altar. The unfitness of choosing Rama's baby as the first victim of the knife the baby's mother had stolen, probably never occurred to that devil-person, Tamayo.

Man Friday I duly rewarded with enough silver to keep off obi for a year or two at least. I shipped him back to his own island, Jamaica, after vetoing my own thought to keep him as a henchman. Rama and her child were turned over to the care and the discretion of the American consul at—

Well, he is still, I believe, in office there and he had trouble enough with us at the time. He had hard work keeping us under cover at the consulate and getting us out of the dark island where we had violated, with armed force, the lives, personal liberty and spiritual happiness of a people who, as Professor Provan more than ever maintains—

However, McBeth says he is going back; and it would be just like him to do it!

__________________

3: Disinherited

H de Vere Stacpoole

1863-1951

Australian Women's Weekly 8 July 1939

THE POKER session in Bat McCullough's place in the wild sea city of Port Ander Bay, in the wilder Caroline Islands, had been going on for three days when Miles anchored one night after a fast run from Pago-Pago. And when he came ashore and saw Black Vaughan. Laughing Allan Vaughan, in the smoke-filled room, he frowned with quick sympathy and tapped him on the shoulder.

"Say, Black," he said, "have you heard about your old man up on Morres Island? I got the news at Suva."

"What news?" Vaughan demanded, laughing. "Has he decided to recover the long-lost son?"

"He's dead," said Miles simply, "Three months ago."

The table became quiet and Black Vaughan's smile a little stiff. Then someone said easily. "Well, you're lucky, Black. That makes you half-owner of the finest copra plantation in the Fiji. I guess that pious brother of yours will get the other half."

"Probably," Vaughan agreed. "He's worked on it long enough."

He got up, stretching, and smilingly looked round.

"Well, boys that's the word for me to start. I've about lost my shirt anyway. So long."

And then he lounged out towards the beach and his schooner, the Cormorant, young, tall, darkly handsome, and with that memorable careless swagger to his walk. Bat McCullough rubbed his broken nose and shrugged.

"I suppose it would hit some pretty hard to get news like that. But Black and old man Vaughan never did get along." They all nodded and then laughed. The differences in the Vaughan family were common island gossip.

THREE WEEKS later Dennis Vaughan saw the rakish, black-hulled schooner of his younger brother come racing in to Morres Island, and he stopped dead as he came out of the bungalow fresh from his morning shower, tall, thin-lipped, with sandy hair and uncompromising blue eyes. And he swore under his breath. Grant, the plantation foreman, whistled with some amusement.

"That'll be the Cormorant," he said. "The news must have travelled."

"It's the Cormorant," Dennis agreed coldly. "I'll go down and meet her. Don't say anything about Black to Miss Carroll or her aunt."

Grant rubbed his thin nose and shrugged. He was a predatory-looking man, and inclined to sarcasm.

"Why should I say anything?" he inquired. "It's none of my darned grief!"

Dennis Vaughan looked sharply at him for a moment, then bit his lip and went down to the little wharf, while terns, frigate birds, and gulls wheeled up frightened as the schooner anchored noisily. Dennis breathed hard as he looked at the long reaches of white sand each side of him, at the mangroves that fringed the headlands enclosing the little harbor, and finally back at the imposing bungalow with the store sheds and Kanaka compounds bright with hibiscus and passion flowers, backed by orderly rows of coconut and sago palms reaching far and far away inland.

All this had been his home since he had been small. Peaceful. Rich. Always to be considered his own. And now here was the Cormorant come to disturb things again, as the Cormorant had always come at intervals through the years. His eyes smouldered as the ship's dinghy ran in.

"Hallo, Dennis," said Black Vaughan. "I only heard the news a short while back or I'd have been here sooner."

"You're never particularly welcome," said Dennis.

"I know," agreed the younger brother, and laughed. "But do we have to fight now?"

Dennis eyed him with a distinct disapproval. There he was, as ever, riotous, careless, ruffianly; dressed in a cotton singlet and a pair of stained duck pants, with the marks of often-worn gun belts plain about the waist. Feet thrust into rope-soled canvas shoes, and a dissolute-looking white-topped captain's cap leaning over one ear. A sailor of the Outer Islands. Dennis Vaughan felt savagely complacent about his own immaculate silk shirt and tie, and his spotless whites.

"Did you have to come?" he demanded.

"I wanted to visit the old man's grave," said Black, smiling. "A last mark of respect. There were time when I think he wasn't altogether as mad at me as he let on."

"You're talking nonsense," snapped Dennis icily. "Father disliked you so much he wouldn't have your name mentioned. And if you've come expecting half the plantation and money, you've wasted time. He cut you off with a shilling, and for some reason or another you're to have his old guns, the ones he wore before he settled down. There's a letter also. Probably telling you just what he thought of you."

"Cut me off?" said Black Vaughan. He stared for a moment and swallowed hard. And then he laughed. "Well. I didn't expect just that, but I don't blame him. Every time I saw him we fought like mad. And so you get all the property?"

"It has been left equally divided between myself and Eva Carroll," said Dennis stiffly. "You may remember her. Our cousin who lived with her aunt in New Zealand. Father said in his will he had a desire to bring the two remaining decent members of the family together."

Black Vaughan bit his lip.

"I... had no idea he felt so bitter. He'd been pretty much of a tough boy in his own time. And I always thought... but it doesn't matter. I want to see where he is."

"Well go." said his brother, exasperated. "Frankly, I'd like to postpone your visit to the bungalow as long as possible. Miss Carroll and her aunt are living here until we can settle things. And I might mention that Eva and I are engaged."

Black Vaughan, Laughing Allan Vaughan, nodded soberly, and the men who had known him in the Outer Islands would have been astonished to see him at that moment, as he went up to his father's grave. His smile had entirely gone.

He was himself an hour later as he and Dennis climbed the bungalow steps and the white-haired head houseboy grinned at him and called a Kanaka welcome. Everyone liked Black Vaughan.

"Still with us, Tima," said Black, laughing. "You savvy me big fella master. Me big fella captain. Me want um big fella drink."

Tima clapped his hands for a Junior and chuckled.

"One fella big drink me fixum. You savvy me fixum good."

Dennis scowled and went into the bungalow with his brother behind him.

"Here you are," he said stiffly, unfastening a package. "One shilling. The letter. And the guns. Do you wish to read the will and make sure?"

"No," said Black simply. "I'll take your word."

He thrust the letter into a pocket. He did not want to read what his father had thought of him, not now at least. The shilling he pitched to the houseboy who brought him the drink. But the guns... he picked them up almost with veneration. His father as a young man had been known as one of the best shots in the south, and one of the most daring adventurers.  He had made Island history. His exploits had grown into legends. He had gone through fevers, hurricanes, native wars, and shipwrecks, and the glamor of his name had filled the sea. And then suddenly, a rich man, he had married a lovely woman from Cairns in Northern Queensland, and settled down. He had repudiated his old wild life. He had become the ideal planter.

Passionately in love, he then saw most things with his wife's eyes. Dennis, his first-born, had been his new self; but his second-born had been a throwback to the wild and glamorous days; and he had always seemed to resent it. Everyone knew that. And yet, Black thought, as he stood there in the bungalow, he left me his guns. I wonder why? He always wanted me to work on the plantation with Dennis. To settle down. To quit the sea and the free-lance trading game. Maybe it's a hint that I'll probably die with my boots on. So he left me his guns, and cut me off with a shilling.

"Miss Carroll," Dennis was saying. "This is my younger brother, Allan Vaughan."

Black came to with a start, thrust the guns into his hip pockets and smiled as he turned.

"Ah, the cousin from New Zealand," he began jestingly, and then stopped. She was lovely. She was tall, golden-haired, violet-eyed, with a creamy complexion and exquisite full lips, and Black Vaughan swallowed hard. He had a way with women, as all the Islands knew, and he was seldom serious about them or at loss in their presence. But his cousin! ... And he was acutely conscious that he needed a share and some respectable clothes, and that Dennis was so calm and immaculate.

"I've heard so much about you,'' said Eva Carroll. "And read so much." She eyed him coolly, curiously. "So you're the famous Black Vaughan."

"Eva probably means notorious," his brother corrected.

"Don't be ridiculous," she said. "Allan Vaughan interests quite a lot of people." And to Black: "I want to hear all about the wild islands, and some of those terrible things you've done, like fighting cannibals and all that."

"Not really terrible," he said, smiling. "It's just that the Administration's apt to be touchy and give me a bad name. Someone has to tame the Islands."

"Well, tell me, anyway. All Dennis can talk about is coconuts and the Sydney prices for copra. Suppose we walk."

Black looked at his brother and saw he did not care for the idea and was pressing his thin lips together in irritation, and he laughed.

Dennis obviously considered, in his own controlled way, that Eva wholly belonged to him. After all, they were engaged. It could hardly be love, though, for somehow one did not associate Dennis with love, and it would be interesting, Black thought, to see if jealousy could stir his precise and well-ordered brother to some genuine emotion.

"You're the first white woman I've seen for months," he said easily as they started off. "So give me time to grow civilised again."

"Eva!" said Dennis sharply. He took a step or two forward as if to stop her.

"We won't be long," she said calmly. "And besides, you just told me you had urgent business in the store sheds." She looked sideways at Black from under her lashes. "Dennis is such a busy man."

They walked through the bungalow garden of hibiscus and passion flowers, and down to where the sand was brilliant white in the sun. Eva Carroll was thoughtful at first and hardly heard what Black was saying. He was so utterly unlike his brother. There was something warm and spontaneous about him, something altogether human, carefree, and friendly.

HE appealed to her already, quite strongly, and she found herself wondering why she had so easily let herself be talked into accepting Dennis. Of course her aunt had expected it, and Dennis had from the first seemed to take it for granted, and Dennis was certainly steady and quite safe. But... Black Vaughan! The contrast was startling and set up quick doubts in her. He was a man of the Outer Islands, and really notorious, mysteriously supposed to be no good at all.

The very idea made some spirited, reckless part of her take fire. Everyone had warned her he was a sort of Captain Kidd, stern-browed and forbidding. Yet here he was young and tall and burned almost black with tropical suns, easy, assured, and with a curious air of efficiency that calmed the nerves. She always felt under a tension with Dennis, was always self-conscious about her speech and actions. Yet with this other man, whose reputation should have made a respectable girl a little afraid, she felt entirely different.

They were good friends in almost no time, and they halted on the beach at last beside some huge boulders where the land crabs and terns were busily dissecting a stranded shark.

"One thing," she told him at last, growing serious. "And I had to get you away from Dennis to say it. I'm terribly sorry about uncle... your father... leaving me half the property. It should have been yours."

Laughing Allan Vaughan ceased . laughing and considered for a moment.

"Perhaps it should have been," he agreed carelessly. He waved his hand. "Not that I wanted it. But... I don't understand the old man cutting me off like that." He looked at her and smiled then, a little crookedly. "Anyway, I'm glad it's yours and not anyone else's. You'll get along with Dennis. He fits in this sort of life."

"We're already engaged," she agreed uncertainly. "But I'm not sure yet I'm going to care for plantation life. It's pretty flat, though I suppose one gets used to it." He laughed, and a malicious little devil stirred inside him... Oh, Dennis was so sure of himself... so he put his arms about her and kissed her. Easily, carelessly, confidently.

A sailor of the Outer Islands.

He had a way with women. Anyone in the South could have told her that.

"I'VE GOT to talk to you," said Dennis in the bungalow two weeks later.

"I don't care for the way you monopolise my fiancée. There's some pretty ugly gossip going about the compounds. I won't repeat it because I don't believe Eva could be guilty of such conduct. But as far as you're concerned anything despicable is possible."

Black Vaughan eyed him with an unusual bitterness, and then nodded.

"You're in love with her, Dennis? By heavens, I didn't believe it, but I begin to. I Just wonder how much. It wouldn't be with her half of the plantation, too, would it? You'd hate to see a stranger move in if she married anyone else."

Dennis went quite white. "How dare you intimate..."

"Forget it!" Black shrugged. "I guess you like her well enough." He considered his brother, and added between his teeth. "You've had everything, you always did have, and you've got everything! I suppose you deserve it. You're respectable and correct, so they all say. and I'm just a crazy freelance, gambling and drinking and battering around... like father used to. But I think Eva likes me a little."

"You've turned her head, that's all, with your mad stories of the Islands," blazed Dennis. "Why don't you tell her the truth? You're nothing but a waster, and just a plain darned killer, however else you try to explain lt."

His brother reached for a bottle and slowly poured a drink.

"That's the first human thing I've known about you," he observed quietly. "So maybe you are in love." He mused for a moment and his eyes grew hard. "I could take her with me, Dennis, just like that." He snapped his fingers. And he ended in a strained whisper, "I love her too."

"What could you do for a woman?" his brother choked. "A dirty pearl poacher, a smuggler, a gunman ..."

"Why draw it out?" said Black Vaughan wearily. "Dennis, you're all sorts of a fool, and I guess I am too. Each in our own way. Let me be."

Dennis flung savagely out of the room, while Black slowly swallowed his drink and nodded as Grant, the plantation manager, lounged in.

"May I?" said Grant easily, filling a glass. Black hitched his thumbs In his belt and eyed him sombrely. He never had liked the man and could never understand why his father had trusted him, for he personally knew Grant had been collecting graft from copra cargoes by signing short-weight receipts. He had heard that in Sydney, and on good authority, but he had never told his hot-headed father, who wouldn't have believed it, and would in any event have grown furious at what he would have considered unwarranted Interference.

"You got a tough break getting left out of the will," said Grant sympathetically. He rubbed his thin nose and his eyes were speculative.

"Probably," Black agreed. "I can always use money and land."

Grant shrugged. "Who can't?" He sipped his drink, smiling crookedly. "You've got a reputation, Black. And you're not too particular, from all I hear."

"Meaning?" inquired the other in-differently.

"Well, you sort of like Miss Carroll, don't you?"

Black stiffened. "For a paid manager, Grant, you talk too much," he said flatly. Grant shrugged and agreed.

"Perhaps. But has it ever occurred to you that if anything happens to your... er... brother, you could inherit everything, including the girl?"

THERE was a long silence. Black rubbed his thumbs along the top of his belt and smiled thinly. He had been too long in the Islands to be seriously shocked by any such proposal. He eyed the manager with curiosity.

"You're quite a swine, aren't you?" he said, without heat. "Ten years robbing the old man and getting rich in an easy job. And now this."

Grant's eyes narrowed.

"You're no lily," he said thinly.

"Never was," Black admitted. "But get out of my sight! I didn't know my reputation was that bad!"

Grant licked his lips, started to protest, and then shrugged. You never could tell what this man might do. "Think it over, anyway," he muttered. He left the room, and Black moodily took another drink before going to the garden to find Eva Carroll.

"Drinking again," she said, in mock reproval. "And you told me it was a bad habit in the morning."

He stared at her, unsmiling for once, and shook his head. She did not understand, he thought. If he had done what was right, he would have sailed long since. But somehow he did not wish to sail, and neither did he wish things to continue as they were. He hardly knew what he wished. He had gone out of his depth.

"I've a lot on my mind," he said harshly. "Dennis and you— and a lot more."

She colored a little and crushed a crimson hibiscus in her hand.

"Is it Dennis and I... that matter so? We must tell him, Allan. I should have insisted days ago. We haven't exactly played the game... my being engaged. But... you don't regret anything...?"

"I don't know," he said uneasily. And with a short laugh, "It won't break Dennis' heart. It's just a question now of what makes common sense."

She put her cool, slim hands about his neck and kissed him. He started as from a shock of cold water and then straightened his shoulders. He might as well get it over with, finish the whole business. Her eyes were misty with sudden apprehension.

"Just what is it, Allan? About us, I mean. Have you changed... about me?"

"I think so," he said through tight lips. "You'd have no business sailing with me in the Outer Islands. You need a home like all this here, the plantation, and a man you can rely on. There's nothing for a woman, wandering over the Pacific in a crazy schooner like the Cormorant. It's a mad life. There's always fever and hurricanes and fighting. I can't ask you to face all that. You'd never see another white woman for months on end. You might go mad with the loneliness. Only the schooner, and a Kanaka crew. Bad food and worse water. Nothing a woman likes or needs. My father had the right idea. The last two decent members of the family brought together. You'd better marry Dennis. You like him anyway."

She shook him desperately, almost panic-stricken.

"But that's not love, Allan... and with you it is. It was different before you came. It all seemed reasonable then. Now I know... Something for life. I'm not going to marry Dennis and stay here. I'm going with you. Look at me, Allan. You can't leave me!"

"Let's not talk that way," he said roughly. "I've figured it out from all angles. I guess I'm not a marrying man myself. It's all been wonderful, but anything more would be madness."

"You can't say that..." she-started passionately. "Not after..." He covered her mouth with his hand.

"Let's have no more," he said between his teeth. "I'm thinking of you. I started it as a joke and it got beyond me, that's all; got beyond you too. But now it's time for common sense. Stay with Dennis. He'll give you what you should have. I..." he hesitated and then added, brutally, "well, anyway, I've a dozen women through the islands. It's just a game. Forget lt." He pushed her away.

She was still for a moment, staring at him with unbelieving eyes. And then her face grew crimson.

"I hope you found the game amusing," she said unsteadily as she turned away. "I apparently had the wrong impression."

He wiped sudden sweat from his forehead, swore, and walked towards the Kanaka compounds where his brother was overseeing a whitewash job. He'd cut all things short and get out.

"Dennis," he said abruptly, "get rid of Grant. He's been robbing the plantation for years by signing short-weight cargoes, and he offered to kill you a short while ago, so I could inherit. I suppose he figured I'd pay well."

Dennis stared cold-eyed. "You've been drinking again. Grant's been with us ten years. I wouldn't know what to do without him. Go to sleep and sober up."

"I'm not drunk," said Black harshly. "You get rid of Grant ! I'll send you proofs of the robbing from Sydney. I'm sailing to-morrow at dawn."

"I can't feel sorry," said his brother, thin-lipped.

"Well," said Black, "that's all. But get rid of Grant."

"That's my affair," said his brother. "I need Grant and he's been faithful. I don't know what your idea is in lying about him, but it's probably something rotten."

"Probably," agreed Black, smiling again. "But you've funny ideas yourself."

THAT AFTERNOON behind the store sheds Grant, the head foreman, rubbed his thin nose and looked sharply at Freen, his first assistant. They were much alike. Sharp-featured, shrewd and unscrupulous, and Freen had been In with Grant on the signing-short business with the copra so that the two of them had prospered.

"It's the big chance, Freen," Grant was saying. "I've sounded out Black, but the fool's not as tough as they say, and he's got family ideas. When I suggested getting rid of Dennis, he just went wall-eyed and told me to get out."

"Then what next?" Freen inquired. "Do we quit?"

"Don't be a fool. This is our chance, and the time right now. We'll ease Dennis out first and get the blame thrown on Black. Any jury will see the motive."

"That's clear. But how?"

"I've got hold of one of his guns. You plug Dennis... I'll give you the signal pretty soon. Then throw the gun down and skip. We'll both swear we saw Black shoot. I'll fix up a yarn to fit the facts. They'll pinch Black and hang him. That'll leave the girl. She can't run the plantation without us, and perhaps she'll sell cheap after we've looted it a bit. Be glad to. Savvy?"

"I'm ahead of you," agreed Freen, grinning. "Give me the gun. You can count on me."

"I am," said Grant thinly. "And don't slip up. He sails at dawn."

Freen pocketed the gun Grant handed him and went away, laughing silently as he eased through the scented wattle and the banana plants that fronted the bungalow.

Black was leaning on the verandah rail, turning a glass in his hand and staring moodily before him, while at a table some distance away Eva Carroll talked listlessly to Dennis. Tima, the head houseboy, hovered about, and after a while Grant lounged from the bungalow and lit a cigar. Freen let the banana plant he crouched behind rustle a little and Grant nodded. Very soon now.

"Allan is sailing in the morning," Dennis was saying quietly. "And I'll send a houseboy to Hallam's Cove for the missionary. We can be married by noon."

"I see," said the girl, staring at her clasped fingers.

"It will be better after Allan is gone," he observed, thin-lipped. "He was always a disturbing element. I know he attracted you at first, but I am glad to see you are over that.

He never had a really serious moment in his life, as you have probably discovered."

"I think so," she said calmly, while inwardly she was screaming, "Why doesn't he get furious? Can't he see I don't love him? Can't he tell that Allan and I... ? Does he have to take everything so much for granted?"

"We can go to Sydney for our honeymoon next month," he said complacently. "I have business there, anyway, and some machinery to buy for the plantation."

"The plantation's very important, isn't it?"

He looked surprised.

"Of course. It's our livelihood, my dear. And since luckily it won't be divided I intend to expand. I'm going to try cotton and perhaps coffee."

"Couldn't we go on a long trip before we... settle down?" she asked desperately. "I mean to England, perhaps, or America. Something different."

HE was a little shocked. "There's far too much to do here," he protested. "Not to speak of the expense. I should think you'd be anxious to remain close to your own interests." He looked along the verandah and his lips tightened. "I suppose Allan's wild talk still makes you restless."

"Perhaps," she agreed with repressed exasperation, and looked round, relieved, as Grant lounged up.

"I'd like to talk with you, Miss Carroll," he said easily. "In the bungalow. Your aunt's got some ideas about redecorating the place, and I've dug up some paints and things from the stores you might like."

She rose thankfully and followed Grant, while Dennis smiled tolerantly. Women liked such things as redecorating. Everything was turning out all right after all, and he felt pleased. To-morrow Allan would be gone too, and everything would be simplified and well ordered. He felt he could afford to be charitable.

"Come and have a drink over here, Allan," he called. "And wish me luck." And to the houseboy, "Tima, glasses and my best whisky!" He bent his head to light a cigar then and so did not see what happened next.

Tima clucked and hurried away while Black, rousing himself from the verandah rail, smiled with faint amusement and drew out a chair. The moment was perfect. Behind the banana plant Preen sighted his gun and fired.

Dennis twisted in his seat and then toppled backwards. Black stopped dead, and then whipped about as something curved across the verandah and fell with a thud. He saw it was a gun, and dived for it before he recognised it as his own. Grant pounded out of the bungalow swearing thickly and almost collided with Black.

He stared at the still-smoking gun Black held and at the huddled figure of Dennis with a stream of blood running from the head, and he looked shocked.

"You've killed him!" he said, and swung back to where Eva Carroll stood in the bungalow door, her face ashen and her eyes big with amaze-ment. It was all perfectly timed, as well as if it had been rehearsed. Grant thought exultantly. Black had even picked up the gun. The girl put her hands to her face and whispered, "Allan... what have you done?" and walked unsteadily to where Dennis lay. Tima's brown face peered from the bungalow and his shrewd eyes were perplexed. Black looked at Grant for a long moment and then gestured at the wattle and banana beyond the bungalow.

"The shot came from over there," he said hard-eyed. "I've an idea you ought to know."

Grant shook his head.

"All I know is Mr. Vaughan's been shot and you're holding a gun."

"I see," said Black quietly. "It's like that, eh?"

"Like that," Grant agreed. He went over to where Eva was kneeling beside Dennis, mopping at an ugly wound along the top of his head. "I think I ought to tell you, Miss Carroll," he said in a low voice. "Mr. Vaughan, Allan Vaughan, came to me earlier to-day and hinted it might be a good idea if something happened to Mr. Dennis. Then he would inherit, and he hinted I might profit by it."

SHE looked up, startled, and then looked at Black! He was standing quietly by the verandah rail, frowning a little and gazing at the banana plants, hefting the gun in his hand.

"He wouldn't... wouldn't do that," she managed. "Do you know what you're saying, Mr. Grant?"

"Enough for me to send a boy for the Resident Magistrate," observed the manager harshly. "There seems to be no doubt."

Black Vaughan crossed suddenly to where the perplexed houseboy stood.

"You used to be a bushman, Tima. Take a look out there and see if there's any sign. I didn't shoot my brother."

"I savvy that plenty," grunted the old Kanaka. "You big fella with gun. You shootum close, man die too much. Brother belong you not dead."

He glided across the verandah and went towards the bananas and the wattles. Black looked down at Dennis and saw he was still bleeding profusely. Tima was right. Dead men do not bleed very much.

"He's only wounded," he said. "Better take him inside. He'll likely get over lt." Grant was swearing under his breath. Preen should have aimed lower, but maybe things could still be arranged. A wounded man could always die.

"Is that all you care... or have to say?" said the girl tensely. She stared at Black, stony-eyed. "I never believed the things they said about you... the worst things... not even after you told me... It was just a game. But after this..." She got up and went inside, calling for the houseboys to bring hot water. Grant laughed a little.

"You'd better have listened to me, Black, instead of trying things yourself."

"You're a clever man," said Black Vaughan softly. "Too darned clever. But you forget I'm no lily, as you put it. And I've no time to argue with the law." He flipped up the gun and the hammer clicked back. "No one's going for the Magistrate," he said tonelessly. "No one at all, Grant. But you're sailing with me as soon as we know Dennis is all right. If he happens to die you won't sail at all, anywhere... ever."

The sweat grew big on the fore-man's forehead and he swallowed hard.

"I didn't shoot him, that's certain," he managed. "I was with Miss Carroll."

"YOU'RE in it up to your neck," said Black, and his eyes were bitter hard. "I'll find who shot him and he'll sail with me too. Until I leave the plantation I'm taking charge."

"This isn't the Outer Islands. The houseboys will do as I say!" Grant snapped, and Black shook his head and laughed.

"But you won't say," he observed cheerfully. "And I'm making it the Outer Islands. It's all clear of your hands." He stepped forward, lifted the gun and smashed Grant across the head with it, so the manager dropped like a wet sack. Tima padded on the verandah again and grunted.

"You killum well?" he asked hopefully, and then clucked his disappointment as he saw the growing bump on Grant's head. "Man him hide behind banana. Wait short time maybe. Breakum leaf to see this feller varandah. Then him run. Seeum boot sign. White man."

"That'd be Preen then," said Black. "Only other white man here. You sendum boy along Cormorant, tellum Kanaka come get feller Grant and takum on board. You and me findum feller Preen."

"We findum," Tima chuckled. "Him talkum too much."

Eva Carroll came out on the verandah just as the sun dropped behind the palms.

"He's conscious now," she said.

Black stepped by her without a word, but she caught his arm. and he waited.

"Tell me just one thing, Allan. Why did you shoot him?"

"I didn't shoot him," he said simply. "Freen shot him from cover. He told us the story after a little persuasion. It was Grant's idea."

She drew a deep breath. "But Grant told me... you wanted Dennis out of the way. And Dennis says you tried to tell him something about Grant suggesting that. It's all confused. Dennis believes you lied to him to cover up anything Grant might warn him about, after you knew Grant had turned you down."

"And what do you believe?" he asked, quietly. She bit her lips.

"I don't know what to believe. It seems you must have.... Dennis is sure."

He nodded and went into the room where Dennis Vaughan sat propped with pillows, his head bandaged and his face pale and set.

"What has happened to Grant and Preen?" he demanded coldly. "I understand from the houseboys they are being forcibly detained on the Cormorant."

"I'm getting rid of them for you," said Black. "You won't want that sort about here. I'll probably drop them off on some quiet island where they'll have time to think."

"I presume your idea is to put them where they can't testify against you," said Dennis grimly. "It's your sort of game. I suppose I can consider myself lucky to be alive."

"Very lucky," Black agreed. "But I didn't shoot you."

"Naturally," said his brother, sarcastically. "But Eva has told me what Grant said to her after the attempt. You'd approached him."

Black Vaughan looked thoughtfully at the girl and then looked at his brother.

"Never mind, Dennis," he said wearily. "Nothing would ever convince you, I guess. I'm sailing to-night anyway instead of at dawn, and I just wanted to make sure you were out of danger... and say good-bye."

"Don't expect to get off scot free!" Dennis choked savagely. "I give you warning. I'm filing charges with the Resident Magistrate. Perhaps he'll put you somewhere this time where you'll never bother the plantation again."

"Dennis!" cried the girl, frightened. "You won't do that? It's all over now."

"I hate you!" the wounded man said to his brother. His eyes were flaming and his whole body shook. "I've always hated you. You were always Father's favorite, curse you! and he thought we never knew it. But he'd let things drop now and then. I wonder what he'd think if he were here now. Trying to kill your own brother!"

Black Allan Vaughan stood as if turned to stone.

"Father's favorite," he whispered. "Are you mad? After his cutting me off!"

"Allan," the girl whispered. "Allan!"

HE hardly heard her as he groped for the door an went out on the verandah again. He was never quite sure how he managed to reach the beach where his Kanakas waited with the Cormorant's boat. And once on board he stood solidly on his poop deck and stared blankly at the growing stars. He did not understand. It was enough to have left everything behind, to have left Eva behind. But why did Dennis have to mock him with such talk? The old man had  hated him. Everyone had agreed on that.

He gave listless orders to his man to get up the anchor and make sail, and he stared at Freen and Grant standing sullenly on the main deck unbound and unwatched, but frightened clean through and knowing there was no escape. Black Allan Vaughan did not bluff, and he had stated they would sail with him. And it was death not to sail. They knew that now. He cursed suddenly and called to his mate put the two men to work, and then he groped below. He needed a drink again.

But he ached somewhere inside. He had loved his father, in a queer way, perhaps. But he had loved him. And he had thought father, under all, had loved him, too. What had he ever done that the old man hadn't done in his youth? Wild and free! Lusty and strong and efficient! Dennis was so much as the old man had been in his later days. But in his youth...!

Black Vaughan couldn't understand. Cutting him off with a shilling Leaving him only his old guns and a letter, as yet unread. It hurt somehow. The hurt was perhaps even worse than the hurt of Eva Carroll. Many men had said was no good, but when his father had confirmed it... He bit his lip. And what did Dennis mean by saying he was the old man's favorite? Dennis must have been delirious.

He took the old man's guns from his desk drawer and hefted them with calculation. In their time they had blazed in New Guinea, in the Bismarcks, in the Solomons, in the Carolines; even in the now half-tamed Fijis, when the world was young and savagery ran through all the South. They had made Clint Vaughan's name and his fortune. Black shook his head. He did not understand.

There was a step on the companion from the main deck, but he ignored it, thinking it was the mate. He could feel the schooner getting under way. In an hour Morres Island and the Vaughan plantation would be sunk in the night astern, and he would never see them again. He hefted his father's old guns and laughed softly to himself. Whatever it was, it was a gesture of sorts, leaving him the guns.

"Allan," said Eva Carroll uncertainly.

He turned and saw her outlined against the stars beyond the main cabin scuttle. "I made Tima bring me off in his canoe," she said. She was very tired. "I haven't any pride left. I want to go with you even if it's still a game."

Black Vaughan slid the guns into his pockets and lighted the cabin lamp with fingers that shook a little.

"But Dennis?" he managed. "And I told you it was finished."

She came close to him and lifted her face to his.

"It isn't finished, Allan. You can't send me away again. I would have stayed... cared for Dennis perhaps... and I was even sorry for him when he was so hurt. But it's really the plantation he loves... and my share, I think. He hates you terribly, Allan. And I think I hate him, too, now. Tima told me what Preen confessed. But I think I believed you anyway."

"You want to come with me?" he asked huskily. "After everything? I told you the Outer Islands and the crazy little Cormorant... no place for a woman..."

"As if I cared," she said, and kissed him. "And I don't believe there are any other women. Not now." He held her tight and whispered, "No, not now."

A LONG TIME afterwards he remembered something, and took his father's guns from his pockets again.

"I ought to throw them overboard," he said, laughing a little, "But maybe they've brought me luck."

He stared through the open port and saw a shark's fin slicing phosphorescence through the dark sea about twenty yards away, and on impulse he aimed one gun and fired. Braced for the shock of the recoil he was surprised when the hammer clicked dead. He shot again, and again the hammer clicked. Deliberately then he pulled the trigger of each gun six times, and six times with each there was no explosion. Yet they were loaded. He had already ascertained that, and it was not like his father to keep blank cartridges in his guns.

He spilled the cartridges out, examined them carefully, and then with a surprised whistle pried the lead from one loose. In the empty brass cylinder that remained was a tight-wadded paper. He teased it out and smoothed it. It was a Bank of England note for five hundred pounds! And every one of the shells contained that, save one, and that held a brief message.

You're no good anyway, Black, but you're me, perhaps the real me! This money will probably go in a poker game or in some wild idea, but so be it. I'm not worried about your not finding the stuff. Sooner or later you'll try the guns out. But don't tell Dennis. By the way, the gun with the notches in the handle shoots a little off to the right. Remember this if you have to use it. Good-bye, my boy. You are all that Clint Vaughan was once, and I'm not too worried. I know you'll understand. Dennis won't, and your mother never would have."

"He did love you, Allan," said Eva Carroll gently. "Dennis was right. He tried to hide it, but somehow they all knew, all except you, and you really knew, too. It must have been for your mother's sake he pretended."

Black nodded.

"He was always wanting to sail again... deep down... I guessed that. But she never would have approved. And he left me a letter. I'd almost forgotten. I thought it was telling me just what he thought of me. Something pretty bad."

He brought the crumpled and neglected letter from his pocket and opened it. It contained nothing in his father's writing, only newspaper clippings about his younger son, fragments from Australian and New Zealand papers, which the old man had obviously been at pains to save even if they were mostly severe condemnations of a certain notorious Captain Vaughan who seemed always in trouble.

It made Black choke a little. They had quarrelled and fought so! Two men who knew the Outer Islands! And so Dennis had been doubly right.

The mate of the Cormorant stuck his head through the main cabin sky-light which was open above.

"What course, sir?"

"Port Ander Bay. There's a poker game..." Black Vaughan started to say, and then he laughed. "No, it's all different now. I've got responsibilities."

He put an arm about Eva Carroll and considered. "Sydney," he said. "We'll get a legitimate charter and find out what it's like to trade respectably. But first we'll make Hallam's Cove and make it fast. I need a missionary!"

__________________

4: Li Wang's Legacy

L. C. Douthwaite

1878-1948

World's News (Sydney) 28 Jan 1939

THE figure approaching from the other side of the deserted Pennyfields street was of such odd appearance that the Honorable Georger Fenchester slipped within the shadow of a shop-entrance to have a good look at him.

A Chinese, obviously, and stiffly, formally clad, with features withered like a walnut-shell. Yet George was conscious of a dignity .that commanded respect even from-one as difficult to impress as his own hard-boiled self. Further, expert as he was in the habits, customs, and social grades of the Oriental population of Limehouse and Pennyfields, this was a specimen whom, for the life of him, he was unable to place.

As it happened. George was given little time for speculation. As the. Chinese was passing a narrow opening between the buildings, three other figures emerged, lithe, flattened-faced, and slant-eyed, and in the hands of each the glint of steel.

Before George had time to realise it they had leapt on the Chinaman.

George made his rush, side-stepped a knife-thrust from the leader, and brought up his fist in a lightning upper-cut from somewhere in the neighborhood of his right, knee. Feet lifted from the ground, the slightly built body hit the pavement a dozen feet away, and there remained.

Recovered from their surprise, the other two came on. By this, however, George's pistol was out of his shoulder holster. As the first of the opposition came in, he staggered back with a bullet through his upper arm. Then, turning, made a bolt for the passage and disappeared, though George had to dodge-a dexterously thrown knife before the remaining thug followed.

George turned to the Chinese to find him lying with the breast of his jacket discolored by a dark spreading stain that told its own story.

A few moments' first aid, and the pain-ridden eyes were gazing into his own. A voice came from the grey lips, cultured, and with only a trace of accent.

"Li Wang thanks the honorable stranger."

George said, more cheerfully than he felt, "Just rest quietly while I get an ambulance."

A smile came into the tiny, wizened face.

"Very soon, indeed, Li Wang will  lie quiet—permanently," the Chinese said. The fast fading eyes started intently into George's. "Will the honorable stranger be so charitable as to add to his benevolence?"

The weakening voice was so urgent that George promised out of hand.

Li-Wang's sign was a mixture of weakness and relief.

"In an inner pocket within the lining of my waistcoat," he said faintly, "is a letter. Take and guard it, for those who would possess what it contains are as desperate as those behind them are powerful and without scruple. Deliver it to the one to whom it is addressed, and the blessing and gratitude of Li Wang go with you."

WEAKLY he opened his arms. George found the pocket, and the envelope; put it in his pocket.

The Chinese smiled, shuddered— and died.

George turned to the murderer, who remained where he had fallen; and there seemed likely to remain. With one dead man on his hands, and another unconscious, it occurred to George that a little official co-operation was indicated. He blew a police whistle, and presently P.C. Carter cantered up.

"Well, well, well, sir!" exclaimed that red-cheeked stalwart, having taken in the situation. "You have been havin' a night! Been to a party, or something?"

"Nothing to do with my work, Carter," said the Honorable George, whose roving commission from the Home Office for the suppression of the drug traffic, and from the Foreign Office for the investigation of interests of even greater national importance, took, him to queer places.

"Actually, I arrived only in time to see him—" he pointed to the still motionless Japanese, "stick a knife into him—" he pointed to the one whose, eyelids had fluttered for the last time.

P.C. Carter sniffed.

"Chinese, the pair of 'em," he pronounced inaccurately. "One of those Tong scraps, I shouldn't wonder."'

Waiting for the ambulance, George took a look at the envelope entrusted to him by the dead man. Heavily sealed, and of excellent quality, it was addressed in crabbed and angular handwriting:

Miss Felicity Kingsworth,

10A Powis Square,

Bayswater, W.9.

"What's going on here?" a harsh voice demanded.

George turned to see a smartly but inconspicuously tweed-clad man who had approached so quietly from the nearby side street as to have escaped his notice; a man who glanced suspiciously at George, and— as George did not fail to observe— at the envelope in his hand. And if ever he had read avidity, stark and unrestrained, it was in the eyes of this stranger.

"Nothing at all," George replied equably. "It's already gone. The ambulance will be here any minute."

There was a silence. Then, indicating the dead man:

"Nothing to be done for him, anyway," the stranger pronounced. "Who is he, do you know?"

George made his rush, side-stepped a knife-thrust from the leader, and brought up his fist in a lightning upper cut from somewhere in the neighborhood of his right knee.

"I don't," said George, more or less accurately.

"Maybe we'd better find out," the stranger said, and on his knees beside the body slipped his hand into the breast pocket.

There was such purpose in the action that George waited to discover .what that purpose was. A further idea that came to him was that the Chinese was not so unknown to the stranger as the latter implied.

There was, however, nothing on the body but a few pounds in money, and this the newcomer replaced.

"No papers," he said slowly, shooting George a quick glance from under lowered lids.

Leaving the body at the mortuary, they took his killer to the police station, where, after the revived but obstinately silent Japanese had been locked in a cell, George signed a statement that, however, made no mention of the letter that had been entrusted to him.

And when George left, there, outside with a taxi, was the tweed-clad stranger.

"Going west?" he suggested, and George accepted out of hand. There was more behind that lad than met the eye.

"I don't suppose that Chinese was killed instantaneously?" the stranger questioned as the cab moved off.

"Not altogether," George admitted. Then: "You seem interested."

When the other replied, it was with a friendly frankness that George found neither impressive nor convincing.

"Listen," the stranger said. "I'm. Putting my cards on the table. I had certain dealings with that Chinese, and at the stage the negotiations had reached, his death is, well, inconvenient.".

He cast a side-glance at George, probing, suspicious, that was badly at variance with the bluff friendliness of his tone. As was his habit when uncertain of his ground, George, however, remained silent.

"That Chinese," the stranger continued, "was in possession of a paper of mine that, while of no monetary value, is of considerable— er— commercial importance. And unless I'm mistaken, he passed it to you."

It was as if something clicked into place in George's brain. His instinct had been correct, not only about the letter, but concerning this man who so badly wanted to get hold of it.

"Before we go any further," hp said uncordially, "who are you, anyway?"

There was momentary hesitation before the other replied.

"Charles Shefford," he said. "Of St. Mary Axe. Exporter and importer." He laid a too-well manicured hand on George's knee. "I'm prepared to pay £100 for that paper."

George removed the hand.

"Assuming I have it— which I don't admit," he said coldly, "I thought I understood you to say it is of no monetary value."

Shefford coughed deprecatingly.

"Perhaps of no intrinsic value would be more accurate," he qualified. "And I'm prepared to double my offer."

"No," said George unhesitatingly, and saw Shefford's hand steal beneath his other arm.

"Would you!" George exclaimed; seized the wrist of the unoccupied hand and the wrist of the other hand— that already had closed on the butt of a pistol— in his right; forced that wrist agonisingly backward.

Shefford squealed and dropped the weapon that George retrieved.

At that point the road was up, with the taxi moving at walking pace. George locked Shefford's right arm behind his back, opened the taxi door, forced his prisoner to his feet, planted his foot in the small of his back and shot him to the road, where he fell sprawling face forward into the water-logged trench.

In his own sitting-room, however, George put in a spell of thinking. Undoubtedly the furtive-eyed Shefford was acting in conjunction with others, and before long these would come into the open. He put the letter, with the automatic, under his pillow when he turned in to bed.

IT WAS in the first grey of morning when he awakened, with every sense alert. Unless he was mistaken there was someone in the corridor outside.

Noiselessly George reached for his pistol with one hand— praise be, he could feel that the letter was there still— and for the bedside light with the other hand; simultaneously levelled the weapon and switched on the lamp.

It was a Japanese, small and wiry, flattened face expressionless, but almond eyes questing.

"Put your hands up," George ordered peremptorily.

The Oriental obeyed, and as his hands swung upwards tossed a palm full of pepper into George's face.

Even in that agonising moment, he did not lose his head; in anticipation of what he knew must follow, lowering the elevation of the automatic, he pressed the trigger.

There was a sharp yelp of pain; the door slammed.

It was an hour before George was in condition to consider his next move, and before he came to a decision, his telephone buzzed. The voice that came over the wire was clipped, but suave.

"You have a letter in your possession, obtained from the Chinese, Li Wang, that it is necessary for certain interests to possess. You will hand it to the representative who will call at your flat at 10 a.m. to-day, in exchange for Bank of England notes for £5000."

"Or what?" George inquired interestedly.

"Or— else," the voice replied. George felt himself flushing.

"Who are you, anyway?" he demanded shortly.

"Call me Mr. X," the voice came back.

"What I'd like to call you would fuse the wires," George said unpleasantly.

He rang off, and a few minutes later his man, Stubbs, ex-Marine and Inter-Services middleweight champion, arrived with early morning tea.

Struck with an idea, George eyed him shrewdly. Fortunately, they were of the same height, age, build, and coloring.

"Anything I can do, sir?" Stubbs asked understandingly, and George nodded.

"Yes," he said. "Swap me your alpaca coat and working trousers for one of my more conspicuous gent's suitings. At nine o'clock precisely you will enter the taxi I shall have called, and in a loud, clear voice order the driver to take you to— say— Shepherd's Bush. After a few hundred yards, you will pay off the cabby, returning here at your discretion. It is only fair to mention, incidentally, that there's quite a chance you'll be shot, stabbed, coshed, or otherwise maltreated."

"And what shall I be doin', sir, while the other bloke's doin' the stabbin', et cetera?" he demanded pointedly.

"So long as you remember a bullet hasn't to go into training," George warned him.

By nine o'clock George had made himself up to resemble the more plebian features of Stubbs. and those of Stubbs to resemble his own, clad in the alpaca jacket and neat trousers of his man's working hours, hair arranged in a well-disciplined quiff over his forehead. Standing on the steps of the flat in his man's working clothes he saw that a taxi was drawn up to the kerb some thirty yards away.

When an empty cab came along, George hailed it; he and Stubbs got in and George observed the other taxi move forward. By the time smartly tweed-clad Stubbs hustled out, it was immediately behind their own.

As Stubbs crossed" the pavement three plug-uglies filed out— rushed him.

Stubbs, however, was an awkward man to rush. Side-stepping the first sweeping blow with a blackjack, he tripped the plug-ugly as he shot past, with the result that the aggressor's head dashed against the coping of the flat palings. Next, Stubbs ducked under a round-arm swipe from the follower-up, and, regaining the upright, buried his left fist in the attacker's midsection, when, grunting, the attacker doubled forward, uppercut him hard and accurately on the chin with his right, and that was that.

George, meantime, who had dashed grimly into action against the third of the trinity, stepped back at the exact, psychological moment that the man's cosh descended, so that the blow fell short, and, as the attacker bent forward, put him out with a right to the jaw.

A policeman who knew George, as well as did many of the metropolitan constabulary, came round the corner.

"Attempted robbery with violence," George said, indicating the figures dotted about the pavement. He turned to Stubbs: "Help P.O. Nutter get 'em to the cooler and lay a charge. I'll be along myself later in the day probably."

He returned to the flat, changed, and drove to Powis Square. Several names were on the lintel of 10a, with that of Felicity Kingsworth at the top of the column.

He climbed three flights to a landing where, on one of the doors, was a duplicate of the card downstairs.

He knocked and after an interval the door opened.

"Yes?" inquired Felicity Kingsworth. George took a quick breath that left his heart pounding. Not only was this calmly-at-ease girl the loveliest he had ever seen, but she had personality. Exquisitely formed, dusky skinned, with a suggestion of damask beneath the surface; black-browed and grey-eyed; hair a rich dark brown; mouth and teeth perfection.

"I've a message for you," he said quietly. "If, actually, you're Miss Kingsworth?"

"I'm Miss Kingsworth," she admitted.

"Do you happen to know anything of a Chinese gentleman by the name of Li Wang?" George asked, and the lovely eyes lighted.

"Do I not!" she exclaimed, and held the door wide.

"If Mr. Wang was a friend of yours, I'm afraid I've bad news," George said gravely when they were seated, and watched her face whiten.

"Tell me," she said quietly, and broke down when he had done so.

"Li Wang," she said simply, "was the best friend I ever had. Years ago— in Hongkong, when I was quite tiny— he was accused of murder. My father, who was in the police, succeeded in proving him the victim of a plot, and eventually arrested the real murderer. When my father died, leaving practically no money, Li Wang had me taught shorthand and typing, set me up in this little business... I— I— was more fond of him than I can express."

Giving her time to regain self-command, George handed her the letter, whose envelope contained a second, and smaller one, folded in a half-sheet of notepaper.

"Deliver the enclosed in person," Felicity read aloud, "to John Strange, of the Celluloid and Allied Products Corporation, Limited, Galashields House, Fenchurch Street. Already the terms have been arranged, and he will not de
part from his word. Guard the letter carefully, for there are those who, by the fact of it having come into your possession, will already have proved to what lengths they are prepared to go to obtain it."

"In the circumstances," George said definitely, "I've an idea that it would be safer if, instead of you going to Strange, he came to you. May I use your telephone?"

She nodded and he dialled the first of the half-dozen or so numbers under the Celluloid Corporation name.

"Tell Mr. Strange," George instructed, when he was connected, "that I have a message from Mr. Li Wang."

A moment later, another voice, low-pitched and pleasant, said: "John Strange speaking."

George gave him name, status, and retailed the events that had led up to his call.

"I'll be with you as soon as my car can bring me," Strange said quietly.

The door-bell shrilled. Obeying an apparently irrelevant impulse, George dived behind the curtains that cut off the kitchenette from the sitting-room.

A suave clipped voice came to him, followed by the beginning of Felicity's reply— that ended in a smothered cry— there was a momentary struggle, followed by the slamming of the door.

As George bounded forward he caught his toe on the foot of the electric stove and went down, half stunned. It was a moment before he, too, was bounding down the stairs, to reach the street in time to see the car drive off.

Propped against the kerb opposite, however, was a motor-cycle; the owner, a sportingly dressed youth of twenty or so, in the act of descending the steps of the house it faced. Taking a card and a bank note from his pocket as he ran, George reached the machine with a few yards to spare.

"Oi!" yelled the owner indignantly and rushed forward.

"To pay for the hire!" he shouted, tossed money and card towards that startled youth, and was away just as the car turned the corner.

The chase took him to Commercial Road, Bow, Epping, and the rural part of Essex, where, in a side road, was a. building, old, but with staring red-brick additions; heavily fenced in and approached by double doors that, as of their own volition, opened to admit the car and as automatically closed behind it,

George, however, sped purposefully on. A quarter of a mile past the building he turned down a road that branched off at right angles and that was separated from the building by a series of hedge-bordered fields.

The car was drawn up at the main door with the driver still at the wheel.

Holding his pistol by the barrel George forced his way through the hedge and approached under the car's own cover, shuffling his feet in the grave! When the driver thrust out an inquiring head he brought the pistol to the top of it, so that the head lolled forward without a sound.

George dragged him from his seat and through the hedge. Slipping into the man's overcoat and big peaked cap,, he bound and gagged him.

Back at the car, he sounded the horn as he slipped into the lee of the porch.

The door opened. A sibilant voice said:

"Yes? You want?" And with no reply forthcoming, a head protruded to ascertain what had become of the driver.

George brought the butt of his pistol into play again, and the man slumped forward. Catching him before he fell, George thrust him through the hedge and trussed and gagged him. Here, then, were two of the opposition disposed of and the door of the building was open. George passed through into the dimly lighted vestibule, reversing the revolver in his hand.

He listened intently, but no sound came.

As he stood hesitant, a door opened. A man came out in whom George recognised the Japanese who had filled his eyes with pepper on the night before.

Fortunately the light was not too good and it was apparent that the Oriental mistook him for the chauffeur.

"What you doing here?" the Japanese demanded sharply in English.

With the sudden recognition that flashed. into the yellow, flattened face, George prodded the barrel of his pistol into the Oriental's mid-section.

"Not a word— if you're wise," he whispered, and the weight behind the punch, unhindered by his recollection of pepper in his eyes, brought his fist in a sweeping arc to the point of the jaw, caught the body as it slumped, tied the wrists behind, and laid the body down. Pistol at the ready, he stepped into the room and slammed the door behind him.

At one time, evidently, this had been the farm kitchen, but now it was fitted with filing cabinets, typing table, and shelves for commercial books.

At a table in the centre writing pad and inkstand before each, eight men were seated. The one facing the door was Japanese, small, wiry framed, elegant in morning suit and pin-stripe trousers. On the table before him was the envelope addressed to Mr. Strange.

In the man at the other end George recognised the egregious Charles Shefford, of St. Mary Axe.

Near the door, unharmed except that her hands were tied behind, her, was Felicity Kingsworth. She gave a little cry of mingled relief and astonishment at sight of George.

"Yes?" the chairman inquired, interestedly. Indeed, excepting for the scowling Englishman, they gave no sign of perturbation. And, though his revolver gave him the upper hand, George had an uneasy feeling that they had something up their sleeves.

"I've come for this lady," he said, and, keeping them covered, groped for a pocket-knife that opened automatically by pressing the back. Then he backed to Felicity, who turned to allow him to cut the cord at her wrists while still keeping the room under observation.

"Collect your letter," he instructed her. "Anyone who tries to prevent you is going to be unlucky."

Still in that uncanny silence, she crossed the room, took the document from under the nose of the still motionless chairman.

"Now open the door," George further instructed.

She turned to do so, hesitated, then came back.

"I can't,'" she announced. "It's flush with the wall, and there's no handle— only a keyhole."

George circled the table, thrusting the muzzle of the revolver to the base of the chairman's neck.

"I'll give you just thirty seconds to hand over that key," he said coldly— wondering what he would do in the event of a refusal.

The Japanese, however, produced a tiny, queerly flanged key. But, instead of handing it over his shoulder as George expected, he tossed it to a rug that covered a part of the floor about midway down the room. Simultaneously— though George did not detect it— he pressed a switch that was let into the underside of the table.

Realising George's difficulty in keeping them covered while stooping, Felicity came forward, so that they reached their objective simultaneously. And as a rug-covered trapdoor swung open from under them they plunged through into the cellar below.

It was a good eight feet drop, with George undermost. Nevertheless, conscious of the clatter of pushed-back chairs overhead, he rolled clear of the opening, and, furthermore, pulled Felicity with him. Nor, by some beneficent dispensation, had he lost his revolver in falling. If the opposition shone a torch and started shooting, they were going to be unlucky.

Probably because the advantage would be in favor of the opposition, they made no attempt to shoot. They merely closed the trapdoor and left the captives in darkness.

Having no torch, George scouted with matches, and at what that disclosed at the far end of the cellar hastily extinguished it. Cheaply, flashily clad, what stared sightlessly at him from the corner was in an almost mummified condition. No sight for Felicity, anyway..

Under cover of the old stone table that ran down the centre of what he judged originally to have been a hot weather larder, George told her how he came to be there.

"They'll take no chances of destroying that letter," she said decisively.

A quarter of an hour later George sat up with a jerk. From overhead subdued but distinct, came a sound that experience enabled him to identify.

The tut-tut-tut of a sub-machine gun! He sprang to his feet and made for the old barrel he had seen in the corner, and which, fortunately, was still serviceable. He trundled it beneath the trapdoor, swarmed to the top, pressed with as much weight as he could bring to bear.

The trapdoor did not move, and when he ran a lighted match along its edges he saw that it was bolted.

He whipped off his coat. Signalling for Felicity to take off her overall, he wrapped both tightly round the heavy calibre revolver.

Thrusting the muzzle immediately beneath the bolt, he pressed the trigger, and that did the trick.

Further, as they were still firing above, and no rush followed, it looked as if he had got away with it.

Cautiously he raised the trapdoor until he could see into the room. Crouched at the window, firing from between two iron plates arranged V-shape, was the leader, with the Englishman at the other pane with a rifle. Prone, the remainder of the gang were protected by the space between the bottom of the window and the floor.

Drawn up by the lawn outside was a police tender. Between this and the bullet-sprayed hedge that bordered the road sprawled two uniformed policemen.

He took deliberate aim, first at the leader with his Thompson gun, and then at the man with the rifle. The first collapsed soundlessly over the window seat with the bullet through the shoulder; the Englishman, bullet-scored from elbow joint to wrist, screamed and fainted.

George flung back the trapdoor; with one bound was in the room.

Keeping them covered, he backed to the window and thrust the wounded leader aside, collecting the Thompson gun and rifle. These he took to the other end of the room and trained the machine-gun on the gang.

"Come up, Felicity," he called, and, white-faced but composed, she swarmed through the opening.

"Get hold of a white cloth," George instructed, handing her the door key, "and go to the hall door and wave it reassuringly. Then wander down and report what's happened to the police— they won't come to you in case it's a trap.

The three grim-faced detectives who followed Felicity into the room a few moments later were led by the lank and laconic Chief Inspector Parrot, who greeted George as an old acquaintance.

"When the feller whose bicycle you pinched phoned his loss and your name to the Yard, he said he'd seen you come out of a door from where, a few minutes before, a man who looked like a Chinese had carried a girl into a car," he explained, while his men were taking away the prisoners.

"What is the place, anyway?" George demanded. "Who runs it?"

"Among other and less reputable activities," the Inspector replied, "British headquarters of the Tokio Camphor Trust, who've pretty well cornered the world market."

He paused, then added, significantly: "But Kioko, the manager, sold other drugs as well, though whether for the Trust or as a private enterprise has to be discovered. What I do know is that, conscious that the net was. closing on him, he mistook our call to-day for a raid-in-force."

He paused. "But why he should deliberately transform a year or two's imprisonment for dope dealing into what, but for good luck and bad shooting, must have been a hanging job," he added, "has me beaten."

George shuddered a little.

"Look in that cellar I've just come from," he suggested, with a result that turned even the hard-boiled Inspector grey-faced.

"That explained the disappearance, in the last twelve months," he said, "of no fewer than nine prominent figures in the dope racket; five distributors suspected of double-crossing; and four addicts who were on the point of undergoing cross-examination by the police."

Pacing the pavement outside Felicity's rooms was a tall, kindly looking man of early middle age, who introduced himself as John Strange, managing director of Celluloid and Allied Products.

"That letter— from Li Wang?" he questioned when they were in Felicity's sitting-room.

She gave it to him. When he had read it he turned to Felicity.

"This will make you a rich woman," he said, tapping the letter, and she stared at him incredulously.

"Maybe you'll explain," drawled Parrot.

"Simple," said Strange. "On this paper is the formula that celluloid manufacturers have always been looking for— a process that dispenses with camphor as its chief ingredient. Without camphor, not only will the product be cheaper to produce, but it will render non-inflammable one of the most highly inflammable substances in daily use."

Then, slowly:

"And think what it will mean to the Camphor Trust to have the entire celluloid market closed against them!"

"Ruin, I should imagine," George said gravely, and Strange nodded.

"They've known for some time that Li Wang— a great friend both of my own and Miss Kingsworth's father— was negotiating for the purchase of the formula from the Chinese scientist who discovered it."

"But— why was the formula enclosed in an envelope addressed to me?" Felicity demanded.

Strange smiled.

"Because," he explained, "you are residuary legatee of Li Wang's will, of which I am principal executor."

Her eyes wider even than before, she turned to George.

"I've to thank you for that!" she exclaimed. "That I'm alive, I mean, to— to inherit."

George looked at her.

"I've to thank you for more than that," he said quietly.

_________________

5: King of Clubs

L. C. Douthwaite

World's News (Sydney) 28 Oct 1939

AS I HAD not seen Jimmy Ackroyd since he came back from India, it was something of a shock when I strolled into the Sybarites Club to find that perennial hard-up tucking into duckling, and a bottle of Beaune. More surprisingly still, as he was the only one at that particular table, obviously he was paying for it himself.

Catching my eye, he hailed me exuberantly. "Come over here and I'll buy you a lunch!"

Complied dazedly, firstly, for the novelty of watching Jimmy pay for anything at all, and secondly, out of sheer curiosity to discover what it was all about.

As I took my seat I saw, as well, that, while hitherto his invariable costume had consisted of a sports coat and high neck sweater and a pair of unspeakable flannel bags, here he was in a suit that shouted Savile Row from every seam, and he was shaven, shorn, and manicured, and wearing a wrist-watch that had never been bought under twenty pounds.

Not a bad effort, it occurred to me, for a lad who, having been sacked for raising his handicap to scratch at the expense of his long-suffering employers, had subsisted subsequently on what his fellow-members of the Fallowmead Golf Club could be induced to have on the round.

When I had seen him off by the boat train en route for a series of matches the club team were to play in the East, and to where his expenses had been defrayed by an affluent fellow-member, his luggage had consisted of an almost disintegrated fibre suitcase and a brown paper parcel.

"I've always understood that India presents opportunities only to those who are prepared to work," I opened the ball by remarking.

Jimmy gave one of his engaging grins. "Hardest work I ever did," he said, "was a couple of eighteen-hole matches a day. No joke, either, in that heat."

"Then you must have struck a gold mine in the shape of a Rajah's daughter or something," I said uncompromisingly.

Jimmy's grin widened.

"I struck a gold mine, all right," he admitted with enthusiasm, "but it had no relation to a Rajah's daughter. It was the Rajah himself."

"Save his life or something?" I suggested amiably.

"Incredibly, that's just what did happen,", Jimmy admitted, and gestured to indicate his own newly-achieved affluence. "Hence the Pyramids."

And without further pressure, this is what he told me:

"I'D RELIED on making a nice piece of change out of those Anglo-Indian wallahs, but there was nothing doing. Hospitality, yes; every bar in every club was mine to do as I liked, with, but as for something to add interest to the game— well, it just wasn't done. Additionally, believe me or not, on the train to Bombay after the last game, some miscreant pinched my clubs— may dogs defile his grave. So, what with one thing and another, by the time I climbed aboard the Rajput for the voyage home I was as bare of assets as a dog of tail feathers.

"Consequence was that with an entrance fee for all the sports, and not a hope of standing my corner in the smoke room, excepting for meals, the only thing was to lie doggo in my cabin."

Knowing Jimmy, I was prepared to accept this. A sensitive lad, and not without a queer self-respect of his own.

"Only fresh air  and exercise I got," he went on, "was on the boat-deck after the other passengers had turned in— twenty times round, and at the rate of knots... Had to do something to keep fit."

"You'd need to be alone for a stunt of that kind," I suggested, and Jimmy nodded.

"That's why I left it until so late." he explained. "And for the first three nights, alone I was. Then, on the fourth, rounding one of the deck-houses, who should I run into— literally— but his Royal Nibs the Maharajah of Kuttapore. And was I mortified!"

"Why?" I asked, diffidence not being one of Jimmy's more obvious weaknesses.

"Dunno," Jimmy's tone was reflective. "A combination of circumstances, probably. Eastern mystery and mysticism; the staggering, stupendous wealth of the man, and the veneration in which he was held by his people. Further, apart from his own suite, not a soul aboard had caught as much as a glimpse of him from the moment his circus embarked at Bombay. And there was I, in nothing but a pair of cheap pyjamas, running into him as if he'd been a public bar.

"He staggered back, and so did I. For a moment, with half a dozen or so of his bodyguard, each about nine feet high, and hung with assorted cutlery, it looked as if I was in for trouble. But, though he didn't look too pleased about it himself, his nibs motioned 'em back, and we went on looking at each other.

"And, take it from me, that man was an eyeful. There was an emerald as big as a golf ball in his turban, a couple of ropes of pearls the size of small marbles around his neck, his robes crusted with gems like a lighted Christmas tree, and you imply couldn't see his lingers for diamonds. Not a bad looking fella, either; about forty, and tallish. And had he dignity!

" 'A thousand apologies, your Highness,' I said at last, not humbly, but as if I meant it, which I did. 'I wouldn't have had it happen for a lot. Actually, however, I didn't know that any one but myself was on deck.'

While I was speaking, I saw his face relax. Then, suddenly, he half-smiled and gave a superb gesture.

" 'An unfortunate accident,' he said in English, 'but. of course, only an accident, and as such, equally, of course, your apology is accepted.

"I bowed.

" 'Thank you, very much, sir,' I said, bowed again, and prepared to move off.

" 'You find this hour propitious for training?' he asked.

" 'The best of the twenty-four, sir,' I replied, not without feeling, for if ever I was fed up. I was with that cabin of mine.

"To my surprise, his nibs kind of half-sighed.

" 'It was for that reason I, also, chose this hour.' he said.

"If that was a hint, or even a half rebuke, I was prepared to accept it.

" 'I'll take especial care not to intrude on your Highness's privacy again,' I said.

'"No! No!' He shook his head until his ear-rings rattled. "That was my last intention. Please, then, continue to take your exercise as before.'

"As, quite obviously, he meant just that, I look him at his word, and for the next three nights, while I did my daily twenty, he sat a little apart from his suite, watching without speaking. But on the fifth, just as I slowed up after completing the circuits, he sent one of his bodyguard to say he'd like a word with me.

"Would you believe it, his nibs just wanted someone to talk to, because, in spite of his stage army retinue, and more wives than a Hollywood film star collects in a lifetime, he was lonely.

" 'Always I have crowds— if I were to come here in the daytime it would be like your Lord Mayor's Show— but only so rarely have I companionship,' he explained.

"Nevertheless, I watched my step; I was as entertaining as I know how, but was careful not to encroach. That was the reason, I think, that he came to look forward to those nightly strolls up and down the boat-deck. I learnt afterwards he'd asked the captain to have it closed to anyone else, just so that we shouldn't be interrupted.

"When, however, he formed the habit of seating himself on the top rail, he had me scared. The sea wasn't too calm, and as he did quite a lot of his talking with his hands, there were moments when he kept his seat only by balance. When I warned him was the only time he ever got on his dignity.

"Then, one night, when the sea was running unusually high, what all along I'd been afraid would happen, did. I've forgotten what it was he was talking about, but it was something that had got him going, and at a moment when he was waving his arms like semaphores, a whacking big wave caught the ship broadside on, she gave a lurch, and the next thing I knew his nibs had fallen base over apex into the drink.

"Much as I hated the thought of it, there was only one thing to do. While his bodyguard were gibbering like a zooful of forest-bred baboons, I yelled, 'Man overboard!' at the top of my voice, and jumped in after him.

"He wasn't a strong swimmer, and he was handicapped by sheer weight of jewels; so that by the time I reached him he was pretty well all in. However, I managed to hold him up until the boat collected us, and that was that.

"After he'd been led away to his cabin I heard nothing more from him that night. Immediately after breakfast the next morning, however, there was his principal equerry bending double in the doorway of my cabin with a message that his master would like to see me In his suite.

"And, take it from me, it was some suite— more like an Eastern palace than a ship's cabin, and with the Maharajah to scale— I think he must have unearthed an extra few thousand pounds' worth of jewels for the occasion; it fairly made me blink to look at him.

"His suite in a semi-circle behind him, he made one of the most impressive speeches I ever listened to, and so far as concerned myself, the most embarrassing; I didn't know where to look, or what to do with my hands.

"Not only had I saved his life, so he insisted, but the whole State of Kuttapore; without him, his wisdom and his guidance, the country would be all shot to pieces. For such a service, though neither thanks nor reward were adequate, If I'd tell him what was the greatest desire of my life he would make it his business to see it was fulfilled.

"Actually, my keenest desire at that moment was to be out of that suite and In my own cabin, but. of course, I couldn't tell him that. Instead, I said the usual things— that I was glad to have been of use, and that I didn't want any reward and couldn't accept any.

"He couldn't have been more hurt if I'd insulted his mother. That a service so stupendous should go without recognition would be an unspeakable reflection on his sense of gratitude and personal honor. If only for his own sake, then, he must insist that I accept what he called some small acknowledgment of the occasion.

"He meant what he said, as well: and I just had to think of something. Broke to the four winds as I was, I couldn't accept money; nor unless something entirely insignificant, jewellery, either.

"Then, suddenly, I had a brainwave with the thought of those stolen clubs.

"If your Highness would care to present me with a few golf clubs, I should value them very much," I said.

"I saw his eyes light up; he squared his shoulders.

" 'That, indeed, will be my privilege,' he said enthusiastically, and appeared to fee turning something over in his mind. 'And now that you have been so good as to allow me a more concrete expression of my gratitude, may I offer you a little refreshment...

"The rest of the voyage was pretty much as it had been from the beginning. Though I wasn't asked to the suite again, except that he kept clear of the top rail, we met each night on the boat-deck as usual.

"If anything, he was more— how shall I put it? Not 'genial'— he was far too regal for anything like that. Perhaps 'unbending' is the word— as if, though anything approaching intimacy was out of the question, there was a bond between us that couldn't be overlooked. Yet, oddly enough, from that interview In his suite to the time we disembarked at Tilbury, he made no reference to my having saved his life, or of the golf clubs he'd promised me as a souvenir. However, after shaking hands cordially enough before delivering himself to the officials, who'd come to meet him, he went off to his suite at Claridges, and I to my second-floor back in a side street off the Adelphi, and that was that

"I've been broke in my time— as a matter of fact, until just now, I can't remember ever having been anything else; but I've never been left so completely without a feather to fly with, as I was in the first few weeks after I came back from India. If I hadn't sold a couple of articles to the Sporting Press on the tour I should have been on parish relief.

"The trouble was, I couldn't play golf because I'd no clubs, no money to buy any, and for all his fervor of gratitude, his Royal nibs hadn't come through with his promise. A month after landing, apart from what I read about him in the papers, I'd heard nothing from him directly or indirectly. By then I was a month overdue with my rent, I'd pawned everything I had, and it was three days since I'd had anything that could be described as a meal.

"It was on the afternoon of the day my landlady had given me final notice to quit that a car that nearly blocked the street drew up at the door. When a dark-skinned six-footer In robes glittered out on to the pavement, I went down, let him in, and showed him upstairs.

"I'll say this for him, he didn't bat an eyelid; instead of an ill-furnished bed-sitting-room, he might have been received in a palace.  He bowed from the waist.

" 'His Royal Highness instructs me to express his regret that an important official engagement prevents him waiting upon you in person,' he announced impressively.

" 'An honor of which I regret to have been deprived,' I said equally formally, and there was a pause.

" 'When his Royal Highness requested you to accept some slight token of his gratitude for your heroism,' he said at last, 'you were good enough to express a wish for a few golf clubs.'

" 'Yes,' I said. 'Mine were stolen on the train.'

"He looked a bit puzzled at that, and I wondered why. However, from some recess in his robes he produced a large legal-looking envelope.

" 'His Royal Highness instructs me. further, to express his regret at the delay,' he said apologetically. 'Though matters were hurried through as expeditiously as possible, both the arrangements for purchase and the subsequent legal formalities occupied longer than he had expected.'

"Perhaps it was my look of bewilderment that took him slightly out of his stride; anyway, it was a moment before he went on.

" 'But here,' he said, pressing the packet into my hand, 'are title deeds for the Five Oaks, the Fairmead, and the Riverbank Golf Clubs. As soon as the necessary transfers are completed, those of the Fallowfield and Woodstone Clubs will follow.'"

_________________

6: Night Errant

Leslie Beresford

1878-1946

World's News (Sydney) 4 Nov 1939

BRAND'S car took the rough jungle track from the coast-port of Sarang-dhin to So-Li in the fever-foul, mosquito and snake-infested interior, eating up mile upon mile through the night. He was in two minds as to the purpose and result of the mission which had rushed him here from the gaiety and luxury of the Club at Sarang-dhin, a few hours since.

Even when, presently, he glimpsed the distant lights which told him that Warren's rail-construction camp lay close ahead, he was uncertain, after all, what line to take. He slackened speed while thinking it out, before crisis had to be faced.

All over a letter. One of few words indeed, but with too much of meaning behind them for him to have written to Warren's wife, in that folly of infatuation which she had aroused in him. She had to be blamed a little; and so, too, had Warren for bringing her to a God-forsaken spot like Sarang-dhin and then forgetting about her for long stretches, while away building his bridges and laying his track in the interior.

Why, again, should the strange adventure have occurred to that letter as it had done? Brand felt a grim amusement at the trend of it; but Eve— deathly pale and frightened— had seen it very differently.

The Chinese amah had brought it to her, she had explained, together with one just arrived from her husband, saying he was returning. Actually, as she was reading the two. Warren was with her. Quickly, for fear lest he should see it, she had slipped Brand's indiscreet epistle into the leather case containing a necklet of pearls, lying on her dressing-table at the moment. Slipped it under the blue velvet bed on which the pearls lay, the bed happening to be loose.

And what should Warren do, thinking always with that practical mind of his, but say the pearls were too precious to risk being snatched by dacoits, through lying around as they were. He had pocketed them to be deposited at the bank. Hot on this, little more than an hour later, he had been called back urgently to So-Li, because of trouble there.

Pearls still in pocket, he was gone like the wind, with Eve only gradually realising afterwards what had happened, to say nothing of its possibilities. In a frenzy of fear, she had come to Brand.

"You must go after him. Make any excuse you like, but be with him till you can get at that case. Once he sees that letter and reads it, I'm lost. That mustn't happen. It mustn't— you see? I— I love him "

And here, in the dank swampishness of So-Li, as Brand braked his car alongside the construction camp huts, came Warren— all grimed and sweated— wondering why he had turned up?

Brand pulled himself together, faintly relieved. So far, it was clear, Warren had nothing against him, for he was smiling and pally. And that he could scarcely have been, had he found the letter. It was easy for Brand, who was on government survey work, to frame an excuse for his arrival, with the request that he might stay the night.

Warren was dining— in the rough it was true— but that suited Brand, who was hungry. Yet, as they talked, he had little appetite to eat. Why— he wondered— must Warren talk so confidingly about Eve; his feeling that she ought not to be at Sarang-dhin; his fears that their separation, for such long periods, was not good for their married happiness? Was he acting, a part? Had he found and read that letter, and now was playing the cat-and-mouse game?

"You're luckier than I am, Brand. You see a great deal of her, I know," he observed, in the end and Brand guessed— half-hoped— that he was pointing the shaft he had prepared. Then, however, he said something which completely turned the tables:

"I'm glad of that, anyhow. You're a man after my own heart. Brand. While Eve's with you, I know she can come to no harm.

"Which reminds me." He thrust a hand into an inner breast-pocket of his jacket, then laughed: "A minute or so before you turned up, I found I'd done a queer thing. Coming back here in a hurry, I've brought Eve's pearls with me by mistake. Meant to put them in the bank at Sarang-dhin. They're in this case—"

Brand's fascinated eyes stared at the oblong of shiny blue leather on the table. His heart was in his mouth because of what, he knew, lay hidden in it—beneath a loose bed of blue velvet. The fingers of Warren, toying with the gilt catch, opened the lid, so that the pearls shimmered on that blue bed.

"As beautiful as Eve," he mused, for him, quite affectedly; then he closed the case, putting it back in that inner breast-pocket.

"Anyhow, they're safer with me than with Eve." He laughed lightly. "She's shockingly careless about things, as you've probably discovered by this time, Brand. Never has the least idea what she's done with them, where she's put them. One of these days, I've always told her, she'll mislay herself and get lost, too."

Brand, meanwhile, had done some quick thinking. If Warren had only discovered the case on his person within a few minutes of their meeting here, it was safe enough to conclude that he could scarcely have discovered what was in it, apart from the pearls. And here was Brand's chance to seize unexpected opportunity.

"All the same, my dear fellow, is it wise to be carrying valuable pearls about in the jungle like this?" he suggested, hand out-held. "Why not let me take charge of them, put them in your bank at Sarang-dhin for you when I get back there to-morrow?"

"Oh, why should I trouble you?" Warren laughed, declining the offer. "As a matter of fact, without being stupidly sentimental, having the pearls with me is the next best thing to having Eve along."

Just then came a native foreman, asking that Warren went with him over some trouble. Before leaving he explained that he might be some hours away and showed Brand where he could sleep.

Sleep? Under the mosquito-net on the bed, Brand listened to the din of the bull-frogs and cicadas, the nightlife of the jungle, asking only to be kept awake. He had to get at that case, though how, he did not know. It could only be, he realised, when Warren slept, and so deftly that he never knew.

And then he found he had slept after all, being suddenly awakened by Warren's voice, calling to him in high-pitched, urgent tones:

"Brand... For God's sake, come quickly...."

He was on the threshold of Warren's room in a trice, having first safeguarded himself by snatching up his gun, without which he never slept in the jungle. He crashed in on Warren, eyes blinking from sleep, wondering what on earth he would find there. He stiffened in horror.

Warren, weaponless and impotent, his back to a wall, faced an immense king cobra, which seemingly he had disturbed when making for his bed in the middle of the room. Even as Brand stood there in the doorway, the cobra's head was reared high, with its inflated hood and evil glistening eyes swaying from side to side, seeking only the moment to dart forward in that fatal bite.

Brand had only to stand where he did, doing nothing, an instant longer, and all would be over. The letter to the case would matter nothing then....

The shattered head of the cobra Sapped to and fro on the floor before Brand quite realised that he had done the only right thing. Warren, never at any moment haying shown fear, was laughing:

"Gosh, Brand... It seemed to me that hours passed before you fired. A damned good shot, too. Give me your fist. I owe my life to you."

He did, as Brand knew only too well. And now, being so much master of himself again, he wished it could remain at that. It couldn't. The danger of that indiscreet letter reared again its head, poisonous as a cobra's.

Even as he realised this, by the purest accident, Warren himself brought that matter to a head. As he talked, actually emotional in his gratitude, he was pouring out a couple of stiff whisky-pegs for them both at a table. Then he lifted up his jacket, seeking for a cigarette-case, suggesting that a smoke would steady their nerves.

And here, before Brand's startled eyes, the blue leather case crashed to the floor from the jacket's inner pocket. In crashing, somehow it opened, so that pearls and loose velvet bed scattered this way and that. With them there flattered down a folded sheet of white paper.

"Hullo, what's this? Evidently something Eve's keeping very carefully for once in a way!" Warren was saying as, retrieving the pearls and case, he picked up the paper, too, opening it out.

Brand waited in silence, aware that the moment had come. He stood silently, while Warren read the thing and watched his profile for the first visible signs of reaction. When they came, Brand was staggered. Warren was laughing softly.

"Why, it's my last letter to her. She'd just been reading it when I turned up to-day, so she said. Nice, Brand, to know that your wife treasures your letters so much as to keep them with her pearls."

__________________

7: Midnight Murder

L C Douthwaite

Sun (Sydney) 18 Sep 1941

SWINGING happily down the Essex country road on that early morning of mid-summer, the young man in the worn but admirably cut suit pulled up abruptly in his stride. Some way ahead, a postern gate in the high stone wall crashed open; a girl projected herself through, ran towards him at speed. Her breath was coming in short, hard jerks as they met, so that she had difficulty in speaking, and at the back of the intensely blue eyes in the loveliest face he had ever seen was a horror that had the effect of quickening his never inactive sympathy.

Something drastically wrong here he had no difficulty in deciding. Clad in dressing-gown and pyjamas, a girl doesn't rush from a house to the king's highway at crack of dawn just to take the air.

"What," he inquired gently, "might be the trouble?"

Still regarding him with that searching, appraising glance, she did not immediately reply. Then:—

"Tell me, first, who you are," she said uncertainly, but with intense urgency. Her voice, low-pitched and faintly husky, marched in beauty with all about her. An odd request, perhaps, from a girl in such a hurry of confusion — but coming, obviously, from one who had recently suffered an overwhelming shock— one who sought, instinctively, like a child in the dark, for a certainty of help and protection in a world suddenly thrown out of gear.

"My name," he said, striking what, he hoped was a reassuringly friendly  note, "is Lance Cotswold. I'm on a walking tour, and like to cover most of my daily mileage in the cool of early morning."

More her own mistress now, she drew a long, deep breath. "I wonder if you'll come up to the house," she said with a steadiness at which, in view of her condition a moment before, he took off his hat. He placed a steadying hand on her arm. Unless he was mistaken, she was not far from breaking point.

"Lead on," he said quietly. But she did not lead on; only continued to look intently up into his face.

"You'll come— and haven't even asked me for what?" she demanded.

"For what?" inquired obediently.

"Murder," she said steadily. That, he had to agree, was startling enough. Authentic, as well, if the suddenly-accentuated fear that flashed into her eyes was any criterion. His clasp about her aim lightened.

"No wonder you toll you'd like a spot of help," he said fervently, as they moved off. "Tell me, who is the— the victim?"

"I'll tell you that and everything else." she returned definitely. "Usually and apart from a couple of maids who come in each day from the village, our household consists of Lord Peveril, who's my grandfather— I'm Unity Peveril, by the way— Mr. O'Dowd, his secretary; Ames, the butler"— he noticed her voice was uncertain again in speaking this last name— "and Mrs. Furnival, the housekeeper.

"Yesterday my grandfather left for London on business. Later, saying he would be back about one o'clock, Mr. Dowd drove up to go to a theatre.

"Something must have kept him, however, because there was no reply when I knocked at his door Just now, and when I went inside the room was empty, and the bed hadn't been slept in."

"That means there was only the butler, the housekeeper and yourself in the house?" Lance inquired.

She nodded.

"That's all," she confirmed, "and Mrs. Furnival, the house-keeper, is stone deaf....

"Well, I dined at the usual time, and as I was thinking of motoring over to see a friend near Whitstable to-day, went early to bed.

"I slept soundly until— I suppose— about twenty minutes or half an hour ago. Then, quite suddenly, I was awakened by a scream, followed almost immediately by a shot.... Horrible!"

Momentarily she covered her eyes with the crook of her elbow; he felt a shudder pass through the slim body he was supporting.

"No need to tell me any more; I'll see for myself," he said definitely, and glanced at her covertly. He hoped she wasn't going to faint. "Furthermore," he added, more firmly still, "you'll wait outside while I have a look-see."

He left her on a seat at the foot of a shallow flight of steps overlooking the lawns and parkland, ran from the terrace that fronted the low-built, wine-red Jacobean manor, thrust open the heavy entrance door, and passed into the hall beyond.

If by no means the first he had seen, the body of the dressing-gowned, ultra-respectable-looking, slightly paunchy man of late middle-age, that lay sprawling within six feet of the entrance, was by far the most terrible. For the blood that had flowed from the shot-wound in the temple had horribly crimsoned the face below. He had no difficulty in deciding that on no account mast the body be moved until it had been examined by the police.

Meantime, there was there was a chance the murderer might still be on the premises, it would be as well to make a tour of the house.

There was no sign of anyone about the ground-floor rooms, nor, except for the one that so obviously was Unity's, In those of the first floor either. On the attic floor, however, the bedclothes in the murdered man's room were tumbled, as if from a hasty exit. All but one of the other doors on this landing were ajar, the rooms themselves giving every appearance of disuse. The remaining door he opened quietly and as cautiously glanced inside.

Breathing heavily, a stout middle-aged woman occupied the bed, and she did not stir at the intrusion. The deaf housekeeper, obviously, and Lance did not disturb her.

As he closed the door behind him he heard a car turn into the drive gates. He dashed down the stairs to find Unity on the point of mounting the steps from the lawn.

"Who can that be?" he demanded.

"Mr. O'Dowd," said Unity, as a brightly-colored two-seater turned from the drive to the terrace. Lance raised his eyebrows. O'Dowd! This was the secretary— he had not forgotten Unity's hurried description of her grandfather's ménage— who had been to the theatre.

All his senses alert, Lance instinctively braced himself for a meeting that he felt was to be significant.

ii

THOUGH at first glance the man who climbed down from the driving-seat was pleasant-faced enough, compactly built, sandy haired and fresh complexioned, Lance had rarely seen one for whom he felt such an instinctive dislike. Later, he realised the cause of that aversion to have been something  inherently untrustworthy behind the ever-smiling eyes.

On the point of opening the front door, O'Dowd turned at Unity's hall to hurry across the terrace to meet her.

"Whatever are you doing— like this— at this time in the morning?" he cried, with an amazed glance at her costume and an equally astonished but more assimilative one at Lance.

"Ames has been murdered," Unity said steadily. "I— I called in this gentleman to— to help me."

Watching him intently, Lance saw a swift ebbing of color from O'Dowd's face, leaving it an odd greyish tint, and, somehow, older than before.

"Who killed him?" he gasped.

"That," Lance broke in levelly, "remains to be discovered," adding, "And the best thing we can do is to call up Scotland Yard to find out,"

"No!" The Irishman's voice was emphatic, too emphatic, to Lance's thinking. "I'll phone the local police," and without further word went into the house.

"In that case," Unity said, "as probably Sergeant Barnes will come along straight away, I'd better get into some clothes."

"O.K.," agreed Lance, who suddenly remembered the telephone-box in the hall of the inn where he had spent the night.

AFTER Unity had left him, he strolled as if casually to the turn of the terrace— and after that, under cover of the trees that lined the drive, made flat-out for the road. With the "Rising Falcon" only a mile away, there was. Every chance of carrying out his intention and being back at the house before he was missed.

At a point where the trees thinned out, however, something happened which had the effect of changing his intention. A bullet whistled a foot above his head from a shot that came from the parkland to his right. He stopped abruptly; cowered down until he was concealed by the clump of bushes nearby, and took a quick observation between the branches. Anyone who thought himself at liberty to take pot-shots at the Honorable Lancelot Cotswold was going to find reason to change his opinion.

The first shock of surprise that he had felt at this unexpected— and unprovoked— attack had quickly given place to a feeling of annoyance, untinged by fear, if tempered with a natural caution. He had apparently stumbled on to a first-class criminal mystery— and if this was the way the game was to be played he could learn the rules as well as his unknown opponent.

The first thing to discover was; Who was he up against? He did not have to look far... surely that shadowy figure among the trees....

YES, there the sharpshooter was, a rather meagre, dark-clad figure, lurking behind the oak with the bare trunk and withered branches, as if at some distant period it had been blasted by lightning. There was a dried stick lying nearby. Lance collected it, removed his hat, and used the stick to raise it at arm's length above the foliage.

A second shot rang out, missing the hat by inches. Lance lowered the hat. changed the stick into his other hand, and raised the hat above the bush at the farther side. This time the shot was even closer.

Then, after four more attempts. one of which drilled a neat hole through the crown, Lance took the chance for which all along he had been working. He knew quite a lot about guns, and unless he was mistaken— in which case he ran the risk of being very unlucky indeed— those bullets had come from a seven-shot automatic.

It was up to him, then, to get to grips before the would-be murderer had time to slip a fresh clip into the breech. Within a split-second of the last discharge he was out of his concealment and racing across the open. As he ran, he noticed the figure hesitate, fumbling with the pistol— then the cartridge clip slid through the fingers and fell to the ground. With Lance now so close as to leave no time either to retrieve it or to pull another clip From his pocket, the assailant turned and sped like a hare towards the roadside hedge. He could run, as well; a good half-miler himself in his time, Lance lost ground with every yard they covered. His quarry was through the hedge and running towards a secondary road that turned from the highway a little further on, while Lance was yet forcing a way between the branches. It was as, at last, he jumped down to the tarmac, and was on the point of taking up the pursuit, that, in sheer surprise, he checked himself.

From behind a tree a few yards in advance of the fugitive emerged another figure, gaunt and lank, to stand directly and menacingly in his path.

THAT was the moment when Lance had to take off his hat to the fugitive as one of the quickest thinkers of his experience. With Lance to cut off retreat from the rear, there was only one way by which he could hope to reach the wide spaces. Without even checking in his stride, he hurled the heavy automatic directly into the face of the man confronting him. With the butt smashing hard into his temple, the gaunt figure fell face forward to the ground and there lay motionless.

Without halting in his stride, the other man ran on; turned down the secondary road, and was lost to sight. Even as Lance paused, hesitating whether to continue the chase or to give first-aid to the victim, there was the sound of a starting car; of that car travelling at speed down the secondary road. The decision thus taken out of his hands.

Lance bent over the motionless figure in the road; turned him over. At sight of the bony, strongly-featured face, and for the moment. expressionless eye. he started back.

"For the love of Mike, he cried, "if it isn't Inspector Parrot!"

iii

AS if aroused by the sound of Lance's cry, the gaunt figure stirred, and in a few minutes the glazed eyes cleared.

"Take it easy," Lance said reassuringly.

"Twenty years In the service, apprehender of seven murderers, and put down for the count by a cretin like Chimp McFadden," he murmured disgustedly, and sat up. "However, many thanks for your Good Samaritan act. What are you doing in this part of the country, anyway?"

"What I set off for was a walking-tour over the far-famed English countryside," Lance replied grimly. "What, actually, I've run into is a perfectly good murder. That's why I was on the way to 'phone you."

"Glad I happened to be available," Parrot remarked ironically, getting to his feet as he spoke. He eyed Lance shrewdly.

"Who exactly has been murdered?" he demanded.

"Lord Peveril's butler," Lance, replied, and for a moment the eyes that looked into his own were hard as agate, and the mobile mouth grim.

"Is that so!" Parrot said slowly at last.

"And I've just chased away a man who, apparently, you know as Chimp McFadden, from just near the house," Lance reminded him significantly.

Parrot nodded a gaunt head.

"I'll put in an 'All Stations' call for Chimp as soon as I get to a telephone," he responded. "I know the number of his car, anyway— for what that's worth. Now you shall lake me to me body."

As they were walking up the drive, a car turned in at the gates. The driver, a stocky, grey-haired, red-faced man with the immaculate grooming of the retired Army man of the old school, pulled up as he drew alongside, regarded them narrowly from keen-sighted eyes.

"Lord Peveril?" Parrot Inquired, and the other nodded.

"And you?" he demanded shortly. Watching him as he glanced at the card the detective handed over. Lance saw his face stiffen.

"And your business here?" Lord Peveril demanded.

"To investigate the murder of your butler," the Inspector said with what Lance could not but consider an unnecessary bluntness.

Well as the older man had himself in hand, there was no doubt as to the effect of this. The face drained of color, there was sheer horror and what seemed genuine grief in the deeply-set eyes.

"Ames— murdered!" he whispered, and superimposed on any other emotion was a consuming anger. "A servant— and friend, of over thirty years standing! I'll find out who's responsible if it costs me a thousand pounds!"

"Shot through the head," Parrot confirmed, and gestured towards Lance. "Mr. Cotswold, a friend of mine who happened to be in the neighborhood."

"We'd— we'd better get up to the house," Lord Peveril muttered and with a nod of acknowledgment towards Lance, let in the clutch of the car and continued down the drive at speed.

Nor was he there to meet them when they reached the house, for— except for the dead man— the hall was empty. Further, and to Lance's surprise, Lord Peveril's car was the only one on the terrace, for the one in which O'Dowd had arrived was there no longer.

There was, however, a telephone in the far corner, and without more than a quick glance at the murdered man, Parrot went over to it. He was quickly put through to the local police station, where he made the necessary arrangements, and he was making an examination of the body when Lord Peveril appeared at the head of the stairs.

"I'd like a word, please, with the lady— your granddaughter. I understand— who made the discovery," Parrot announced levelly. "Also with your secretary."

There was a perceptible pause before Lord Peveril replied. "I will tell my granddaughter," he said, "but I'm afraid Mr. O'Dowd is not available."

Parrot's bony face was expressionless. as he said, sharply: "How do you mean, not available?"

"Mr. O'Dowd is neither in his own suite, nor, so far as I can discover, anywhere about the house," the older man said.

Parrot, thought, for a moment. "I must ask your lordship to join me here," he said at last.

The inspector picked up the photo and turned to Lance. "Perhaps you'll be good enough to fetch Miss Peveril."

NEITHER Parrot nor Lord Peveril was In the hall when Lance came down a few minutes later, but voices came to him through an open door in the far corner.

"May I ask the purpose or your Lordship's visit to London?" Parrot was saying as Lance entered the low-ceilinged, book-lined room.

"No secret about it!" Lord Peveril replied purposefully. "When I returned from there a few days ago. and discovered I'd lost a book I set considerable store by, I telephoned one or two places where I might have left it— my club, the Army and Navy Stores, and so on— but, as there was no result, I drove up to try to trace it for myself."

Following on one of his slow, unrevealing nods, Parrot's hand went to a pocket in the lining of his jacket, to produce a volume, ancient of binding, and of somewhat unusual shape.

"Is that the one?" he inquired levelly.

"Most certainly it is!" Suddenly the deeply-set eyes narrowed. "May I ask how it came to be in your possession?"

"No secret about that, either," the detective responded easily. "You left it in the taxi, and the cabman turned it over to the Lost Property Office."

"But— but— when I called at the Lost Property Office yesterday, they said they had no information," Lord Peveril protested.

"Naturally they were acting on my instructions when they handed the book over to me," Parrot replied conversationally.

If the look of surprise that came Into Lord Peveril's face was not genuine, then Lance decided, the stage had been deprived of an uncommonly clever actor.

"But why hand it over to you?" the peer demanded. "Except that it's old, and that it was the product of a Press in which I happen to be interested, there's nothing especially unusual about It."

Parrot did not so much smile as that his features underwent a certain relaxation.

"Except that it's printed on paper of precisely similar size and texture to that of the present Bank of England notes," he said quietly.

iv

FOR a moment Lord Peveril stared blankly into the detective's unrevealing face. Then, feverishly, he turned the pages of the book in a hand that now was not quite steady.

"And to think that, oddly familiar as the paper has always struck me, I never noticed the resemblance," he exclaimed at last, and went on to explain that though he was interested only in the subject-matter of the one in his hand, he had bought the dozen volumes that were issued at the end of the 18th century by the short-lived Queen Anne press in one lot at a country house sale a few weeks before.

"What happened to the other eleven volumes??"

"I put 'em on the shelf over there, and never looked at them since," Lord Peveril explained. Parrot went over; withdrew the volumes; examined them one by one.

"Take a look at them," he said shortly, and Lord Peveril saw that every page had been cut out of each volume of the eleven.

"But— but!" his lordship spluttered, his face turkey-red. "Who's responsible for this?"

"Does your lordship happen to possess a photograph of that secretary of yours?" Parrot inquired interestedly.

"O'Dowd?"

"O'Dowd?" Lord Peveril glanced keenly at the inspector through narrowed eyes, and at something he read in that usually unrevealing face.

"You don't mean that he— he—"

Parrot interrupted. "Tell me, Lord Peveril, was there any very keen competition for those twelve volumes at the sale?"

"Not at the sale," the peer replied. "Actually, they fetched only a few shillings. But after they'd been knocked down to me, a man came panting up— explained that his train was late from London, and he'd missed his way from the station— and offered anything in or out of reason for my bargain. As I liked neither the man nor his manner, I told him to clear off."

PARROT'S nod was as if at confirmation of his own thoughts.

"I see," he said comfortably. "And shortly afterwards you engaged O'Dowd?"

This time It was Lord Peveril's turn to nod.

"Actually, he practically engaged himself," he confirmed. "Said he was deeply interested In archaeology— that, of course, is my pet subject— and he'd be glad to give his services in exchange for instruction.

"As his references were satisfactory, and I happened to be in want of a secretary with some knowledge of the subject, I agreed to give him a trial."

He opened one of the drawers of the desk and produced an album.

"I've a couple of snaps of him here," he said. Only, on turning the pages, to discover blank spaces where those photographs should have been.

"A quick thinker and worker— that feller," Parrot murmured, not without a certain admiration. He turned to Lance. "Miss Peveril coming?"

Lance, however, shook his head. "She was not in her room." he said. "I know, because when there was no reply to my knock, I opened the door and glanced inside."

"Not in her room!" Lord Peveril's voice was sharp; he went into the hall and shouted for her but there was no reply. When he returned to the library his face was anxious.

"With O'Dowd missing as well, this is something I don't like the look of," he announced in a strained voice.

"Neither do I." the detective agreed decisively, to Lance's consternation. "The best thing we can do now is make a tour of the house."

He turned to Lance. "Meantime, you might see If O'Dowd's car is in the garage."

Lance hurried to obey, and there the car was.

PUZZLED that the Irishman made his escape on foot when there was a good car available, and more than a little anxious, Lance returned to the house. As he could hear the others moving from room to room upstairs, he made a tour of the ground floor and outhouses. There was, however, no sign either of O'Dowd or of Unity, and by the time he had satisfied himself of this. Lord Peveril and Parrot were in the hall again.

"But where can she have gone!" the former protested when he had heard Lance's report. "Especially as since her day clothes were folded as she took them off last night, she must still be in pyjamas."

There was the sound of a car drawing up outside, and a moment later a knock at the door.

"That'll be Sergeant Barnes," Parrot pronounced, and crossed the hall to admit the newcomers. And at sight of the slight, narrow-faced figure who occupied the back seat of the car between two heavyweight uniformed police, the Scotland Yard man's lace relaxed.

"Well, if it isn't Chimp McFadden!" he exclaimed, welcomingly, and turned to the local sergeant, a red-faced, heavily-built man who Lance was not long in deciding was more shrewd than he looked.

"Where did you pick him up, sergeant?"

It was, however, the prisoner who replied.

"Reg'lar Sherlock 'Olmes, 'e is," he sneered. "Guessed I'd make for London, an' put a cordon across a road!"

He grinned unpleasantly at Parrot. "That's a nice bump you're wearin' on your fore'ead."

"Very nice," the inspector agreed. "And if the ballistic expert reports that the bullet I shall send him was fired from the weapon that made the lump, believe me, Chimp, you've uttered your last counterfeit note."

There was a cold note in the detective's voice which chilled Lance's blood and made him feel almost sorry for Chimp McFadden— although he now recognised him as the murderous sharpshooter who had nearly put finis to his own amateur investigations into the mystery of the midnight murder.

The crook, however, only shrugged his narrow shoulders.

"I'm for the high jump, all right," he rejoined, with a certain cold philosophy, and returned Parrot's searching look. "But listen! I'm not taking it all by myself... If my— my partner'd been here at the time he said, that butler feller'd be alive now, an we'd've made our getaway with the goods."

"How do you mean, your partner?" Parrot demanded, suppressing eagerness. "And where is he, anyway?"

The prisoner gave a hard, short laugh. "Slush Bastow's the partner," he said. "As for where he is now— what about taking a look at the Priest's Hole?"

v

WHILE Parrot smiled grimly as at something that confirmed his own idea, Lord Peveril showed complete astonishment.

"What do you mean Priest's Hole?" he barked, and the crook gave another of those short, hard laughs.

"Take me upstairs, and I'll show you something you don't know about your own blinkin' house," he said contemptuously.

"I knew you were teamed up with Slush, of course," Parrot remarked as they filed upstairs. "Those notes that have been flooding the market these last few months carried Slush's trademark as well, but until now we haven't been able to trace you. "But when a certain book was handed to me by the lost property office, I knew if I came here and waited, I'd drop across you sooner or later...."

Leading the way, Chimp passed through the secretary's comfortably furnished sitting-room to the bedroom beyond, that was smaller, oak-panelled to the ceiling, and with a wide, old-fashioned hearth surmounted by a high carved mantelpiece, and set in a frame patterned in carved Tudor roses.

Signing to Parrot to take a position immediately to the side, Chimp turned the rose nearest the wall with a sharp twist to the left— and it was from that moment things began to happen.

The section of panelling immediately facing Parrot swung inward, disclosing three steps down to a room, small and windowless. furnished with chairs, table, bench— and sink.

ON the table were laid out a complete set of engraver's tools, stones and inks; on the bench, chemicals, acids, trays, drying racks. All these things, however, the inspector noted only subconsciously.

Bound tightly to a chair pushed back against the wall was Unity Peveril. On his feet at the other side of the table was Slush Bastow, alias Terence O'Dowd. The heavy calibre revolver in his hand, and the concentrated malignity on that forger's face, told Parrot that business only was meant.

Not, however, that he was given any time for contemplation, for the next moment, impelled by a violent push from behind, he was sent sprawling in an untidy heap at Bastow's feet; simultaneously, with a flying leap, the handcuffed Chimp was in the room and sheltering behind his fellow-criminal.

Lance, who now occupied the doorway, guessed that O'Dowd intended to shoot his way to freedom before the S.O.S. could be sent for reinforcements. That actually this was O'Dowd's intention was proved by the pressure of his finger on the trigger and the quick rising of the revolver's hammer.

Which was the instant when, in one incredibly rapid movement, Unity brought her tightly-bound feet from the floor to the edge of the table, and with one convulsive heave thrust that table hard against the forger's thigh.

The revolver exploded harmlessly in the air. O'Dowd was thrown staggering against the wall. With one leap Lance was down the steps, had seized the hand that held the revolver. And as his other hand met O'Dowd's jaw, and the forger went down, Chimp brought his handcuffed hands with considerable force to the top of Lance's head, and he went down as well.

By then, however, the red-faced Sergeant Barnes had taken a hand. For he, too, took a flying leap down the steps, and as Chimp turned hit him on the head with a truncheon, and that made three on the floor,

THEN Barnes collected the revolver, handcuffed the slowly recovering O'Dowd.

"Keep those two covered in case they start anything fresh," he Instructed, cut Unity's bonds, and helped her to her feet.

"There'll be an illuminated address of thanks to you, young lady, I shouldn't wonder," he remarked admiringly, but Unity was on her knees beside Lance.

"Just a nice egg-shaped bruise to match the one on Inspector Parrot's forehead," he told her reassuringly, as he got to his feet.

Inspector Parrot took charge when the prisoners had collected their senses, hustled them out of Priest's Hole, and in charge of Sergeant Barnes and the two policemen, into the car for delivery at the local police station.

"A good game while it lasted, Slush," Parrot remarked to O'Dowd. "And ingenious the way you deleted the print from those pages to leave what for all practical purposes was a blank bank note. Incidentally, how did you come to discover that Priest's Hole?"

The ex-secretary scowled,

"Because I set out to look for it," he said sullenly. "Practically all the houses in Catholic ownership had one about that time." He turned a malignant look to his fellow-prisoner. "And if you hadn't broken in to get the 'slush' for yourself, instead of waiting till I showed up like I'd always done before," he added savagely, "you wouldn't have been for the nine o'clock walk.... Didn't it enter your thick head that my car might have broken down?"

"As I didn't take over the house until my uncle's death a couple of years ago," Lord Peveril explained as they returned to the house, I'd no idea the Priest's Hole ever existed."

He turned to Unity. "How did you happen to find yourself there, my dear?" he demanded, and she smiled ruefully.

"When O'Dowd came upstairs, I followed to ask why he was so keen not to communicate with Scotland Yard," she replied. "When I got to the sitting-room, to my amazement, he wasn't there. Then there was a bump from the other side of the wall— I found out later he'd dropped one of his plates, When I went over, the panel wasn't quite shut, and there he was, inside, hiding, till the coast was clear. He dragged me inside, and that was that."

Lance laid his hand on her arm.

"I haven't thanked you for saving my life," he said, and the look she shot at him sent his heart rocketing into his throat.

"Tell me all about it when we're alone," she replied, below her breath.

_____________________

8: The Return

Stacy Aumonier
1877-1928

The Century Magazine, Apr 1918

I OUGHT, perhaps, in the first place, to explain that I am, or rather was, a librarian at the suburban library of Chadstow Heath. When I first received this important appointment my salary was eighty pounds a year, but after six years' assiduous application to my duties it was advanced to one hundred and twenty pounds a year. I am married and have two children, and we lived in Gentian Villa, which is convenient to the library and barely ten minutes' walk from the heath itself. This may not represent to you a condition of material prosperity, but I would venture to point out that all these matters are entirely comparative. To a successful sugar broker or a popular comedian I must appear in the light of a pauper. To my own family I have always appeared to be something of a plutocrat. For you must know that I owe my education and whatever advancement I may have made to my own efforts at a national school, and the privileges of continuation classes. My father was a small greengrocer, and his family, which was a very large one and peculiarly prolific, has in no instance except my own risen above the social standard that he set for us. I hope this statement of mine will not sound priggish. It is simply a very bald assertion of truth. All my relatives are dear good people; it is simply that they do not, and never have, taken any interest in what is called education. My brother Albert is a greengrocer, as our father was, and he has seven children. Richard is in a leather-seller's shop. He earns more money than I did, but he has eleven children. Christopher is a packer at the Chadstow Heath Emporium. God has blessed him with three small offspring. Will is unmarried, and I couldn't tell you quite what he does. He is something of a black sheep. My sister Nancy is married— alas! unhappily— to a worthless traveler in cheap jewelry. She has two children. Laura is the wife of an elderly Baptist who keeps a tobacco kiosk on Meadway. She is childless. Louie, my favorite sister, is not married, but she has a child. But her tragedy does not concern this story.

In fact, the details of the entities neither of myself nor of my brothers and sisters are of very great importance in what I want to tell you, beyond the fact that they will give you a clue to the amazing flutter among us that accompanied the appearance of our Uncle Herbert when he arrived from Africa. The truth is that I believe that every one of us had entirely forgotten all about him. Albert and I had a vague recollection of having heard our father refer to a delicate young brother who bolted to South Africa when he was a young man, and had not been heard of since.

But, lo and behold! he turned up one evening suddenly at Gentian Villa when my sister Louie and her child were paying us a visit. At first I thought he was some impostor, and I was almost on the point of warning my wife to keep an eye on the silver butter-dish and the fish-knives which we always displayed with a certain amount of pride on our dining-room sideboard.

He was a little, wizened old man with a bald head and small beady eyes. He had a way of sucking in his lips and continually nodding his head. He was somewhat shabbily dressed except for a heavy gold watch and chain. He appeared to be intensely anxious to be friendly with us all. He got the names and addresses of the whole family from me, and stated that he was going to settle down and live somewhere in London.

When one had got over his nervy, fussy way of behaving, there was something about the little man that was rather lovable. He stayed a couple of hours and promised to call again the next day. We laughed about him after he had gone, and, as relatives will, discussed his possible financial position. We little dreamed of the surprising difference Uncle Herbert was going to make to us all.

He called on all the family in rotation, and wherever he went he took little presents and made himself extremely affable and friendly. He told us that he had bought a house and was having it "done up a bit." And then, to our surprise, we discovered that he had bought "Silversands," which, as you know, is one of the largest houses on Chadstow Heath. It is, as Albert remarked, "more like a palace," a vast red-brick structure standing in its own grounds, which are surrounded by a high wall.

I shall never forget the day when we were all, including the children, invited to go and spend the afternoon and evening. We wandered about the house and garden spellbound, doubting how to behave, and being made to feel continually self-conscious by the presence of some half-dozen servants. It would be idle to pretend that the house was decorated in the best of taste. It was lavish in every sense of the word. The keynote was an almost exuberant gaiety. It was nearly all white woodwork or crimson mahogany, with brilliant floral coverings. Masses of naturalistic flowers rose at you from the carpet and the walls. And the electric lights! I've never in my life seen so many brackets and electroliers. I do not believe there was a cubic foot of space in the house that was not brightly illuminated. And in this gay setting Uncle Herbert became the embodiment of hospitality itself, about among us, shaking hands, patting the heads of the children, passing trays of rich cakes and sandwiches. The younger children were sent home early in the evening, laden with toys, and we elders stayed on to supper. And, heavens! what a supper it was! The table was covered with lobster salads and cold turkey and chicken and ham and everything one could think of. On the side-table were rows of bottles of beer and claret and stout and whisky, and as if a concession to the social status of his guests, uncle dismissed the servants, and we waited on ourselves. The little man sat at the head of the table and blinked and nodded and winked at us, and he kept on repeating:

"Now, boys and girls, enjoy yourselves. Albert, cut a bit o' fowl for Nancy. 'Erbert, my boy, pass the 'am to yer aunt."

Uncle was the life and soul of the party, and it need hardly be said that we soon melted to his mood. I observed that he himself ate very little and did not drink at all. For an oldish man, whose digestion was probably not what it had been, this was not a very remarkable phenomenon. I should probably not have commented upon it but for the fact that it was the first personal trait of my uncle that arrested my attention, and that, in conjunction with more peculiar characteristics, caused me to keep a closer watch upon him in the days that followed. For this supper-party was but the nucleus of a series of supper-parties. It was given out that "Silversands" was an open house. We were all welcome at any time. Uncle was never so happy as when the house was full of laughing children, or when his large circle of relatives chattered round the groaning board and ate and drank the prodigal delicacies he supplied. Not only were we welcome, but any friends we cared to take were welcome also. I have known thirty-three of us to sit down to supper there on a Sunday evening. On these occasions all the house was lighted up, and, in fact, I have no recollection of going there when every electric light and fitting was not fulfilling its utmost function.

Apart from abstemiousness, the characteristic of uncle which immediately gripped my attention was what I will call abstraction.

It was, indeed, a very noticeable characteristic. He had a way of suddenly shrinking within himself and apparently being oblivious to his surroundings. He would make some gay remark and then suddenly stop and stare into space, and if you spoke to him, he would not answer for some moments.

Another peculiarity was that he would never speak of Africa or of his own affairs. He had a convenient deafness that assailed him at awkward moments. He seemed to be in a frenzy of anxiety to be always surrounded by his own family and the ubiquitous electric lights. When the house was quite in order I do not think he went out at all except into the garden.

He was scrupulously impartial in his treatment of us all; in fact he had a restless, impersonal way of distributing his favors as though he were less interested in us as individual persons as anxious to surround himself with a loving and sympathetic atmosphere. Nevertheless,—and it may quite possibly have been an illusion,—I always felt that he leaned a little more toward me than toward the others, perhaps because I was called after him. He always called me " 'Erb, boy," and there were times when he seemed instinctively to draw me apart as though he wanted to hide behind me. Realizing his disinclination to indulge in personal explanation, I respected the peculiarity and talked of impersonal things or remained silent.

It was, I think, Albert who was the most worried by uncle's odd tricks. I remember he came to me one night in the smoking-room after a particularly riotous supper-party, and he said:

"I say, 'Erbert,"—all my family call me 'Erbert,—"what I 'd like to know is, what is uncle staring at all the time?"

I knew quite well what he meant, but I pretended not to, and Albert continued:

"Of course it 's all right. It 's no business of ours, but it 's a very rum thing. He laughs and talks and suddenly he leaves off and then he stares—and stares—and stares into space."

I mumbled something about uncle's age and his memory wandering, but Albert was not to be satisfied and he whispered:

"How do you think the old boy made his money? Why don't he never say anything about it?"

I could offer no satisfactory explanation, and we dropped the subject. But a month or so later our interests were all set more vividly agog by uncle's behavior, for he suddenly expressed his determination not merely to entertain us as usual, but to help us in a more substantial way. He bought and stocked a new shop for Albert, He set Richard up in business and gave Christopher a partnership in it. He paid Will's passage out to Canada and gave him two hundred pounds to start on. (I believe Will had already been trying to borrow money from him, with what result I do not know.) He offered me some light secretarial work to do for him in my spare time, for which he agreed to pay me sixty pounds a year. As for the girls, he bought them a life annuity bringing them in fifty pounds a year.

I need hardly say that this new development created considerable joy and sensation in our family, and our interest in and respect for Uncle Herbert became intense. I felt very keen to start on my "light secretarial duties," and at the back of my mind was the thought that now I should have an opportunity to get some little insight into uncle's affairs. But in this I was disappointed. He only asked me to go on two evenings a week, and then it was to help check certain expenses in connection with the household, and also to begin collecting a library for him. I made no further progress of an intimate nature. The next step of progression in this direction, indeed, was made by Albert, somewhat under cover of the old adage, in vino Veritas. For on the night after Albert's new shop was opened we all supped at uncle's, and Albert, I 'm afraid, got a little drunk. He was, in any case, very excited and garrulous, and he and Christopher and I met in the smoking-room late in the evening, and Albert was very mysterious. I would like to reproduce what he said in his own words. He shut the door carefully and tiptoed across the room.

"Look here, boys," he said. "The old man beats me. There 's something about all this I don't like."

"Don't be a fool," I remarked. "What 's the trouble?"

Albert walked restlessly up and down the room; then he said:

"I've been watching all the evening. He gets worse. I begin to feel frightened by him at moments. To-night when they were all fooling about, I happened to stroll through the conservatory, and suddenly I comes across uncle. He was sitting all alone, his elbows on his knees, staring into space. ' 'Ullo, Uncle!' I says. He starts and trembles like, and then he says, ' 'Ullo, Albert, my boy!' I says, 'You feeling all right. Uncle?' and he splutters about and says: 'Yes, yes, I 'm all right. 'Ow do yer think your business'll go, Albert?' he says. I felt in a queer sort of defiant mood—I 'd had nearly half a bottle of port—and suddenly I says straight out, 'What sort of place is Africa, Uncle?' His little eyes blazed at me for a moment, and I thought he was going to lose his temper. Then he stops, and gives a sort of whimper, and sinks down again on his knees. He made a funny noise as if he was goin' to cry. Then he says in that husky voice: 'Efrica? Efrica? Oh, Efrica 's a funny place, Albert. It 's big—' He stretched out his little arms, and sat there as though he was dreamin'. Then he continues, 'In the cities it 's struggle and struggle and struggle, one man 'gainst another, no mercy, no quarter.' And suddenly he caught hold of my arm and he says, 'You can't help it, can yer, Albert, if one man gets on, and another man goes under?' I didn't know what to say, and he seems to shrink away from me, and he stops and he stares and stares and stares, and then he says in a kind of whisper: 'Then you get out on the plains—and it 's all silent—and you 're away up in the karoo, and there 's just the great stone slabs—and nothing but yer solitude and yer thoughts and the moon above. And it is all so still—' Then he stops again, and suddenly raises his little arm and points. Christ! for all the world as though he was pointin' at somethin' 'appenin' out there on the karoo!"

Christopher rose from his seat and walked to the window. He was pale.

"Don't be a fool, Albert," he said. "What does it matter? Ain't 'e done you all right? Ain't 'e set you up in the green-grocery?"

Albert looked wildly round, and licked the end of a cigarette which had gone out.

"I don't see that there 's anything we can do," I remarked unconvincingly.

Albert wiped his brow.

"No," he argued; "it ain't our business. It 's only that sometimes I—"

He did not finish his remark, and we three brothers looked at one another furtively.

And then began one of those curious telepathic experiences that play so great a part in the lives of all of us. I have complained that none of my brothers or sisters showed any leaning toward education or mental advancement of any sort, but I have not perhaps insisted that despite this it was one of our boasts that we were an honest family. Even Will, despite his recklessness and certain vicious traits, had always played the game. Albert and Richard and Christopher had been perilously poor, but I do not believe that they would have ever acted in a deliberately dishonest or mean fashion. I don't think I would myself, although I had had perhaps rather less temptation. And despite our variety of disposition and trade, we were a fairly united family. We understood one another.

The advent of Uncle Herbert and his peculiar behavior reacted upon us unfavorably. With the accession of this unexpected wealth and security we became suspicious of one another. Moreover, when we brothers met together after the evening I have just described, we looked at one another half knowingly, and the slogan, "It ain't no business of mine," became charged with the acid of mutual recrimination. As far as possible we avoided any intimate discussion, and kept the conversation on a detached plane. We were riotously merry, unduly affectionate, and, according to all the rules of the game, undeniably guilty.

What was uncle staring at? I would sometimes wake up in the night and begin feverishly visualizing all sorts of strange and untoward episodes. What were these haunting fears at the back of his mind? Why was he so silent on the primal facts of his position? I knew that in their individual ways all my brothers and sisters were undergoing a similar period of trial. I could tell by their eyes.

The naked truth kept jogging our elbows, that this money from which we were benefiting, that brought us SO much pleasure and comfort, had been acquired in some dishonest way or even over the corpse of some tragic episode.

He spent nearly all his time in the garden, dividing it into little circles and oblongs and triangles of geranium-beds, and at the bottom he had a rock garden, and fruit trees on the south wall. He seemed to know a lot about it.

In the winter he stayed indoors, and became frailer and more pathetic in his manner, and more dependent upon our society. It is difficult to know how much he followed the effects of his liberality. He developed a manner of asking one excitedly all about one's affairs and then not listening to the reply. If he had observed things closely he would have noted that in nearly every case his patronage had had unfortunate results. Richard and Christopher quarreled and dissolved their partnership. Albert's business failed. Nancy's husband threw up his work and led a frankly depraved life on the strength of his wife's settled income. An adventurer named Ben Cotton married my sister Louie, obviously because she had a little money. Laura quarreled with her husband, the Baptist, and on the strength of her new independence left him, and the poor man hanged himself a few months later.

To all these stories of misadventure and trouble Uncle Herbert listened with a great show of profuse sympathy, but it was patent that their real significance did not get through to him. He always acted lavishly and impulsively. He set Albert up in business again. He started both Christopher and Richard independently. He gave the girls more money, and sent a preposterous wreath to the Baptist's funeral. He did not seem to mind what he did for us, provided we continued to laugh and jest round his generous board.

It is curious that this cataclysm in our lives affected Albert more than any of us. Perhaps because he was in his way more temperamental. He began to lose a grip on his business and to drink.

He came to me one night in a very excited state. It appeared that on the previous evening he had come home late and had been drinking. One of the children annoyed him, a boy named Andrew, and Albert had struck him on the head harder that he had meant to. There had very nearly been a tragedy. His wife had been very upset and threatened to leave him.

Albert cried in a maudlin fashion, and said he was very unhappy. He wished Uncle Herbert had never turned up. Then he recalled the night in the conservatory, when Uncle Herbert had talked about Africa.

"I believe there was dirty work," said Albert. "I believe he did some one down. He killed him out there on the karoo and robbed him of his money."

"It ain't no business of ours." The phrase came to my mind, but I did not use it. I was worried myself. I suggested that we should have a family meeting and discuss the best thing to do, and Albert agreed. But the meeting itself nearly ended in another tragedy. Albert dominated it. He said we must all go to uncle and say to him straight out:

"Look here, this is all very well, but you've got to tell us how you made your money."

And Christopher replied:

"Yes, I dare say. And then he'll cut up rusty, and tell us all to go to hell, and go away. And then where will we be?"

Louie and I agreed with Albert, but all the rest backed Christopher, and the discussion became acrimonious and at times dangerous. We broke up without coming to any decision, but with Albert asserting vehemently that he was going the next day on his own responsibility to settle the matter. He and Christopher nearly came to blows.

We were never in a position to do more than speculate upon what the result of that interview would have been, because it never took place. In the morning we heard that uncle was dead. He had died the previous evening while receiving a visitor, suddenly, of heart failure, at the very time when we were arguing about him.

When we went round to the house, the servants told us that an elderly gentleman had called about nine o'clock the night before. He gave the name of Josh. He looked like a seaman of some sort. Uncle Herbert had appeared dazed when he heard the name. He told them in a faint voice to show the stranger in. They were alone less than five minutes, when the stranger came out, and called them into the hall.

"Something queer has happened," was all he said.

They found uncle lying in a huddled heap by the Chesterfield. A doctor was sent for, but he was dead. During the excitement of the shock Mr. Josh disappeared and had not been seen since. But later in the afternoon he called and said that if there was to be any inquest, he was willing to come and give evidence. He left an address.

Of course there was a post-mortem, and I need hardly say that all our interest was concentrated on this mysterious visitor. He was a tall, elderly man with a gray pointed beard, a sallow complexion, and a face on which the marks of a hard and bitter life of struggle had left their traces.

The case was very simple and uneventful. The doctor said that death was due to heart-failure, possibly caused by some sudden shock. The heart in any case was in a bad state. The servants gave evidence of the master's general disposition and of the visit of the stranger. When Mr. Josh was called, he spoke in a loud, rather raspish voice, like a man calling into the wind. He simply stated that he was an old friend of Mr. Herbert Read's. He had known him for nearly twenty-five years in South Africa. Happening to be in London, he looked him up in a telephone directory, and paid him an unexpected visit. They had spoken for a few moments, and Mr. Read had appeared very pleased and excited at meeting him again. Then suddenly he had put up his hands and fallen forward. That was all. The coroner thanked him for his evidence, and a verdict of "Death from natural causes" was brought in.

When the case was over, I approached Mr. Josh and asked him if he would come back to the house with us. He nodded in a nonchalant manner and followed me out. On the way back I made vain attempts to draw him out, but he was as uncommunicative as Uncle Herbert himself. He merely repeated what he had said at the inquest. We had lunch, and a curiously constrained meal it was, all of us speaking in little self-conscious whispers, with the exception of Albert, who didn't speak at all, and Mr. Josh, who occasionally shouted "Yes," or "No, thank you," in a loud voice.

At three o'clock Uncle Herbert's lawyer arrived, and we were all called into the drawing-room for the reading of the will. I asked Mr. Josh to wait for us, and he said he would. It need hardly be said that we were all in a great state of trepidation. I really believe that both Albert and I would have been relieved if it were proved that uncle had died bankrupt. If we did indulge in this unaccountable arrière-pensée we were quickly doomed to disappointment.

The lawyer, speaking in a dry, unimpressive voice, announced that "as far as he could for the moment determine," Herbert Read had left between sixty-five and seventy thousand pounds. Thirty thousand of this was bequeathed to various charitable institutions in South Africa, and the residue of the estate was to be divided equally between his nephews and nieces.

I shall never forget the varied expressions on the faces of my brothers and sisters when each one realized that he or she was to inherit between four and five thousand pounds. We gasped and said nothing, though I remember Christopher, when the reading was finished, mumbling something to the lawyer. I think he asked him if he 'd like a drink. I know the lawyer merely glared at him, coughed, and said nothing.

When he had taken his departure in a frigidly ceremonious manner, we all seemed too numbed to become garrulous. It was a dull day, and a fine rain was driving against the window-panes. We sat about smoking and looking at one another and occasionally whispering in strained voices. We might have been a collection of people waiting their turn on the guillotine rather than a united family who had just inherited a fortune. Mr. Josh had gone out for a stroll during the reading of the will, and we were all strangely anxious to see him. He appeared to be our last link that might bind the chain of our earthly prospects to a reasonable stake.

He returned about five o'clock and strolled carelessly into the room, nodding at us in a casual and indifferent manner as he seated himself.

We gave him some tea, and he lighted a cheroot. And then each of us in turn made our effort to draw him out. We began casually; then we put leading questions and tried to follow them up quickly. But Mr. Josh was apparently not to be drawn. He evidently disliked us or was bored with us and made no attempt to illuminate the dark shadows of our doubts. Perhaps he rather enjoyed the game. The room began to get dark, and we slunk back into the gloom and gradually subsided into silence. We sat there watching the stranger; the red glow of his cheroot seemed the only vital thing.

It was Albert, as usual, who broke the spell. He suddenly got up and walked to the window; then he turned and cried out:

"Well, I don't know about all you. But I know about myself. I 'm not going to touch a penny of this damned money."

I was sitting quite near our visitor, and in the half-light I saw a strange look come into his eye. It was as though for the first time something interested him. He started, and I said as quickly as I could:

"Why not, Albert?"

"Because the money 's not clean," he shouted into the room.

I don't know how it was that none of the others took this up. But we all sat there looking at the stranger. It was as though we waited breathlessly upon a verdict that he alone could give. He looked round at us, and carefully flicking the end of his cheroot, he obliged us with this epigram:

"No money is clean. It passes through too many hands."

We waited for more, but nothing came. Then Albert bore down on him with a tempestuous movement.

"Look here," he said. "I don't know anything about you. But you knew Uncle 'Erbert for twenty-five years. For God's sake, tell us how he made his money."

The stranger looked at him, and blew smoke between his teeth; then he said slowly:

"Made his money? Your uncle never made more than two or three hundred a year in his life."

"Ah, I knew it!" exclaimed Albert.

Whether it was the result of my brother's forceful manner or whether it was the atmosphere of suspense that urged him to it, I do not know. But certain it is that at that point our visitor sank back languidly in his chair and spoke:

"I'll tell you what I know."

We none of us moved, but we leaned forward and watched him as he proceeded:

"In the spring of eighteen-forty-five," he began, "two young men set out from England to seek their fortunes in South Africa. Their names were Jules Lynneker and Karl Banstow. They were of the same age, and were filled with the wildest hopes and dreams. They were, moreover, devoted to each other, and their only difference was one of temperament. Lynneker was essentially a dreamer and something of a poet, with a great gift of imagination. Banstow was a hard-headed, hard-working man of affairs. Now in this case, which do you think would be the successful one? You would naturally put your money on Banstow. And you would be wrong every time. For a year or two they worked together, and then Banstow was offered an overseer's job in a tin-mine. They continued to live together, but their work separated them. Lynneker was employed on an ostrich farm. The ostrich farm was a huge success, but the tin-mine failed.

"That seemed to make the beginning of their divergence. Whatever Lynneker touched, succeeded; whatever Banstow touched, failed.

"Lynneker was a careless, easy-going person, but he had a native genius. He could control men. Men loved him and followed him and would do anything he told them. He was casual in his details. He dreamed in millions and had the unique faculty of spotting the right man for a job. There was something about the man, a curious mesmeric fascination, a breadth—"

Mr. Josh paused, and knocked the ash of his cheroot into a tray. Then he continued:

"Banstow worked like a slave. He sat up half the night scheming and plotting. He was infallible in his calculations and then— he just missed. He didn't inspire any one. He misjudged men, and men didn't believe in him. As the years went on, and Lynneker became more and more successful, and Banstow made no progress, the thing began to get on Banstow's nerves. He quarreled with his friend, and they became rivals. The injustice of it all infuriated Banstow. He worked, and Lynneker lazed and dreamed and yet won every time. They went into the diamond-mining industry, and Lynneker began amassing a great fortune in a careless, haphazard way. Again Banstow failed. In ten years' time Lynneker was an immensely rich man, and Banstow was a bankrupt clerk in a labor bureau. Then one day in a mood of sullen resentment he hatched a diabolical plot against Lynneker. He bribed some Kafirs, and tried to get Lynneker convicted of illicit diamond-buying. By the merest fluke the plot was discovered, and it was Banstow who was convicted. He was sentenced to seven years' imprisonment. He served his term in full. In the meantime Lynneker became a bigger man in Africa. He lived in Johannesburg and owned great blocks of offices. But he always remained a dreamer. Sometimes he would ride out at night into the karoo. They say he dreamed of a united Africa. I don't know. He certainly wrote poetry in the intervals of amassing money. Two weeks after Banstow was released from prison Lynneker's body was found out in the karoo, with a bullet through his heart. He had ridden out alone one night, and as he hadn't returned, they sent out a search-party and found him the next day. Banstow was suspected, but apparently he had escaped. Nothing more was seen of him."

The stranger paused and then languidly lighted another cheroot. The interval seemed so indefinite that at last Albert said:

"Where does Uncle Herbert come in?"

"Your Uncle Herbert was a cipher," replied our visitor. "He was merely one of the people who came under the influence of Lynneker. As a matter of fact, I believe he was one of the worst cases. He worshiped Lynneker. Lynneker was the obsession of his life. He acted as secretary for him for his vast charitable concerns. And when Lynneker was found dead, he nearly went off his head. He howled like a terrier who has lost his master." He glanced round at us, and in the dim light I thought I detected a sneer of contempt.

"Lynneker died a millionaire," he proceeded, "and among other legacies he left your uncle certain blocks of mining shares which were probably worth about forty or fifty thousand pounds. That 's how he made his money."

There was a gasp of relief round the room, and Albert wiped his brow.

"Then the money was straight enough, after all," he said huskily.

The chilling voice of the stranger came through the darkness:

"As straight as any money can be."

Richard stood up and moved to the mantelpiece.

"Why the hell couldn't he tell us about this before, then? Why was he so secret?"

"Herbert Read had no nerves. The thing broke him up. Banstow had also been a friend of his at one time, and he was convinced that Banstow had killed his master. He had periods of melancholia. The doctors told him that unless he went away for a change and tried to get it out of his head, he would be in an asylum in a few months. And so I suppose he came over here. But his heart was still affected, and when I gave him the news I did last week, the shock finished him."

We all started.

"What news?"

"That Banstow was innocent. I was able to show him a certificate from the master of the Birmingham, proving that on the night of the murder Banstow was a steerage-passenger on board his ship, seventy-three miles east-northeast of the Azores. Lynneker was probably shot by some vagrant thief. Certainly his watch and all his money were missing."

We all peered at the man hidden in the recesses of the easy-chair, and Albert said:

"How was it you had this information?"

The figure crossed its legs, and the voice replied languidly:

"I was interested. I happen to be Karl Banstow!"

Albert groped past me on tiptoe, muttering:

"In God's name, where is the electric-light switch?"

It is a curious fact regarding these telepathic processes I have hinted at in this chronicle of our uncle's return that from the day when it was demonstrated that the money we had inherited was to all intents and purposes clean, our own little affairs seemed to take their cue from this consciousness. Certain it is that since that time everything seems to have prospered for us. You should see Albert's shops, particularly the one on the Broadway, where he is still not too proud to serve himself. As for myself, as I am now in a position to lead the indolent life of a scribe in this little manor-house up in the Cotswolds, and as this position is due entirely to the generosity of Uncle Herbert, it seems only right and proper that I should begin my literary career by recounting the story of his return.

___________________

9: His Cheap Bravo

W. Pett Ridge

1859-1930

World's News (Sydney) 23 Sep 1905

THE BOY held the window of his bedroom, slightly open, so that he could hear the conversation going on at the front door below. At times the farewell speeches of his grown-up sister and Mr. Joseph Price had diverted him to such an extent that he had been forced to hurry back to bed and have his laugh out under the pillow; it constituted a nightly entertainment to which he looked forward. His grievance had been that on occasions they had not spoken loudly; no grounds for complaint on that account this evening.

"And you mean to tell me, Joseph Price," said his sister's voice, "that after walkin' out with me all these months, and making me neglect other opportunities, you've got the cool impudence to look me in the face and tell me you want the engagement broke off!"

"To a certain extent, yes."

"Well, all I can say is—!"

"Now, what is the use of takin' on about it?" urged Mr. Price. "Fact of the matter is, my mother and me's been debating it over—"

"I'll debate her!'" said Miss Martin through her handkerchief.

"Since I got my increase in our ware'ouse, and we've come to the conclusion— or rather she has— that I ought to keep meself free, as it were, for a year or two."

"And it's just because of a paltry 'alf-crown a week extra in your wages—"

"For a year or two," went on Mr. Price, in the manner of one reciting, "so that I may 'ave time to look round and not be rushed into materimony before knowing where I am. Therefore, I hope that you'll kindly let mother 'ave my letters back during the course of to-morrow morning."

The boy, listening from the garret-window on the second floor, flushed.

"You don't have your letters back, Mr. Price," said his sister. The boy felt glad that she was no longer crying. "Tell your mother that from me, and give her my compliments, and tell her she's a two-faced creature to behave like this after the caps I've made for her and the bonnets I've trimmed up and made fashionable for her."

"I'll give the general effect of your message," said the young man. "And I'm glad to see you take it all in the proper light. As you very wisely remark, we can always be friends—"

"Never said nothing of the kind," she interrupted indignantly.

"Shall we have just one kiss before we part?"

"No," said Miss Martin; "we won't. And what's more, Joseph Price, understand this, that you're behaving like a low, mean person, and you're— you're no gentleman.'

"Steady!" urged Mr. Price.

"You're a weak, empty-'eaded, contemptible man, and if it wasn't for me good manners I should tell you what I thought of you."

"You'd better not," recommended the young man. "Don't you go and overstep the lor."

"The lor!" cried Alfred Martin's sister with sudden vehemence, "do you fancy I care for the lor? If I cared for the lor, do you think I wouldn't 'ave you up for breach?"

"You won't go and make yourself a laughin'-stock?' begged Mr. Price earnestly.

"I don't mean to," said the young, woman. "But I tell you what! If I'd got a grown-up brother, if I'd got a brother as big as you he should punish you so that— so that your precious mother wouldn't know you."

"Fortunately," said Mr. Price; "you ain't got a grown-up brother, so that 'ighly interesting little spar won't come off. But, after all, we" have to take this world as we And it; can't have everything your own way. The only plan is—"

The street-door slammed. The boy, closing his window quietly, crept back into bed, scarlet with annoyance and shame. He heard his sister come slowly upstairs and go into the room which she shared with her mother; listened the faint talk of the two; could tell presently that his mother was comforting his sister. Alfred Martin bent his small arm, bringing the fist sharply to his shoulder, and felt the place above the bend of the elbow where there should have been muscle.

Not until the following afternoon at the Board School, in the midst of a lesson on history, with references to the feudal system, did an idea arrive. School over, he went home and told his mother that he was going to see a man about a hoop, and his mother told him not to come bothering her, adding, wearily, that what with one thing and what with another she scarcely knew whether she stood on her head or her heels. Alfy Martin assured his mother that she was the right way up and then walked round the room, affecting to be drum-major of the Coldstream Guards; but his sister, swollen-eyed, did not on this occasion smile at his performance. He went out into Southwark-street, and crossed the bridge with something of hurry in his manner, rehearsing as he went a comic song.

In the City, disappointment met Alfy Martin with a frown that was nearly a scowl. When, with one stout-booted little foot, he pressed open the door of a restaurant and sang the first lines of "I'm a swagger West End chappie," one of two things happened —either a waitress came and said sternly, "Outside, please, with that raow!" or a large City constable touched his shoulder and said with an affectation of courtesy that failed to deceive the boy, "When you've quite finished, my lad; don't let me detain you." In a court off Queen-street, Cheapside, the luck changed. A wild-haired young man came down the steps of some offices, a pen over each ear.

"I say!" said the wild-haired young man ."You there with the voice! Can't you give us a rest?"

"What's the matter with you?" asked Alfy, stopping.

"Well, it's like this," said the young man. "I've got my books to finish to-night, and if I'm interrupted I shall lose my last train to Pinner. Now, would you mind obliging me very much by going away?"

"That's all very well," said the boy; "but I want to earn some money."

"So do I," replied the young man. "How much do you want?"

"Much as I can get."

"My case again! But suppose I were to give you sixpence, what would you do?"

"Take it and go a bit 'igher up the street."

"Now, look here," said the young man. "How much would you take to go right away home and leave this neighborhood in peace?"

"A bob," said the boy promptly.

"Done with you!" cried the young man, producing the coin. "Here's the exact sum. Don't you trouble about a receipt."

In ten minutes' time the boy was outside the Surrey Theatre, at the end of Blackfriar's-road, panting with excitement and the swift run from Southwark Bridge. He looked curiously into the faces of the men who loafed about in front of the theatre; then he went to an adjacent public-house and glanced in at the various bars. Returning, he caught sight of his man. This, a large-faced, moody-looking individual, was strolling along, swearing quietly at his bulldog, a fierce animal of about the same temperament as his master.

'"Ello!" said the boy. The large-faced man did not answer. "Want a job?"

"I don't want cheek," said the man.

"D'you want," asked the boy, "to earn a shillin'?" The man condescended to stop. "It won't, take you ten minutes," urged the boy anxiously, "and it ain't 'ard work."

"Got the bob with you?" asked the man.

"I 'ave so!"

"Then hand it over," said the man sulkily, "and we'll see what we can do."

"No fear!" said Alfy Martin, looking up at him. "You do the job first and then you shall 'ave the kesh."

"What d'you think of him, Sunshine?" The ugly dog growled. "That's jest what I think. Seems to me very odd and very suspicious, and I don't believe he ain't got no bloomin' bob."

''Look!" said the boy. Backing to the lamp-post he held it up.

"If I had the money in my pocket now what I've flung away in backing wrong 'uns, you see what I'd say. If I'd had a drink since nine o'clock this morning you'd hear sortie language that'd fairly make your 'air curl. But, circum-stances being what they are, I'm 'alf inclined to trust you, my lad."

"I shall act straight."

"You'd better," said the man menacingly. "'Adn't he, Sunshine?"

Sunshine gave a vicious bark, and appeared to restrain himself from flying at the trembling, excited boy only by exercise of great self-control. The man lowered his voice and asked for particulars. When these had been given he fixed his tweed cap more securely, closed his huge fists, and aimed one or two blows at the air. Then he said with a melodramatic air, "Lead on, Macduff!" and the boy conducted him quickly through a street leading towards the railway arches.

"It's just his time, now," whispered the boy as the clock struck the hour. "Two minutes and he'll be here on his way home. 'Ere he is!"

"Stan' back in the shadder," commanded the man.

Mr. Joseph Price came along under the railway arch with a troubled; doubtful air, as one whose mind was not entirely free from care. Apparently he found little joy in encountering an evening into which the agreeable presence of Alfy's grown-up sister did not enter. He sighed noisily as he passed the large-faced man. From the protecting shadow Alfred coughed.

"You'll pardon me," said the large-faced man with aggressive politeness. "Name of Price, I believe; Mr. Joseph Price?"

"That's me."

"Thought so," remarked the man. "I believe you're acquainted, or rawther 'ave been acquainted, with a lady called Miss. Martin? And you've behaved rather badly to her, I understand?"

"There's been a bit of a tiff," said the younger man. "You know the old saying, 'When—' "

"Never you mind the old saying. You Just listen to me for a bit."

"I don't want to be late home."

"You'll be 'ome in five minutes," said the man reassuringly, "what there is left of you. I believe I'm right in stating that you led Miss Marfield to believe that you'd—"

"Miss Martin."

"I said Martin!" shouted the man fiercely. "Don't you come any of your tricks with me, my man! I know what I'm talking about! I'm no fool of a gel, mind you! I'm a man, with a man's head on him and a man's fist, and don't you forget it!"

"Well," said Mr. Price, "now, if you don't mind excusin' me, I'll be off."

"No, you don't!" declared the other man. "Oh, no, my fine feller, you're not going like that!"

"How am I going, then?"

"You wait and see," said the man mysteriously. "When you do get 'ome, 'ave a look at yourself in the glass and see 'what you think of that noble physog of yours!"

"You know better than lay a finger on me," said young Mr. Price nervously. "You don't want to appear at South'ark police court to-morrow morning, I lay!"

"No," said the man. He took Mr. Price's shoulder with his immense hand and whispered hoarsely, "No more do you."

"Tell you what!" said Mr. Price, struck with a joyful idea. "Come and 'ave a glass of gingerade at a sweetstuff shop, and say no more about it."

"Gingerade!" echoed the man despairingly. "Gingerade! Me! Gingerade!" He turned sharply on Mr. Price. "Look 'ere," he said. "You don't deny you've treated the young woman badly?"

"Depends what you call badly," replied the young man. He essayed an attitude of decision. "Anyway, I don't see what it's got to do with you."

"Ho!" said the large-faced man. "You don't see what it's got to do with me, don't you? I suppose, then, I'm not her distant relative come back from abroad, and I've not been asked to settle this little affair with you. I suppose I'm a liar, am I? I can tell you what, my fine feller! Anyone that calls me a liar has to prove it. Now then, up with yer dooks."

Mr. Price, putting, his fists up with vague reminiscence of pictures of prize-fighters in the cheap weekly papers, found himself promptly struck to the ground. Getting up he said, rather mistakingly, "You do it again, that's all!" and the large-faced man obligingly complied; and when Mr. Price rose once more, and confusedly tried to find his handkerchief, he was sent staggering against the wall where Alfy stood. The boy started, and Sunshine gave a warning growl, meaning to say, "Ah, would you?" The boy coughed as signal for closing the incident, but the large-faced man permitted himself to be carried away by a love for his art before allowing Mr. Price to run off.

"Satisfactory?" asked the large-faced man, looking at his knuckles.

"Quite," replied the boy. " 'Ere's the bob." The man wetted the coin for luck and called to the dog.

"Any time, kiddie," he said, "that you want a job of the kind done, you'll nearly always find me round about the Obelisk."

"I'll make a note of it," said the boy.

"And when you've growed up, best thing you can do is to come to me and let me show you how to hold your fists. It may come in useful or it may not come in useful, but It's pretty certain to do you no 'arm."

"You may take your oath," said the small boy, starting off, "that when I can punch for meself I shan't go getting other people to punch for me. So long!"

He walked home to Castle-street slowly, because he desired to enjoy to the full the glow of righteousness that success had brought to him. So far as he had been able to act, the affront to the family was now avenged. He marched with his most important air, hands in knickerbocker pockets, chest well out.

"Mother in?" he asked.

"No, Elfy," said his sister, looking up from her work. "She's gone up to the Borough to do some shopping. Get your boots off and slip up to bed, there's a dear."

"Don't you go dearing me," protested the boy, magnificently. "I've got some news for you— good news!"

"I don't think there's any good news for me in the world, Elfy."

"Cheer up," said Alfred. "Seen that chap Price to-day?"

"No," she said, flushing. "I shan't see him never any more. Not to speak to, at any rate."

"I should like you to ketch sight of him this evening, if it could be managed," remarked the boy,' with great good-humor. "I reckon his face is an oil-painting."

"Don't tell me," said his sister, rising agitatedly, "don't tell me, Elfy, that anything's happened to him!"

He told the story of the punishment under the railway arch, exaggerating where the report seemed to require that treatment. His sister listened, her hand at her threat, her breath coming quickly and irregularly.

"But who dared to tell this man to go and knock poor Joseph about, Elfy?"

"Since you ask the question, said the boy, oracularly, "it was me. Me! I thought of it, I went and earnt the money, I found the man to do the job, I stood by and watched him do it, I paid him cash for the transaction. When he looks at his eye and his nose— Why, what's the matter? What are you crying for now?"

"Oh, you wicked, wicked boy!" she cried. "I shall never forgive you!"

"Never forgive me?" he echoed, amazedly. "Why, what 'ave I done wrong now?"

"You don't understand, Elfy. You're only a little chap, and—"

"If I don't unnerstand," said the boy, laboriously, "p'r'aps you'll give me a chance of unnerstanding?"

"Can't you see, you bad boy," she cried, "that I— I love him all the same?"

She went to the small square of looking-glass on the wall above the fireplace and rubbed her eyes with her handkerchief.

"Well," said the boy, undoing his bootlaces, "I thought I knew, some'ing about women. Find I've got a lot to learn yet."

He ate his supper with fierce reserve, and, giving his sister a curt "Good-night!" he went upstairs. He felt bitterly disappointed. Presently his mother returned from her shopping, and immediately after this he heard a timid knock at the front door below. He opened his window quietly and listened.

"Evening, Mrs. Martin," said the voice of Joseph Price. "Can I see your daughter for 'alf a second?"

"I'll ask," said Alfred's mother, distantly. "What's happened to your face?"

"Slight accident," replied Mr. Price. "People will throw orange-peel on the pavement."

"Joseph," cried the voice of Alfred's sister, "is that you?"

"Well," said Mr. Price, doubtfully, 'I s'pose I'd better answer 'Yes' to that question."

"Mother," commanded the young woman, "go inside, or else you'll catch cold. Joseph!" The boy had to listen intently now in order not to miss words. "Why have you called? What a sight you are!"

"Sight as I may be" said Mr. Price, stolidly, "and doubtless am, I have called to ask you— in fact, to crave from you— permission to withdraw certain remarks that I let slip last evening in the heat of the moment, when I wasn't thinking."

"You certainly seemed strange in your manner."

"On me way 'ome this evening," went on Mr. Price, "I had a little upset, and when I got indoors mother declared, I'd been drinking. One word led up to another, and at last I up and told her that I was miserable without you—"

"Go on, dear."

"Miserable without you, and that my parting from you on her advice had led to nothing but melancholy and personal annoyance and whatnot. Therefore I've called here to-night to apologise for what I said at her suggestion; to ask you to let bygones be bygones, and to offer you— if you'll excuse the expression— my 'and and 'eart, and to find out what date would be most—"

"S'pose you come in, Joseph," said Alfy's sister, softly, "and talk it over with my mother?"

The boy closed the window and looked at himself for a while in the looking-glass. Then he crossed the room, and, the occasion being special, knelt down at the chair, undoing his braces at the same time that moments might not be wasted.

"Lord," said Alfy, "wilt Thou 'ave the kindness to make me grow strong and tall and with plenty to say for meself, and wilt Thou do this as soon as Thou can find time, so's to save me expense and waste of money that might be used in other ways— say, for instance, a cricket bat. Believe me. Lord, Thy obedient servant, A Martin."

He rose. He was half-way into his blue flannel bed-gown when an important idea occurred to him, and he knelt again quickly.

"Should 'ave mentioned," he whispered, "Elfred Martin, of fifty-three, Cawstle-street. Fifty-three. Just over the Surrey side of Southwark Bridge!"

____________________

10: The Wrong 'Un.

Mark Allerton

(William Ernest Cameron 1881-1939)

World's News (Sydney) 26 Oct 1918

ACROSS the desk in his private office Austin Caird stared gloomily at his confidential clerk. He was a big, heavily-built man, with a massive head and an aggressive chin. He might have been a retired prize-fighter instead of a company promoter and share touter, and at the moment his expression was not one to inspire confidence.

His clerk was a thin wisp of a man with very sharp black eyes and a hooked nose.

"Looks uncommonly like as if we must put up the shutters," said the clerk.

Austin Caird grunted savagely.

"We've still got a chance," he said.

"It's a mighty poor one."

"Well, it's a chance." He picked up a letter which lay before him, and read it again. It bore the address of a vicarage in Somerset

"Dear sir," he read. "Some years ago I bought, on the advice of your circular, a few hundred Mosquito Oil shares, which I afterwards sold at a good profit. I wrote to you at the time, expressing my thanks, and I now venture to ask you if you can advise a young parishioner of mine, Mr. Richard Lavery, as to another safe purchase. By the death of his father he has come into a fairly large sum of money, which he is anxious to invest to the best advantage. I have told him of the success of my dealings with you, and he would be glad of your advice. He is spending a few days in London, and I have told him to call on you. Perhaps you will accept this letter as an introduction.

"I am, yours faithfully,

"William J. Somming."

"Has Somming bought anything from us since this oil deal?" asked Caird.

John Melford, the clerk, shook his head. "He came out of that dashed well." he replied. "But, hang it all, we've nothing to put this Lavery on to."

"There's Amalgamated Concessions," suggested Austin Caird, looking at his desk.

His clerk made a clicking sound.

"I should say that you'll have the devil's own job to sell him any of those, unless he buys them on the nail," was the reply. "They're one of the jokes in the City just now. I wish you'd never touched them."

"They cost me a cool four thousand, too,'' put in Caird. "And they're to blame for all this trouble. By James! To think that I al-lowed myself to be taken in by a plausible old fool like Fisher!"

The two men relapsed into a moody silence. Luck was running right against Caird.

At the time when people with money seemed to be keeping it in their stockings and refused to be tempted by the safest of gilt-edged securities, Caird found himself with only the wildest of speculative concerns on his hands. His former successes were forgotten. When his name was mentioned in the City a laugh of ridicule was the result. Caird's hide was thick, and he was affected only by the financial tightness that embarrassed him. In his luxurious office he was like a spider suddenly bereft of the supply of flies that were necessary to his existence.

"Have we had any applications for Amalgamated Concessions?" he asked abruptly.

"Not one," was the prompt reply. "Not likely either. With all these beastly paragraphs in the financial papers."

"And it's ten to one this chap Lavery has read them," growled Caird. "Every fool with money to invest wallows in the financial press. However, let's hope he calls."

Austin Caird dismissed his clerk and applied himself to the worrying consideration of how to raise the wind.

SHORTLY before lunch time Mr. Richard Lavery made his appearance. He turned out to be about thirty years of age, clean shaken, with the sun-burnt complexion and frank eyes of a country-man. His manner was charmingly ingenuous.

He opened the conversation by saying that he was awfully obliged to Mr. Austin. Caird for seeing him.

Austin Caird motioned him gravely and courteously to a chair. His expression was no longer aggressive. He was businesslike in a quiet, benign fashion. He begged to be excused while he spoke into the telephone. Into the instrument he gave instructions for the purchase on his own account of three thousand pounds' worth of Great Westerns. John Melford, who was at the other end of the wire in the next office, received the instructions.

"Now, what can I do for you?" asked Mr. Caird briskly.

"Well, Mr. Somming recommended me to come to you about investing some money," began Richard Lavery. "I've consulted my lawyer and a stockbroker, and they can suggest nothing like those oil shares you put Mr. Somming on to."

"What interest do you want?" demanded Caird.

"As much as I can get," was the laughing reply.

"I see. And how much money do you want to invest?"

"I've got six thousand all told, and I've got to live on that. If I could get ten per cent. I could do that easily in the country."

Mr. Caird began a discursive review of the situation. He elicited the facts that Richard Lavery had no occupation, that he was engaged to be married, that his tastes lay in the direction of hunting and golf, and that he was unwilling to engage in any business that might interfere with those pursuits. Austin Caird suggested that his client ought to select some fairly safe concern for his money.

"I can think of nothing that is absolutely safe at the moment," he said. "Look how even Consols have gone down. And what yield do they afford? Hardly anything. Now, let me think."

Richard Lavery waited anxiously and in silence while Caird thought.

Austin Caird raised his head suddenly.

"There's Amalgamated Concessions, of course," he said. "They're dirt cheap at present. There's a small fortune waiting for the man who is sporting enough to buy them at present."

Richard Lavery was all eagerness to hear about them. Caird explained in highly technical language the resources in minerals, timber, water power, and so on, possessed by Amalgamated Concessions of Canada. He admitted that the bears had been at work and that the company was rather under a cloud at present.

"That's bound to come all right," he concluded. "I reckon that in a year's time those shares will have trebled in value, and they'll pay a handsome dividend."

"But why don't you buy them?" asked Lavery, artlessly.

"Only wish I could," said Caird, darkly. "But I daren't. I'm in a rival concern, and if it leaked out that I was interested in Amalgamated Concessions— well, you understand, of course."

Richard Lavery said that he did. He also said that he would like to buy the shares. Caird's heart leapt within him as he explained that the entire issue could be secured for ten thousand pounds.

"That's cheap, isn't it?" asked Lavery.

"Dirt cheap."

"But I've only got six thousand."

Austin Caird leant forward confidentially.

"You leave it to me," he said, with a wink. "And now," he felt in his waistcoat pocket as he spoke, and was relieved to find two sovereigns there, "what do you say to a little lunch."

"I should be delighted," replied Lavery. "Only I'm lunching with Miss Forester— I think I told you I was engaged to her. But if you lunch with us—"

He was pressing, and Caird agreed. He had no wish to be bored by the company of a sentimental young couple, but he wanted to clinch the deal.

Edith Forester proved to be a charmingly attractive girl. It was at once evident to Caird that Lavery's visit to him had been the subject of earnest speculation. He adopted his most benevolent and paternal air towards her. She, he was soon told, was the daughter of a clergyman in the East End; she had been engaged to Dick for six months; they had met in Somersetshire; that now that Dick had all his money everything was plain sailing; that they were going to have a good time for ever and ever; that Dick wasn't really lazy, but when they could live on their money it would only be greedy to seek to earn more.

Austin Caird told himself that the man who starved in a world where there were two such fools to be plucked deserved his fate. He watched them with a fat, complacent smile on his face, and he thanked heaven for the Rev. Mr. Somming and for his lucky speculation in oil.

When he left to hurry back to his office he wrung their hands and truthfully assured them that he could not remember being more pleased to meet two young people. He was also careful to make an appointment with Dick Lavery for the following morning.

When his clerk heard the news his little eyes shone.

"I do believe you've done it again, Mr. Caird," he cried admiringly. "You're a wonder, you are! Six thousand will just pull us out of this mess. It's an act of Providence."

Austin Caird permitted himself to smile self-appreciatively. The gods are kind to those they love, and Austin Caird in the course of his adventurous career had proved again and again that Mr. Micawber's trust in something turning up was justified.

His first caller the next morning was not Dick Lavery, but Miss Forester.

"Has Dick been there yet?" she cried excitedly, as soon as she entered the private office, and when she heard that he had not, she looked much relieved.

"I've been trying all morning to catch him," she explained. "I want to ask him not to buy those shares."

For a moment the room, with its bright red carpet and leather chairs, and the maps and plans on the walls, danced before the eyes of Austin Caird. With a mighty effort he pulled himself together.

"What's that you say?" he cried, harshly.

"Yes. You see the shares might go down, and then he'd lose all the money, and shouldn't be able to get married, and—"

"But the shares can't possibly go down," insisted Caird, loudly.

"Can't they?" timidly.

"Certainly not. They'll go up. You'll make a small fortune. You'll be able to have your car. You'll be able to have all the pretty dresses you want."

"You understand." went on the girl quietly, "how dreadfully important it is that we should always have our capital? If anything should happen to that money I don't know what we should do, because dear old Dick could never earn any. You see, he hasn't been brought up to earn money, and—"

"That'll be all right," said Caird, reassuringly, but his heart was still beating wildly from the effect of the fright he had got. "You see."

"If you are quite, quite sure—"

"My dear young lady, do you think it is any advantage to me to advise Mr. Lavery to buy these shares? Of course not. But if you neglect this opportunity you will be making a grave mistake. Ah, here is Mr. Lavery."

The young man bustled into the room.

"Hullo, Edith!" he cried. "How jolly to find you here! Good morning, Mr. Caird. Now, about those shares. I've had a nasty knock this morning!"

Again Austin Caird's heart bumped against his expansive waistcoat.

"I find I've only got five thousand," went on Lavery. "I suppose I couldn't get those bally shares for five thousand? I've set my heart on them. I've been doing sums, and I've found out that if they pay the ten per cent, you suggest I'll have my six hundred a year. Not bad, eh, Edith?"

Austin Caird gnawed the end of his pencil. There was something about Lavery's manner that roused his suspicions. He believed that the young fool had the audacity to seek to drive a bargain, that he had the entire sum demanded all the time. Still, the shares were not worth five pounds to him, and five thousand would recoup his loss.

He made a pretence of delay. He rang up John Melford in the outer office several times and addressed him by varies names. He even clapped on his hat, and went out to see a man about the matter. He did not get farther than the corridor outside. There Melford begged him to take what he could get without delay.

He re-entered his room with an expansive smile.

"You are very lucky," he said to Lavery.

"I've worked it. Let me have your cheque, and you can have the share certificates this afternoon."

"Oh, I say, that's awfully decent of you!" cried Lavery. "I'll give you my cheque right away." He wrote hurriedly, and passed the slip of paper over. "Will you post the certificates to me?" he asked. "I'm staying at the Metropole. Now we mustn't detain you. Mr. Caird. I hope to call on you before l leave town. You've been a perfect brick."

The girl and he took a hurried departure.

"Is it all right?" panted the clerk when Caird had smiled his adieu.

"I've got his cheque," was the reply.

Together they stood at the window, and watched Dick Lavery and the girl hurry along the narrow street.

"What a juggins!" murmured Melford.

"I've never met his like before," said Caird; "no, never. And I've met a few mugs."

He uttered an exclamation of sheer astonishment as he saw these two young people, happy in their new possession, stop in the middle of the narrow street and abandon them-selves to their mirth.

"They'll laugh on the other side of their mouths before long," observed Melford.

"Go and cash this cheque as quickly as you can," was Caird's reply.

The clerk was able to inform Mr. Caird next morning that the cheque had been met. At the same time he drew his employer's attention to a significant paragraph in a financial paper.

"We understand that the ill-fated Amalgamated Concessions Company, which Austin Caird has persistently touted, has been taken over by Mr. Fisher, of Moorgate Street."

Caird grunted. "They've got hold of the wrong end of the stick," he said. "I bought the damned thing from Fisher."

But the next morning in the money columns of a popular daily there was the brief announcement of the discovery of silver in the land of Amalgamated Concessions. His evening paper elaborated the story. The city editor wrote in amusing vein, confessing that the critics were confounded, and that Amalgamated Concessions was going to turn out trumps after all.

"What the devil does it mean?" cried Caird hoarsely.

But his clerk could venture no explanation.

IT CAME the following day, when Caird met Dick Lavery in Throgmorton Street. It was Dick who stopped him.

"I say, those shares you sold me are making a bit of a stir, eh?" he said.

Caird, somewhat nervously, agreed. "You haven't sold them to a man called Fisher?" he asked.

"You mean my uncle?"

"Your uncle!"

Austin Caird steadied himself against a pillar-box.

"You don't mean to say he's bought 'em back?" he breathed.

"Yes, rather. You see. I was out there. I'm by way of being a mining engineer. And he asked me to report on the property. A gold mine isn't in it. I wrote and told him so. But the silly ass had sold the concern to you, as it appears."

"And you—"

"Well, if he'd offered to buy it back you'd have smelt a rat. So he put me on the job."

"But the Rev. Mr. Somming— who is he?"

"Oh, he's my uncle again. He knew those oil shares you were offering were a sprat to catch a mackerel, and he couldn't very well buy in his own name—"

"My God! It's a trick, a swindle! It won't stand in law," shouted Caird, his face purple with passion. "You see! I'll have those shares back."

"I guess not," was the quiet reply. "We gave you every chance. When I called on you I knew that you were almost certain to offer me those shares, if you took me for a big enough fool. I'm not annoyed because you did. But my uncle is a jolly decent sort. If you'd played the game he'd have let you in. But you didn't."

"What do you mean?"

"Just this. You were ready to sell what you thought were dud shares to a chap who was relying on them for his living, a chap about to be married. When my sister— yes, she is my sister— called on you and begged you not to let me have them, you kept on telling her fairy tales. It didn't matter a tinker's curse if you beggared us. So we let you in, and feel jolly happy about it, too. I serves you right. "

Austin Caird strove for breath.

"But I did know that the shares were all right. It's happened just as I told you it would happen," he panted.

Dick Lavery winked slowly.

"Then why worry?" he said, "We ought all to be pleased. So long. If you can put me on to any other good things let me know. But I think you struck a wrong 'un to spring this deal on to."

It turned out as Austin Caird's confidential clerk had gloomily prophesied. The shutters went up on the establishment of a particularly dangerous firm of share touts.

_________________

11: The Ambassador

Owen Oliver

(Joshua Albert Flynn 1863-1933)

World's News (Sydney) 24 Dec 1927

LITTLE things make a lot of difference. A man who is doing big deals is apt to forget that. I did, until some little things re-made my world.

I did not go to England for business, but for a couple of sentiments. The first was that I had a fancy to see the Old Country again after twenty-three years. I had left it at seventeen, with thirty pounds in my pocket and a single ticket. I was going back with two millions and a return. The second sentiment was my nephew's. Lady Beryl Fyrste had refused him when he was over there. He seemed to think that, if I saw her, I could put the deal through, just as I stepped in when he failed in a commercial negotiation. He was all the kin I had— a nice boy who ought to have been a girl.

The third little thing was a baby, Just big enough to toddle and call me "Man Gay." My name is Gray, Henry Gray, ex-gold digger, the railroad man. The baby fell overboard on the voyage, and, being a powerful swimmer, I went after it. I did not realise then that my swimming exercise was going to alter my whole life, but It did; that, and a fourth little thing that I shall come to afterwards.

I went to my agent's as soon as I arrived In England, a few days before Christmas.

"I am staying ten days," I said. "I wish to meet Lady Beryl Fyrste without formally asking her to see me. Please arrange it."

They 'phoned the next morning that it couldn't be done In the time. The Fyrstes had gone off to Fyrste Castle for Christmas, and would not return to town for three weeks. No bribes or inducements would obtain my admission into the exclusive family circle. The Fyrste's friends were of their own class, and a go-between was not to be found.

I did not know much about high-born English ways, so I consulted Mrs. Anstruther. She was the baby's mother, and moved in the fringe of titled society. She agreed with the agents. She advised me that it was useless to write to Lady Beryl.

"You'd treat it like a business transaction," she said, "and she'd reply that the interview was unnecessary; or, if she granted it, she would receive you with her mind already made up. She is a girl who knows her own mind, I should say. If she wanted your nephew she would have accepted him. Frankly, I don't think you'll
influence her under any circumstances, but the only chance is to get to know her and let your personality make an impression. It does—before you broach the subject of your nephew."

"Then," I grumbled, "I must waste two or three weeks here, till she returns. It is a great inconvenience, and practically a considerable loss, but I go through with things when I set out to do them."

I was savagely resigned to a pottering Christmas in London, but upon the night of December 23 I received an invitation from Lord and Lady Fyrste to spend Christmas with them. I wired an acceptance.

I found the next morning that my agents knew nothing of the matter. I went round to the Anstruthers to see if they did. She was out shopping, but her husband assured me that they didn't know the Fyrstes, or anyone who could possibly obtain the invitation.

"Grace spoke to me about the matter," he said, "and we couldn't see any way to help you, though we tried our hardest. You know, sir, that after your— your splendid—"

"Tut, tut!" I stopped him. "It was nothing. If you'd happened to be on deck you'd have done it."

"But I wasn't," he remarked, "and the kid—" he choked.

"So I had the chance to pick up the little scamp," I supplied. "I sent him a rocking-horse, by the way, for a little Christmas present. He'll grow up a fine chap, I fancy. Well, I must be off. I don't know what an aristocratic house-party is like, so it's worse than the first visit to the dentist. However, the invitation is presumably on Harold's account, and I suppose aristocrats have some resemblance to humanity."

Anstruther laughed.

"Like plutocrats!" he told me. "By Jove, we'll never thank you enough, sir!"

I found the Fyrstes quite human— stately, but cordial. Lady Beryl was the stateliest— a magnificent young woman of two-and-twenty, with classical features— and the most frankly cordial.

"I wanted to meet you," she said. "I like brave men."

"Brave?" I inquired in surprise. "What—"

"Oh!" she smiled. She had a slow way of smiling—naturally. The sun does not rise all at once. "Have you committed so many heroisms that you have to ask which ?"

"None," I denied. "You mean those high-colored paragraphs about the child? I'm sorry to destroy any illusions about myself— I need a lot of colored light— but there was nothing in it. I am a strong swimmer. I could keep afloat for a couple of hours if necessary. I knew they'd pick me up in twenty minutes. It was rather less, in fact. The child was no weight, not like a grown-up."

"There was a strong sea running, I believe?" she suggested.

"There are always big rollers in the Atlantic," I told her, "but you float on top."

"There are sharks, also, I understand," she continued.

"Didn't happen to be any. There was a beastly porpoise that I took for one at first, and felt very unheroic."

"It must have been very cold."

"That was the worst," I admitted; "but I am hardened to cold. I had plenty of it in my gold-digging days; but I felt very concerned about the child. However, he's pulled round all right. A tough little scamp! He ought to make a fine man!"

"Thanks to your heroism," she insisted.

"There isn't much heroism in doing the only thing you can possibly do, Lady Beryl. I couldn't see the baby drown, of course. Really, I don't think there's much heroism in doing anything on the spur of the moment. When you have time to think over things you need courage. So I generally plunge in shares— I think I will now, though I don't feel a hero, I assure you. It's cold water that I'm afraid of. Probably you guess that I came over to England largely to have a talk with you? About my nephew, Harold Lester. He proposed to you, and you refused him."

"Yes." She looked me straight in the eyes. She was little shorter than I, though I am a big man. "Do you think I am the sort of girl to be won by courting at second-hand, Mr. Gray?"

"Harold is all I have," I apologised. "Probably I have fathered him too much, and it is my fault that he inclines to lean on me. I only hoped to gain permission for him to try his fortune a second time. He would be very lucky if he succeeded."

"Thank you," she acknowledged. "You had to say it, you know!"

"I am not experienced in the amenities of high society, Lady Beryl," I rejoined. "When I say things I usually mean them. I meant that."

"Then"— she smiled the slow smile again— "I truly thank you!"

"And he may try again?" I asked.

"It would be unkind to say 'yes,' " she assured me. "I do not care for your nephew sufficiently, Mr. Gray— not nearly sufficiently. I should boss him, as you say, in America. I should prefer a husband who would boss me— with difficulty, of course!"

She laughed. I can't describe the sound. It just outclassed other laughs, just as she outclassed all other women whom I had ever met.

"With great difficulty, I should think," I told her. "Harold couldn't certainly; but probably the task is impossible! If you had made up your mind so finally— I gather that you have?"

"Yes," she agreed.

"Then I am rather puzzled how I come to be here," I said. "I supposed that I was asked on Harold's account."

"No." She shook her head. "We had a hint that you had come all this way to talk to me, and more than a hint that you were a brave man, a big man— I don't mean your money, Mr. Gray— and a good sport. We're rather that sort. So we gave you your chance to talk to me in the most hospitable way that we could."

"Thank you!" I beamed. "It was Mrs. Anstruther, of course. I am indebted to her, and to you. I have some important business in America. So there remains nothing to excuse me from catching the Boxing Day steamer?"

"Of course not," she said, "if our society does not attract you."

"Your society attracts me," I told her, "but—"

I think there were three "buts" really. They passed through my mind very clearly, though my pause did not last for a couple of seconds.

But if Harold didn't exist I should certainly stay. But Lady Beryl ,would be the reason. But I couldn't be a rival to him.

"But there are good reasons why I should go." I concluded. "Reasons which you would consider good. If I may stop until the morning of Boxing Day, and arrange for a motor from here? Believe me, I appreciate your society greatly, and you."

"Of course." she answered. "We shall be glad for you to stay as long as is convenient to you, Mr. Gray."

So I stayed.

Lady Beryl played billiards with me in the evening. She was a better player than I.

"The balls are too little for you, and the table too small," she teased me. "You like little things on a large scale, don't you. Good billiards is made up of a lot of little things— little, little things! Life, is, too!"

"Some lives," I said. "I have lived hard and roughly for a good part of mine."

"Tell me?" she asked.

I told her a good deal. Not all, of course. I thank God I am not the pushy sort of man who could tell all his life to a woman!

"Your life." she remarked, "as related in its present edition— I suspect it isn't quite a complete one— seems to have been exclusively masculine."

"Oh!" I said. "Women? No one who matters. I didn't care for the sort of woman who would care for me. Now, perhaps, some would; but I suppose I've acquired the bachelor habit."

"If you met the right one." she observed, "she'd soon make you buy a new suit, although you consider yourself impregnable."

"I don't," I told her. "But there are some fortresses that a man must not let any woman storm, not even the dearest woman."

I meant my honor. Lady Beryl could carry the rest of my defences, and I should not trouble to defend them. I owed it frankly to myself as I sat before my bedroom fire that night. She was the biggest of the big things in my life. But I could not court the woman to whom I had come as Harold's ambassador. Before I departed, I must make another appeal to her on his behalf. I could understand that he must want her very much, and, of course, having known her, he could never care for another woman; just as I never could. At any rate, if she married him, I should be able to do things for her.

The others went to the village church on Christmas morning, but I skated with her. My skating is better than my .billiards; not many fancy tricks, but swift and sure. It was the morning of my life, and I thought that hereafter I should picture heaven as a great glassy surface, and Lady Beryl.

"You are thinking," she asked, as we sped along, "of the masculine past, or the feminine future?"

"Of the present." I told her.

I was, in fact, considering whether I could wire to Harold, telling him that Lady Beryl would not grant him a second innings, and asking whether I might try to keep her in the family. I decided that being a gentleman, although a "soft" gentleman, he would feel bound to agree, and that the cable must not go— not even if she rejected my further appeal on his behalf. There would still be hope for him if she failed to find her ideal— and she might.

"Oh!" she said. "But the present you evidently despise! It becomes the past to-morrow morning."

She obviously referred to my departure. It was conceited, of course. But I had a feeling that she was to be won if I stayed, and that she knew it.

"A piece of the past that will stand out in my memory," I told her. "I shall leave because I have no choice in the matter. If you understood my reason, you—"

"I am not specially slow of understanding," she remarked.

"No," I agreed.

We skated in silence for some time.

"I should be very slow to suspect you of any but good and honorable motives, Mr. Gray," she said, presently. "Church must be over by now. Shall we go off?"

"One more turn," I begged. "An extra jewel for my setting of the present, when it is the past. My great hope is that I may be able to come over again soon."

I could talk to Harold upon the subject when I returned, I had decided, and let him see that I was attracted by her, and if he said: "I accept my dismissal. Why not try your luck, old man?"— he would say it, if he grasped the situation— then I could come back by the first steamer, on the biggest business of my life. She was so lovely, so gracious, and so sweet. Only she might be won by someone else meanwhile. I felt as if all the male universe must be waiting to pounce on her— jealous of creation.

The Fyrstes were very nice to me that Christmas afternoon. I felt that there was considerable liking between us, and that their friendliness was on account of myself and not of my money. They had plenty, and they were incapable of any underhand motive— manly men and good women. I would have liked to have Charlie, the third son, in my business. I told Lady Beryl so.

"He's a real man," I said, "and there aren't too many."

"Or real women," she remarked.

"Only one," I told her.

"Oh!" she smiled that slow smile. "Past or future?"

"Present," I assured her. "You have been a revelation to me. I thought that Harold was a fool till I met you. Now I know that for once he was wise. Lady Beryl, will you let me make one last appeal on his behalf? I came as his ambassador, you know. He admires you very greatly. It would— must— have a great effect on him if his lot was joined with yours. Perhaps he would grow in wisdom if you encouraged its first appearance? He is a likeable boy, Lady Beryl, kind and straight; all the good things, except that he is not very clever or morally courageous. Physically, he is brave enough. For example, he'd have gone after the child. Won't you give him another chance? I think he would grow bigger under your influence. A man would."

"Ah!" she murmured. "But I want a man who will grow me big. A better man than I!"

"Dear Lady," I told her, "there is no such man—no such man!"

"Someone that I could fancy such, then," she amended. "I suppose it is the ideas that we have of a people that influence us."

"Yes," I agreed. "I shall take away a great Idea of you tomorrow. An ambassador who goes back without the princess."

"He came from the wrong prince," she told me. "Would you send an ambassador, Mr. Gray? It isn't the idea of yourself that you will leave with me."

"Ah!" I said. "If I leave any idea let it be that of a man who tried to go straight— even when it was hard."

"I think of you so," she told me. "You would be even quixotically straight. Yes."

Neither of us spoke again for, perhaps, five minutes. My idea of myself fought with me— and won. I must not, I would not, say the least word to hint at my feeling for her. Heavens, how lovely she was! Like nothing else in the world to me. The hardest thing of all was that I felt she was inclined to like me; at any rate, was not beyond my possible reach. Well, I should be a better man for the thought that she could find something worthy in me.

"May the idea be this?" I asked her. "A man who did keep straight, and who is truly your friend, very truly."

"The idea is that," she answered. "And the idea of me? Will you put friendship, too? I think we are friends?"

Charlie rushed up just then, with the fifth little thing.

"A cable for you," he said. "They weren't sending out this afternoon, but I was in the village and saw the postmistress. I thought, perhaps, your old ship wasn't going. Good luck to it!"

He ran off, and I opened the cable, which had been redirected from my hotel.

"Don't proceed further with my business. I want to get engaged to Nellie Warren. Hope nothing has been done to prevent it Cable reply.—Harold."

I dropped the flimsy paper, and watched it flutter to the ground. I laughed unsteadily.

"A little message that might change the world for me," I said. "Thank God!"

"Is it very good news?" she asked.

"Very good news," I told her.

"I am glad," she said.

"It is no longer necessary for me to go to-morrow," I told her. "I wonder, if— if my original invitation still holds? I should like to see more of you. Perhaps leave behind a revised idea."

"The invitation holds," she answered. "But what would you revise? You don't mean to cease being straight? Or my friend?"

"There are degrees of friendship," I said. "Lady Beryl, may I show you the cable? I think you will understand. And then will you tell me if I may stay?"

She smiled, but for once the smile was a quick one.

"I couldn't help seeing it," she owned, "and I told you that you might stay."

"Will you come into the conservatory?" I begged.

My voice shook, and I had not thought that anything could break my self-control.

We walked together into the conservatory. The world seemed to be whirling round. Inside the door I took her arm. Behind the palm I took her.

"You know I love you, dear?" I whispered. "You know!"

"I knew before," she whispered. "Right from the first. We both did!"

"Did you? Thank God! You will be my wife, Beryl?"

"Ye-es; but you won't boss me easily, you know. I shall be quite a handful!"

"I hope so!" I told her. "Dear, big, girl!"

"Some things I shall boss you in," she claimed.

"Of course," I assented. Begin!"

"Yes!" she laughed. "I want you to do something quite big for the Anstruthers, because they aren't very well off, and Charlie says they're an awfully good sort, and it's all through Mrs. Anstruther's letter! That was the little thing which did it."

She showed it to me in the evening. I can't quote it. It was much too flattering to me. Of course, Mrs. Anstruther made a ridiculous over-estimate of my risk in saving the child. That didn't surprise me; but she also made a preposterous over-estimate of me. She asked Lady Beryl to see me, and do "a sporting little kindness to a very big man who had risked his valuable life to do a great one."

Women think such a lot of little things! I said so to Lady Fyrste when we were having a confidential talk in the evening, after Beryl had told her of our engagement.

"That is what you should remember, my dear man," she told me. "You'll do big things for Beryl. I don't doubt that. But don't forget the little ones— the small daily kindnesses and courtesies. Take an interest in her small affairs— so small, you'll think, beside your great deeds! If a man is to make a woman happy— and you want to— he must study her in little things. A lot of them make a big one."

___________________

12: The Torpedo

M. McDonnell Bodkin

1850-1933

World's News (Sydney) 13 Oct 1923

ON SUNDAY NIGHT, a fatal collision took place between a two-seater motor and a motor bicycle close to the small town of Strangely, on the southern coast, about seventy miles outside London. Mr. Andrew Cardwell, the well-known millionaire, who was the sole occupant of the motor, was killed on the spot, and his nephew, Mr. Henry Standford, rider of the motor bicycle, was found insensible by the road side, and now lies in a precarious condition.

Ten minutes after the evening paper containing this curt paragraph was on the street, the well-known detective. Mr. Beck, was called up on the telephone.

"Hello! That Beck? Stanley and Weldon's office, Lincoln's Inn Fields; Weldon speaking. Can you come round? Yes, at once. Thanks."

When the detective got round as quickly as a taxi could take him. he found his old friend, George Weldon, alone in his private office, looking very perplexed and, if it is lair to say so of an astute elderly solicitor, a little ashamed of himself.

But his welcome was cordial.

"Good of you to come on such short notice," he said as they shook hands and dropped into two easy chairs. "Have you seen this?"

"This" was the newspaper.

"Read it five minutes before you rang up."

"Did you know him at all?"

"Just met him once or twice."

"He was a client and old friend of mine, not always the same thing, and I got a bit of a shock when I read of his death. Seems a common-place accident enough."

The detective nodded, a non-committal nod. "Any reason to think the contrary?"

"Well, no," Mr. Weldon said, hesitatingly, and looked more embarrassed than ever. "I'm afraid you'll think I'm starting you on a fool's errand. I have literally nothing to go on. but the impulse to send for you was too sarong to be resisted. You've known me for a long time; do you consider me a superstitious jackass?"

"You are about the most level-headed man of my acquaintance."

"It's a comfort to hear you say that, anyway. but I'd better out with the whole story. On Sunday I had a wire from Cardwell, making an appointment to meet me sharp at half-past two at my office on the following day. Well, I was ready for him, of course. Punctuality was a perfect craze with Cardwell, and I was a bit surprised when half past two came and he didn't turn up; then suddenly— don't laugh at me, I'm in dead earnest— I had a feeling that he had kept his appointment, that he was there in the room with me, though I could not see him, and that he was trying to say something. At last he seemed to get it through from his brain to mine. 'Send for Beck,' and then he was gone, and I was alone in the room.

"It was the queerest thing ever happened to me. I'm not imaginative or superstitious, as you know but I felt as sure that Cardwell had been there and put that Into my brain as if I had seen and heard him. Five minutes later I got the evening paper, and saw that the poor chap was dead. Then the feeling was stronger than ever that he had ordered me to send for you. It was an asinine thing, of course, but I couldn't help myself, so I rang you up."

The detective listened imperturbably. making no comment on this weird story of ghost and solicitor. After a moment he asked: "Have you any notion what the business was he wanted to see you about?"

"Well, that's a pretty long story. About a month ago, Cardwell got me. In fact, forced me. to make a will disinheriting his only son, and leaving all he died possessed of to that same nephew who was the involuntary cause of his death. It happened this way. His only son, Randal Cardwell, married in open defiance of his father's wishes— married the old man's discharged typist. It seems that the father had found out they were pulling a cord, and dismissed the girl. There was a violent scene, and next day the son married her. Then I was instructed to leave everything to the nephew. You must have heard of him. Henry Standford."

"Of course. Stroke for Cambridge, international footballer, and V.C. Got it. if I remember right, for rooting out a nest of German wasps. A nephew to be proud of. I'm glad you sent for me." said Beck; "the thing may be worth looking into. Can you tell me where the son lives; I should like to have a word with him."

The only son of the deceased millionaire lived with his bride in two rooms in a humble lodging-house in Gower Street— a good-looking, well-built, young fellow, whose chin and resolute lips seemed to give the lie to gentle brown eyes. His answers to the detective's questions were curt, almost defiant.

"There is nothing to inquire about," he insisted; "an unhappy accident, doubly unhappy for me, under the circumstances, but I can't see that it is any concern of outsiders."

He was taking a formal and somewhat strained leave of his unwelcome visitor when the bride came unexpectedly, bright as a beam of sunshine, into the dingy lodging house parlor, and the detective was no longer in the least surprised that young Cardwell had defied his father to marry her.

"We were talking of poor father, Laura," the husband said. "This gentleman has called to make some official inquiries as to the manner of his death."

"I suppose he heard of the quarrel," the wife answered, "but I am sure your father would have forgiven us if he had lived— I wish I had seen him at Breesely, Randal."

"I had lost my temper with my father," the son explained, after a pause. "It was our first quarrel. We had always been great pals. But I was riled the way he spoke of Laura, and used violent language, threats I never meant, and I wanted to say how sorry I was, so I went down to Breesely last Saturday, and I hung about the place all Sunday, but I couldn't bring myself to speak to him, it looked too mean, as if I wanted him to change his will. But what's the good of going back on all that now?" he added impatiently. "He's dead, and there's no more to be said or done. His death was clearly an accident."

The detective took the hint and his leave. "Sorry to worry you," he said good-humoredly. "Try and forgive me."

It was the wife that answered with a pleasant smile. "There's nothing to forgive."

An hour later. Beck was in the train for Breesely. He had got some hints from that brief interview. A probability suggested itself; but he never rested on probabilities. To him they were only the bypaths that led to the clear road of certainty.

It was late when he arrived at Breesely; a holiday seaside resort, with a famous golf links hard by, and he put up at the Golden Crown, the chief hotel in the town, where Andrew Cardwell had stayed for nearly a month up to that fatal Sunday.

Early next morning. Beck interviewed the bead waiter and chief ostler, both eager tot tell what they knew, and made loquacious by extra tips.

"Early on Sunday," the waiter told him, "Mr. Cardwell had been visited by his nephew, who came across on his motor bicycle from the small town of Strangely, about twenty miles away. As fine a young man as I ever laid eyes on," the waiter said, "and it was a blessing he wasn't killed in the crash.  Him and his uncle were on the best of terms, lunching together in Mr. Cardwell's private room. I couldn't help hearing some of the things they said to one another. There was some words from Mr. Cardwell I didn't altogether catch; he spoke it in a kind of whisper, but the nephew answered loud enough for the town to hear. 'You know that's what I always advised you,' he said, 'from first to last.' The old man said something then. 'You're a good sort, Henry,' or words like that; then they drank each other's health in champagne, in the best of good humor. It was after that Mr. Cardwell said he was off to London at once, as he had an important appointment. It was arranged that the nephew should take over his room, and he started soon after lunch to fetch his traps from Strangely, which is a dull little place at the best of times. But Mr. Cardwell did not get away for London till after dark, and the reason for that I could not tell you if you paid me."

But the chief ostler, Jim Maloney. who had charge of the motors in the yard, could tell, and did. When Mr. Cardwell was ready to start in his two-seater, which he drove himself, it was found that all four tyres had been punctured, stabbed, as it seemed on closer examination, with the blade of a large pocket knife. The time spent in repairs had delayed the journey until after nightfall, but Mr. Cardwell insisted on starting; he must be in London next day at any cost.

From the Golden Crown. Beck drove about seventeen miles to the scene of the collision. About a mile or so from the spot, he dropped in at the house of the yeoman farmer, John Somers. by whom the body had been found.

He took to the man at first sight. His upright figure, pleasant, sunburned face, and frank grey eyes proclaimed him intelligent and honest, especially honest; a man to be relied on.

"You might tell me all about it your own way," Beck suggested, as they sat at luncheon. "Questions can come afterwards."

"I was after the partridges that morning," Somers began. "You don't know the place? Well, the road runs on a long decline, very steep in parts. There is a drop of twenty or twenty-five feet on either side, and a thin scrabble of hawthorn is the only fence. I was walking along the headland at the foot of the embankment, when all of a sudden I came on a motor-car in a hopeless smash. A good ten yards off the man was lying dead. He must have been thrown clear out when the car went over, anyhow there wasn't a kick in him."

"Anything else?"

"Nothing; well, you couldn't call it anything. I caught a glint of the sun in the stubble, and I found a small medicine bottle empty. Couldn't say if it had been there before: don't know what became of it."

"You didn't read the label?"

"Well, I did. but I can't remember it." He sat silent for a moment, struggling with his memory, eager to furnish clues. "No go! I was a pretty long word. I think it began with a "C" and there was "Poison" under it. That's all."

"That will do. What next?"

"At first I had no notion of a collision f just thought the motor had tipped over the embankment, when I noticed, a few yards off, a smashed motor-bike, though not so smashed as the car. Then, of course I knew there must have been a collision; the same man could not drive a car and ride a bicycle; so I climbed up on the road. It was all torn up where they crashed, and the good-for-nothing hedge broken in two places where the bike and the motor had gone through. On the further side of the road a big man was lying; just at the end of the embankment, half through the hedge; a good push would have sent him through to his death."

"Mr. Standford?"

"The very man. At first shot I thought he was stone dead. On closer examination, I found his heart beating, but I tried in vain to rouse him; shook him and all that kind of thing; forced a few drops of brandy between his teeth— there was a drain left in my flask— but it was no use. he lay like a corpse, limp and pale. So, after waiting a bit in the hope that someone would pass by—it's a dreadfully lonely bit of a road—I went off as fast as I could to Strangely for a doctor."

"Had Mr. Standford a handkerchief in his hand when you first found him?"

Amazement showed in the farmer's face. "Well then, he had. but how did you come to think of that?"

"Did you happen to smell it?"

"I smelt nothing but the stink of petrol; his clothes were drenched with it"

"Of course they would be," commented the detective! "Foolish question that of mine. Now, would you mind driving across with me to the scene of the accident?"

They had finished their lunch, and were smoking two excellent cigars produced by Beck; the farmer jumped to his feet with alacrity. "I will be delighted." he said. "By the way, there was one other thing I forgot to mention; there was a side-car lying close to the cycle, and a big portmanteau full of books and things, as heavy as a heavy man, and heavier."

"And there was one question I forgot to ask. Were the lamps of the car broken?"

"One was, and, for a wonder, one wasn't. It was wrenched off. in the hedge, and later on, when the constable came to examine it, he found there was no electric bulb."

The farmer drove Beck to the scene of the collision. As they walked up the hill together, more than once the detective stopped to take the level of the incline. Just below, where the collision took place, and the insensible cycle rider was found, the rise was sharpest, for about eighty yards it ran at an angle of twenty-five degrees; an unbraked motor would have come down it like an avalanche.

There was but one inn at Strangely, and Henry Standford was lying in its best bedroom, not yet recovered from his terrible experience. Young Dr. Nesbitt was excited and puzzled about the case, and not unwilling to gossip with the detective over a brandy and soda.

"The young fellow must have had a terrible shock," he said. "He was wholly unconscious when we first found him, and for some time after we got him here. No, there were no serious external injuries, some slight bruises and abrasions, that's all, but I fear internal complications; the patient complains of some deep-seated pain in the region of the spine."

The inquest was formal, and Standford was the chief witness. He told of the arrangement made to change his quarters. Some engine trouble had delayed him for a time after he had left Strangely, and it was dark when he came to the long incline. He put his machine on top speed to rush the slope, and heard nothing and saw nothing till the crash. When he came to himself, he was lying on the bed at Strangely, with the doctor at the bedside, holding his hand. His uncle's was a silent car; he was quite sure there were no lights. No, he was not a reckless rider; he had been riding the same machine for some years, and never had an accident before.

John Somers told the story he had told the detective. He dwelt on the finding of the lamp without a bulb, proving that it could not have been lighted at the time of the accident.

A verdict was found of misadventure, exonerating Standford from all blame

Next day Beck loitered about the village, and saw the portmanteau of books described by Mr. Somers, which he weighed, and found a few pounds over his own weight. He also saw the shattered remains of the motor-bicycle  and wired to London to have one of the same make and date sent down to him as soon as possible.

Meanwhile, the patient continued to Improve and. on the fourth day, the doctor thought the detective might see him.

"He is a bit curious about you," the doctor confided; "doesn't understand exactly what you are investigating."

Henry Standford was in his sitting-room, looking the picture of health when Beck came in. A big, handsome man, six feet two in his stockings, and built in proportion, fifteen stone weight at least, with honest blue eyes, that looked you full in the face. His reception of Beck was cordial.

"Sit down, old man," he said, "and join me in a drink; those cigars there are not half bad. Honestly, I am puzzled about this investigation of yours; don't see where the detective can come in."

The other laughed. "Mr. Weldon employed me and told me to name my own fee; I mean to earn it if I can."

"Of course, of course," Standford commented. hastily, stifling a smile; "between ourselves. Mr. Weldon is a bit of a fuz-buz, but that's no affair of yours or mine. If I can help in any way in making up your report, command me. Rather interesting to see a first-class detective at work, even though nothing can come of it."

"Did you see the son hanging round the Golden Crown when you visited your uncle at Breesely?"

Standford stared and gasped, as if some new idea had struck him.

"Why do you ask that?" he blurted out.

"Never mind; you have answered my question."

"But see here, old man," Standford cried, "you are barking up the wrong tree, 'pon my soul you are. Take my word for it, I Randal was not the man to murder his own father. Counting me out altogether, the thing is incredible. Look here," he added, lowering his voice, "drop this —— investigation here and now. Wire to Weldon it's all off. I'm good for the fee."

"Can't be done. I never leave a Job half finished. If your cousin is innocent, my investigation cannot hurt him— if not—"

"All right, have it you own way; is it indiscreet to ask you what you purpose doing?**

"Not in the least. You have heard how detectives try to reconstruct a crime?"

"Rather; but this is not a crime."

"An accident, if you like. Well, that's what I am going to do. I have got a motor bicycle the facsimile of yours. To-morrow I am going to ride it over—"

"But what good " Standford began and checked himself. "Would you mind if I went with you? I'd like to see how the thing is done."

"I'd be delighted. I fancy you can help me very much. Will you be ready to start to-morrow after lunch. It's a daylight trip this time."

BECK rode the cycle, and Standford sat in the side-car. It was a dim, misty morning, the road was faintly outlined, the hedgerows on either side murky shadows; they could not see fifty yards in front of them. He stopped short at the foot of the long incline.

"What next?" Standford asked. He seemed a bit bewildered at the apparent futility of the whole proceeding.

"I'll just ran her up to the top of the hill." Beck said. "You sit still."

Without a word more, he rushed the hill at full speed. At first the heavily loaded bicycle went rapidly up the gentle incline, then, as the ascent grew steeper and steeper, it gradually slackened its pace to a crawl, and finally stopped short fifty yards from the scene of the collision and began to slip slowly down the slope. Beck jumped to the road and clapped on the brakes.

"Can't get any further," he said. "Let us rest here a bit," and turned across the road to the hawthorn hedge. Then, with a quick movement, Beck drew Standford's hands together and snapped the handcuffs on his wrists.

There was no struggle. The winner of the Victoria Cross collapsed. His was the courage that blazes fiercely in the lust of danger, that needs excitement to sustain it. For a moment or two he lay, huddled up in the car; then, with an effort to speak steadily, he said:—

"Perhaps you would be good enough to tell me the meaning of this outrage."

"It means," retorted Beck, "that, in an hour's time, two constables will be here with a car to take you bade to London, on a charge of murdering your uncle, and I rather think there is evidence enough to hang you.

"Would you like me to tell you what I know? You can correct me if I go wrong."

"Go on," muttered Standford sullenly, "I'll tell you if you are right."

So Beck went on.

"The day before the murder you went over to Breesely by the request of your uncle. He told you he had resolved to forgive his son, and destroy the will he had made in your favor. You hid your rage at the news and pretended to be glad of it, while all the time you were planning to murder the old man before he could get back to London. For that purpose you dwelt on the discomfort of Strangely, and extracted an invitation that you should take over his quarters at Breesely for the rest of his term. Before starting, you slashed the tyres of his motor car. that he might not be able to start until nightfall. Then followed the collision. Your uncle died, and the will survived. It was devilishly ingenious.

"When you came out from Strangely that evening you waited at the foot of the hill till the lights of your uncle's motor showed over the ridge. As his car came down you launched the riderless motor bicycle, and the two crashed down the embankment. Then you chose a likely spot, soused your handkerchief in chloroform, and waited for your rescuers; it was ingenious to soak yourself In petrol to get rid of the smell, pity you could not get rid of the handkerchief. I found the hint useful. I gambled on the belief that the motor and loaded side-car could not climb the slope. When I proved that I proved your story of the collision was a lie."

Standford listened in blank amazement, his eyes riveted on the detective, who quietly disclosed the details of his crime.

"Do you want a confession?" he asked, shortly.

"Just as you like," said Beck, "but it is fair to warn you it won't save your neck."

"If you have pen and paper, and draw it up, then I'll see about signing."

Beck took a slim notebook from his pocket, and wrote for a few minutes.

"Mind," he added, "as I said before, you needn't sign unless you choose. If you do sign, it will hang you to a certainty."

"Perhaps not. If I sign it, I put myself entirely in your power. That all?"

"In the power of the law."

"No, in yours. We two alone know or guess anything about this. The old man left over a million: half is yours if you hold your tongue. The signed confession is your security for payment. Is that good enough?"

Beck did not answer for a moment, just looked at him with utter contempt, and the eager hope died out of his eyes.

"Sign or not, as you choose. I'll bring you to the halter if I can, for your cousin's sake."

A moment's sullen silence, and Standford said: "All right, take off the handcuffs, and I'll sign.

Beck steadied the notebook on the saddle of the motor, unlocked the handcuffs, and gave him the fountain pen. He signed at the foot of the page, but, as Beck took back the book, Standford suddenly pushed the car out on the road, released the brakes, and went down the steep incline with a rush, gathering speed as he went. For a second. Beck took steady aim at the broad back, then he dropped the muzzle. "No," he muttered, "not by my hand, poor devil; he is sure to be caught and hanged."

But Beck was wrong. Two days later, the following paragraph appeared in the London newspapers:—

GHASTLY COINCIDENCE

Yesterday, Mr. Henry Standford who, as our readers will remember, escaped by a miracle in a recent motor smash, in which his uncle, Mr. Andrew Cardwell, met his death, was himself killed by a somewhat similar accident in the same locality. Some men were engaged in removing a tree that had fallen across the road, when they saw a man come round a corner on a motor-cycle, driven at a furious rate. They shouted, but the reckless driver appeared neither to see nor hear. The men had barely time to scramble from the road, when the cycle crashed into the tree. The unfortunate rider was thrown half a dozen yards by the shock, and lay on the road with a broken neck, stone dead. His identity was subsequently ascertained. An inquest will be held in due course.

It was hardly a week later, that the detective called by invitation at the town house of the late Mr. Andrew Cardwell. This time it was shown into a spacious drawing-room, and had a hearty welcome from husband and wife.

"We wanted to thank you," the wife said, as they shook hands; "but for you, we would never have known he had forgiven us."

"I had my first hint of it from you," he replied. "I hope that everything has been satisfactorily arranged."

"Perfectly," young CardweIl replied. "Mr. Weldon showed us the confession, and told us the wonderful way you had come by it. He then burned it. No use disgracing the wretch after he was dead. He also burned the will. We know that my father would have destroyed it if he had not been murdered. As sole heir and next of kin, all his property comes to me. It is a comfort to know that he wished me to have it. My wife and I want to thank you from the bottom of our hearts. We both recognise that we owe this happiness to you."

Then the detective remembered how he had come into the case.

"Not to me," he said. "To the spirit of your dead father."

__________________

13: The Storm Centre

J. J. Bell

1871-1934

World's News (Sydney) 27 Oct 1923

ALMOST past was the seventh day of the heat wave which had made meteorological records; and evening had brought no relief to London— to the London, at least, that must work. In the City itself, the roar of traffic had fallen to a muttering: side streets were blank and silent: but mere quiet was no solace in that heavy, enervating atmosphere. Now, however, at eight o'clock, it was growing dark, though the invisible sun was still nearly two hours from its setting. Surely, at last, the oft anticipated storm was at hand.

In a room, high up in a block of offices, two people sat at work— a man and a girl— the one checking typewritten sheets, while the other read aloud from a manuscript. At first sight, the room, with its book-lined walls, suggested a library, rather than a commercial office; yet its furnishings, save for a dainty tea-service on a side table, were business-like enough.

The girl's voice sounded tired: in the fading light her face— a fair and very charming one— showed weariness, but her utterance, distinct and regular, evinced no lack of interest in her task.

The man, too, looked fagged, haggard, in fact, and at that moment you would probably have credited him with a dozen years more than his age— and,  had you glanced at the bookcase. you might even have added ten more. because one does not associate thirty with a library, mainly composed of statistical works, relating to nothing but commerce.

But the library was Hugh Stanley's through inheritance, and he was sitting in it now, because, nearly two years ago, he had promised his dying father to do nothing with his life until he had completed and prepared for publication, the old man's great work, entitled "A Century of British Commerce." It was a task to appall a young man of less filial devotion, a promise to be somehow evaded by one of less honesty and conscience.

And now—

The girl stopped. Her mouth quivered, she controlled herself, and, with an effort, clearly two words— "The end."

Hugh Stanley laid the page methodically on the heap in front of him, drew his hand across his eyes, and muttered, "Thank God!"

The girl's head dropped. There was no thankfulness in her heart. To her this was more than the end of a great task. It was the end of the happiest companionship she had known in her twenty-three years. But the next moment she was meeting his eyes, his friendly smile.

"Congratulations, Mr. Stanley," she said, quietly.

The smile faded. "Miss Lennox," he said, "but for you I should never have won through. You made this victory possible.

"Oh, please!" she murmured.

"We have come through a desert," he went on. "Dry isn't the name for it. Without your energy and courage. I should have lost heart. And now I thank you with all my heart." He held out his hand.

Silent, she gave him hers, and for a very little longer than usual he held it.

"It was a good day for me when you became my secretary, eighteen months ago," he continued. "I had made a vow that looked like becoming a millstone round my neck. Now the vow is fulfilled, and I'm free— free— and all thanks to you."

Once more he smiled.

"The funny thing is, Miss Lennox, I'm almost sorry the fight is over. How do you feel about it?"

She shook her head. "I don't think I realise yet that it's over. Perhaps, by the sea to-morrow night, I shall know."

She began to gather together her secretarial implements.

"You need a big holiday," he remarked, "and I'm glad you are starting off at once. There are several things we must discuss, but not now. You and I are both too done up with our final effort. If I may"— his voice held a suspicion of tenderness— "I shall come and see you one day next week, when you are rested. Meantime, there is one thins I must mention— and you are not to be offended, for it's vital to my peace of mind. When I began this work, I had no thought of material reward, but now Fargus, the publisher, tells me that the book is going to earn a lot of money. And so I have arranged with Fargus for an agreement whereby you and I share the proceeds "

"Mr. Stanley!"

"Oh, don't be vexed! It's the only way—"

"I couldn't!" she cried. "You have been paying me a very handsome salary—"

"Nothing to the handsome help you have given me. So please "

"It's awfully generous of you, but— "

For an instant they saw each other in a glare.

"Ah, the storm, coming at last!" said Stanley. "Well, let us leave everything till next week. You must get to the Underground before the clouds break—there's the thunder!" He rose. "I'll put things away. Don't delay."

"Let me put those precious papers in the strong-room."

"Please leave them. I'm going to sit here for an hour and do nothing."

"Mr. Stanley," she said, getting up, "You ought to have some food."

He made a grimace, and put his hand to his head. She thought him looking ill, and said so, but he laughed, saying. "Only the weather," and begging her— another flash— to go quickly.

As she hesitated, came a sudden knocking at the door of the outer office.

It was almost dark, and Stanley switched on the lights, saying "A telegram, perhaps. I'll go."

But she was already gone. He heard her unlocking the door, and then a man's gasping voice— "Oh, thank God! Let me go to him," and the secretary's "Mr. Lanceworth!" all astonishment.

Next moment a young man, pale, panting, dishevelled, stumbled into his presence.

"Why, Harry, old man! What's wrong?" Stanley supported the reeling form of his cousin.

"Wrong? Nothing! Everything's right!" sobbed the other. "Everything right at last!"

Then Stanley realised that the exhausted young man was almost beside himself with joy.

"Harry!" he cried; "do you mean to tell me that you've got the proofs at last?"

"That's it! Proofs— full proofs— proofs that I was innocent of the charge that held me in gaol for two years; abundant proofs against the blackguards that sent me there to save themselves! Yes, I've got them all safe, Hugh! I— I—" Lanceworth paused for breath.

"Sit down, old man. This is the greatest, gladdest news—"

"No, no. I must not wait. Hugh." Lanceworth obtained partial control of himself. "Here," he said hoarsely, bringing out a bunch of folded documents, "here they are. Put them in your safe till I can get them to my lawyer. I— I've had a run for it, and I must keep moving. Take them and let me go."

"But, Harry, you've been in a struggle!"

"For God's sake, don't ask me to explain now. I fought Leiter in his rooms, searched his safe, and got these! But I was nearly caught.... The gang is after me... I managed to dodge them— I think— for the moment.... Oh, take the papers— take them! My future, my mother's life, depends upon their safety...  I'll 'phone you tomorrow."

He tore himself free.

Stanley was alone with the papers in his hand. He did not doubt the words of his cousin, whom he had always believed innocent, and loved, and whom he was now eager to serve; but had Harry really— even temporarily— evaded his pursuers, who probably knew of the relationship? What if they had seen Harry enter the building? What if they should suspect Harry's cousin as the keeper of those papers, so vital to Harry, so deadly to themselves?

A peal of thunder coincided with the girl's entrance. She had donned her hat.

"Mr. Stanley, ought you not to get away before the storm breaks? You haven't even a coat in the office. Besides, you are worn out."

"Thanks. It's nice to be thought of," he replied. "Yes; I'll go the moment I've put things straight. Meantime"— he regarded the papers reflectively— "I'll ask you to do one little thing for me. Witness my putting these documents in the safe."

He placed them in an envelope, sealed and endorsed it with his cousin's name, and opened the iron door of the old-fashioned strong-room which, though probably fireproof, would certainly not have given a modern burglar an hour's worry.

They entered the narrow chamber at the end of which stood a small safe of recent pattern. Having deposited the packet therein and locked the door, he removed the key from the bunch and handed it to her, saying:—

"Would you mind taking it with you. Miss Lennox, and posting it to me before you leave town in the morning?"

If she felt curious she did not show it. "Certainly. Mr. Stanley," she said, and put the key in her purse.

Another peal— louder.

"Now you must go." he said, and conducted her to the outer office. At the door he took her hand. "Till next week.'' he added softly.

"Please take care of yourself," she whispered, and was gone.

He listened awhile, then, closing the door, leaned against it. How his head ached— and how he loved her! Somehow he could not have asked her to marry him in the midst of business associations; yet he wished now that he had ventured.

He returned to the private office and started to put the last chapters of his father's great work into the strong-room. To-morrow they should go to the impatient publisher. The task was complete. Hugh Stanley was a free man— free to return to the beloved science he had relinquished two years ago.... But his head— how it ached!

Leaving the iron door open, he switched off the lights, sank into a chair, and let his heavy eyelids fall.

THE STORM quickened. A blue blaze was followed swiftly by a shattering crash that broke through his torpor. He got up and looked from the window. The deluge had begun. But Lydia, he thought, thankfully, had had time to reach the shelter of the station. Leaning his arms on the sill, he gazed at the streaming murk, dreaming of her.

Snap!

The sound came from the outer office. It was followed by a jarring one. Stanley turned sharply, suddenly wide-awake, comprehending that the outer door had been forced. A flash came.

His first thought was of the strong-room. Cautiously he tiptoed towards it. Too late!

Two men stood in the doorway. You would see their like any day in the City. Only, one of them held a revolver.

Swiftly Stanley reached to the desk for the heavy ruler.

"Sit down, Mr. Stanley," said the man with the weapon.

Seeing no help for it, Stanley obeyed.

"What do you want?" he asked shortly.

"The papers left by your cousin, Mr. Harry Lanceworth, twenty minutes ago."

"Your authority?"

The other made a slight motion with the revolver.

"I can't very well dispute that," said Stanley. "You have my permission to look for the papers. But, may I ask, why are you so certain that they are here?"

"Because your cousin, when he left this place, did not have them in his possession. Your cousin, I may add, probably thought he was struck by lightning. He is now on his way to hospital, with a concussion that will probably spoil his memory lor some weeks—"

"You swine!" Stanley started up.

"Fred," said the man to his companion, "fix him up. We have no time to waste." He forced Stanley back under the weapon's muzzle.

Producing four short straps, the other speedily buckled Stanley's elbows and ankles to the chair.

"Take it quietly, Mr. Stanley," said the leader. "We're the only people in the building, and the street is deserted."

A flash flared.

"Ah," Stanley exclaimed. "I have seen you before. I shall know you again."

"Shall I silence him?'' inquired the man Who had done the strapping.

"Not now," replied the leader. "Come along."

They passed into the strong-room.

Stanley tested his bonds— hopeless! He did not pretend to himself that he was unafraid. Sooner or later they would learn that the papers were not on the shelves of the strong-room, and conclude that they were in the safe. They would demand the key. What then? The safe would not be easily opened— but they had the whole night before them, and they were desperate men.

His head sank. What a crushing disaster fur poor Harry! A glimpse of the sun, and then back under the cloud that would surely overhang the remainder of his life. Stanley writhed and cursed in his helplessness, unmindful of his own peril. The office was now in deep gloom. From the strong-room came gleams of electric torches and snatches of angry talk. Every moment he expected the demand for his keys. The storm seemed to be passing over. The thunder was less violent, though the lightning was still fiercely brilliant.

He was facing the half-open door. All at once nerve and muscle leapt under his bonds; he all but called out. In a burst of steely light he glimpsed the white face of Lydia!

Heavens! What was she doing there? Why had she come back?

His first impulse was to shout a warning— but what if those blackguards were too quick and caught her? They could not afford to have another witness. For his own life he had little hope. In a ghastly sweat, he sat waiting for the next flash. Perhaps he could signal... It came, but there was no face at the door. Had his nerves upset his senses? And yet the white face had been wet with rain. Perhaps she had comprehended and stolen away for the police. He prayed that it might be so.

The leader came from the strong-room, directing his torch at Stanley's face.

"The key of the safe," he said curtly.

"No."

"I said—the key of the safe."

"Haven't got it," said Stanley, playing for precious moments.

"Don't lie."

"It's the truth."

"Whereabouts in the office?"

"Suppose you have a look round."

The man brought out his revolver. "Answer."

"It is not in the office— perhaps."

"Don't talk rot!"

"Didn't you find it in my cousin's pocket?"

"What?" The man was staggered for a moment.

"Didn't you think of taking his keys?"

The man gripped the revolver by the barrel, and Stanley waited for the sickening smash. But the threatening arm fell away.

"Fred!"

The underling appeared. "Search him for keys."

Fred soon produced the bunch. The other took it, and with it struck Stanley across the face. Then the pair returned to the strong-room.

Despairing, Stanley sank back, closing his eyes. It had been only a vision—his last on earth— that glimpse of Lydia's dear, white face. Disappointed of the keys, they would surely murder him, and then find means of opening the safe at their leisure. But he was glad Lydia was not there. And yet— oh, for one more glimpse.

A tiny sound, not from the strong-room, made him open his eyes. Dimly he saw a form slip round the door and pause, as it hesitating. Lydia, after all, but alone. God! She must not step into the trap! A curse, and the crash of keys flung against metal informed him that the moments of grace had expired. He opened his mouth to warn the girl— and in the same instant, divined her intention.

With a rush, Lydia reached the iron door, pushed it shut in the very faces of the scoundrels, wrenched round the key, and drooped against the barrier.

Stanley exploded in a shout.

"You perfectly amazing, wonderful girl!"

She gave a little laugh that was half a sob, seemed to pull herself together, and switched on a light.

"You're drenched!" he cried.

"Oh, that's nothing," she said, with an attempt at lightness. "I was afraid there vu not time to get help," she went on, faltering a little, "and so I watched, waiting a chance. They haven't hurt you— oh, there's blood on your face— the beasts!"

"A small affair," he replied. "If you could free my arms "

With some effort— for the leather was hard— she did so, and he wiped his face and then attended to the ankle straps. Ha got up stiffly, saying:—

"How am I to thank you? Those fellows mean mischief—"

"Don't speak of it." she shuddered. "What brought you back— Lydia?"

Possibly his first utterance of her name caused her color to return.

"I— I had got it into my head that you were ill," she answered shyly. "Also, I  couldn't help hearing what Mr. Lanceworth said. But now I'd better run for the police."

"Nothing of the kind! I'll 'phone for them— and for a car, for you must get home to dry things at once."

There fell a frantic beating on the iron door, and a muffled shout came through:—

"We shall suffocate here!"

"Not for an hour or so," Stanley replied, with a laugh. "You'll be in a worse place presently."

But he was grave enough when he turned again to the girl.

"Lydia, do I need to say anything except that I can't wait till next week?" And his arms went out to her.

_________________

14: The Turning Point

K. R. G. Browne

(Kenneth Robert Gordon Browne, 1895-1940)

World's News (Sydney) 20 and 27 Feb 1926

(The 20-Story Magazine, January 1923)

K R G Browne was a British author who served as a machine gunner in WW1, and wrote novels, screenplays and many short stories. He collaborated with illustrator Heath Robinson in a number of books.

THERE exists a somewhat misleading theory— prevalent chiefly among the  unmarried— that the ideal marriage is one where the contracting parties are united by a similarity of tastes, prejudices, and intellect. A bride and groom who share a passion for old Worcester, a dislike of tinned foods, and an ability to understand Nietzsche, are usually considered by their friends to possess almost every qualification for a harmonious married life.

This, of course, is a mistake. A union of this calibre will amble along pleasantly enough for a couple of months before degenerating into a species of dignified dogfight. In every perfect marriage there must be a leader. Sometimes the latter's identity is apparent from the first day of the engagement; more often the husband does not learn it until the ultimate grain of rice has slipped down his collar. In the case of Fay Manners and Eustace Railton, the world considered that the question of leadership had been settled when they were respectively five and eight years of age. Which shows that one can never tell.

The village of Rackenbury Parva, having seen it coming for the past fifteen years, was not surprised when Fay and Eustace became engaged. On the whole, public opinion favored the affair, though there were, of course, those who simply could not understand what she saw in him, while a more sophisticated school of thought, headed by the vicar's three unwedded daughters, held to the opinion that it was his bank account which had done the trick.

Fay lived with her father in the big Georgian house upon the edge of the common. She was one of those confusing girls who decline to conform to type, but insist on adapting themselves to any circumstances. Coming upon Fay in the hockey-field, one could not picture her in evening dress; meeting her in evening dress, it seemed incredible that she could play hockey. She was twenty-one, blonde, and addicted to cold baths.

Eustace was precisely what his name implies. With his mother he dwelt in the other old Georgian house upon the edge of the common. His father, who had been what is euphemistically known as a self-made man, had died some years before, bequeathing to his son an immodestly large income and a superb collection of butterflies. Thenceforward, Eustace's destinies were moulded by his mother, with the result that, at the age of twenty-four, he possessed no , occupation, simple tastes, the facial appearance of a slightly melancholy sheep, and an inherited and harmless passion for winged insects.

He had been vaguely surprised when Fay accepted him, but as he had been carefully trained for just such a contingency, he had soon come to regard it as a matter of course. In fact, he was quite pleased about it, for Fay was distinctly personable.

Fay, on her part, was aware of no overwhelming affection for her fiancé. But she knew few men. and, as her father seemed most anxious that she should espouse Eustace, she saw no reason to disappoint him. And Eustace had in him the makings of a decent citizen, anyway.

Their engagement had little effect upon the habits of either. From the age of eight, Eustace had been accustomed to see Fay at least once a day, and he continued to do so now; from the age of five Fay had managed Eustace with a firm but kindly hand, and she found no cause to abandon the practice. It was not, indeed, until she had worn his tasteful and expensive ring for nearly four months that Eustace began dimly to perceive that matters could not very well go on like this till the end- of time.

In making this discovery he was, we may suppose, assisted by the ponderously tactful hints which his mother was beginning to throw out upon the subject of honeymoons. Somewhat diffidently, Eustace broached the question to his fiancée one morning as they crossed the common together.

"Er— Fay," he observed, beheading a dandelion with his stick.

"Hullo?"

"Er— well, it just occurred to me— in fact— well, I mean, isn't it about time we fixed a day, and all that sort of thing, you know?" Fay registered momentary incomprehension.

"Fix a day? What do you— Oh!"

"Yes," said Eustace, relieved to have got it off his chest. They proceeded in silence for a little while.

"There's no hurry, is there?" said Fay, at last.

"I suppose not. but I thought— well, it's the usual thing to fix up something of the sort; isn't it?" .

Fay eyed him reflectively.

"Has your mother mentioned it?"

"Of course not," said Eustace, and believed it.

"Well," said Fay easily, "I don't see; that there's any frantic hurry. I'll let you know when I feel quite ready, Tish. There are heaps of things I shall have to do first."

"Oh, all right," said Eustace, rather sulkily; he wished that she would not call him Tish.

Let us not chide him for a backboneless fish, a poor thing unworthy of a woman's love. The habit of obedience bred in him for fifteen years was too strong to be readily overcome. From experience, he knew that what Fay had said, she had said, and he let it go at that. But it is worthy of record that the conversation set forth above marked the birth in Eustace Railton of a new, and as yet very faint, spirit of independence.

Thereafter, the days pursued their level way until, a fortnight later, destiny despatched to Rackenbury Parva a certain Mr. William Thomas.

The population of Rackenbury Parva causes little trouble to census officials. It comprises merely some three hundred souls, half a dozen oldest, inhabitants, for the amusement of tourists... and a few families of haughty lineage dotted about the common. But the Rackenburians are a polite and incurious folk, keeping themselves to themselves and signifying their resentment of strangers by a complete ignoring of -their presence. Thus it was not until the third day of Mr. Thomas' stay that circumstance brought him to the notice of Eustace.

It was Fay's habit to drive herself rapidly about the countryside in a smart yellow dog cart drawn by an energetic cob. It chanced that one day the cob, taking Fay to Rackenbury village, found cause for complaint in the sudden appearance of a traction-engine at the corner of the High Street, and marked his disapproval by running away at once with considerable vim and impetuosity. The dogcart bounded down the street, scattering the populace, and utterly unresponsive to all Fay's efforts and entreaties.

Then from the kerb stepped Mr. William Thomas. (The uncharitable, among whom I we must regretfully number Eustace, were heard subsequently to point out that by that time the dogcart had practically stopped, anyway). With a superb gesture, Mr. Thomas seized the reins, checked the cob, and  swept off his cap.

"Oh. thank you so much," said Fay.

"Delighted," said Mr. Thomas. He smiled. Even Eustace, panting up at this moment, was compelled to admit that the hero of the  affair presented a sufficiently interesting figure. Mr. Thomas was tall and lean; he seemed about thirty-five years of age, and possessed piercing black eyes and very white teeth. By comparison Eustace, whose only outstanding characteristic was a mole on his right elbow, shrank into insignificance.

"Glad to have been of use," added Mr. I Thomas.

"Well, it's all right now, Fay," interposed Eustace, climbing into the dogcart. "I'll  come along with you."

Fay bestowed another smile upon her saviour.

"Thanks awfully," she said.

"Don't mention it," returned Mr. Thomas.. "I'd like the same chance again."

Eustace made a clucking noise, and the cob moved on.

This episode, small in itself, definitely marked the opening of a new era. Mr. Thomas, it appeared, was not a man to permit opportunity to pass him by unchallenged; he seemed rather one of those who leap out and grapple to it in mid-air.  To such a main nothing is impossible.

Thus Eustace, crossing the common on the following, afternoon, with the intention of displaying to Fay an unusually fine butterfly captured that morning, was. considerably astonished to observe in the middle distance the figure of his betrothed, walking slowly towards her home, and unmistakably accompanied by the gallant stopper of dog carts. ... .

Eustace halted and stared after the pair until they melted from his view. Then he turned and went thoughtfully homewards. For the remainder of that day his manner towards his mother proved so deficient in politeness that she was only restrained from summoning the doctor by her reflection that after all it was probably only indigestion. Eustace had never been jealous before, and did not know that he was being jealous now; but he did know vaguely that something seemed to have gone wrong in a universe that hitherto had been quite tolerably satisfactory.

Next morning he presented himself at the home of his fiancée, determined to behave with what he considered tact.

"Coming for a walk or something?" he asked.

"Frightfully sorry, Tish," said Fay, "but I can't. I've promised to take Mr. Thomas to Rackenbury Abbey."

"Who the dickens is Mr. Thomas?"

"Oh, I forgot you don't know him. He's the man who stopped Mick, when he bolted. He's only here for a few days, and doesn't know a soul. You ought to meet him. You'd like him awfully."

"How did you get to know him?"

"He called to ask if he might look at our tapestries. He was awfully surprised to see me."

"Oh, was he?" said Eustace, who was learning rapidly. "Look here, Fay. I don't much care for that chap," which shows that he had still a lot to learn. Fay stiffened and the temperature fell noticeably.

"Oh," she said, "don't you?"

"No. I'd rather you didn't have anything to do with him."

"Why?"

Eustace, though considerably startled at his own daring, perceived that he must either keep it up or admit defeat and look a fool. He blundered on.

"Oh, I don't like the look of him, somehow. Wouldn't trust him."

Fay regarded him curiously. This was a new Eustace. Never before had he been, known to exhibit definite views upon anything. Now he looked positively determined and somehow more attractive than usual. Nevertheless, this insubordination must be quelled, and at once.

"What you mean," she said coldly, "is that you don't trust me. I'm ashamed of you, Tish, trying to run a man down behind his back. And I'm not going to be dictated to by you."

Eustace stared at her glumly. He would have liked to say something more, had he known what to say. It was clear that he had put his foot well and truly into it, and that further remonstrance might make matters far, far worse.

"Oh, all right," he said, morosely. And so swung on his heel and away. His peace of mind was not restored by a distant vision of the disturbing Mr. Thomas advancing briskly up the road.

THE ENSUING three days found Eustace a prey to emotions he could not have analysed. He mooned about the house, toyed with his food, and developed a habit of haunting the attic, whence might be obtained a fair view of the countryside, including the domicile of the Manners family. From this vantage-point he was, on two occasions, vouchsafed the spectacle of Miss Manners and Mr. Thomas setting forth together upon some pleasurable excursion. The sight gave Eustace a warm feeling under the collar: for the first time in fifteen years he found a kind of painful pleasure in keeping away from Fay.

It will be perceived that jealousy was getting down to the job. This ailment having never previously entered his life, Eustace failed to recognise it now, and only knew that the conduct of his fiancée filled him with a blind desire to sally forth and smash things. It was only when he began to wonder vaguely why this should be that he realised— dimly at first, but presently with a blinding clearness— that his affection for Fay was not the lukewarm, half-hearted  thing that it had seemed. Eustace had for so long regarded Fay as his own personal property that he had taken , a great deal, too much for granted: the intervention of the man Thomas bade fair to alter all that.

It must not be supposed that Eustace realised these things all at once, or that the new man rose in a night from the ashes of the old. As a matter of fact, it was some time before he understood what was the matter with him, and he suffered accordingly.

ON the third day, having from his attic observed the departure of the pair, he wandered down into the village and, feeling something of a scoundrel, attempted to extract information from Mr. Thomas' landlady. Such facts as he elicited were meagre and unsatisfying. Mr. Thomas, it appeared, kep' 'imself to 'imself; had brought no luggage: wrote no letters, received no letters; was uncommunicative about his personal affairs. Eustace went home in a sombre manner.

By the morning of the fourth day Mrs. Railton could stand it no longer.

"Eustace, my dear boy," she said at breakfast, "I'm very worried about you. You've been so queer lately. You haven't been to see Fay for days, and you don't seem to care for your food. You can't have quarrelled with the dear girl, surely? Or perhaps— Eustace, are you sure there are no spots behind your ears?"

Eustace grunted angrily; of all possible topics, spots behind the ears was the one in which he took the least interest.

"Well, then," pursued his mother firmly, "I believe you're sickening for measles! I shall send for Dr. Foggett."

Her son rose abruptly and expressed his opinion of measles, Dr. Foggett, and interfering parents in a few crisp sentences. Mrs. Railton, her worst fears confirmed, gazed at him in astonished horror. Eustace had not, to her knowledge, employed an oath since that memorable day two years back, when the gardener had inadvertently drawn the roller over his foot.

Eustace seized the newspaper and departed to the library, where he sank into a chair and gave himself up to melancholy. For a space he sat frowning at the empty grate; then he sighed and took up the newspaper in a listless hand.

Mechanically, he turned first to the back page, which featured a number of alleged photographs of events of topical interest. Eustace, running a tired eye over the page in the manner of one for whom life-can hold no further joy, suddenly started violently.

The position of honor on the page was accorded to a large dark blur, which closer inspection revealed to be the portrait of a man. Eustace, his eyes starting from his head, read the caption beneath:—

HAVE YOU SEEN THIS MAN?

The above is a recent portrait of Mr. William Thomasson, who left his home in Surbiton last Tuesday on a business trip to Birmingham, and has not been heard of since. It is feared that, as a result of a recent illness, he may be suffering from loss of memory, and his wife is anxious for any information which may lead to his discovery. The following is the description of the missing man issued by the police: Age, thirty-five; black hair and eyes; very white teeth; six feet in height; of striking appearance; Left home dressed in a grey tweed suit

Eustace dropped the paper and stared unseeingly at the wall.

"William Thomasson— William Thomas! Black hair and eyes— very, white teeth— loss of memory."

He studied the photograph again. It was obvious that Mr. Thomas might well have been the original, though it was true that the same might have been said of the Archbishop of Canterbury or the Prime Minister. But no one  expects a likeness in a newspaper photograph, and the appended description was sufficiently convincing. And the London-Birmingham main line ran through Rackenbury Magna, two miles away.

Eustace lay back in his chair and gazed at the ceiling, a faint smile upon his face. Here to his hand was a truly admirable weapon, and he proposed to employ it to the best advantage... Presently he rose, picked up his cap, and left the house;

He crossed the common and entered the garden of the Manners' home. Fay, bending pensively above a rose-bush, glanced round at the sound of his step.

"Hullo, Tish," she said. "I thought you must be dead. Why haven't you been round?"

"Never mind that," said Eustace. "Look here, Fay. Do you intend to go on seeing that fellow Thomas?"

Fay stared at him perplexedly. She had not yet had time to fathom the complexities of the new Eustace, and, though she felt that she approved of the change, she had no intention of being hectored by him. Her regard for Mr. Thomas was in reality of the smallest, but a new man of any kind was an event in her placid life— and she had been engaged to Eustace for four months. If Eustace did not like it he could do the other thing.

"Certainly," she said, stiffly, "if he comes here."

"I see. Well, he won't."

"Won't? Why not?"

"Because he's wanted elsewhere, for one thing. And because he's got one wife already, for another. I've just found out who he is, and I'm going to have him sent back where he came from. So you're seen the last of him. I must push along now, I'm afraid. See you later."

He lifted his cap and turned away, leaving behind him a young lady whose dazed expression suggested that she had just witnessed a procession of ghosts.

Eustace held on his way towards the village, until he came upon a small, ivy-clad cottage above whose portal appeared the comforting legend "Police." In the garden a large individual in shirt-sleeves and uniform trousers was doing something to a row of potatoes.

"Morning, Doggett," said Eustace.

Constable Doggett straightened his back and touched the place where the peak of his helmet would have been had he been wearing one.

"Mornin', sir."

"Doggett," said Eustace, "do you get lists of missing people, and all that sort of thing?"

"Aye, sir," said Doggett. "That I do."

"Have you had a good look at Mrs. Featherquick's lodger?"

"What— Mr. Thomas, sir? No, I, can't say as I have."

"Well, I should, Doggett. Go and take a good look at him, and then go home and have a look through your missing men, and then go back and have another look at him. Perhaps you'll notice something."'

Constable Doggett stared at him in a bovine manner. He was not a staggeringly intelligent man, and it was some little time before he grasped Eustace's meaning. When he did so his face brightened. He had not made an arrest of any kind since Christmas of the previous year, and then only at the expense of an inebriated tramp: it seemed to him that Eustace was pointing straight to promotion.

"Meanin' as 'ow 'e's somebody 't's wanted somewheres, sir?"

"I don't know," said Eustace, "but I'd do what I suggest, if I were you." He nodded, and set a course for home.

He spent the rest of the day in a mood that wavered between hope and despair. At one moment he felt that he had done wisely; at the next that he had acted in the manner of a congenital idiot. In the afternoon the conviction that he had made a mistake grew almost overpowering, so that he only restrained himself with an effort from dashing out and urging Constable Doggett to let well alone. After all, what had he to go upon but a newspaper photograph and a vague description? And, if he had erred, what would Fay—?

And so on.

Towards evening, however, optimism returned. After all, the man was deucedly mysterious about himself, turning up without luggage like that from nowhere that could be discovered. And the description fitted him perfectly: of that there was no doubt whatever. There grew in him a longing to go out and learn what Doggett had done about it, but prudence restrained him; he did not wish to appear over-anxious in this matter. He went early to bed.

Next morning he rose betimes, breakfasted in an abstracted manner, and sought the open air immediately he had finished. At all costs he must find out what Doggett had done, and whether he, Eustace, was now vindicated, or for ever damned as a blundering, officious fool.

He had reached his gate when he saw Fay approaching. He observed that she wore an unusual expression— an expression one would have said almost of shyness: in her hand she carried a newspaper.

"Hullo, Fay," said Eustace. "I thought you must be dead. Why haven't you been round?"

"Tish," said Fay, slowly, "you were quite right, and I was a pig-headed little beast. I didn't really like him much more than you did, but I thought you wanted shaking up a bit. But why didn't you tell me yesterday who he was? I had an awful shock when I saw the paper this morning."

Eustace's heart bounded in his bosom. So he had been right! All was well.

"Oh," he said airily, "I didn't want to bother you. By the way, I haven't seen the paper yet. What does it say?"

He took it from her and glanced at the page indicated. Then he uttered a faint, yelp of pure amazement, though he retained sufficient presence of mind to turn it into a cough.

In the middle of the page a photograph of Mr. Thomas stared out at him; and this photograph was startlingly clear, beyond all possibility of mistake. Nothing unexpected about that; it was the surrounding letterpress which gave Eustace a sensation as of having just descended twenty stories in an express lift.

WALTER TURNER ARRESTED.

£200,000; SWINDLER CAPTURED BY

COUNTRY CONSTABLE.

"MR. THOMAS."

Yesterday afternoon Police Constable Albert Doggett, of the village of Rackenbury Parva. Herts,  arrested Walter Turner, the London bank manager who, as already reported in these columns, is wanted by the police on a charge of fraud, involving some £200,000, and also for the attempted murder of Detective Rogers. Turner, it appears, has been staying in Rackenbury Parva for the past week, under the name of William Thomas. It is understood that Constable Doggett's praiseworthy act of initiative was prompted by a suggestion from a prominent local resident, whose suspicions had been aroused by "Mr. Thomas's" furtive manner.

(Portrait of Constable Doggett on Back Page).

The print blurred and swam before Eustace's eyes. He felt like one who has just been hit on the head with a length of lead piping. The voice of Fay came to him as from a great distance.

"It was awfully smart of you, Tish, to spot him like that. None of us noticed anything wrong with him. Attempted murder, too!"

With an immense effort, Eustace rallied his scattered wits. The shock had been great, but one fact stood out starkly in his disordered mind. Fay did not know— and she must not know! Where the old Eustace would have collapsed gibbering under the strain, the new Eustace rose to the occasion.

He handed the paper back to Fay, and. as he did so, a small paragraph caught his eye"

MR. THOMASSON SAFE

Mr. William Thomasson, of Surbiton, who was believed to be lost and suffer from loss or memory, arrived home last night. It appears that he had been delayed from day to day in Birmingham on business matter and had been unable to communicate with his family.

"By the way, Tish," said Fay, "what made you suspect him?"

"Oh," said Eustace calmly, "one or two little things. I just put two and two together, you know, that's all. Anyway, let's forget it. Come on. We'll walk over to Mellingham and have lunch at the inn."

"All right." said Fay.

They moved towards the gate. Suddenly Eustace stopped and regarded her fixedly.

"Fay," he said.

"Yes, Tish?"

"We're being married early next month. Any objection?"

"No, Tish," said Fay.

___________________

15: The Amateur Prophet

K. R. G. Browne

World's News (Sydney) 13 Aug 1927

(The Windsor Magazine Feb 1923)

WHEN the grey-eyed girl, without so much as a backward glance, left the  train at Lower Windlefold. young Andy Forrest, huddled in his corner, stared after her with an expression of brooding melancholy upon his normally carefree countenance. It was his opinion that Fate had behaved in a singularly rotten manner.

An hour before, having caught the train by a superhuman effort and the skin of his teeth. Andy had inwardly rejoiced to find the compartment tenanted by only one other person, and that other a girl of unusually attractive appearance; a girl in fact, far superior to any he had hitherto encountered in his not uneventful existence. To Andy, an assiduous reader of fiction in its lighter forms, the situation had been instantly recognisable as one which opens five out of every ten magazine stories. Beautiful Girl, travelling alone; Handsome Young Man, catching train by miracle, at imminent personal risk; jocular comments thereon and uncial ice broken thereby; offer of luncheon basket: acceptance of same; much animated converse: discovery that both are intending visitors at same house. Andy, regarding the position as personally arranged by a benign Providence, had attempted to develop matters along conventional lines.

Unfortunately, the grey-eyed girl was either no magazine-reader or unusually dense. She missed her cue. To Andy's jocular comment upon the art of catching trains, she had replied with a glance which caused him to feel like some uninteresting specimen from the insect world. When, having in a measure recovered his nerve, he had made another gentlemanly effort to establish conversational relations, the result had been the same. Finally, a bare half-hour out from Waterloo, he had been compelled to subside, hot and humiliated, into the Sporting Times. while the cause of his discomfiture, apparently oblivious of his presence. continued to extract entertainment from her book. Taking it all in all, it had been a pretty ghastly journey. It will, therefore, be understood that when the grey-eyed girl left the train at Lower Windlefold (without so much as a backward glance), Andy watched her depart from his ken with a feeling that the kindly nature of Providence had been grossly exaggerated.

Ten minutes later, however, as the train run in Rutley Magna, four miles on from Lower Windlefold, and he discerned upon the platform the vivid red head and pugnacious jaw of his friend and ally, Mr. Philip ("Pip") Allingham, Andy's depression lightened considerably. As he swung himself and hi3 baggage from the train, the station lit up to Pip's welcome grin.

"Wotcher, Andy! How goes it? Train's late.  Come on. Car outside."

"Pip," said Andy, as the car whirled out of the station yard on two wheels and dropped at an excessive speed down the long hill to the station, "it's like a breath of sea air to see your alleged face again. I got your letter yesterday, but I couldn't read much of it. What was that about a circus to-morrow?"

"Not a circus," said Mr. Allingham, unmoved by these aspersions upon his calligraphy, "a charity fete. Sort of glorified bazaar. Mater's idea, of course. Red flannel cummerbunds for the Cingalese, or something. It will be some small affair, my lad. Roundabouts, coconuts, swings, and what not. The entire country's railing round, by all accounts. And you and I, friend of my youth, are billed to provide the best show of the lot. By the way, I bet you didn't bring that grey female wig I asked for."

"Grey wig?" said Andy, with apprehension: twenty-five years' acquaintance with Pip Allingham's distorted sense of humor, warned him to expect the worst. "No; I must have missed that bit. What do you want it for?"

"You," answered Mr. Allingham, rounding a corner with a clear inch to spare. "Fortune-telling."

"Fortune-telling? What the deuce do you mean?"

"Telling fortunes. It's all fixed up. You're going to tell the fortunes of our simple rustics, while I take their money. I've got a peerless outfit for you— mouldy old shawl, spectacles, and so forth. I must send to Wynhcombe for a wig in the morning."

"Dash it all, Pip," said the agitated Andy, "what on earth—if you think I'm going to dress up and—"

"Oh, yes you are. You can't back out now. The Mater's awfully keen on the idea, but I've persuaded her. It'll simply coin money for her blooming charity. No one'll know you're not the genuine article. I'll tell you the details after dinner."

They swung perilously over a bridge, and into a long drive. Andy, sitting mute beside his friend, had returned to the depth of gloom. Only too well he knew Mr. Allingham and Mr. Allingham's eccentric ideas; only too well, also, he knew the futility of protest.

On the afternoon following Mr. Forrest's arrival, the big meadow at the rear of the house bore a very creditable resemblance to Hampstead Heath on a Bank Holiday. Lady Allingham was one of those who believe that charity should begin as far from home as possible. To that end it was her custom periodically to stage fetes, bazaars, and sewing-bees in order that the inhabitants of the more isolated portions of the globe might benefit to the extent of several tons of red flannel, thick woollen socks, or whatever article of apparel chanced to be the vogue of the moment. As Lady Allingham was quite the most resolute person in the county, none said her nay; it was recognised that her activities gave useful employment to a number of people, afforded healthy entertainment to still more, and did no lasting harm to the ultimate beneficiaries.

On this occasion. Lady Allingham, who never did things by halves, had surpassed herself. The meadow hummed with life. Tents studded its fair surface; a roundabout wailed gruesomely; a score of quaint sports invited the custom of the idler. The Cingalese bade fair to benefit considerably.

In a corner a small, futuristically-striped tent reared its be-bannered head. By its door stood a board intriguingly inscribed: "Madame Malvolio, the World-renowned Fortune-teller, 6d."

Within the tent Mr. Pip Allingham, arrestingly arrayed in a scarlet waistcoat, a purple neckerchief, and bellbottomed trousers of a vivid check, was engaged in imparting final advice to his accomplice in deception.

"Tell 'em what you like, old son. Fill 'em up to the brim. Only for the Lord's sake steer clear of libel. Better stick to the future. You know— tall, dark strangers, long sea voyages, dangerous illnesses, and all that stuff. They'll lap it up if you pitch it right. It I spot any one I know, I'll nip in and give you a few pointers. Mind your wig don't slip."

Mr. Forrest presented a spectacle to strike awe into the bravest soul. A dishevelled grey wig, a tattered shawl, immense steel-rimmed glasses, and a voluminous skirt that tripped him at every step, combined in an effect so bizarre that Mr. Allingham was almost inclined to fear that he had overdone it.

"I don't think so, though." he observed, thoughtfully. "The worse you look, the more they'll believe. All the same, you do look a female thug, Andy."

"You needn't gloat," said Andy warmly. "You've got nothing to do but hide in that beard and whiskers and make a noise outside. I've got all the dirty work. Why don't you do this part of it?"

"I'm no actor, old man," said the diplomatic Pip. "Remember how well you showed up in those theatricals a year ago. I haven't got the nerve, either. You'll have a dashed good time, I shouldn't wonder. Now, squat down at your jolly little table, and I'll start roping in the rustics."

Rapidly he affixed a bushy black beard and whiskers, cast a final glance round the gloomy tent, and dived into the open. In a moment his voice, loud and compelling, tore through the canvas.

"Come along, ladies and gents! Walk up! Walk up! Madame Malvolio, the only genuine fortune-teller, is at your service! Sixpence in silver or bronze takes you Inside! The whole future for sixpence! Come along, ladies and gents! One at a time, please!"

At first it seemed that the ladies and gents felt no craving for the future's secrets; it sufficed their simple needs to gather round and gape at the weird figure of Mr. Allingham. At length, however, the latter's eloquence had its effect. Amid much whispering and a storm of giggles, a large and bashful yokel was thrust violently forward, and announced his readiness to try his luck. An example once given, others followed the lead; in five minutes Pip was marshalling the applicants into a queue.

Within the tent, Andy was unexpectedly enjoying himself. His early trepidation vanished at sight of the manner in which each timid client, at the first glimpse of the repulsive hag leering from the dark corner, gasped and perceptibly hesitated; he felt gratified at these unsolicited tributes to his make-up. With his first few visitors, country folk all, he confined himself strictly to noncommittal utterances, dealing exclusively with dark strangers, sea voyages, and severe maladies. As, however, he perceived that not one of the seekers after knowledge had the least doubt of his genuineness, he became aware of a wicked craving to launch out to some extent.

Suddenly the curtain, falling behind a departing victim, jerked aside again, to disclose the sinister visage of Mr. Allingham. The latter spoke in a guarded whisper.

"Local gent. Retired army man. Widower. Keen on golf. Dabbles on the Stock Exchange. Generally loses his money. I know— he let me in once."

He vanished. Andy, peering through the gloom, saw enter a tall, thin, weather-beaten individual, fiercely upright, fiercely moustached, wearing the faintly deprecating smile of one who makes a fool of himself in a good cause.

"Sit down," said Andy, solemnly. "Why have you come here? This is no pastime for one who has fought in wars."

The local gent, (to use Mr. Allingham's description) started slightly. Andy, perceiving that he had touched the spot, pursued his advantage.

"You have come, I see, in a spirit of mockery," he said sepulchrally. "You do not believe. Very well. I will convince you. Give me your hand. Once you were a soldier of high rank. Now you are idle, spending your days in fruitless pursuit of a small white ball upon the green turf. Yours is a life of ease, yet you are not content. You are accustomed to endanger your substance by gambling, not with cards, dice, or horses, but with what the modern tongue names stocks and shares. In this, as you know, you are unwise, yet you persist. Now do you still mock?"

The local gent, did not mock. For a space he opened and closed his mouth like a moribund fish. It was plain that his scepticism had sustained a rude shock.

"What is it that you desire to know?" asked Andy, solemnly, fighting down an impulse to unfeeling mirth. The local gent, started again.

"Oh— er— I don't know. Nothing, really. H'm! Nothing much. Still— h'm— you seem to know a good deal, certainly. Ha! ha! Let me see. I wonder, now— speaking of stocks and shares, perhaps you can tell me if Uruguayan Railroads are going up or down In the near future? Ha! ha!" He spoke half-facetiously, as one who humors a precocious infant.

"Both," said Andy, promptly. It seemed the obvious thing for Uruguayan Railroads to do.

"Both?"

"Both. First down, then up." This again, seemed a tolerably safe guess.

"I see," said the local gent., obviously impressed. "Thank you. Now—"

"Your time is up," said Andy, who knew when to stop. "That is all."

The local gent, hesitated, seemed about to speak, thought better of it, rose, and departed. Andy, smiling happily, made ready for his next client. After ail, this game had its points.

Then, as the curtain swung aside once more, the smile was wiped from his face. He sat staring blankly at the girl who entered as if she were some ghostly visitant from the grave. For she was the grey-eyed, fair-haired lady of yesterday's humiliation in the train.

She came forward composedly and took her seat before him. Andy for a paralysed moment could think of nothing but that she was even more charming than he had supposed. He realised that, in the past 24 hours, he had thought of her a good deal. With an effort, noting that she was surveying him curiously, he pulled himself together. He cleared his throat.

"Ah," he said, gravely. "You, like many others, are a mocker. You, too, do not believe."

"So far," said the grey-eyed girl, calmly. "I have heard nothing worth believing."

Andy blushed. Frantically he sought for something to say He felt hot and unhappy; his tongue clove to the roof of his mouth. Mentally he consigned Pip Allingham who was responsible for this predicament, to a locality where fortune-tellers are both unknown and unnecessary. And then, quite suddenly, inspiration was upon him; he saw how this incident, apparently so unfortunate, might be turned to advantage.

"Give me your hand," he commanded.

The grey-eyed girl obeyed, and Andy thrilled to the core at the contact. He gazed devotedly at her palm. It was her left hand, and his soul exulted at the absence of a ring thereon.

"You are young," he observed, dreamily. "As yet Romance has not come your way. As yet you are heart-whole and fancy-free."

He paused hopefully, but the grey-eyed girl offered no confirmation of this diagnosis.

"But," continued Andy, resolutely, "Romance Is never far away Very soon— sooner than you now suppose— it will come to you. I will show you how to meet and recognise it."

"Thanks very much," said the girl, in a businesslike voice.

"To-morrow, at three of the afternoon, to— to— to Lipscomb's Mill and there wait. Presently you will see approaching a motor-car, driven by a young man Pay no heed He will ask if he may assist you on your way to the town. The rest is in your hands. It is for you to say if Romance shall pass you by I can see nothing else in your hand— except that you have recently— yesterday, I  think— completed a long journey. That is all."

The grey-eyed girl rose leisurely to her feet.

"This is all most interesting." she said. "I must remember to keep an eye open for Romance. Good afternoon." The curtain closed behind her .

The remainder of the afternoon is undeserving of comment, same to note that henceforward Andy, who had much to think of, confined his prognostications entirely to dark strangers, voyages, and diseases. It Was remarked by his impressed clients that he had the absent manner of the true visionary....

"Andrew," said Lady Allingham. "if you have nothing better to do this afternoon. I wonder if you would be kind enough to take a message into Windlefold for me. Philip won't be back from Rutley until late, and I have no one else to send."

"Of course," said Andy, gladly. This mission coincided admirably with his own plans. "What is it?"

"A note for Colonel Marsham. You haven't met him, I think he lives in the white house by the bridge. It's very good of you. Will you bring an answer?"

"Certainly," said Andy "Certainly."

A quarter of an hour later he slowed Pip's two-seater on the crest of a hill and peered about him anxiously His choice of Lipscomb's Mill as a rendezvous had been governed by the fact that it was some time since he had last been in the district, and he could at the moment think of no other suitable trysting- place He was now considerably chagrined to find that Lipscomb's Mill was not where he had supposed it to be; the landscape revealed no such landmark.

Intending to refresh his memory by inquiry. Andy trod on the accelerator and slid swiftly down the hill Suddenly as he rounded a curve, his heart missed a beat; the car swerved violently and slowed to a crawl a hundred yards ahead was the slender, unmistakable figure of the grey-eyed girl.

Andy looked at his watch Five minutes to three: plainly she was even now on her way to the tryst. Smiling happily he bore down upon her, stopped the car, and lifted his cap.

"I don't want to be Impertinent," he said, politely, "but can I give you a lift?"

The girl studied him gravely.

"Thanks very much," she said at last. "I am rather late, as a matter of fact. If you're going as far as Windlefold, I should be very glad."

"Jump in," said Andy, gleefully.

For a time they travelled in silence, the girl gazing placidly ahead, Andy eyeing her furtively.

'It seems to me," he remarked suddenly, "that I've seen you before somewhere. Oh, I know— in the train yesterday!"

The grey eyes inspected him without interest.

"Oh, were you the man who wanted the window shut? I'm afraid I shouldn't have recognised you."

Deeply wounded, Andy took refuge in a moody silence. Dash it all, why was she so terse with a chap? It seemed impossible to make any headway at all. For a space he drove in a sombre silence. As the outskirts of Windlefold crept up to meet them, he made another attempt.

"It's a funny thing—"

"Will you put me down here, please?" said the girl. Mechanically Andy stopped the car, and before he could voice a protest she had opened the door and stepped down. "Thanks awfully for the lift," she said, and with that nodded, smiled, and turned away.

For at least three minutes after she had disappeared round a corner Andy sat motionless, wearing the expression of a man who has just learned that his chosen horse came in last but one. Then he sighed heavily, let in the clutch, and drove on.

At the white house by the bridge it appeared that Colonel Marsham was at home.

"This way, sir," said the maid, and opened a door. "Mr. Forrest," she announced to the interior.

At sight of the room's occupant, Andy, crossing the threshold, started convulsively and uttered a quaint, strangled noise., Colonel Marsham was tall, thin, weather-beaten, fiercely upright, and fiercely moustached. Andy was aware of a sinking sensation; life seemed to be nothing but one confounded contretemps after another. Why could not Providence have warned him that Colonel Marsham and Pip Allingham's local gent, took the same size in hats? He made ready for the worst.

The colonel, however, displayed not the smallest symptom of recognition.

"Mr. Forrest?" he repeated, in the noncommittal tone of one who is not sure whether his visitor is someone of importance or merely the man from the gas company. With an effort Andy recovered something of his customary composure. He explained his mission.

"Thank you," said the Colonel, taking the note. "Sit down, won't you?"

Andy sat down. He felt a little unmanned by the afternoon's events. He observed with alarm that the Colonel was disposed to be conversational. Why the dickens couldn't the man read his letter and let him go?

"You were at Lady Allingham's fete yesterday, Mr. Forrest? H'm. Most successful affair. Most. H'm. Capitally organised. I was sorry, nevertheless, to see that she had extended her hospitality to some rascal of a fortune-teller. You noticed the woman, no doubt? Trading on the credulity of the public. H'm- Positively illegal, you know. Money by false pretences, of course. Quite illegal. H'm. As a Justice of the Peace, I am not sure that I ought not to take some action. Of course, it was on behalf of charity, which— ha! ha!— is supposed to cover a multitude of sins. But, still—"

Andy bowed his bead in resignation. Fate, beyond all question, had It in for him. First the grey-eyed girl, now this idiotic old buffer. Well—

At this juncture he heard the door open again. The Colonel glanced round.

"Ah, my dear, come in. This is Mr. Forrest, who has kindly brought me a note from Lady Allingham. H'm. Mr. Forrest— my niece, Penelope."

To a certain extent one may sympathise with Andrew. These repeated buffets from the fist of Circumstance might well have unnerved greater men than he. He stood now and gave a very creditable impersonation of a man but newly escaped from a mental home; his eyes protruded; he goggled; he made ineffectual noises in his throat. The grey-eyed girl, apparently entirely unmoved by the meeting, came forward and greeted him kindly.

"How do you do, Mr. Forrest? Uncle, here's a telegram for you."

"Thank you, Penelope. H'm. If you will pardon me, I will just—"

Colonel Marsham became absorbed. Andy, inwardly raging at his inability to deal with the situation, perceived that the grey-eyed girl was smiling gently. Something in her expression caused him to feel like a child of five.

"Well, Mr. Forrest," she said calmly, "and how is the fortune-telling?"

Andy, taken completely by surprise, behaved an if stung by a wasp. He almost bounded in the air.

"I— I— what? H-how did you know?"

Penelope pointed to his right hand, across which ran a broad white scar, the memento of a somewhat hectic trench-raid in the autumn of 1917.

"That. I noticed it when you were— er— amusing yourself with the window In the train, and I noticed it again yesterday when you were amusing yourself with me. Then I recognised your voice. Otherwise your disguise was perfect, I admit"

"B-but—" began the staggered Andrew. He was interrupted by a species of yelp from the Colonel.

"Penelope! Most extraordinary thing! Most! That fortune-telling woman was right after all! This wire is from my broker. Uruguayan Railroads have gone up again. I've cleared— let me see— a hundred and eleven pounds!" Excitement had him in its grip.

'That's very nice, uncle," said Penelope. "Isn't It, Mr. Forrest?*'

"Er—" said Mr. Forrest.

Thus reminded of his visitor, the Colonel started; he seemed momentarily confused.

"Ah. Mr. Forrest. Quite. I must explain. Most remarkable— er—coincidence. Most, h'm. That fortune-teller I spoke of just now—er—I subjected her powers to a— a small test yesterday. H'm. Pure chance, no doubt, but her forecast has turned out— er— substantially accurate. Tallied with my own, in fact. Ha! ha! I felt it necessary, you see, to obtain some kind of evidence, you understand, in case "

"But, uncle," said his niece, soothingly, "you know you wouldn't really be so unkind. Think of Lady Allingham's feelings."

"That reminds me," said the Colonel, dropping the fortune-teller with obvious relief, "Lady Allingham invites us to dine to-morrow, Penelope. Will you say, Mr. Forrest, that we shall be delighted? H'm. Now you will have some tea with us, I hope."

"Thanks, very much," said Andy, rather dazedly.

"That's right," said Penelope brightly. "Perhaps you know how to tell our fortunes by the tea-leaves."

IN THE COOL dusk of the following evening two persons sat in a corner of the broad terrace. A dozen yards away Lady Allingham, with admirable perception, held Pip and the Colonel in animated discussion.

"All the same," said Andy, with a note of triumph, "you can't deny that you did turn up at Lipscomb's Mill as I suggested."

Penelope raised her charming eyebrows.

"I did no such thing! Did you seriously think I should rush out to Lipscomb's Mill and wait there meekly till you came, because you'd told me to? When you overtook me I'd only been to leave a message for uncle just outside Windlefold. I was miles away from Lipscomb's Mill. And, anyway," she added, rather inconsequentially, "the mill was burned down last month."

"Great Scott! So that was why I couldn't find it. But "

"Oh, that was it! I was rather surprised when you came up, because I was thinking you'd be waiting patiently at the mill. I hoped you were, because I thought it would do you good."

"Good heavens!" groaned Andy. "I'm a beautiful fortune-teller!"

"Never mind," said Penelope gently. "Uncle's very glad he met you, anyway, because he really did act on your advice about those shares, you know, though he won't admit it, of course."

Andy turned upon her with a wild light in his eye.

"Blow your uncle!" he said fiercely. "What about you?"

But it was some weeks before he got a really satisfactory answer.

____________

16: The Man from Shanghai

Raoul Whitfield

1896-1945

Black Mask May 1933

SADI RATAN, lieutenant of police, flicked Manila dust from his khaki uniform and smiled at the shine of his boots. He inspected the insignia of his office, striped on the left sleeve of his coat, lifted his dark eyes and continued to smile at Jo Gar.

"I thought it would please you to know that I have been ordered to go aboard the China Maru at Quarantine, Señor Gar," he said gently. "The person in whom I have interest is a client of yours, I am told."

Jo Gar lifted a stubby, brown hand to his thin lips. His diminutive body was sprawled in the fan-backed chair of his office, almost beneath the slightly squeaking ceiling fan. The Island detective parted his lips and tapped his palms against a yawn.

"Many times my clients have disturbed me," he said tonelessly, his gray-blue eyes looking somewhere beyond Lieutenant Ratan. "However, Miss Crale is no longer a client of mine, Lieutenant."

Sadi Ratan widened his eyes in faint surprise. Jo Gar smiled very slightly.

"Hysterical ladies are not pleasing— in the tropics," the Island detective murmured. "I received her radio requesting me to board the China Maru on Cavite, Lieutenant. My answer was a refusal. I presume she then radioed the police."

Sadi Ratan pressed his lips close together and frowned in the direction of Jo's knees. The ceiling fan stirred hot air about the small office. "Strange," the lieutenant of Manila police said with faint sarcasm.

"I had felt that you preferred wealthy clients to poor ones, Señor Gar."

He turned towards the door that led to the creaky, wooden stairs and the calle off the Escolta, Manila's main business street.

Jo Gar lighted a brown-paper cigarette, blew smoke thinly towards the slow whirling fan.

"You had felt correctly, Lieutenant," he said tonelessly. "But Virginia Crale's life has been threatened so often, in her imagination, that her fees bored me beyond their value in cash."

Sadi Ratan turned near the door, facing the chair in which Jo Gar was seated.

"You are kind to allow the police to work on the case," he stated grimly, a sneer on his handsome face.

The Island detective smiled gently. "It was kind of you to inform me that you were going aboard the boat. I am afraid your trip will be useless, but there is the advantage of a cool breeze off Cavite."

Sadi Ratan bowed his head jerkily and went from the room. Jo listened to the sound of his highly polished boots on the creaky steps. From the calle below came the shrill cries of drivers. Odors reached the room and there was the deeper noise of whistles on the Pasig river. The Island detective rolled the brown-paper cigarette between his short fingers. After a little time he leaned forward, lifted the radio message from his battered cane desk. He slumped back in the wicker chair, read softly and tonelessly.

MY LIFE IS AGAIN IN DANGER STOP I HAVE BEEN THREATENED TWICE SINCE BOARDING THE BOAT AT NAGASAKI STOP I THINK IT IS THE MAN FROM SHANGHAI STOP PLEASE BOARD THE CHINA MARU AT QUARANTINE AND COME DIRECTLY TO MY CABIN STOP CRALE

Jo Gar tossed the radio message to the surface of his desk. He sighed heavily, leaned back and closed his gray-blue eyes.

"The man from Shanghai," he breathed softly. "That would be Jacobi."

He rose languidly, moved to a small cabinet in a corner. It was early afternoon, only an hour beyond siesta time. That corner of the office was even hotter than the other portions. Jo slowly opened a drawer and thumbed through cards until he found the one he wanted. He raised it, looked down at it. He read the words written in his own careful hand very softly.

"Baron Jacobi. Legitimacy of title uncertain. Store on the Calle Real. Collector of lacquer— red a specialty. Many trips to China. Reputed wealthy. Collection in Manila second only to that of Virginia Crale. Who suspects him of threatening her life for the reason he wants to buy her collection which she has repeatedly refused to sell. Jacobi known along the Escolta as the Man from Shanghai. Methods of obtaining pieces for his collection sometimes not legitimate. Considerable power here and in Shanghai."

Jo Gar placed the card back in the drawer, nodding his gray-haired head slowly. A faint smile edged his thin lips. He turned his left palm downward and looked at his wristwatch. The hands showed forty minutes after two.

He went across to another chair and lifted his pith helmet, placed it on his head. The white duck suit was less soiled than the helmet. Jo stood thinking for several seconds, then went to the desk and took from a drawer his Colt .45. He placed it carefully in the deep right pocket of his trousers. Leaving the room he went slowly down the wooden stairs.

At the foot of them, just within the doorway of the old frame building he encountered a messenger boy. The Filipino smiled at him and handed him an envelope. "It is a message of the radio," he stated in Tagalog.

The Island detective said: "No doubt then that it has importance."

The messenger smiled and nodded, and left him alone. Tearing open the envelope Jo looked down at the printed words.

KINDLY MEET CHINA MARU AT QUARANTINE STOP SHOW THIS TO PROPER AUTHORITIES AND DO NOT FAIL ME STOP MY LIFE ENDANGERED BECAUSE OF VALUABLE POSSESSION STOP BARON JACOBI

Jo Gar narrowed his gray eyes as he refolded the slip of paper, placed it within the envelope again.

"So," he murmured meditatively. "A female suspects a male—and a male suspects—"

He hesitated, beckoning to the driver of a caleso as he reached the street.

"—and a male suspects, perhaps, a female," he half whispered.

When the caleso driver had shrilled his pony into the proper position near the curb, Jo Gar climbed inside the carriage.

"The dock of the Quarantine steamer," he instructed. "I realize that it is ten squares distant, but still I should like to arrive there within an hour."

The caleso driver informed him in Tagalog that his pony was very fast, perhaps the fastest in Manila. He elaborated on the speed of the animal for minutes, as the pony ambled towards the Escolta. But Jo Gar was thinking of the China Maru, and of Virginia Crale— and of the man from Shanghai. Once, he closed his slanted eyes and chuckled. Sadi Ratan would be surprised to see him board the Quarantine steamer.

Near the Manila Hotel the driver twisted his head and stated that the heat was not good for his cough. He would prefer to be in Baguio, where there was mountain coolness. Jo Gar lighted a brown-paper cigarette. The driver observed that he was afraid he would not live long. Jo Gar said tonelessley:

"Many people fear death— most of them are fools."

The driver said: "Most of them are poor, like myself."

Jo Gar did not reply. Neither Virginia Crale nor Baron Jacobi were poor. Each feared death. He wondered, as he pulled on the cigarette, if they were fools. He decided, as the Quarantine dock came into sight, that they were not.

The lieutenant of Manila police, Sadi Ratan, stood aft on the deck of the Luzon as Jo Gar strolled up the gangway. His back was to the Island detective. Jo went forward and seated himself. When the Quarantine steamer got under way he dozed in the shade of the superstructure. After about twenty minutes the sloping island of Cavite was to the port and the China Maru was a half mile ahead. She was a big boat, one of the newest in service. Jo lighted a brown-paper cigarette, rose and went aft.

Sadi Ratan turned, facing him suddenly. The lieutenant's perfectly uniformed figure stiffened.

"I thought that Miss Crale was no longer a client of yours, Señor Gar," he stated coldly.

"That is so," Jo replied quietly. "A different matter takes me aboard the China Maru."

Sadi Ratan smiled mockingly. "It is one thing to refuse a client's orders— and another to see the Manila police interested, perhaps."

The Island detective shook his head slowly. "I am not interested in Miss Crale, Lieutenant."

Sadi Ratan shrugged, turned away from Jo. The Luzon steamed on, nearing the big liner. She came around in a circle, astern of the China Maru. Quarantine officials and few newspapermen lined the port rail. Passengers on the big vessel looked down at the small one steaming in towards the boarding ladder. Jo Gar shaded his eyes with a brown palm and looked outward and upward.

He did not see Miss Crale. But the figure of Baron Jacobi was easily seen. The baron was waving his right arm slowly from side to side. He was hatless, and his blond hair was as ruffled as ever. As the Luzon steamed close to the big boat Jo's keen eyes spotted the red tie that Jacobi usually wore— it stood out clearly against the white of his shirt and suit.

The Island detective waved a hand slowly, but the baron turned aside and Jo saw the figure of a deck steward at the rail, beside Jacobi. He was evidently saying something; the baron vanished from the rail. The steward stood for a few seconds, looking down at the Quarantine steamer, then he, too, vanished.

A voice from behind Jo said: "You understand, of course, that the police have been called into this case."

Jo Gar turned slowly, looked into the dark eyes of Lieutenant Ratan.

"Case?" he said gently. "Oh— of course. Miss Crale's life has been threatened."

Sadi Ratan frowned. He drew a deep breath.

"I am not fooled, Señor Gar," he said nastily.

Jo smiled.

"It is good that you use the present tense," he replied. "Often one is wise to neglect thoughts of the past."

He bowed slightly and moved towards the group forward, waiting to board the big boat. The Luzon scraped against the China Maru's boarding deck. As Jo moved forward the form of Sadi Ratan reached his side. He was brushed back as the police lieutenant called: "Step aside, please— it is a police matter."

The Island detective chuckled. Hennigger, of the Manila News, grinned at him and pointed a thumb towards the back of Lieutenant Ratan.

"Murder or suicide?" he asked.

Jo Gar smiled. "A serious crime, clearly," he replied. "It is a police matter."

Hennigger grunted, regarded Jo with narrowed, blue eyes.

"What you doing here?" he asked.

Jo Gar shrugged. "The Bay is cooler than the Escolta," he replied.

The reporter swore. "The ear is quicker than the eye," he returned.

"Maybe you've heard something I haven't seen."

They moved to the boarding deck and climbed the gangway to a lower deck of the big boat. Jo said:

"I must see if my third cousin, Rinaldo, is still a member of the crew."

He moved away from Hennigger, who nodded his head and said with sarcasm: "That's why I came aboard— my grandmother is bringing her father over from Nagasaki."

Jo Gar turned and said seriously: "I trust they have had an easy voyage."

He went upstairs to Deck B, reached the purser's desk. The dapper Chinese showed white teeth.

"The cabin of Baron Jacobi?" Jo said questioningly. "I have been asked to come to him."

The Chinese said: "It is A Deck— Room 17."

Jo Gar smiled, thanked the purser. He climbed a broader flight of steps, reached A Deck. Glancing into the Grand Saloon he did not see Jacobi. After some difficulty he reached the corridor leading to Room 17, an outside room. He moved along the corridor, halted, rapped on the door.

There was no answer. Jo Gar rapped again. The deep-toned whistle of the China Maru sounded in a short blast. There was engine vibration. Jo knocked a third time, then turned the knob of the door with his left hand. The door opened inward— he stepped into the cabin.

When he saw the body on the bed, Jo stood very still. Baron Jacobi was lying on his back— there was red on his lips and chin. His eyes were opened, staring up at the ceiling. One arm hung over the edge of the bed—the hand of the other, with the fingers curved, clutched at his red tie. A chair overturned— Jo's eyes moved about the cabin, found nothing else disturbed.

After a few seconds he moved nearer the bed. The cabin was large— the bed was a good-size one. Jo said softly:

"A little more than five minutes— from the time he left the rail— until I entered the room. Perhaps—"

His body straightened, grew tense as a scream from somewhere beyond the corridor reached him. It was the scream of a woman. It came into the cabin of the dead man once—then again. There were men's voices, and the sound of shoes beating against the corridor linoleum. The Island detective stood almost motionless, looking down at the body of Baron Jacobi. A voice reached him from the far end of the corridor.

"Steward— get a doctor! Cabin 29 hurry!"

Jo turned his body slowly, went to a small desk near a deck window. He looked down at a check; it was on the Bank of Manila. It had not been filled in. A corner was folded—on the back of the fold there was small handwriting. Jo leaned forward and read: "Crale— 29— port."

A voice beyond the room said loudly: "Lieutenant Ratan came aboard—get him, Kyoshi!"

Jo Gar left the desk, went to the opposite side of the bed. He placed brown fingers carefully in the dead man's thick, blond hair, lifted the head. The wound was in the neck— it was not a large one.

Jo said softly: "Knife— nape of the neck, just above the spinal column. Very decent job."

He released his grip on the dead man's hair. The knife was not in the room. There were hurrying footfalls in the corridors beyond as Jo moved about, searching with his eyes, touching nothing.

After a few seconds he left the cabin, went along the narrow corridor to the main one, leaving the door of 17 half open. Several stewards stood near a corridor running off to the port side. Jo asked:

"Is Cabin 29 down there?"

One of the stewards nodded. The Island detective moved along the corridor. Twenty-nine was an outside cabin, located in the corridor as Jacobi's had been located in the other. Several men stood near the opened door; they stepped aside as Jo reached them.

An officer of the vessel came out. He was Chinese; short and deep-chested.

"It is very bad," he stated in stiff English.

"It is her head— she has been struck heavily." Jo Gar said: "Miss Crale?"

The officer nodded and moved towards the main corridor. Jo Gar went into the cabin. Virginia Crale was lying on her bed; a stewardess held red stained cloths over her forehead. The room was in good order.

Jo looked at the frightened eyes of the stewardess, who was Chinese and pretty.

"It was you who screamed?" he asked quietly.

The stewardess nodded. "I very frightened," she said shakily. "I come here— door come open— I come in. She lying on floor— very hurt."

Jo nodded, smiled a little. "Why did you come here?" he asked steadily.

The stewardess ran the back of her right hand across her lips.

"She ring for me," she said, and made a gesture towards a wall near the cabin door.

Jo Gar went to the wall and looked at a white button. Red was on it, and the wall around it was dabbed with red. As he faced the stewardess again Sadi Ratan came into the cabin. He halted a few feet inside, stared at the figure on the bed.

"Dead?" he asked quickly.

Two men entered behind him, one in the uniform of the ship's doctor. He beckoned for the stewardess to move aside, lifted the cloths, bending over Virginia Crale. Sadi Ratan turned his trim figure, looked around the cabin. He straightened a little as he saw Jo.

"Life is filled with a number of things, Lieutenant," the Island detective stated pleasantly.

Sadi Ratan scowled. "How long have you been here?" he demanded.

Jo Gar shrugged.

"The screams of the stewardess attracted my attention," he replied. "I have been here perhaps a minute."

Sadi Ratan continued to scowl. "Where were you when the stewardess screamed?" he asked.

The ship's doctor straightened. "Unconscious— serious brain concussion, clearly. We must remove her to the ship's hospital immediately."

Lieutenant Ratan said: "She will be able to make a statement soon, Doctor?"

The doctor looked impassively at the lieutenant. "Who can say?" he replied. "She may be unconscious for hours—it may be necessary to operate. That must be done ashore. She may never regain consciousness. A heavy blow—a terrible blow."

He went swiftly from the cabin. Sadi Ratan looked around the floor. Jo Gar said:

"I looked for the weapon— it does not seem to be in the cabin."

The deep-chested officer came into the cabin again. Sadi Ratan said:

"I am Lieutenant Sadi Ratan, of the Manila police." He gestured towards Jo. "This is Señor Gar, a private detective. Miss Crale requested him to meet the boat, stating her life was in danger. Señor Gar refused. She then radioed the police and I have come."

Jo Gar said quietly: "Miss Crale has been worried often in the past. I considered her appeal merely the usual fear of danger."

Sadi Ratan said grimly: "You were wrong."

Jo Gar looked at the ship's officer. "We are steaming to the dock?" The officer nodded. Sadi Ratan wiped his brown face with a handkerchief. The cabin was very hot.

"The passengers and crew will remain aboard until I have made inquiries," he stated. "Miss Crale's injuries may prove fatal."

The ship's doctor returned with stewards bearing a stretcher.

"Facilities are greater in the hospital," he stated. "The moving will not cause further injury."

Sadi Ratan looked narrowly at Jo Gar. "I will repeat a question you did not answer. Where were you when the stewardess screamed?"

Jo Gar stepped aside as the stretcher was carried out, the doctor following it.

"I was in the cabin of Baron Jacobi," he replied simply.

Sadi Ratan's dark eyes narrowed a little more. He moved nearer the Island detective.

"Baron Jacobi? He is aboard?"

Jo Gar said: "It is so— he is aboard."

Sadi Ratan said: "You were in his cabin when you heard the screams. You came here. The baron did not come with you?"

"He was unable to come with me," Jo Gar said softly.

Lieutenant Ratan spoke sharply. "And why was that, Señor Gar?"

Jo Gar placed a brown-paper cigarette between his lips, lighted the tip of it.

"Because Lieutenant Ratan," he said very gently, "Baron Jacobi was dead."

Sadi Ratan paced back and forth, in the captain's quarters, stopping every few seconds at the desk on which lay a radiogram, the one to the police from Virginia Crale. The China Maru was less than a quarter mile from her berth and going in slowly. Lieutenant Ratan faced Jo. "Miss Crale's radio to us states that she appealed to you and you refused to meet the vessel. It asks our aid. Your radio from Baron Jacobi states that his life is in danger— he asks your aid."

Jo Gar nodded slowly. "That is so," he said quietly.

Sadi Ratan stood still and frowned." You came out to the boat to see Baron Jacobi. When you reached his cabin— he was dead, murdered. While you were in his cabin the stewardess discovered the unconscious Miss Crale. Her screams did not interest you very much— you did not hurry to see what was the matter."

He paused and regarded Jo narrowly.

The Island detective said tonelessly:

"I seldom hurry. There was a dead man in the room."

Sadi Ratan made a grunting sound. "I do not accept your explanation," he stated coldly. "You are concealing facts from me, from the police."

Jo Gar said: "On the contrary, I have told you of the words in Jacobi's handwriting, that I found in his cabin. I have told you that the baron was almost a fanatic where Chinese lacquer was concerned. I have told you that he greatly desired Miss Crale's collection, and that she had several times refused to sell."

Sadi Ratan nodded. "You have told me what you wished me to know. I have spent almost an hour questioning persons who seem to know nothing. Miss Crale is still unconscious and the captain refuses to hold the boat away from the dock any longer. In spite of the precautions that I have taken— once the China Maru docks there is a fine chance for the murderer to escape."

"It is as you say."

Sadi Ratan frowned heavily. "In the radio to you from Miss Crale— did she state why she felt her life was in danger? Did she suspect some person aboard the vessel?"

The Island detective half closed his gray-blue eyes. He looked thoughtfully beyond Lieutenant Ratan.

"Her radio stated that her life had been threatened twice since leaving Nagasaki, where she came aboard. We know that Baron Jacobi boarded the vessel at Shanghai. A portion of her radio read: I think it is the man from Shanghai."

Sadi Ratan sucked in a swift breath. "You did not tell me of this before. It is very important. She was afraid of Baron Jacobi. He wanted her collection and she refused to sell. He was almost a fanatic in the matter, you admit."

"Miss Crale has suspected many persons of intended injury," Jo Gar said slowly.

Lieutenant Ratan said sharply: "She has been injured, Señor Gar— seriously injured. She suspected Baron Jacobi."

Jo Gar rolled a cigarette between his fingers. He sprawled his diminutive body lower in the chair.

"Very well, Lieutenant. Baron Jacobi attacked her in her cabin. He knew that such an attack would not gain him her collection, but he was furious at her continued refusals to sell. He struck her with something and she knifed him in the neck. He wandered back to his cabin and died. She rang for the stewardess and lost consciousness. Does that theory please you?"

Sadi Ratan kept his dark eyes narrowed. He did not speak. Jo Gar chuckled.

"Please, Lieutenant," he said softly, "do not think so seriously. The theory is what the Americans often term 'lousy.' Miss Crale's head is badly battered. She probably lost consciousness after the first blow. Her attacker left the cabin with the weapon. Her attacker was not Baron Jacobi, because had he been knifed in such a manner as he was he could not have returned to his cabin. And where is the knife, where is the weapon Miss Crale was attacked with?"

Sadi Ratan said thoughtfully. "There is blood on the button that was pressed to call the stewardess, so Miss Crale did not lose consciousness after the first blow. She touched fingers to her wound, rang for the stewardess. The stewardess has stated that she did not reach the cabin for several minutes— she was busy with another passenger. The ship doctor informs me that in isolated instances such a wound as the one that killed Baron Jacobi is not instantly fatal. Jacobi might have tossed the weapon he used on Miss Crale, and the knife with which she defended herself— from a porthole."

The whistle of the China Maru made hoarse sound and there was the faint sound of the welcoming band, on the dock.

"You have always chosen to oppose me, Lieutenant," Jo Gar said quietly.

"It is a mistake to allow personal prejudice to enter matters of this sort, for in so doing you have often neglected important facts. You have your gun?"

Sadi Ratan scowled at him. "Naturally," he replied.

Jo Gar smiled up, at the lieutenant. "It is good," he said. "You shall make the arrest."

Sadi Ratan widened his dark eyes. "You have been to the hospital, against my orders! Miss Crale has regained consciousness— she has told you—"

Jo Gar shook his head. "I regret to state that Miss Crale has not talked. I doubt that she will talk again. Ten minutes ago, on my way here, I met the doctor. Miss Crale is dead."

The police lieutenant swore sharply in Tagalog. His slender body was tense.

"Dios! A double murder—"

He stared at Jo, spoke rapidly. "You have the murderer—"

The Island detective leaned lack in the chair. He inhaled and blew a thin stream of smoke towards the nearest fan. The music from the band on the clock was louder now. Sadi Ratan said suddenly:

"You are not bluffing, Señor Gar—"

Jo spoke quietly. "It seldom pays to bluff. In the half hour during which you were talking with people— I have been doing the same thing. But in a different way. I do not think that Jacobi even spoke to Miss Crale, aboard this boat."

The police lieutenant blinked his dark eyes. "Then why did she appeal for help—"

Jo Gar said: "Had Baron Jacobi lived you could have arrested him for the murder of Virginia Crale."

Sadi Ratan swore sharply. "But you have just said that they did not speak—"

"Virginia Crale had no relatives. She hated museums. I doubt that she left any provision for her collection. It would have been sold. I think that Jacobi knew that. He would have bought the collection. But first— she would have to be dead."

Sadi Ratan narrowed eyes on Jo Gar. The engines of the China Maru were vibrating— the vessel was near the dock. Jo Gar said:

"The words on the check—they showed me Jacobi was interested in the location of Virginia Crale's cabin. He always felt that she did not appreciate her collection, did not deserve it. He was a hard man. So he decided to murder her. I don't think that he ever actually threatened her, but she realized, felt that he hated her."

Sadi Ratan kept his eyes on Jo's.

"Why did he radio for you to meet the China Maru?"

Jo Gar shrugged. "Protecting himself. He wanted the police to believe his life was in danger, so that after Virginia Crale's murder he could say that both of them had been followed from China. Lacquer chests—ancient, Godlike affairs, he would have said. The Chinese resenting their purchase. He felt the radio to me would have thrown the police off his track."

The lieutenant looked puzzled. "He murdered her so that he would gain the collection. But then—"

Jo Gar said: "He had her murdered. It was almost a blundered affair. And because of that— Baron Jacobi lost his temper. And for losing his temper he was knifed. And the murderer—"

He broke off, rose slowly from the chair. The music of the band had ceased; the China Maru was swinging close to the long dock near the Manila Hotel. Jo drew a handkerchief from a pocket of his duck suit, wiped his face. His right hand went to his right trouser pocket, felt the grip of his automatic.

"If you wish," he said quietly, "we will go to the murderer of Virginia Crale— and of Baron Jacobi. He is clever with a knife— and less clever with a wooden club."

Sadi Ratan spoke slowly. "But Baron Jacobi was considered a fine collector of swords and knives, and skilled in the use of them. If he were hiring a killer—"

"He would not allow the killer to use a knife or a sword," Jo cut in grimly.

Lieutenant Ratan coughed nervously. Jo Gar walked towards the door of the captain's quarters, followed by the police officer. On the deck he moved to the nearest companionway, went down it. On Deck C he moved towards the stern, crossed to the second-class quarters. In a narrow corridor he stopped and said to Sadi Ratan:

"Having twice murdered— this man might not hesitate to kill again."

Lieutenant Ratan spoke grimly.

"My fingers are in the proper place— but I would like to know how—"

"I am not too secretive a person, Lieutenant," the Island detective said.

He moved on, turned down a narrow corridor and stopped opposite a cabin marked with the number 12. He rapped on the door. A voice said questioningly, from inside the cabin: "Well?"

Jo gripped his Colt with the fingers of his right hand. He said cheerfully:

"It is Señor Gar. Baron Jacobi has sent for me. I was informed that I should see you, if not able to locate the Baron."

There was a clicking sound; the door opened. Jo Gar stepped into the small cabin, followed by Sadi Ratan. He smiled into the almond-shaped eyes of a stocky Chinese. The man said in very good English:

"You have been unable to find Baron Jacobi?"

Jo Gar said: "Lieutenant Ratan— this is Sam Toya. He is the trusted servant of Baron Jacobi."

Sadi Ratan did not speak. Toya looked impassively at the Island detective.

"My master, perhaps, is on deck," he stated calmly.

Jo Gar shook his head.

"No," he replied quietly. "He is not on deck. And Miss Crale is not on deck."

The Chinese pursed his lips. His eyes were expressionless.

Jo Gar said: "I presume you tossed the knife overboard, Toya. And the other weapon."

There was a faint flicker in the servant's eyes. He spoke softly:

"The knife?"

The Island detective smiled almost gently.

"The knife," he repeated. He turned his body slightly, but kept his eyes on the Chinese. "You see, Lieutenant Ratan— I was very sure Virginia Crale could not have pressed the button that called the stewardess, after being struck. But there was blood on the button. So I decided that the finger that smeared it there was not Miss Crale's. And I remember that five years ago Baron Jacobi had hired Sam Toya as his servant. In spite of the fact that Toya had just been released from Bilibid Prison, a fact of which he was aware."

Sadi Ratan drew a deep breath. The figure of the Chinese was tense. Jo kept his right hand within the cloth of the right trouser pocket. He said:

"Jacobi planned the murder— he wanted the collection. It had become an obsession. Toya battered Virginia Crale down. The pressing of the button was clever. Toya did that, but he was careless. There was Virginia Crale's blood on his fingers, and it stained the button. The indicator worked by the button is not far from Baron Jacobi's cabin, and at the time the bell of the indicator sounded Jacobi was talking with the stewardess."

Sadi Ratan said: "So— he had planned that."

Jo Gar kept his eyes on the eyes of the Chinese. He smiled very faintly.

"Toya was supposed to return to his quarters, after disposing of the club with which he had struck down Miss Crale. The stewardess, excused by Jacobi, would go directly to the cabin of Miss Crale and discover the body." Jo Gar paused. "But things did not work out that way."

The Chinese was breathing heavily, evenly. Jo tightened his grip on the automatic, continued to smile.

"The stewardess left Jacobi, perhaps a half minute after the indicator bell sounded. She has told me that he detained her by asking many foolish questions. She went to the indicator and saw that Room 29 had called her. As she was on her way along the corridor she was called into Room 18. A valuable jewel had been misplaced and the owner was quite excited."

Jo Gar stopped smiling. "And Toya, instead of returning to his quarters as instructed, went to the cabin of Baron Jacobi. He had thrown away his club, or whatever he used."

Jo Gar raised the cloth of his gun pocket slightly. His eyes were narrowed on those of the Chinese.

"He knifed Baron Jacobi to death," he said simply.

The Chinese made a twisting movement; his left hand flashed upward past his right side. Jo Gar squeezed the trigger of the Colt. The gun sound vibrated in the small cabin. The Chinese fell to his knees and coughed. The knife slipped from his fingers and struck the floor as he pitched face downward.

Jo Gar stood motionlessly. Sadi Ratan moved a few feet and lifted the knife. There were shouts in the corridors beyond the cabin. Lieutenant Ratan said:

"Yes— this would have made such a wound as killed Jacobi."

Jo Gar said slowly: "Toya— you were a fool. There was blood on Jacobi that did not come from his wound. You had a record. Your name was on the passenger list. I knew Jacobi could not have been stabbed by Virginia Crale— and have reached his cabin. I knew she had fallen at the second or third blow, and could not have gotten to his cabin. So when I saw your name—"

He paused. Sam Toya moaned and rolled over on his left side. Jo Gar said:

"I know why you murdered Virginia Crale. But why did you knife the baron?"

The Chinese spoke in a weak whisper. "In Manila they called him— the man from Shanghai. But he was— hated there. He stole— made bad bargains. One Chinese— wanted many pieces back—Jacobi's and the woman's. I was paid well! Now they— are both dead— and the chests can be— bought back—"

He fell over on his back. Jo Gar walked to his side, leaned forward. When he straightened up he said:

"He is dead." He smiled grimly, half closing his eyes. "A killer who Jacobi used to gain something he failed to get— because another person used him to murder—" he paused and then went on softly—  "the man from Shanghai."

Sadi Ratan said thickly. "Toya was Chinese— and blood is thicker than money."

Jo Gar sighed. "It was Toya's blood that betrayed him," he said quietly.

___________________

17: The Lagoon of the Secret Pearls

Captain Frederick Moore

1881-1947

Adventure, 1 March 1928

1: A Can Of Pearls

CAPTAIN PROWSE was suddenly stricken with fear, yet he was not able at the moment to tell just what it was that made him afraid. He only knew that he wished his schooner was out of the lagoon of Lumbucanan Island and heading through Mallewalle Channel.

"I been a long time on this island— more'n thirty years," said the old man to Prowse, as the skipper lifted the cocoanut shell cup and drank off the native toddy.

"You must have been mighty lonesome all them years," said Prowse. "Thirty years— here— that's a century on an island like this, so far from everything. Why, I'd say you don't see a ship in a year, Mr. Jenner."

Jenner lifted his sun blackened face and smiled. His teeth were remarkably white and sound, and his long whiskers were combed by his bony fingers as he considered the matter of ships.

"Five years and two months I've seen here without sight of a white man," he remarked. "But the natives have been mighty good to me; bad lot, too, when I first landed here, sick and broken down, out of a wreck. I've kind of civilized 'em, you might say, and now they've come to do anything for me. For a long time they wouldn't let a white man land here at all. But I got a hunger now to see something besides palm trees and a lagoon and a bit of jungle and the sun burning up the beaches. I'm a white man, after all." And he smiled sadly.

"How old be you?" asked Captain Prowse.

"More'n eighty. And I ought to live a few more years."

Captain Prowse licked his lips and studied the old man sitting across from the driftwood table on a rickety bamboo chair. He wore fairly clean trousers of a light sailcloth and a faded shirt, evidently a rig he kept especially for visitors. His stockingless feet, shod with sandals made of laced rattans, were brown as a native's, and his thin hands were shriveled to bony claws. But Jenner had nothing of the beachcomber about him; his white hair and beard gave him a beneficent appearance, and there was a gentle serenity about his wrinkled face. But his pale gray eyes seemed already glazed with the milky vagueness of death that was not far away.

"You look ninety, and more," said Prowse. ''But the South Seas— they burn a man out quick, if he sticks with natives too long. And you been here a lot longer'n you ought to."

"Yes, these latitudes make a man old before his time," said Jenner, "'but I can't complain. Maybe I've lived longer here than I would anywhere else. But perhaps, some morning, with the turn of the tide before daylight, I'll be a flickering candle flame— and then only a thin spiral of pale blue smoke—puff—and old Jenner'll be gone."

Jenner turned his head and looked out through the open front of his native hut. Past the barrier of the palm fenced atoll which enclosed the great lagoon of Lumbucanan the sun was dropping below the horizon, and the hills of Borneo in the distance were but a purple smudge against the red sky close down on the rim of the sea. Some native canoes were lazing around near the schooner Farallone, at anchor a half a mile away in the direction of the break in the reef which formed an entrance to the sheltered water.

CAPTAIN PROWSE refilled his cocoanut cup from the bowl made from a big shell and drank off the draught. He cleared his throat with a rasping sound, shuddered and got to his feet. He was a big man, with a round red face and small black eyes. He wore shore going duck trousers, a light blue coat and a cap with a green celluloid vizor that threw a green haze over his nose and the upper part of his face.

"Thanks for the drink," he said, and stood up, bracing his feet on the soft sand of the floor.

"You ain't going yet?" said Jenner, starting as if roused from sleep. "I'm a poor man and I've little to offer a skipper, but I thought you'd stay on and have a bite of supper with me— broiled fish and fruit and a few little things like that."

"No, thanks, I better be gittin' back aboard."

Jenner looked hurt.

"But you said you'd be in the lagoon for a couple of days! And you can go back aboard in the moonlight after you've had a bite."

"l guess maybe I better sail in the mornin'," persisted Prowse. "I thought maybe I'd scout around the lagoon, in hope I could find some shell; but if you say there's nothin' worth while, I might as well pull up."

"I doubt there's shell of commercial value in the lagoon, as I said," Jenner told him sadly, for he was disappointed and not a little puzzled by the skipper's sudden decision to leave Lumbucanan. "I'd set my heart a little on having you to visit with, but I can't prevent you from going, of course."

"You say there ain't no pearls at all?" pressed Prowse, as if he doubted the report that Jenner had already given.

He peered suspiciously at the old man, sure that he was lying.

"There might be a few pearls, yes," said Jenner. "I've said as much. Who knows? You said you wasn't a pearler, and I've seen you twice before, and you never mentioned pearls then. But a man who knows the game might find pearls here, sure, Cap'n, though you wouldn't want me to give you a lie on that, would you?"

"No, I don't want you to lie— one way nor another," said Prowse. "You know I ain't a pearler, but there's been talk for years that there must be pearls in this lagoon. And I thought you might give me a tip that'd be valuable. You ain't been here all these years without knowin' somethin' about. what's in that lagoon, eyen from the natives."

"Sit down, Cap'n, sit down," said Jenner, waving his hand to the old bamboo seat.

Now the old man's voice was lowered and there was something confidential and ingratiating in his manner. And his queer milky eyes had a thoughtful and hesitating look about them, as if he were trying to come to some decision,

Prowse pulled a red handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his brow, throwing back the green vizor to the top of his head. Once more he felt that fear of Jenner, for the old man's eyes were upon him and searching him with disturbing intentness.

"What I want to know is did you ever hear of pearls in this place, or see any?" demanded Prowse. "You ain't goin' to live forever, you know; and if you could make any money for me, you wouldn't do yourself no harm, old-timer, you can bet on that."

Jenner laughed in a thin cackle and sat down on the far side of the table.

"I know what's in your mind, Cap'n," he began. "Folks out in these waters have been saying for years that I wouldn't stay here if I didn't know of something good. But I just stayed, that's all. Sick and worn, I stayed until it was no use to go anywhere else."

"Then you ain't stayed here because you've run into anything good, eh?"

JENNER did not reply for a minute, but combed his white beard with his fingers. And he kept his eyes boring into Prowse in that disconcerting way which made the skipper nervous. And Prowse felt that there was caution behind those eyes, and hidden thoughts that could not be fathomed. It annoyed him to be so certain that he was close to a secret which might mean a fortune, and that this old man was withholding the information.

"You said you'd be going to Frisco in a month," said Jenner.

Prowse turned his head swiftly and looked out into the lagoon. He knew that he was closer than ever to what he had come to Lumbucanan to get and he was afraid that Jenner would sense the fact that he was in the presence of a man who could be dangerously ruthless.

"Yes, I'm goin' to Frisco," he said as quietly as he could.

He made a mental note that the bait of San Francisco was going to catch Jenner, after all. Prowse had no intention of going home.

"Then I want you to take me along— next month, that is."

The old man was shaking with excitement, as if the thought of civilization, coupled with his decision to return to it, was something to stir the slow blood in his veins.

"Frisco!" exclaimed Prowse, pretending surprise to conceal his satisfaction. "Why, that's a long ways— and what'll you do when you git there?"

At last the rumors that gold lipped shell might be found in Lumbucanan seemed to be justified; and as gold lipped shell meant pearls, Prowse found it hard to restrain his secret glee.

Jenner grinned knowingly. His white teeth seemed odd in such an ancient face.

"Yes, what'd an old man like me do in Frisco? Everybody I ever knew is long dead, but I guess they've got a poorhouse back there yet, eh?" He cackled a thin laugh at his joke.

"I guess you ain't been here thirty years and not have somethin' that'll keep you from missin' a meal, eh? Come on, now. You don't want to string me, do you? If you're goin' to Frisco you won't want to keep shut on where the pearl shell are around here. You let me in on what's good, and I'll keep you out of the poorhouse, and that's a promise."

He leaned forward over the table, pretending a sudden friendliness, to mask his greed.

"Oh, the fool yarns of sailors!" said Jenner in disgust. "If I was rich, what did I stay here all these years for? What good's a fortune in a place like this?"

He was canny again, and still wary, but he grinned in a knowing way.

Captain Prowse leaned back, disappointed and chagrined at his momentary hope that he was about to hook his fingers into the pie of some extraordinary wealth about Lumbucanan.

"Cap'n, I've met you three times in the last ten years— or is it less'n that? Well, I been thinking about you for some time. I've got a feeling I can trust you; and the fact of the matter is, when you showed up on the beach today, I said to myself, 'This is the skipper to take me home.' Just think of me, walking the streets of Frisco and seeing flying machines and these machines that pick music up out of the air without any wires and horseless carriages running up and down hills with engines in em!" He turned his eyes upward to the raw thatch of the hut and tried to make a mental picture of what was ahead of him.

"Yes, yes, that'll be fine," said Prowse irritably.

JENNER stared at the skipper again. Those uncanny marble-like eyes made Prowse shiver once more. And of a sudden it came over the master of the Farallone that he was dealing with a crazy old man.

"You come for me in a month, Skipper, and I'll be ready." There was a babbling quality in his voice and words— like a person talking in sleep that was tinged with fever. "Yes, sir, you'll take the king of Lumbucanan back to the States! People'll look at me in the streets! A white king from the South Seas! Heh-heh-heh!"

"The damned old fool!" thought Prowse. '"He's been takin' this talk of bein' an island king serious! And he believes it! And I'm a fool myself to sit here and waste my time, while he gives royal orders to the master of the schooner that's to take him on an excursion back to the States!" And the skipper gave a scornful glance at the old figure before him.

"Will you do it, Cap'n?"

"If you want to go to Frisco," said Prowse, "all you got to do, Mr. Jenner, is let me know the sailin' day. I'll sail in the mornin', if you'll give the word. You can have my cabin."

Prowse knew now that he had found the proper way to deal with the old lunatic— humor him, and get back aboard the Farallone and slip out of the lagoon. Generosity in words cost nothing. Again Prowse felt the impulse to flee from the range of those marble eyes that seemed blind, yet could see with a disturbing vision.

Jenner was pleased.

"Now that's fine of you, Cap'n." His eyes danced with a slow rolling motion that suggested white bubbles in liquid tar. "You'd give me free passage, if I wanted it?"

"Sure!" said Prowse heartily. "Why not? You ain't got so long to live, I'd say— not if you stay here. You wouldn't eat what a ship's cat'd want, and I'm goin' to Frisco anyway, so you might as well ride. I'll pick you up a month from today."

He got to his feet and moved to the wide entrance to go out on the sand. The sun was down and the sky was a dome of scarlet, with the Farallone's topmasts etched against the flaming banners overhead.

Jenner leaped to his feet.

"Cap'n Prowse, now I'm sure I guessed right on you! You're mighty kind, and you can always trust a man who's generous." He overtook the skipper and slapped him on the back and swung him round. "Don't go! I want to show you something. I know now you can be trusted not to take advantage of a poor old man like me that's hungering for a look at home before he slips his cables. Another drink— come!"

Prowse scowled. He was tempted to smash Jenner across the face and run for the beach like a man fleeing from some evil thing in human form. But he caught the excitement in Jenner's voice and something told Prowse to stay his hand, for it was possible that even if he were crazy Jenner would reveal a secret worth while.

"All right," he grumbled. "You say you ain't rich after all these years. Well, you don't mean to tell me you want to go home and be on the beach. You got too much sense to do that."

"No, I won't be on the beach exactly."

He fumbled with a cocoanut oil lamp, pulling a rag wick from the thick oil with trembling fingers. Prowse struck a match and lighted it, though there was no need for a lamp yet.

THE SKIPPER sat down, while Jenner went to a far corner of the big hut. The skipper was afraid to say anything now, for fear Jenner's mood would change and he would become secretive again. Prowse had a vision of himself in the security of great wealth, living ashore with servants and motors. He was past middle age and things had been going wrong with him for a couple of years, filling his thoughts with poverty in helpless old age. This might be the turn of the tide of fortune for him.

Jenner was on his knees, digging in the soft sand with his hands. And by the light of the lamp and the last flaming remnants of the sun's afterglow in the sky outside, Prowse saw the old man bring up a rusty baking tin.

"Layard was right, and Marson's right! breathed Prowse. "This is where the button turns. He's got pearls!"

Jenner brought the box to the table, screwed off the round top with nervous fingers and poured out upon the table, as if they were pebbles gathered on the beach, a dozen pearls of varying shapes and sizes.

Prowse leaned forward like a bulldog ready for the spring. His eyes glittered and his face reddened, but he kept a poker face.

"Some pretty good ones in the lot," he remarked, turning them over with his finger tips with critical air. "They'll do— for samples!"

"I—I don't understand," said Jenner, blinking and a trifle confused. He had expected Prowse to show more enthusiasm.

"Where's the rest of 'em?"

"Rest of what?"

"Pearls— I guess you ain't been here thirty years just for this batch."

"It was only last year that I found any," said Jenner in a defensive tone and more nervous than ever. "Why, if I'd found this many a few years back, I'd never stayed so long. Think I'd stuck here nursing a bag of pearls all this time?"

Prowse considered, keeping his eyes on the pink nodules before him.

"He's lyin' like a Turk," he thought. "Anyway, if he got this many in a year, he's found a rich bank. Let him lie."

"You see, I can pay my way to Frisco and have a stake left," resumed Jenner. "These ought to be worth close to ten thousand dollars; so when I've split with you, I'll have all I need for the time I've got left."

Prowse straightened up from the table and gave Jenner a challenging stare.

"Come now, old-timer, you don't mean to tell me that you struck a shell patch that turns out these and that's all you got off it— in a year? And with natives here a-plenty to dive for you— and good divers, too! And you've got the natives in the palm of your hand, as the sayin' goes."

Jenner drew away from the table, as if he feared to remain within reach of Prowse's powerful hands.

"There ain't any great patch, Cap'n— not one that's rich in pearl, far's I know. These come from a small patch of gold lipped, and we've worked a mile both ways from it, and it run out on us. And if fifty good native divers can't bring up enough shell in a year to prove what I say, that's all we got, anyhow. I never looked to get as many as these; for every pearl you see, there must have been ten thousand shells opened."

Captain Prowse changed his manner abruptly and leaned back and laughed.

"Of course," he said genially, "you'd never git anybody to believe you on that— but I do."

"I'm telling the truth— and I trust you," insisted Jenner.

"I thought at first you just showed me these for fun, and then wanted to give me a jolt by unhatching a peck or so like 'em. They'll bring good prices in Frisco, but you won't have any great fortune out of 'em."

"I've got a lot of fancy sea shells I've gathered up, and they'll be worth something. I'll wrap 'em in mats to take along— a fine collection— thousands of beautiful specimens."

"Yes, they'll cash all right," said Prowse. But to himself he reasoned that Jenner would smuggle more pearls aboard the Farallone hidden in his collection of fancy shells.

"Then you'll come back for me in a month?" asked Jenner with relief. He gathered up his pearls and put them back in the tin.

"Sure! But ain't your natives likely to make a row if they know you're skippin' with pearls? Won't they be afraid there'll be pearlin' boats in here, makin' trouble?"

Jenner shook his head.

"No, they'll expect me to come back, and while they don't want pearlers here, they know I won't start a gang for Lumbucanan, because we've talked that over. And they don't want pearlers here."

"No," said Prowse. '"Pearlers just raise hell when there's a fleet of 'em on the hunt for new grounds, and they'd be shootin' the place up if they ever started to look for a rich bank in this lagoon."

"And I'm trusting you, Cap'n," reminded Jenner.

Prowse smiled. Mentally, he knew, or thought he knew, what Jenner's game was— to get away to San Francisco and come back with his own vessel for the rich pickings of a secret pearl bank in the lagoon. And he would smuggle enough in besides those shown from the tin can to outfit himself with ship, and diving equipment and supplies.

"I don't need to steal anybody's pearls," said Prowse. 'Well, I better go back aboard. Only got one white man with me, and that's the mate. If I sail in the mornin', I'll be back for you all the quicker to take you to the States."

He stepped through the front opening out into the soft sand under the palm trees.

THE SUN was down now and the stars shining. Far up the beach the boat lantern marked the position of the Farallone's dinghy waiting for the skipper.

The great lagoon was spotted with fishing flares. Laughter and prattling voices in the distance rose over the dull monotonous roar of the outer surf beating against the great enclosing ring of palms and coral that locked the lagoon from the sea. A row of lights on the opposite shore pricked out the positions of native houses under the high land. Lumbucanan consisted of two crescents with hilly ground, almost connected at both ends by low coral, covered with stretches of sand that were sometimes swept by breakers.

Prowse stood for a few minutes, looking at the scene before him. The breeze that was rattling the tops of the palms brought down wind to him an odor which he knew. Rotting oysters on some far beach inside the lagoon. He sniffed and noted the bearings by stars, for in that direction Jenner's secret pearl bank must lie.

Jenner's thin cackle of voice rose from the hut.

"I'll light you over to your boat, Skipper."

Presently he appeared with a flaming broom-like torch that spluttered and crackled and gave out a black ribbon of smoke which dissipated in the breeze.

Captain Prowse said nothing, but followed along. They passed a lot of broken coral and, instead of going to the beach to follow it to the boat, Jenner took a track that cut a straight chord across the winding shores. In some great storm that had tossed the coral lumps like chunks of broken ice the seas had washed the broken coral over the barrier ground at that point.

The moon was not yet up, and the heavy grass growing on the edge of brackish water, which smelled of rotting vegetation, made the footing doubtful. Several palm trees were down, snapped off some six feet from the ground. Prowse was annoyed that Jenner had led him through this mess in the pale starlight.

"Say, take me to the beach!" he called.

But Jenner, some ten feet ahead, with the crackling torch held up, did not hear. He kept on, and Prowse turned aside to go his own way and cut for the beach. He stepped on what seemed to be a flat rock, which heaved under him, and he fell. He gave a cry of alarm and anger, for as he attempted to get up, the great flat rock moved again. It was slippery, with sloping sides, and he fell once more into a muddy slime. Then he saw that what he had mistaken for rocks were two tremendous turtles.

Jenner came running back, and Prowse saw the gigantic shells, the giant flippers, the great beaked heads and scaly necks out-thrust and swaying from side to side. Prowse scrambled to his feet and got to Jenner's side.

"What'd you want to git me into this mess for?" he demanded, slapping his thighs to clean his hands. "That's a damned nice stew to fall into in the dark."

"They won't do you no hurt, skipper," said Jenner.

He held down his torch so Prowse could see the turtles and the rusty old pieces of anchor chains that held them by holes bored in the edges of the shells. They were straining at their chains, trying to get to the beach.

"What're they chained for?" asked Prowse, "Why ain't they been killed?"

"They've been here a couple of hundred years," explained Jenner. "That's as near as I can make out. And the natives think they've got the spirits of old chiefs in 'em. You know natives."

"That's a long time for 'em to be here. And they look like they want to quit," said Prowse.

"Yes, this is the migrating season and they want to get away to Coriran Island, where thousands of turtles go at this time of year."

"Soup enough in 'em to feed a crew a month," laughed Prowse, and moved along the path again.

"Anybody try to make soup of 'em, and they'd find themselves in hot water. Whole island'd rise up and kill all hands," said Jenner.

"They can keep their turtles for all of me," said Prowse.

They pushed on till they came to the sand of the beach again. The dinghy was not far off now.

"You can look for me in a month," said Prowse, and he shook hands with Jenner and climbed into the dinghy.

The Malay sailors pushed off.

"All right, I'll be ready, Skipper," said Jenner, and he stood with his flare a few minutes watching the boat row out to the Farallone.

2: The Skipper's Report

TWO WHITE men had come to Lumbucanan with Captain Prowse. And they were pearlers who had picked up one of those queer bits of information which sometimes lead to fortune in the South Seas— and sometimes to disaster. The information was that at last there was definite proof that Lumbucanan's lagoon contained pearls and that the old white hermit, or beachcomber, Jenner, had some of them.

It was a man named Layard who had taken the exciting news to Thursday Island and laid the matter before Captain Marson and his mate, Sears. Layard wanted Marson to take one, of his pearling vessels to Lumbucanan and make a fortune. But Layard was a shady character, and Captain Marson did not trust the report, though he wanted to investigate on his own account.

Layard had gone ashore from a trading schooner at Lumbucanan some six months before the arrival of the Farallone and had passed himself off to Jenner as the skipper of the trader, and owner. And Jenner had sought to have Layard take him to San Francisco. He had shown Layard his box of pearls; and the latter, keeping the secret for his own advantage, had sought out Marson to induce him to go to Lumbucanan and rob Jenner or raid the shell patches.

Captain Marson agreed to take Layard back to the island, but Marson had made a deal with Captain Prowse to go and look into the matter. Marson did not want to take one of his own pearlers to the island, for other pearling skippers might get wind of the trip and follow. And Marson and Sears did not show themselves when the Farallone anchored in the lagoon.

"He said he'd be back by sundown," remarked Captain Marson, when the stars came out and Prowse was still ashore. "He must have got a line on the lay of things, to be so long."

Marson was a short man, florid of face, with gray eyes that glistened wetly in the light of the cabin lamp. He wore brown overalls, but under them a shirt of excellent material. He was a ruthless man; though he had a knack of making friends easily and masking his true character until he was ready to take advantage of any situation which might be turned to a good profit.

"Old man Jenner may not make the same proposition to Prowse that he made to Layard, even if Prowse does say he's homeward bound for Frisco," said Sears.

He was a thin faced man, with deep wrinkles on both sides of his mouth and a network of squinting lines that radiated from his temples under graying hair. Tiny veins like threads of red silk ran over his cheeks and down the jaws to his neck, the marks on a man who has suffered excessive air pressure as a diver. He looked older than his skipper, but as he wore a white cotton blouse and the loose white trousers of a man-of-wars-man's uniform, there was a youthfulness about him now which was in striking contrast to Captain Marson.

"Jenner ought to know that he can't depend much on Layard to take him to Frisco," said Marson, sucking thoughtfully at an empty pipe as he lay on the transom seat with his back against the bulkhead of the Farallone's cabin. "'That's why I waited so long to show up here, so Jenner'd try somebody else to make his Frisco jump. If he told Layard he needed an operation on his eyes, how can Jenner wait much longer for Layard to come for him? No, if Prowse plays the game right, Jenner'll fetch out his tin of pearls, if there is any such thing."

Sears laughed and laid out another card on the table in his game of solitaire.

"I'd like to watch Layard while he waits for us in Sandakan."

"The joke might not be so good," said Marson, "if Layard should take it into his head to tip some other pearler off. I know that Woodside or Halmey would jump at the yarn. They've always said they thought this lagoon had pearls in it, and if Layard should run into 'em, we might see a schooner in here before we git out."

SEARS got up and climbed the companion ladder high enough to stick his head above the cabin roof and look shoreward.

"Here comes Prowse now," he observed, and dropped below again.

Captain Marson swung his feet off the transom and stood up.

"Now we'll know what we're talkin' about," he exclaimed, and began to pace up and down the little main cabin.

"What if Prowse should find out what we want to know, and hold out on us?" asked Sears. "It'd be easy slip something over on us, like that."

"He's no pearler, that's why," said Marson. "If he tried to give us that kind of a game, he'd have to hunt somebody else up to do anything. No, Prowse'll stick with us, if he knows where he's goin' to eat his cake."

In a few minutes the dinghy was alongside, and they heard Prowse pounding aft. Presently he dropped down the companion steps.

"Cap'n, Layard was right! He's got pearls— and what's more, he's rotting out a new batch! I sniffed 'em to windward!" He clapped both hands on Marson's shoulders. "We're fixed for a good cleanup!"

"l bet it's that shoal bank a couple of miles up from here that we've heard about!" exclaimed Marson. "It's been twenty years since a pearler's been in here, and then only a quick look round. But tell us what the old man had to say!"

Prowse threw off his cap and brought a bottle from a bulkhead locker. And while Sears poured him a drink, Captain Prowse threw himself on the transom seat, flushed and triumphant, and gave the bare outline of what had happened.

"And first off, he lied," went on Prowse, when he had stimulated himself. "Told me I was the man he'd picked to take him to Frisco, and never a word about the song and dance he'd given to Layard about bad eyes and all that."

"Look like he's goin' blind?" asked Marson, his eyes all a-glitter as he sat at the table and stared at Prowse. "He must have had some excuse for wantin' to get out of here?"

Prowse shivered.

"Them eyes of his give me the creeps. They stick out like buttons on a bosun's goin' ashore shirt! I ain't no old woman to be having the sober horrors at such things, but, Marson, I'm damned if he didn't want to make me run, with them bubble eyes of his!"

"And you actually saw them pearls!" gasped Sears, still in the grip of the amazing truth that there were pearls in Jenner's possession.

"And he thought he could string me into believin' that the box had all he's got!" declared Prowse, slapping his thigh. "Why, he's going to try and smuggle a lot more in his collection of shells! The gall of him! To think he could feed me baby yarns o' that kind! No, he didn't say nothin' about wanting his eyes fixed. He just says he's tired and wants to see civilization again before he dies."

"That's all right," said Marson with satisfaction. "You couldn't expect him to show you a peck of pearls. He's too canny for that, and we can be dog certain that if he showed you a dozen or more, that there's plenty more in pickle, and he knows where more can be had. We'll have pearls, or know the reason why!"

"WHAT'N hell did he stay here a lifetime for if he had a pearl bank?" demanded Sears. "It don't sound reasonable, somehow."

"No, it don't," agreed Prowse, "but he says he ain't known there was any for any great length of time. Now what he wants is to make Frisco and buy a schooner and come back on his own."

"More likely he won't come back to fish for pearls, but to take along his main cache," said Marson.

"You may be right at that. I'd bet he's got 'em ready packed away somewhere, and all he'd bring aboard here to make for Frisco with'd be just enough to fit himself out to come back in his own boat. Anyhow, he expects me back in a month, so we've got some time to work the thing out."

"Can't you fetch him aboard now— and we'll make him talk?" asked Sears, with a glance to Captain Marson.

"We can't be too abrupt," said Prowse. "I can't take chances with—"

"And we can't take too long to find out what we want to know," broke in Marson. "Layard'll likely back off on me when he finds he's left in Sandakan to cool his heels, while I'm on my way to Lumbucanan. It's risky business to wait, and if we took Jenner off now, we'd have some chance."

"He can't come aboard now," insisted Prowse.

"What'd we come here for, if not to pick him up on this Frisco trip yarn and make him cough up the bearin's of his pearl bank?"

"We come here for information, and I've got it," declared Prowse. "Up to tonight we had nothing but Layard's yarn. But that old man ashore is not so crazy as he sounds. He had me fooled for a while, but that's his game with everybody, I make it."

"Hope he didn't chill your feet."

"Marson, nobody chilled my feet, but he did have me bluffed for a time, and I admit it. There's something that don't seem natural about that old man. He's got something up his sleeve, but I can't put my finger on it."

"How do you mean?"

Prowse frowned in puzzlement and ran his hand over his eyes, as if brushing away some unpleasant vision.

"Don't know what it is, I tell you— and I ain't jumpy. That native booze he hands out has a kick like a mule, but there's something behind that old man's eyes that I can't make out. He's like a damned ghost walkin' around in another man's body, in the body of a dead man, if you can see what I'm driving at."

Marson laughed scornfully, and Sears looked out of patience, though he concealed his irritation.

"I never looked to hear you talk this way, Prowse," said Marson.

"No, nor did I,"' conceded Prowse, "but there's something that makes me think that this old Jenner is somebody else that's no business here in Lumbucanan. That's because he pretends to be a helpless old man, but let me tell you, Marson, anybody who tries to monkey with him is going to find his hands full."

"YOU MEAN it ain't Jenner at all?" asked Marson, soberly refilling his pipe.

"It's Jenner, right enough. Nobody has switched with him. I've seen him before a couple of times, and he's the same as ever. But this time, well, I kind of got under his skin and I saw something I'd never seen before. He knows he's got power— wealth— whatever you call it. There's a new look in his eyes, for all the dead fish look that's come into 'em."'

Marson struck the table with his fist.

"That's just what I want to hear you say!" he declared. "It's what we want, and it shows we're right."

"What're you drivin' at, Skipper?" asked Sears.

"I'm drivin' at this! The last time Prowse here saw Jenner he was just an old beachcomber, down and out and on native ways, with no hope of ever leavin' Lumbucanan. Now he's rich and he's got a cockiness about him that he can't hide."

"By George, that's it exactly!" cried Prowse. "It was all he could do to keep from putting on airs with me! He's made up his mind that he's ready to cash in his pearls and he can hardly hold himself."

"I don't look for him to put on any airs with me," said Marson. "He might bluff you— but I ain't afraid of any old beachcomber yet."

"Marson, don't you be so cocksure," warned Prowse in deadly earnest. "I ain't afraid of him, but I tell you he's got something up his sleeve that ain't something we'll be looking for. I ain't afraid of him— that ain't it at all— I'm afraid of what's behind him. And I don't take any wide chances with him, myself. In the first place he's got an awful hold on the natives. They swear by him, and his word's law. Why, the old beggar's gone so far that he believes this king business we've all heard of."

"Oh, that's all forecastle talk," said Marson. "I don't put no stock in that, and neither do you."

"No, I don't, but the point is, there's something behind it. He's got a power he can use, and he knows it. There's a glint in his eyes, dead as they be, that tells me something I can't put in words, but it's there just the same. I felt it."

"Then fetch him aboard in the mornin' and we'll shake him down and see what it's all about."

Prowse thought for a minute, while Marson and Sears looked at one another doubtfully. They were disgusted with the master of the Farallone, but they knew it was no time to raise an issue which could not be pressed home without trouble.

"No," said Prowse, "I stick to what I said in the first place. He can't come aboard here yet. I want to study the thing a little closer. All I know now is that if we bring him aboard here and can't put him ashore again, or go back there to loot his place, I'm done for good in these waters. The first ship that touches for water or any other reason'll hear how I kidnapped the old man, or robbed him. Where'd I be then? We've got to find some way that'll work this out better'n putting our heads in the sack— and find somebody's pulled the pucker string on us.

"But you don't mean we're goin' to sail out of this lagoon and let Jenner keep his pearls after we hired you to come here on a lay with us?"

Marson was beginning to be sharp.

PROWSE shook his head in a decided negative,

"I want Jenner's pearls, or my share of em, as bad as you do, and what's more, I need my bite of 'em worse'n you do. You've got a good business, and I'm near broke."

"All the more reason why it's a longer chance for me than it is for you," declared Marson. "I stand to lose more."

"I stand to lose everything," retorted Prowse, "and if we try to play horse with Jenner now, and he's killed or robbed or has a yarn to spill against us, I'm the bird that'll stand the gaff when the story comes out. And I can't take all the risk, by a long shot. The Farallone can't be the schooner that's under the guns if there's going to be a fine row after we've cleaned Jenner out and skipped."

"I wish you'd talked that way before we sailed. I expected you'd take a hand in this. Now we've got the goods, and you bear away on a new tack."

"Don't let out too much chain, Marson, till you know your swing room," cautioned Prowse, his temper rising. "You know well enough that we came here to find if what Layard said was true— that Jenner had pearls. All right! We've found that out. There's a fortune involved, ain't there?'

"That's what we don't know yet," said Marson. "But a lagoon full of pearls, that ain't been worked except by Jenner— That's somethin' to git stirred up about!"

'Don't we want more than a tin can with a few pearls? Do you want to show your hand just for that, or do you want to play the bigger game? I didn't say I'd come here just to rob Jenner."

"No, you didn't. That's right," admitted Marson. "But, after all, Sears and me, we're pearlers, and we're the parties that give you the inside tip on Jenner, and you talk like you want to give us the go by on this."

Marson's face took on a purplish tinge and there was anger behind his gray eyes as his lids flickered while he talked.

"Steady as she goes," warned Prowse, holding up a hand. "I'm in this, though I didn't look to find it so clean, and we haven't done much talking about what we'd do if Layard's yarn turned out right. But I been doing a lot of thinking in the last fifteen minutes, and there's more'n one way to slit a fish. We sail from here come daylight, if we can get a puff to take through the reef— but you and Sears come back."

"You mean I'll have to come back with one of my own boats— and then you'll expect a split on the pearls?"'

"No. A week or so from now I'll put the two of you ashore in a boat or a raft— or near ashore. You've been ship-wrecked, and you don't know anything about me or Jenner's pearls."

"Shipwrecked!" said Sears. "What good'll that do, to come ashore ship-wrecked?"

"You'll have time to play Jenner along and find out some things that you'll need to know after I pick Jenner up. I'll come a month from now, just as I told Jenner I would, and take the three of you off. Jenner'll tell his natives he's going, anyhow, and we'll have him the way we want him, without trouble, and with the dope that you need, most likely, on where his pearling bank is."

Marson thought it over.

"It's a fairly good plan," he said finally. "It'll give us all clearance from any kick back, that's sure."

"That's what you'll need, if you ever want to come in here and work the shell banks," said Prowse.

"I'LL TELL you a better game," suggested Marson, "and it'll work just as good. You meet us at Surago Island, fifty or sixty miles to the northward, before you come for Jenner."

"How'll you get to Surago from here?"

"We'll be armed. These natives don't amount to anything. Sears and myself can make 'em jump through a hoop when we're ready to leave. And we can have 'em run us up to Surago with a big prahu. Then we'll come down here and pick Jenner up— or do what we think's best, as the land lays. We'll have about two weeks on Lumbucanan here, and by that time Sears and me can scout things and have a good idea of what we want to do, and what the Farallone wants to do with Jenner."

"That's good sense, Skipper," said Sears. "Jenner won't know we're in with Prowse, and if we have to show our hand before we jump this place to meet Prowse, that lets the Farallone out if there's any trouble with the government for what's been done."

"Sounds right to me," said Prowse. "What good would it do to bring him aboard now? We'd have to put a gun under his ribs to make him talk, and if he didn't talk, where'd we be? We'd have showed our hands, and we wouldn't know anything. Unless Jenner had enough pearls, besides what he's got in that can, we'd be playing for small stakes, and likely run our necks into a noose if somebody got shot. The natives know the Farallone, and we might just as well scuttle the schooner as to try to get away with anything rough."

"It's some sixty miles to Surago," said Marson.

"Yes, and with the wind right, in a flying prahu, you could make it from here in about three hours, maybe less. You ought to be able to handle a crew of natives with a big outrigger, such as you've seen this afternoon."

"We can handle 'em if the ammunition holds out," remarked Sears.

"Mighty little lead I'll waste on 'em," said Marson. "But we'll have to kill em off before we leave 'em. We can't leave 'em at Surago and board the Farallone."

"Exactly!" said Prowse. "You'd never be able to work that pearl bank if there were any prahu natives alive to come back and tell what happened. Your game will be to get in with the natives good and strong— confidence, and all that. Be liberal with the supplies you'll have on the raft, and they'll eat out of your hands."

"If I don't miss my guess," went on Marson, "Jenner's likely to have a sea bag of pearls."

"He's been here for something besides his health thirty years,"' said Sears.

"That thirty years stuff is all hogwash!" snorted Marson. "Jenner ain't been on Lumbucanan any thirty years. Hell, it was nearly forty years ago that Starkey, the pirate, was hung by a British warship, and that was when my old man first come out to these waters. In them days my father blackbirded out of Lumbucanan, and I was in here with him as a boy. Nobody'd ever heard of this Jenner then, and I'll bet he ain't been here more'n fifteen, if a day."

"MAYBE the natives kept him hid," said Prowse, "or he had a place to hide away from you white men. You know, more'n one island down this way had some of Starkey's men on 'em, and Starkey's men had mighty good reason not to show their hides to anybody that came along."

"I've heard all that for years," said Marson. "Put an old beachcomber on one of these islands, and in ten years he's been here a hundred, if you listen to natives and tradin' schooners tell it. All I can say is that if Jenner came here first thirty years ago, he ain't been here all the time, but he's been goin' back and forth in various ships. I'll bet a straw hat in a gale of wind that Jenner has been pearlin' on the sly maybe twenty years, and goin' home every five with a rich haul, pretendin' to be a dirty beachcomber just to fool skippers. It's ten to one and a pound of tobacco that Jenner owns a flock of buildin's in San Francisco, and he's ready to quit here for good.

"If he's been workin' with native divers on the sly, it'd take him time to collect much. Let me put three or four crews in here, and we'll mop that shoal he's been workin'— mop it clean in a month or two. If it's good enough for Jenner to sleep alongside of for thirty years, one of my boats ought to take a million dollars out in thirty days. And I'll work it, if I have to blow every native to hell and back for a supply of grid-irons to cook their fish."

Sears laughed.

"Cap'n Marson's been talkin' about this lagoon of Lumbucanan for more years than I can remember," he said to Prowse, "and he's afraid that Layard's yarn'll spread and one of these mornin's we'll find a pearlin' fleet in here bringin' up shell."

"Just the same I'm right," insisted Marson. "There's only about two feet of tide in this place, and that bank may be not more than two fathom deep. Jenner maybe has been doin' his own divin', and in the night, if it's shoal as that. And I'd like to get to work on somethin' rich at that depth. Why, it's as easy as combin' your hair!"

"And I smelled rotting oysters," reminded Prowse.

"You bet you did! But that may not mean they're rottin' out near the bank. Jenner, if he's sharp, may be workin' with a hand basket, and packin' his shell a long ways: from where he brings 'em ashore. I tell you what, Prowse, there's more behind Jenner than a few pearls in a bakin' tin!"

"Of course there is," said Prowse. "Now we better chow, and we'll go over the bearings of Surago by the stars, so you can find it without any trouble, even if you've got to kill off that  crew in the outrigger."

Sears called to the native cook forward, and Captain Prowse got out charts. The three of them laid their plans for the return of Captain Marson and Sears to Lumbucanan.

3: Atoll Night

IT WAS a week after the Farallone sailed from Lumbucanan before anything out of the ordinary happened on the island. Then, one morning just after daylight, a raft with two men was sighted about three miles off shore, drifting in for the land.

The big outrigger canoe, or flying prahu, with Ponati and Stru-ular, the owners of it in command, towed the raft in. It was built of raft covers and light scantlings with frames to hold supplies, and Marsen and Sears represented themselves as passengers from the brig Lady Brisbane from London for Sydney, burned at sea.

Their story was reasonable enough, and Jenner saw no reason to doubt it. The raft had an extra load of supplies, and with the two men to take care of it, had become separated from the brig's boats during a squally night. Wind and tide had brought them close to Lumbucanan.

Jenner advised them that the schooner Farallone was due in three weeks and that they would not have to remain long on the island. But he did not tell them that he himself intended to take passage for San Francisco in the Farallone.

The raft covers were given to the natives in return for the use of a shack not far from Jenner's native house. He was friendly and hospitable, aiding them in every way he could to set up their home. As they had plenty of supplies in the way of tinned food and blankets and tarpaulins, they needed no special help after they were settled, and enjoyed themselves fishing.

Marson expected that Jenner would make some objection when he engaged Ponati and Stru-ular and a crew with the prahu to fish in the lagoon. But Jenner was indifferent as to where the two strangers went or what they did, which puzzled Marson.

Eight days passed, and nothing had been gained by the two pearlers except the confidence of the boat crew. They went fishing every day, until it became a matter of routine to have the prahu ready at any hour. Captain Marson was getting ready for the day when he would want to jump to Surago Island.

IT WAS their ninth night on the island before Marson and Sears made a significant discovery. They had taken to keeping watch of Jenner by night, or rather, to keeping watch on his house. They had noticed early that the old man slept much in the daytime, and they wondered what he did by night.

They saw him leave his place well after midnight and disappear through the palms into the low brush which, higher up, formed a small jungle of vines and trees. There was a high ridge far back from the beach, mostly rocky and covered with creepers. And it was within an hour of daylight before he got back to his house, coming hurriedly and keeping in the shadows of the palms after he left the brush. The next night he did the same.

There were no native houses in that direction, as far as Marson and Sears knew. And the nightly trips could not be pearling operations, for he was leaving the beach of the lagoon instead of going toward it; so Jenner had something afoot which did not seem to fit the theories of the pearlers in regard to what should normally happen.

"We've got to follow him tonight," said Marson, as Sears dressed a fish on the beach in front of their house. "That hill's the key to the thing, and we can't fiddle around the way we have, without some line on what he's up to."

"What gits my goat," said Sears, "'is that he's so careless about our mixin' with the natives in that boat. If he's got a rich pearl bank and wants to keep it away from us, I should expect him to be afraid we'd pick up a word or two about it."

"Jenner don't know we're pearlers; that's one thing that he'd overlook. He thinks we're just on the fish and there's nothin' to be afraid of."

"I'll tell you, Skipper, Prowse may have put us on a string when he said he'd sniffed rottin' oysters. We've had nary a sniff, that's certain."

Sears was beginning to weaken on the whole pearl business as far as Lumbucanan went.

"What good would that do him?" asked Marson, a little surprised.

"He'd be rid of us, that's what. Maybe he won't come for us to Surago any more than he intends to come for Jenner." And Sears looked suddenly wise as he paused with his upraised fish knife.

"Say, what're you drivin' at?" he demanded in a low tone, with a glance in the direction of Jenner's place.

The old man was out in front of his house, pottering around the fire stones.

"I don't exactly know," confessed

Sears, "but I've got a big hunch that Cap'n Prowse wanted to git shut of us— and quick. He said he smelled rotting oysters. Well, we ain't and we've been up and down this lagoon pretty well."

"Maybe Jenner or his natives got that batch of shell back into the water before we showed up."

Marson was troubled, and he chewed a piece of palm fiber as he walked up and down with his hands behind his back.

"Maybe they did. These natives are a lot of close mouthed beggars I can say that for 'em."

"That's natural," said Marson, "seein' we don't talk their language, only such of 'em as know some Malay. But this Prowse talk of yours. What you got to go on to suspect Prowse?"

SEARS lighted a native cigaret and gazed across the lagoon.

"I said I don't know, Skipper, but there's somethin' wrong here, or Prowse was wrong. In the first place he told us just enough to keep us keen, and then he was bound we'd get out with him without havin' anything to do with Jenner until we showed up here on our own. How much of what he told us was true?"

"We can't prove him a liar on what he said about rottin' oysters. He may've been fooled himself."

"No," said Sears, "We can't. But what if Jenner didn't have any tin box full of pearls at all?"

Again that shrewd and over-wise look came into his face. He seemed to enjoy worrying Marson.

"Huh! Now, that's somethin' to think about," admitted Marson regretfully. "But he'd gain nothin' by lyin'."

"No, except to put us on a raft, and go on about his business, leavin' us to hold the sack. You know, he said he was afraid of somethin' here, and he had no guts to stay or hang around any longer. All right. Maybe he just wanted to git out, and he knew that if he said he'd seen no pearls at all, we'd have some doubts of him. As I look at it, it's even up that Jenner's got a pearl at all. What'd Prowse do, if he wanted to clear himself of the whole deal? He'd give us a yarn and put us off on a raft and let us run the thing the way we wanted to. You know, he made it mighty clear that the Farallone was goin' to sheer off on the deal, but he didn't talk that way when you hired him to come up and look things over."

Marson made no reply, but walked up and down, pondering the situation.

"There's something wrong about this island, Cap'n, " insisted Sears. "I ain't got the jumps or anything like that— it ain't my way— but what's Jenner goin' up to that hill jungle for of nights? He don't give a whoop what we see in the lagoon. That's number one that falls down; and number two, he's operatin' in the hills 'stead of prowlin' the lagoon by night."

"Maybe that's where he's got his main cache of pearls hid away," suggested Marson, reluctant to fall in with Sears.

"Maybe. We'll know more about that before we're much older. But there's another point you want to think over. What if some of these natives know more'n we think they do."

"What about?"

"About who we are."

Marson scratched his head thoughtfully.

"I wonder! There might be somethin' there, as you say. I can't be sure there ain't a native on this island that ain't been in one of my crews, or seen me somewhere and knows I'm a pearler."

"These birds do a lot of driftin' around, and a Lumbucanan man that's been down Torres way might not be so hard to find here. And that'd mean he'd tip Jenner off that we're not strangers to these waters at all."

SEARS was beginning to make his fears a serious matter to Marson.

"And what if Jenner is tipped off?" asked Marson. "If he is, he'd throw a fit if there was a chance that we'd run into his pearl bank. He'd check our fishin', wouldn't he?"

"He would, if he's afraid we'd find his bank—if there's any bank. The more Jenner knows about us, the less he'd worry if there ain't any pearls at all. That's the way my mind's been runnin', and we might as well thrash it out."

"We're certainly a fine pair of fools if we let Prowse lie us into comin' ashore in a raft, and no pearls at all."

"That's neither here nor there, Skipper," said Sears. 'The thing is, if Jenner's got pearls in the lagoon, and if his natives know we're pearlers up to some dodge, there's only one reason that Jenner'd let us run around in the lagoon the way we do with Ponati and that bird they call the Son of the Snake."

"And what reason?" asked Marson.

"The natives'll kill us when they're ready, that's the reason."

Marson burst out into laughter.

"When do you expect they'll start in? You know, I'm beginnin' to believe that you've picked up the scare that Prowse got here!"

Sears was not hurt by the laughter or Marson's words.

"I ain't no fool," he said, "and I've kept a close eye on Jenner. I've made up my mind that Prowse was right. There's somethin' odd about Jenner."

"Odd! Just how's he odd, outside of the fact that he's an old shell of a man, kickin' around this island for a long time? Any old man'd be off his head a little, if that's what you mean by odd, if he stayed here long enough."

Sears shook his head doubtfully.

"That's just it. He's an old man, but there's more to him than that. He's no common seaman, that chap, and he's smooth as deck paint. And what's more, I don't believe he's been here as long as folks say. Every time he talks to us, he's got the hatches down on what he says. Not a word unless he's thought it over. And he can see a lot better'n he says he can, for all his yarn about goin' blind."

"I've noticed that, yes. He's no fool. And as you say, he don't just belong here."

"l tell you what I think," resumed Sears. "His game with every ship that comes in here is to say he wants to git out. But I don't believe he wants to git out at all—not by any ship that comes— because he's got his own boat that comes for him every so often. But he keeps up a yarn that he wants to go, so nobody'll smell a rat. That man's got plenty of money— somewhere."

"By George, maybe you've struck it, that time!" declared Marson. "Anyhow, we've got to keep a close watch on him every night. It's gittin' along toward time for us to look for Prowse up around Surago Island, and we've got to know somethin' before long."

They went back to their house and baked the fish on hot stones, keeping a quiet watch on Jenner down the beach. The old man always pleaded that he went to bed early, which really meant that he wanted to be alone evenings. And Marson and Sears took advantage of Jenner's desire for loneliness by pretending to stay in their own house. And when they covered their fire with sand in the evening, it was supposed to mean that they had turned in for the night. But they took turns watching Jenner's place.

In time the night fishers appeared in the lagoon in the small canoes, and their torches lit up the water. And the booming of the outer surf under the moonlight had a lulling effect and created the strange illusion that the island was swimming in white light, as during the sunlit hours it seemed to be floating about on the blue waters that apparently had no end.

But tonight Marson and Sears stole down the beach away from Jenner's place, keeping their own house between them and the hut of the old man, and circled to make their way under cover of the brush to a position where they would be able to watch him go up the hill to the sloping jungle. They hoped to be able to follow him.

4: Lumbucanan Hill

MARSON and Sears had been hiding in the brush for more than two hours when they saw a figure leave Jenner's house, cross a sandy patch where there was unobscured moonlight and hasten into the cover of the bushes that rimmed the lower reaches of the high ground.

Marson, lying in the sand, pulled his watch from his pocket, got a spot of moonlight upon it from overhead, and bent close to the dial to scan the hands.

"Just after midnight," he whispered. "He takes his time, to be sure we're hard asleep."

Jenner paused for a few minutes to gaze out over the lagoon and the beach in the direction of the house where the two pearlers were supposed to be sleeping.

The gentle breeze was rattling the tops of the palm trees. On the far side of the lagoon a group of flares rose and fell and swayed in graceful undulations as the canoes of the fishers rode the easy swell that came through the reef break. The two watchers had the old man silhouetted against the lower shining sand, for though he was in black shadow himself, Marson and Sears were higher and to the left of his position. Jenner would have been invisible from the beach, for behind him was the rim of the jungle.

The moon was full, and whitely pale. The air. was moist and humid, despite the breeze higher up, so the stars lacked their usual clear cut brilliance.

"He's sure we're well tucked away for the night," said Marson.

"And he don't come up here for any nap of sleep at this time," breathed Sears.

"No, and there he goes!" said Marson, as he lifted himself on his elbows and craned his neck to make out the exact spot where Jenner disappeared into the jungle. The next instant Jenner passed from view.

Marson got to his feet silently and moved carefully along the dry sand to pick up Jenner's trail. Sears followed, hugging in close to the trees and picking his way with caution. They found that the spot where Jenner had disappeared was a narrow trail through tall brush just outside the zone of creepers that covered the trees a little higher up the hill.

They stopped for a minute to listen, and could hear a slight rustling of leaves which indicated that Jenner was pushing on.

"I'd say he's headin' straight up for the ridge," whispered Marson. "It's goin' to be touchy work to follow him, but we'll take our chances. Keep close up."

MARSON led the way, pressing the leaves aside carefully. It was possible to see but a-few yards ahead into the trail, but they could make out Jenner's figure moving along as it blotted out small spots of brilliance in the fretwork patterned by the moonlight filtering through the tops of the trees.

The path underfoot was narrow and of yielding soil, so Jenner made little sound as he moved. As he went farther he merged with the spots of moonlight, and his progress was marked now by a moving shadow obscuring tiny points of light.

Marson moved ahead as fast as he dared. And Sears moved with him. They kept Jenner in sight longer than they had expected, and it was only when the narrow path twisted to avoid a pile of volcanic rock that they lost him now and then.

They proceeded with greater caution now. They were not sure that Jenner had no inkling that he was followed. Marson feared that the old man might hide in the trail and let them pass him.

To their surprise the ground suddenly began to slope away from them into a shallow depression ahead, and they found the trail ended in a wide opening upon a bare patch of ground littered with volcanic ash, broken lava and a great rubble of loose stones.

Jenner was not in sight when the opening of the end of the trail flashed upon them like an arched doorway opening into a brilliantly lighted yard. But they could hear the soft rattle of stones, which told. them that Jenner was hurrying forward. They hastened their steps and caught sight of him trotting across the open spot and heading straight for the side of the sharply lifting ridge, heavily overgrown with creepers.

They got down on their hands and knees and crawled to the outlet of the trail. Jenner approached the cliffside and skirted it a few yards. There the moon fell upon him clearly and the vine clad bank stood out in white light, tiny pools of jet marking the holes in the matted tangle of rank foliage.

Jenner knew perfectly where he was going. That was plain to the watchers. He thrust his arms into the vines, drew them aside to clear an opening and stepped out of their sight into the mass of greenery exactly as if he had walked through a door. And the vines fell back into place, leaving a sheer wall behind with nothing to show the spot where he had disappeared.

"There's his hole, sure enough," whispered Marson.

His manner showed his satisfaction and repressed excitement, for now they had something definite to bear out all their theories that the old man really had hidden wealth.

"But what does he come up here for in the night?" asked Sears. "You'd think he'd keep away from here, with strangers on the island."

"He's gittin' ready to leave with Prowse, and there's something he's got to hide, or dig out, before he goes."

"How the devil can we follow him in there?" asked Sears.

"We can't, unless we're ready to gun him. And we can't be sure what we'd walk into behind them vines."

"Maybe he's got some natives in there on guard."

"Don't look that way to me," said Marson slowly. ''This is his private hideaway. If he wanted it watched, he'd have natives around these bushes to make sure nobody spied on him. And if the natives knew about it, he'd be able to come up here and attend to whatever it is he does, in the daytime. But he picks the night. No, sir, Jenner's in on this thing alone."

"That's so," said Sears. "No need of him doin' this sneak, with us out in the lagoon all day."

Marson did not reply for several minutes, but lay sprawled out, thinking and studying the side of the cliff.

"I tell you what," he said finally. "I've made up my mind to this. Jenner's hidin' somethin' in there that he don't  want to take when he sails in the Farallone and as Prowse said, Jenner intends to come back in his own boat for what he leaves here."

"But he could hide a bushel of pearls in the sand around his shack, and nobody be the wiser."

Marson nodded.

"It's beyond me. One thing we ain't seen is the collection of shells he told Prowse about. Where are they?"

"He wouldn't need to hide shells away in a place like this, and come up to 'em in the night."

THEY lay still and watched the cliff while the time slipped away. And it was nearly four o'clock by Marson's watch when Jenner popped out of the vines and started across the rocky depression toward the opening of the trail. Marson and Sears rolled as far out of the path as they could; and masked under heavy pendant leaves, they waited and watched Jenner's feet pass within the reach of their arms. He walked swiftly and took no trouble to look about him before he entered the trail.

"He certainly acts like he's late somewhere," observed Marson, when the receding sounds of Jenner's progress had died away.

Marson rolled back into the trail and stood up.

"What if he'd check up on us to make sure we're at home?"' suggested Sears.

"Let him. We can't overlook this place as a prospect now, and we've got two hours before daylight to cruise that ridge inside and git back before dawn."

"You mean we're goin' inside, Skipper?"

"Sure we are! That's what we're here for, ain't it?"

"You ain't heard me say I wouldn't go," replied Sears. "I'm on edge to see what kind of a bunker that is, and what's in it."

"Then come on," said Marson.

5: The Old Man's Sea Shells

CAPTAIN MARSON took his revolver from the arm holster and moved straight for the rocky ground outside. Sears was by his side, and they made straight for the spot where Jenner had come out of the cliff.

When he had reached the vines Marson waited a minute and listened. Then he pawed about gingerly among the creepers and stuck in his head. A dank air assailed him, and there was a light cool draft, which was welcome after the humid heat of the enclosed trail. He could hear the dripping of water somewhere inside, making a clocklike tinkling beat in some tiny pool.

Marson drew out his head.

"Sears, this cave runs through to the other side of the ridge and picks up the wind from the seaward."

He bent ard thrust his shoulders through the opening and stepped inside, holding the vines for Sears to follow.

They stood in almost total darkness, except for the slivers of light which penetrated the creepers behind them. The soughing of the sea breeze through the rocky tunnel struck their ears, with the steady dripping of waters in the distance. The sudden shutting off of the low roar of surf on the reefs gave them a queer sense of uncomfortable silence.

Marson felt his way with his feet. The ground was rocky and cool. He moved a few feet and then struck a match. They saw moss grown walls of broken rock which had been heaved up into a wide gable, the peak some ten feet over their heads. The lower sides sloped away from them in irregular angles, making the tunnel from twelve to fifteen feet wide. Then they saw that they were in the hollow core of the ridge that ran along the north side of the ring of island that enclosed Lumbucanan lagoon.

In the light of the match, pools of water under the low ledges became visible. The moisture ran down the rafter-like slopes of the piled up rocks. To the right there were dark crannies of rock, with pale moss and other growths like fungus; to the left there was a narrow gallery with shelving sides.

"Plenty of room in here," said Marson quietly.

The match flickered out in his fingers as the gusty draft struck it. They heard a rushing of air that entered from the seaward side. It came swirling down upon them like a wind forced through a funnel.

Sears took off his cap and, holding it against the wind, struck a match. Before Marson's match went out, the mate had caught a glimpse of what appeared to be small brooms with the brush ends burned. He stooped and picked one up. It proved to be the remnant of a crude torch made with bamboo fibers lashed to bamboo with rattans. When Sears applied his match the jungle gums, or nut extract, mixed with the fibers crackled merrily and a bright flame flared up.

They picked up some extra torches and Marson led the way into the narrow gallery. They saw old bird nests in the upper corners, and there was evidence that at one time bats had roosted there, hanging, heads down, from sharp overhanging ledges.

They had gone about fifty feet when Marson lowered his burning torch and stopped to peer ahead at something underfoot.

"What is it?" asked Sears. He stared into the shifting shadows and wavering lights, trying to make out rows of white objects.

"Looks like a lot of white skulls laid along like they was in a blasted museum!" whispered Marson.

"T don't like it, whatever it is," said Sears. "I always knew there was somethin' wrong with that old man, and I believe them are skulls." He shivered, and his torch shook in his hand.

"Yes, but what's that stuff glittering' around the skulls, as we call 'em?" asked Marson.

In the light of the torch it seemed that the floor of the cave farther along was strewn with bits of broken glass. And red spots in among clusters of white lights twinkled and shifted with each movement of the torch.

THEY noted nearby some large bulky objects. They moved along a little and discovered a crude bunk made of bamboo frames raised about three feet from the ground and covered with dried leaves, mosses and old rags of canvas.

"Say, he's been livin' here!" said Sears.

Then they saw that what they had taken at first sight to be piles of rocks, were slabs of stone piled to form tables and chairs. All about there were scattered old boxes, the husks of many cocoanuts that had ably been broken long ago and various utensils, such as pannikins, deck lanterns of brass, coated with green rust, iron bars that had been used in moving rocks about and a litter of small stuff that they could not for the moment identify.

"Yes, I'd say this is his main cabin," agreed Marson, "and this accounts for his bein' missin' at times when ships put in here. He just hides away when there's any boat around that he don't want to have any business with. This is where he does his hidin'."

They pushed on through the ruck of stuff, to examine the rows of gleaming white objects that had puzzled them. And then, when he made out what they were, Marson gave a grunt of disgust.

"Nothin' but big white sea shells!" he exclaimed.

"Why, that's his collection, sure enough," said Sears.. "And he's packin' it up, I'd say, to load it with Prowse."

The rows of big shells were ranged on rotten pieces of canvas, and with many small objects scattered about among them— smaller shells of the mother of pearl type, that glittered sharply in the torchlight. The torch was lowered for a closer examination of the smaller objects, and Marson picked up one. As the skipper held it to the light in his open, out-stretched hand, both men gave a cry of astonishment.

"That's a ring— with a diamond!" gasped Marson.

The pearling captain lifted his head and stared at Sears. The younger man's face was drawn into a queer grimace as he stared down at the ring that Marson held.

"And a gold ring," said Sears presently. "What's the meanin' of rings, when we're lookin' for pearls?"

Marson blew out his breath in an inarticulate cough, as if trying to frame words to fit his surprise. Then his hand drooped limply and the ring fell to the ground at his feet and bounced away into the shadows.

"Gold ring and a diamond!" gurgled Marson, as he stood and stared stupidly at Sears, eyes blinking at the torch. Then a gust of air swept the smoke from the torch across their eyes and they drew apart. Marson dropped to his knees.

"Hold that torch here," he growled.

He fumbled among the small objects among the big conical shells and began swearing gleefully. Sears stooped and held the flare low.

"Hell broad on!" cried Marson. "What've we run into, Sears? Why, this old canvas is covered with the stuff!"

He pawed through the mass of loose objects, which caught up the light and whirled it back at him in myriads of twinkling eyes.

"It looks like more rings and the like of that!" gasped Sears.

"Man, it's loot! Diamonds! Rubies! Jade!"

MARSON leaned back and sat down, both hands clutched full of filigreed rings of antique type, bracelets, pendants of shining green jade rimmed with gold, silver medals, collars of dull old stones set in gold chains, earrings with diamond studded pears that swung like pendulums from between Marson's open fingers.

"This is Starkey's loot— Starkey the pirate! And Jenner's one of Starkey's men! This stuff came from rich passengers out of big ships forty and fifty years ago, when Starkey took ship after ship— and this is the richest of the pickin'! Look at it! Chink stuff! Spanish stuff! Loot from the strong boxes of big passenger ships that Starkey run ashore by havin' his own men aboard in the crew— and then robbed the passengers and picked the bones of the ships!"

"There's a barrel of it!" cried Sears.

Marson sat like a man stunned. His hands rested on his outspread knees and his powerful fingers gripped the motley lot of treasure that he had picked up for examination. It was all beyond belief to him. Pearls he could have understood, even in staggering quantities. He had set his mind to find a treasure natural to Lumbucanan, and here he found himself fairly wallowing in wealth which it would be hard to appraise. Marson had not been prepared for the shock of the discovery of pirate loot.

"He's been layin' the stuff out and packin' it into the big shells," said Sears, as he glanced about him. "And it's all been dug out of the sand he brought in here to hide it. Gittin' ready to fool Cap'n Prowse with a lot of shells in old canvas."

Marson said nothing. He simply looked around, his eyes snapping and his lips moving as if he were whispering to himself. The crackling of the burning torch was the dominating sound now, for it had burned to the base of its bunch of fibers, and the pitch was spluttering and running down the handle. Sears smothered it in the sand and lighted a fresh one.

"That's why Jenner's been hidin' here for thirty, maybe forty, years," said Marson after a few minutes. "He's had Starkey's loot, and he didn't dare leave with it, until—"

"But he showed pearls to Prowse," objected Sears, who was not yet able to comprehend fully what it all meant.

"Pearls be damned! Maybe he's got a few pearls, yes! Why not? There's always a few to be picked up in any lagoon, with time and work. He'd have to show Prowse or any skipper somethin' to talk of goin' to Frisco! But he'd know better to show one bit of this stuff— rings like these, or diamonds picked out of jewelry. His secret'd be at an end the minute he flashed anything that didn't belong on Lumbucanan! And it's a good bet that the pearls he's got in his tin box came out of this mess of stuff. So! He had to have pearls! What else could he pick up here? He's got too much sense to put his neck in the bight of a rope by a single stone."

"If he was one of Starkey's men, he'd git hung, that's sure enough. He'd have to lay low."

"He's made a business of layin' low for forty years!" said Marson. "He knew he had a fortune in his hands, and no place to cash it unless the hangman called for a dividend."

"But maybe he never was with Starkey," said Sears. "He might have found it here."

MARSON considered a minute.

"That's right. He's been here a long time, and maybe he's just blundered into this cache. But one thing's sure— Starkey used this island to hide his loot. If Jenner was with Starkey, Jenner's waited a long time before he tried to git away, but he's ready to skip now."

"How'll we git away with this?" asked Sears.

"We won't— now. It'll keep. We'll meet up with Prowse and come back here and clean up. Once we've got Jenner aboard the Farallone it'll be easy."

"Then we can't let Jenner know we've been here."

"Not if we know anything, we won't. And we've got to have somethin' to show Prowse what we're talkin' about."

Marson scrambled up, both hands full of jewelry. He stuffed it into his side pockets.

"Scrape around with that old torch so Jenner can't see our feet marks in this dry sand, and we'll cut back and go to sleep. We're all set now to go for Prowse, and if he don't want to come, we can find Lumbucanan ourselves, no fear. But we've got to make this cleanup quick, or Jenner may skip with the lot if some boat picks him up, or he'll be robbed if Layard brings a schooner here and they run into this. Say! There's a barrel of it! And some of it already packed in them big shells!"

"Split three ways; it's enough to make three men rich for life— and then some," said Sears, just beginning to grasp the values represented by the litter scattered over the strips of canvas.

Marson emptied his side pockets, casting the jewelry back to the ground.

"What you doin' that for?" gasped Sears.

"Maybe it's just as well if Prowse don't come back here with us," he said. "I ain't goin' to argue none with him, nor show him samples. We can come for this stuff ourselves."

6: Round Trip To Surago

WHEN Ponati and Stru-ular were told by the white men that they wanted to leave the lagoon and go to sea in search of turtles, the two natives thought nothing of it. It was natural enough, for it was the season of migration for giant turtles to Coriran, and they might be captured while asleep on the surface.

But what the crew of the big flying prahu did not realize was that the vessel had been secretly supplied for a week or more at sea. Marson and Sears had found the trick easy enough, for they had gradually increased day by day the amount of equipment carried, and left the boat laden by night. Always they had carried a good supply of drinking cocoanuts, and now they increased and hid an extra supply of unstripped cocoanuts; but these were filled with fresh water and the eyes plugged. And they were hidden under a lot of gear with blankets and other dunnage, along with tinned meat and biscuits brought in the raft. The bulk of the supplies had been smuggled aboard before dawn under the pretense of getting ready for a big day of fishing in the lagoon.

Six natives were with Ponati and Stru-ular. And as they pushed off shortly after sun-up, Marson suggested that a turtle hunt outside would be better than lagoon fishing. The crew gladly obeyed the order and the prahu slipped through the reef break into the open sea.

They gained distance always to the northward, and the prahu, with its triangular sail of matting, made amazing speed. When she ran into the eye of the wind, almost, the handling of the craft surprised even Captain Marson. And though they sighted no turtles, they made a great romp of the day.

At four in the afternoon, Lumbucanan was twenty miles astern and its highest ground and the tops of its palms made but a smear on the horizon. Still they ran away from the island, with four men perched on the outrigger frame to windward to balance the craft as she ran on the starboard tack. They were all experts with the speediest sailing craft ever devised by man.

At five they were still running, with an hour left before sunset. It was then that the sky in the southwest began to darken, and showers of rain were visible to the southward, where Lumbucanan had disappeared. The sun became a smudge of yellowish haze and the rising wind began to whip the long lazy swells into furrows of white foam. Still, Marson persisted in holding to the northwest where lay Surago Island. The seas creamed under the bows of the prahu as she drove at furious speed, and then they began to break over her bows. Two men were kept bailing.

Ponati held the steering paddle, aft of Marson and Sears, who sat well aft on their gear, legs out before them over the fishing tackle, their bare feet in the wash of water on the bottom.

Ponati, the old nakhoda, or skipper, of the craft, wore a red handkerchief tied turbanwise. It was a present from Marson. The old man was slight of build, very light in color for a native of Lumbucanan and probably mostly Malay, for he understood some of that language. He wore only a chowat, or breechcloth, as did the others. But they were of bigger frame than Ponati and darker of skin, and their bones were well covered with flesh which rippled under their brown skins.

Without the weight of the four men on the outrigger, the pressure of the wind on the sail would have capsized the vessel. The boat shaped log under the far end of the outrigger frame was only skimming the water lightly at times and the spray it raised was sweeping across the prahu.

"BALIK! Balik!' cried Ponati.

It was time to go back to Lumbucanan. And he made a gesture to bring one man aft to assist in shifting the yard so the stern would become the bow. And he shifted his paddle to bring the wind aft for the maneuver.

"Balik hell!" shouted Marson, with a thrust of his hand forward. "Hold on your course! I want katong! Turtles!"

But skinny old Ponati shook his head in a decided negative and grinned. He spat a stream of red betel juice to leeward and showed his blackened teeth. He had no fear of being out all night in the prahu, storm or no storm, but he was concerned for the comfort of the white men and did not believe that Marson knew what it would mean to beat back for Lumbucanan in a rising storm.

But Lumbucanan was out of sight, and while before sundown it might easily be picked up again, if the sun set and there were no stars to steer by, the nakhoda might miss Lumbucanan and overrun it in the dark. Also, with heavy rain, even if Lumbucanan burned fires as beacons for the missing prahu, the fires might not be visible at any great distance and Ponati would find himself in the breakers of the reef— with two white men who could not be expected to swim with any skill.

"No katong," replied Ponati.

He knew there was no chance now of sighting turtles in such a sea and no use in attempting to capture one. Turtles did not sleep on the surface of such a sea.

Marson knew then that he could not expect to fool Ponati any longer. The pearling skipper rose swiftly, grasped the steering paddle from Ponati's hands and hurled him forward into the boat. Then he swung the prahu back on its course,

It all happened so swiftly that none of the natives seemed to comprehend what Marson was about. There were cries of astonishment, and Stru-ular, moving aft, grasped the shoring spar of the mainmast and remained where he was, staring in dismay at Ponati prone in the bottom of the boat.

Ponati got to his knees and grasped the gunwales. He faced aft, within a few feet of where Sears still sat, staring ahead. And the nokhoda spat a mouthful of sea-water reddened with betel, his thin old face twisted with pain and puzzlement as he gazed at Marson. He had hurt his head in his fall, and he shook it tremblingly while red betel seeped from the ends of his quivering lips.

"Gila! Gila!" cried Ponati, for he was sure that Marson had gone crazy.

At once there was a clamor of voices in the native tongue. Marson paid no attention, but stared over the bows, his head bent a little to see through the spray. Sears remained sitting on the tarpaulin that covered the stores, leaning on his left elbow, his right hand crossed so that it was hidden under the flap of his wet jacket.

"Look out for that beggar!" warned Marson. "He's ready to go amuck, so give it to him if he gits nasty."

Sears nodded.

The clamor of voices increased. The other men of the crew screamed to Ponati, urging him to take some action. One more white man had betrayed them after they had given their trust, and they seemed to sense now that there was a design behind Marson's steady driving for the north all day.

PONATI could not afford to lose face before his men. He growled something to Stru-ular, and got to his feet. Then the lithe body shot upward in a wild leap and a fishing knife flashed from his waistcloth, He made his spring toward Marson, past Sears.

Sears fired and drove out a fist.

The frail Ponati doubled forward while he was still off the bottom of the boat, crumpled on Sears's fist, and went overboard to leeward under the boom, knife in hand.

There were cries of horror from the crew. The man in the bow who had been bailing started aft, and Stru-ular, knife in hand, leaped for the halyard. He intended to bring down the sail of the prahu in hope of saving Ponati. But Ponati was already far behind in the spume of the wake.

Marson threw up his revolver and let go two shots. Stru-ular leaped upward and doubled backward, fell athwart the gunwale of the lee side, grasped for the boom of the sail and went overboard. He screamed as he went, and splashes of blood on his tawny skin showed that he had been shot below the ribs.

The red capped head of Ponati showed for an instant on the surface, and the black hair of Stru-ular rose from the seething bubbles astern. The other natives, like men stunned, could only gasp in terror and rage. They realized now that the white men would have no mercy, and that they did not intend to return to Lumbucanan.

Sears was on his feet now, crouched forward and holding to the lee rail. His revolver was held close to his belt in front, the muzzle waving about before him as if seeking a human target and menacing first the two men in the bow and the four clinging to the outrigger.

Captain Marson, holding the handle of the paddle with his right hand, pressed against an outthrust leg, also held his weapon ready for another shot.

"Watch the beggars," cautioned Marson. "The two worst of 'em out of the way— and we ought to make Surago in a couple of hours at this rate— we'll have a landfall before we lose the sun, if we can outrun that storm astern."

THEY drove on, more like an aircraft than a boat built for cruising water. As the wind rose it threatened to rip the sail from boom and yard, but Marson held her now to a quartering wind and she sliced her way through the rising swells and white frothing caps like a javelin hurled from a catapult. She was in a smother of spray and heeled at a dangerous angle as she scudded.

The natives out on the frame were compelled to remain there and keep the prahu from turning over. Without their weight to windward the prahu never would have held the course that Marson steered her and remained on her keel. Capable of making more than twenty miles an hour in a wind only a little stronger, she was being driven now by the upper edge of a gale, and she was pounding into swells at times with a force that suggested the possibility that she would be torn to bits.

So far, the wind had not been strong long enough to whip up any great sea. There were long loops between swells still, and no great depth to them. The prahu at times almost took to the air like a flying fish when she leaped from the crest of a swell.

Marson hoped now to make the lee of Surago Island by dark. The Farallone might have arrived a little ahead of time and might be standing near the island.

Anyhow, Marson could ride easily with a good lee, or beach the prahu.

The sky darkened, but still the position of the sun was clearly defined. Marson had a dry compass of the pocket type, and by it he steered a course good enough to make the high peaks of Surago as a landfall. And it was less than an hour after he had shot Stru-ular that he made out a blur on the horizon which he knew was Surago rising from the sea

The threatened storm had actually been outrun by the prahu. Only its northern edge had touched them as it swept to the westward. Still the wind held strong, though it shifted a little ahead. But as the prahu sailed on a wind with amazing closeness, Marson was satisfied.

The man in the bows had resumed his bailing, though he moaned out a peculiar song which was probably for the men who had gone over the side; and this chanting sob was taken up by the others. But to this wailing Marson and Sears gave no heed.

The greed for an amazing treasure gnawed at their brains as the prahu shot along in the shower of spray that drenched them. They thought of nothing but what they had seen by the light of the torch in the cavern at Lumbucanan.

Surago rose steadily from under the horizon, a pair of peaks standing out like pyramids adrift in the ocean. The sun turned red and put a bloody glare upon the water to westward, and the sky astern turned to a sickly yellowish sheen, then to a purplish canopy that flamed upward like banners shaken by a breeze. And now both Marson and Sears searched the sea ahead for a bit of rag that might be the gaff topsail of the Farallone, though they felt that if Prowse was waiting for them he would be in the lee of the island under small sail, if not at anchor.

SURAGO was not inhabited. It was a mass of rocks with the lower reaches covered with enough greenery to hide the black basalt. The island rose sheer from the sea all around, with an enclosing reef that was marked only when the sea ran high enough to break. From the prahu the reef would become visible as a collar of spume like a ringlet of lace about the island.

The two men could wait a week or more for Prowse with the supplies they had aboard. They would not be forced to make a landing, for the cocoanuts filled with water made them independent of land for several days; and they did not expect to wait long for Captain Prowse.

The peaks ahead rose steadily until they began to merge together in a base, and presently a pale green spot stood against the rim of the sky, rising in the red haze of sunset. To the northward there were long windrows of narrow clouds that made a mackerel sky tinged with salmon tints. The white rim of the breaking reef stood out like a barrier before them.

Marson brought the prahu still closer to the wind, planning to weather the island, for in that quarter the Farallone should be picked up.

They stood off about three miles from the reef as they got the island abeam and rounded to until they were before the wind, making the reefs a lee shore. But they had no sight of the schooner.

The natives were quieter now. As they watched Marson and Sears they understood that they were searching for a vessel. And they called to one another, discussing the matter in their own tongue. The two white men could not understand them— and did not care what they said.

Then there came a cry. One of the natives pointed across the bow, and shouted—

"Kapal laier— a sailing ship!"

Marson and Sears turned swiftly, lifting their heads to look into the gathering gloom. At that instant the man in the bow leaped overboard to windward, and the men on the outrigger frame slipped into the water.

The outrigger was heaved up by the men in the water. The prahu, freed of the balancing weight of the men, got the full force of the wind in her sail. She went over on her beam ends with the sail and spars in the water.

Marson and Sears were pitched headlong overboard. The frame of the outrigger stuck up out of the water some twelve feet, the shoring of the mast supporting it. The seas, now broadside on, though broken by the standing frame, broke over the vessel and bore down the hull.

The natives, swimming free, were protected from the bullets of the two white men, for the waves and spume formed a curtain of drenching, smothering water. And with their guns gone, both Marson and Sears were helpless as they clutched at sail and spars in the welter of gear and stores rolling out of the boat. The cocoanuts and such supplies as did not sink bobbed about them with the thrashing sail and spars.

"Fat's in the fire now!" yelled Marson.

He spluttered and cursed, while Sears tore off his coat as he clung to the upper gunwale.

"Made a mistake to let 'em see we expected a boat," yelled Sears.

"They played that trick too sudden for me," said Marson.

THEY both knew well the extent of of the disaster. The natives were all excellent swimmers and could land easily on the island through a reef break. But the prahu would drift down on the reef and smash. And white men could not expect to save themselves in the swirling waters of the breaking reef in darkness.

The sun was nearly down. Disarmed, and without food or water, Marson and Sears had only one chance for life, and that was in the hands of the men they had betrayed. The natives chattered in revengeful glee as they swam about to windward of the prahu, now and then grasping the bamboo frame as they yelled to one another their ideas of what should be done next.

In a few minutes Sears gave a cry of terror that told of some unexpected happening. Marson turned to see what was wrong. He saw Sears clutching madly at the gunwale, and being torn away. The mate went under water, bobbed up again to yell, and despite his frantic efforts to hold to the boat, was dragged down.

Marson could not get to him and did not know what was happening to the mate. And the next he knew, Sears was struggling madly in the water on the other side of the prahu. Three natives were clinging to his thrashing arms. It was then that Marson understood what had happened. Natives had dived under the prahu, seized the mate's legs and hauled him under.

"By God, they'll drown us!" gasped Marson.

"Look out for 'em!" screamed Sears. "If you don't—"

But his voice died away in a frenzied gurgle as he went under again and the three natives went with him.

It was not long before Marson felt a tug on one of his feet. Fingers gripped about his ankles. He kicked out wildly, attempting to hoist himself up out of reach or throw his feet out on the sail. But he could not get loose. He clung madly to the gunwale, but the hand below held on. And a new pair of hands grasped the other leg at the knee.

Marson fought as best he could while the seas broke over him. The prahu's hull went deeper with him. There was nothing he could do to save himself, and his head went under. He knew it was no use to cling to the submerged gunwale any longer. He let go.

It seemed a long time before Marson came up. He was almost unconscious when he gasped for air in the waves to windward of the prahu.

Sears was still struggling with the men who had him, near the bow. They did not seem to be in a hurry about drowning him, Marson thought. And the skipper felt a loop slipped over his submerged legs, drawn taut, so that the rattan cut into his flesh.

The next quarter of an hour was a confused horror to both men. The sun went down and darkness covered the sea. By the time stars appeared to the northward, Marson and Sears were bound with loin cloths, bits of rattan cut from the out-rigger frame and their own torn clothing. And they were secured to one of the ends of the prahu, half the time submerged when the prahu dipped from a swell. All they knew was that the natives did not intend to drown them for the present.

The roaring of the breakers on the reef could be heard more plainly. They had been drifting down upon it. But now two men were swimming and fighting it back to seaward, while the others worked with shrill cries in an effort to right the vessel.

The moon rose, shrouded with clouds. The two prisoners could see the dim forms of the natives against the white and phosphorescent seas. The mast was unshipped; the boom and spar freed, and the heavy mat sail secured to the boom. As the vessel was put together without a nail or other piece of metal, the natives simply had to cut the rattan lashings. The standing outrigger frame was dragged back to the proper position and the main hull bailed out.

Righted, and head to wind, the prahu was re-rigged. The two white men were hauled aboard. Then the prahu was headed for home, scudding through the darkness like something being towed by a swift vessel.

AFTER about three hours of terrific sailing the great fires burning on the highest ground of Lumbucanan were picked up. The natives of the island supposed that the overdue prahu had lost its bearings in the storm. And the crew had nearly missed the island, for the wind had shifted steadily after the storm had died.

And as they came through the reef break, Marson and Sears saw the beach of the lagoon covered with torches, and there were cries from boat to shore that caused a tumult of rage, and the whole population of the island turned out by the time the prahu was ready to run for the beach. And Jenner could be seen moving about among the howling Lumbucanans.

7: Spies!

"WHY DID you kill Ponati and Stru-ular?"

Jenner was sitting on a stone near the great fire on the beach where the captives sat in the sand with their backs against a fallen cocoanut tree. Marson and Sears, still bound and nearly naked, stared sullenly into the fire. A vast crowd of natives squatted around in a ring, many outside the light of the fire, for it was not yet dawn.

"Ponati made for me with a knife," growled Marson wearily. His hair was matted down over his forehead and he was pale and haggard.

Jenner shook his head sorrowfully. He had been told everything that had happened, by the crew of the prahu, and now he was conducting a kind of hearing of the matter. The wailing of women could be heard, the widows and relations of the slain men, and there were clamoring voices in the distance at times.

"You threw Bonati from the stern first, and took the paddle," said Jenner. "You began the attack— after insisting that the crew bear on northward away from home. Don't try to throw sand in my eyes! You didn't intend to come back, and you expected to meet a ship."

"Ponati refused to take my orders any longer— and I don't stand for any high handed stuff from niggers. When I tell 'em to do a thing, they do it, or there's trouble."

"A guest does not shoot his hosts simply on a difference of opinion. And Ponati had a right to do as he liked with his own boat and crew."

"I don't let blacks come at me with a knife, and that's an end of it."

"Maybe it's an end in more ways than one," said Jenner.

"They can't do anything to us!" cried Sears. "We fired in self defense. It was mutiny we had on our hands!"

"Poor idea of mutiny when a boat's crew want to go home, and you kill two men."

"What'll they do?" demanded Marson.

"That depends on what a council of headmen decide on," said Jenner. "There's going to be a big talk— and they're in bad temper. I can't do anything much with 'em."

"You don't mean they intend to kill us?" asked Marson.

"You don't think they brought you back just to argue, do you?"

"Now, look here!" said Marson. "You can handle 'em if you want to."

"I know better'n to try and handle any natives on this island when two of the best men have been killed while serving you. It's no fooling matter, I can tell you."

Sears shivered and turned his face away from the fire.

"Well, you can tell these birds to leave us alone until we've been tried before a deputy commissioner. You may find that you'll have some troubles on your hands yourself."

Marson's bloodshot eyes held Jenner's.

"What do you mean— by troubles— for me?" asked Jenner. "It's a little late for you to talk about commissioners. There ain't been one here for upwards of five years."

"Is that so?" sneered Marson. "Think there's anything behind the fact; that we expected to meet a boat at Surago? Maybe you'll see a government commissioner before you expect to."

Jenner was amazed.

"How do you know there'll be a commissioner here?"'

"I know a lot more'n you think," retorted Marson, his nerve returning as a plan to mystify and alarm Jenner formed itself in his brain. "And you don't know as much about us as you might, either, Mr. Jenner."

JENNER took his pipe from his mouth. "I've had my suspicions that you didn't come from the brig you said— you two're no strangers to these waters, that's been plain enough."

"You bet we didn't come from any shipwrecked brig! And you may be interested to know that there's been a lot of talk lately about Lumbucanan— and you."

"About me! What about me?"

"You'll find out when you take these natives off us, and have us let loose. Then Ill give you a tip that'll be worth a lot to you, that's all. You save us trouble, and we'll save you some. It's up to you, Jenner. Save us now, or— I'll tell you when we're loose and protected."

Jenner stroked his beard thoughtfully and puffed at his pipe in silence for several minutes.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he said finally, "but if you think—"

"You'll find out quick enough what we think, if you don't protect us. These natives'll do anything for you, and you've said it yourself. You fix this up."

Jenner flared up— or pretended to.

"I'm afraid of nobody," he snapped, "and I don't know what you're talking about. I'll be out of here for Frisco in a few days in the Farallone, and you could've gone, too, but I don't know your game."

"You mean youre sailin' with Cap'n Prowse in the Farallone," said Marson.

"Do you know Prowse?"

"I know it's the first time you've mentioned the fact that you're sailin' with Prowse."

"That's my private business," said Jenner. "I had no special reason to tell you my plans, and I was wise to keep that to myself."

"Your business ain't so private as you think," sneered Marson. "I know as much about Cap'n Prowse as you do— and maybe a little more."

"So you know Prowse, eh? And that's who you went to Surago to meet! I'm beginning to understand."

Marson laughed openly and with evident pleasure.

"Sure! It was Prowse who dropped us off his schooner with the raft, and we came here for the special purpose of lookin' you over."

"Look me over!" gasped Jenner. "Why, I've been here for years! What's there to look over?"

"That's our business, lookin' people over. We're government agents, Jenner."

The old man was astounded and made no attempt to conceal his surprise. He stared at Marson in open mouthed wonder.

"Government agents!" he repeated. "What would government agents come here for?"

"That's somethin' we'll tell you later. If we ain't here when Prowse comes in with the Farallone, there'll be a gunboat down on this place in short order, and it'll blow these natives into the lagoon. You think that over— and tell these natives that they're monkeyin' with."

"These natives don't know much about governments, and they'll care less after the way you shot down two of 'em. Is that the way government agents act regular? That's what the natives'll ask me when I tell em who you are, or who you say you are."

"You can save us."

"I can't say what I can do. I can't stop these natives from running their own affairs, especially when there's been blood spilled. Ponati and Stru-ular were top men of this island, and they treated you well."

"You stop 'em, that's all I got to say, or you'll swing at the end of a rope."

"What do you mean by sayin' that to me?" demanded Jenner.

But his voice was weak and croaking, and his hands shook with a sudden palsy. Marson knew he had hit the mark.

"Just what I said— you'll be hung."

"What for?"

"Because you're one of Starkey's men."

JENNER'S knees bent under him and he sat down in the sand. His pipe fell from his fingers and his voice trailed away in a thin cackle as he tried to speak.

"I guess that'll bring you up!" said Marson.

"I never had anything to do with Starkey!' said Jenner. "I don't see why—"

"That's somethin' for you to tell to the government," retorted Marson. "We can save you, or help you get away. Prowse can take you to Frisco and we'll report that the yarn was all smoke. What's a couple of these niggers against your life— and our lives."

"But what if I can't do anything?"

"You do it, that's all. Hand 'em any string you want to, but see that we're here to go aboard the Farallone. We can't run away from this island, and if you advise the headmen to keep us for a government investigation, that's good enough."

Jenner pondered the matter.

"What I want to know is where you heard this story that I'm one of Starkey's men? I'm just a helpless old man, with one foot in the grave, so—"

"Both feet!" corrected Marson. "And feet first— through a hole in the floor."

Jenner shuddered and covered his eyes with a hand. The two natives tending the fire stood watching Jenner closely, and there was a covert gabbling among the natives near enough to observe what was happening. There seemed to be alarm among the natives that Jenner was being defeated in his arguments with the white men, for they sensed something alarming in the old man's attitude.

"How do I know you're telling the truth about Prowse and all this government business?"

"About Prowse? You showed him a tin can of pearls, didn't you? Pearls that you dug out of the sand in your hut. You asked him to take you to Frisco. I guess that settles it that we know what we're talkin' about."

Jenner got to his feet and walked up and down a few minutes.

"So Prowse was a spy, too. Well, I'm an old man, and a few days of life, more or less, don't matter much."

A native called to Jenner from the darkness.

"I've got to go up to the council of headmen," said Jenner.

"All right, we'll leave things to you," said Marson.

"I'll do what I can. I've worked with these natives for years until I've pretty well civilized 'em. I don't want to see em go back to savagery; because if they kill you, even in justice, they're back where they were, and no white man can expect to put foot on Lumbucanan again."

He raised his hand, spoke a few words to the men squatting in the inner circle and moved away into the darkness.

8: A Pirate And Two Turtles

A VAST crowd followed Jenner and a new clamor rose as they moved to the council house far down the beach. They were all eager to learn what Jenner would have to say, but it was plain that their attitude called for punishment of the two white men, regardless of Jenner's advice. Only about a dozen men remained about the fire, and their looks toward the prisoners were threatening.

"Looks bad for us, Skipper," said Sears.

"Bad enough," admitted Marson, "but I've got Jenner on the run."

"You sure handed him somethin' to think about; but I expected you'd tell him about what we saw in the cave."

"That's our last ace, Sears. We can't play it yet; because if he knew just how much we're on to, he might stand in with the natives to settle our hash quick."

"If we can stick through till Prowse shows up, we're all right."

"I'm not so sure of that. Prowse ain't lookin' for any too much trouble on his own account, I can tell you that. And it might fall so Jenner won't let him ashore at all."

"He ought to be at Surago in the mornin'," went on Sears hopefully, "and when he don't find us there, he ought to cruise down this way to see what's up."

"If he's any good, he'd come along and pull us out of this place, and we could shoot the island up good and proper, Jenner and all, and walk off with that loot. But if we don't have a chance to talk to him, he won't do anything."

Marson put little faith in Prowse now, for he realized that the master of the Farallone would wash his hands of the business when he found that the natives were hostile after the slaying of two men.

"I don't like the way these natives are performin'," said Sears, as he lifted his head to listen to the shouts of the crowd about the council house.

"You hold on as you are," said Marson confidently. "We've got Jenner in a bag, and he's got to deliver."

After a time the crowd up the beach began to scatter to their homes. Torches flared and moved away, and lights began to appear in some of the distant houses. It appeared that Jenner was prevailing upon the headmen not to act too hastily.

By dawn the island was calm. A couple of men came down to the smoking fire and drew the men on guard aside and there were conferences. The guards seemed more friendly in their attitude toward the prisoners after this, and sat about the fire talking in low tones.

"It looks to me as if Jenner's done somethin'," said Marson. "He's bought em off, somehow, maybe with promises of presents to cover the damage, when Prowse gets here. And that means that if Jenner comes aboard the Farallone with us, we've got 'em— and the loot."

"Jenner can't make any squeal if we take it away from him," said Sears.

"Little we care about any squeal he'll make. We can dump him where we like, once we've got the stuff."

But Sears was not so sure that everything was going well with the natives.

"They quieted down too damn' quick to suit me, Skipper," he told Marson, "and they're all too satisfied, these birds at the fire. They had an awful mad on, and they ain't grinnin' at us now because they like us— they've got somethin' on us that we don't know about, and what it is makes 'em feel too good for my likin'."

MARSON studied the men squatting about the fire: There was an air of triumph about them that suggested a grim satisfaction with the turn of the night's events.

"No, I don't like the way they act," said Marson, "but we'll keep our chins up till we hear what Jenner's got to say."

"Anyway, that sun's good and warm," said Sears. "My bones got chilled to the marrow last night, and I'm about all in."

It was an hour after sun-up when they saw Jenner leaving the council house. He looked more bent and weak than they had ever seen him before— an old man tottering along with uncertain steps and reluctant to return to the fire. A couple of natives carrying what appeared to be bows and arrows for shooting fish were following after him, walking slowly and talking. They turned off to the marshes and let Jenner come on alone.

"Them men are goin' down to fish on the reef," said Marson. "That looks good. They wouldn't be goin' about their business if there was anything excitin'."

The whole settlement seemed to be about their morning fires as usual, another hopeful sign. The women brought water from the nearby springs in bamboo poles, and some bathed on the beach of the lagoon. The smoke from many fires rose in the morning breeze.

"What's the good word?" hailed Marson as Jenner came near.

Jenner made no reply, but came on slowly to the fire. He was worn and tired and his whole aspect told of discouragement.

"What do they say?" demanded Marson, as the old man came up to them.

Jenner lifted his head and looked at both men for a minute.

"I've had a hard time," he said. "They won't do what they wanted to do; but I can't be sure how long they'll stand by their promise not to torture you."

"You mean they want to kill us?" asked Marson.

"Of course they did. The people demanded a public execution, and your heads on bamboo poles."

Marson and Sears looked at each other, horror in their eyes. They knew that they had come close to a terrible end; just how terrible they were well aware, for they knew what natives could do when they went in for vengeance.

"Can you hold 'em for a couple of days?" asked Marson. "If Prowse gits here, we'll manage to git away alive."

"Oh, you'll get away alive, I'll warrant that much," said Jenner.

"Thanks," said Marson. "I'll make it right with you, Jenner."

"You can make it right now," suggested Jenner. "Tell me why you came here, and what's been said about me?"

"There's a rumor that you're one of Starkey's men."

Jenner turned and looked down the beach.

"It's what I expected," he answered, calm enough, "but that's not true. Don't you know that the whole gang was caught when Starkey was hanged?"

"So we heard— everybody knows that. But the rumor is that you was one of em."

Jenner laughed quietly.

"The rumor is wrong," he said.

"All right. So much the better. We'll help you all we can."

Marson was satisfied with the way matters stood. It was no time to tell Jenner just how much was known about Starkey's loot.

"You've had a narrow escape from the cruelest kindof death, you two," went on Jenner. "I begged and threatened and the chiefs didn't dare stand out against the people, but I fought for time and mercy. You'll have to risk a chance that they won't backslide on me and bake you alive."

"Then they'll hold us prisoners?"

"For awhile, but you'll have your freedom in time."

THE NATIVES were gathering again on the beaches and moving down toward the smoking embers of the burned out fire. And they all appeared to be dressed in their best holiday attire, with feathers and flowers and gay bits of cloth about their heads. And from the palm groves there came the first strains of a lamenting music on crude stringed instruments. And canoers were gathering out in the lagoon, paddling about aimlessly, but watching the shore. They all seemed to be going toward the place where the men with the bows and arrows had disappeared over the sand dune between the palms and the beach.

The guards began calling to some of the gathering people, and orders seemed to be passing. Then the guards came forward, lifted Marson and Sears to their feet and unwrapped the rattans from their ankles.

"Go along with 'em," said Jenner. "They're going to put you in a house where you'll be more comfortable. And they all want a good look at you by daylight."

Marson swung and glared at Jenner.

"You've lied to us!" he charged, "There's somethin at you ain't told us about."

"I've told you everything I know, and that is you're not to be killed on Lumbucanan. That's the promise of the head-men to me."

"You're right, Skipper," declared Sears. "He's playin' us smooth— and he ain't tellin' us what he knows."

Sears was fearful, and looked about suspiciously. A couple of the natives began to prod the mate forward toward the gathering down near the beach beyond the dunes.

"You'll be wise if you go along without any row," warned Jenner. "If you show fight, you'll only stir 'em up again, and I can't hold that mob back if you make 'em madder'n they are."

"All right, we'll go along," growled Marson. "But if you walk us into a trap—"

He did not finish the sentence, but turned and walked stiffly after Sears, followed by the guards. Jenner brought up the rear, walking slowly and talking to one of the natives.

Barefooted and stiff, with their trousers rolled up to their knees and their arms pinioned with rattans in place of the breechcloths which had been used to secure them in the boat, the two pearlers were bedraggled and woebegone. They had no caps, and the hair was matted on their heads. Stripped to their waists, the bright morning sun only made them appear the more miserable and dejected. They had drunk only a little water since the evening before and were famished from hunger and the cold and wet of the. night.

As the little party appeared on the rise of the sand hill there was an excited clatter of voices from the assembled natives. They had ranged themselves on the sloping sides of the enclosing sand dunes, and among them were two women chanting in low tones and waving their arms over their heads. They were the widows of Ponati and Stru-ular surrounded by children and other members of their families. And now the great assembly took up lines from the chanting of the two women and roared out a mighty chorus.

One ring of natives a few yards away, nearer the beach, drew Marson's attention. They were working at something in the sand. And two men squatted on what appeared to be flat rocks were boring holes in the rocks with the strings of bows held horizontally while the bows were drawn back and forth. These were the men who had passed earlier in the morning on their way to the reef to shoot fish.

THEN, as they drew nearer, Marson and Sears noticed that what had been taken for flat rocks, were tremendous turtles. And the drillers with the bows were boring holes in the sides of the shells, while the turtles were being fed with chunks of fish.

Marson turned and looked at Jenner, who was close behind him.

"What's this goin' on here?" he demanded.

"It's some kind of a ceremony that has to do with the men you killed," said Jenner. "These turtles are supposed to have the spirits of old headmen, and as Ponati was a headman, he's supposed to be a spirit in the turtle— and Stru-ular in the other. The spirits remain in the turtles three days, and they're supposed to show what they want done by the way the turtles act."

Then the group about the turtles drew aside and Marson and Sears saw that an old man squatting on his heels and feeding the turtles, was going through some kind of an incantation. He seemed to be asking questions of the turtles and watching them closely for some action which was intended as an answer.

There was a pile of raw rattans fresh cut from the little jungle, and some of the rattans were being made fast to the holes bored in the shells.

Mats laid out on the sand held cocoanut bowls of various kinds of food, as if in preparation for a feast. Baked fish, fruit, native toddy, edible roots and other things that had been prepared with ceremonial care, were all ranged along the mats.

The throngs drew closer about the prisoners, and the chanting increased, led by the two women. The old man at the turtles begah to call out his questions in louder tones, and the throngs checked their singing at intervals in order to watch the turtles, or to hear what the old wizard called out as a report of what the spirits of Ponati and Stru-ular desired.

Marson and Sears were allowed to sit down on the sand near the mats with food. And for a quarter of an hour or more they listened and watched. They were apprehensive, for they could not make out what was happening. Jenner remained silent, but as he seemed to be satisfied with the way things were going, Marson saw no reason to worry at the moment. He knew natives well enough to understand that they were least dangerous when they made the biggest row.

All the while men were busily engaged in tying the ends of rattans about six feet long to the sides of the shells of the turtles, so the tremendous creatures looked like giant spiders with tiny legs or feelers extended all around and reaching out into the sand. The chains that had held the turtles prisoners for so long were replaced with crudely twisted cables made from rattans fastened to the tails of the shells to prevent the turtles from escaping into the sea.

Presently the old wizard ended his incantations and his talking to the turtles, and rose and clapped his hands over his head. The throngs became silent and attentive. Then, in a burst of excited Jabbering, the old native shouted out what seemed to be the final decision of the spirits of Ponati and Stru-ular, There came a wild chorus of acclaiming shouts, And the news was shouted from shore to the canoes in the lagoon. The boatmen beat their paddles on the water and shouted approval of the report.

Runners started at once for the council house down the beach, where the head-men waited for the result of the wizard's consultation with the spirits of the dead men now embodied in the turtles.

"What's the meanin' of all that?" asked Marson.

JENNER made a gesture to wait and went aside with one of the natives who was a son of a headman. They talked together in great earnestness, Jenner nodding his head in assent and understanding. Then he returned to the prisoners.

"What's the verdict?"

Marson was getting nervous, for the tumult kept up and everybody seemed well pleased. It was the first time the natives had revealed any satisfaction with the trend of affairs since the return of the prahu.

"That old medicine man knows where I stand in this business," said Jenner. "He knows I've opposed death or torture, so he's trimmed his sails to suit me, and at the same time suit the headmen and the people. Ponati's spirit has demanded that you both go through a ceremony and be taken to the council house to make an apology to the people. And he's given orders that you're to leave Lumbucanan alive."

"You've done well," grinned Marson. "I knew you could put it over. We should worry about a little ceremony."

Four men stepped forward and picked up Marson, and at the same time the food on the mats was gathered and men began carrying it toward the council house.

"You're to be feasted," went on Jenner, "and they're going to ride you to the council house of the ceremonial turtles. It's an old custom. Don't make any fuss about it. We've got to let 'em have their show."

"Sure! Give 'em a good time!" agreed Marson. "Kid 'em along, and first thing we know; Prowse'll be in with the Farallone."

So, understanding what the meaning of it all was, Marson and Sears submitted as they were laid on their backs on the two turtles, with their feet trailing behind, and the rattans were fastened over them in a network laced from side to side of the shells through the bored holes.

Men picked up the long cables of rattans, which were tethers, and began to move slowly as the turtles, finding themselves free to move, headed for the beach.

Marson and Sears, their arms outspread, their heels dragging in the sand, shut their eyes against the glare of the sun. But the natives did not allow them to suffer this discomfort, for two men were assigned to hold handfuls of palm fronds over the faces of the prisoners.

Jenner walked along slowly beside the turtles, while men with bamboo poles went ahead to prevent the turtles from taking to the water when they reached the beach. The swarming natives began to move to the beach and swing to the council house a quarter of a mile away. Then lines formed to wait for the turtles, and the ceremony would begin when he had gained the hard beach.

Sears was not satisfied.

"I don't like this business at all," he said to Marson. "And Jenner— he's not to be trusted. They'll torture us before they're done."

"Don't you worry, young man," said Jenner. "Just as you've said, if you're killed, I'm done for. I've kept my secret for a long time, and now I've got to save you if I want to escape, because you can say there's no evidence here that I've been a pirate."

Marson turned his head aside and squinted from under the palm fronds waving over his face.

"You've got it right, Jenner! And I'm glad to hear you admit it. You can't deny you're one of Starkey's men."

Jenner smiled sadly.

"I've got to admit it. Somebody's been up where I hide my— sea shells. I'm willing to tell the truth. I never was one of Starkey's men. I'm worse— I'm Starkey himself!"

Marson gave a gurgling cry.

"Starkey! You can't be Starkey! Starkey was hung by a man-o'-war!"

"So everybody thought," said Jenner. "The man they hanged was supposed to be me— he'd have hung anyway. I saved his life once, so he claimed to be me, and nobody knew the difference— and the real Starkey remained hidden on Lumbucanan— for forty years."

"Then you've got to save us!" cried Sears. "You stick with us. I don't like this business of bein' belayed to these blasted turtles!"

"Leave it to me," said the old man. "If I don't save you, I'll never be able to leave Lumbucanan. I'll have to hide in my cave every time a ship shows up, and the natives'll tell the skippers I'm dead and buried."

THE TURTLES fought their way up the tiny ridge of sand and paused a moment as if to get their bearings, and then headed down for the beach where the natives stretched away in long double lines so the ceremonial turtles would pass between them on the way to the council house.

The gigantic flippers left a trail of queer and curving parabolic lines behind them, cut with the double marks of the dragging heels of the men on their backs.

Foot by foot they marched on, eager now for the waters of the lagoon. And when they got to the wet shingle, the men with the poles herded them aside and headed them in the proper direction. The men holding the trailing cables of rattan drew them taut; for the turtles tugged before their courses could be deflected.

The chanting began again, and men bearing bamboo sticks with colored feathers stuck in the ends, began to march ahead of the turtles with slow and stately tread, crying strange calls which were repeated by the lines of people.

Jenner had to fall behind, for now the ceremony was in full swing. He was allowed to walk behind the men holding the lines that trailed on the sand in gentle curves,

Suddenly, on one side of the crowd, there was an outburst of wailing. The two widows ran forward out of the press after the turtles had passed them and grabbed at the great rattan leashes.

At once there was a great uproar and a mob closed in, so that Jenner— or Starkey— could not see what was happening.

He could hear the voices of Sears and Marson above the roar of voices, and as he pressed into the crowd, shouting at them to give way, he saw knives flashing. The widows of Ponati and Stru-ular were hacking at the rattan tethers. And no one sought to stop them.

Then suddenly the crowd pressed back upon the old white man. The line near the water opened, the canoes began to come in closer to the beach, and it seemed that every native on Lumbucanan was shouting as loudly as possible.

Freed of the tethers, the turtles turned and made for the first line of froth on the wet sand where the gentle surf of the lagoon laved the shingle. The great flippers moved with an amazing speed now, and in a minute two white men seemed to be floating on the water, cradled in a network of rattans.

The shouting became a mad frenzy of joyful vengeance. The mob capered and dashed into the shallows.

The old white man on the beach was helpless. His knees bent under him and he collapsed in the sand.

The widows of the slain men, knee deep in water, herded the turtles for the reef break, shouting into the faces of the two white men.

The white men disappeared under the surface. The ceremonial turtles, after many long years as prisoners on Lumbucanan, were migrating for Coriran Island, which was only about a hundred miles away.

The headmen had kept their promise to the old white man— the two pearlers were leaving Lumbucanan alive.

9: Prowse's Progress

CAPTAIN PROWSE appeared on deck through the after companion and glared dully at the leaden sea. The man at the wheel had just called the skipper, so he would be in time for his noon observation.

The Farallone was in the same dead calm that had held her "in irons" as the saying is, for three days since she had given up seeking for Marson and Sears. The drift of the currents had swung her off her course.

"She ain't steerin', hey?" he snapped to the man at the wheel.

Not yet fully awake, his sunburned arms bare and his green vizored cap giving the upper part of his face a ghastly hue, Prowse showed the inner wrath which made him hate everything.

The Malay jermudi shook his turbanned head in a decided negative. He understood the words only vaguely, but he knew the meaning of the question. And he showed his black teeth in a grin.

Prowse stepped to the taffrail, his heel-less slippers slapping the deck in a nervous patter. He looked over the side. The slight swells were ribbed with a fabric-like pattern by the faint tremors of the air moving over the surface of the sea. But there was not enough breeze aloft to hold the slapping sails. Gaffs swung from side to side with vicious lurches, fore and mainsail flapped with alarming vigor, sheet blocks thumped complainingly and reef pennants drummed monotonous tattoos on the harassed canvas. The head sails hung limply, filling from side to side as the schooner rolled like a log in a current, laying broadside to the heaving swells. The mizzen was down and secured with stops. But the boom tugged at tackle and sheet, the downhauls swung from port to starboard of the main in lurching spirals like a hangman's gear hunting for a victim. The water in the longboat hanging from the davits over the stern churned to a muddy soup and slapped at the stretchers and oars and sun scorched thwarts.

Out of the medley of noises the deep groans of the rudder post led the symphony of helplessness. The jermudi let the spokes play through his fingers. The wheel might as well have been lashed. But there were dark patches on the sea to the northward, revealing catspaws of wind, so the hopeful steersman stood ready to take advantage of the least puff of air that might swing the Farallone's head for Lumbucanan.

"Blast the luck!" grumbled Prowse as he leaned on his elbows over the taffrail and looked down at the blue water, smoothed by the leeway of the drifting vessel. "We're in a two knot current and we'll drift to Australia if we don't git a breath of air."

He watched the eddies forming under the counter and twisting bits of seagrass into circular little rafts that floated away to leeward. And these hand sized grass rafts marked a wake that was abeam. The schooner might have been a reaping machine passing over the sea and binding into tiny shocks the grass rising from the bottom.

"Why didn't Marson and Sears show up at Surago? Have they found out what they wanted to know and skipped on me? Did they have it fixed for a schooner to pick 'em up— or did somethin' go wrong?"

Prowse thought of the old man he knew as Jenner and made a mental picture of the frail and ancient figure with his marble eyes peering into nothingness-like the eyes of a fish that was dying. And Captain Prowse, though the deck was reeking with heat, shivered at his remembrance of the old King of Lumbucanan.

"There's somethin' about that old fool that don't hit my palate right," Prowse reflected. "He knows a lot— and he just grins at a stranger who comes along. Somethin' up his sleeve. And I was a fool to monkey with the business."

PROWSE squinted forward through the green transparent vizor. The mate was in the waist, sewing at a tarpaulin on the hatch. Two men of the watch were painting, and another brown legged chap was sitting on the bitts of the forecastle head, where there was a wavering square of shade from the headsails. Prowse looked up at the sun, blazing almost overhead on the edge of a field of thin and wispy mackerel clouds that tapered off to the northward. There should be a fair wind during the afternoon, according to that sign. A strong blow had beaten those clouds to feathers. But Prowse found enough to fret about without hoping for too much luck from the weather. He felt that if things had gone amiss with Marson and Sears there was but small chance that the Farallone could be of any help now. The skipper had a sense of impending disaster, but he fought against admitting the fact to himself. What really bothered him was a fear of returning to Lumbucanan. He hated the island and he hated Jenner; yet Prowse was determined to find out what had happened.

He went below for his sextant. He glanced at the barometer, which had remained steady for two days. A squall might bring on a wind that would allow a course for Lumbucanan. The cabin thermometer showed better than ninety, though the skylight was propped high on both sides and the open ports swayed against their housing brackets.

The mate, a Thursday Island lascar of doubtful race and color, came below, hunting for a new sail needle. His shirt-tail flapped out behind as he went up again without comment.

Prowse slanted his sextant horizontally at the after bulkhead, checking the error of the instrument. With a glance at the cabin clock, he went up the companion to take his sights, though he knew that the Farallone could not be far from her preceding noon position.

Between his sweeps of the horizon, the skipper fumed. There was a haze on the line of sea that made care necessary to get a good contact with the sun's lower limb. It all seemed a useless routine. And the jermudi, pretending an interest in his task, watched with a careful eye to the northward, peering over the sea as if he expected to see the wind coming down upon him like a roaring tempest; or perhaps he was praying for a squall. At times he left the wheel to squirt betel juice over the side.

Presently Prowse stepped swiftly to the bell at the after end of the binnacle and struck four double notes. And by the time the lookout on the forecastle head had repeated the notes, Prowse was on his way down the companion, counting seconds in whispers until he could reach the chronometer.

The cook was clattering his dishes on the table in the little mess room as Prowse was noting his figures on a slip of paper, to be worked up later. And just then the jermudi gave a shrill cry.

"Nampak! Nampak! Look! See!"

There were questioning cries from the waist and the patter of bare feet over hot decks. Prowse ran up the companion, to see the jermudi stabbing the air in quick jerks of his hand to starboard.

Prowse looked, but for several minutes he saw nothing. Then he caught the glint of something white a mile or so away— a double thing, or two objects drifting close together. They might be bits of a broken boat. The skipper's eye held them only for an instant as they rose on the crest of a swell.

Idly he reached for the binoculars on the tiny shelf under the hood of the companion. He held to where the white spots had disappeared, but he could not find en again, though he swept from side to side.

The watch below, fresh from their bunks, drew water from overside forward and splashed about. Prowse lowered his glasses, more interested in tiffin than in something adrift on that dead sea.

BUT THE jermudi, who seemed strangely excited, leaned forward, staring intently to seaward in an effort to again descry the objects that his keen eyes had caught. His mouth was open and betel juice trickled in a thin stream from the corners of his lips.

Prowse started below as the mate and the man who was to relieve the wheel came aft.

"Dengan segra!" cried the steersman. "Pula! Pula!"

Prowse returned swiftly with the glasses. Now he caught the white objects and studied them for a brief instant as they lifted lazily into sight. They seemed to be moving through the water, but slowly. It was hard to tell whether they were drifting with the tidal current or actually moving by their own efforts. They dropped between the swells.

The jermudi, giving over the wheel, ran forward and began to babble to the crew. Prowse could not understand what was said. But the steersman ran up the ratlines of the fore rigging, determined to learn what it was that he had seen and to justify the hubbub he had raised, for the other men had jeered him.

Prowse took a Straits dollar from his pocket and threw it on the deck with violence.

"A dollar's worth of wind!" he cried, and then waved his cap as if seeking to net it in a gale. He yelled into the blazing sky, "Blow, blast your eyes! Give us a blow!"

But all he got in response was the whining of the gaffs as they swung from port to starboard, the snap of the leeches as they strained under the whipping and the protests of the sheet blocks as they thudded against the deck.

Prowse kicked a canvas reclining chair into the swaying bit of shade under the furled spanker and threw himself down with a snort of rage. He yelled for the cook to bring tea on deck.

There was only one fact that gave the skipper reason to feel he was not an utter fool in attempting to get back to Lumbucanan.

"Anyhow, I know where there's a fair mess of pearls. It'll be worth the time and trouble. I'll clean up yet, even if Marson and Sears failed to git the dope. If I find 'em on Lumbucanan they'll expect to come in on the pearls for their bite. If they skipped out, I'd say that old Jenner bluffed 'em. That old bird's no fool. But I'll collect his tin of pearls if I have to drag him by his heels up and down the beach!"

The cook's sandaled feet pattered up the steps of the companionway, scarlet sarong tucked high above bare brown knees. He put the tray with tea and soup and biscuits across the skipper's knees and hustled away below. The cook knew Prowse too well to linger in his vicinity when his temper was jumpy.

Waving his hand to the new man at the wheel to lash it and go forward for tiffin, Prowse sipped his tea. With the spokes secured in the becket, the Farallone was surrendered fully to the dead air and the meandering current. It made no difference to the vessel that her rudder was secured, for she had no steerageway. So Prowse gave himself up to a siege of waiting and disgruntled reflection.

Were Marson and Sears still at Lumbucanan? Had they taken Jenner's pearls and shanghaied him aboard a schooner of their own while they had arranged for the Farallone to be hunting and waiting for them at Surago? Had Jenner discovered their trickery and put them aboard their raft again? Had they ever reached Lumbucanan?

Point by point Prowse hunted through the puzzle. But he could make nothing of all his speculations. Marson and Sears were wise in their craft and should have made things work as planned. And what worried Prowse most were the dreams that had troubled him for the past three nights— unformed and scattered events of a strange terror which he could not remember in detail upon waking, but which tortured him in sleep and roused him from slumber with the sweat oozing from his body. So his nerves were on edge and the lack of a wind had increased his discomfort until each hour's delay only increased his mental anguish and puzzled doubts.

He heard again a gabbling among the men forward. A man went into the rigging. But Prowse gave little heed to the chattering. The mate was snoring below in his bunk. And before he knew it, the lazy swing of the schooner had made Prowse drowsy. His chin fell forward and he slept.

FOUR bells— two o'clock— roused the skipper. He jumped to his feet and looked aloft. A man was coming aft up the lee ladder to relieve the wheel; and as he came, the man kept looking to starboard, as if expecting at any instant to see something which eluded his gaze. And the jermudi was also staring to starboard. There seemed to be an understanding of something exciting, or of great interest, between the two men. They whispered together.

Prowse yawned and stretched his arms, looking about for a sign of wind. But the sun, lower now, blazed away and the sails still slatted drunkenly to the swells. The snoring of the mate came up through the open skylight and the hot deck threw off a blinding heat. Prowse sent the man who had just left the wheel to the waist for a draw bucket to wet down the decks, and stood in the shadow of the spanker.

There came a gasping cry from the man with the bucket. Something broached out of the water within a hundred yards of the starboard quarter. It was white. And from the depths, rising slowly, there was a great jade form that came up steadily— a most vivid jade of beautiful green, topped with something white.

There was a clamor of voices forward and aft. Prowse, his eyes blinking in astonishment, stared. He could not make out what the two monsters rising from the sea were. They looked like giant turtles, but turtles loaded on top with bleached whitish masses, and from them, the fluttering of wet pennants like strips of cloth.

The yelling of the crew brought the mate and cook on deck, the watches climbed to the bulwarks and there were cries of amazement and questions and answers until the schooner became a bedlam.

Prowse grabbed for his glasses. Both great turtles floated on the surface now, their flippers lazily moving them along slowly. The burdens upon their backs— formless masses that were lashed to the shells— stood clear of the water.

"Why, why, they're men!" gasped Prowse as he studied the turtles. He fell back against the wheelbox, suddenly afraid that he had made a mistake to announce what the glasses had told him. And the fact that there were two bodies in sight filled him with a swift horror that somehow Marson and Sears and the fact that they had failed to appear at Surago had a bearing on these ghastly things floating about in the sea.

But his keen eyed Malays already knew as much as the captain. For out of the excited cries he picked up the word orang— men.

The beaklike heads of the turtles swayed close to the surface, as if feeding. Their flippers moved slowly, vividly blue as seen through the water. The pair lazed along, and some gulls that had been following the Farallone wheeled over in the direction of the turtles, calling in sharp notes as they dipped low in swoops of curiosity mingled with caution.

Once more Prowse lifted his glasses for a closer examination of outstretched arms and the white of cotton garments. And as he looked, the turtles swung downward and the wavering green shapes disappeared into the depths.

The mate moved slowly toward Prowse. The lascar's mouth was open and his forehead was ruffled with the puzzle of what he had just seen. And all he and Prowse could do was to stare at each other like men who had waked from some terrible nightmarish dream which could not by any possibility be true.

"What you think, sar?" whispered the mate. "Thees feller? Bad business for him, what you say, Cap'n?"

"You shut the crew up!" snapped Prowse. "Too bloody much noise, mister!" He waved a hand in dismissal.

The mate nodded and moved away to send the crew about their business, telling them they were mistaken in their belief that they had seen the bodies of men.

"THEM turtles!" Prowse whispered to himself. "I saw two big ones at Lumbucanan, didn't I?"

There was something about the turtles that he had fallen upon while following the old man, but it seemed to be in some other place that he had seen turtles. He brushed a hand across his eyes and then looked about the decks as if doubting that he was awake and in the blinding sunlight aboard the Farallone. But there were the masts, the flapping sails, the whispering crew, the open skylight. He gave his chest a thump with his free hand and sucked the air through his teeth. And his memory returned to the turtles of Lumbucanan— giant captives, sacred, and chained.

"That old beachcomber!" he whispered. "Them tricky old eyes— they grin with some joke he's got up his sleeve!"

His eyes sought the compass. He turned to seaward. And he realized that the turtles had been moving all day, since first sighted as two distant white spots, from the very direction of Lumbucanan. And they were proceeding on a straight line for the bearing of Coriran, the island of turtles.

"What other two white men in these waters?" he asked himself, speaking through locked teeth in a kind of murmur. 'Somethin' wrong— them natives and that hellion of a Jenner! Dead— and on turtles. Lumbucanan with two turtles as big as them, and—"

He shuddered, tossed the glasses to the top of the wheelbox and groped his way below like a man feeling his way through the dark. He stood for a moment in the main cabin and stared at the barometer on the wall. His lips twitched and his breath came gaspingly. He could not yet grasp the full meaning of what he had seen.

The mate came down, treading gently as if there were a sleeper below. His brown bare feet sticking to the paint with each step gave a smacking sound as they lifted. He paused in the doorway and peered at the skipper.

"Say, mister, what'd you see?" demanded Prowse. He wanted confirmation of his own belief and clutched at the hope that the mate might raise a doubt about the accuracy of the observation through the glasses. It was not so much that Prowse cared what had happened to Marson and Sears; the pearls drew him toward Lumbucanan, and he wanted no tragedy that would thwart him or cause him to abandon his intention to return to the island.

The mate grinned with two long upper teeth. He always grinned when spoken to, even when cursed. His bare gums looked strangely red to Prowse in contrast with the bluish swarthiness of his skin in the rays from the skylight.

"Sure, sar, I see,"' said the mate ingratiatingly, as if he enjoyed the horror which would assail the captain as being assured that no mistake had been made. "Two scoundrel beasts and two white mans fast aboard— like thees!" He wrapped his arms about himself and hugged tight. "So, they be! Native do thees, sar! Sure be! I know it! Old time, long ago— and dead forever. You see, sar, never alive thees mans be again, once more, so—" He paused, seeking an idiom which would express what he wanted to say.

Prowse threw his hands in the air.

"Shut up!' he commanded.

The mate stared in hurt surprise.

"But you ask it at me, sar!" he objected.

Prowse collapsed into the chair before his chart table. The days that he had sat there with Marson and Sears, and talked over Lumbucanan and the queer old man reputed to have a treasure of pearls, came back to him. He turned his head and looked into the little room with the bunk, which Marson had used. He remembered the way in which the pearling skipper hung his feet on the foot of the bunkboard and propped his head on his pillow to lie and stare at the beams overhead, blowing smoke across the circle of light from the closed port and fretting because it took so long to get to Lumbucanan where a fortune waited.

"You want me say little more, sar?" asked the mate.

"No, no, keep quiet, you!" said Prowse.

The mate thrust out his hands in a helpless gesture.

"What I do?" he asked. "You ask— I spik it— you no like it, sar!"

"All right, all right!" blustered Prowse, waving him away. "I know all I want to know! You turn in, mister!"

PROWSE did not want the mate to go into the matter of who the dead men were. Perhaps he had not yet grasped that thought, and it was just as well not to let him begin to brood over the fact that only a few days before the two men had been living aboard the Farallone. Now they were below her, voyaging through the valleys of sea foliage that lifted to the green rays of the sun by day and the sickly pallor of the moon by night.

The vast mystery between the living and the dead gripped at Prowse. He grasped for the first time at some logical clarification of the puzzle. He was a man who had seen plenty of death, but in what to him were the normal ways of disaster and violence and ruthless slaying. But this thing had a more evil aspect to it than anything he had encountered. He gave up trying to account for the sheer savagery of the thing. One never could know what new horror wild natives would devise. He got to his feet and fumbled in the smelly darkness of the nearby lamproom, hunting a jug.

As the liquor gurgled in his throat he felt his veins quicken under the stimulant. At once his brain steadied. He heard the voice of the mate on deck in a queer medley of dialects, trying to explain to the crew in twisted idioms that somehow the captain held a grievance, after asking for information.

Jenner's glazed and deadlike eyes returned to Prowse in a vivid mental picture. He cursed under his breath, hating the memory. Then a new train of thought came to him and he grinned.

"That Jenner and his pearls!" he whispered, staring at the bulkhead as if he were talking to a companion. '"He'll jump for it! It was him and his natives. They done the killing for the old man, and he egged 'em, underhanded. And now, if Jenner's killed—" He checked himself and looked over his shoulder. The new idea had become a finished plan.

"Before, I had no excuse to lift the pearls," he went on with calm reason, "but I can blame Jenner now for what happened—and be backed up. Nobody'll make a row if Jenner's killed. It's up to me to fix Jenner."

He sat down and pulled his revolvers from the drawer of the chart table and holstered them in his hip pockets. The whole plan was suddenly settled. He saw every move in the affair as plainly as if he were watching a drama on a stage, with himself as the central figure.

There was the excuse of vengeance— the law as expressed by a shipmaster against Jenner— and a secret profit in pearls which need not enter into the reports. That old white man on Lumbucanan was using the natives to murder seamen who happened to go ashore. And Jenner and the natives knew of no connection between Marson and Sears and the Farallone. They could have nothing against Captain Prowse. He was returning to keep a promise made to Jenner and would be welcome. Once Jenner was aboard with his pearls!

He thumped the table with the side of a fist.

"I'll wait for a wind that'll let me hold a course for Lumbucanan!" he declared. Then he went on deck in order to ridicule any idea held by the natives that the dead men they had seen could have come from Lumbucanan. If the crew knew the truth they would not want to return to the island.

10: Fortune

LUMBUCANAN was a patch of green and white across the sea. For days the Farallone had beaten for the island, some days with a fair wind, other days of calm, and again headed. Then one morning the man in the crosstrees had raised the island as a blur against the morning sun.

And with but a couple of miles of water between island and schooner at noon, the wind failed again. Prowse could not get into the lagoon until he got a favoring slant. And, glasses in hand all morning, he wondered why a prahu did not come out.

"What's the matter with that old fool of a Jenner?" he asked himself. "Was he lyin' when he said he wanted to go to Frisco? Was it just a game to git rid of me? What'd he show me his pearls for, if he didn't want to skip the place. And he ought to know I can't come in, so he ought to come out for a talk."

It might be that something was wrong, Prowse knew; the death of Marson and Sears might also mean that Jenner was dead. What if the pearlers had killed the old man, to be killed in turn by the natives?

The island seemed strangely quiet. Ordinarily, boats came out from the lagoon to meet vessels. The line of white breakers and surf sand, with the fringe of green overhead, showed none of the excitement of natives running about that could be expected. But Prowse'could not see the inner sides of the ring of the island, so what was going on inside the lagoon was hidden from him. But he felt a peculiar sense of menace from the apparently deserted island. That coral ring might be a sea-trap waiting for the Farallone to pass the open jaws of the reef break.

After noon Prowse had decided upon a plan which he felt would force Jenner into some action.

"Just as long as he thinks I'm comin' in, he won't do anything about comin' out to meet me," he reasoned.

So he sent the blue Peter to the foregaff, a signal that the schooner would leave the vicinity of the island as soon as the wind favored. The blue and white flag fluttered limply.

In a few minutes there were signs of activity over the top of the lowest ridge of sand. Inside the lagoon the top of a triangular sail lifted, and Prowse knew that a big prahu was making ready to come out. Groups of natives appeared on the ridge, peering seaward.

"That stirred 'em up," grinned Prowse. "Good thing there ain't a leadin' wind, or I'd have to show my hand and take a chance of sailin' in—this way, I've got an excuse to draw 'em out to me."

The top of the prahu's sail presently moved slowly along the crest of the sandspit, heading for the outlet to the sea. In a quarter of an hour the prahu came into view, propelled by a good crew of paddlers— ten men on each side. But once clear of the reef breaks, they laid back on their paddles and, native fashion, waited with infinite patience for a breeze. The light puffs of air that traced delicate lines on the swells barely filled the sail of the swift little craft.

But the natives were wise. They knew that there was a substantial breeze coming from the eastward. The sea was darker in that direction and the dark patch was widening.

The Farallone lay with limp sails, her head toward the island, her foresheet slacked, ready for a cant by the wind. But the vane at the mizzen truck flapped limply, filling and falling nervously with the slight flurries of air that stirred aloft.

The prahu was beginning to move.

PROWSE kept his glasses on the prahu. He studied a figure that reclined in the sternsheets, the head and shoulders of a man with white whiskers.

"Anyhow, the old bird's comin' out himself!" said Prowse with satisfaction. "That'll give him a chance to lie all he wants to. I'll bet he'll never let a peep about Marson and Sears. Slick old party, that!"

The mate and the crew gossiped idly over the approaching prahu. They knew nothing of the skipper's intent or purpose, but they were eager to get the cocoanuts and fresh fruit which a prahu always brought.

"Here's where I find somethin' out, without takin' any chances," Prowse told himself. "They can't slip anythin' across as long as I keep my own deck under my feet. And Jenner'll walk tender as long as he's aboard me."

He went below and pulled on a seer-sucker jacket that concealed the revolvers pouched in his hip pockets.

When he returned to the quarter deck the prahu was still idling more than a mile off. But in a little while the breeze picked up and took hold of the prahu's sail, and she came slanting over the lazy sea.

Prowse ordered the sea ladder dropped near the main chains as the prahu rounded jauntily to the port side. Starkey waved his native hat.

"Say, I thought you wanted to go to Frisco, Mr. Jenner," bawled Prowse through his cupped hands.

"So I do, Cap'n,"' replied Starkey in his weak and quavering voice, "but I looked to you to come inside."

"What the hell could I go in with?" demanded Prowse. "You think I whistle this vessel around with a ruddy flute?"

"You'll have a wind before dark," said Starkey.

"Mister," said Prowse quietly to the mate, "don't let none of them natives aboard. Talk to 'em, and have the crew find out what they got to say, but don't let 'em over the side."

The mate went into the waist to pass a line to the prahu so it might be held alongside as Starkey reached for the ladder.

The old man stood up in the stern sheets. He had a large dilly bag on his back, held in place by straps over the shoulders. Prowse was surprised at the neatness of the old man's clothes. He was wearing a new hat of native sennit and sea bleached cotton clothes, evidently home made from light sail cloth. The prahu passed close aboard and moved forward to the ladder, while Prowse remained on the quarter deck, scanning the big brown fellows on the outrigger. If the islanders had killed Marson and Sears they revealed no hostility now toward white men, but grinned and called out merrily. The boat was well loaded with cocoanuts and island fruits.

"Looks to me like he's intendin' to go along," thought Prowse. "I wonder if he brought his pearls."

The crew held their hands down and aided the old man up the ladder and over the bulwarks. He hurried aft and climbed the steps to the quarter deck.

"You kept your word with me, and come back, Cap'n," said Starkey as he held out his hand.

His dull eyes were alight with excitement and he grinned. His feet were covered with moccasins contrived of canvas and laced across his ankles. He looked clean and neat, a patriarchal figure, with his white beard covering his chest and his curling hair hanging down over his ears. He left the pack on his back slip from his shoulders to the deck.

"And I had the natives bring out some fresh stuff."

The unstripped cocoanuts were being tossed aboard the schooner to the chattering Malays.

"Well, that's nice," said Prowse, "but what's this dunnage you brought? You mean you're ready to leave 'thout goin' back?"

"I thought I'd come ready," said Starkey. "When I saw the Peter, I was a little surprised. So I thought I'd fetch the bulk of what I wanted— and I could sail, if you want to. But I hoped you'd wait for a favorin' breeze and come inside. I'd hate to give up my collection of shells. I could make some money out of 'em, but I don't want to delay you."

PROWSE considered for a minute. The pearls must be in the dilly bag. The Farallone could not sail at once in any event, and it might be wiser to make the old man believe that there was no great hurry. And Prowse wanted a chance to test the old man on what he might have to say about Marson and Sears. And it.was possible that the pearls had been left behind.

"I'll go in if you want to, and I git a wind," said Prowse.

He had a feeling that the old man was not to be trusted now any more than that evening he had shown the tin of pearls in the hut on the beach. Prowse was a shrewd man and his nerves were on edge, and the visit of Starkey brought back the queer sense of fear of something that could not be understood.

"He's put on his best duds and cleaned himself up so's to put the best foot forward," thought the skipper.

"I think it'd pay you to go in," said Starkey, "but I don't much care. There ought to be a couple of thousand dollars in them shells of mine— and I'll split what they bring."

"How about the natives?" asked Prowse. "You sure they wont make trouble for you, if they find you're on the skip for good?"

Starkey laughed. He detected suspicion in the searching look of Prowse.

"Oh, they expect I'll be back, of course. They don't know I'm on my way to Frisco for good; and if they did, they wouldn't believe I'd stay away."

Starkey believed that Prowse intended to go in. He had come for Marson and Sears and was only playing a game. The old man believed that the blue Peter had been a signal for the two white men. Their failure to respond to the signal, or show themselves, would puzzle and alarm Prowse.

"I guess they go by what you say pretty much," said Prowse. "You might as well come below and have a nip— and fetch your dunnage." It was plain to him that the old man would pretend to have no knowledge of Marson and Sears.

"And he wants to git me inside, too," thought Prowse as he led the way below.

"I wish I could be sure of just what natives think about me," said Starkey as he entered the main cabin. "I've been thirty years with these Lumbucanans, and I can't always tell what's going on. More'n once I've thought I had 'em pretty well tamed, but they go back to their savage ways about every so often."

"How do you mean?" asked Prowse.

"I don't just know. They pull off some kind of a feast or secret ceremony by themselves now and again, and they're pretty close mouthed about it."

Prowse turned around and faced the old man.

"You mean they git to eatin' one another— human sacrifice and so on?"

"No, I don't believe that. But the old men work on the young men and make fun of the things I try to tell 'em. They want the old ways, and they don't let me know what's going on. Few days back they went through with some kind of savage performance in the night, and I never got a hint."

"What you mean?" demanded Prowse, sure that he was close to something that had some bearing on the pearlers.

Starkey shook his head in pretended mystery.

"I don't know what, Cap'n. An old woman mentioned something about a couple of shipwrecked men and a young buck shut her up quick. The night before they had a wild time up the beach, and I find that the sacred turtles are gone— you know— the pair that've been chained in the marshes so long. You fell over 'em in the dark."

Prowse turned to the narrow door of the lamp room to avoid any possibility of revealing to the crafty old man that the turtles meant anything.

"Yes, I remember. So they let 'em go, hey?"

HE FETCHED out the glass jug and worked at the cork, thinking things over. Starkey stared about the cabin, his eyes blinking against the light pouring down through the skylight. He took in the telltale compass on its little shelf, the barometer swinging gently like a pendulum, the chronometer undulating in its gimbals in the open case, hands telling the time at Greenwich.

There was a hominess about the cabin that Starkey had not known for years. The open chart on the table held his attention more than anything else. Though he had been an expert navigator, the parallel rulers, the dividers, the tattered volume of Norrie's tables, the open nautical almanac with its days crossed off— all brought him back to a world that had been out of his ken so long that it almost required a mental effort to believe that once more he was to make a landfall beyond the imprisoning rim of the sea horizon.

Prowse held up a glass filled with amber liquor that glinted through the crystal.

"Here, put this under your belt. You look weak."

Starkey took the glass and sat down on the transom.

The skipper poured himself a potion and studied it in the light, then drank it swiftly. How much of the truth was in the old man's report of the two shipwrecked men? There was no measure now for finding out how much the old beachcomber really knew about the visitors to Lumbucanan during the absence of the Farallone.

"Maybe we ought to dig a little into that yarn about a shipwreck," said Prowse."Maybe the natives'd talk a little, if we went inside and took our time about it, hey?"

"Maybe they would, but I doubt it," said Starkey. "It may've been just an old woman's gabble. My! But you got a comfortable cabin, skipper! It's been so long since I've had a deck under my feet and a tight roof over my head that I can't somehow realize that I'm going away from Lumbucanan—for good."

"How about your pearls, Jenner? You got 'em with ye?"

Prowse stood with feet wide apart, frowning at the old man. The question had come with startling abruptness. Prowse felt that if the old man had laid any trap he would not have brought the pearls aboard, and if he lied about having them, proof of the lie could be brought to light by a search.

But Starkey was well trained in the craftiness of frankness. He smiled in an artless fashion, got to his feet and lifted the dilly bag to the end of the table. His fingers tugged at the lacing of the canvas top, and Prowse let his right hand slip behind him to the comfort of his revolver butt.

There was a packet in the top of the packed bag. Starkey unrolled the fabric, gave it a jerk so that it fell apart, and the handful of pearls went rolling over the chart like so many pebbles cast carelessly to the winds. The little rim of wood about the sides of the table checked the course of the gems, and they rattled back to rest among the navigating instruments.

"There you are, Skipper," said the old pirate, "and not much to show for a good part of my life on the beach at Lumbucanan. I'm trusting my family jewels to you, because I know you're an honest man and you'll deal fairly with me. So, you see, I'm fixed to pay my way home." He cackled and gazed at Prowse in satisfaction.

Prowse caught his breath, disarmed somewhat by the gesture of surrendering the small fortune so carelessly.

"Say, you've got your nerve, old-timer, to throw them around like that! How do you know I won't take 'em away from you— and put you ashore?"

Starkey stroked his long white beard, suddenly grave.

"You'd lose more'n you'd take, Skipper. And the joke'd be on you."

"How do you mean?" gasped Prowse. "Got more of 'em ashore?"

The sight of the wealth, and the promise of more, aroused the captain's greed.

"Alongside what I've got ashore, these pearls are pocket money," said the old man. "Put me ashore alive in Frisco, and I'll make you a rich man. I'm not the fool some folks take me to be. I play my cards with an ace in the hole every trick."

PROWSE dropped into the rickety chair in front of the chart table and stared up at the old man. It was not so much what Starkey had said that startled Prowse, as the sense that the old man was speaking the truth. At last, the truth! And Prowse suspected that the man he knew as Jenner was really eager to get away from Lumbucanan and willing to share his wealth for the chance.

"More of 'em!" said Prowse. "You mean you've got a lot ashore?"

Starkey glanced upward as if fearful that some one might be listening at the skylight. Prowse reached out and gathered up the scattered pearls.

"We can't take chances like that," he cautioned. "That mate of mine— he might work in with the crew. Put 'em away, mister!"

Starkey gave a careless shrug of his shoulders. He could hear the vague voices of the crew forward, chattering with the natives over the bulwarks. He listened a minute before he spoke again.

"I have a fortune ashore," said Starkey simply, "and I don't trust you, special, Cap'n Prowse. I don't trust anybody when it comes to the value of what's ashore. A man'd go fair drunk on it."

Prowse made a face. He was suspicious again, suspicious of a trap, for once again he had caught in Starkey's tone and expression something that suggested ruthlessness. He seemed to be telling the truth, yet there was something almost brutal in his plain spoken denial of trust in Prowse. For Starkey's covert chicane and his childishness seemed to disappear for an instant. Prowse understood that in some way, for some reason, the old man was desperate and was playing all his cards to get away.

"All right, Jenner," said Prowse suddenly, "if you want to speak out so open on how you don't trust me, I don't trust you. What's your game, old 'un?"

Starkey stared at him, surprised himself. Prowse got to his feet, aggression in the way he thrust his head forward and his hand behind him. He was a bulldog ready to spring to combat.

"I ain't got no game! What you mean, Cap'n?"

Prowse backed toward the companionway.

"Yes, you have! You want me to take the schooner inside, on a bluff! And you don't fool me none; you're afraid of them niggers ashore!"

Starkey reached for the glass jug.

"Don't you be in a hurry to shoot, Skipper," he warned gently. "I'm an old man, and if I had any great value on my life, I wouldn't've dumped them pearls out like I did." His eyes held Prowse, while feeling with a hand for the glass.

"You said somethin' about havin' an ace in the hole," growled Prowse. "Maybe you've got more'n one ace, mister— and you ain't showed your hand yet by a long shot. You foul my hawse and I'll salt you down with lead!"

Starkey attended to the business of filling his glass. His hand was steady. He gulped the liquor and coughed, then lifted himself so he sat on the end of the table with his feet swinging clear of the deck.

"Skipper, you ain't played fair with me: Want me to put a fortune in your hands for a crooked game on me?" There was a dangerous glint in the old eyes now, for all the smile.

"When didn't I play fair?" demanded Prowse, blustering to cover his surprise. "I said I'd come back for you and I did."

Starkey shook his head.

"You put two men off this schooner to spy on me. I tried to save'em. I had no hand in what happened, but they're dead. You sneaked 'em on to Lumbucanan. How about it, Prowse? Call it fair?"

Prowse found himself caught between greed and fear. Was there really treasure ashore that he could share, or was the old man laying a trap for the Farallone in revenge for putting Marson and Sears on the island by trickery?

THE SKIPPER remained standing in a defensive crouch, one hand behind him on a revolver. His mind was working on how to handle the thing and not lose too much. He had the pearls at the price of a single bullet. But how much had Marson and Sears told.

"Put 'em ashore to spy on you! Why, I don't know what you're talkin' about. If they told you that, they're damned liars!' He blustered, pretending astonishment.

"No, they didn't lie," said Starkey with casual quietness, as if he cared little what was said on either side. "You had 'em aboard here that first time you came ashore and saw my pearls in the tin box. They told me— and we might as well talk this over on the quiet."

"And you want me inside the lagoon," charged Prowse.

"Oh, I've thought of it, I'll admit. I could use the schooner nicely. I could crew it up with some good sailormen ashore. I'm too old a dog at my own game not to know a few tricks. You ought to be aware of that, Prowse."

"Aware of what?"

"That I'm no old foremast hand, but a pretty canny man. I've played my dodge for a long time, but it's about at an end, and I'm ready to buy my way through."

"What's the riddle?" asked Prowse. "Buy your way through what?"

"Oh, the law. From what your two shipmates told me, I'm about at the end of my rope, and I'll pay well to keep out of the noose."

"What'd they say?" asked Prowse.

"They said you knew I was one of Starkey's men— and that the government knows it. Maybe they bluffed a little on the last part of it, but I can't be bothered with that. You slip me into Frisco, Prowse, and I'll split what I've got. I said the pearls were carefare, all right. Just call 'em your own—and wait!"

"You— one of Starkey's men!" gasped Prowse. "So that's it!"

Starkey smiled. Once more with steady fingers he lifted the glass jug and poured a drink.

"No, you had it. wrong, just as your shipmates did."

"Then what're you talkin' about bein' afraid of the law for?"

"I ain't afraid of the law, in a way; but after thirty years— and it's nearer forty to tell the truth— I'd like to beat the noose. You come nearer to it, when you said I was afraid of the niggers ashore. I am. They got loose on me and killed your shipmates. And the worst of it is, they lied to me. First time I ever lost control of the headmen. Your spies shot up two of the best men, and the island's got blood in its eyes. But I can get my stuff off if you do what I tell you to."

"You ain't got a damned thing ashore!" challenged Prowse. "You want to take this schooner! It won't work, mister, with you alive! If you ain't one of Starkey's men, what're you afraid of from the law, and where'd you think you could play me to put you ashore in Frisco for these pearls? That what you call a fortune—a handful of pearls?'

Starkey picked up his dilly bag.

"Wait a minute, Prowse."

Starkey grabbed the bag by the bottom and spilled its contents out upon the table with a startling crash— A rounding heap of jeweled gold and silver objects, jade and crystal, filigreed rings and heavy pendants with chains of rich gold, rubies, diamonds, sapphires.

Prowse could only stare, dumb, his hooked hands trembling at his sides, a man in the grip of an inner greed that left him unable to grasp the significance of the display before him.

"THESE are just samples," said Starkey with a wave of his hand. "I've enough more hidden ashore to fill your rain casks. How's that for a diamond! And this ruby— a fortune alone, even if we only pick out the stones and let the metal go. But we can sell. 'em, as they are, a few at a time, Prowse, and nobody be the wiser. Rich pickings, Cap'n. Stuff that fat chinks have cut throats for, or smuggled, or looted from temples! No flash stuff here, but the best of the lot, so far as I could judge. This is what rich men hang on their women to show off their wealth."

"Where'd it come from to Lumbucanan?" asked Prowse in a whisper.

"It's Starkey's loot. For some five years he raided small passenger boats down south among the islands. Boarded by moonlight and scuttled while the passengers and crews squealed like scared sheep! The cream of five years of blood and sin and lust and greed and murder. A shining froth of hell! Look at it! A pretty show, hey, Prowse?"

"And you— found it?"

Starkey hesitated, wondering if it would not be wiser to keep his secret. He nodded assent.

"And Starkey was hanged, of course," Starkey went on, "and we're his heirs! Think of the screams of the women and the whining yelps of the passengers trying to bargain for their lives! This was thrown at Starkey's feet, or torn from gasping throats! And now I'll go back to civilization and see the world once more. Streets with lights in the windows of nights, and tne houses and hear music and see the life I've waited thirty years for! Only a little while left for me to have one more look, Prowse, but you! With what you'll have, Prowse— and what's ashore yet— you'll have plenty! So why shoot me when you can—"

There was a swift drumming of bare feet overhead, a sharp scream and a peculiar thudding on the hood of the open companionway. Something crashed down the stairway, a figure hurtling head first.

Prowse turned and saw the crumpled figure of the lascar mate at the foot of the stairs in a huddled pile, his head bent under his shoulders. His feet rested on the lower steps, while his hands, with fingers splayed out, groped on the dingy matting as if seeking a hold on something. And in that amazing instant Prowse saw with questioning eyes a polished pole of bamboo slanting up the companionway from the blood stained shirt on the back of the mate. Polished steel glinted— the end of the point that was buried in the mate. The mate had been skewered as he ran.

Prowse swung on Starkey. But there was honest amazement in the face of the pirate— something that made Prowse, suspecting a planned treachery, hold his fire.

There was scampering, and scattered cries, like the whining of startled animals frightened into an ambush, a splashing overside, and gasping cries of terror that told of swift and unexpected death.

"Shoot, Cap'n— the first you see!" cried Starkey.

The Malay cook, terror in his eyes and unformed words of gurgling terror oozing from his lips, bolted through the forward door toward the galley. He held a knife in his hand, grabbed from the galley rack. He glanced over his shoulder at something that fascinated him and held him in greater thrall than the very terrors which made him flee. Then he looked about for some hole in which to hide, disregarding the two white men. The draft of air through the open door fluttered his scarlet sarong about his brown bare knees— gaily, like a banner of celebration.

A thunderbolt of thin steel shot through the door, with the muffled grunt of the man who hurled it from some place outside the view of those within the cabin. And the cook doubled backward with a hissing sob, and the thud of the pole's end as it struck the planking in the mess-room came sharply to the men inside. They saw then the sandaled feet of the cook sticking up from brown thin shanks, the toes quivering over the sill. The knife he had gripped in his fingers jangled over the cabin deck like a bell that registered an arrow arriving at the target.

IT HAD all happened in a double tick of the bulkhead clock. In one instant Starkey had been speaking; and within the next two men were sprawled dead. Prowse had looked two ways in two swift glances.

Once more he swung toward Starkey, and the polished barrel of his revolver flashed upward in the bright beams of light flooding down through the skylight.

"I'll blow your—"

"They're amok!" cried Starkey. "My natives in the prahu— they're afraid that I'll go and more white men come. It's the work of the headmen!"'

A shadow crossed overhead. A brown man dropped through the skylight upon the shoulders of Prowse. As he fell he fired.

Starkey was blown back against the bulkhead against the shelf that held the telltale compass. The light board carried away. The compass glass shattered, and liquid and dancing bowl and the patterned card with the needles went whirling over the cabin floor.

The old man held himself upright with one hand against the table, the other clutched at his reddening beard. He listened to the exultant clamor overhead. He knew the voices, he knew the war cries of blood maddened Lumbucanans. A roll of the schooner threw him sidewise upon the table, his free hand thrust into the pile of heaped loot that twinkled upward with its sunshot gems. He saw the brilliance of his own blood splotched over the gold and the smoky green jade. A ruby looked darker than the blood, and he smiled as he thought how strange that fact was.

He turned his eyes to the foot of the companion. There was a cluster of red and yellow turbans made from old code flags of a vessel Starkey had looted— gifts from him to the men who wore them. The heads made a giant nosegay of moving tulips in this strange scene.

"Torani! Su-lin!" he called weakly to two men in the confused mixture of brown arms and legs and grinning teeth and peering eyes and bobbing heads.

They were looking in upon the struggle under the table. One more muffled report of a revolver and then a brown hand rose again and again and a steel point was stabbed downward, thudding against the planking. There was a cry of triumph, and a brown shape wavered upward in the sunlight just as Starkey felt himself swing off into space and bury his face in the glittering loot as he swooned.

After a time Starkey came back to a dreamy consciousness. About him were the natives of his prahu, men he had seen come up from childhood. They had plucked from the table rings and chains and brooches. One wore silver bracelets swung from his ears as anting-anting; another had crowned himself with a pearl dog collar that had come from a woman's throat, and jade pendants swung from tawny chests. The cabin was littered with cabin stores, tins of meat hacked open, packages of biscuits scattered, and one youth sat on the transom cushions munching long sticks of dry macaroni, puzzled at its lack of flavor.

Prowse lay prone upon the cabin deck, stabbed to death, and grinning up at the skylight. Seeing Starkey's eyes open and his hands waving for a hold on something, the men he had called to sprang forward and propped his shoulders against the bulkhead so that he remained sitting on the table. Men raiding in the pantry came as they heard that the orang kaya, or chief man, was "awake."

"WHAT of the promise made me before your headmen, that you would not slay orang puteh— white men? It is broken."

His head bent forward in his weakness.

"It was a promise of no holding strength, orang kaya," said Torani. "The sacred turtles before they went, told our headmen and the men who read omens, that you were no longer to be our white chief."

"True," said Starkey. "I was going away; but why kill those who would take me, and thereby leave your readers of omens to run your affairs?"

Torani stroked his chin with a hand that was almost covered with gorgeous rings. The jewels flashed fires of varying hues.

"It was told to our wizards that when you left us, great treasure would be ours for the taking. It was before us— here— when we looked down, so we slew the men of the ship, and it is ours."

"And I die, I who by the omens was to leave. Does this not prove the omens read by your wizards to be false?"

Torani looked about, then shrugged his shoulders carelessly.

"It was said that you would leave Lumbucanan, but not in the body. And you are to be kept in the place of honor in our house of heads."

"Before you were born— all of you— it was promised me that no longer would the people of Lumbucanan take heads. How of that?"

Torani's eyes flashed with pride.

"Orang kaya, the people of Lumbucanan have returned to the ancient ways. We build tomorrow a new house for heads taken in battle. And the omens were not false, for you will remain with us, the most powerful in the shrine."

Starkey laughed faintly. "You will be happier in your ancient ways. And remember this, that I too have taken many heads in my younger days. I was a warrior, and this treasure which you and your children and your women will wear, was taken by me in battle. I salute your headmen and your people, and you are my heirs— take it!"

His hands gripped among the things of gold and jade and jewels, and he held them up, doubled forward and died.

_____________________

Index to "Past Masters" stories, by author.

Issues 31-56

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

George Ade

Loafer's Lullaby  49

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

The Reward 55

The Wrong 'Un 56

Frederick Irving Anderson

The Phantom Alibi 50

The Van Duersen Haze 50

Anonymous

Arsenic 55

By the Tie of a Boot-Lace 52

The Lady Detective's Story 32

The 6.15 'Bus 52

Trivial Evidence 52

The Ugly Bronze and the Beautiful Wife 53

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

The Return 56

Lillian Bamburg

The Missing Pearls  39

Robert Barr

The Doom of London   39

J. M. Barrie

The Inconsiderate Waiter  51

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

Louis Becke

Devil Fish 53

George, The Docker 53

Randolph Bedford

Filamena's Hula 39

The Man Who Held the Wires  39

H Bedford-Jones

The Affair of the Shuteye Medium 53

Apache Gold 31

The Arizona Callahan  37

The Blind Farmer and the Strip Dancer 52

Breakfast at the Savoy 49

The Devil's Fire 31

The Devil is Dead 31

The Fog at Fiddler's Green 31

From the Dark 49

The King's Pipe 34

Lady of the Evil Eye 31

Sons of Kalewa 31

Stormalong  48

The Temple of the Ten 48

Wheels of Doom 52

J. J. Bell

Blue Blood, or, The Pride of Lady Ambrosia 44

The Message on the Sun-Dial  42

The Storm Centre  56

Stephen Vincent Benét

Silver Jemmy 50

E F Benson

The Bed By The Window  48

The Horror Horn 53

Ralph Wilhelm Bergengren

Mr Chubb's Burglar 44

J. D. Beresford

The Sceptical Poltergeist  45

Leslie Beresford

Eastern Guile 35

Night Errant 56

John Arthur Berry

Cleverly Caught 53

Algernon Blackwood

The Messenger Came at Midnight   54

Violence 55

The Willows  54

M. McDonnell Bodkin

The Murder on the Golf Links  41

The Torpedo 56

Charles G. Booth

Not According to Text 44

Christopher B. Booth

The Blue-Black Feet 52

The Double Double Cross 52

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

Twice Drowned 52

B. M. Bower

The Ghost of One Man Coulee 52

Jack Boyle

Ann of Satan-Town  46

Miles J. Breuer

Millions for Defense  47

The Stone Cat   47

George Bronson-Howard

The Steerage Passenger 44

K. R. G. Browne

The Amateur Prophet 56

The Turning Point  56

Gelett Burgess

The Ghost-Extinguisher  54

Thomas Burke

The Hands of Mr Ottermole 55

Ellis Parker Butler

An Experiment in Gyro-Hats  37

Beating The Law 43

Eliph' Hewlitt on the Millinery Problem  44

Good Graft 51

Hats and Lilies 37

The Heckby Hill Murder 38

Mr. Marston's Chauffeurette  40

"Pigs is Pigs" 50

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

Willa Cather

Double Birthday 53

Stephen Chalmers

The Dagger of Macbeth 56

Robert W Chambers

As You Choose 44

Anna Alice Chapin

By Way of Experience 40

Peter Cheyney

Black Out   54

Christmas With a Punch  54

Death Chair 55

The Gold Kimono 54

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

Thomas Cobb

Doctor Milner's Story 55

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

Nym Crinkle

The End of All  53

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

Jack Donahue

The Last Letters of a Hoofer 49

Dick Donovan

A Dying Confession 49

A Night of Horror  49

L. C. Douthwaite

King Of Clubs  56

Li Wang's Legacy  56

Midnight Murder 56

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

A Stranger in Arcady 53

Elliott Flower

The Elusive Ten Dollar Bill 36

A Bundle of Banknotes  43

Hulbert Footner

The Legacy Hounds 53

R. E. Francillon

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

Arthur Gask

Black Market  54

The Will  54

The Worm With the Sting in His Tail  56

Théophile Gautier

The Vampire 50

Lady Gilbert

Aurora's Treasure 35

Murray Gilchrist

March Brew 55

Guy Gilpatric

An Affair of Honour  46

The Crafty Jerko-Slovaks 32

The Ladies of Catsmeat Yard  37

One Good Tern  35

The Hunting of the Haggis 51

Mutiny on the Inchcliffe Castle  49

The Pearl of Panama 42

The Rolling Stone  41

The Smugglers of San Diego 55

The Toad Men of Tumbaroo  46

Westward, How!  46

The Yogi of West Ninth Street  50

Susan Glaspell

A Jury of Her Peers 44

Evelyn Glover

Blatherwick  52

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

Percie W. Hart

Ye Ghoste of ye Olde Bowerie Roade 49

William Fryer Harvey

The Beast with Five Fingers 50

Beatrice Heron-Maxwell

The Dancer's Mascot  35

Lewen Hewitt

Gold-Bricked 42

Robert Hichens

The Nomad 53

Frederick Trevor Hill

Exhibit Number Two 55

Headon Hill

An Inherited Taint 55

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

Violet Jacob

Secret Intelligence 55

W. W. Jacobs

In Borrowed Plumes 49

M. R. James

Casting the Runes 50

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 Dancing Partner 50

The Ghost of the Marchioness of Appleford 50

The Man of Science  43

E. M. Keate

Horn Spectacles 55

Marianne Kent

A Black Diamond  35

Otis Adelbert Kline

The Dragoman's Slave Girl 35

Servant of Satan  50

George L. Knapp

The Family Compact  37

Thomas H. Knight

Old City of Jade  36

Alexander Kuprin

Menagerie 45

Henry Lawson

The Loaded Dog 50

Stephen Leacock

Soaked in Seaweed  51

Sheridan Le Fanu

The Dead Sexton  51

Henry Leverage

The Petermen of Providence  46

Alun Lewis

Private Jones 39

Sumner Locke

Ragtime 44

William J Locke

Ladies In Lavender 36

Edwin Truett Long

Dogs of Circe 52

F. G. Loring

The Tomb of Sarah 50

Marie Belloc Lowndes

Popeau Intervenes  41

Maarten Maartens

A Comedy of Crime 47

Ferdinand McMahon

Shingle Short 52

Newton MacTavish

An Unposted Letter 47

William J. Makin

The Jerusalem Express 51

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

Abraham Merritt

The Drone  52

Gustav Meyrink

Bal Macabre  45

James M'Govan

The Captain's Chronometer 49

Richard Middleton

The Ghost-Ship  51

Alice Duer Miller

A Lot of Money  46

C S Montanye

Nobody's Business 52

Prey  40

The Strength of the Meek  47

Trapped 43

Capt. Frederick Moore

The Lagoon of the Secret Pearls 56

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

Deep Sea Detective 52

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 Red Raid  51

The Secret of Banda Sea 34

W Douglas Newton

Crying Baby 54

What a Guest Desires  54

Hume Nisbet

The Demon Spell  51

Romance of a Balloon 51

The Vampire Maid 53

James Jeffreys O'Brien

Queen of the Beggars 44

Nicholas Olde

The Invisible Weapon  54

Owen Oliver

The Ambassador 56

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

Elia W Peattie

Seaweed  51

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

Changed Caliber 52

Doctor Bentiron's Addict Case 40

An Error in Equation 51

False Teeth 51

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

Arthur T. Quiller-Couch

The Lady of the Red Admirals 49

Lewis Ramsden

Désirée 32

C. S. Raymond

The Wireless Death 36

Robert Reeves

Alcoholics  Calamitous 39

Bail Bait  39

Dance Macabre 39

W. Pett Ridge

His Cheap Bravo  56

Morley Roberts

Grear's Dam 53

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

Eleanor Smith

Satan’s Circus 52

H. de Vere Stacpoole

Disinherited  56

The Girl at the Gate  54

Kitiwik   55

Olaf Stapledon

A World of Sound 51

Christopher St. John Sprigg

Death at 8.30  42

Four Friends and Death 53

F St Mars

The Green Devil 43

Bram Stoker

The Judge's House 50

Annie S. Swan

The Diplomat  38

Booth Tarkington

The Old Red Barn   49

Emile C Tepperman

The Case of the Talking Dead 54

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

Harold Ward

The House in the Forest 49

House of the Living Dead 49

Florence Warden

Grimgriffenhoof  39

Cy Warman

"Sycamore": A Ghost Story 44

F A M Webster

According to Law  49

The Double Problem  49

Floating Bones 53

The Owl 45

Towards Morning 33

Very Still Waters 53

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 Best Bet 53

Captain Cut-Throat 51

The Madness of Captain Jonas 44

Ethel Lina White

The Scarecrow  42

Henry S. Whitehead

Black Terror 45

Cassius 46

The Door 53

The Fireplace 45

Jumbee 37

The Left Eye 45

Mrs. Lorriquer 45

The Moon-Dial 52

The Napier Limousine 45

The Projection of Armand Dubois 45

The Trap 45

The Tree-Man 45

Raoul Whitfield

The Black Sampan  50

The Caleso Murders 32

China Man 46

Climbing Death  51

Diamonds of Dread  38

Inside Job 36

The Javanese Mask 42

The Magician Murder  55

The Man from Shanghai 56

Rivals of the Clouds 31

Shooting Gallery  41

The Siamese Cat 49

Silence House 36

Sinners' Paradise 33

David Winser

The Boat Race Murder 54

Valentine Williams

The Briar 50

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

Her Demon Lover 52

___________

Table of Contents

- 1: The Worm With the Sting in His Tail / Arthur Gask

- 2: The Dagger of Macbeth / Stephen Chalmers
- 3: Disinherited / H de Vere Stacpoole
- 4: Li Wang's Legacy / L. C. Douthwaite
- 5: King Of Clubs / L. C. Douthwaite
- 6: Night Errant / Leslie Beresford
- 7: Midnight Murder / L. C. Douthwaite
- 8: The Return / Stacy Aumonier
- 9: His Cheap Bravo / W. Pett Ridge
- 10: The Wrong 'Un / Mark Allerton
- 11: The Ambassador / Owen Oliver
- 12: The Torpedo / M. McDonnell Bodkin
- 13: The Storm Centre / J. J. Bell
- 14: The Turning Point / K. R. G. Browne
- 15: The Amateur Prophet / K. R. G. Browne
- 16: The Man from Shanghai / Raoul Whitfield
- 17: The Lagoon of the Secret Pearls /
- Cumulative Index